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— Chapter 9 —
Treasures of Snow

"STAY AWAY FROM BLAISE."

I looked up from 1,000 Ways To Wingardium On Your Osa. Daphne stood at the edge of the stairs, looking more haggard than usual. The bruising beneath her eyes was more purple than grey, and her hair, which was normally styled in a knee-length french braid, spiked up at odd angles like the jagged peaks of a glacier.

"Hm. No," I said, and went back to reading. After a grueling morning of practice with my rubber chicken, I had retired to read another book on theory in hopes of finally being able to perform the levitation charm. As far as Wednesdays went, this one had been pretty good, but if Daphne's presence was any sign, that was going to change.

"Don't ignore me." Her footsteps approached. "Stay away from Blaise."

With a sigh, I looked up. "We're friends."

"He's mine."

"Why don't you talk to him about it?"

"I'm talking to you about it."

For the first time, there seemed to be... an imbalance of power in our relationship — an imbalance in my favor. I had something that Daphne wanted. She wasn't criticizing me for her pleasure; she was trying to intimidate me because she was… jealous. This pleased me quite a lot.

"So... if I ask Blaise, he'll know you're talking to me about this?" I asked.

Daphne's face tightened. "Yes."

"Great. I'll ask him tomorrow, shall I?"

I tried to get up, but Daphne shoved my chest with both hands, pushing me back down. "Don't," she said, "fuck with me."

I sighed and set my book down. "I think you should talk to Blaise about this," I said.

Daphne's eyes grew dark. "I'm not talking to him, I'm talking to you."

"And I'm saying, it's up to him."

Daphne drew her wand. "I could hurt you, force you to do it."

"You won't," I said.

Daphne's lip curled. "Oh? And why's that?"

There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to ask Daphne if Blaise was her only friend if she was worried he'd abandon her for me. I wanted to tell her I knew she wouldn't hurt me because Thorne was the only person who gave a shit about her and that if she cursed me, she'd lose that connection forever. I wanted to say her threats were empty because at the end of the day, she had nothing but resentment and bitterness. But I didn't.

"Thorne said you couldn't hurt me with magic," I said, hoping to diffuse the situation.

Daphne laughed. "I don't need... a spell to hurt you." She lunged, tangled her fingers in my hair, and ripped my head back.

Tug, tug, tug. Daphne was trying to break in, to get information, to find a secret that could really hurt me.

Tug, tug, tug. Was she trying? Was this the best she could do? Could it be Daphne was... bad at legilimency?

Tug, tug, tug. I saw a rope, a white rope, Daphne's led outward and away, a tenuous link that stretched from my mind to her's. If she attacked me, did that give me the right to attack her back?

Tug, tug, tug. I wanted to pull the rope. I was curious — I couldn't help it. I wanted to see what Daphne was made of, what lay beneath her cold exterior.

Tug, tug, tug. Oh, sure, why not.

I reached out and pulled.

Twist, turn, fold, bend. The world dissolved.

A handsome estate cloaked in darkness with a fire smoldering in the hearth. A coat of arms lay on the wall — "TUTI CICERO," it read. A rocking chair adorned with silk lay behind a handsome mahogany desk. Green wallpaper, black carpet, boarded-up windows.

Tug, tug, tug, went the rope around my waist.I looked down. Daphne was trying to kick me out, but her efforts weren't particularly impressive. It didn't make sense. Why would Daphne attack when she didn't know how skilled I was?

A moment later, the answer dawned on me.

Daphne didn't think I was skilled at... anything. She based her conclusion on what she'd seen — wand magic. She didn't see the practice I did with Fleur; she didn't know I slithered past Thorne's defenses. Daphne was so convinced of her own conclusion, of her own sense of superiority, that she never considered a situation where I might be better at something than she was. In fairness, until this moment, I would have agreed with her assessment. After all, I still couldn't stop Fleur or Thorne from entering my mind no matter how hard I tried. But what if...

What if...

What if Thorne and Fleur were exceptionally skilled? What if I was trying to draw conclusions from the wrong baseline? What if my practice partners weren't average, but at the top of the bell curve? What if Daphne was the average? And based on how easy it was to defend against her, I must be...

Oh, I thought. Oh...

Daphne's miscalculation had cost her. Not only had she failed to enter my mind, but she'd given me complete access to her's. I could find out every secret she had — and she knew it. I could feel her tugging on the rope, desperately trying to push me out, but she couldn't because I was too skilled.

And I wasn't even trying that hard.

A new thought occurred to me, an exciting thought. What if I tried? What if I tried to stop her from pulling the rope?

Tug, tug, tug, went the rope around my waist.

Oh, I thought. Hello, Daphne.

I reached out and grabbed it. The rope went taught. Daphne's entire mind shuddered. For a single moment, I felt her, all of her, everything she was feeling or had ever felt. It was — oh, fear, Daphne was afraid, but of what? — could it be… me?

Conflict tore through me. Why should I respect Daphne's feelings when she'd been nothing but cruel to me? Why should I exercise restraint when she'd hurt me again if given the chance? Why did I have to be the bigger person when Daphne was three years older?

"Because you're the lure," said Ron.

"Because magic represents our boundless capacity for choice," said Thorne.

Alright, fine. I was imposing my will on Daphne; I was taking away her choice. She didn't want me here, and I... was holding the rope, the white rope, Daphne's rope, the rope that felt icy and cold in my hands. Fear thrummed through it, turning my veins to ice, and I knew implicitly that if I followed that fear, if I followed it down, down, down into the basement where her dark creatures lay, I'd find Daphne's logic, her point of origin, her greatest secret; a secret which I'd be able to use to hurt her so greatly she'd never say anything to me again.

