A Mosaic of Warping Mirrors
Chapter One
The Armistice
Harry Potter stood in the open doorway of the Hogwarts Express baggage car on the return trip to London following the end of his third year of magical boarding school. The English countryside rolled by, the smells of spring accompanying a most agreeable cinematic slow-reveal of fields, forests, rivers, lanes and villages. Harry thought he could stand in that doorway pretty much forever, the visuals and olfactory sensations combining with the sensual. The last was the result of having his arms hung loosely across the backs of his two classmates, the witches Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass.
The three were not linked romantically, let there be no mistake. They had combined in an informal partnership at the beginning of third year for the purpose of investigating certain commercial possibilities. The witches had theorized, based on fragmentary evidence, that Harry knew where to find a dead basilisk. They encountered him, alone, and pressed their case. For reasons he didn't fully understand, Harry took the two into his confidence. One thing led to another. The enterprise proved financially viable. The three ended up with small individual fortunes. Harry was not yet fourteen years old.
Harry Potter had been raised as an unwanted, despised charity case. His foster family let no opportunity pass to remind him that he was an orphan who lived by the sufferance of other, better, more worthy relatives. He was told constantly that it was his duty to be grateful for the castoff clothing he was given after his cousin outgrew them. On his eleventh birthday he learned about his special status as a wizard, a member of a tiny minority of the British population who had access to a hidden society, culture and odd institutions, including Gringotts Bank.
Harry Potter, it turned out, was not a pauper dependent on the charity of resentful relatives. He had a personal bank vault at Gringotts that held a significant amount of money in the magical world's currency—gold, silver and bronze coins. Piles and piles of them. He wasn't given carte blanche, in the sense that he could spend whatever he wanted. He was expected to make the galleons, sickels and knuts last until he finished his education and found some gainful vocation.
Harry had never begun to think of the money on deposit at Gringotts as a personal fortune. It was, rather, the bequest of his deceased parents, the means by which he would support himself until he was on his feet. He was not a precocious student of accounting at thirteen. He assumed he could draw upon his inheritance just enough to reach his seventeenth birthday, the age of majority in wizardom, after which he would find work and pull himself up in the world. The possibility of having some personal funds remaining after his seventh year, when his boarding school education would be finished, had never entered his mind.
Whence sprang much of the good feeling in the baggage car during the late May journey to London. The little, exploratory commercial enterprise paid dividends. Harry, advised by his classmate-consultants, worked with his account manager at Gringotts Bank and successfully marketed the remains of the basilisk. Some parts were intentionally held out of magical commodity channels to provide an income stream.
"Well," said Harry.
The train was passing through some built-up areas.
"This was nice," said Pansy Parkinson. "I'm glad we did this."
"You're right," said Daphne Greengrass. "We've made a memory."
All three of them had some kind of a laugh at that—snort, giggle or whoop.
"Partners, we're going to be getting off, so, have a happy summer," said Harry.
"Be safe," he added, very quietly.
The witches disengaged from his arms and stepped back.
"Thank-you, Harry, for everything," said Daphne.
"We won't forget what you've done for us," said Pansy.
She grasped Harry's hand, squeezed and held his eyes with hers, then crossed to the door that led back into the passenger cars. Daphne followed Pansy's lead. Harry wanted to hang on to their hands, possibly adding a friendly hug. The witches seemed to prefer putting the hug off for another time. Harry chose not to get pushy.
Daphne located the cabin where her sister Astoria was sitting with some others who had just completed their first years at Hogwarts School. She and Pansy entered, looking back at Harry for a moment before closing the cabin door.
Harry went on to the cabin he had shared with a number of other Gryffindors, where he'd had a disastrous conversation with his friends and classmates Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. They'd had words over Harry's announcement that he had suffered a fit of generosity and cut them in for a percentage of his profits on his basilisk deal.
They hadn't liked it. Ron alluded to Harry buying Ron's friendship. Hermione also thought it was a bit presumptuous, among friends. Harry became upset, exited and calmed down via some scenery-watching and fellowship with his business partners.
Hermione stood when Harry reappeared at their cabin door. She gave Ron a look. Ron looked back. The back-and-forth went on. Three others in the car, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas and Ginny Weasley, looked anywhere except at the other three. Hermione finally made her wishes clear to Ron, took Harry by the sleeve and conducted him out into the corridor. She kept going all the way to the little platform at the top of the steps that would soon be their means of exit to King's Cross Station.
"Ronald is being stubborn," Hermione began.
"Am not," said a voice.
Ron Weasley joined the others at the top of the stairs. Hermione waited but Ron didn't continue.
"Harry, I apologize if I gave offense, but I do not wish to accept your generous gift. We are friends and I believe you and I should keep money out of our relationship, lest it cause us…all kinds…"
Hermione grasped Harry's jacket lapels and buried her face in his chest, muffling her sobs in his shirt.
"Merlin, Hermione, I didn't mean…" Harry tried.
He raised his hands and grasped the backs of her upper arms, appealing to Ron with his eyes. Ron looked back, shrugging, as much as saying, 'I don't know, don't look at me.'
"Harry, what Hermione said," Ron volunteered. "Thank-you for thinking of me, but I don't want to take anything for what I did. You were bitten by a basilisk and managed to save Ginny. Merlin's pants! You shouldn't even be here. I don't mean any offense, but I am going to ask Gringotts to put the money you transferred to my account back in yours. Okay?"
