Black Luminary

by YakAge

The war against the Dark Lord was the last straw. The oppressed, fed up with oligarchy, corruption, and injustice, sharpened their knives, rallying behind those who promised change. They won. Today, Magical Britain is a changed country – for the better. Hail and praise to our saviours! Finally, all is well. But listen! Can't you hear the grindstone turning still ...?

69. ML: A Moment at Eternity's Edge

AN: Hello, everyone.

I just wanted to drop by and make it clear that I'll try not to write chapters upwards of 15k words – and certainly nothing in the vicinity of 30k – ever again. To put it into perspective, this chapter is about a third of your average over-the-counter novel.

But I thought, especially in light of my long absences, that you guys deserve a quick resolution of Harry's third year, even if that means I'll have to slave away more than usual.

Cheers,

A moment at eternity's edge

---

Footsteps echoed through dull, grey corridors. There was no obvious source of light, but the tunnel-like passage was magically lit – not to douse it in occult shadows that menacingly flit across the walls but to illuminate it to an insipid degree of gloom. The leather soles clapped on the tarnished marble with a rhythm that was beyond rigid, beyond even clinical. For five minutes, there were only doors, some ignored, some passed through, grey walls, and the sound of the leather soles.

'Are they here?'

A young, weedy clerk with horn-rimmed glasses who had been waiting by yet another nondescript door in a pose of alert attention, hastened his steps to fall in line with his superior.

'Yes, sir! Everyone's ready for you. I've arranged a few assorted files at your seat, sir. Budgets, personnel reports, developments. Magically sealed, of course.'

'Alastor's notes?' demanded the first voice. It had a sharp, concise way of speaking, too. A way that wasn't so much impolite as aloof. The young assistant had to hurry to fall in line with his superior's snappy march. They looked less like people about to enter a business meeting than people rallying for war.

'Of course, sir,' said the assistant, lowering his voice. 'They're the second to last file in the leftmost stack. The front cover reads "Annual Agricultural Review".'

'Very well. And the wards?'

'Head Auror Longbottom will be performing and monitoring them. I've taken the liberty of informing him about my presence on your behalf, sir.'

'Good. Your thoroughness is commendable. I will call you when needed. In the meantime, we are not to be disturbed.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

The young clerk rushed towards yet another plain wooden door, bowing deferentially as he opened and closed it for his superior. The room inside was neither ancient nor modern. In fact, it looked remarkably as if someone had – with great care – acquired a selection of furniture and wallpaper just a couple of years out of fashion. Four lumpy desks had been set in a square, laden with documents and cheap decanters filled to the brim with plain water. The room was the size of a Hogwarts classroom, but except for the tables, a few lamps, and the door that had just closed again, there was nothing noteworthy.

It looked extraordinarily boring.

'Hello, Minister,' said a round-faced woman with short hair sitting at one of the tables.

'Good morning,' hailed another, older woman with a severe monocle sitting opposite the former.

'Minister,' mumbled a man wearing washed-out, hooded grey robes. He sat at the only table occupied by more than one person. Next to him, a plump woman with a freckled face and an easy smile nodded affably towards the Minister. She, alone of all the people, didn't have a stack of documents sitting next to or in front of her. Instead, there was just a single piece of parchment.

'Good morning,' replied Bartemius Crouch curtly as he walked through the square and took a seat at the only empty table, his eyes flying over the various files. 'Begin.'

The woman with the monocle stood up, her fingers flipping through a thick file. 'Current total budget: 284,000 Galleons. Of which allotted to salaries: 120,172 Galleons. Allotted to education and advanced training: 78,714 Galleons. Allotted to equipment and expenditures: 49,646 Galleons. Office supplies: 19,997 Galleons. Operating expenses: 7,854. Other use: 7,617 Galleons. Last year's Auror program trainees: 14. Graduates: 2. Last year's Law Enforcement trainees: 27. Graduates: 14. Last year's trainees as administrative secretaries: 11. Graduates: 5. Current average workload: Aurors: 56 hours per week. Law Enforcement and Hit Wizards: 42 hours. Administration: 61. Muggle relations: 57. Obliviators: 39.5.

'No recent events of note. Investigation regarding internal break-in deputised towards Department of Mysteries. Investigation regarding Azkaban break-ins concluded. Evidence found of brute force entry through the wards from one way or another suggests at least three incursions. One ward anchor was purposefully destroyed to weaken the net of recently installed wards. We have tripled the number of ward stones and added redundancy and a secondary ward line that will now automatically alarm both the facility and our offices. We have also strengthened the Anti-Apparition wards by a factor of 218% following the latest incu–'

'Excuse me?' said the plump woman in grey, leaning forward.

'—rsion. After several tests under controlled conditions, we could not reproduce the possibility of further brute-force entry of living tissue. Several examinations of the official documents and two hearings of the Head Gaoler have taken place to –'

'Excuse me, Emilia? Er, I mean Madame Bones?'

Reluctantly, Madame Bones looked up from her report. 'Yes, Madame Monkstanley?'

'Frightfully sorry to interrupt you, but I couldn't help but wonder; did you say the ward anchors were deliberately attacked?'

Madame Bones frowned, her eyes scanning the report. 'That appears to be the case, yes.'

'I'm so sorry for disrupting, but how did the intruder attack the anchor stone? I assume it was buried?'

Madame Bones nodded curtly, her fingers running over a thick file until she pulled out another paper. 'We had an Auror and internal affairs investigate the incident separately since Azkaban Island is technically the jurisdiction of our department. We also interviewed the one who installed the wards to confirm –'

'Who was it?' said Crouch.

'Pardon, Minister?'

'Who installed the wards?'

There was more rustling of paper. 'A … William Arthur Weasley.'

'Arthur's eldest son?' said Crouch, taking a short note.

'Yes. During his interview, he could very accurately describe the ward in question and its relative position within the warding scheme. During a covert reevaluation, he unofficially passed the Warding Operations Workshop with 148% – which would place him second of current national Warding Experts – had the examination been official. He also fully cooperated and passed all tests regarding the verity of his claims.'

'How deep was the ward anchor buried?' asked Madame Monkstanley.

Madame Bones consulted her paper again. She hesitated, her brow pinching the monocle visibly. 'Forty-five feet, twenty of which were solid granite. Mr Weasley constructed the ward anchor remotely within the granite. During the placement, the rock was not damaged or fractured or weakened in any way.'

'But that's impossible!' said the round-faced woman to the left of the Minister. 'I mean, not impossible, yes. But – surely – the Ministry didn't require this young man to remotely construct a ward in solid rock!'

'We did not,' said Madame Bones, her frown deepening. 'Mr Weasley decided to improve upon the specifications. During his interview, when asked about this, he stated – I quote – "it was a fun challenge".'

'How was the anchor destroyed then?'

'A Withering Curse cutting straight through earth and granite. It reached its maximum potency seven feet from the anchor stone.'

A murmur rippled through the room.

The round-faced woman looked particularly unsettled. 'That must have been a very powerful curse.'

'We could not reproduce the effect under comparable circumstances,' said Madame Bones. After a second, she added, 'Though I should mention that no Auror of mine has any extensive training using this kind of magic. We inquired at the Department of Mysteries about the potency of such a curse.'

The second grey-clad figure nodded. 'Yes. We were able to reproduce the effect. But only once and only after a day of slow progress. It is not an impossible feat of magic, to be sure, but one far exceeding the average practitioner.'

'Weasley,' said Crouch after a second of silence. 'He was tested, you said?'

'Yes, Minister. He voluntarily submitted for Veritaserum and let us inspect his memories. We could find no trace of deception or manipulation.'

'Did you question him regarding his oath of secrecy?'

Madame Bones' monocle was pinched even harder, and she looked distinctly affronted. 'Yes, we did. And he passed all of those questions, too.'

'It seems to me,' said Crouch coldly, 'that you remain unable to explain the method being used to detect the ward anchor, am I correct?'

'Yes.'

'And it further seems to me that the magic being used was unlikely at best, correct?'

'It would depend on the individual, of course,' said the grey-clad man from before. 'But I doubt there could be more than a handful of people in Britain with the general aptitude and specific competence in the Dark Arts.'

'So,' continued Crouch sardonically, 'if the assailant or assailants unknown found said anchor by means unknowable and destroyed it by means unlikely, the logical conclusion would be that Mr Weasley did, inadvertently possibly, betray either the position or the design of the ward after all.'

'He passed all tests,' said Madame Bones in a low voice. 'All of them. Perfectly!'

'He will be removed from all government contracts and be issued a ban for twenty years,' said Crouch relentlessly.

'But –'

'That was an instruction, Emilia.'

Madame Bones jerked upright, looking mutinous. After barely a moment, she settled down with visible reluctance. 'Very well, Minister.'

'Continue.'

Madame Bones rustled her papers for a second, sorting them into a more pleasing order. 'I would ask, once more, for the administration to submit a proposal for the employment of non-citizens in the Department. We simply won't be able to make ends meet in another ten years. Compared to fifty years ago, workload has almost doubled for Aurors, the administrative services, and even for Muggle relations!'

'Denied,' said Crouch, not looking up from his paperwork.

'May I ask why you have been rebuffing this very reasonable demand for ten years, Minister?'

'You may. It is simply not politically feasible and therefore nonsensical. There is no majority anywhere that would support foreigners acting in the most visible arm of the executive branch of the state.'

'Could we at least discuss the possibility of allowing them in non-internal administration? I might be able to shift –'

'No.' Crouch drew up another parchment and filled it out with almost mechanical precision. 'You will instead be granted an increase in budget of seven per cent, rising from three per cent next year to the full seven per cent in five years.' He signed the parchment, stamped it, and tapped it with his ashen wand. It neatly folded into a paper plane and took off, zooming towards the door.

'Even a pay rise won't keep the people on board indefinitely,' said Madame Bones.

'It is done,' replied Crouch. 'The bill will be introduced during the next session of the Wizengamot. I suggest you use some of this money for advertisement campaigns – though I naturally respect your autonomy as head of the department. I think we can read up on the rest of the report on our own. Anything else that urgently requires discussion?'

For a second, Madame Bones looked ready to protest again, but then she smartly closed the binding of her file, steepling her fingers. 'No, Minister.'

'Very well. Alice.'

The round-faced woman stood up with a little smile. 'Current total budget: 84,689 Galleons per annum. Of which is allotted to salaries: 38,627 Galleons. Relations and consultation: 12,767. Third-party assets: 17,200 Galleons. Supplies: 4,73 Galleons. Other: 11,322 Galleons.'

'Could you perhaps be more precise, Alice?' said Crouch. 'It's not acceptable that your entry for various other outgoings amounts to almost a seventh of your total budget.'

'Oh, yes,' said Alice Longbottom, glancing at her stack of parchment. She browsed the first few sheets before coming to a reluctant halt. 'Oh, I'm so sorry. It looks like I don't have the numbers right here. Accounting must have handed me the wrong papers. I'll turn them in later.'

'Very well,' said Crouch with narrowed eyes.

'Anyway, we just got in a new batch of seven applicants. At this rate, we might look into –'

'Oh, I'm so dreadfully sorry to interrupt yet again,' said Madame Monkstanley.

Alice Longbottom looked up from her report. 'What is it?'

'I was just wondering when we were going to discuss the war? Do I still have time to visit the lavatory?'

Alice Longbottom exchanged an uneasy glance with Madame Bones. Madame Bones had quirked both eyebrows so high that her monocle fell to the desk with an audible thud. The man sitting next to Madame Monkstanley cleared his throat. Minister Crouch, however, didn't react at all.

'War?' repeated Madame Bones. 'War, you said?'

'What?' said Madame Monkstanley, looking equally taken aback by their confusion.

'Did you just say war?'

'Yes? I assumed that was going to be the major article of this meeting?'

'What war?!' demanded Madame Bones.

Minister Crouch said nothing, gave away nothing. He simply sat there, staring at his agricultural report.

Madame Monkstanley, for her part, seemed genuinely puzzled by their reaction. Eyebrow raised, she consulted the single parchment in front of her. 'Well, let's see. Counting this year's apparent political assassinations of Mr Selwyn and Mrs Greengrass, the first Azkaban mass escape in centuries, the bulk of the high-profile escapees law enforcement seems unable to locate and which we should therefore consider sheltered by British citizens in defiance of government authority, the attack on the Ministry, the apparent impossibility to locate any person responsible – not to mention all the little disappearances and probable murders in the last few years.'

'A murder spree in Magical Britain?' asked Alice.

'Oh, I got them here somewhere, one second, please.' Madame Monkstanley consulted her list. 'Where is it? Where is it… Ah, yes! Two potion makers offering their services illegally in Knockturn Alley. Four men of various professions, two of which were convicted sex offenders, found deceased or … worse in narrow streets around Diagon Alley. One law enforcement patrol consisting of three missing officers. The timing of their disappearance suggests a connection to one of the former cases. One Auror trainee vanishing from within the Ministry only to reappear months later without any knowledge of the events unfolding. A senior healer from St Mungo's appears to have vanished without a trace quite recently. He was previously involved in a misdiagnosis that led to at least three confirmed deaths within St Mungo's, including his subordinate trainee healer and the aforementioned Mr Selwyn. We've also been able to connect a number of other felonies to some of these cases. The disappearance of elves, illegal seizure of assets, and so forth. Some of these cases also appear to have links to ongoing investigations in continental Ministries.

'Quite a few people have been turning up dead. Overall, we can safely assume an increase in politically motivated criminal offences by at least 176% in the last ten years. But it's not even the worst in Britain. France and Spain have reported back an increase in politically motivated assaults and murders of two hundred and two hundred fifty per cent respectively. Incidents in Jutland and Frisia have spiked by almost nine hundred thirty per cent, most of which are directed at ICW institutions and embassies. Our branch offices in Sønderborg and Kiel, for instance, has been attacked twice within the last 5 months. The only place even worse off is Bohemia. The Free Magical City of Prague has recently entered a state of near civil war, with a sizeable portion of the inhabitants demanding a return to the Czech domain.