But I couldn't.

The resentment, the anger… I felt them, acknowledged them, and also realized they were from a different time, a different era, a time where I wasn't in Daphne's mind. It was then I saw my miscalculation. I didn't see Daphne the same way anymore. Not when I was in her mind. When I saw past her endless layers of frost and fuckery to the very core of her — the part of herself she kept hidden from the rest of the world. Here, now, I saw Daphne. I felt her fear, I knew how deep it ran, and I... couldn't add to that.

Despite the fact that she was horrid; despite the fact that she'd done everything in her power to hurt me — including an attempted legilimency attack for fuck's sake — I now realized her action came from this fear; that she wanted me to fear her; she needed to feel in control.

"Doin' it with magic has always seemed like... cheatin'," said Ron. "Gotta meet the fishies on an even playin' field."

Yes, Ron was right. Daphne wasn't acting on good information. She was to blame for her ignorance, yes, but, still, I wouldn't earn her respect this way. My victory wouldn't matter if —

Fuck, I thought. Even when I'm right, I still lose.

I closed my eyes. My fingers loosened.

Twist, turn, fold, bend. The world re-materialized me.

I opened my eyes. Daphne's wand hovered right between my eyes.

In that moment, she looked very small; diminished and unfinished, engulfed by a grey button-up three sizes too big. She trembled. Her gaunt eyes were wide. "If you ever do that again" — her wand shook — "I swear to Merlin... I'll kill you myself."

I nodded, observing her carefully. "Okay."

Daphne turned tail and ran.

"HARRY, YOU AWAKE?"

"Blaise... is that you?"

"Sorry, mate, I know it's late."

I sat up in bed and put my glasses on. "S' alright."

Blaise stood beside my door, drenched in a canopy of ghostly shadow. Outside, beyond a tree overgrown with foliage, lay a moon more white than grey, and when its light brushed the edges of Blaise's face, his dark skin made that light luminous, as if it were a diaphanous sheet of silken silver.

"Can I come in?"

I crossed my legs, making room. "Please."

Blaise looked troubled as he sat beside me. "My mum wants to meet with you. Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Here."

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you," I whispered. "Cho hasn't had any more time to work on the printing press and — "

Blaise held up a hand. "Hang on. I just... I need to say this."

He took a deep breath. "What you're trying to accomplish with The Liberator... I don't think it's worth it. You're wading into unknown waters here, mate. The Yaxleys are serious people. They're not fuckin' around. My mum is a serious person. She doesn't fuck around. If she wants to meet you, she wants something.

"You're a good guy, Harry, but people like my mom… people like the Yaxleys, they don't care. They have an angle." Blaise frowned. "You don't know anything about The Liberator. For that matter, you don't know anything about the Yaxleys. For all you know, the Abbotts could be lying straight to your face."

"They're not," I said.

"But how do you know?"

"I dunno. They're just... they're not."

"Harry — " began Blaise.

"It's just the way I feel."

Blaise made a frustrated sound. "How you feel isn't a fact."

"Why do I have to act only on facts? Thorne does things because she feels like it all the time."

"That's different."

"How is it different? We're both gods, aren't we? Doesn't that mean we should — "

"Harry. Thorne can take care of herself."

It felt like he'd slapped me.

Is she your new mummy?

"You think... you think I can't take care of myself?"

Blaise shook his head. "That's not what I — "

"Because I'm too stupid to know what's going on?"

"Harry — "

"I'm not an idiot, Blaise," I growled. "I'm not made of glass. I don't need protection. And despite what you and your girlfriend seem to think, I don't need anyone to mother me."

Blaise blinked. "What?"

"You were there last night, Blaise. You heard what she said about… about my mum, and you didn't say — "

"I didn't know what to say," said Blaise in a clipped voice.

"So, you — what — said nothing? You couldn't stand up to her?"

Just like everyone else, I thought bitterly.

"It's complicated."

"It's not complicated, Blaise. She's your girlfriend."

"She's not my — "

"She can say whatever because, hey, feelings don't matter, only facts do."

"Stop."

"Sure hope the sex is good because — "

"Stop talking about things you don't understand," snarled Blaise in a voice so dark it stunned me into silence. "I've known you for less than two months, and I've known Daphne for six years. You've been in the wizarding world less than two months, and I've been in the wizarding world for almost eighteen years. When I say you should listen to me, I'm not calling you weak. I'm saying you need to shut the fuck up, because you don't know enough to survive yet, and what you don't know might kill you."

Blaise leaned forward, head tilted to the side. He looked unlike himself, cold and calculating, a snake rearing to strike. The moonlight strewn against his skin sharpened into a crown of molten steel. "You're a good guy, Harry, but you're stupid. I've never thought twice about what Daphne says because compared to my mum, she's nothing. And compared to the Yaxleys, she's nothing. And with what's she's going through this — "

"Not you too," I said in disgust. "That doesn't give her the right to — everything she does, it — I don't know how — I mean, look at the Abbotts!" My voice rose to a shout. "She ripped that family apart, Blaise, and Thorne just — "

"Okay, okay." Blaise held his hands up. "Peace. I surrender. I'm waving my white flag."

"Honestly, you people make me feel like I'm in an alternate universe where I'm the one who's an asshole. Honest to god, sometimes I walk around thinking that. Is there something I'm missing here? Because it seems to me that — "

"Harry," said Blaise, "I'm sorry, alright? I wasn't thinking."

