DISCLAIMER: the only thing I own are the plot and the original characters of this story, everything else you may recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling. My only profit is my personal entertainment and hopefully yours.


WARNINGS: pureblood!Hermione, OOC, rated M for sexual encounters, language, mentions of violence; modern.


This fanfiction comes with dedicated website: godisawitchfic dot tumblr dot com. You can also find me as slytherinsauce on both tumblr and pinterest with more content dedicated to this story. Beware of spoilers.


Author's notes: as I texted to my bf earlier, "I've been planning on writing tonight but I'll update 'cause my poor readers deserve better than what I'm giving them rn", so here I am, sorry as usual for the late update. But you know, life. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy the first part because we get to know a little better a character that will become a sort of "regular", or at least part of the "inner circle", for following there is a very long sequence where our heroes play a drinking game in Australia and finally our favourite magical reporter makes another appearance. Seriously, I hate her... but at the same time it's a lot of fun to write her because I just try to picture the worst person I can imagine? I hope you'll have an amazing week and I'll see you guys soon for I plan to post chapter 37th very soon (I mean it this time, lol).

p.s. review and tell me what you think, pretty please?


36.

WRITING ON THE WALL

.


how do I live? how do I breathe?
when you're not here I'm suffocating
I want to feel love, run through my blood
tell me, is this where I give it all up?
for you I have to risk it all
'cause the writing's on the wall

a million shards of glass that haunt me from my past
as the stars begin to gather and the light begins to fade
when all hope begins to shatter know that I won't be afraid
if I risk it all, could you break my fall?


(Flint Estate — Wiltshire, England;
October 28th, 2003, around 09:00 a.m.)


Breakfast was usually a sad deal in their manor and that morning was not an exception.

Words were spoken scarcely, as if too expensive for their worth, but when they did they cut the air sharp as blades.

It shouldn't surprise it was Lord Flint who did most of the talking.

Raised as a proper Pureblood, the man had been raised according to tradition and etiquette, and the results were something their society as a whole would have definitely improved by taking his entire education, setting it on fire and making it an example of what shouldn't be done ever again.

Barnard Flint had turned out to be the worse kind of wizard there was, and a conceited one at that.

When things went bad it was never his fault, he couldn't listen to someone else's advice to save his life and, more importantly, he thought of the members of his family as of people he owned.

Starting with his wife, Ophelia, whom he'd married by contract after graduating from Hogwarts and whose opinion was never taken into consideration, or even voiced, on anything substantial, a witch who seemed content to just spend most of her time in front of the mirror and what was left of it haunting the hallways of the old Flint estate — sad and shallow.

Their firstborn, Icarus, was the spitting image of his father: with sandy blond hair and green eyes, he carried himself as if the world was his domain, only he lacked his old man's political ruthlessness and had a brain the size of a nut. He worked for the Ministry because that was what any scion of an ancient and noble House who'd passed his N.E.W.Ts did, and because Barnard had ensured his employment with a generous donation, but really all he cared about were his beloved werewolves races and the bets he placed on them, often losing, and the courtesans who resided in Knockturn Alley.

He was sad and shallow as well, so perhaps he'd taken something after his mother, too.

The last person sitting at the breakfast table that morning was Marcus, the younger son, and he'd been interrogating himself for the most part of his twenty-six years walking this earth about his connection with the two people who were allegedly responsible for his birth.

When he looked at their faces they weren't holding a mirror up to him, he could only see a living, breathing example of what he thought was wrong with the world.

What bothered him the most, though, was their entitlement: they acted as if their way was the right one, as if they were the only people who'd found the true meaning of human life, as if there was not even a possibility they could be wrong.

Marcus had always wished he could be the one to shatter their delusions, to bring their feet back to the ground and force them to confront the awful parents they'd been, their non-existent contribution to wizarding society.

They were cowards, that's what they were.

They had supported the Dark Lord since day one, but they'd never openly endorsed his cause, funding him in secret rather than publicly associating with him.

So they'd made it through two wars practically unscathed, just economically wounded.

Probably the only witty decision in their lives.

Marcus knew he was plenty of bad things himself, how could one be not with such a set of narcissistic parents, but overall he always owned up to his actions.

"You should cut your hair, dear", Ophelia's plummy voice cut through his thoughts. There was no real affection in it. "It's not fitting for a wizard of your standing to be going around with such a mess over your head, even if you're merely a Quidditch player".

Her lips curled up into a sneer by the time she mentioned his choice of career, something they'd argued about relentlessly over the past eight years, and when Barnard cleaned his mouth with his handkerchief and his body language suggested he was going to talk, the wizard knew he was being ambushed.

Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

Flying was what he was best at, the one thing he truly cared about, and he'd told them over and over again that he couldn't see things changing anytime soon. He was sorry they didn't approve of his career choices — not really — but that was his path and Marcus was dead set on following it.

Besides, they didn't seem to mind his Quidditch-earned money when more than once it had been used to cover up the holes in their vaults his parents caused with their excessive lifestyle.

"A haircut is a great idea, Ophelia", his father chimed in with the precision of a clock.

Only he didn't want to talk about how unbecoming of a Flint it was to play professionally, but of the other topic he always did his best to avoid and post-pone.