'Intelligence reports seem to suggest that, firstly, these insurgents receive substantial monetary and material donations from external powers and, secondly, that a considerable amount of the monetary donations have been flowing – in fact – from hitherto untraceable British sources. We were able to link fluctuations in the Pound to Galleon rates Gringotts is offering to payments received by the pro-Czech insurgents. This was only possible, I might add, because some of the transfers were in the dimension of several hundred thousand Galleons and thus affecting daily exchange rates.

'Not counting these, with the recent donation of Arcturus Black's to the ICW and several other incidents still under scrutiny, we have estimated that Britain has lost close to 23% of its total gold – which includes private assets, private enterprises, and government funds – within the last fifteen years, making it the second most severe monetary leak ever recorded in British history. Again disregarding Arcturus Black's donation, we have been able to trace more than a fourth of these anonymous payments to political groups, agents, or their proxies in continental Europe.

'Due to a deal negotiated between the Ministry and Gringotts, mediated by Mrs Longbottom I might add, current exchange rates from the British Pound to Galleons are capped at 25.7 for this year. Projections based on the exodus of capital would already see exchange rates of up to 33 Pounds per Galleon, which is an increase of more than six hundred per cent in the last twenty-two years. Despite the effective countermeasures being deployed by our newest department, we therefore suspect a very influential cabal of financial heavyweights, which may be natural or artificial persons jurisprudentially speaking, from within and without Britain is aiming to synthetically increase deflation by means of capital flight – and others.

'In this regard, we have also uncovered that the continental demand for the wares and services of Wizarding Britain has been on the decline for almost twenty years. The dimension of which we are unable to explain by market reasons or competitive capacity alone. We are currently labouring under the assumption that said foreign powers are – quite effectively I might add – working towards a deflationary spiral, which they might well achieve within the next six to ten years unless strenuous efforts are made within the coming twenty months – which would have to include financial incentives totalling approximately nine million Galleons. Again, this estimate errs on the conservative end and would only achieve an equilibrium between the current forces at work. To undo the damage already inflicted, dozens of millions would be necessary. I would like to remind everyone that, just counting Arcturus Black's contribution of troubling charity to the ICW, we're talking about a sum approximating our national budget. And since current treatises with the Goblins prevent us from simply increasing the amount of Gold in circulation … well. It's quite grim.'

'Is it possible to limit the flow of gold by law?' asked Alice Longbottom.

'In theory, yes,' said Madame Bones. 'In practice, no. We can't track Goblin Gold, and the Goblins are fiercely protective of their autonomy. They wouldn't tolerate a law that forces them to reveal their clients' transactions. More relevantly, no law forces citizens to patronise Gringotts. People might just withdraw their entire fortune, hoard it somewhere else, and move it whenever convenient.'

'What if we demanded that every person declare their wealth?'

'And how would we verify that?' asked Madame Bones irritably. 'We'd need about two Law Enforcement patrols per citizen. It is also – I have no doubt – not politically feasible to try to force Britain's wealthiest citizens to suffer DMLE staff ransacking their estates, dissecting their wards, and ripping open their vaults,' she added with a sidelong glance towards the Minister.

'You are correct,' said Crouch.

'Then what do we do about it?'

Minister Crouch took a new parchment. 'We will open the last strongroom and bring all of our gold reserves into circulation. I'll expect my clerks to have formulated the amounts necessary by Wednesday to assure that the deflation never quite develops into a perpetual downward spiral and then hold back the rest for emergency release.'

'How are our reserves?' asked Madame Monkstanley.

'In the order of thirty-two million Galleons.'

'And what do we do if whoever is responsible can outlast that sum? And what do you mean – never quite?' asked Alice Longbottom.

Crouch hesitated for a second, looking up from his writing. 'We will have to form a more comprehensive plan in time, but that will require cuts to the budget the constituents will not approve of until they can see for themselves the looming danger.'

'So you want to take the country to the brink of collapse just to make people realise the danger?' asked Alice, horrified.

'And what alternative is there? Were I to propose extensive change right now, I would be out of office next fortnight, and the crisis would only be worsened because – naturally – my successor would have to appease those who will have called for my dismissal.

'What is required to convince the populace is more than projections – many of which are the results of conjecture or internal investigations which cannot be released to the press. We will carefully monitor the situation, try to find the person or persons responsible, take measures to insulate ourselves from the worst to come, and prepare for conclusive answers when the time is right.

'What is more, if we try to stave off the deflation until we can't hold on, we won't have the financial backbone to combat it anymore. The optimal solution is to let it unfold almost unchecked and stave off only the most drastic of consequences until the public will agree to and support extensive counter-measures. This will, inevitably, lead to some unfortunate but unavoidable individual misfortune, but it is the best we can do. Questions so far?'

Alice Longbottom and Madame Bones exchanged another meaningful glance but didn't speak up. The pair of grey-clad figures to the right of the Minister didn't react at all.

'Regarding the … other issue you tabled, Madame Monkstanley, how sure can you be that there is a connection between all these incidents? The murder of criminals in dark alleys doesn't seem to relate to pro-Czech insurrection in Prague. The term "war" seems slightly exaggerated, wouldn't you say?'

'No, I wouldn't. I believe the correct Muggle terminology is low-intensity conflict. There is enough evidence to suggest a connection between some of the aforementioned incidents – even though it may be difficult to see the big picture yet. Either way, I'm fairly sure that – geopolitically speaking – Britain is one of the hot spots of this brewing conflict,' said Madame Monkstanley. 'Unfortunately, we do not have enough data yet to prognosticate the development of this altercation. This might merely be the beginning, and we wouldn't be able to tell. To be perfectly candid, a lot of our evidence wouldn't hold up to open discussion either.'

'Then I suggest that – pro term – we adjourn the discussion on this matter. I expect a conclusive report on your findings by our next meeting.'

'We could do that,' said Monkstanley with a little smile. 'But I must say that I doubt this is a good idea.'

'And why is that?'

'Because there is more.' Monkstanley glanced at her paper again before she continued, 'We have also stumbled over evidence that suggests the Ministry is – to some degree – involved in collusion or, at the very least, suppression of evidence regarding this very matter.'

There was a deathly silence. Minister Crouch, for the first time, looked visibly agitated. 'And which department is involved, according to your findings?' he demanded coldly.

Likewise, the affable little smile of Monkstanley's seemed to flicker for the first time. 'All present, Minister.'

'All present departments?' repeated Crouch dangerously, putting down his quill for the first time. 'And how is it that you discovered all of this after returning to us so … fortuitously and unexpectedly only two months ago?'

'Reading.'

In the ensuing silence, the man next to Monkstanley coughed meaningfully. 'What Levina wishes to express in oversimplified terms is that – upon return – she made a note of following up the political events of the last fifty years, having been … out of the loop.'

'It beat sitting in the cell and idling the time away,' added Monkstanley with a little chuckle.

'To be sure,' continued the other Unspeakable. 'We gave her access to public records because we saw no harm in doing so. During this study, she took an interest in certain unexpected developments – some of which we were unable to actively discuss until her status was reassessed. So Lovegood buried herself in the documents until – eventually – she called me. When Levina was granted clearance again, the three of us continued to sift through almost all the government reports, deeds, and records of the last decades. We didn't consult any of our colleagues either once we noticed that maybe even our department had been compromised. That was when we noticed certain trends.'

'Which are?!'

'For one, the political decline of all political parties within Britain – except for the Pillars.'

'I protest!' said Alice Longbottom angrily, standing up. 'We have given everything to this country since the war! Most of us have even been sponsoring the government with our private funds, giving long-term loans with interest rates below inflation just to help keep this country afloat after it was brought to ruin! Almost all of our wealth is in this country – literally! Anything that could be withdrawn from the Potters' fortune was effectively donated to the state! I don't even pay myself a wage to not burden anyone! This is ridiculous!'

'It is not ridiculous,' said Madame Monkstanley calmly. 'It is simply the result of data. Nearly every single political faction beyond the Pillars has been facing significant decline for decades. And whenever a faction is on the rise, like with Mr Selwyn so recently, they – mysteriously – face very stiff resistance. Or worse. The only exception being Albus Dumbledore's influence – but even that has taken hits recently, following what the press refers to as the London Nights.'

'And what about the Notts? Or the Blacks?' demanded Alice angrily.

'The Notts have had six votes in the Wizengamot for almost seventy years now. Six. I certainly share your distaste, but they haven't had a say in any major political decision in more than fifty years. The Blacks are reduced to two votes. I'll admit we were surprised by the apparent depth of their coffers, but if our projections are even somewhat accurate, the donation of Arcturus Black amounted to the majority of their liquid assets. Also, frankly, with the adoption of a half-blood from a liberal family, I would consider the Blacks well on their way to a more stable role in society within the next fifty years.'

'You don't know what you're talking about,' said Alice Longbottom, reluctantly sitting down.

Madame Monkstanley looked merely curious, not offended. But when her counterpart didn't elaborate, she simply moved on. 'While nobody within our department doubts that Arcturus Black could well be tied up in the aforementioned attempts to destabilise the political landscape, I remain confident in my analysis that he is – all things considered – not trying to bring ruin to the country.'

'You mean he's merely trying to bankrupt us – knowing that our families' assets are tied up in the Ministry – as revenge for his political ousting?'

Monkstanley smiled. 'Please excuse my seemingly uncaring words, Mrs Longbottom, but the reality of the matter is: Arcturus Black is not breaking any law we could find. And we really, really looked.'

'We will resume this issue at a later point, but could we return to the issue of greatest importance?' said Minister Crouch. 'What exactly did you mean by insinuating that our three biggest departments are compromised?'

Madame Monkstanley consulted her paper again. 'We have found considerable evidence that Aurors, for instance, have been acting beyond their mandate or – alternatively – acting privately disguised as official operatives of the Ministry. Some of these incidents have been quite recent and could be subordinated to the greater issue we discussed.'

Madame Bones scoffed. 'Yes, I will admit there were some … irregularities recently. I have, however, had a word with Frank about it. Minister Crouch was also present at said meeting.'

'Is this true?' asked Monkstanley, taken aback.

The Minister nodded curtly.

'Excellent! There is still a corruption rate within ordinary law enforcement of about eighteen per cent – far beyond what we calculate to be realistic. I have a few files of isolated incidents in which we could summarily prove that officers and officials of the DMLE have taken bribes.'

'I would like a copy, please,' said Madame Bones in a low voice.

'Of course. That being said, if recent irregularities have been addressed, I believe the DMLE is – gratifyingly – the least of our concerns, despite the apparent widespread corruption within Azkaban and some of the enlisted men patrolling the street. Within our department, we are following troubling clues that might suggest either an insider, corruption, or outside influence. We are currently covertly reassessing the status of three members of the corps under the assumption of high treason. Your department,' she said, nodding towards Alice Longbottom, 'has a history of bad transparency in financial statements. Furthermore, our taskforce has concluded that the current laws are too muddy regarding your intended duties. Lastly, we have an unconfirmed witness testimony of individuals of your department acting in collusion with other departments, circumventing some of the restrictions and checks put in place.'

'I want to make one thing absolutely, irrevocably clear,' said Minister Crouch, glaring coldly at Alice Longbottom and Madame Bones. 'All three departments here right now were granted significant leeway and autonomy. This was done, I had hitherto assumed to be acknowledged, with the understanding of the privilege and responsibilities this carried – including the loyalty to the Ministry. I will not brook any threat to the integrity of this Ministry while I am Minister. I will always support any and all internal investigations – to the bitter end. If any evidence at all is found that the head of a department has not taken the appropriate steps to reduce these excrescences, the person in charge will be tried under charges of collusion. No matter their department. No matter their office. And no matter their family. If any of you cannot present significant efforts and results during our next meeting to alleviate these issues, political efforts to change this autonomy are also on the table. I hope this is understood.'

'Yes, Minister,' said Madame Bones stiffly.

'Of course,' said Alice Longbottom encouragingly.

A few moments later, when the topic had returned to other matters, Alice hastily scribbled a few notes in the margins of her paper.

Memory Lane

Betty Braithwaite, Harry decided, was dodgy. She dressed like his grandfather, spoke like Daphne despite surely being almost seventy, giggled like the Fawcett siblings, gossiped like Tracey – and yet Harry couldn't help but wonder – even as she tittered happily at one of Dumbledore's little jests – if Betty Braithwaite might in some ways be more insidious than Rita Skeeter – just like a hippo, no matter how clumsy and goofy it looked at first, was in many ways more worrying than a snarling wolf or even a bear.

'So, Harry, my dear, Charms,' she said with sparkling eyes full of honest curiosity. 'Got a favourite?'

'I like Lumos,' said Harry slowly, his head racing with thoughts. Of course, any answer could be spun to make him look bad, but Lumos – surely! – was among the most innocent answers possible. That it approximated the notion of verity was a lucky coincidence.

Betty Braithwaite grinned. 'Lumos? Forgive me, but I would've expected a more … nebulous answer. Like, hmm, the Unplottability Charm? Or Obscuro?'

Harry smiled a little in return. 'Lumos is one of the most versatile Charms there is. It has applications for enchanting, comes in handy when exploring, and it helps cultivate plants with some modifications.'

'Not very handy in a duel though, eh?' suggested the reporter with a laugh. 'Not that I'd know, mind you. My duelling skills are so poor Professor Merrythought was convinced I'd blow myself up before my OWLs. And,' she leaned forward as if what followed was a very dear secret, 'there were many close calls.'

Despite himself, Harry chuckled – and so did Dumbledore.

'We do see some use of Lumos and its derivatives in duelling competitions,' said Aenor, who'd been standing behind Harry the entire time with an air of proprietary ownership. 'Not very often, but it has its uses.'

'Are you very experienced with duelling, Professor Rose?'