Harry looked at Ron. He felt like a heel. He knew the Weasley family were people of very modest means. He'd never given a thought to how his gesture, intentionally or not, might be interpreted as some kind of schoolboy noblesse oblige. He should have, though. He definitely should have.
"Understood, Ron, understood, Hermione," Harry muttered. "I was wrong. I never meant to give offense."
"We know, Harry," said Hermione, finishing off with one final sniff and dab at her eyes. "We know. That's what makes this so hard. Let's move on."
Harry looked at Ron, who didn't trust his voice to let him say anything without choking up. Ron nodded instead.
Everyone composed once more, the trio returned to the cabin and started pulling their bags together, in anticipation of arrival at King's Cross Station. Most of the train was happily excited to be getting back to London, whence they'd continue on home for three months of summertime and freedom from the routine of lecture, practical, essay and exam. Parents covered the spectrum, the same as in the non-magical, muggle world—there were good, bad and indifferent parents. Harry, parentless, would have given anything he owned, excepting, possibly, his owl Hedwig, for a parent of any description. Instead, he was stuck with his aunt and uncle, the Dursleys.
An odd thought wiggled its way in while Harry was extracting his small bag from the scrum. What if he could provide for himself? Would he be forced to accept life at the Dursley residence? His aunt and uncle had stated, over and over, that he had been foisted on them because of the accident of his mother Lily having his Aunt Petunia for a sister.
Besides, during the year just ending, he had learned that he had a godfather. If he could get Sirius Black to a safe environment, the two of them could surely figure out how to manage their own housekeeping. Harry hadn't worked out a personal budget, yet, but he knew what a fair number of things cost and could do division. His earnings from the basilisk ought to suffice to maintain two bachelors for some years. It bore giving it all some more thought.
Harry, Hermione and Ron parted friends when the Hogwarts Express unloaded at King's Cross. If all wasn't entirely forgotten, the past was the past and they would get on with summer. That put Harry in a fairly happy state of mind until he crossed the barrier from the magical side, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, to the muggle side of the platform. He pushed the trolley carrying his trunk along with other returning students. It appeared that a number of mundane boarders were beginning summer break in company with Harry and his schoolmates. He hoped the fortuitous camouflage would be pleasing for his relatives. They hated magic and disliked being reminded of its existence. In the current crowd on the platform, Harry was just another student, finished with school and back home for the summer.
It was too much to hope for, of course.
"Get in the car," was the first thing Harry's Uncle Vernon said to him, after nodding, turning and leading the way through the station to the car park without speaking once. That set the tone for the drive to the Dursley home in the suburbs.
Harry looked over the lawn and the shrubbery once he had the house in sight. As expected, the minimum had been done since spring. Vernon Dursley liked a tidy lawn around his tidy suburban house. He didn't care so much for the work necessary to maintain his preferred level of tidiness. Harry read the signs. At least he would be able to keep some distance between himself and his relatives. Aunt Petunia preferred orbiting her kitchen appliances, Uncle Vernon preferred to assign outdoor work to Harry while Dudley, Harry's cousin, preferred no work at all. It wasn't entirely bad, in its own way.
Harry carried his trunk and Hedwig's cage up to his room, changed into some well-worn clothes and trainers and came straight downstairs.
"Thought I'd tackle that lawn before dark," he said, leaving by the back door and crossing the yard to the garden shed.
Not one to let an opportunity pass, Vernon Dursley looked up from his paper just in time.
"Best get on it, you're running out of daylight!" Harry heard as he closed the back door.
Harry actually enjoyed the outdoor work around the Dursley residence. His Aunt Petunia seldom went outside in summer sunshine. Vernon would inspect Harry's work long enough to find something worthy of a negative comment, then he would return to the cool of the house. Dudley only interacted with Harry when he was so bored he resorted to tormenting him as a distraction.
That left hours every day for weeding beds, cultivating and walking back and forth behind the power mower. Early morning sun felt good on his skin. Freshly-mown grass and damp topsoil smelled better than almost anything else he could name. Harry kept a pair of worn out running shoes in the garden shed, inside of which he stuffed a pair of filthy, worn-out cotton socks. The socks housed a roll of paper currency. The socks were removed from the shoes when Harry needed to mow, to be stuffed inside his just-removed 'better' pair of shoes. Harry assumed his cousin Dudley would steal from him, with impunity, if he discovered unattended money in or near Harry's room. The very nasty garden shed socks made a fine substitute for a personal safe.
Harry did his work and paid attention to conversation at mealtime. His Uncle Vernon opened the mail one morning to find an invitation from his sister Marge for the coming Friday night and Saturday. Marge suggested the Dursleys overnight on Friday so the group could all get up and attend a dog show together on Saturday. Harry looked at Vernon, wondering if he was invited.
"No-o-o," said Vernon, not bothering to preface further.
Harry worked very hard to make his face into a mask of stoic disappointment. Vernon and Petunia bought it. Harry wasn't sure about Dudley.
The Dursleys left as scheduled on the following Friday. Vernon Dursley took a vacation day and the three left just before noon. Harry had risen with the dawn. He had prepared breakfast for everyone, eaten standing up at the kitchen counter and washed up as each pan, cup, plate or utensil became available. As soon as the Dursley sedan was out of the short driveway, Harry started working down a list he'd committed to memory.
