**Trigger warning: misogynistic, bigoted, ableist and all-round offensive language used by Cormac McLaggen; mention of violence, murder, child pornography, pedophilia, and planned sexual assault**

*some light spanking in the Dramione scene (unrelated to the above)*


Chapter 77

Wednesday 25 March 2003: AM

After banging once on Blaise's closed office door, Gus figures that the garbled masculine sound she hears coming from behind it is permission enough to grant entry. She doesn't repress her smirk as she enters to witness Blaise choking on his tiny cup of espresso, small dribbles of hot coffee soaking into his baby blue business shirt.

"Oh, I do beg pardon; what a shame," she drawls, widening her topaz eyes in pretended contrition.

"You know, Gussie… I'd be much more inclined to believe you meant that, if you weren't currently grinning from ear to beautiful ear," Blaise shakes his head, his own smile flashing attractively on his handsome face. Using his matching blue silk handkerchief, he mops ineffectually at the brown stains marring his shirt, before giving it away as a lost cause.

Flinging down the soiled hankie, he prowls around his desk until he is within half a foot of where Gus stands. She wills herself to hold her ground, even as her body sways closer. Dammit, he's like a magnet – I get drawn in every time.

"Good morning, Gussie," Blaise leans forward, pressing a kiss to her mouth with excruciating daintiness. Gus pushes her tongue between his firm lips before she can stop herself. Just one quick kiss…

Two minutes later, she forces herself to draw away, her head spinning with rampant arousal and her breathing erratic. Sliding her hands from Blaise's neck and shoulders, Gus blinks in surprise at his thoroughly ravished appearance. His patterned blue and slate tie is skew-whiff, a couple of his top buttons are undone, and his close-cropped hair bears the marks of her avid fingers, like tiny plough lines. He only held his hands steady on my hips while I was desperately trying to undress him like a total horndog. What's gotten into me?!

"I – erm – good morning, Blaise," she mumbles, both loving and hating his smugly delighted expression. "I came to see you because…" her mind blanks, adding to her mounting embarrassment.

"…Because you were dying to kiss me? Because you wanted to start your morning with your recommended daily serve of The Great Zabini? Because you couldn't go another minute without plunging your sweet, sweet lips onto mine, and shamelessly groping my burly buttocks?" he suggests, gripping the edge of his desk with both hands and cackling uproariously at her disgruntled mien. "Oh, Gussie – you can't deny the last charge, my bum is tingling madly from your ardent fondlings," he saucily winks.

Irritation clears Gus's woolly brain in an instant. "Ha! I came to see 'The Great Zabini' –" she makes scornful finger quotations – "because I have a few questions for him, after Tavi and Mrs Green returned from the playground yesterday with an extremely interesting tale of reformed bullies and a mysterious spectre… a powerful phantom, invisible to all, apart from a few glimpses of his brown leather shoes." Gus pointedly drops her gaze to Blaise's highly polished footwear, before raising her eyes to his startled ones.

"Brown leather shoes? How… fashionable," the lying Snake prattles, as he makes a big production of refastening his buttons and straightening his tie. "Would you like a cup of coffee, Gus?" he waves at the large, gleaming Muggle machine sitting stop his window sideboard.

"Don't think you can seduce me away from the subject with your posh, hideously expensive, doubtlessly delicious coffee, Blaise Zabini: I know you were involved in this bizarre caper… you were in it up to your neck, weren't you? You're the strange 'Preppy Tenty', aren't you?" Gus advances as he scrambles back to stand behind his fancy office chair, his long fingers clamping onto the leather.

"You can tell me," she abruptly changes tactics, running her forefinger along his strong cheekbone and jaw. "I know you did something to avenge Tavi… didn't you… Blaisey?" she purrs.

"Gussie – that's not fighting fair – Sweet Salazar, you're killing me, woman," he groans, as her wandering finger lightly traces the outline of his plush mouth. "I'm trying to take this at your pace – but all I want to do right now is lock my door, strip you down to your birthday suit, and pleasure you until you're screaming my name in pure bliss, la mia bellissima aquila." Blaise whines as she slides the tip of her finger between his parted lips.