'I do have experience, yes.'

'I believe,' said Braithwaite, flipping through a notebook, 'that you've never entered a formal competition, is that right? I'm all in favour of young blood at the helm, Professor, but some of our readers have expressed concerns about whether a Defence professor without a background in duelling is the right choice for NEWT courses.'

Harry knew Aenor well enough by now to see behind her mask of polite indifference. In all likelihood, Aenor was probably imagining how it would feel to curse Braithwaite into a bloody pulp. 'I'm confident I could reach the fifth circle at the very least. Is that good enough?'

'The … the fifth circle of the British championships? You're confident you could make it to the third to last round in the British championships?!'

For a second, Aenor looked affronted that the reporter hadn't understood her to mean the international main event. But the storm cloud, unnoticed by Braithwaite, passed in the blink of an eye, and she seemed to think better of clarifying.

'Yes,' said Aenor simply.

'That,' said Braithwaite with wide eyes, scribbling away madly, 'is amazing! Incredible!'

'Incidentally,' said Dumbledore with a placid smile, 'Professor Rose has recently declared her intent to take some of Harry's classmates to the internationals next year after their OWLs.'

'What a splendid idea! It'll surely inspire them to watch the show!'

'Actually,' said Rose coolly, 'I mean for them to compete.'

Braithwaite's excited smile stayed unmoved while she scribbled away for a second before it began to falter. Her eyes popping, she jerked up from her notes. 'Compete?' she whispered. 'In the international event?'

Aenor nodded nonchalantly, inspecting her nails. 'Yes. I thought since it's basically around the corner in Lisbon next year, why not hop over?'

'Goodness gracious!' breathed Braithwaite, scrawling away with demonic speed, staring at Aenor as if she was the most precious thing the reporter had ever seen. 'But you are a firebird, aren't you, Professor?! Are you going to be competing, too, Harry?'

'No,' said Harry. 'I don't fancy my chances.'

'Really?' said Braithwaite. 'I've heard impressive things about your spell casting.'

'Well, I like studying magic. But I'm not sure I'm cut out for the more … athletic aspect of it.'

He didn't add that he thought the press back home would probably react with growing concern instead of pride, even in the unlikely event that he had some success.

'Of course, of course. Which leads us all back again to your apprenticeship. What do you think about Hogwarts' policy of allowing you this opportunity despite the legal concerns some members of the Board of Governors have expressed?'

Harry could feel the eyes of Aenor and Dumbledore homing in on him expectantly.

Coughing politely, he droned on about the honour of being trusted, the humility he felt standing in line with the great apprentices and masters of Hogwarts before him: Merlin, Nicolas Flamel, Artemisia Lufkin, Adalbert Waffling – the last in this prominent line, whom he was smugly pleased to mention, was Alice Longbottom. He was just getting ready for a mindless recital that generously piled heaps of praise and deference on anyone who could be even remotely offended when Braithwaite interrupted him.

'Wait just a spell! Did you say Alice Longbottom?!' she said, confused. 'A ceremonial apprentice? Are you sure? Is that true?!'

'Oh, yes. At least, Hogwarts' chronicles seem to suggest so.' He carefully schooled his expression into a look of concern, glancing at his headmaster. 'Is this something I shouldn't have mentioned, Professor?'

'Not at all, Harry,' said Dumbledore kindly. Harry, who had come to insist on the 'Mr Black' let the very gentle rebuke slide since he had just passed the Dungbomb to his headmaster, so to speak. 'It is true, Mrs Braithwaite, that Alice began a ceremonial apprenticeship back in her last year of school. Memory seems to suggest that she never finished it though. I believe the vow was voluntarily and conjointly annulled before she had finished her mastery.'

'I didn't know that,' said Braithwaite delightedly, hastily turning the page. 'Do you, by any chance, remember her erstwhile mentor?'

For a second, Dumbledore's eyes seemed to flicker towards Harry. 'I'm not at liberty to say.'

'Oh, such a shame. Such a shame! But the evening crowns the day, am I right? Maybe our archives can shed some light on the matter. Fascinating! Of course, the Longbottoms are at the forefront of society's attempt at a … renewal of some of our traditions. Considering your family's entrenchment, Harry – if you can forgive me this question – how do you feel about Madame Longbottom as your immediate predecessor?'

Harry smiled, an exciting and oh-so-satisfying idea taking shape in his mind. 'If you're looking for partisan tension here, Mrs Braithwaite, I'm afraid I'll have to let you down. Alice Longbottom was a dear friend of my mother Lily Potter. That means something to me. I've also always felt very close to her son, Neville, who has been a great friend of mine. I have the highest respect for Alice Longbottom's long-winded struggle for her ideological efforts – but I feel all the more proud that her history as a ceremonial apprentice proves her deep respect and adoration for the many varied and honoured ancient traditions of the Wizengamot and Magical Britain.'

Dumbledore gave Harry a very flat look behind his desk, but Harry didn't mind. Insinuating that Alice Longbottom of all people was somehow involved in extremely conservative rites and customs was just delicious irony. Since his family was – at this point – almost universally loathed, lavishing exceptional praise on any single person would consequently only invite controversy – if not downright suspicion.

Coming to this realisation, Harry had – surprisingly – a grand old time.

He made it a point to mention and praise all the people he detested throughout the rest of the interview, starting with Rendall Prewett (whom he thanked for his service to Magical Britain in defiance of that somewhat negligible part of his family that had died fighting for Grindelwald) and ending with his feelings of gratitude towards Madame Bones for her incorruptible officiousness – at which point he winked meaningfully at Mrs Braithwaite.

They talked a bit about Charms and his academic record so far, with Harry assuming a mask of polite humility again – until Mrs Braithwaite with a fond look at her notebook and Harry brought the conversation to an end.

'One last question, Harry, if you don't mind. Is there any person you wish to thank or mention?'

'Oh, yes, of course!' said Harry, grinning mischievously. 'I would personally like to thank my very good friends Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnigan. I don't mind telling you, Betty, that if it weren't for Ron's help and encouragement, I wouldn't be the person I am today. Ron, from the bottom of my heart, thanks, mate. Your true friendship and handy assistance in defiance of political boundaries, house loyalties, and familial ties is something I shall cherish evermore!'

Memory Lane

'An interview, really?' exclaimed Daphne later in the Great Hall during supper.

'Yes,' said Harry calmly, inspecting the roast venison with great nonchalance.

'How was it? Who led it? What did you say?!'

Harry smiled faintly. 'Oh, it was okay.'

Truthfully, Dumbledore had given him a stern talking-to after his interview and had taken ten points from Slytherin in admonishment for Harry's somewhat transparent attempts to discredit the people he loathed. But Harry just couldn't bring himself to care. Looking towards the giant hourglasses, he saw that Slytherin was 149 points behind the third place Gryffindor – admittedly in large parts due to him and Amy. But even knowing that, Harry felt nothing and Amy – he suspected – felt even less.

'Really?!' said Amy suspiciously.

'Oh, yes. Piece of cake.'

'It wasn't Rita then?'

'No. It was that Braithwaite woman.'

'Yeah,' said Draco. 'She does "human interest" pieces or some rubbish like that.'

'You didn't do anything … Slytherin-esque, did you, Harry?' asked Hermione reproachfully.

'I have no idea what you could possibly mean, Hermione, my dear Slytherin housemate.'

'Riiight,' said Hermione with a sigh. 'I suppose we'll have to wait and see how bad it is.'

That evening, Hermione would have her first meeting with Rowle. Harry and Draco jointly explained the basics behind magical law, solicitors, and how all of that would matter to Hermione. Tracey beadily watched them throughout their lecture as if waiting to catch them in a lie, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her in one of the imposing armchairs by the fire.

The common room was fortuitously empty – even though Harry had hardly relied on Fortuna's assistance in the matter. He had slipped Aamir Shafiq, a short fifth-year Slytherin prefect and older brother of one of his dormmates, thirty Galleons to encourage everyone's absence. But Hermione didn't need to know that. Harry was acutely aware of how embarrassed she got wherever money was concerned, and so he didn't trouble her with that arrangement.

Shafiq had come through, ruthlessly assigning detention to anyone 'disturbing his reading' until everyone had fled to their dormitories – at which point the young man had silently picked up his book, nodded curtly at Harry, and left through the secret entrance.

'Well, that's lucky,' said Hermione.

Amy snorted but didn't retort.

'If we could return to the topic at hand,' said Draco importantly. 'Since Rowle has already signed the mandate of representation, he's bound by several magical oaths to act in your interest and keep your secrets. Now, there are exceptions like if you plan to carry out a felony, but other than that, it's pretty much iron-clad – even if he chucks the job. Got that?'

'Yes,' said Hermione. 'But these … oaths won't stop him from acting in his own interest so long as it doesn't conflict with mine, am I right?'

Draco's expression brightened. 'Aha! See that, Harry? That's my girl!'

'Am I?' said Hermione, vaguely affronted.

'Sincere condolences,' said Daphne.

Amy rolled her eyes and smacked Draco one with her Defence book. 'We only got five more minutes for this monkey business. Get on with it!'

'Ouch! Yes, yes, all right! Geez, I'm still allowed to crack a joke, right?'

'No,' said Amy.

'What?!'

Amy threateningly raised her book again.

'All right, okay?! I'm on it! Anyway, since solicitors really can only help you if you lay all of your cards on the table, you better make sure that firstly your contract is watertight – which Harry probably took care of – and secondly that your conversation is completely confidential. I think it should go without saying that if you confess something to your solicitor but a third party overhears, you're in trouble, right?'

'I'm not stupid, Draco!'

Draco cleared his throat delicately. 'Be that as it may, luckily we have Mr Super Swotter here with us tonight to – OUCH! STOP THAT, WOMAN!'

Amy raised one eyebrow, her book still held high for another strike. Without taking her eyes off Draco, she tapped it with her wand. 'Engorgio!' The book swelled to nearly triple its size at which point Amy needed to grab it with both of her hands.

Draco winced, speeding up considerably. 'Okay, I get it! Harry will do some magic stuff. You'll be here alone except for Tracey who has … volunteered to make sure that nobody's up to no good. When you're done, Tracey will get Harry to undo his ward thingy, and we can all go about our business. Job well done!'

'Don't sign anything,' said Harry. 'There is absolutely nothing Rowle will need your signature for that is in your interest, understood?'

Hermione nodded. 'Should I really tell him everything? Even–' she looked around furtively, lowering her voice, '–about those things I don't remember anymore? Like the Last Department?'

Daphne glanced at Harry, shifting uncomfortably.

Leo coughed delicately. 'Yes, Hermione. As Draco said, Rowle is already bound to your secrets. He won't be pleased, I assure you, but the worst he can do is throw in the towel and quit. Even then, whatever you discussed prior to that will be protected knowledge.'

'I did better than that,' interjected Harry with a little smile. 'He can't run. I assure you, he's stuck with you come whatever may.'

'Really,' said Leo, one eyebrow raised.

Harry chuckled. 'Positive.'

'Okay,' said Hermione, looking up from her seat at the others. 'Any last advice?'

'He's your servant in this matter, Hermione,' said Harry. 'He won't like it one bit, but he can't run. He also can't quit. Don't tolerate him giving you any disrespect.'

'I suggest dropping Harry's name if he does,' said Leo. 'For that matter, I suggest quoting what Harry just said.'

'When Rowle asks for a course of action,' said Tracey, 'tell him to make arrangements for any eventuality that occurs to you.'

'But instruct him to do nothing without getting your permission first!' insisted Daphne.

'Don't lose your head,' said Draco, serious for once. 'And don't let him pressure you into taking the path of least resistance.'

There was a moment of silence in which Tracey, Daphne, and Leo all stared expectantly at the only one who hadn't said anything. Amy sighed. 'Just don't fuck up, Granger, for pity's sake. Harry's given you yet another leg-up. Don't squander it!'

Hermione nodded grimly. 'Thanks, guys. I really owe you all.'

Amy pushed a strand of her long curly hair out of her eyes, looking at Hermione dismissively. 'As if one more debt counts at this point. Just don't go all touchy-feely on us.'

There was a peculiar mood Daphne light-heartedly likened to the eve of a battle, but after one last round of nodding and various wishes of good luck, Daphne left with Amy in tow – with the latter complaining about being subjected to girly talk again. Draco took Leo's arm with a curiously feminine giggle and made a show of aping Daphne until Amy, at the threshold of the stairs, slowly turned around and stared at Draco. Draco immediately let go of Leo and without further ado hastily climbed the stairs.

'Ready?' asked Harry when only Tracey and Hermione remained.

'Yes,' replied Hermione grimly, clutching her notes.

'Tracey, take a few steps back. Bit more. Okay, now don't move, please.' Harry concentrated, holding up his wand. Carefully, he drew a half circle three yards in each direction around Hermione, himself, and the fireplace. He carefully set the boundary half an inch underneath the surface of the floor and half an inch into the wall behind them. Then, he whipped his wand. 'Cave Inimicum!'

'Wow!' exclaimed Tracey from the other side of the barrier. 'Yeah, that totally did it. The both of you just vanished! Er, can you still hear me?'

'Yes!' said Hermione.

'Don't bother,' said Harry with a rueful grin. 'She can't. You needn't worry about the duration of this spell. But I'll also have to ward the entrances, and that'll be trouble if the wrong people try to get in. So, try to keep it within thirty minutes. Any last questions?'

'No … I mean –' She hesitated before – to Harry's surprise – she hugged him. 'Thanks.'

'ARE YOU GUYS STILL THERE?!' yelled Tracey from outside the barrier.

'No problem,' said Harry. 'Do you have the fireplace address and the Floo Powder?'

Hermione nodded nervously.

'Very well.' He walked towards the fire and picked up a half-burned log, ignoring Hermione's questioning look. 'I'll give you the signal from the outside when I'm ready. Good luck.'