It was the one that hurt the most.

"I've set up a brief meeting for you with the daughter of Axel Mistle, Brigitte. I'm sure the two of you will have plenty to talk about. She just recently graduated from Beauxbatons", Barnard announced. "The Mistles have a wonderful winery in France that would come as part of her dowry".

Marcus couldn't believe his ears. Not this again.

From the other side of the table, Icarus winked at him, basking in his own amusement.

To say their relationship wasn't civil would have been an understatement, but he could have never rejoiced for his brother's pain.

It appeared Icarus didn't share such feelings.

As if sensing his nervousness, his mother turned to her firstborn.

"How did your meeting with Priscilla Rowle went last week?"

Just like that, they changed topic and let the new piece of information simmer in, refusing to further talk about it and even pretend to acknowledge his opinion on the matter, preferring to leave him to deal with it in another moment.

Possibly convince him to show up at that meeting and play along for a bit just so that he could avoid an argument.

Well, no more.

Realization hit him like a horde of Thestrals.

Things were never going to change. They were never going to get any better.

He'd been delusional in thinking he could salvage some sort of relationship with them while simultaneously respecting himself.

It was hard to recognize he'd wasted the past six years of his life.

He should have burned all bridges between them at the end of the war, turn them in for their involvement in Voldemort's rapid rise to the top of the Ministry and hope they were going to be locked up in Azkaban, or at least socially disgraced, but he hadn't.

He'd still hoped there was something redeemable about them when, apparently, there wasn't.

They weren't giving in, finally realizing he was entitled to control over his own life; they were merely trying a different approach: lure him in with a false sense of security and then present him with facts rather than proposals.

But he was so done.

"I'll let you know that I quite like my hair as it is", he smirked, brushing a hand on top of his raven curls. "And that my boyfriend likes it too".

His father's face lost all colour.

"That's right. I, Marcus Flint, like men", he said, dropping his handkerchief on the table. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Or to talk me out of this".

Ophelia let out a humorless laugh. "Ah-ah, Marcus. Very funny. Now's not the time for jokes".

Although he didn't currently have a boyfriend, didn't had one for some time now, it kindled something in his chest which he had never thought he had in himself.

The wizard didn't pay her any attention, too focused on monitoring Barnard's reactions to the news he'd just mercilessly thrown at him. No preparation whatsoever.

It felt glorious.

He knew from experience that his father wasn't against physical punishment to settle down disputes, he remembered how much he'd been beaten up when he didn't pass his N.E.W.Ts the first time, so his hand instinctively flew to the pocket where his wand was stored when he saw him banging his fists on the table.

"That's unacceptable. How dare you speak like this-".

"That's where you're sorely mistaken, father. I'm not asking for your acceptance, I'm just pointing out a fact that someone even as dull-witted as you can understand. I'm out of here".

His mother pretended to be distressed by his imminent departure, clutching a hand at her heart as she pleaded. "Surely you don't mean it, dear".

"Don't bother", he stopped her. "This family is sick and it'll never change. Joke's on me for believing you weren't completely rotten".

It happened in a blur.

Barnard raised his wand at his son, the beginning of an Unforgivable on his lips, and Marcus, for the first time in his life, didn't adjust himself to suit his father's demands and reacted naturally.

He stunned him and apparated away.

He needed to hire some private guards.


(Hamilton Hotel, Sydney, Australia;
October 28th, 2003, around 10:00 p.m.)


The lounge of the hotel where they were supposed to spend the night was something grandiose, a mixture of modern luxury and timeless beauty that Harry rarely found himself confronted with.

Geometric patterns in black, white and gold blended seamlessly to create a peaceful, eye-resting environment, while many arch-doors connected the space to the other areas which the Hamilton Hotel dedicated to its guests.

Their bedrooms were in the top floors, with windows that looked down at one of the best views of the entire city and private bathrooms, they were furnished lavishly and contained pretty much everything a wizard or a witch could want during a holiday, from tourist guides to massage oil.

Harry simply couldn't wait to make love to Pansy in the king-size bed with white Egyptian cotton sheets and ever since he'd seen it the first time, hours ago when they'd quickly took a shower and changed into something more appropriate to dine out, he couldn't picture his honeymoon somewhere that wasn't this place.

Growing up in a cupboard under the stairs only to find out you're a celebrity, Harry Potter wasn't someone who indulged in opulence very often.

Although most of the damage done by the Dursleys he was positive had been undone, sometimes he still felt weird when doing the most stupid and trivial things, like buying himself some clothes.

He was pretty sure the first item of clothing he'd owned that didn't come from Dudley was the sweater Mrs. Weasley had knitted for him, which he'd received during his first Christmas at Hogwarts and he still kept in his closet.

Harry still remembered Pansy's face when she'd seen it the first time.

"So, how does this place work exactly?", Ginny was asking, perched on one of the ottomans.

She was referring to the introductory brochure they'd been given at dinner, where the activities offered by the hotel were advertised.

It said the lounge could provide any kind of amusement they could think of. Respecting the boundaries of Australian magical laws, of course, which, as it turned out, were definitely more liberal than the ones they had in Britain.

They'd expected all kinds of weird and interesting stuff to be in the room, but nothing of the sort had welcomed them at their arrival.