He made sure his owl (who'd exercised for several hours Friday morning) had food and water, retrieved his roll of notes from the filthy sock in the garden shed and set out for London. He berated himself somewhat mercilessly for not procuring a transit pass from the Bursary at Hogwarts School. He could do it with his wand via the medium of Gringotts Bank but had managed to forget to purchase a new one with plenty of validity before he left for the summer.
No matter. He had learned how get around in a pinch. Harry walked to a quiet spot in some shrubbery in a little neighborhood park. Pulling his wand out of his sleeve, Harry half-closed his eyes and mentally summoned the Knight Bus. Minutes later the decrepit triple-decker pulled up as Harry stepped out of from his cover. He collected his ticket and sat back to enjoy the trip to London. He was exiting in front of the Leaky Cauldron when it occurred to him that he might have violated the restrictions on underage wizardry. If so, it was too late to do anything about it, and Harry supposed the Ministry would let him know should they wish to object.
Harry reviewed his mental schedule for the day. Money took priority so his first stop would be Gringotts. The banking day was nearly done and he wanted to go over a few items with his account manager, if he was in.
Harry passed through Gringotts' massive bronze doors. Inside, he skipped the tellers' cages and turned toward a reception desk.
"Mr. Potter," stated the goblin at the desk.
"Sir," said Harry. He stood with his heels together, feet turned out at a forty-five-degree angle. He gave a respectful nod before he spoke. "Consternation to the enemies of the goblins. I would like to speak with Anvil, if he is in, and if he has time to meet with me. My business won't take long."
"Right through there," said the goblin, making a vague gesture toward a nearby door. "Please have a seat and someone will be with you shortly."
Harry took the door as directed and found himself in a small lounge with a settee and that day's Daily Prophet. Harry hadn't seen the magical newspaper since coming back South from school so he was quite comfortable in the lounge and pleased to have such interesting reading.
"Mister Potter! Welcome back!" Anvil seemed genuinely pleased to be greeting Harry, which struck him as a bit unusual for one of the usually subdued goblin bankers.
"Glad to be back," said Harry. "I had the opportunity to come to London so I decided not to waste it and see if I couldn't do a little business."
Anvil was delighted, by all appearances, to be able to do a little business with his young client. He ushered Harry into his office and closed the door.
"Some refreshments?" asked Anvil.
"A glass of water," said Harry. "Please. And a large one. The Knight Bus…"
Harry shook his head.
Anvil rang a bell, spoke to the liveried staff member who answered the summons and turned back to Harry.
"Prosperity," said Harry, saluting Anvil with his glass of water. He took a long pull and brought the glass back down before commencing a recitation of the business he wished to conduct.
"I was told by two people with whom I shared some of the proceeds from the sale of the basilisk that they would rather not have such a gift. I expect Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger will contact Gringotts at some point and ask to have the galleons that were put in their accounts returned. Please do whatever they ask," Harry began.
Anvil scratched a few notes on a piece of parchment.
"Consider it done," Anvil said as he looked up. "What else can I do for you today, Mr. Potter?"
Harry took a deep breath. He considered his next words carefully.
"I'd like someone to tell me something about my family," Harry said. "My relatives, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, avoid talking about my parents. It is like they are ashamed of them. I learned this year that many witches and wizards think they are heroes for standing up to Vol—"
Anvil flinched and raised one hand in protest.
"—Sorry. Standing up to the Dark Lord. Others told me I am the heir of an ancient family. One person said the Potters go back a thousand years. Outside of Hogwarts I'm a poor relation, a charity case dressed in rags."
Anvil leaned back in his carved chair, considering his client.
"Mr. Potter, there is much about you and your situation that puzzles the goblins," he said. "You will have to indulge me a little bit. The goblins are not the wizards. You are a minor and the relevant offices of the Ministry of Magic have primary responsibility for your welfare. I can provide some services in connection with your financial affairs. I am going to be very careful, starting right now, not to overstep any clear boundaries. Do you understand?"
"You can tell me things if they affect my money?"
"That is correct," said Anvil.
"Is property money? A house or a farm or things of that nature?" Harry asked.
"Y-yes," said the goblin. "To a degree."
"Good," said Harry. "I'd like to request a financial statement. Cash on hand and property. Oh, I was told someone in my family invented Sleakeasy, for the hair? Do I own that?"
Anvil smiled.
"When is your birthday, Mr. Potter?" he asked.
"July 31," Harry replied.
Anvil glanced down at his desk calendar.
"And you will be…?"
"Fourteen," Harry said.
Anvil dipped his quill in the ink bottle and scratched a note on the calendar. Once again he picked up the little bell and summoned an assistant. They traded a few sentences in the goblin language. The assistant looked at Harry, curled up one corner of his mouth and stepped back outside.
"Mr. Potter, we need to visit your vault. Do you have your key?" Anvil asked as he stood up from his desk.
"Yes, sir, right here," said Harry as he reached inside his jacket.
"This way, then," said Anvil, leading Harry out a door, one different from the one by which they had entered.
The trip down the internal trolleyway, through the Thief's Downfall, the sudden changes from hot, moist air to cold and damp, the nauseating smells of stale water and oil smoke, were just as unsettling as Harry remembered. He'd barely gotten control of his heaving abdominal muscles by the time they reached the private vaults.