He held up his hand in salute and – without looking back – crossed the barrier. The smell of the fire immediately vanished – and so did Hermione. Even as he stared at the dome he'd just left, knowing that Hermione and the fireplace were in there, he couldn't see anything except bland wall and a floor, which – maybe it was his imagination – looked a shade less worn. He frowned. Magical concealment was a tricky business.

'Oh, there you are,' said Tracey. 'Everything work out okay? And what's with the log?'

'Everything is fine, just give me one moment.'

He rummaged in his pockets for two pieces of parchment and – using the coaly end of the log – wrote in crude, long strokes three runes: ALGIZ, ISA, FEHU.

Tracey, looking over his shoulder, snorted. 'Really, Harry. FEHU? Hermione's not a cow in a pen!'

Harry scratched his neck, looking mildly embarrassed as he inspected his coal-drawn runes. 'It's just a technicality, okay? Here, put this one in front of the girls' dormitories.'

As she did so, Harry put the other sheet in front of the secret entrance. 'Set?'

'Yeah!'

'Good.'

Harry took a few steps back, turned around so that he had both exits in view, and concentrated hard. He was well aware that this spell was a bit beyond him, and it was also – strictly speaking – a cursed ward, hence the very primitive rune stones for stabilisation. On the bright side, as long as nobody tried to force his way bodily through an almost impenetrable barrier, Harry calculated the chances for spontaneous immolation were minimal.

'Repello Inimicum!'

Immediately, he felt the rush of magic wash over him, flowing through his wand. His knees buckled, and he almost threw up as he stumbled to the floor.

'You dying over there?' asked Tracey archly without actually moving to check on him.

'It's … a difficult bit of magic,' groaned Harry, pushing himself up and forcibly gulping down the acerbic taste in his throat.

'Does it work?'

'Give me a second.' He took a few calming breaths, leaning against one of the coffee tables. 'Okay, yeah. I don't know, to be honest. I've never tried it on anything larger than a goblet.' Speculatively, he looked at the half-burned log in his hand. 'Well, one way to test it!'

He hurled the log towards the secret entrance with all his might. It soared through the air, hit the barrier – and immediately lit up in bilious green flames – the runes on the floor humming merrily.

'Er, yeah,' said Harry awkwardly as the ash drizzled down on the precious Persian carpet in tiny flakes. 'I think it works.'

'Merlin!' whispered Tracey. 'You're going to kill someone!'

'I think that's … somewhat unlikely,' said Harry. 'It might be slightly … insalubrious, but you'd have to be really thick to try to walk through once your arm or leg's been singed.'

'Insalubrious? Insalubrious?! Anyway, I think you meant charred – not singed!' Tracey gave him a very pointed look. 'Couldn't you have just warded the doors shut?'

Harry opened his mouth – and shut it again. 'Anyway,' he said forcefully, 'I think we're all set. Leo and I will watch over the entrance from the boys' dormitory.'

'Why didn't you ward that one off, too? With this immensely unperilous spell?'

'Can't without falling unconscious, I think. Anyway, it's time. We'll be up there, call us when she's done.' Turning towards the empty wall that he knew belied the existence of the fireplace and Hermione, he nodded. 'We're all set, Hermione!'

With one last look towards Tracey, he left in the direction of his dormitory.

Leo and Draco were leaning against the wall in the corridor behind the stairs. 'Done?'

'Yeah,' said Harry, wiping the sweat off his brow as he stepped over Yaxley without a comment.

'Is it safe?'

'Oh, extremely so,' mumbled Harry. 'For Hermione anyway.' They looked at him questioningly, but he just grinned.

'So …' said Draco, twiddling his thumbs. 'Are we going to listen, not going to listen, or not going to listen?' He winked very irritatingly at Harry.

'We're going to stay up here,' said Harry simply.

'Ah, gotcha! So you made a deal with Rowle after all? Something in the contract?'

'Nothing whatsoever beyond simply assuring his service.'

'Wait,' said Draco, scandalised. 'So you're actually not even trying to eavesdrop?! We're – in actuality – going to stay up here like a bunch of good boys?'

'Very well put, Draco. As usual. Yes, we are indeed going to stay put up here like a bunch of good boys.'

'But … but why?! Slytherin, Harry. Slytherin!'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'And what would I stand to gain from doing so? At this point, we're fairly sure Hermione's teachers have skeletons in the closet, right? Rowle is a bigoted idiot, but he's decent at his job, I hear. He'll have a look at the seals and tell her what's up. Those instructors can't possibly keep up this mummer's play for very much longer. Why would I sabotage my rapport with Hermione so drastically just to hear their names, which might very well be fake anyway, a few weeks early – especially after spending so much gold to set things up with Rowle? Besides,' he lowered his voice, 'Tracey and Daphne would probably protest if I tried. And while I could probably persuade the latter to leave things be, the former would only too gladly peach on me.'

'I agree,' said Leo. 'Not to mention that it's not exactly the sort of thing I approve of doing to a friend of ours.'

'Yeah. That, too.'

'Fine,' muttered Draco. 'Bunch of Gryffindors.'

'So,' said Harry after a few moments of silence. 'Are we going to talk about Yaxley lying sprawled on the floor with green wiggly things growing out of his orifices?'

'He wouldn't listen to reason,' said Leo with a sigh.

'So you stopped him walking down?'

'Not at all,' said Draco with a grin. 'Yaxley insisted very loudly and very annoyingly. So Leo let him pass – and hexed him right in the back when he did.'

'I didn't want to,' said Leo with a shrug. 'But he was being very wrong-headed.'

'He's an idiot,' Draco corrected him.

'On this one occasion,' said Harry, 'I'm inclined to agree. Anyway, I'm heading to our room. Can you guys keep watch?'

Leo elbowed Draco before the latter could object. 'Sure, Harry. You can count on us.' With a side-long glance, he added, 'On me anyway. You won't stand watch?'

'Honestly, I'd like to, but I've got so much to do in preparation for next weekend.'

'Yeah, because that's not at all going to be awkward,' said Draco sarcastically. 'Meeting your pining, blue-eyed runaway werewolf godfather and your father's best friend who's both an escaped inmate and, for hyper-legalese reasons, your legal brother – which he also doesn't know, I guess?!'

'Shout it from the rooftops, why don't you? And it's nephew if you want to split hairs. But yes – it's probably going to be a touch awkward,' conceded Harry.

'Now that's an understatement if ever I heard one,' said Draco. 'Do they know that they'll meet each other?'

Harry smirked in response – until Tracey jumped out from around the corner, evidently having sneaked up the stairs to catch them in the act. 'Oh, you're really going to stay up here?' She sounded almost disappointed as she lowered her wand.

Harry gave Draco and Leo a look that plainly said I told you so and nodded towards Tracey. 'Yes. Or to be more accurate, Draco and Leo are. I'm going to retire for now. Call when she's done.'

With another nod towards the three, he left for his dormitory, his mind already on the various phials containing the late Pettigrew's memories.

Memory Lane

Later, long after working hours, when even the magically crafted sun provided by Magical Maintenance had set, which was configured to be notoriously lethargic to encourage overtime, three peoplewithin the lavishly furnished and classy office of Minister for Magic Bartemius Crouch were still discussing the state of Magical Britain. And given how precarious that was, they might be a while.

'I regret letting Lazarus loose,' declared a heavy-set man with flimsy dark grey hair flatly. 'I underestimated his emotional response. Shame. He's a talented boy.'

'Yes,' said the Minister for Magic. 'Lazarus might still be an expedient tool for the Ministry. See to it that he's spared the worst of the fallout – notwithstanding the directorate's verdict. I assume you know what that will entail, Alastor.'

'Can't take him back into my office,' said Alastor Moody gruffly. 'Not now that he's pulled this.'

'I'm aware. Still, his connections and background might prove useful one day. Even if he's merely working for Amelia.'

'It won't be easy, but yeah. I'll get it done.'

'Weasley!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Prepare the necessary documentation for Lazarus' pardon conditional on him passing the loyalty oath once more. Also, just to be completely sure, review all the archives. We'll have to insure against ungainful public enquiries.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Alastor, how much did you say the embezzling amounted to?'

'During the last ten years, around 140,000 Galleons.'

It didn't make much sense – and that worried the Minister. What Alice Longbottom had said earlier today was perfectly true; the Longbottoms and the other families of their alliances had sunk millions of Galleons into the reconstruction of Wizarding Britain – repeatedly and at extremely generous rates. Why go to that trouble only to embezzle a hundred thousand Galleons – arguably out of your own pocket? It simply didn't add up – even disregarding how flimsily it had been done. Still, he couldn't allow himself to be seen doing nothing. Amelia had been present at the meeting and taken an interest; it wasn't unthinkable she would send in her men on a charge, something which had to be avoided at all costs. That he'd lose rapport with the Unspeakables was equally unconstructive. Despite the political reality of it all, it was furthermore a well-established fact that the Minister detested any kind of corruption, so even the harshest response surely had to be anticipated if not expected. What disturbed him the most about the entire affair was that Alice Longbottom would know all of this. Highly idealistic as she might be, she was also – undeniably – intellectually gifted.

Minister Crouch sighed, looking at his schedule. Even a casual glance revealed that his secretaries had marked deadlines and appointments up to 10 p.m. every day for the foreseeable future – including weekends. 'I hereby order you to commence a first-degree investigation against the Department of Ethics. But – and I want this to be thoroughly understood – your primary focus is to be on the financial irregularities. Under no circumstances are you to make investigations into any personal or occupational venture of the Longbottoms'.'

'I understand,' said Moody gruffly.

'Minister, if you'll excuse my impertinence, may I ask why?' asked Percy Weasley. 'I thought Mr Moody had already gathered evidence to directly link Lady Longbottom to the misappropriation of government funds – even if we could not trace the recipient.'

Minister Crouch looked his junior assistant up and down. Despite being recommended to his position by the type of family relations the Minister deeply mistrusted, he'd found the young man to be a competent and assiduous reinforcement – much to his surprise. And if nothing else, Bartemius Crouch recognised and respected excellence. In his opinion, it was the only measure of a man that counted – other than loyalty.

'Weasley, are you aware that you were recommended for your position by your uncles and your father?'

Percy's expression stiffened slightly. 'I'm aware, sir.'

'But I expect you remain unaware that your application lay on top of all the others – all of which also came with some recommendation and all of which had passed their NEWTs with distinction? Or that my Undersecretary marked yours with an inconspicuous little spell to catch my eye?'

Percy hesitated a second, looking almost offended. 'I wasn't … Why, Minister?'

Moody grunted snidely.

'Your uncles' words carry weight, Weasley. And – as head of Muggle Relations – so do your father's.'

'I don't understand, sir. With all due respect, has my work been unsatisfactory in any way?'

'Surprisingly no,' said Crouch. With a sigh, he unfolded from his chair like a complicated Muggle device with at least three dozen hinges. He glanced contemptuously at his wastepaper basket. 'We get recommendations all the time. Dozens. Hundreds even for particularly important job postings. They're dealt with easily enough. Most of them –' he picked up a letter of correspondence and let it slip through his fingers. Gently, slowly it glided down, spiralled clumsily around its axis until it tumbled neatly into the basket '– go right there. But your uncles are different. The Abbotts are different. And the Longbottoms are particularly different. Nevertheless, while I was socially obligated to offer you the position, I am not required to keep you. That I have done so despite my distaste for the pandering and paltering is – frankly – only due to your assiduous performance. I don't mind telling you, Weasley, that while you might have been guaranteed to land this job, you will have to distinguish yourself even more thoroughly than any other person to garner my approval – as you have up to this point.'

Percy Weasley straightened his back proudly. 'Of course, Minister! I mean to earn my place and your trust on merit alone.'

'Very well. But to return to the issue at hand, investigating Alice Longbottom is not … pertinent,' the Minister said in a low and angry voice, flexing his hand. 'Not just yet anyway. I shan't unveil proof of this … treachery. It would set events in motion that Britain is ill-equipped to withstand at present time. If Levina is right – and I have no doubt she is – and there is an international conflict about to unfold, we need the Pillars and Dumbledore at our side. Our real enemies won't crawl from behind their rocks, won't slither out of their caves and caverns until the moment is opportune.'

'But, sir,' said Percy Weasley disbelievingly. 'The majorities –'

'The first lesson you will have to learn, Weasley, is that the majority in the Wizengamot amounts to far less – regrettably – than everyone is led to believe. Not least of all because some of the enemies that we know bide their time at our very gates won't simply bow to the will of the majority and observe the niceties. Be that all as it may, I can publicly demonstrate that Alice is negligent or overburdened with her responsibilities as the head of a department. A bit embarrassing, a bit degrading, to be sure, but nothing to rock the boat too harshly.'

Also, though the Minister didn't voice this last concern, he hadn't been able to find out where the funds had been channelled to. And that was – frankly – unsettling.

'But,' said Crouch, 'that doesn't mean we forget, Weasley. We don't forgive. Misappropriating money isn't simple negligence or a snub – it is theft. Worse, it is perfidiousness, a treachery against both myself and the public trust. But, as you'll soon learn, in politics, we can't always follow our urges.'

'I … have a lot to learn, sir. I will start with the archives at the Auror Office right away.'

Alastor Moody and Bartemius Crouch watched him get up and march briskly towards the door.

'Weasley, one last thing,' growled Moody. 'Don't forget Enoch's archives. Ring the bell and tell them you're acting on the Minister's orders. They'll have to confirm it, but they'll let you in eventually. If you get Davis, Lovegood, or Croaker, you'll be in before you can blink. Anyone else, you'll be done within a couple of minutes. If you get Rookwood or Bode, prepare to wait until your legs hurt. Whatever happens, don't let yourself be fobbed off! You're working for the Minister's office now; they won't respect you until you demand it!'

Percy Weasley turned around, chain raised. 'Yes, sir! Thank you for all the help. But, er, Enoch, sir?'