Venus wept – I can't think of a better way to spend my morning, either. Gus gives serious contemplation to taking up his impassioned offer, as the sinfully sexy man slowly sucks on her digit, sending ripples of sweltering arousal spinning through her system. His sexy dark eyes clearly communicate his fervid desire, his dilated pupils just a shade darker than his coal-black irises.

No – I'm at work, and I've barely known the man a week – he's not going anywhere, and neither am I. Gus tugs free her finger and steps back a few paces. Afraid her voice will betray her raging need for him, she waits for him to speak first.

"Sure you don't want a– a coffee?" Blaise squeaks. "No?".

"No. Thank you." Gus scratches at her nose. "Look, I just wanted to say that I appreciate what you did… Mr Preppy Tenty. Mrs Green said to tell you that you're 'a geet, canny bugger for givvin the wee hoonds a gud yarkin'; and that you're 'proper grayne'… that means you're family now, Blaise."

Blinking rapidly, Blaise looks at her as though she's just announced he's in line for an Order of Merlin. "Family…" he slowly repeats. "I'm… proper grayne," he tests the words. The joyful wonder spreading across his face impels Gus to fold him into a quick, tight hug. He squeezes her back, his chest expanding with quiet happiness.

"I should go – Harry's left me in charge while he's back interviewing the scummy shitwits at Azkaban, and I intend to lord it over Kolt as much as I can," Gus jokes, reluctantly ending their embrace. "Thanks, Blaise."

"It's nothing – thank you, Gussie. Would you like to join me for lunch? Gelsy packed me too much food, I'll get pudgy if I eat it all myself," he slaps at his toned stomach.

Don't go thinking about all the hot male flesh under his hand and shirt – be smart, Gus. She wrenches away her fascinated gaze. "Sure – that sounds good. Beats the daily special at the cafeteria – 'What Was it Once? Wednesdays', as Kolt calls it," she nods.

"Yeah – Faulkner'll have to risk it today, he's not invited," Blaise states, his joviality dimming. "Come round about half past twelve, if that suits?".

"OK. Hey, did Harry invite you to play in the work Quidditch match on Saturday?" Gus asks.

"Yes – I was going to ask if you wanted to come watch me in action?" he puffs out his chest. "I'm considered a mighty fine Beater, if I do say so myself."

Oooh… I'm really going to enjoy Saturday now, Gus decides, keeping her exultation to herself. "I'll think about it," she nonchalantly shrugs. "Tavi loves attending Quidditch matches; she's quite bloodthirsty, and cheers whenever anyone gets conked in the face."

"Excellent. Would you please ask Nella to come, too? I'll ask Gelsy to prepare a picnic hamper for us all to enjoy after the match." Blaise scribbles down a note on a scrap of parchment. "I can't wait, Gussie."

"I'd best get back. See you in a few hours, Blaise." Gus turns for the door before she rushes in to kiss the charming wizard again.

Well, he didn't explicitly admit to teaching those juvenile bullies a lesson; but his face – and his shoes! – definitely gave him away. The clever, big-hearted, sexy wretch.

Gus chortles as she swiftly makes her way back to Harry's office, thinking of how she will surprise Blaise at Saturday's game.

'A fine Beater', indeed. I'll be the judge of that, Preppy Tenty.


Wednesday 25 March 2003: Noon

"Keep your hands where I can see them – I need to talk to you both." Pansy barges into Hermione's office without so much as a cursory knock. "Sweet Circe, Hermione – how have you been able to get any work done, what with Draco constantly pawing at you?!".

Draco reluctantly retracts his grabby fingers. I knew I should have locked Hermione's door – I'm becoming quite aggrieved by how casually everyone seems to invade everyone else's space in this farce of a workplace. Two more days… just two more ruddy days…

"Pansy! Hi!" Hermione leaps from Draco's lap, running to embrace her friend. "What's up? You look a little stressed."

"I need some advice. From both the female and male perspective – and you two are it. Wipe that pained grimace off your ivory mug, Draco. It's nothing particularly explicit – that's the damned problem," Pansy snaps.

"Look, maybe I should go procure us all something to eat–" Draco's attempt to slither from the room is cancelled when Hermione blocks the door, gesturing for him to take the other spare chair; Pansy nods smugly as he flops into it.