"Your personal vault, where you get your funds for your school expenses," Anvil said as he waved. "You can open it with your key."
Harry did open the door. It was made of steel and it was thick. It opened so easily, once he worked the lock, it could have been a kitchen cupboard. Harry stepped across the threshold as the lamps came up. He noticed that two internal cages had been added since his last visit. Other than metal tags with '1' and '2' stamped on them, nothing identified the owners of the enclosures.
"As agreed?" asked Anvil as Harry looked at the cages. He nodded 'Yes.'
"Very nice," Harry added.
"And there you have the proceeds of your enterprise, added to the original funds deposited for you by your parents."
The pile of coins did look considerably larger. Eighty thousand galleons, more or less, made quite a pile, Harry admitted.
"Did you wish to withdraw any today? Shopping, school supplies?" asked Anvil.
"I could use a few, pocket change," said Harry. "It is all so bulky."
"True," said Anvil. "There are remedies for that. We can revisit them when we return up above."
Anvil waited for Harry to pick up a few galleons and stuff them in his pockets, then stood by while Harry closed and locked up. When he was done, the goblin checked the door, nodded and led Harry on down the row before stopping at one of the vaults.
"The Potters have held this vault since Gringotts opened at this location," said Anvil, the pride evident in his voice.
Harry noticed there was no place to insert his key.
"Just here, your hand, please," said Anvil.
Harry put his hand flat on the spot his account manager indicated. Anvil put his hand beside Harry's. A lock clicked, inside the vault door. It must have been substantial because Harry thought he felt the action as much as he heard it. The door swung open on its own. Harry took a look around the interior of the Potter vault.
His own had held money, galleons, sickels and knuts. There may have been a few other items, Harry didn't notice. This vault had piles of coins as well, the difference being the piles were in stone recesses built into the walls. Anvil saw Harry looking, puzzled.
"Don't worry, Mr. Potter, there is a system. Don't expect to understand or master it right away. Your family does have more than one income-producing asset. Your father, grandfather and heads of house going back many generations used a system of their own to manage the various accounts. This pre-dates paper ledgers," Anvil said.
Again, Anvil's goblin pride in the antiquity of Gringotts and its relationship with the ancient Potter family came through in body language and tone. Something cued Harry and he responded to Anvil's remark.
"That is old," Harry said. "Really old. A different hole for different businesses? Like different accounts or ledgers."
"You could say," said Anvil.
"And never updated. I'd say that is a little old-fashioned," Harry said.
"Definitely, more than a little," said Anvil.
"Okay, something to study up on," said Harry. He looked around, not bothering with the cash, feeling like he was in a museum. Candlesticks, gold and silver plate, portraits and lots of mysterious trunks and hutches were stored on every available surface.
"When I get time," Harry muttered. "Anything else?"
"Step over here," said Anvil. "See if this trunk will open for you."
The goblin stood by while Harry bent over and pulled up on the trunk's latch. The lid lifted easily.
"Your father's school trunk," said Anvil, pointing at something inside. "I would like to see what is in that black box."
Harry's heart began to pound a bit as he looked into his father's trunk. He picked up the box Anvil indicated and opened the cover.
"Ahh—excellent!" said the goblin. "That, Mr. Potter, is your father's heir ring. He wore it while your grandfather was alive. When he inherited he began wearing the Head's signet. He took this one off and put it away, for you."
"Me?"
Harry's heart began to thump, so loudly he could hear it in his ears. He felt a little dizzy and out of breath. He stretched out his index finger and touched the crest—the Potter crest. His father had worn this ring! The scent of lamp oil and smoke nearly overwhelmed him. Harry focused on his feet, planting them, consciously keeping his legs under himself and his weight balanced. When he felt stable enough, Harry took a breath and held it. Taking the heir ring out, he closed the cover of the box, handed the box to Anvil and put the ring on his right ring finger. He'd never worn a magical ring. It felt to Harry as if his ring sized itself to his finger.
"Mr. Potter?"
"I'm good, I think," Harry said. "Can I take this?"
"Of course, it is yours. I accompanied James Potter the day he visited this vault and put the ring back in this box. According to custom your father would have presented it to you on your eleventh birthday. Unfortunately, as it is, you don't have any family that can perform that duty. You're entitled to wear the Head's signet but, again, by custom, the Heir puts that on when he turns fifteen, if there is no Head occupying the office."
"No one told me any of this," Harry muttered.
"And you have more to learn," said Anvil. "A great deal more. As I said upstairs, though, while you are a minor I will be happy to talk about that which is in my purview, finance. You have plenty of that for us to go over, so we won't find subject matter lacking. Now, it sounds like you have been having conversations with some people who are better informed than yourself?"
"Yes, actually…is this confidential?" asked Harry.
"Completely," said Anvil.
"My partners knew a lot more than me, and, there was one other," Harry said.
He didn't feel like he wanted to go on about Sirius. Anvil was surprisingly well-informed, it was clear. Harry didn't know what he could say and what he couldn't.
"Yes, your partners should be quite knowledgeable about your birth-culture. Are we finished? You have your ring, some extra cash, was there anything else?" asked Anvil.
"Not today," said Harry. "I still want to continue reading about Hogwarts but my aunt and uncle's might not be the best place."
"Then we are off," said Anvil, climbing into the trolley for the trip back to the surface.