"She told me to stay away from you this morning." I watched Blaise's eyes widen with savage satisfaction. "Threatened me. And when I didn't, she attacked me with legilimency."

"I didn't know she did that."

My lip curled. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm not the only one who talks about things they don't understand."

For a long moment, we glowered at each other. Blaise can stare all he likes, I thought. I won't back down.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"I stopped her."

"What, like, physically?"

"No, Blaise," I growled. "That's something Daphne would do. I just... I have this thing where when someone attacks my mind, I can reverse the connection and attack them back."

"And you… did that?"

"Yeah. I overpowered her," I said and smirked. "She's pretty shit at occlumency."

Blaise leaned forward. "What did you see?"

I looked down. "Not much, I... didn't want to. It was, uh, an old sitting room. Down below I just felt... fear." I shook myself, trying to clear my head of the memory. "So much fear. I didn't — it just didn't feel like I should be there, so I left."

"Well, yeah... that's where it happened."

My temper flared. "Where. What. Happened? I'm sick of people being so bloody vague about — "

"This explanation is going to take a while if you keep jumping down my throat."

I shut my mouth and watched him expectantly.

Blaise grinned. "You look like an owl when you do that."

"Sorry I'm not as pretty as you are," I said waspishly.

Blaise was silent for a moment, deep in thought. The moonlight softened, turning from steel to silver, and when it slid down his face, the halo it created made his features gentle and round once more.

"This is what I know." Blaise took a deep breath. "When Daphne was ten, her twin brother held her entire family hostage. Shit if I know how a ten-year-old managed to do it, so don't ask me. He must have been a tough little guy, though. According to Daphne, he didn't use any magic.

"It took a week until someone noticed they were missing. My mum's second husband was Daphne's uncle, right? So, we knew their family, and eventually, he went to go check on them."

Blaise's face tightened and stretched. His eyes widened, gazing at something far away. "When he brought her home, she was... it makes me sick just thinking about it. I don't know what Daphne's brother did, and Daphne's never told anyone, but..." He trailed off and then said, "I think that's the reason me and her get along. Deep down... we're the same."

I shook my head. "You are nothing like her."

The corner of Blaise's mouth twitched, not at all like his usual smile. "Sometimes I wonder. At least Daphne's honest about her fear. We're both afraid. Daphne of her brother and me of — "

The strange smile grew wider. "But you've had it worse than both of us, and yet somehow, you're not."

"What?" I asked and laughed. "I'm afraid all the time."

Blaise shook his head. "Not like us. It's not… debilitating. Not in the same way. You still care. You give a shit. It's why I find you so interesting. It's why Daphne hates you. It's why you're... you."

"And we're friends, right?"

I had to ask. This had been a weird conversation.

"Course," said Blaise. His old smile — the handsome, confident one — returned. "I just wish I knew why this was so important to you."

"The Liberator?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I…" — I shrugged helplessly — "I don't even know. I know it sounds crazy... but I have to make sure the estuary is safe. I'm not saying I know everything, and I'm not saying" — I raised my eyebrows and grinned — "that I'm not stupid, but I know what's right, and I know that I'm right."

"So, uh, tomorrow is the birthday of Daphne's sister. Or it would have been if she was, you know." Blaise waved a hand vaguely. "We're gonna get pissed out of our minds. You should join us."

"Blaise, I don't — "

"You don't wanna spend time with Daphne," said Blaise.

"Uh… sort of," I said. "I don't really want to spend time with Daphne. But, also, I've never… drank before."

Blaise's eyebrows rose. "Never?"

"Never. Ever."

"Damn." Blaise ruffled my hair. "I'm gonna have to get the good shit, then. Take it from me. If anything will fix your relationship with Daphne, it'll be this. Worth a try, yeah?"

"I guess…" I said.

Blaise smiled — the strange one — the one that seemed more snake than man. "Plus, if mum's five husbands were any indication, after a day with her, you'll be needing a stiff one."

"YOU NEED A NAME."

The raven stared at me. I stared back.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

With each day that passed, the raven looked more and more healthy. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking, I'd catch him stretching his injured wing in his nest atop of my dresser. All good signs, in my book. Yes, I thought. I can do this. I can save the estuary and the raven.

"What about a noble name like Harrison?"

The raven blinked.

"Hadrian?"

Another blink.

"…Harry jr?"

A third blink.

"Fine be that way," I said waspishly. "I'll name you something really stupid. See, look out there." I pointed at a large, regal owl who was flying toward my window. "Now that's a bird who wouldn't mind a name like Hadrian."

The raven blinked (far too intelligently in my opinion), and when the incoming owl landed on my windowsill, it received a look of supreme disgust and a shuffling of glossy, midnight-blue feathers. I didn't know what the raven's problem was as there was nothing common about this owl, not from what I could see, anyway.

It was jet black and spectacled by virtue of the white markings around its eyes, beak, and lower jaw. It looked excessively grumpy as if it couldn't believe this was the task it had been assigned this morning. When I moved to take the letter attached to its leg, the owl watched me with large yellow eyes, waiting for something, though for what I did not know. I must have offended it somehow, because the instant I removed the letter, it hooted, gave my finger a sharp peck, and took flight out the window.

"Looks like you were right to be suspicious," I told the raven. "Ah well."

I turned my attention to the letter.