Moody grinned, leaning on the Minister's desk. 'Stupid name, isn't it?' Seeing Weasley's confusion, he added, 'The department head, lad. Enoch Avery.'

Memory Lane

Later still, within the bowels of the Ministry, far below the offices of the Minister and his cabinet, in a department whose mandate had been formalised not even two decades ago, reappropriating old courtrooms right in front of the Department of Mysteries, Alice Longbottom strode through the various offices.

It was well past midnight, and the vast majority of her subordinates were already home, but a few people were still drudging away, and she rewarded their mumbled greetings with a smile and a few moments of small talk. She took pride in knowing everyone who worked for her – not just the names. She knew where they lived, their private circumstances, hobbies, and even what sort of literature they read. Or comics. It was essential that she did. Politely enquiring about spouses, wishing all her best to others, and gossiping about children and school, Alice made her rounds. Eventually, she knocked on her deputy's door.

'Come in, please,' called a polite male voice.

Just like Alice, Dirk Creswell had forgone any of the splendour and grandiosity one might have been assaulted with in the office of the average high-ranking Ministry official. But while the position of department head entailed representative duties – regardless of how few and far between they were in the case of this particular department – deputy chiefs were the unappreciated overachievers holding most of the departments together by sheer will. As such, Dirk Creswell's office wasn't simply understated like Alice's – it was as charmingly miserable as a monk's cell in a mendicant order.

One cheap desk (spruce), one cheap armchair (faux leather, creaking piteously), one stool (compressed wood) stuffed next to the grey umbrella stand (plastic) for the unlikely visitor, and one candle (tallow) that flickered and spat angrily while the lank man with the giant glasses slaved away.

'Oh, Alice, come in. Come in! How was the meeting?'

'Same old, Dirk. Same old. We are about ready, aren't we? I think it won't be long now.'

'We've been preparing for almost a year. Still, the paper trail is massive.'

Alice smiled sadly. 'You'll manage. But we've only got one shot at this. I need everyone at their best – we can't allow for any misstep. Things are coming to a head.'

Dirk Creswell grimaced. 'I thought we had time – at least a couple of weeks or even a few months.'

'So did I. It seems the Minister is taking a more proactive stance – so I had to as well. He'll want to avoid pictures in the Prophet showing Madame Bones hauling me off at all costs, so I expect him to act reasonably soon. Please make sure all the precautionary measures are in place.'

'It might not be that easy …'

'I know,' said Alice, patting him on the shoulder. 'I'm sorry. But I hope I can count on you as always.'

'You can count on us, Alice – on all of us! We'll do the impossible. That was the goal all along, right? The impossible! And whatever happens, you can damn well count on me! You know that, right?'

'I know.' With one last little smile that seemed to convey a lot of information, she turned around. 'Try to get home a bit earlier, Dirk.'

Dirk Creswell chuckled as he summoned the entirety of yet another filing cabinet. 'Yeah. Fat chance!'

Memory Lane

Harry was relieved to hear that Hermione's meeting with Rowle had passed without incident. Privately and in contrast to his public insistence to the contrary, he was equally relieved that nobody had tripped his not-so-insalubrious ward. He hadn't yet asked what exactly Hermione had discussed with Rowle or what advice the solicitor had given, but Hermione – and by extension Tracey and Daphne – seemed reasonably happy with the result.

And that, in Harry's mind, was as much a good outcome as it was an indispensable necessity. Next weekend, his meeting with Sirius and Lupin would be troubling enough without any additional interpersonal drama. And since he'd promised to take Daphne along, there really shouldn't be any lingering resentment over his dealings with their only Muggle-born friend.

All things considered, Harry felt good about the decision he'd made – even if it felt like he was running out of time on some of his options. Pettigrew's memories, infuriatingly, were one such endeavour. He had so far managed to sort all the phials by date with tolerable certainty, but the source of the rat's sudden urge to return to Britain still eluded him.

That his frequent evening lessons with Aenor and the poor garden gnomes always left him feeling numbed and on the verge of a headache didn't help either. Or that it felt like he made no progress whatsoever.

'You need to adjust your Occlumency, Harry. It won't ever work otherwise,' said Aenor two days after Hermione's meeting with Rowle.

'Then what was the point of all these gruelling tests and methods to make them as strong as possible?!'

Aenor sighed as if his answer had been a let-down. 'Harry, it is crucial that your Occlumency develops continuously at a very strong pace. Do I need to spell it out? Need I remind you that if you can't force your gift under control on your own in case it somehow unleashes itself, you'll end up worse than dead? I might not be there next time to slap you out of it, and frankly, I don't think a lot of other people would be able or willing to do so. Secondly, how would you ever be able to release control over your thoughts piecemeal instead of just opening the floodgates if your control is anything less than stellar in the first place?! Lastly,' she said, pushing his chin up with the point of her wand pressed against his throat, 'your pretty little neck will be on a cold slab if you can't keep this secret from the Ministry and – particularly – the ICW, who employ several the most accomplished Legilimens alive.'

With a frown, Harry slapped her wand away. 'Yeah, I get it that they won't be pleased, but you sound so sure they'd just do away with me. Why?! There is no … law against whatever it is I'm doing.'

'And you've studied them all?' said Aenor with an amused grin.

'As a matter of fact, I have,' said Harry bluntly. 'And I know the penal code by heart.'

Aenor chuckled as she walked back to her replacement desk. She gave it a scathing look before sitting down again. 'Good for you. But you didn't think this through, did you? Don't you remember last year? You likely knew all the British laws back then, too. And yet you failed to realise why Antonius' squad's presence was mandated.'

'But there's a difference,' insisted Harry. 'That … thing I'm doing isn't listed in some ICW black book, is it now?!'

'Funny you should say that, Harry,' said Aenor with a brilliant smile, apparently enjoying Harry's look of mounting panic, 'because as it happens, that is precisely the case.'

'Great. Just … great. Fantastic.'

Aenor clicked her tongue, waving her index finger in fake admonishment. 'Ah, ah – no need for unseemly sarcasm. Lucky for you, I'm fairly sure the codex we're talking about is so ancient that it's not a book at all. It's written on scrolls – the Bara Scrolls.'

'Bara Scrolls?' said Harry. 'Never heard of them.'

'I wouldn't expect you to. Frankly, I would've been shocked if you had. Not only are they part of the ICW's mnemonic make-up, their inherited origin if you will, but also part of their synod. Even sitting members of the ICW can only acquire this type of knowledge in exchange for the direst of vows. Your grandfather can certainly make plans with his knowledge of those scrolls, but he couldn't even scheme to reveal what he knows without agonising pain or death.'

'How do you know then?!' demanded Harry, scowling.

'Patience, my dear apprentice. All things in good time. You still know very little about what I've done over the past ten years. Suffice it to say that I've always taken a very keen interest in the history of magic – the real, untold history of magic. My magical skills are, all false pretences aside, exceptional, but my greatest forte and dearest ambition has always been what you might call the mundane knowledge of magic. I just can't acquire the latter without the former unless I wish to die a gruesome death. During my travels, I've learned a lot of what others wouldn't want me to. Even bits of what the ICW so jealously guards. You wouldn't believe half of it, I assure you.'

'Will you tell me?' asked Harry eagerly.

'In time, possibly,' replied Aenor with an alluring smile.

'What does Bara mean?'

Aenor snickered. 'I suggest you never look it up in a Muggle library. The linguistic context you're looking for is Sumerian, but it doesn't have much semantic value by itself. It's a modulating, vetitive prefix you could roughly translate with "MAY YOU NEVER".' She flailed her hands dramatically. 'They just named the scrolls and tablets after a few recurring symbols at the start. The philologist in me wants to hex them to bits just for that travesty alone, but never mind that.'

'Isn't Sumerian four thousand years old? They found it in cuneiform inscriptions?'

'Wrong!' said Aenor happily. 'It's more than five thousand years old. I know that doesn't sound like much of a difference, but think how the world changed in the last thousand years.' She smiled. 'Quite a lot. But – honestly – the language could go back further. Historical accounts – even magical ones – tend to get a bit muddy after a few millennia. Anyway, Sumerian used to be a staple of scholars back in the day when beer, sandals, and saws were at the cutting edge of technology – just like Latin was for Muggles in Europe later on. But, in contrast to Muggles, a certain … cabal of witches and wizards never stopped using it as a language of diplomacy, economics, education … and identity. To this day, there are people speaking a vulgarised variant of a language that's been dead to Muggles for more than three thousand years – not that many people know this. Who, Harry, do you think founded the International Confederation of Wizards and for what reason?'

Harry gave Aenor a quizzical look. 'It's a loose coalition of countries that banded together to form an international, diplomatic … marketplace of sorts. I'm certain the inaugural meeting was in–'

'Wrong, wrong, wrong!' Seeing Harry about to open his mouth in protest, she added, 'Oh, don't gape at me like that. I'm sure you can recite everything any source has ever told you about the ICW. That bit about Liechtenstein, about the International Statute of Secrecy and so forth. Sorry to break it to you, Harry, but that's just the orchestrated nonsense perpetuated to distract from their other origin.'

'Really,' said Harry. 'And what's that supposed to be?' He vividly remembered all the lessons the Pillars had pushed down his throat back when he'd been at their mercy.

'The ICW – as you know it – is just the latest incarnation of a continuous line of institutions, regimes, puppeteers, and playmakers that go back – surprise! – to the Akkadian Empire, which formally ceased to exist four thousand years ago. That is to say, I haven't found any proof yet that it goes back further, but I naturally assume so.'

'Why?! There are delegates, there are votes! This doesn't make any sense! Couldn't the other countries simply overrule that sect of conspirators?! And surely someone at some point decided that they didn't want to be ruled by these people!'

'Harry, Harry, Harry,' said Aenor with a condescending little smile. 'Ask yourself: how many highly organised magical cultures were there four to five thousand years ago? How many before that? To be sure, there were a few sophisticated enough to realise they'd been infiltrated or assimilated. Some even retaliated militarily. Egypt; the Xia Dynasty; the city-states of Ebla or Caral; the Oxus civilisation; the Mayan or Olmec people. The advanced cultures in the Mediterranean. Or in India.

'They all lost. One after the other. Decisively.

'And they all chose to submit to their enemy's realm rather than risk total annihilation. Let me ask you one thing. Why, if there are elected delegates as you rightly pointed out, are there hereditary seats to the ICW? Yes, they don't get to vote. Yes, officially they're merely positions of "prestige and honour". But their claimants and dignitaries are always there. They're very well-informed. They're extremely well-connected. And they have access to knowledge no other witch or wizard can obtain.'

Aenor grinned at him from atop her new desk, her eyes feral. 'Tell me Harry: how far back does your family tree go?!'

The question stunned Harry like a thunderclap. It couldn't possibly be true, how could he possibly believe that the Blacks, his own family, had roots in ancient Sumer – or that his grandfather was part of a global conspiracy reaching back thousands of years? Still, if nothing else – Harry assured himself – the Blacks didn't tolerate any twofold loyalties. It was at the heart of the Blacks' beliefs that the family was paramount and everything – anything: politics, loyalties, and even the law – was to be subordinated to this one grand design.

And yet, the protest that had been on his lips died away. Arcturus' revelations about Grindelwald had been both unsettling and almost unimaginable in the sheer scope of their violation of this iron, bloody law. Maybe, considered Harry, it would be prudent to confront his grandfather only once Harry had come into the lordship. In the worst of cases such as aggressively worded vows – as much as he hated the thought of it – Harry would be able to magically compel Arcturus not to speak of Harry's queries into the ICW.

Harry was so distressed over this bit of unwelcome news that he missed quite a bit of Aenor's lecture until her sprightly voice finally yanked him violently out of his musings. '– this one of the oldest in existence, and it's been almost five hundred years since the last verifiable sign of this talent anywhere in the modern magical world. To find anything substantial beyond mere mentions, I had to dig deep, really really deep in Durmstrang's lower library, which hosts an impressive collection of historical documents acquired through conquest back when a school was as much a fortress of power as an institute of learning. I'm sure the ICW and other governments have some more elusive documentation on the matter, but the only records I was able to unearth on short notice that accurately described your condition were more than three thousand years old – written in a way that most people wouldn't even recognise as writing and in a language that's been dead for more than two thousand years.'

Harry let that sink in. 'So, it's not exactly on anyone's mind, is what you're telling me?'

'Precisely. Unfortunately for you, I'm reasonably certain it's classified as the same level of crime against nature and magic as the creation of a Horcrux.'

'Wait! Wait just a moment,' said Harry, anger now rising to compliment the sense of panic. 'Are you telling me that any sworn Auror is magically compelled to murder me if this ever gets out?!'

Aenor just smirked in response. 'So anyway, Harry. You were complaining about the excessive Occlumency training regime earlier, weren't you? How good should your Occlumency be then if you're ever to stand in the same room as one of the ICW's minders or loremasters – who, need I remind you, are always present in any meeting of the Confederation to which your own family has a hereditary seat?!'

'Oh, great,' said Harry. 'That's just grand.'

Not only did Aenor insinuate that his own family was mixed up in geopolitics beyond his prior understanding, but – Harry reflected – that he was apparently an enemy of his own political class. What was Arcturus Black thinking?!

'Why are you telling me all of this now? If what you said is true, I don't suppose the ICW would endorse your free-spoken disclosures.'

Aenor's prideful smile withered, leaving behind an expression that was entirely unknowable but for frightening intensity. 'You're an erudite little brat, aren't you, Harry? So let me put it like this: the ICW is the great white whale that ripped off my leg. And I,' she produced her wand, 'am the vengeful captain readying her harpoon. The only reason I'm telling you any of this is that, by fate or happenstance, you were born on my side instead of theirs despite wearing their name. And it seems to me that I might well need to sign on a few Jacks to help me reel in the malignant monstrosity that has been stalking the waters of my home.'