The few guests present seemed busy minding their own business, which mostly consisted in drinking their souls away, and the group of six had picked a big table in a corner of the room, close to the bar but a little more secluded than the others.

Soon they were approached by one of the waiters, who was dressed in black and explained how the lounge worked. Its mechanism was similar to that of the Room of Requirement.

For things to happen you just needed to simply wish them, only the lounge wasn't inside of a school, so it didn't came with the same limitations. Here they could get alcohol, for example.

Indirectly, he also told them why it seemed to attract so little people: it appeared the magic couldn't deal with more than a certain number of people at the same time, which meant the experience was extremely exclusive, not to mention expensive.

Of course, as soon as they'd heard Victoria Sallow wanted a table, they'd prepared one for her straight away.

That was something Harry didn't think he could ever get used to, the way people acted around Hermione — or rather this rich persona she'd become on the side.

Only an idiot wouldn't have recognized her success, but to him she was always going to be the tenacious eleven years old who had told him getting expelled was the worst thing that could happen to them after their first encounter with a three-headed dog.

The friend whose loyalty had been unwavering through the toughest experiences of his life.

He couldn't think of a scenario where he succeeded in defeating Voldemort without her help.

All six of them seemed to agree on their necessity to have a drink, because six glasses appeared simultaneously on their table.

Pansy's came with a little box. It contained a deck of cards, self-inking quills and a vial filled with a clear liquid.

"The truth comes out. Extreme", she read from the instructions. "I don't know about you, but I always find it exhilarating when muggles do drinking games in the movies".

"You mean when they embarrass themselves and tell things they're supposed to keep secret?", Blaise rebuked with a smirk. "Count me in".

"What are the rules?", asked Ginny, more prudently.

She wasn't sure she was sober enough to properly deal with this kind of stuff.

"Oh, it's very easy", Pansy replied. "Each player gets a quill and three cards, where we write down three things about us that no one in the room knows about. Then we put all the cards back together, and the enchantment on the box will shuffle the deck for us. At every turn, someone picks a card and reads out the secret. Then he or she gets two guesses on who wrote it".

"I assume there's a penalty if you guess the wrong person", Zabini piped up.

"Your assumption is correct, Blaise", the witch said. "If you fail you have a shot of Firewhisky. Then the others can decide to take their guess, but they only get one try and will have two shots of penalty to drink".

Harry looked over her shoulder to read the instructions.

"You just made that up", he accused, playfully.

"I still don't get what's so extreme about it", Draco added.

Harry instinctively eyed the vial, which was still in the box. Surely it couldn't be?

"Is that Veritaserum?", he inquired.

Were they in England he would have to confiscate it.

"Yup", Pansy's honeyed voice lingered on the "p". "Everyone takes a sip before we start. It should last approximately ten minutes, just enough time to write on the cards".

"So we can't fabricate a secret", Draco mused.

"I don't understand what you find particularly amusing about the picture you just portrayed".

Hermione had finally got out of her self-imposed silence. She didn't seem particularly thrilled by the idea of playing the game.

"Really, I can't see this thing turning out anything but horrific".

"Got something to hide, Hermione?", Ginny teased her old friend.

"Don't we all?", she countered. "But I think there's a reason if we never share some things about ourselves. Seriously, think about it logically".

"I think you're right", Draco agreed. "But also things stopped sounding logical when we had all those shots at the nightclub. I'm sure Pansy wouldn't propose it if she thought it would kill the mood of half of her bridal party".

"There's nothing I can tell you that is worse than what you already know about me".

"Mh", Hermione seemed unconvinced.

She closed her eyes and curled her nose as she wished for something, and a second later a hookah materialized in the middle of the table.

"Give me a second".

She took a huge blow, inhaling deeply the pink smoke before releasing it in the air through her mouth.

Harry noticed it smelled suspiciously like his favourite dish.

"Fairy dust", the witch explained.

She waited for each of them to have a go at it before she agreed to play the stupid game.

Whatever.

Harry braced himself in anticipation as the Veritaserum was passed around once the hookah was gone, not before Pansy could snap a couple of group selfies with them, and he eyed the clear liquid suspiciously before making the split-second decision to just go with the flow when the bottle got into his hands.

It was what made him Harry Potter, The Chosen One, the bloody Savior of the Wizarding World.

Besides, he had nothing to hide.

Or maybe it was the fairy dust acting on his behalf.


It took barely five minutes for the group to fill out the cards, words jolting out of the self-inking quills as if they didn't even need to think about their answers.

Hermione wondered if the Veritaserum was particularly strong as she stared down at her last card, eyes mindlessly dancing around the room as she thought of what she should write on it.

Her protests had not convinced the excited crowd around her to give up on the game, so now she found herself confronting the depths of her subconscious as she decided what secret she could afford to let out in the open.

The moment she'd realized it was happening, they were taking the potion and playing, it didn't take her long to formulate her strategy, though she suspected others could get to her same deductions: someone was compelled to admit ownership of a card only if directly called out by one of the other players, but since the ultimate goal was to guess correctly more than the opponents, they were allowed to admit ownership of their card after the first two guesses were made.