Harry worked his ring throughout the ride back upstairs. He kept looking at it, on the ring finger of his right hand. It fit perfectly, neither too loose nor too tight. Wearing the ring gave Harry a feeling of being physically connected to James Potter. He knew, in his heart, that such a connection was imaginary, yet the knowledge did not detract from the feeling.
Before Harry left, Anvil led him through the steps to acquire a Gringotts credit card. Most magical businesses could accept payment by wand, with Harry approving the invoice with a wave and the magic behind Gringotts managing the accounting. With his credit card, Harry would be able to make purchases in Muggle London without disturbing any magical-muggle financial interfaces. While he was at Gringotts, Harry took a few minutes and added some funds to his transit pass, just to have the option.
"A good afternoon's work, Mr. Potter," said Anvil as he shook Harry's hand.
"Thank-you for everything, Anvil," said Harry. "You've done a lot for me today."
Harry made his way back to the suburbs using his transit pass. The Knight Bus had functioned well enough to get him from Little Whinging to London, it was true, but Harry sought a more restful journey on his return. The closest bus stop was just three blocks from the Dursley residence so Harry walked the short distance and let himself in. He changed clothes, getting dressed for gardening, and went out back to the shed. His roll of muggle currency returned to the filthy socks. He swapped his somewhat better trainers for the pair with holes worn through the toes.
Harry took a pair of hedge clippers and a small hoe to the front of the house and did some trimming and cultivating. Anyone who walked past got a wave and a greeting, usually, 'Hello!' That was sufficient to establish that Harry Potter was working outdoors at the Dursleys.' Harry stayed outside until four-thirty, specializing in tasks that required him to work in shade. He knocked off, grabbed a metal cup he kept hung up on a hook in the garden shed and rinsed it in the outdoor spigot. He threw one full cup into his face, refilled and took two long drinks of water.
Back inside, Harry showered and put on clean clothes. No one had prepared any food for him. It was understood that Harry could open a can of soup if he was home alone at mealtime, just as long as he cleaned up after himself. That was fine. He liked canned chicken noodle soup with crackers and cheese. Harry opened the fridge and looked—Yes! They had a block of cheddar.
The next morning, Saturday, brought puzzles of its own. Harry had no idea how long a dog show went on. He thought the morning was probably his and set one p.m. as the target for showing up outside with some tools. Hedwig left via his bedroom window to get some exercise while Harry took two sheets of notepaper and two envelopes from a box. He got busy on two very nice, newsy notes. Each had a friendly yet neutral tone. Neither documented any hard news about Harry Potter or his business affairs. Harry didn't think it unusual that a schoolboy on summer holiday, still not quite fourteen, would be thinking like an apprentice to some kind of deep cover operative. The circumstances of Harry's life to that point had been very instructive. If asked, he would have said it was just natural caution, always a good idea in an uncertain and hostile magical world.
By the time his notes were complete and the envelopes addressed, Hedwig had returned, eaten a few owl treats, drunk her fill of water and was ready to carry some mail. Harry sent her back out the window with the letters. He watched her disappear behind an oak tree in the yard of the house across the street before selecting a book of recommended readings for fourth year History and Theory of Magic.
"You have an owl on your shoulder," said Astoria Greengrass when Daphne got off her pony in front of the Greengrass stable.
"Recognize her?" asked Daphne. "She's Harry Potter's owl, Hedwig. Hedwig, this is Astoria Greengrass, my sister."
Hedwig looked into Astoria's eyes and gave a soft 'hoot.'
"Uh-huh. What's she doing here?" asked Astoria.
"Isn't it obvious?" asked Daphne. "Harry sent me a little social note. 'Hello, summer weather is nice, I was in Diagon Alley for some family business, best regards, blah-blah.' What else would it be?"
"You like him," said Astoria. "Are you going to date?"
Daphne would have snapped upright and stared straight through her sister except that she had been standing with her back to her pony so the pony could rub his head up and down on Daphne. The pony pushed forward while Daphne pushed back and the dual action concealed any surprised body language that might have given Daphne away.
"He's a little young," observed a very cool, semi-distant Daphne, deftly avoiding Astoria's question.
"How old is he?" asked the younger Greengrass.
"Thirteen," said Daphne. "A mere…thirteen."
"Last month you were, let's see," said Astoria as she began an exaggerated, pantomime counting of her fingers.
"Snot," declared Daphne. "Nosy little pipsqueak snot. What do you want to know? Not that I'll tell you anything, willingly."
"I'm curious if you and Harry Potter are going to date this year but mainly I want to know why you hang around with him all of the time. I'm pretty sure there is something going on," said Astoria. "If you won't tell me even a little I might be sad and when Mum asks what's wrong I could let slip that you called me a snot."
Daphne realized in that instant that she would have to become much more guarded about what Astoria saw and heard. Daphne and Pansy Parker had to meet with Potter from time to time because of the business deal upon which they had collaborated. They had worked at keeping their school lives separate from business. There were two principal reasons for caution. There were four residential houses within the school. Harry's house, Gryffindor, was locked in a very unfriendly rivalry with Daphne and Pansy's house, Slytherin. Besides that, all three had a natural wariness about letting others know they were making a little money from their side business. Witches and wizards weren't any less predatory than muggles in their approach to money.