Dearest Harry:

I did wish our first communication was in person, but alas, circumstances force my hand, as they so often do. What motive have I in writing to you? To be frank, I am bored, bored of this game — everything is a game, never forget — and while I find your stumbling attempts at independence amusing, I do not think it fair to keep you in the dark.

Not when your competition is laying piece after piece to back you into corners unknown to you and Thorne and yes, even me; not when the deck is stacked so heavily against a fifteen year-old-old who, if my sources are correct (and they are), does not have a wand and still, even after two months, cannot perform a single spell; not when Dragons escape confinement and Acrumantulas savage their hosts; not when the breadcrumbs you follow lead not where you think you see them lead, but to somewhere I think you do not know.

But how do you know you can trust me? How do you know I am not leading you astray. For that matter, how do you know I am not the Dark Lord, who beyond all others has the best hope of destroying you? Enjoy that uncertainty, Harry. Embrace it. That is the thrill of possibility, of magic, and while it does not have rules, I, most certainly, do, and you can expect I will always fall inside the boundaries they provide.

Except when I don't.

1) I am not kind, but I am fair. In all things. Big and small (especially small). Regardless of how they benefit me. A word of warning: I have a top-heavy sense of fairness.

2) In every situation, I will always choose what amuses me most. A word of warning: I have a wicked sense of humor.

3) I care little for things that do not hold my attention. A word of warning: should you prove uninteresting, it will prove quite perilous for you, and dare I say, even fatal.

For the moment at least, you fall squarely in the safe-zone of all three rules. Therefore, you can rest easy knowing I mean you no harm. For now. Who am I, you ask? When we meet — and rest assured, we will — sooner than you think, but not as soon as I'd like — I will introduce myself fully and properly, and then, you will know me.

In preparation for this joyous meeting, I have, quite graciously, arranged two presents for you. The first is tangible and fits in a box. When it's delivered, you'll thank me — eventually. The second is a warning, given freely, at no cost to you and great risk to me. Can you handle it? Are you ready?

Do not trust Theodore Nott.

Until we meet, I remain,

TMR

"Who the hell," I mumbled, "is TMR?"

A knock at the door announced Arabella's arrival. I set the letter down and walked down the stairs, across the entry, and with a bright smile, opened the door.

In an instant, I became acutely aware of all the things Arabella Zabini wasn't. Largely, I think, because understanding who she was lay beyond my observational capacity. Her skin wasn't dark, wasn't chocolate, wasn't tan, but deep in its coloring. Her eyes weren't beady, bulbous, or overly-blinky, but bright, luminous, and steely blue. Her clothes, especially the frilly, pearl-inlaid décolletage of her silk-stitched emerald dress, bespoke wealth, but her lips, pressed together as they were in a razor-thin too-sharp raspberry-lipstick-covered smile, belied hunger and weariness born from broken promises, distrustful dalliances, and one too many should-a-could-a-would-a's.

Her eyes flared. "What do you desire?" she asked.

I blinked. "Sorry?"

Arabella's voice could've made shit sound like Shakespeare. It didn't shake, drawl, or falter. Nor was it cold. Nor was it passionate. Nor was it affected in any other way. It was real and earthy, with a bit a' dirt that scraped a little. But only a little.

"What do you desire?" she asked again.

"Uh, I don't — "

Arabella took an imposing step into Thorne's cottage. I took a step back. Her presence filled the whole house.

"This is not a social call, Mister Potter. There will be no chit chat, small talk, or idle conversation. There are no waters to test, truths to review, or stories to scrutinize. I will not explain, elucidate, or make any attempts to demystify myself. To you. My assistance is valuable, worthwhile, and advantageous. For you."

There it was again. That smile.

"This is one thing and one thing only," she said. "An appraisal, a transaction, a business… coupling. Desire. Price. Transaction. Now, I will ask again, and if you do not answer, I will leave. What do you desire?"

Arabella took a step forward. I stepped back.

"Uh… the estuary. They, uh, the Yaxleys… uh…"

"Yes?"

"Pumpkins… and the Wizengamot… and you…"

Arabella took a step forward. I stepped back.

"Come, come, Mister Potter. Surely you can be more articulate than that. Surely there's something darker, deeper you desire."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean — it's just that I know you're in the Wizengamot, so I was wondering if there were any avenues to stopping…"

Arabella prowled forward.

"The…"

I stepped back.

"Vote," I squeaked.

My back hit a wall.

"Uhm… because, well, we don't know what the pumpkins will do to the estuary, and we want to make sure things stay in — "

"December 13th."

It took me a minute to realize December was a month that existed. "What?"

"An art auction," said Arabella. "In France. Your attendance for my assistance."

"I mean, I'd have to ask Thorne, but — "

Her gaze sharpened. "You have five seconds to decide."

"Wait, but — "

"Four."

"Will you guarantee you can stop the vote?" I asked, my words tumbling out in a rush.

"Do not say yes," said Fleur in my mind.

"Oh, so now you decide to answer."

"I'm sorry, there were things I needed to do and — "

"Three," said Arabella.

"The art auction isn't — " began Fleur.

"This is important to me," I hissed.

"Can't you just — "

"Two."

"I promise I'll explain why, but for now — "

"No," I said mulishly. "I have to prove I can do this."

"Harry — "

"One."

"Alright!" I said, much too loudly. "Fine. I'll go to your auction."

Arabella leaned back, face smooth as stone. "I have arranged a meeting at four o'clock between yourself and Lucius Malfoy, editor of the Daily Prophet."