Which was why she planned on owning up to two of them, but sadly she couldn't think of another one nobody in the room knew about that she was willing to share. Yet. Perhaps ever.

She loved Pansy, but sometimes her ideas were the worst.

Hermione sighed and wrote down her final card, waiting for the words to change into a handwriting that wasn't hers before she put her part of the deck back into the box.

So to hell went her plan of using her friends handwriting to guess when it was her turn.

"Shall you pick up the first card, babe?", Harry asked Pansy as six small bottles of FireWhisky with matching glasses appeared in front of each of them. "You suggested we played, after all".

The witch could understand why the Slytherin had added a second penalty: it was to discourage fake guesses.

At least it didn't seem she wanted to be playing this game all night long.

Pansy nodded, smiling sheepishly at the crowd before she put her hand on the deck and took the first card, shielding it with her other hand before she shared its content with them.

"In fifth year I used to stuff my bras to make my breasts look bigger".

Hermione knew the secret wasn't hers, so she instinctively glanced at the other two people sitting at the table who had breasts to begin with.

Pansy was doing the same, a brow mockingly raised in her direction, while Ginny was pretending to be very interested in the ceiling.

"Well, obviously it can't be one of you three boys. But I would love to hear that Prefect Granger used to stuff her bra like a commoner", the Slytherin quipped. "Pretty please?"

"Drink, darling", Hermione smiled at her.

Pansy turned to Ginny, whose cheeks were downright burning.

The red-headed cleared her throat.

"Well, it's not exactly easy to get the attention of someone who speaks with Voldemort more than he speaks with you", she said, bitterly.

Then her eyes widened and she brought a hand to cover her mouth.

"Fuck. I'm so sorry, Harry. I swear it's not as it sounds", she apologized. "I just meant that I've been there, although I was eleven. I've experienced first-hand how completely He could lure you in".

Harry shook his head. "I'm not mad at you, Ginny. I know what you meant".

"Maybe we should have waited for the Veritaserum to lay off before we started the actual game", Zabini noted, unhelpfully.

He circled his girlfriend's shoulders with one arm and squeezed her tightly, in a clear attempt at comforting her without being too obvious about noticing her distress.

Hermione understood why Ginny seemed to be so head over heels about the wizard.

He truly acted as he wanted what was best for her.

"Well, one point for me", Pansy said, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

The table produced a piece of parchment and quickly she wrote all their names, but with an X after her own.

Harry picked up a card.

"I used to be terrified of heights", he read.

The wizard took a minute or two to think about it.

"Well, it obviously can't be Hermione's because everyone knows about that. Pansy?", he mused.

The witch shook her head.

"So, perhaps, it was you again... Ginny? Maybe it's a nice story of overcoming one's fears to become a great Quidditch player".

Hermione smiled internally.

It was cute to see how he still seemed to care about the way she felt even though they'd broken up not once but twice.

She had never kept too much of a relationship with Victor after they'd parted ways, just the occasional letter to ask each other if they were doing fine, but Krum was definitely her cleanest breakup.

"Nope, it's not me", Ginny said. "Drink, Potter".

Harry didn't complain, and dutifully poured himself a shot, which was delivered into his system no longer than thirty seconds later. "Cheers".

Hermione was having an internal debate about on whether she should try to guess or not when Malfoy erased every doubt by smirking down at the little crowd.

"It lasted just a couple of months, but I was reaching the point where even the stairs from a floor to another scared the hell out of me. One morning I had been exploring the gardens when I thought it was a brilliant idea to climb up the highest tree. It was the first time my brain actually registered pain, and in the following days all I could think of was how much it had hurt. So Lucius put me on top of a broom and told me that Malfoys don't climb trees...", Draco paused, his face turning into a grimace. "They own the sky".

His voice was dripping sarcasm by the end of his tale, freezing any possible question about the first part of his story, where he'd sounded such an innocent and sweet child, the opposite of the one they'd all gone to school with.

"My turn", Hermione announced, her voice a bit more high-pitched than she would have liked. Picking up a card, her eyes narrowed on the words written on it. "Woo, this is dark".

"I've already planned my funeral".

Reading the words out loud didn't give her any more clarity.

She had no idea who to pin this on.

Her only idea was that it could be Draco's secret, considering he'd just recently been attacked, and with deadly purpose, but she knew it was a weak guess.

Sadly, she couldn't come up with a better option, and the Veritaserum did the rest.

Now it made much more sense why someone as reserved as Draco had seemed so keen on sharing his personal stuff with so many people at once.

"It's you, Malfoy?", she asked, although she wasn't surprised when he denied her accusation.

The problem was that they'd all been at the Battle of Hogwarts, they had all risked their lives at some point along the line, and therefore each and every one of them must have thought about death at least once.

The card could be true for every one of them, herself included.

"It could be anyone", she protested.

Now that she was playing, at least she wanted to win.

"Then say a name and drink your shot with dignity", Pansy hushed her.

Hermione snorted. "Blaise?"

He'd been her guess for the previous card, maybe it could work for this one.

"I'm afraid not, Hermione", Zabini chuckled.

The witch prepared her shot and swallowed it down without speaking any further.

No one expressed the desire to figure out the puzzle themselves, wary of the two shots penalty, so now it was up to Draco to pick up a new card.