"I don't want to date anyone, Hon, if that meets your approval," said Daphne. "What would we do? Where would we go? Working hard in fourth year is the key to a smooth fifth year and what comes at the end of fifth year? I won't do well if I'm distracted, hanging around with Potter all the time which, as you know, I don't, anyway."
"O.W.L.s," said Astoria. "What a drag."
"I'm just passing on what I've always heard," said Daphne. "A few words, to the wise?"
Daphne was very considerate of her mount and rode a minimal flat saddle with a sheepskin saddle pad. She had the saddle and bridle off her pony and was using the pad to wipe sweat from his back. The pony was very calm and well-trained. Daphne's post-ride routine left haltering until the end. It seldom mattered because the docile Greengrass Welsh ponies were habituated to standing still while they got their rub, then their halters, before going to their paddock. Daphne believed she communicated her wishes by mental means and her 'lad' very loyally carried them out. The pony, a bay gelding named Bristol, decided to cut short his rub and move things along. He pushed past Daphne and trotted to his paddock. Daphne, pushed off balance, landed on her bottom, surprised and furious. Astoria thought it was the funniest thing she'd seen all year.
"Need a hand up, HON?" she asked, reaching out. "Tell me the truth about Potter and I'll help you up. What's going on?"
"I don't NEED help," said Daphne as she sprang to her feet, "And there is nothing to tell about Harry! Potter. Harry Potter. Nothing to tell."
"Mmm…" said Astoria. "Were you going to write him back? I ask because I see his owl is sitting on that fence post, almost as if he is waiting for you to answer this note that fell from your pocket…"
The sisters looked at the same time. Sure enough, there was a buff envelope on the ground, newly-dislodged from Daphne's pocket, the flap open to show a piece of note paper with some words written on it. Daphne gave Astoria a look. Astoria showed real wisdom and did not initiate a lunge for the envelope.
"It is a she," said Daphne. "Hedwig. I believe I will give her something to take back, if you will see to closing that gate behind Bristol."
Astoria Greengrass wanted very much to read whatever Harry Potter had written to her sister. Even a bread and butter note has some substance. Maybe Potter closed with 'Miss you' as opposed to 'Yours truly.'
Daphne pushed the envelope deep into a hip pocket and took a halter from a peg next to the stable door. She crossed to Bristol's paddock, where her pony stood in the very center, equidistant from any point where Daphne might enter. Daphne gave Bristol a long look, then whistled. The two looked back and forth, back and forth, until Bristol began to walk, very slowly, to Daphne's position on the fence. He stood, just out of arm's reach, until he felt he had made his point, then he took two steps forward and held his head for his halter.
"Hedwig," called Daphne.
Daphne kept an eye on Astoria while Hedwig launched and landed on her shoulder. She walked inside the stable, then Hedwig flew back out with a letter in her beak, less than a minute later. Daphne followed, wiggling a quill back and forth between her right index and middle fingers, a splotchy spot of India ink staining her right thumb and her backside still dusty from her fall. She stood next to Astoria and the sisters watched the snowy owl shrink and shrink, then, finally, disappear.
"Come on, lemonade time," said Daphne.
Hedwig returned to Little Whinging, arriving a few minutes before one. Harry read the witches' return notes.
"Nice to hear from you. Thanks for writing!"
"Glad you're getting some things done. Hope to see you soon."
Harry smiled. Pansy and Daphne didn't give anything away. Draco Malfoy could have read both notes and not gotten one useful piece of information.
Harry puttered around outside, enjoying the fair weather, the peace and the quiet. His relatives arrived home late Saturday afternoon. He didn't enjoy that so much. His Uncle Vernon, feeling generous, treated Petunia and Dudley to burgers on the way back home. Petunia, upon entering, advised Harry to warm up a can of soup if he wanted anything for dinner, and to clean up any mess he made before going to bed.
The following Monday went down in Harry's personal history as one of his favorite days ever. Ron Weasley had given him a heads-up that the Weasleys wanted to treat Harry to a trip to the Quidditch World Cup. Ron's mother, Molly, was detailed to compose the invitation. She drafted a gracious note to Vernon and Petunia but was unfamiliar with muggle postage so she was extra-careful to put enough stamps on the envelope to ensure delivery. The incident caused Vernon Dursley to erupt in a fit of temper when the postman rang the doorbell so he could hand Vernon the envelope personally and mention he'd never seen one so full of stamps. It was a remarkable day for both the postman and Harry. It wasn't remarkable, exactly, for Vernon, but it was a new and unique experience.
Thus began the strange chain of events that culminated with Harry and the Weasleys getting caught in a Death Eater attack at the British-hosted Quidditch World Cup.
The British Ministry of Magic was publicly embarrassed by the attack. The most visible sporting event in the quidditch world was shut down by renegade British wizards. The episode could have ended as a major tragedy had it been planned. As it was, the instigators were just Death Eaters, devotees of the late, unlamented Dark Lord Voldemort, who had gotten together for a few glasses of fire whisky and were inspired to throw an impromptu class reunion.
Still, the denouement of the summer getaway gave the attendees plenty of unusual conversation fodder. Not to mention, Arthur Weasley's job at the Ministry became considerably more exciting.