"Err… thanks," I said. "But isn't the Wizengamot — "

"Desire. Price. Transaction," said Arabella briskly. "Awareness increases price, visibility lowers desire. No desire, no transaction. Good day, Mister Potter."

"But — "

"Good day."

Without another word, Arabella swept from the house and closed the door behind her with a soft click. For several long moments, I stared at the spot she'd vacated, wondering what the hell just happened.

I had never felt turned on and afraid at the same time before. It was… unsettling.

"Harry — "

"Don't start," I snapped, feeling beyond embarrassed by my stuttering performance. "You don't get to disappear and then order me around."

"I'm sorry, but — "

I blew a very loud raspberry at Fleur and ignored her.

"Hm," said a thoughtful voice from the bottom step. "With your mouth hanging open like that, you kinda look like mum's fourth husband."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "Shut up."

"Don't beat yourself up," said Blaise as he walked over to me. "She's a pro. You did the best you could. Good on ya, better luck next time."

"Have I ever told you I hate you?" I asked as we walked toward the door, the forest, and Ron.

"I did warn you," said Blaise with a carefree shrug. "They don't call her Venus-Flytrap-Zabini for nothing."

"Do they, really?" I asked.

"No," said Blaise with a laugh. "Could you imagine?"

THE DAILY PROPHET HAD AN AIR OF QUIET SIGNIFICANCE, a place where people had very important thoughts (and you'd best not interrupt). It was rectangular, wide but not narrow, and each of its three stories were graded so that the second level protruded over the ground floor, and the third level protruded past the second and over the first. As a consequence, it had no balcony, where the second floor did. A zigzagging elevator-like system made these upper floors accessible. Massive man-sized bird cages crawled at a 45-degree angle along glimmering silver chains that disappeared into the third floor and originated from a spot near the fireplace where I was standing.

A curved reception desk stood in the center of the foyer, made of the same veiny blue-and-white marble as the floors, walls, Doric columns, and slanted ceiling. In the center of this island sat a man with a newspaper draped across his face. When I stepped forward to sign in at a clipboard strewn casually (but not carelessly) across the desk, I heard him snoring.

The newspaper on his face had a moving black-and-white picture of a dragon, and the headline was titled, "HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL ESCAPES CONFINEMENT FLUMMOXING EXPERTS." I nodded in agreement. If a dragon escaped, I'd probably be flummoxed too.

Looks like TMR was telling the truth about that, I thought.

"Um, excuse me."

The man didn't stir. I raised my hand to ring a golden bell lying next to the clipboard, but before I could, I was elbowed out of the way by a wizard with hair the color of fake gold, and teeth too white to be real.

The newcomer draped himself across the desk — elbows and chest, hell, he just sprawled on top — and gave the bell a good tap. "A ring a ding ding, darling," he said. "It's Gilderoy."

A few of the wizards who were sitting in a sectioned-off seating area to the left of the counter shifted in their chairs and gave Gilderoy dirty looks that suggested, in no uncertain terms, that he should get his comportment under control forthwith.

"Um, excuse me," I said. "I was here first."

"You didn't ring the bell, darling," said Gilderoy without looking at me. "No tap, no save." He rang the bell three more times.

"I was about to," I said.

"Quiet now, luv, adults are talking." Gilderoy flashed a pearly smile. "Wakie wakie Ludlow." He bumped me with his hip again, and I stumbled back into —

"Harry?"

I turned. Curly black hair, serious eyebrows, two different colored eyes. "Clive?"

"What are you doing here?" He was grinning big and wide, not a care in the world.

"I have a meeting with Lucius Malfoy at four. But that ponce" — I jerked my head at Lockhart who was still trying to wake Ludlow — "took my spot in line."

"Did you sign in?"

"Yeah, but I didn't ring the bell."

"So?"

"He said: no tap, no save."

"What? That's not… oh." Clive rolled his eyes. "Gilderoy is such a wet scone sometimes. He writes an advice column called 'THE ME INSIDE OF YOU'."

"That's creepy," I said.

A mischievous smile lit the edges of Clive's face. "Wanna see him lose his goddamn mind?"

I nodded, watching with amusement as Clive snuck up behind Gilderoy. "S'cuse me sir," he said in a voice high-pitched and bouncy. "Are you Lilderoy Gockhart?"

Gilderoy spun around. "Well, I never," he said. His next words were said with such veracity, it made his overly styled hair jiggle like jello. "I most certainly am not!"

"I'm an aspiring writer, you see," said Clive, "an' my da' says your Centaur testicle extract makes 'im look fifteen years younger! It must be wrist-breakin' work gettin' all a' it. After all, them Centaurs won't let just anyone milk them."

"You must have me, confused darling," said Gilderoy dismissively.

And then, just as he turned away, Clive's voice boomed across the quiet shop. "It can't be Lilderoy Gockhart!"

"Lilderoy Gockhart?" asked a voice from the seated area.

"Not the Lilderoy Gockhart!?" cried a voice from the second-floor balcony.

"Here, in Britain!" shouted Ludlow, the sleeping receptionist who slept no longer. "Who'd've thought it!"

Suddenly, Gilderoy was in the midst of a great throng of wizards who were all clamoring, shouting, and cheering. I heard him stammering assurances that he wasn't Lilderoy Gockhart, but his words fell on deaf ears. His golden hair dipped beneath a mass of raised hands, and much to my amusement didn't come back up again.

"Come on," said Clive with a snigger. "My dad's meeting with Lucius now. I'll take you up."

"Thanks," I said with a smile. "You saved me again."

"We keep running into each other. Feels like fate."

"Lucky us."