He subtly placed a hand on top of her thigh as he reached for the deck with the other, gently squeezing her leg. She eyed him sideways and flashed him a private smile.

"I always check my appearance whenever I spot a reflective surface".

The Slytherin cursed under his breath. He had no idea who the card could belong to.

"Well, this could easily be one of mine. Now, there's one person who used to spend more time than myself in front of the mirror", he reasoned, mockingly arching a brow at Blaise.

The other wizard shrugged, a smirk on the full lips.

"Is it you, Zab?"

"Nice try, mate", Blaise shook his head.

He didn't seem surprised to be his first choice. His vanity was an old inside joke for their group.

Draco tried to focus. He still had a possibility to get this right and avoid the penalty.

He was sure it wasn't Pansy, because he knew all her telltale signs and therefore she should be blinking furiously while trying to remain undetected right now, but she was not.

He glanced up at Potter and then at Ginevra, but nothing in their faces suggested they were particularly bothered by the matter at hand.

The wizard didn't need to look up at her, suddenly realizing her stillness beside him.

Granger was extremely good at lying with words, but her body language was an open book for him.

"Merlin, this is a surprise...", he said, feeling her tense up even more on his right. "Hermione?"

The witch sighed wearily. "You caught me. I wish it was pride rather than self-awareness".

Her nose was crunched up in disgust, as if she was terribly disappointed with herself.

"Let's see", Blaise clapped his hands together before he picked up the fifth card.

"I gave my first kiss in the Hogwarts library", he read. "I feel compelled to accuse you, Hermione. You were famous for your passion for that place even in Slytherin".

The Gryffindor witch smiled at him, deleting his smug smirk with a simple thumbs down.

"Really?", Draco turned to her. "Well, I, for one, am surprised. I'd have said it was you, too".

Harry laughed. "Are you sure you're talking about Hermione? She was too devoted to that place to do something like that. She'd have never disrespected it".

The blond shrugged. It made sense.

But he and Blaise hadn't been close to her during that time of her life.

It hurt to know Potter was always going to be one step ahead of him when it came to knowing her.

Blaise turned to Potter, eyeing him thoughtfully.

"Yeah, of course, that would be the perfect strategy", he muttered to himself. "You jumped in so that you could cover your tracks, Auror Potter. J'accuse!"

"My first kiss was in the Room of Requirement, fifth year", The-Boy-Who-Lived retorted. "It was a very sad deal and by the end of it she was even crying, but no library for me".

Hermione glanced at him, sympathetically. She knew all about his disastrous attempt at snogging Cho Chang after a D.A. meeting.

"If it's any consolation, she's eating my leftovers", she said, referring to his last birthday party, where the witch had been seen in the company of Victor Krum, the world-famous Quidditch champion who'd taken her to Yule Ball on the Christmas Eve. It was almost ten years ago.

She could barely remembered what she had thought that night, although she knew she'd stressed over her appearance and insecurities for hours before the event.

"I guess I'll just have to drink", Zabini took his defeat as a gentleman, and rapidly gulped down his shot of FireWhisky.

He did it with such a haste he almost chocked on it.

"You should too, Potter", he added. "To forget about that kiss with Cho Chang".

Surprisingly, he sounded as if there was comradery in his voice rather than the old mockery.

"Someone else want to make a guess?", asked Ginny.

"Yes, please", Hermione nodded. "I think I know who the card belongs to".

The others braced themselves for what came next.

They all had an idea of who could be behind it, but they were impressed with her willingness to risk and test hers.

"Am I right, Pansy?"

"One point for you", the witch scoffed, updating the scores in the parchment and adding one point to both Draco and Hermione.

Ginny resumed the game.

"I enjoy doing exactly what other people tell me not to do. Okay, okay. This is interesting. I can work with this".

The red-headed took some time to ponderate her options.

On one hand, the statement was so generic it could easily apply to each of them, at least to some extent, but on the other she wasn't sure who could think of such a thing as a secret rather than something they publicly acknowledged.

Then something clicked in her mind.

"Give me a point, Pansy", she smiled. "It's Harry".

"Guilty as charged", the Auror confirmed with a low chuckle.

He brushed a hand on top of his messy, raven nest of short curls, looking uncomfortable.

"I guess I never really thought about it before tonight-", he paused. His green eyes widened. "Guys, I think the Veritaserum's off. I just lied to you with exceptional ease".

He realized with some delay the implications of his admission.

With bold cheeks and raging shame, Harry turned to his girlfriend.

"Perhaps this game was not your greatest idea, babe", he whispered in her ear.


Harry turned out to be right, in the confession he'd made to his girlfriend but which Ginny had heard thanks to their proximity.

Snuggled up in Blaise's arms, the red-haired witch was still recovering from all the things Pansy's game had brought to her knowledge.

The second round started with a secret from her boyfriend, who apparently, and she quoted, had "had sex with someone a close friend liked".

It happened way before the two of them started dating, so she wasn't really concerned with the whole sleeping with another woman part of the story, but she still felt terribly sorry for the friend he'd done such a terrible thing to, namely Theo.