September first was the official end of summer for the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry was freed from the problem of arranging transportation to King's Cross Station due to his being the guest of the Weasley family. Unlike many secondary school students, Harry looked forward to a new academic year. He had never shed the association, in his mind, of King's Cross, the Hogwarts Express and Hogwarts itself and his liberation from the torment of life with the Dursleys. School presented many challenges and the living conditions inclined toward Spartan. Even so, for Harry, passage through Hogwarts still represented progress toward an interesting life, full of possibilities, in contrast to the steady diet of chores and hostility that was his lot in Little Whinging.
Harry saw both Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station. Each gave him a smile and received one in return. Astoria Greengrass looked back and forth between Harry and Daphne, no doubt trying to put some detail into the very sketchy picture she had formed about just what was going on between her sister and Harry Potter.
Harry was careful to keep his cards very close to his chest. The young witches and wizards saw connections and relationships wherever they looked. It was habit, formed by living in the magical world that was nearly invisible to anyone not trained to see it. A nod might conceal a blossoming romance, a wink could mean a secret engagement. They were much more likely to indicate friendly acknowledgment but that was so much less interesting and much less magical. Quite illogically, Harry, Daphne and Pansy had been seen together just often enough to cause their conscious distancing to be noticed and seen as evidence that something was going on. Something they took pains to cover up.
"Thoughts?" asked Ron.
They sat at the Gryffindor table for the beginning of term feast. They were feeling the effects of a good, outdoor soaking. For some reason, the Fates had decided to bring torrential rains to Hogwarts as the students arrived to begin the fall term. They had caught everyone out in the open, between the Hogsmeade railway station and Hogwarts' castle.
Harry reviewed phenomena he'd experienced over recent weeks. He had the strange dream about the old house, the old man and Wormtail rattling around inside his head, although he'd kept that to himself.
"Sure," said Harry.
"Oh," said Ron. "And?"
"What the hell, Ron? Just, what the hell?" answered Harry.
"Ah, you're thinking about…"
Ron made a circular motion with his hand, hoping it would serve as an invitation to Harry to provide some additional information, indicate that he, Ron, knew enough to connect Harry's vague insights with the situation as he best understood it, or otherwise produce some clue Ron was missing.
"Does any of this make sense?" Harry asked. "Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup? Winky? My wand casts the Dark Mark?"
"You said you dropped it," said Ron, looking a bit confused.
"Maybe I did," Harry said. "I don't know. I have no memory of dropping it and just walking away from it. Even if I did, who picked it up, knew how to cast the Dark Mark, then cast it with my wand, then dropped it again? Where is the sense in all of that?"
Ron leaned over his dessert plate, using his spoon to pursue and capture a bit of the baked apple in cinnamon syrup and vanilla ice cream.
"I don't see any," Ron admitted.
"Mm-hmm, exactly what I was thinking," said Harry. "Let's get out of here later, find a place to talk."
He looked across the table at Hermione. She was sitting with crossed arms and a very put-out expression on her face, ever since she had discovered, in the middle of dinner, that Hogwarts' food was prepared by a kitchen staff made up of house elves.
"Sure," Ron said. He tried not to, but he might have flicked his eyes just momentarily toward Hermione.
"Yes?"
The ice in that one word.
"Me?" Ron pled.
Hermione couldn't be tempted into giving an answer.
Headmaster Dumbledore gave a few for-the-record notes and observations. Ron and Harry were anticipating dismissal when Dumbledore announced the cancellation of interhouse quidditch for the year. Hogwarts, it seemed, was going to be the host school for something called a Tri-Wizard Tournament which hadn't been held for many years because too many students had died while competing. That, and no student under the age of seventeen was eligible.
"And…okay," said Harry, standing after being dismissed.
The events of third year had given Harry a near-encyclopedic knowledge of every nook, cranny and cul-de-sac within the walls of Hogwarts. One of his favorites remained Professor Binns' classroom. The professor, a ghost, taught what was, by consensus, the most boring course at Hogwarts—History of Magic. His lectures brought new meaning to the word 'drone.' When Harry wanted to have a confidential conversation, no place beat Professor Binns' classroom.
"So, what the hell?" Ron began, quoting Harry.
They'd gone to Binns' directly from the Great Hall. First night back, no one was looking for a quiet place to study so they had it to themselves.
"Has all of this seemed really weird? To you?"
Ron looked at his friend.
"We're wizards," he said. "We work with magic. Our world is a secret. I don't know a lot about muggles or how they do whatever they do. I never spent a day in muggle school. You've told me a few things. That sounds weird. To me."
"Maybe that's it," said Harry. "That other stuff, though. Death Eaters at a quidditch match. Tormenting that nice family that ran the campground…"
"They're bad people," Ron observed. "That's what they do for fun. Anyone who isn't one of them is fair game."
"Yeah, that shouldn't surprise me," Harry said, thinking of his late parents.
"Hey, what are we going to do without quidditch?" Ron asked. "I thought I had a good chance this year."
"I thought so too," said Harry. "Looks like we wait and see."
"Do you think Hermione will get over her house elf thing?" Ron went on. "I mean, they do a lot around here. I've never heard of anyone paying them."
"I don't know," said Harry. "Dobby's so powerful it's scary but all he really wants to do is spend his time helping people with whatever they want done. Do you know why they don't get a better deal? Lucius Malfoy was unbelievably cruel to Dobby."
"It's something to do with how the elves bond with the families they serve. It's like a drive they have, to give good service and not expect anything in return," Ron said. "Maybe I don't have all the details. It doesn't sound like that is all there is to it, does it?"