Memory Lane

The following day, Harry and Hermione, who had been the only ones sensible enough to elect Arithmancy, finally had the time to discuss Hermione's meeting with Rowle – though there was a need for some restraint without any Privacy Charms in place.

'Did he give you any trouble?' asked Harry as he swished his wand, followed by a sharp downwards snap to envelop himself in the Anti-Hypothermia Charm. 'He's not a very pleasant fellow, I'm afraid.'

'He kept snarling and sneering, but other than that, he didn't dare say anything.' Hermione shivered. 'My God, it's cold. Who keeps opening all the windows in the galleries?!'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'The Weasley Twins and a few first-years who enjoy a good snowball fight in the castle. Want me to –'

'No need,' said Hermione smugly, as she imitated Harry's wand movement and loudly said, 'Apricor!' Immediately she relaxed as the warm winds streamed through her clothes.

'Oh?' said Harry with a grin. 'Been studying, have you?'

'Yes.' Hermione grinned proudly. 'I still can't do it nonverbally though.'

'It's not a combat spell. There isn't much sense in forcing it.'

'But you do it!'

'It's just good practise. The more you do nonverbals, the easier they become. Anyway, we were talking about your rendezvous,' insisted Harry, ignoring the hateful looks of a few Hufflepuffs wrapped in thick furs, bobble caps, and wool gloves as he calmly strode down the snowy corridor wearing his fluttering silken summer robes without any sign of discomfort.

'Well, he was able to verify the authenticity of the seals and the signatures. The signatories all work for the DMLE and include one licensed Obliviator.'

Harry nodded. 'Makes sense. Sadly.'

'That's what I thought. He said he could hire someone to professionally scrutinise my handwriting, but unless I wish to spend gold on … business courtesies, it might take a couple of months. I told him to do it anyway.'

'I suppose, yes,' said Harry. 'Better late than never.'

'Exactly.'

'Anything else?'

'Oh, a few bits and pieces,' said Hermione evasively. 'General advice and so on.'

'Good on you,' said Harry with a chuckle at her horrible attempt at deflection.

'He did advise me to wash my hands of you, by the way.'

'Did he?' said Harry, grinning.

'Vehemently. He also was rather insistent that I never mention this to you.'

'He was? Curious.'

Hermione gave him a piercing look. 'Harry, I'm going to go out on a limb and ask you straight-up: did you blackmail Rowle?'

'Did he say so?'

'No?!' said Hermione irritably. 'He said, he'd taken up the mandate following a heartfelt letter from you earlier last week. Now, I realise he thinks I'm Muggle-born and therefore hardly capable of higher reasoning but come on! You?! A heartfelt letter?!'

Harry chuckled as they turned towards the Charms corridor. 'It's true, you know. I did write that letter.'

Hermione harrumphed disbelievingly but didn't force the issue. 'Anyway, I'm going to meet my teachers this coming weekend.'

Harry jerked to a halt. 'You are?'

'Yes. Is that a problem?'

He looked at her, wondering what she was thinking. So obviously she suspected there had been some foul play to force the lawyer into the agreement, and that was true enough. Hermione was probably not aware that the Rowles were relatively close to the Notts – politically and ideologically. Under different circumstances, the only thing Rowle would have dignified Hermione with would be a scathing insult, a bit of spittle, or – quite possibly – a dark curse.

There wasn't any need to make her feel any more uncomfortable though, and the contract was more than iron-clad. Harry had even added a few passages that legally prevented Rowle from calling Hermione 'Mudblood' or any other such derogatory term. He was also magically compelled to do his absolute best to minister the mandate as long as it wouldn't directly lead to his death.

Again, Harry saw no reason to trouble Hermione with that. Was it any more reprehensible for her to hide something from him than vice versa?

Harry shrugged. 'No, not a problem at all. Do be careful though. And please consider what you say in their presence. Don't eat, don't drink, and don't sign anything.'

'I know, I know.'

As they approached the Charms classroom, they saw Gryffindors and Slytherins huddled in small groups. There was some sniggering among the Slytherins. The Gryffindors, however, were hotly in debate – if maniacal shouting and colourful swearing counted as debating for the lions.

Heads turned as Harry and Hermione approached.

'You vile scum!' yelled Ron Weasley, holding up a battered issue of today's Daily Prophet. 'You treacherous, lying, evil snake!'

Seamus Finnigan, who stood next to him with a crimson tinge to his face, looked too livid to speak.

Hermione folded her arms as she turned on Harry. 'So, nothing Slytherin-esque happened, right, Harry?'

Harry smiled thinly as he approached Weasley and Finnigan. 'Ah, Ronald. Seamus! Great to see my bosom buddies again! How was your day?'

'You will write to the Prophet and have them print a correction!' roared Weasley, waving his wand apoplectically.

'About what?' said Harry. 'Why are you so upset, Ronnie? Seamus, mate, did something happen?'

'Fuck off!' said Finnigan, now visibly shaking with anger.

'AND DON'T CALL ME RONNIE! EVERYONE'S BEEN BUGGERING ME ALL MORNING ABOUT YOU! MAKE IT STOP!'

'Mr Weasley,' said Professor Flitwick at the threshold of the classroom, aghast at the outburst. 'What appalling conduct! Five points from Gryffindor.'

Ronald Weasley was clearly considering whether hexing Harry then and there was worth the detention or not. After a second and with a truly ugly sneer, he turned around, stomping inside. Draco and Tracey laughed loudly, causing Weasley to lose yet another five points in the following fit of rage.

Hermione, both eyebrows raised, just looked expectantly at Harry.

'Okay, okay,' said Harry under his breath, struggling not to grin. 'I'll tell you inside. Come on!'

He dragged a visibly reluctant Hermione after him towards Flitwick's classroom. Daphne, Tracey, and Draco had already sat down. When Harry sat down next to Hermione near the middle of the classroom, Daphne leaned over from the other side and kissed him on the cheek.

'I think you're looking for this,' she said, grinning widely as she slipped him the same issue of the Prophet.

As Black as Painted? – An Interview with the Reclusive Harry Black

Harry snorted at the headline. Scanning the article, he soon came upon the sentence that had so obviously enraged the Gryffindors.

When asked about the sources of his strength and conviction, Harry – through misty eyes – gushes enthusiastically about his deep connection with third-year Gryffindors Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnigan. Harry, clearly moved, insists he shares a "true friendship […] in defiance of political boundaries, house loyalties, and familial ties."

It is to be hoped that society won't judge these fast friends too harshly about this most unlikely of amities. Ronald Weasley, of course, is the youngest son of Arthur Weasley and Molly Weasley née Prewett, sister of the famous Gideon and Fabian and niece of the esteemed Rendall Prewett.

I, for one, can't help but hope dearly that their friends, house, and classmates won't interfere or disparage this familiar friendship. After all, what could be more desirable than just a few more friends in this world?

'Turned out okay, don't you think?' said Harry happily.

'It's brilliant!' spluttered Daphne. 'Of course, it won't last long, but let's enjoy all the drama while it lasts!'

'Harry,' said Hermione admonishingly. 'This was despicable.'

'Thank you,' said Harry.

'And what's this?! You mention Professor Prewett, too?! And Alice Longbottom?'

'Oh, yes. Fine, upstanding members of society,' said Harry importantly.

'That's your fake-importance voice, Harry,' said Hermione.

'Erm, Harry?' said another voice one row behind them. Harry turned. It was Neville Longbottom, looking more resigned than angry. 'I know Ron and Seamus have been vile to you and Miss Greengrass in the past, but was there any reason to drag my name into this?'

Harry, despite himself and to his great surprise, felt a bit ashamed. 'I … no. I'm sorry, Neville. I think I got a bit carried away. I'm sorry for bringing up your name.'

Neville smiled a little. 'That's not what I have a problem with, actually. But the context of your interview makes it seem like we're at each other's throats just like you and Ron. That's just a bit sad honestly.'

Wildly out of character, Harry was very touched.

'Anyway, it might be best not to wear rapt smiles all day,' said Daphne under her voice.

'Why?' said Harry.

Wordlessly, Daphne pointed at the obituaries. 'There are quite a lot of those recently, don't you think?'

Yes, there were quite a lot of those, thought Harry as he scanned the page. And he also knew well why he wouldn't ever want to talk about some of them. Like this one: Selwyn, contracted a lethal and little-known disease in St Mungo's due to the negligence of a senior healer. Dead. Harry cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. Amon Selwyn, two rows behind him, stared with dead, empty eyes ahead. He was a quiet boy – unlike his older brother Marceus, who had thankfully graduated last year.

'Papers away, please,' called tiny Professor Flitwick from the front. 'And all eyes to the front. Today, we'll be trying our hands at the Locking Charm – a handy, thoroughly harmless little spell to ensure a bit of privacy. Now – the incantation is Colloportus!' He loftily pointed his wand at the classroom door. There was a loud thud and the door slammed close. 'Please put away your wands for now and – on the count of three – practise the pronunciation. Once again, it is Colloportus! Everyone together now. One, two, three!'

Tracey, next to Daphne, leaned over her desk to glare at Harry – who felt slightly hot but didn't rise to the bait. Yes, he might have just charmed the doors shut instead of using his … slightly insalubrious dark ward. Then again, Alohomora existed. So maybe he had been justified after all. Possibly. Somewhat.

'Colloportus,' they all chanted together.

After their third chorus of Colloportus, Professor Flitwick handed them all tiny padlocks and mostly left them to their own devices.

Fifteen minutes in, Harry, bored with the lesson, began waving his wand surreptitiously in Weasley's direction whenever the latter made another attempt at the Locking Charm so that his lock would instantly spring open after each attempt whether successful or not. He watched with schadenfreude as Weasley's anger began to simmer.

'Professor Flitwick,' said Weasley angrily. 'I think my lock is broken!'

Flitwick tapped it once with his wand, and it bolted shut without a hitch. 'Practice, Weasley,' said Flitwick over his shoulder as he left to help another student. 'Just keep giving it your best shot.'

With a scowl, Weasley snarled, 'Colloportus!' – only for the lock to immediately release the bolt yet again.

Hermione, next to Harry, cleared her throat meaningfully.

'Sorry,' mumbled Harry mischievously, lowering his wand. 'Couldn't resist.'

On the other side, Daphne rolled her eyes. 'Can you help me with this, Harry? It just won't quite close!'

'Sure.'

'I think Harry should work on his own spell,' replied Hermione stiffly.

'Oh, really?' said Harry, amused.

'Yes.' She lowered her voice. 'I don't want to endorse Weasley's rants, but you should perform the spell publicly every lesson. At least once!'

'If you say so, Hermione,' he said mildly. He produced his wand and, with a quick snap of the wrist, levelled it at the room at large. 'Colloportus Totalum!'

Every desk, every school bag, the door, every single zip in the room, Flitwick's suitcase, all padlocks up to the last immediately clanked shut with a very loud and sudden THUD! that rattled the windows. There were cries of shock and a few people jumped from their seats.

Professor Flitwick looked momentarily astonished. But then he grinned impishly across the room. 'Oh, but you're a wag! Seven points to Slytherin, Harry.' Still chuckling, he waved his wand and all the padlocks and bags – but not the door or the zips, Harry noticed with silent admiration – sprang open again.

A few bewildered students craned their necks to see if Harry had indeed been responsible.

But Harry gave no sign of recognition. Instead, he smiled politely at Hermione. 'So, did that count as a public demonstration?'

'Harry Black,' she grumbled. 'You are an incorrigible show-off!'

'Thank you.'

'In what world was that a compliment?!' said Hermione, indignant.

'Well, I do have something to show-off with, right?'

Hermione only huffed shirtily in response, but Harry could hear her furiously muttered attempts at Colloportus Totalum throughout the rest of the lesson.

'All right, all right! Those of you who haven't successfully cast the spell yet: practise! And for the rest of you, enjoy the Hogsmeade weekend!'

The class cheered loudly – or at least those who had succeeded earlier and wouldn't have to break a sweat over the Locking Charm again did.

As Harry and the other Slytherins packed their belongings, Ronald Weasley and Seamus Finnigan trudged past them, laughing loudly.

'You're a right tosser, Black,' said Finnigan with a comically ugly scowl. 'One of these days …'

Harry ignored them until they angrily stomped off.

'I don't approve of you provoking them, Harry,' said Hermione stiffly. 'But I'm glad you don't sink to their level at the very least. Or worse.' She glanced towards Daphne. 'I wouldn't be surprised if others in your position had hexed them in the corridor.'

'Why would I do that?' said Harry with a little grin. 'Next year, we'll get prefects from our year.'

'Oh, yes,' said Hermione. 'I'd almost forgotten. They used to select prefects only at the start of the fifth year originally, did you know that? That was before they shortened the curriculum and delayed the enrolment, of course. But how does that relate to Weasley?'

'My dear Hermione,' said Harry seriously. 'Can you imagine any sane person picking Weasley or Finnigan as prefects?'

'Er … well …'

'Weasley's not bad at Defence, I hear,' said Tracey. 'He's not doing too shabby in any of the other classes either. And apparently, he wants to try out for Keeper next year.'

'I think I'd rather be dead than suffer that cretin as prefect,' said Daphne. 'Not that he will be, of course. I'll chug a bottle of Skelegro if he outscores Longbottom in the exams.'

'Come on,' said Draco, haughtily shouldering his bag. 'Dumbledore would never choose Weasley. He simply hasn't got the right attitude or bearing.'

'I agree.' Daphne smirked. 'And that will inevitably exclude you, too!'

'Whatever!' said Harry forcefully before Draco could retaliate. 'I'm just saying that it's probably going to be Neville. Just like it's also probably going to be you for our female prefect, Hermione.'

'Me?!' shrieked Hermione, torn between terror and elation.

'Well, you are the best in the year on average,' said Tracey. 'And many people respect you for being helpful.'

'I think Dumbledore and Snape will also consider your background,' said Harry, lowering his voice. 'It'll be easier for you in the house if you have some authority of your own.'