Parkinson had not only called him out on her first guess; she'd also said she'd noticed there had been a period during which the two of them were colder than usual in their interactions, just after a couple months since her return to England.

From her outside perspective and first-hand experience, Nott seemed to have forgiven Blaise and to be currently pretty smitten with Luna, but Ginny didn't know him well enough to realize if things were truly okay between the two of them.

Her boyfriend was adamant they were fine. She hoped he was right, because she knew his friends were the only support system he was ever going to have. She'd met Helen Zabini, after all.

Harry's second card had turned out to be one of hers, specifically the one where she'd written down "I always wished I looked a little less like the rest of my family".

Luckily for Ginny, her ex gave the wrong answer twice, picking Malfoy at first and then Pansy.

Nobody tried to guess further and they passed the turn, and so and so until many skeletons were out of their closets.

For example, it had been five years since the last time since someone had been able to produce a Patronus.

Harry was "fascinated by death".

Draco panicked "every bloody time" he thought about the future.

Apparently Blaise sometimes enjoyed to "casually set things on fire a little bit", while Ginny herself had been teased endlessly about the fact she used to write poetry in Riddle's journal.

By the end of the game they weren't excessively sloshed, not more than they had upon arriving at the lounge, anyway, so once the deck was back in its box with the self-inking quills and the vial of Veritaserum, which seemed to have refilled itself in the meantime, the group took advantage of the room's properties to get themselves more drinks.

Their impromptu trip to Australia was reaching its end, and nobody wanted to be the first to suggest they should go upstairs and then to bed. As confusing and shocking as their night had been, their holiday had been nothing but light-hearted fun.

She hadn't realized how much she'd needed that.

Who ever wishes for fun to end?

Ginny most definitely did not.


(Muggle London — England;
October 28th, 2003, around 04:30 p.m.)


After twelve days of meticulous preparations, stalking and snapping pictures of the woman she was following, Rita Skeeter was finally ready to make her move and discover if her efforts were going to pay up.

Many bad, awful things could be said about the witch, she was well aware of it, but she was nothing if not efficient and prepared when it came to her job.

She'd become a reporter as soon as she'd graduated from Hogwarts, writing freelance pieces for this or that unknown magazine until one day the chief-editor of the Daily Prophet at the time, Barnabas Cuffe, had sent her an owl with an offer she couldn't refuse.

He seemed to have noticed the purpose beyond her writing, swaying people's opinion with suppositions and half-truths rather than a will to report facts as they happened, but he didn't seem to mind it.

He'd given her a fixed column in the Thursdays evening issue, happy to let her play her games, only occasionally demanding the reputations she destroyed were those of certain designated people.

Mr. Cuffe had had many rich, influential friends.

It was a pity he'd been sacked at the end of the war, kicked out with every dishonor for how easily he'd sold the paper to Voldemort's regime.

Though she knew Barnabas had been quite aligned with some ancient lines of thought, Pureblood supremacy to name the one, it wasn't as if their competitors had tried to print what was going on after the Death Eaters had taken control of the Ministry.

Unsurprisingly, along with her boss most of his staff had been fired, too, and for five years she'd seethed behind her desk at WitchWeekly, still doing what she did best — throwing shade on people — but without the old passion: Rita didn't care much for housewife gossip after she'd dived so deep into the intricacies of politics.

Power, money, status.

Those were the things she was interested in, not bloody singers cheating on their girlfriends.

If at first she'd thought of Hermione Granger's return as of the bane of her existence, now the blonde witch considered it a blessing.

Hadn't she bought WitchWeekly for her brother, forcing her to swallow some of her pride and seek employment back at the Prophet, Rita wouldn't be selling as many copies as she was recently.

Her bonuses had gone up to the roof recently and she'd bought herself a lot of nice things, like the periwinkle dressing robes she was wearing right now, so it was only fair that, when she finally got her chance to destroy the younger witch, she did it spectacularly.

She just needed to get her hands on the right piece of information, then she was going to be more than happy to settle down her old score with the girl who'd kept her locked up in a small jar for an entire summer, trapped in her beetle Animagus form.

Rita still couldn't believe she'd turned out to be the daughter of Anastasia Greengrass, but it made sense, considering how instinctively she'd disliked her upon first discovering she even existed, back when she was covering Potter's dodgy presence in the TriWizard Tournament.

She'd had a crush on Cantankerus Nott for the largest part of her time at Hogwarts.

When in her third year, the fourth for him, the two had started talking at Prefects meetings and from there very soon were officially courting, her heart had been broken in two.

The bitter memory brought a grimace to her face, which she quickly turned into a pout as she looked at her clock and noticed she'd been standing in her hiding spot for almost two hours now.

Normally she'd let the younger reporters do the field search, her designer shoes certainly weren't meant for that, but for this particular piece she needed to make sure she had the facts straights for once.

Only then she could twist them and sold them in the shape they were the most profitable.

Her goal for today was to finally talk to the sister of the muggle woman who had given birth to Draco Malfoy's child, and she couldn't wait to stand on the ashes of his already shattered reputation: the public opinion was still very interested in what he did, even five years after the end of the war and his trial, and she knew most people still had not decided if he was as reformed as he was trying to appear.

Rita didn't know Draco enough to tell, but something was definitely different in his parents.