"Fine. I suppose more sex talk is nothing, compared to having a couple of randy house elves potentially ignoring our sound contraception advice and taking every opportunity to noisily copulate all over our property," Draco grumbles.

"Yeah – that sounds hilarious – but you can catch me up later, this is about me and Harry," Pansy dismisses his rant with an elegant, imperious wave. "I want your opinion on whether I should ask him to stay the night… as in, properly stay the night. Is it too soon? Like, I really want to… ohmigod, Hermione, I know you think of him as your brother, but are you aware of how cut Harry is? Like I'm talking, seriously fit – we really got into it last night, on my couch, and I swear my living room windows were fogged up worse than his glasses when we finally called a time-out–"

"Stop!" Draco and Hermione cry out, almost simultaneously. Despite his own discomfort at the unwanted images of Pansy and Harry now swimming through his mind, Draco sniggers at Hermione's appalled mien. Oh, darling – you should know by now that Pansy gives 'forthright' a whole new meaning.

"Double standard prigs!" Pansy shrills, pointing an accusing finger at them in turn. "The gall of you pair! Shagging in Ministry cupboards, yet unwilling to listen to some tame tales of heavy petting and mad snogging! I'm outraged," she quibbles.

"Well, feel free to not tell us anything more," Draco figures it's worth a shot. "Hey – how did you know about that?!". He shakes his head as Hermione giggles.

"Pfft – as if I'd stop now. Leave Pollyanna alone, you should be glad she's proud of your dirty little dalliance. Now, answer me, please: do you think Harry will think less of me if I tell him I'm ready to move forward, with the physical side of our relationship? Will he think that's a bit… sluttish? I know men have some weird ideas about this; and the other thing is, I'm concerned that maybe I'll… disappoint him. What – what do you guys think?" Pansy anxiously pleats at her multi-layered black silk skirt.

Draco firmly clasps Pansy's fidgety hand in his. "I think you have nothing to worry about, Pansy. You are not a slut – and if Harry heard you say that, he'd be rightly irate. He's insanely lucky to be your boyfriend, and he knows it. The only question you really should be thinking hard about is whether or not you're ready to take things further. There isn't some arbitrary date whereby you have to perform 'X' or 'Y', Pans. Do you not feel safe with Harry? Has he been pressuring you?". He inadvertently squeezes her hand a bit too forcefully as his temper creeps up. "Sorry!".

"No – of course not – Harry doesn't stop checking with me, verbally and physically – he's pretty much the most trustworthy, genuine, safest man on the planet," Pansy instantly defends. "Don't you dare have a go at him, Draco – this is my issue, not his."

"Pansy, I wholly agree with what Draco said. Are you ready? Is Harry ready? He has insecurities of his own, you know – well, I'm positive Harry will tell you himself, when the time's right. I do know that he will wait for you for years and years, if that's what it takes," Hermione thoughtfully contributes. "I'd advise sitting down and talking with him about all this, Pansy. You said it yourself; Harry's just about the sweetest wizard in the world," she smiles.

"Oh? What am I, chopped dragon liver?!" Draco bemoans. "I can be sweet… I can!" he loudly objects, as Pansy and Hermione hoot loudly. "Stuff it – I'd rather be sexy than cute, anyway."

"Harry's cute and sexy – you're simply amazingly lucky that our Golden Girl happens to be your soul mate, you arrogant git." Pansy affectionately punches Draco's arm.

"Don't I know it," he fervently breathes, his eyes locking with Hermione's whiskey-brown ones. "Granger thinks I'm cute, too… isn't that right, ma petite?".

"You have your moments, mon coeur," Hermione allows, a Mona Lisa smile decorating her beautiful face.

"Ugh – no-no-no, none of that cooing doves crap, this is about me and my crisis," Pansy vigorously shakes her head, karate chopping the air between the couple. "Focus! I'm… almost ready – to take the next step with Harry, I mean."

"'Almost ready' isn't the same as 'ready', Pans – and you should tell Harry exactly that. Maybe you should also consider that you're both having stressful weeks; Potter's probably not having a fun time at Azkaban, and you've just started counselling. Give yourselves as much time as it takes, you'll both know when to move forward." Draco pats Pansy's hand once more. "I can assure you that Harry's hopelessly smitten, if that's what's brought on this uncharacteristic indecision of yours. He's putty in your manicured hands."