"By the way," said Clive as we boarded one of the birdcages. "Can I… show you something after your meeting is finished. I thought you might want to see the Liberator's shop since you're doing so much to save it."

I'd never thought of that until now. "Yeah," I said. "That'd be great, actually."

Clive's smile lit up his entire face. "Great. See you later, then."

LUCIUS MET ME IN FRONT OF A LONG GLASS WALL, beyond which lay row upon row of whatchamacallits. They whirred and buzzed, spewing freshly printed papers into one of the three, round openings in the opposite wall.

"A contract." Lucius handed me a piece of parchment. Cramped, yet elegant, handwriting covered both sides, and on the back was a glowing line marked by a rudimentary 'x'.

"Err… what does it say?" I asked, feeling a little overwhelmed at how small the writing was.

"It promises a sum of eight galleons in exchange for an article, written by you, which we will publish."

"The estuary," I said.

"Correct," agreed Lucius.

"But I didn't write the article."

Lucius smiled, and it wasn't at all pleasant. "If people believe you did, the truth hardly matters."

"The Abbotts — "

"Destroyed any and all credibility they had when they attacked not only a highly respected family but the integrity of the Wizengamot."

"So… what difference will it make if I do it?"

Lucius's eyes flickered like the embers of a smoldering fire. "Journalism is not concerned with finding truth. Its job is to convince people of what is. The more credible the source, the more credible the information."

"But I'm not a credible source," I said.

Lucius laughed at that, a rich, warm sound. "Funny," he said.

"I'm not joking," I said, but Lucius's cold eyes continue to glint, as if I were merely being coy — it pissed me off. "What do you get of this, anyway?" I asked, a little more roughly than was strictly polite.

"What any editor wants." Lucius toasted me with an invisible glass. "Circulation."

Something about that statement seemed off to me.

"You're a member of the Wizengamot, right sir?" I asked.

Lucius inclined his head. "Naturally."

"So… it wouldn't make sense for you to publish this article if you were planning on voting for the bill."

That wiped Lucius's face clean of humor. "A great number of factors influence how the Wizengamot votes."

"But you're the leader of the majority," I said and then added a hasty, "sir," so I wouldn't appear rude. "You said that during my auction, didn't you, Mister Malfoy? So why go to all these lengths to hide you…" I trailed off, the answer dawning on me. "Ah," I said, "I see. The majority is changing, but… if it's not the Dark Lord, then who…?"

"The Wizengamot votes on Monday, Mister Potter." Lucius turned and, with our meeting now over, walked down the hall. "I await your owl."

IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY THERE WAS AN EMPTY FOOTPRINT, the footprint of a building that was. A wall here and there; dust and silence; splintered weather-worn floorboards and the obelisks of ice which sprung from them; low hanging mist that ghosted from those obelisks; the dilapidated outline of what had once been a second story and roof; a perfectly preserved wooden sign hanging obliquely from a gleaming copper chain — "THE LIBERATOR," it read with golden lettering untouched by time, the only item in the store that was — it felt like gallows humor.

"Not pretty, is it," said Clive.

I shook my head. "What… happened?"

"It's intricate, right?" Clive walked toward a wall, the only one still standing, and beckoned me over, pointing at a flaring pattern of pink and blue on the charred wallpaper. Pale light emanated it from it, bleak and dim, like the imprint of stained glass on fresh snow. "The patterns of frost. See?"

The temperature plummeted when I stepped into the store. My breath whooshed out visibly, disrupting the stale stillness of the shop.

"What sort of spell could have done this?"

"The Ice Fortress," said Clive. "It's, uh, something of a specialty of the Dark Lord's apprentice. Quite a difficult spell to pull off from what I've heard."

"But Hannah and Thomas said they didn't know who destroyed the shop."

Clive shook his head. "They were referring to the how, not the who. Someone told the Dark Lord's apprentice where to go. Someone let him into the shop. That's the important part. If we find the traitor, we find the Dark Lord's apprentice." Clive shivered so violently it passed through him to me. "I thought you might be interested to know because…" — he sighed, and a plume of anxious air escaped — "because the Dark Lord's apprentice is Daphne's twin brother."

The spell Daphne was trying to perfect the day she attacked me in Thorne's backyard. She was trying to perfect her brother's spell. How long did say she'd been trying? Seven years?

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

Clive's voice was brittle, cracking like frost. "Me and Daphne don't talk much anymore, for obvious reasons, but I still... think about her. A lot. And if there's something I can do to find the person who hurt her..." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a vial of perfectly clear liquid. "Then I'm going to do it."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Veritaserum," explained Clive. "Truth potion. Ultimate truth. We use it sometimes for interviews where we want to make sure our subject is telling the truth. With their consent, of course. That's what I came here to get today."

"So, when someone drinks that…"

"They can't lie. And when we find out who betrayed us" — Clive lifted the class and peered at me through the transparent solution — "I'm going to find Daphne's brother, and then take him to Daphne."

"You still care about her, don't you?" I whispered.

Clive looked down and messed with his hair. "I know, it's crazy," he said. "After all, what I did to Hannah was" — he winced — "unforgivable, and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for that." His voice softened, becoming taciturn, more introspective. "Maybe I'm selfish," he whispered, "but… I can't get Daphne out of my head."