'You think Snape gives a damn?' asked Daphne sceptically.

'Well. It's a possibility. Anyway,' said Harry, glancing at the clock. 'You can go on or stick around by the door, but I need to have a quick word with Flitwick.'

'Why? Looking for extra credit?' said Hermione, looking suspicious.

Harry shook his head. 'No, no. Nothing like that.' He grabbed his bag and went to the front of the class, where Flitwick was stowing away the padlocks in the teacher's desk.

'Harry, you gave me quite a jump today. Terrific charm!'

Harry grinned. 'Thank you, Professor. Nothing on you, of course. How did you cast the spell on an area without opening all the locks and other closing devices?'

Flitwick chuckled merrily. 'Now, now, Harry. An old Charms Master needs to withhold some secrets. Otherwise, Albus will be paying you to do my job in a few years! So, is there anything I can do for you? I find it hard to believe you came asking for pointers, all jokes aside.'

'No, it's not related to Charms at all, Professor. At least, not directly.'

Flitwick looked up, inquisitive. 'Oh?'

'Professor, unless I'm much mistaken, you once led the Duelling Club here at Hogwarts, right?'

'Yes,' said Flitwick, his smile retreating a little. 'That was some time ago, of course.'

'Well, I was wondering if there was any chance – any chance at all – of you considering a revival?' Harry hesitated for a second. 'I wouldn't have asked, but– I mean, of course, I was aware of your accomplishments, but since you didn't mention them … I wouldn't want to pressure you into anything, but I believe all of us could learn a great deal from your experience and skill.'

Flitwick just stared at him for a second. 'I didn't bring it up, Harry, because I have … ambivalent memories about some of my exploits in the duelling ring.' He gazed at Harry and something mournful flickered behind the man's eyes. 'In any case, the main event competitions can be brutal, ruthless battles – hardly appropriate material for children or adolescents, I should think.'

'No, Professor,' replied Harry hastily. 'Of course, not. But – with what happened in the Forbidden Forest last year or in London – with all these unforeseeable events and tragic incidents, I couldn't help but wonder if … maybe a few people could've been better … prepared.' He looked at the floor. 'I'm not concerned with the spells from the main event. I was about to suggest we restrict all of the duels to the sub-fourteen bracket rules for that very reason. Just focusing on defending, counter-curses, movement, and tactics. I think we could still learn a lot even if –'

Harry forcibly bit his tongue, picking up his bag. 'I … I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have brought it up. I just thought that you of all people could maybe– Sorry. I– I should just go. I apologise for bringing this up, Professor.'

With a polite bow and brisk steps, he walked towards the door, where his friends were waiting with various puzzled expressions.

He had one hand on the handle when Professor Flitwick called out to him. 'Wait – Harry, wait! If we put a number of safety precautions in place, I suppose I could be persuaded …'

Harry came to a sudden stop and turned around. With a bright smile, he bowed again. 'Thank you, Professor. Thank you so much! If you need any help organising it, I'll be happy to assist you.'

'Thank you, too, Harry,' said Flitwick with a lopsided smile. 'It's generous of you to offer. And I hope it wasn't just a courtesy offer. I intend to take you up on it.'

'Of course, sir. Please feel free to do so.' With one last deep bow, Harry finally left the classroom.

'What was all of that about?' asked Daphne immediately.

And so Harry told them: about Aenor having him ask Flitwick and about the tiny professor's reaction.

'You're a weasel, Harry,' said Tracey.

'Thank you. I appreciate that,' said Harry, taking a mock bow. 'Hermione, too, has been very generous with her praise today.'

'Urgh!'

'Hey! Wait a moment,' interjected Daphne. 'Did you just say you're going to settle for the sub-fourteen competition rules? Why?! If Rose is serious, we'll have to register for the junior, the sub-twenty competition!'

'Obviously,' said Tracey with bitter vitriol, 'because he already knows all the spells for the sub-twenty competition!'

Daphne, staring from Tracey to Harry, blinked a couple of times before realisation dawned. 'Oh. OH!' She laughed. 'That's mean. You really are a weasel!'

'Your kind words honour me, my lady,' said Harry with a courteous little bow.

Daphne giggled.

'Oh, come on. Don't make it worse,' said Tracey, throwing her hands desperately in the air like an amateur actor. 'Please don't get all lovey-dovey on us again!'

'Seconded,' said Draco, pretending to retch.

Daphne smirked. Then, she fluttered her eyelashes at Harry while pretending to swoon. 'Oh, Harry. Hold me!'

Draco and Tracey exchanged a glance – and then briskly marched off. Hermione, with a little shrug and an apologetic smile, ran after them.

'And suddenly,' said Daphne, her voice as mellow as a summer's evening as she gazed into his eyes. 'We're all alone in this deserted corridor.'

'How terrible,' mumbled Harry, allowing her to push him against the wall. 'I hope nothing indecorous will befall us here.'

'I, on the other hand–' Daphne snatched Harry's bag out of his hand and dropped it unceremoniously. '–hope otherwise.'

Memory Lane

By Friday, Harry was in a state of near panic. He wasn't any closer to deciphering Pettigrew's memories than he had been last week, and yet the fatful meeting with Sirius and Lupin would occur tomorrow morning – with or without the secret buried somewhere in what remained of the degenerate's mind.

'Can't you just … skive? If you skip all the lessons, you'll have almost another week's worth of leisure time to give it a shot,' said Amy that morning as they congregated in the common room before breakfast. 'You're basically the stand-in healer at this point, right? Can't you write yourself a sick note or something?'

'No,' said Harry. 'I had to make a faithful promise to Poppy that I wouldn't issue healer's statements unless absolutely warranted. And I … well–'

Amy sighed. 'You don't want to break your promise if at all possible, yes, yes.' She said this all very quickly and with a bored tone of voice. 'You're such a dullard, Harry.'

'Yeah, yeah. I know the sermon.'

'Why not get sick for real then?' said Draco sarcastically.

'Shut up!' snapped Amy angrily.

But Harry looked at his wand with a speculative expression that seemed to unnerve Amy.

'Harry,' said Amy in a voice used to talk to people standing on the edge of a very tall building, 'you're a bit of a thickie when it comes to your promises, but it's sort of an endearing fault. Like how a puppy may gaze at you soulfully after it's done its business on the carpet. But you're not seriously going to consider injuring yourself just so you can keep your bloody promise to that blubbering matron of ours, are you?!'

'It's not that bad of an idea,' said Harry slowly. 'I mean, I could treat myself afterwards, and I wouldn't be breaking my promise while still being injured, right?'

'Harry,' said Amy slowly. 'We don't injure ourselves to get out of classes. That's sort of common sense, you know?'

'I won't injure myself, don't worry.'

Amy relaxed a bit. 'Good!'

'Er, yeah,' said Draco, his grin slipping slightly. 'Probably for the better.'

'I'm ill-equipped to do so,' said Harry. 'I'm abysmal with debilitating curses and arguably even worse at vanishing. I suppose I could use the Severing Charm, but it's sort of hard to control precisely. I wouldn't want to lop my arm off.'

'That, er, is commonly preferably, yes,' said Draco, who looked increasingly waxy. 'Most people don't enjoy that sort of thing, I hear.'

With a determined expression, Harry looked up at Amy. 'But maybe I know someone whom I trust implicitly and who's a dab hand at curses.'

'No,' said Amy strongly.

'I suppose the Bone-Breaker should do it.'

'No!'

'Maybe my left wrist? I don't need it much anyway.'

'Harry listen to yourself!' snarled Amy. 'Are you actually nuts? Write that damn slip of paper already!'

'Er, if you're going to excuse yourself later on either way,' said Draco slowly, 'I have to admit I don't see much point in crippling yourself first, to be honest, mate. Like, it's the exact same outcome either way – without that part where you're writhing on the floor in excruciating pain.'

'For the first time in your life, you're talking sense!' exclaimed Amy loudly towards Draco.

'It would make a difference to me.'

'No. NO!' Amy angrily shook her head. 'I'll do a lot for you, Harry. Practically anything! But I will not support your morbid fascination with self-flagellation.'

Without another word, she turned on the spot and marched off, throwing him furious looks over her shoulder.

'I'm with her on this,' said Draco. 'This is beyond crazy, mate. Only someone totally insane would curse you just to bunk off school. And, just between you and me, that even Lestrange Major won't do it should clue you in that it's absolute lunacy!'

Harry watched him leave with some irritation. He knew this was beyond what might tentatively be called objective reasonability. He was also quite certain that Poppy would be incensed – promise or not. Maybe it would indeed require a madman to do this for him. Or a madwoman.

'Are you, really, really, really, sure about this, Harry?' said Daphne five minutes later.

'Yes.'

'Salazar save us! Harry, this is stupid – even by your very loose standards of stupidity,' said Tracey, deadpan. 'What makes you think breaking your bones is ever a valid suggestion to solve any given problem?!'

Leo hadn't protested so far, but he continued to give Harry a look of concern that was honestly even more off-putting.

'Look, it's not a big deal. I get my wrist broken. I'm going to write the certificate which you guys can show to our teachers. I'm going to heal the bone. Done! Eight hours of unprofitable classroom time successfully reallocated. Plus, it's not like Babbling or Aenor care if I attend or not. And I certainly don't care about History regardless of what that bozo thinks.'

'Snape's going to have your head if he ever finds out,' said Tracey firmly. 'And so will Pomfrey.'

'Yes, well. So far, I had rather been under the impression that I needn't worry about anyone selling me out on this,' said Harry sarcastically. 'Amy wouldn't. Ever. And Draco won't either. Probably.'

'And Hermione?' said Tracey.

'I, er, didn't bother asking her. I assumed her reaction wouldn't be very favourable. Not to mention that I don't see how it would be possible for her to know the curse.'

'I don't either,' said Leo.

'Oh.' Harry's heart sank a little, and he looked towards Tracey right next to Leo.

'Nope,' said Tracey categorically. 'Sorry but not sorry.'

Harry turned towards Daphne, who stood last in line.

Daphne was biting her lip, rocking back and forth on the ball of her foot. 'I do,' she admitted in a small voice.

'Daphne!' hissed Tracey angrily. 'Don't encourage this!'

'I haven't agreed to do anything! But, er, theoretically speaking, you are sure you can heal the injury, right? It's a really, really dangerous spell, Harry. And it's supposed to hurt like, well, like a bitch.'

'I'm going to be fine,' said Harry with a smile. 'It's just my left wrist, come on. I've got a spare.'

Nobody laughed.

'You're nuts,' said Tracey. 'You're certifiably crazy, Harry. You know that, right?'

Leo just sighed, shaking his head.

'If I do this,' whispered Daphne, looking around so nobody would overhear them, 'then you've got to promise me that it'll be as good as new come midnight. If it isn't, you're going straight to Pomfrey and fessing up!'

'Daphne!' snapped Tracey.

'I promise,' said Harry with a smile that Daphne hesitantly returned. 'Come on, let's do it in the dormitories. I don't want to explain to an interfering prefect.'

'Or the head girl,' said Daphne with a shiver.

'Good call.'

Daphne, Leo, and Harry climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitories with a very reluctant Tracey in tow. Filing into the dormitory, Harry was relieved to see it almost deserted. Yaxley, still in his pants, looked up grumpily through sleepy eyes. 'Er … what's happening now?' he said, eyes widening as he realised two girls were present. He looked down at his boxers, and a blush crept along his neck.

Tracey whistled.

'Out,' said Harry coolly. 'Why don't you flounder after Selwyn like you usually do and try to cheer him up, you useless lump.'

'C-can I please dress first?' said Yaxley, shielding himself from Tracey's unflinching curiosity with a pillow.

'No.' With a flick of Harry's wand, Yaxley's wand, robes, shoes, and bag flew haphazardly out of the room. By the sound of it, his bag was currently en route down the stairs to the common room.

'Out – now,' said Harry.

'Look, Black. You can't just– NO, LAY OFF! STOP! TIME-OUT!' yelled Yaxley as Harry trained his wand on him. 'I'm going, I'm going! No more knee reversal, please!'

They watched him scurry out of the room in all haste.

'Knee reversal?' asked Leo with vague interest.

'Long story,' said Harry, charming the door shut. 'Yaxley is incapable of keeping his massive nose out of other people's business, but he also continuously makes a fool of himself to entertain Selwyn and Shafiq. He's quite annoying.'

'Got a cute bum though,' said Tracey.

Harry didn't dignify that with a reply as he walked towards his trunk and rummaged around for a bit. He returned with an official-looking sheet of parchment and a spare quill. 'Okay, got the form right here. Daphne, I'm ready when you are.'

Daphne looked hesitant, but she produced her wand.

'Er, best not to mention this to my grandfather, I think,' said Harry.

Leo coughed meaningfully.

'This would probably be best left unmentioned to any sane person,' Tracey chipped in indignantly.

'Ready?' said Harry.

'I … think so,' said Daphne.

'On the count of three, then. One – two – three!'

Very gently, Daphne tapped his left wrist with her wand and mumbled, 'Ossum Frango!'

There was a violent eruption of purple light that momentarily blinded Harry. But that was nothing, absolutely nothing to the overwhelming, nauseating agony that exploded violently in his left arm. 'Fuck!' he spat despite himself, gritting his teeth together to stop himself from screaming.

Daphne cringed. 'Sorry. Sorry! I tried to hold back! Are you okay?!'

Harry nodded, clenching his jaw shut so that he wouldn't bite his tongue. Cold sweat ran down his spine. But the pain just kept building up. 'BLOODY HELL!' he screamed, kicking with all his might against his four-poster bed.

'Can I say just one more time what a great idea this was?' mumbled Tracey, watching with worry as Harry continued to thrash his bed to cope with the pain and rush of adrenaline.

'Parchment!' bellowed Harry in between the kicks, biting his cheeks.

Leo hastily prepared the parchment and inked the quill. 'Ready.'