"Uh– I wouldn't say that…" Pansy dissents, pinkening from neck to brow.

"I would. Are you seeing Harry tonight?" Hermione bends forward (now in full lawyer mode, Draco observes with no small amusement). "Right – sit him down and tell him exactly what you've discussed with us. He needs to hear it, and you need to say it. Don't wimp out, that's beneath my badassed bestie. Anything else? No?". Hermione taps her fingernails onto the wooden desktop, nodding in satisfaction at Pansy's somewhat astounded capitulation.

"Yeah – I need another hug – from both of you. Come on, come on, bring it in," Pansy orders, bumping Draco against the front of the table as Hermione happily flies in from his other side. Draco's kidneys suffer an unfortunate blow as they grapple together in an apparent attempt to squeeze him into next year.

"Merde! Easy – stop laughing, my vital organs being compressed isn't funny – aargh, no pinching, you wicked wenches…!" Draco shrieks helplessly as Hermione homes in on his ticklish armpits and goes to town.

"I think you found his 'sweet' spot, Pollyanna," Pansy cackles, bussing a fond kiss on both of their cheeks. "I'll leave you to it. Thanks, guys."

"Lock the door behind you!" Draco has the presence of mind to holler, as Pansy's indulgent laughter follows her from the office.

"Now… where were we, my naughty, sexy, mouthy little witch? Pinching? How rude," Draco hunts his snickering girlfriend around her work desk.

"How many paddles of your delectable bottom do you think each pinch deserves?"

"One…?"

"And you call yourself an Arithmancy Professor?! Shocking."

Sitting down on her office chair, Draco sweeps Hermione back into his lap; he boldly bunches her tweed skirt up her thighs, thoroughly delighted with her little moans of excited anticipation.

Pansy was right – I'm a bloody lucky bastard.

He allows himself one more cocky grin before his greedy mouth fuses with her warm, panting lips.

"Draco – are you – are you sure the door's locked?" Hermione manages to ask, between increasingly fevered smooches. She has clawed apart his shirt buttons without permission… another infraction to add to the tally.

"Mmm-hmm… I heard it click. Be quiet, I want to try something new," Draco commands, drinking deeply of her willing mouth before he dexterously flips her facedown on his lap. "Shhh… be a good girl, Granger. Tell me… are you willing to be spanked? I'll stop right now, or any time you say so. Do you remember your safe word?".

"Yes… and I consent," Hermione breathily declares. "Must I be quiet? We could cast a Muffliato?" she hopefully suggests.

"No. You like the added risk of being overheard, don't you?" Draco croons. His exploring hand stops as he discovers exactly which underwear his sexy girlfriend decided to don for the day.

"My, my… does this even qualify as a pair of knickers? Your arse is practically begging for my palm, you bawdy minx." Draco roughly fondles the twin globes, exposed to his ardent grasp by the dark green cotton and lace thong. He runs an experimental finger beneath the skimpy garment, thrilled by what he finds at the juncture of her thighs.

"You're soaking wet, sweetheart… have you been spanked before? Answer me," Draco rumbles. His pulse is skipping and the crotch of his woollen trousers is uncomfortably tight, the situation intensifying every time Hermione wriggles and squirms.

"N-No."

"N-No… what?" Draco admonishes, his digit delicately brushing the lips of her sex, occasionally dipping a fingertip into her wet channel.

"No… Draco?"

Spank! His hand immediately rubs a soothing circle over her left arse cheek, as Hermione yelps. More in surprise than actual pain, he judges, chuckling at the cross look she tosses over her shoulder. His questing index finger slides inside her core, up to the second knuckle.

"Oooh… more, please… my lord?" Though her words are obedient, the undertone of sarcasm is pure Hermione. Near enough, Draco decides, pushing deeper.

"I know you liked that – you're even wetter now, Granger. Now, how many times did you pinch me? Be honest."

"Four– five times, my lord."

"And you tickled me…?"

"Three times, my lord. I'm sorry, I was just being playful–"

Spank! Spank! Spank! Draco alternates the slightly harder strikes on Hermione's jiggling bum, loving her involuntary squeaks and moans. He glides two fingers inside her, keeping his rhythm slow and even… for now.