He looked up with blue-and-green eyes right into mine. "Maybe it's just one of those things, you know? I know you guys don't get along, so I thought, maybe, if you saw what she's up against, then maybe…"

The rebellious part of me, the part of me that was still angry, flared. "I don't know why I have to be the one to make the effort," I hissed, my voice brittle and thin in the afternoon air. "After everything she's done, shouldn't — "

"Yeah," said Clive quietly, "she should. But I guess… what I'm trying to say is…" — he sighed, and another cloud of hot air burst forth — "Look at the color pattern. Blue at the edges and pink in the middle." He reached out and ghosted his fingers over the pattern. "The blue is frost, no brainer right there. But the pink is something very different. Do you recognize the color from anywhere?"

"Don't think so," I said.

"Someone's face, maybe?" asked Clive.

"Oh," I whispered. "Shit. Daphne's face…"

"The Ice Fortress is an interesting spell," said Clive, "because it's so cold it burns everything it touches."

"What does that mean?"

Clive looked around at the expansive ruins all around us. "It means," he said quietly, "that the spell that wrecked this entire store, hit Daphne at full force.

WHEN I STEPPED OUT OF THE FIREPLACE LATER THAT EVENING, Blaise and Daphne were already drinking in the living room. They reclined in chaise lounge chairs, drinking Ogden's Old Firewhiskey directly from the bottle. It was very bourgeoisie in a "teenagers who know nothing" kind of way.

"Oh, good," said Blaise when he saw me. "Harold! Come sit with us."

"Harold?" Daphne sounded perplexed. "That's not your name, is it?"

"Course it isn't. It's Hadrian."

Daphne's mouth dropped open, and then she burst out laughing. "Hadrian!" she howled. "Who would do that to a child? Oooh — wait — what about… Harri… Hardi…" — she frowned, thinking hard — "Harrididrian."

They were sloshed out of their minds.

"Nooo," said Blaise with a shake of his head. "Too many syllables." He turned and jumped as if he were seeing me for the first time. "Ah, Harvey," he said. "Have a drink." He held the bottle out.

"Is it strong?" I asked as I walked over.

"No…" said Daphne as Blaise nodded vigorously.

I sniffed it and coughed when the smell went up my nose. It had a woody aroma with a cloying medicinal quality — I wasn't expecting it. "I dunno," I said. "This smells, uh — "

"Hey!" said Daphne loudly. I turned and saw she was holding up four fingers. "There are only two kinds of people in this world," she said. "Those who go forward, and those who are hippogriffs. Which one… are you?"

"Sip," said Blaise.

"Sip," said Daphne.

Then, they chanted, "Sip! Sip! Sip! Sip!"

I took a tiny sip and spluttered. The liquid burned all the way down my throat and became pleasantly molten when it settled in my stomach.

"Yes," roared Blaise. "Now it's a party."

TWO HOURS LATER, I WAS STRAIGHT PISSED, and the three of us were sitting side-by-side before the fire.

"Okay," said Blaise. "Let's go around in a circle."

"But we're sitting in a line," I said.

"Shhh" — Blaise held a finger to his lips — "don't pull that logic crap with me. We're gonna play a game. A truth game."

Daphne started. "Oooooh," she said with a big dopey grin. "Hang on." She sprinted up the stairs. I heard her stumbling around, bumping into things, and apologizing to the items she bumped into. When she came back down, she had a small object in her hand roughly the size of a spinning top.

"Oh good," said Blaise. "Then we'll know for sure."

Daphne sat on the ground behind us. We turned to face her. The warmth of the fire felt amazing against my back. It was then I saw what was in her hand — a truth-seeker.

"See?" I said. "Now we're in a circle."

"Oh," said Blaise with a look of dawning comprehension. "We were in a line before, weren't we?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you!"

"Huh. Go figure."

"Okay," said Daphne. She took a swig from the half-empty bottle before continuing. "Me, Blaise, and then Harry. When one of us doesn't answer, we'll reverse."

"And we drink."

"Noooo," said Daphne with cheeks that looked rosier than I'd ever seen them. There was nothing gaunt about her now. "We drink anyway."

"Merlin," exclaimed Blaise. "You're a genius. Why didn't I think of that?"

Daphne tried to spin the truth-seeker for several minutes with limited success. The sleeves of her grey button-up — three sizes too large and wrinkled from continuous use — kept getting in the way as they weren't rolled up.

"There we go," said Daphne when she finally managed to spin the truth-seeker.

"Now that's talent," said Blaise.

Daphne turned to him, and with a very syrupy giggle, said, "Blaise. Why do you drink your potion?"

"Noooo." Blaise shook his head. "Won't answer that."

Daphne didn't seem surprised at all. "Oh well," she said and turned to face me.

Immediately, her dopey grin and rosy cheeks disappeared, leaving nothing but a familiar gaunt shrewdness in its wake. In an instant, I realized everything she'd said and done since I arrived had been an act designed to lure me into a false sense of security — to draw me in so she could attack at this exact moment. I looked at Blaise and saw he was watching us with that serpentine smile, a smile I now realized resembled his mother's.

We had reached a tipping point, me and Daphne. I knew it. Blaise knew it. Daphne knew it. Hell, even Clive knew it. We couldn't continue butting heads, smashing against each other like waves against a cliff. One of us, our philosophies, had to win out. Blaise and Daphne thought our final game was about to begin, but they'd forgotten something important, they'd overlooked one crucial detail.

I. Was. Drunk. As. Fuck.

"Guess I get to ask you a question now," said Daphne.

"Wait," I said. "I'm not ready yet."

A feeling of wild recklessness swept over me — the kind of reckless that only comes from being drunk and threatened at the same time. Without pausing to consider the consequences, I took the Firewhiskey bottle from Daphne, and with its contents still half-full, downed it in three large gulps.