Harry shook his head, agreeing with Ron.
"Common room?" asked Ron when they got to a certain junction of two corridors.
"I wanted to go by the library," answered Harry. "See you back in Gryffindor."
Ron looked like he went through a few moments of confusion before turning toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry smiled to himself. Of course, first day back, Ron couldn't conceive of a need for a book.
Harry entered the library and took a careful look around. The year before he'd become very careful about keeping his reading habits to himself. Draco Malfoy was convinced Harry was doing something he wanted to keep concealed. Draco was an astute observer but lacked a bit in the analytical department. He hadn't cracked the puzzle but he knew there was a puzzle to be cracked, something that appeared to involve the Slytherin witches Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass. Harry began adopting subtle actions meant to conceal his intents and purposes. Choice of outside reading material was his own business, not Draco Malfoy's.
Once assured he was comfortable with the other library patrons, Harry went to the historical section, thinking he would browse again for anything he might have missed on the construction of Hogwarts. He was working his way slowly down the length of a shelf when someone cleared their throat directly behind him. Harry turned, half-expecting to see Madame Pince, the chronically-suspicious librarian.
"Harry Potter," said Pansy Parkinson.
"It is," said Daphne Greengrass. "First night back, burning the midnight oil."
"It isn't eight o'clock," Harry protested.
"Oh," said Pansy, looking at Daphne, "Harry just told us we have time."
"What time?" Harry asked. "I didn't say…"
"Time for this," said Daphne, taking a pinch of Harry's robe's bell sleeve and turning toward a corner.
The irregular walls of Hogwarts required countless adaptations where the builders had to allow for a curve in a stone wall, for example, penetrating a space built on right angles. Thus there were plenty of little, odd gaps in walls, floors and corridors where a witch or wizard could sit, unbothered, to read or a couple could find a bit of privacy for a clinch or whispered vow of undying love and affection. Harry's partners had cataloged a fair number of such spaces.
Pulling Harry into a gap between bookshelves with an unobstructed view of the approaches and a solid stone wall to their backs, the witches welcomed Harry back after summer break.
"You look good, Harry," said Daphne. "Pansy thought you look rested and ready for another year."
Harry looked between them.
"I did, that is exactly what I said," said Pansy. "You also appear to have been working this summer, didn't I say, Daphne?"
"Yes you did," Daphne said. "I can't disagree. The physical labor did you a favor, Harry."
Harry liked the positive comments while, at the same time, he wondered where they were going.
"I did the yard and garden all summer," Harry said.
"We also noticed, that is, I asked Daphne," said Pansy. "Is Harry wearing a new ring? I don't think I remember him wearing that ring last term."
"I looked, from over at Slytherin, of course, which is quite a distance, but I told Pansy I thought she was right. How is it we didn't hear about it in any of your newsy notes all summer? That ring has a crest. Putting it on is a matter of state, Harry Potter."
"I decided to wait," Harry said. "I did what you two suggested, as soon as I could I went into London and met with Anvil. There is a lot to talk about but the short version is he took me down to our vaults and showed me where they've put your shares from the basilisk, then we went on to a family vault and this was in there. It's my father's heir ring. He left it. For me."
Harry's voice got very husky and his eyes began to burn. He took a deep breath and held it because he really didn't want to start crying in front of Pansy and Daphne, not in the library on the first day of the new term.
The witches were sensitive to those things and immediately looked away.
"It's a lovely ring, Harry," said Daphne. "We didn't want to treat it lightly."
"No, definitely not," added Pansy. "That is a significant moment in your life. You're a noble now, for sure."
"You're going to be fought-over," said Daphne. "At least that's my prediction."
"I'm sure you're accurate," Pansy said. "You seem to know these things."
"Please stop, this is embarrassing," said Harry. "Anything new, from the business?"
"The flinderwort medium is very promising. We've cultured a fair amount and the quality is very consistent," said Pansy. "The new process will displace the traditional collection methods if we keep the cost down."
"Let's say we go into production," said Harry. "What happens when we run out of dung?"
"That pile down there ought to last our lifetimes and one or two more," said Pansy.
"Currently, the flinderwort market is limited," Daphne added. "We did some numbers and estimate we could supply the potioneers' needs for one to two hundred years as long as we had that stock down in the cave."
Harry nodded.
"Well," he said. "Well. Good work, then. Ready to wrap up? We can come back to business, later, if we need to."
"I guess, if you're finished," Daphne said.
She sounded, to Harry, just a little put out. He puzzled over why that would be, until Pansy cleared it up for him.
"Are we dismissed, then?" Pansy asked.
"NO!" Harry stage-whispered. "I didn't mean…"
"Good, Pansy, Harry didn't mean. I'm going to tell him it's good to see him," said Daphne.
"Do that," said Pansy.
"Okay, I'm glad to see you both, I missed our, uh, meetings," said Harry.
They held it in but the witches clearly found his distress amusing.
"Thanks, Harry, I missed them, too," said Pansy.
"Same," said Daphne. "Congratulations on your investiture as heir. Will you be doing something a little more ceremonial, when you move up to Head?"
Harry had to think fast to come up with a response. It was obvious Daphne thought further ahead than he did, or could.
"You're both invited, promise," he said, knowing as he spoke he had no idea how he would make good on it.