"I think it's time we dispensed with this poor excuse for panties, don't you?" Draco uses his right hand to push her skirt to its upper limit, deftly dragging down the thong until it is dangling from the ankle strap of one of her low-heeled Mary Janes.

"What a pretty little arse… I wish you could see the spectacular rosy bloom I've put on your bum, Granger. No, no, we're not done yet; you've yet to pay for the pinches, sweetheart. Do you need to use your safe word?".

"No… I like it. Finger me harder… my lord." Hermione restively folds herself a little higher, lasciviously shimmying into a more pronounced jack-knife position on Draco's thighs.

Why… we're barely five minutes in, and she's already topping from the bottom. Gods, I adore this woman.

Spank! Spank! Spank! Spank! SPANK! Draco puts a shade more heat into the final stroke, plunging three slickened fingers into Hermione's warm, wet crease and rapidly shuttling in and out, curling and pressing at the end of the upstrokes. His right hand rubs soft circles on her blushed buttocks, occasionally firmly groping her pert flesh.

Hermione stifles her moans, kicking her legs as he feels her climax bearing down on his busy fingers. Draco can't stop himself from nudging his clothed groin against her belly as she twists and gasps.

"Please… please… don't stop… my lord," she keens, her hands alternating between gripping his calf and the chair leg. Her once neatly-pinned bun is a wild shambles as her head thrashes in pleasure.

"I won't – that's it, that's my good girl… my beautiful lioness… come for me, ma petite," his hoarse, authoritative words tip her over the edge, her whole body seizing as she clamps down on his hand. Gentling his strokes, Draco hums soothing phrases of praise and encouragement.

"That's it, take what you need… you're such a clever witch, aren't you… my brave, sexy darling… Was that good, my love?".

"Ugnnnhhh… so good… Draco," Hermione whispers, going completely lax in his secure hold. "But what… what about you? I want… I want you to feel good, too."

"This is for you, Hermione. You need to recover, and I am going to take care of you." Draco tenderly pulls up her green knickers, smoothing them into place before he tugs down her skirt. "Are you ready to sit up? I'm going to cuddle you until you feel capable of standing, alright?".

Nodding slowly, Hermione lets Draco expertly manoeuvre her into position, her eyelids heavy as her head droops into his neck.

"When you're ready, you'll have some water, and we'll see about having some lunch," Draco tells her.

"Thank you, Draco… you take such good care of me… I love you so," Hermione kisses his throat, gazing up at him with pure bliss wreathed across her flushed, pretty face.

"Thank you, Hermione. I love you, ma petite. I'll always take good care of you, I promise."

"I know you will." Her eyes drift closed as she snuggles closer into his chest.

Draco rains soft kisses into her lush hair. I take back all my whining about the Ministry being a crap workplace… it definitely has its benefits.

Leaning back into the chair, he lets a contented smile curl up his lips.


Wednesday 25 March 2003: PM

Harry briefly contemplates strapping his knuckles before whaling into the sand-stuffed old boxing bag swinging from the basement's ceiling, before deciding to forego the precaution. I need to feel my fists making contact with something. Anything. Better some shoddy old gym equipment than someone's face.

He'd clattered straight down the stairs to the lowest level of Grimmauld Place as soon as he'd arrived home from another fraught day at Azkaban. 'Fraught' – more like 'utterly fucking foul', he grimly admits. Days like these make me question my decision to enter magical law enforcement… there's always another predator just waiting to take the place of the ones we find and prosecute.

Stripping off his red robes, Harry flings them behind him, uncaring of where they land. He jerks off his black jumper, sending it flying, too. Glaring at the innocent dark blue vinyl bag (in truth, covered more in duct taped repairs than vinyl, now), he has no trouble envisioning Cormac McLaggen's curly golden head superimposed upon it.

The events of the day cycle inexorably through his head as he begins to slam his bare hands into the heavy pugilistic device, making it sway with every vicious thump…

"Swallow, Mr McLaggen; there's no point fighting this process," Pritchard-Hawes had dispassionately informed the sullen prisoner strapped into the metal chair before them.