It felt like I'd been kicked in the balls.

I shut my eyes — fire raced through my veins, flooding my cheeks with color — all the blood in my body rushed to my face — the room spun dizzyingly — every nerve in my body tingled — my heart gave three painful throbs — the fire at my back became an inferno — the rope in my mind bucked like a wriggling worm — each breath I took felt too cold, scorching my lungs — the world grew dim —

Something grabbed hold of me, of my mind, of the rope, and held it still. No, wait, it went past holding the rope. It sunk into it, became one with it. Familiar warmth flooded through me, grappling with the fire like I grappled with Daphne. Unfortunately for the fire, it didn't stand a chance. Warmth smashed against it, trundled through it, snuffing out the flames as if they were only flickering embers, and as awareness returned to me, I heard a familiar voice coming from the rope.

"You are an idiot," it said grumpily.

I giggled, so drunk I might have been a hippogriff. "Thanks, Fleur," I whispered.

The rope gave a wiggle of acknowledgment and I could think again. Fleur was holding me, my entire mind, together — just like she always did. I drew in a great shuddering breath and opened my eyes. Blaise and Daphne were staring at me with wide eyes.

"That," said Blaise, "should have made you pass out."

"Guess I'm made of stronger stuff than most," I said lightly. My eyes flickered to Daphne's. "Ask."

Spin, spin, spin, went the truth-seeker on the ground.

"Do you think you're better than me?" The question was harsh, but the voice attached to it wasn't.

"Yes," I said.

Spin, spin, spin, went the truth-seeker on the ground.

"Why?"

"Because you think vulnerability is a weakness. And sometimes" — I hesitated, but the rope grew warm, urging me onward — "sometimes you almost convince me that you're right." I took a deep breath. "But you're not."

At that moment, I realized I was going to win the game, not because I was stronger than Daphne, but because I couldn't live in a world where she was right. I was going to win and there was nothing she could do to stop me.

"Why?" asked Daphne.

"Because you're not allowed to be a Hippogriff anymore," I said, and with the gentlest of touches, brushed my fingers against her cheek. The charm Daphne used to hide her burns fell and withered, never to be used again — I knew it like I knew the sun would rise and set. It was permanent and unchangeable. Daphne would never be able to hide behind that armor again. From the look on her face, I could tell she knew it too.

"It's gone," she whispered.

"Ha ha," I said. "I win."

Fleur released her hold on my mind, and when she did, the full weight of my drunkenness collapsed on me. I giggled, as drunk as a hippogriff.

"Guess we'll need to open another bottle," said Blaise.

Daphne looked at him sideways. "Make it two."

I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG THEY KEPT ME UP, but it was late enough that being drunk stopped being fun and started being exhausting. There were tons of questions — Daphne was real curious about a whole bunch of stuff. The orphanage where I'd grown up; my favorite kinds of food; what a "fellytone" was; why I waited so long to tell them I could perform magic (I couldn't, but I wasn't about to say that); how I'd managed to drink half a bottle of Firewhisky without puking my guts out… it was endless.

It might have been flattering, were it not for the fact I knew Daphne was interrogating me, not because she was interested in getting to know me, but because she wanted to find any excuse to invalidate my victory. Good luck, I thought smugly.

Blaise fell asleep around one o'clock. It was a drunken sleep, with violent snoring and drool — so much drool. It was thoroughly unattractive, a plus in my book. It was nice to know Blaise could beunattractive.

"Okay, I have another question?"

"For heaven's sake," I said. "It's — "

"Harry — "

"You know what, no, it's my turn now. I've answered all your questions."

"But — "

"Won't say nothing till I get my way. One question — no wait, I changed my mind. Two."

"One," said Daphne.

"Three," I countered.

"Two."

"Alright," I agreed. "Two questions. And if you lie, I get a million."

Spin, spin, spin, went the truth-seeker on the floor.

"What happened between you and Clive?"

Daphne shook her head. "Ask something else."

"But you said — "

Her hand darted out to grab my knee. "Anything else."

Maybe it was the look in gaunt grey eyes; maybe it was the hollowness of her cheeks; maybe it was the way she shrunk into her three-sizes-too-big button-up; maybe it was a combination of all those things. Regardless of the reason, I relented and asked something else instead.

"You wear that shirt every day," I said. "Why?"

From the look on Daphne's face, I knew she would've rather answered the question about Clive, but to her credit, she answered. "My dad was wearing it when he…" she trailed off. "Each year I remember less and less no matter how hard I try. It's like… magic… wants me to forget them. But I can't. I won't. If I do, I'll…" she fell silent.

Spin, spin, spin, went the truth-seeker on the floor.

"It's your sister's birthday tomorrow, right?"

"I'm going to visit her. I always do. Thorne usually comes but…"

"I'll come."

Daphne's lip curled. "Why would you do that? You hate me, remember?"

Another game — another test. But it was different now that I'd won. We weren't dueling; she was nipping at my ankles.

"I don't want to hate you," I said.

When Daphne spoke, it was so quiet I barely heard her words. "I want you to."

Spin, spin, spin, went the truth-seeker on the floor.

"Tell you what," I said. "If you can put the charm back on your face, I won't."

A pause, a silence.

"Guess you're coming with."

"Yeah. Guess I am."

Ending Notes:

[1] Beta'd by Jarizok.

[2] If you're a picky brit and want to britpick the hell out of this story, shoot me a pm — I'd love your help :)