Lord and Lady Malfoy had used to be one of the it couples of her generation, praised and envied by friends and enemies alike, but now they barely attended social events, and when they did they associated with people who were raising more than one brow in proper Pureblood circles.

Lucius was rumored to be connecting with Narcissa's estranged sister, Andromeda Tonks. The witch had married a muggle, for Salazar's sake!

Well, it seemed they weren't of a better breed all along.

As the third muggle almost stepped into her hiding spot, where she stood behind a tree while camouflaged into the landscape thanks to a Concealing Charm, Rita was tempted to give up and return tomorrow.

It seemed Olivia Lewis wasn't going to return home very soon.

It was the first time in twelve days that she changed her routine, and the witch couldn't help it but curse her under her breath.

She didn't want to spend her entire day in this muggle neighborhood, staring at her boring muggle house, but at the same time her editor, Mr. Culpepper, was starting to complain about her tardiness on delivering the scoop she'd promised him.

Rita had managed to lie her way out of it, telling him the woman had been busy with a sick grandmother and therefore she'd postponed their meeting, but now she was starting to wonder if perhaps it wouldn't have been a better idea to just come clean.

She had a feeling there was something there, something printable, and she was willing to do anything that was necessary to get her hands on it.

She didn't know for sure (yet) if Christian would be okay with a bit of old-fashioned Slytherin rule-bending — he'd grown up in America, and she didn't know much about American ethics.

Finally a familiar car turned the corner and came into view.

The blonde took a sigh of relief, but her satisfied smile was soon replaced by the frown that found its way on her face every time she was faced by the muggle contraception.

How could they trust a piece of metal to carry them around at such speeds she didn't understand.

Only magic was unerring.

The car stopped in front of the white door, if not a bit on its left, and soon enough a familiar head of raven curls stepped out of it, circling the vehicle to retrieve a child from the back seat.

Rita braced herself, for this was it. She needed to act fast.

Glancing around to see if there were muggles close by, Rita released the spell and became visible once again when she was sure there was nobody around.

Quickly she put her wand back into her purse, which she'd charmed to be more spacious, and as she walked out of the small park and towards the entrance of the suburban house, the blonde repeated the cover story she'd created for when she would finally approach the woman.

"Ms. Lewis?", she called, from the other side of the road.

It didn't seem as if Olivia had heard her, so Rita tried again.

"Olivia Lewis?"

She stepped onto the road without knowing of the muggle custom of looking on both sides before doing so, and more importantly doing it on the crosswalks.

A car had to dangerously dodge her and the driver honked at her.

"Bloody hell!"

That seemed to do the trick, because the raven haired woman finally turned around to glance at Rita, one hand holding that of the child while the other carried some grocery bags.

She waited to be just a couple feet from her before she plastered on her best fake smile.

"Can I help you?", Olivia asked, suspiciously.

"Hello!", Rita greeted her, faking cheerfulness. "My name's Anne Robinson. I'm here on behalf of the... umh, authority. We have reason to believe you could answer some questions about someone we're currently investigating".

Her plan was great. Pretend to be a muggle Auror (or whatever it was those savages had) and you'll sound not only believable, but also reliable.

"I see", the other said, unconvinced.

She eyed the white door, then glanced back at Rita.

"Perhaps it's better if you come inside. I can make some tea", she offered.

"Tea would be wonderful", the other replied. "It's nice to meet you, by the way".

Once they were inside, Rita was escorted to the living room and told to sit wherever she preferred, while the child was sent to play in his room.

The blonde was almost exhilarated by how smooth things seemed to be going, but when Olivia left the room to make the tea, it became clear she still had her suspicions.

"I'll be back in a little", she announced. "I'd like to see your badge or at least a warrant before we get to those questions, Ms. Robinson".

Luckily for her, she'd always been good at thinking quickly on her feet.

So she used her wand to transfigure one of the magazines on the coffee table into something that resembled the badge Aurors wore, and then she magically carved an acronym that sounded nice enough to seem realistic.

When she heard footsteps approaching the living room, she hid her wand in her purse once more, and kept her fake badge on her lap as she pretended to have been patiently waiting for Olivia all along.

Rita flashed her the badge at the speed of light, and begrudgingly handed it to her when she asked to see it more closely.

Upon a quick inspection, the woman sighed and returned it to her with a timid smile.

"I'm sorry, but I'm rather confused", she admitted. "I have no idea what I could possibly know that may be of aid for the police".

So that was what they were called.

"I know this may be a bit of a shock", Rita said, her voice laced with fake sympathy.

"So, who is it?", Olivia asked. "Who are you investigating?"

The blonde smiled, deeply enjoying the moment. "Are you familiar with the name Draco Malfoy?"

She watched, intrigued, as her whole body stiffened. Very interesting.

"He dated your sister, if my information is correct", she pressed.

Rita wasn't exactly sure it was true, but something had definitely happened between the two if they'd had a child together.

"I'm not privy to the type of relationship they had", Olivia answered after a while, unhelpfully. "I met Draco at the hospital, when my sister- When Jennifer died. I hadn't seen her in years before that".

"I'm sorry for your loss", Rita replied, although it was an attempt of bonding with her source rather than true compassion.