Harry had watched Cormac's futile attempts to avoid the administration of the truth serum with a jaundiced eye, fervently wishing that the information gleaned today would add as much time as possible to McLaggen's unavoidable conviction of decades of misery inside this bleak hellhole. Call me a vengeful arsehole – but I cannot wait until karma comes for you, Cormac. You filthy, depraved, revolting excuse for a man.

"Right. We'll begin our questioning shortly. Mr McLaggen, as you may be aware, any answers you give today will not be admissible at your trial, due to the proven fallibility of Veritaserum in a small number of cases; however, any creditable evidence collected as a result of your answers will be produced and accepted in court," Leopold had intoned. "Mr Rowe, your presence here is conditional upon your silent observation; any attempt by you to upset these proceedings will result in your immediate ejection from the chamber. Do you understand?".

"Yes." Barrister Rowe had bitten off the word. "I am remaining to ensure my client's rights are not violated, and I wish to state for the record that Mr McLaggen did not consent to this invasive procedure." The tall, cadaverous-looking man hadn't blinked once. His fish-pale eyes had glittered stonily in the austere, ruthlessly bright space.

"So noted." Leopold had picked up the list of questions he and Harry had devised after yesterday's meeting with Flint. "Tell us your full name, please; and any aliases or pseudonyms you have used," he'd addressed the prisoner.

"Cormac Houkin McLaggen… DarkDespoiler79FearAsmodeus. That's all you'll get from me – your stupid fucking serum is useless," McLaggen had spat, testing the magical bonds lashing him to the seat. He'd yowled in frustration when his angry efforts had failed utterly. Beads of sweat had rolled into his hairline and down his fair cheeks.

"The last two names: they are your internet profiles, is that correct?" Harry had coolly queried. Of course this fool has to try to fight the serum, though I predict it will be in vain – he's never studied Occlumency, as far as we're aware.

A short pause, before the answer had been forced from Cormac's thinned lips. "Yes."

"Did you murder your uncle, Tiberius McLaggen?" Harry had gone straight for the jugular.

A longer pause. "Fucking… Flint… squealed… YES!" McLaggen had snarled. "That old cocksucker… had it coming… you don't know…"

"What don't I know, Cormac?".

"Your… arse… from your… elbow… Potter. FUCK YOU!" Cormac had furiously screamed.

I should have known better than to ask such a broad question. Harry had shaken off Leo as the older Auror had stepped forward, obviously poised to take over the interrogation.

"Sorry – I know, I'll be specific. Cormac: why did you kill your uncle Tiberius?" Harry had rallied.

"We needed his money – for the roofie potion research – Flint was talking about cutting me out – fucker merrily forgot it was my idea – I found Macnair, I read the Manifesto, I set up the Dark Web sites – not him! His stupid piddling winery was bleeding sodding Galleons, before I stepped in – it was my plan, and we were so close… besides, Tiberius deserved to die, he would have anyway. Silly old codger, falling into his own bathtub. I delivered him a merciful death," Cormac had bragged. "Hypothermia would've set in after a few more hours."

Harry had caught Leo's eye; clearly, Cormac's aversion to the effects of the Veritaserum were no match for his stunningly monstrous ego.

"When and where did you find Walden Macnair, McLaggen?" Harry had asked.

Cormac had laughed unpleasantly. "Found the emaciated old turd hanging around his burned-down estate last year, living off rats and birds. I'd gone there for a lark; I'd been visiting dead Death Eaters' properties, hoping to sniff out some relic to add to my collection. It's never been hard for me to charm fools into giving me what I want, not with this face," he'd twisted his head and assumed a disturbingly angelic expression. "I took him in, though he was fucked from the get-go – he'd been hit with some weird withering curse during the Battle of Hogwarts – he reckoned it was ancient Romany magic, not that I gave a shit. Anyone could see he was clinging to life by the skin of his teeth. I knew he'd be a brilliant source of information, so it served my purpose to shelter him. Plus, he promised me the Manifesto."

"Where is Macnair now?" Leo had urged.

"Dead. Came home one day and there he was, reeking up my favourite armchair – I had to chuck it out, bodily fluids are a bitch to remove once the sphincters have loosened," Cormac had griped. "You can't pin that death on me – drag up his worm-riddled corpse if you must, I tipped him down an old well at the hunting lodge."

Charming. I can't believe Cormac was sorted into Gryffindor – was he always this callous, and evil? The next improvised question had burst from Harry's lips.

"Why did you start this scheme, Cormac? Why did you want to drug, abduct, rape and imprison women?".

"BECAUSE THE WORLD OWES ME EVERYTHING, POTTER! Why the fuck not? I suffered through years of that 'Pride of Lions' do-gooder bullshit – I took my licks at Hogwarts during Seventh Year, when you were off swanning about with your retarded ginger sidekick and that uppity Mudblood slut!" McLaggen had ranted.

"The Great Harry Potter, making up a bunch of tripe about Horcruxes, just to save your chickenshit skin from Lord Voldemort a little longer… you disgust me. I fought in the wretched Battle too – no one offered me a free ride – no one stood me on a podium, slung a medal around my neck, and blathered on about my bravery and selflessness – meanwhile, there you were at every fucking turn, being fawned over and treated like some kind of fucking god – dipping your wick into all kinds of free pussy and going home to Ginny Weasley – you deserved none of it, you wanker." Cormac had finally concluded his rant, breathing heavily, with spittle flecking his mouth and chin.

"I started studying them – Voldemort, and the Death Eaters – and I realized that they had the right idea. Why should the undeserving meek inherit the earth? Why shouldn't the powerful and the gifted take what is rightfully theirs? Why shouldn't I take what I wanted? I tried being 'good' – it's all just a construct, Potter. Morality always serves someone else's interests, when you look at it closely enough," Cormac had shrugged. "Why be a sheep when the wolves have all the fun? I met Marcus at one of those interminable alumni events and we realized we shared similar… philosophies."

His blue eyes had darkened as he'd hissed, "But don't listen to a fucking word that prick Flint says – he was mostly in it for the gold, I see that now. He was the one who passed on the lists of similarly-minded gentlemen, and he recruited that dipshit Bones – had I known the daft porky prick was going to botch up that raid on Nott's mansion so badly, I never would have bothered with him. Fuck, I should have never taken on a partner – I could have had two pregnant bitches in my cellar by now, had Flint not tried to hog Hermione all for himself," he'd grumbled.

"Don't you dare speak her name," Harry had growled. "You're damned fortunate those brilliant witches didn't kill you, Cormac – you can thank their 'morality' for sparing your miserable, ruined life."

"Heh – I knew you were screwing Granger, back in the day – aww, and now you have to share her with Lord Drunky! Tch, tch… never mind, I've heard you're getting it on with my other sweetheart – how is my Little Flower, Potter? Did you enjoy her pretty little pictures?" Cormac's leering taunt had resulted in Harry's hands automatically rising to choke the blond wizard's worthless neck; Leo had stepped in before he'd made contact, firmly pushing Harry to stand in the far back corner.

"I'll take it from here, Auror Potter." As an aside to Harry, he'd murmured, "Settle down – you assured me you could handle this. Leave the room if you find you can't; I will ban you from any further involvement with this case if you make one more irregular move, Harry."

"I apologize. I'll remove myself if I can't take it anymore, sir," Harry had stiffly replied. "Please. I need to be here."

Giving a tiny nod, Leo had directed Cormac to answer the necessary questions about how Bones had sold Pansy's DMLE file to the pair of villains.

The phrases he'd heard coming from McLaggen's odious mouth now thud into Harry's brain, as his enraged fists wildly attack the erratically swinging boxing bag.

Thump.

"Bones is a moronic arsehole, but he struck gold with Parkinson's file – oh, didn't Marcus and I enjoy on-selling those glorious images! She's a huge hit on the Dark Web, you know–"

THUMP.

"– it's a shame I never got the chance to photograph the Pureblood slut in my dungeon – I had a lot of very specific requests from our subscribers, you understand – that fucking Mudblood slag just got lucky when she headbutted me – clearly Flint was lying about the improved effects of the potion, the dumb shithead – there's no way she would've gotten the jump on me, otherwise– "

THUMP. THUMP.

"Tell me, Harry – is Pansy as good in the sack as I'd dreamed? I bet she lets you do anything and everything to her – I bet she's gagging for it – such a good, obedient little bitch – her granddaddy trained her well–"

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP!