"I can't imagine what it's like to lose a sibling".

The second part sounded more honest. Being an only child, the witch really had no idea what it could feel like.

Besides she wasn't exactly a champion of empathy. That shit was for losers.

"Anyway", Olivia cleared her throat, trying to push away the sadness and failing miserably.

It was clear she was still hurting over her sister's loss and that she had many regrets.

"May I ask why the government would be investigating Draco?"

Rita smiled. She'd prepared for this.

"You're probably aware that Draco comes from a very wealthy family and ancient family", she said.

It took all of her self control to stop herself from adding the word Pureblood.

She wasn't sure muggles were sophisticated enough to have developed such a concept.

"Yes. Well, he did mention something like that", Olivia offered. "He doesn't seem to like discussing his parents in depth, but he did say he'd just recently reconnected with his family when I met him".

"I'm sure he was devastated when he learned Jennifer had died giving birth to their child", she prompted.

"We both were", Olivia admitted. "But we were also terribly confused. He didn't know Jennifer was pregnant and neither did I. I knew I had to call him only because he was my sister's emergency contact".

Rita moistened her lips. "I understand", she said, although she really didn't.

She gestured for the other to continue.

"If they were ever together, they weren't anymore when my niece was born".

"I assume Mr. Malfoy has been taking care of the child?"

"And doing a great job at that", Olivia nodded with a smile, but it turned into a frown. "I'm sorry, but you still haven't told me why exactly you're investigating him. I'm sure it's not his private life you're concerned with".

Actually — Rita thought.

"It's not as if I can divulge my case with a civil, Olivia", she chided, repeating a sentence she'd heard one too many times by the Aurors. "Let's just say that we suspect some of his family's wealth may have been acquired without going through the proper channels".

"I still can't see how that concerns Draco. He's a photographer", the other protested. "I don't think he's involved in anything untoward his relatives may be doing".

"History has a tendency to repeat itself", Rita quipped, this time stealing a page from Professor Binns lessons. "Like I said, I can't go into details, but he's been involved before".

Pity that she was alluding to the Second Wizarding War while the muggle woman thought more of something like embezzlement.

"One may say he was the central piece in the chessboard, really", she lied. "Although it was his father who served a prison sentence for the crime".

"Whatever you think he did, I know nothing that suggests he'd doing it now", Olivia shook her head. "Perhaps is his father you should concern yourself with. You just said he's the one who's been to prison".

"Oh, I didn't mean to be so ambiguous, dear. Lucius Malfoy is definitely guilty of the charges he was convicted for", Rita said. "But he's no longer the head of the family company. Draco is".

That was a bit of a stretch. While the wizard was technically the owner of Malfoy Industries, he'd never administered it personally: right after the war, when his father had been sent to Azkaban the second time, it had been Narcissa to take the reins of the business and keep it afloat, and then she'd hired an external consultant until her husband had returned.

While Lucius technically still called all the shots, it was Draco who had the last word, although he'd never been involved with the company.

She glanced up at Olivia, who had a confused look on her face.

"I knew nothing about a family company", she noted. "But like I said, Draco's a photographer".

"Does he have a shop of some sort?", Rita inquired.

The dark-haired woman shook her head. "He just shows up to events when he's called and delivers the pictures to people's houses. They're a bit expensive, but he's good at what he does".

"Mh. I'm sure he is", the blonde agreed, halfheartedly. "Although isn't it a bit strange for someone with such birth rights to be content with such a simple occupation?"

"That's a question you should ask Draco", Olivia countered. "It's not a crime to have money".

"Of course it's not", Rita agreed. "It's always good to have plenty. They get you food, a roof over your head, proper health care. Like prenatal care".

She let her last sentence hung in the air.

The witch knew it was a wild shot, but somehow she felt as if it could work.

And Rita Skeeter always went with her gut.

The muggle woman didn't reply right away, sipping the last of her tea before she posed her cup down on the tray and retrieved hers, too, although it had been barely touched.

"It's getting late and Thomas has soccer practice in a little bit", Olivia said, although it was clear that she was lying to get her out of her house. "I'm afraid I can't help you any further, Ms. Robinson".

Rita had prepared for this outcome, too.

A graceful retreat was the best counterattack she currently had at her disposal, so she slid a hand inside of her purse and produced a fake business card as she pretended to be looking for something inside it.

She placed it on the coffee table and raised from her seat, with a final fake smile.

"In case you think of anything that may help us, feel free to write me at this address", the witch smirked. Renting a muggle post box had been traumatic, but now she could see it had been worth it. "Talking to you made me realize we may have been looking at the wrong guy, although I can't say we'll stop investing Draco Malfoy entirely".

She was willing to work on every angle.

If keeping up the pretense of being a muggle detective and convincing her victim that she could be helpful in proving the innocence of a man she seemed to care about, was the only way to get the information Rita so desperately wanted, then so be it.

Moral qualms gave wrinkles, anyway.

Stepping outside the white door, the witch erupted in the first truly felt smile of her morning.

She could finally return to her house in Diagon and get ready for her dinner with Culpepper.


On the other side of the world, Draco stared at his phone's screen, incredulous.

"Adhara's aunt just asked me if I've met the Queen of England!"