Harry pummels the bag until multiple fresh rips start spilling pale sand onto the dingy stone floor, unaware that his own skin has split and droplets of rich crimson blood are spattering his face and clothing. Screaming out his rage and pain, he stops only when the depleted bag finally tears in half, the rest of the sand coating his feet and tripping his rapidly moving feet. Tumbling onto the floor, Harry buries his aching head in his scarlet-coated hands, letting loose his deep sobs.

My darling Pansy… I need to be strong for her, somehow. I'm dreading having to tell her of all this… but I promised to be honest, and open. I wish I could heal her pain… but I know I can't. This is all so fucked. Harry wraps his arms around his middle, staring dully at the mess he's made of the basement gym.

He is unsure of how much time has passed when he hears a strident meow. Boadicea further alerts of her presence as she sinks her small claws into his forearms, before banging her tiny black head against his down bent forehead.

"Rowrllll?"

"Hey, Boadie. What are you doing down here, sweetie? Kreacher'll pitch a fit if he thinks you're missing," Harry carefully gathers the inquisitive kitten into his lap, taking care not to smear blood and sand on her silky jet fur.

"Little Boadie practises the extermination of the rats Master Malfoy claims infest the estate," Kreacher drolly announces, stepping into the room.

Expecting the fastidious elf to sniff disparagingly about the mess Harry has created, he is shocked into speechlessness when Kreacher enquires, "Does Master Potter wish to discuss his troubles? Kreacher advises Mistress Pansy is due to arrive for supper in twenty minutes." The ancient sprite adroitly passes Harry a bottle of cold water. "Drink."

Is this one of those alternate realities Hermione used to theorize about? Is Kreacher ill? Harry silently flips the lid off the bottle, slowly sipping water as he scrutinizes his inherited manservant.

He doesn't look sick; if anything, he appears to be moving more freely than he has in years. A thought strikes. "Kreacher… have you consulted a Healer, for your… aches and pains? Your knuckles – the swelling has gone down," Harry diffidently asks.

"At the Granger-Malfoy bruncheon, Little Miss Tavi notices Kreacher's… inflexibilities; she speaks candidly of her cerebral palsy," Kreacher says, quietly but clearly. "Little Miss Tavi asks Kreacher why he has not sought medical intervention; she wistfully confides her physical limitations are treatable, though not curable. Kreacher is… ashamed of his past intractability, and seeks assistance with his arthritis."

Yep. I've definitely ended up in a parallel universe, somehow. "Good… that's really good," he lamely responds. "Tavi… she's a marvel of a kid, that one."

"Indeed. Kreacher also informs Master Potter to expect receipt of Kreacher's anti-inflammatory potion bills," a sly smile creeps across Kreacher's angular face.

A dry laugh huffs from Harry's lips. "Well played."

"Master Potter should bathe," Kreacher does sniff, this time, as his eyes rake across Harry's bloodied, dirtied form. "Mistress Pansy deserves to dine with a clean, respectably attired wizard."

"She deserves better than me, Kreacher. I– I've let her down. The system's grossly betrayed her– and I'm part of it– I'm sick to my stomach," Harry confesses, in a surprised rush. "I'm torn between my job, and my burning need for vengeance. Justice… I'm afraid that it won't be enough, when all's said and done."

"Master Potter. You will do your best. For you, and Mistress Pansy. Every day, you will choose the right thing to do." Kreacher's words are low and tinged with profound sadness. "For centuries, we house elves have no choice. We have to find a way to live with the unspeakable sins we are forced to keep silent… hidden… loyalty to family trumped all else. Sometimes, we find a way to subvert the strictures; most often, we do not. Count yourself blessed to enjoy free will, and the power to choose your actions. Choose wisely."

Kreacher twice clicks his tongue, causing Boadie to unfurl her purring little body and stroll across to his waiting hands. Picking up his beloved kitty, Kreacher jabs Harry with the last word, before he neatly spins on his booted heel.

"Do shower, Master Potter – you stink."


Italian translation:

la mia bellissima aquila – my beautiful eagle.

Geordie translation:

a geet, canny bugger for givvin the wee hoonds a gud yarkin' – a great, marvellous fellow for giving the young ratbags a good thrashing.