Harry flopped onto the floor, spat a bit of blood, and immediately began to fill out the form, swearing violently. 'Patient: Harry Potter. Diagnosis: A BLOODY BROKEN WRIST!'

'This is bizarre,' whispered Tracey. 'And not in a good way.'

'Suggested treatment: MAKE IT STOP HURTING LIKE A FUCKING BITCH!'

He signed the certificate, but due to another sudden burst of pain from his left wrist, the 'k' ended up a scrawl covering half the sheet. 'SODDING PIECE OF SHIT!'

He tossed the quill aside and gave another laboured cough, blood from his torn cheeks splattering the parchment. His trembling fingers grabbed his wand and with stupendous will, he shouted, 'Torpeo!'

As soon as the silvery-green surge of light hit his wrist, the effect of the Numbing Charm washed over him. He took a deep, relieved breath. His hand still hurt like hell, but at least he could draw a deep breath without the horrible cramping feeling again.

'That was … intense,' said Leo dryly. 'Are you better?'

'No,' said Harry, nursing his left arm carefully. 'But at least I don't feel like throwing up.'

Daphne sat down next to him. 'I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry!' She had tears in her eyes. 'I tried to hold back as much as I could but the spell–'

Harry jerkily shook his head. 'No, I know. You can't cast a curse like that without wanting to injure. I'm not blaming you at all. Merlin's pants! That's one spell I don't ever want to be on the receiving side of if someone means it.'

'Well,' said Tracey, who was visibly green, 'on the bright side, I doubt anyone will refuse to accept this.'

She lifted the healer's certificate. The huge letters were ripping the parchment rather than drying on top of it. The little form instilled a dreadful sense of urgency, helped by the dramatically jagged finish of Harry's signature. And the splatters of blood.

'That's the most epic sick note, ever,' said Leo. When Daphne and Tracey turned to look at him in revulsion, he hastily added, 'Not that we should ever do this again, naturally.'

Memory Lane

Harry put up a brave front that he was sure convinced none of the three, but – seeing as their first class was fast approaching – they eventually left him alone against their better judgement. Harry, meanwhile, was examining his wrist with increasing dread. A few hasty diagnosis spells soon revealed that, far from simply snapping the wrist, Daphne's curse had completely shattered his carpals and splintered his upper radius and ulna bones – and the tiny chips of bone had damaged the joint and the median nerve very much like a fragmentation grenade going off inside of his arm.

But the absolute worst thing was that Harry was fairly sure it would take him hours of putting it all back together – if he was lucky. If he did that, what exactly had been the point of this painful exercise?!

With all the other students in class – and the third-year Slytherins in Potions – Harry reluctantly made his way towards the Defence classroom. He couldn't run or even jog; he vibrations from anything but a careful shuffle felt like a dozen needles stabbing his arm. But the corridors were empty, Harry didn't even meet a ghost – for which he was grateful. When he eventually arrived, he immediately knocked on the large wooden portal to the classroom.

A few seconds later, Aenor archly opened the door, her annoyed expression changing into something closer to mystification as she realised it was him. Behind her, Harry could see a few first-years – including Astoria – craning their necks to see who was disrupting the class.

'A short word?' hissed Harry urgently. 'In private? It'll only be a minute.'

Aenor stared at him for a moment, and then she turned around with a jubilant smile. 'Excuse me for a second, class. My assiduous apprentice requires but a moment of my time. Greengrass, sit! I expect you all to behave until I return.'

She closed the door, casually tapping it with her wand to make it imperturbable. 'So? What's up? You look feverish, by the way.'

'Ahem, yeah. Never mind that. Without, er, without asking too many questions, could please vanish all the bones in my left arm from the fingers down to my elbow? Thanks.'

Aenor stared at him. 'Did you sniff potions, Harry?'

'No, I'm serious! There's been a … bit of a complication.' With a wince, he gingerly removed his arm out of the makeshift sling he'd fashioned out of his bed linens. The wrist was bruised black and blue – and didn't look at all healthy – or appetising for that matter. Just from looking at it, Harry's stomach lurched sickeningly.

Aenor inspected it with professional interest. 'Nasty,' she said conversationally. 'I hope you got whoever did that. Could've been a serious injury.'

Harry cleared his throat. 'Yes, erm. Nevermind that. Could you, please? I'll grab a bottle of Skelegro later on and … you know. Least said soonest mended and so forth. I, er, might not make your class today though.'

'You don't say,' said Aenor, deadpan. Then, she shrugged. 'Well, fine.' She tapped his arm with her wand – ignoring Harry's huge flinch – and with the following blue light, his left arm drooped like a wet noodle. 'There. One saggy appendage. Anything else?'

'No,' said Harry, trying to ignore the way his arm wobbled. 'Oh, I did convince Flitwick, by the way.'

'So I heard,' said Aenor with a brief smile. 'Let's talk later. These brats are like a herd of Bonnacons. Later this evening?'

'No, I'll have another crack at the memories. And I've got plans for tomorrow. How about Sunday?'

'Fine with me. Try not to lose any more bones in the meanwhile.'

And with those words and a casual wave of her hand, she turned around again.

Harry, through force of will alone, returned to the Slytherin dormitories without glancing once at his left arm. He had lost about one hour to this macabre spectacle but, on the plus side, he finally had what he wanted: undisturbed time to occupy himself with Pettigrew's elusive secret – well, not counting one flabby limb. That bit he hadn't accounted for.

Harry levitated his trunk and the stored memories on top of his bed, closed the curtains, and levelled his wand. 'Cave Inimicum!'

He crawled one-handed towards one curtain, threw it aside, and – propping himself up with his one good hand – he briefly checked from the outside. His trunk was nowhere to be seen. With a satisfied grunt, he tried to push himself up with one hand … and quickly realised that it was utterly impossible. Instead, he had to creep back by wiggling his lower body. Two very undignified minutes later, Harry had his back against the wall, soaking in sweat and puffing hard. At least there had been nobody to watch this latest debacle.

He would have to do something about his physical condition sooner or later, he knew, but …

With a shrug, he retrieved those memories of the rat that he'd determined to take place before his flight from the Balearic Islands. He picked one at random, holding it against the faint light that shone through the curtain.

Within, a heavy, oily strand of memory swirled in what looked like air, dancing to the nigh-forgotten tune of a life spent. Fighting a momentary lapse of hesitation, Harry uncorked the phial. Even holding the container upside-down, the nebulous life within clung resolutely to its vitreous prison and the eternal dance of oblivion.

Harry could smell the redolence of the subtropical beach, the spray of the surf, the seaweed … and the booze.

But this was nothing new. He'd come this far while sorting the phials, too. With a frown, he closed his eyes and tried again. The perfume of the sea was almost … besotting, languorous … like a lull in the winds of war.

With a jolt, Harry opened his eyes again. He had never been much in favour of the sea, tropical or otherwise. As long as it stayed put and refrained from open aggression, he'd resolved early on in his life to do the same. Anyway, Harry tended to get sunburns which – even after they'd healed – only left him with his original fair skin, so there wasn't much of a point to sunbathing.

So those … had to be Pettigrew's emotions!

Exhilarated about this discovery, he closed his eyes again, selecting a different phial.

And a different phial.

And yet another phial.

And another one.

Eventually, two hours had come and gone, and Harry – now with a definite sense of alarm – finally put the phials back in their sleeves until the little case looked like the extravagant ranks of a very peculiar organ.

Groaning, Harry collapsed backwards onto his bedspread. If he continued like this, he'd still be at it in his sixties. He needed a radically different approach – something that wouldn't leave him struggling to decipher every single fragment of a memory or emotion. Something much, much grander in scale.

If only he had a Pensieve …

Harry bolted upright. He rummaged in his trunk again until he produced a large decorative plate that featured a magical – if silent – portrait of a young Harry surrounded by the entirety of Regulus' family, all beaming up at him, waving. For but a moment, Harry stared at Regulus, basking in his warm, melancholic smile. Then the moment passed.

'Sorry,' said Harry ruefully. 'Sorry, but I need this plate for a second.'

The inhabitants soundlessly cried out in shock as Harry, with his wand, forcefully dragged the contents of one phial onto the plate, where it twirled and sloshed about until finally settling into a paper-thin puddle of expired existence. With bated breath, Harry leant forward until his nose pressed against the cool plate.

Nothing happened.

Except that he felt exceedingly foolish, that is – and guilty about the misappropriation of one of his most treasured possessions. He was about to sit up again when – reflexively – Harry shifted his weight onto his left arm for support. It immediately caved in where the elbow should have been (and not even in the direction it was supposed to), and Harry crashed with his face against the plate.

'Argh!'

To add insult to injury, the shock caused him to choke on his spit. And as he wheezingly gasped for breath, he suddenly tasted something like ethanol on his tongue.

Harry realised only then that he must have inhaled the memory on the would-be Pensieve even as a powerful surge of nausea assaulted him. The room spun like a roundabout.

'Look, I'm sorry, kiddo,' he heard himself say. It was his voice, and they had been his words – how could there be any mistake – and still he sounded foreign even as he spoke. 'It's gone, I told you. Gone, bang it went, up against the wall!'

'Oh, come on, Peter,' said a higher, nasal voice. It was a delicate mix, both mellifluous and chilly; entrancing and abrasive. 'You always muck me about. I know you're good for it. I'm not asking for much. Just a grand or two. I'd be oh – so – very – grateful.'

'Something wrong with your ears, toots? I've got nothing. I'm skint! Pero ahora estoy en bancarrota, ¿no me convidas una cerveza? I think you owe me about a thousand by now.'

The impression of a sneer, the scent of a cocktail thrown in anger. 'Hijo de puta!'

As if a whirlpool had spat him out, Harry came to again. Still on his bed, head spinning – and yes, his left arm still dangling uselessly at his side.

Well … now that had been bona-fide progress.

He groaned as he settled back against the wall. If only the spinning would stop.

'Minnie!' he croaked.

Only a second later, there was the familiar pop of elvish apparition. 'Yes, Master Ha … Master Ha … OH, MY GODSES!' shouted the elf, horrified, as she stared at Harry's arm and sweaty skin. 'Is Master ill? Should Minnie call a healer? Two healers?! Master Harry musts wait right here, Minnie will bring all the healers in the wor–'

'I'm fine, Minnie. More or less, calm yourself, please.'

Minnie settled down somewhat, but her big bulging eyes were still glued to Harry's noodle of an arm. Her breathing was laboured. 'How can Minnie help– Minnie means, which of his problems would Master Harry like Minnie's help with first?!'

'Tonics against headache and upset stomach.'

Minnie snapped her fingers and both appeared in sealed cups on his pillow – next to a plate with two sandwiches, a few cold cuts of meat, half a cheese, and a bunch of grapes. The tiny elf was not going to be taking any chances.

'Yes, er, thank you, Minnie. Oh, could you also rustle up some Skelegro? We should have some in the manor's basement.'

The elf nodded, snapped her fingers again, and vanished. She returned only two minutes later and so suddenly that Harry nearly choked on a grape.

'Is there anything else?' asked Minnie imploringly. 'Master Harry is still so very wan!'

'I'm fine … ish,' said Harry. 'Thanks, you were a great help.'

'Will Master Harry call again? If he won'ts get better?'

'I will,' promised Harry with a smile. 'I will. There is, er, no need to tell my grandfather about my arm.'

Minnie glared at him reprovingly. 'Very wells,' she mumbled and – poof! – vanished once more.

Harry only indulged in a light snack, took a few sips from both potions – he'd leave the Skelegro for later – and stared pensively at his collection of memories.

What sort of clue was he looking for? Thinking back to his first meeting with the portly little sleaze, he tried to remember what he'd yelled before the arrest.

Have you never wondered why they found where you … what? Where Harry what?!

Unfortunately, the memories of his … plunge into Pettigrew's consciousness were dull and vague without the rat's corresponding memories. Worse, it had become increasingly obvious that the childhood memories were full of detail, emotion, and sensations, whereas those Harry had … extracted shortly before the man's accidental demise remained colourless, blurry, and scrambled. Or maybe the layabout had simply been too wasted all the time. Harry didn't like to think about it much, but it also wasn't implausible that the state of terror or – his stomach clenched uncomfortably again – maybe even the feeling of impending death had somehow warped the recollections.

Nothing you can do about it now, Harry told himself once more. You can only make sure it'll never happen again.

A spiteful, ugly, and hated little part of himself added, 'Good riddance to bad rubbish.'

Harry shook his head; he needed to concentrate! He focused his gaze on the little casket again. Rattling his brain, he picked a memory he estimated to take place one year prior to the last one. He dragged it towards the rim of the phial. Then, he gave it a tentative lick.

And the world spun.

'Hey, babe,' cooed the same female voice from earlier. This time, Harry saw the effigy of a woman. Dyed, platinum hair; a tight, revealing bikini; prominent, tinted glasses; and a lean, bronzed body. 'Can I join you again?'

'Make yourself at home. Ey, hombre! One for the lady!'

Harry suffered their inane exchange for a while but got increasingly bored. He felt like a real person imprisoned in a series of pictures. There was the impressionistic idea of the sea, the phantom of the woman, the suggestion of warmth and the sun – but anything else remained ghostly, less than ephemeral. A recollection of a fragmented memory.

And he couldn't move. He was bound to Pettigrew's perspective.

Ten minutes' worth of Pettigrew's blatant advances and the suggestive poses the woman assumed on the sunlounger made Harry lose his patience. For obvious reasons, he didn't have enough time to watch Pettigrew's memories in real-time. Nor did he feel inclined to. The rotund man had already knocked back two horribly sweet cocktails in a matter of minutes – and Harry, to his annoyance, felt increasingly dizzy himself.

Now, if only there was a way to … fast-forward. Harry concentrated hard, willing the memory to speed up. His motivation got an extra boost when Pettigrew's companion got up, took a seat on Pettigrew's – and consequently Harry's – sunlounger, and started caressing his bristly leg.

Harry's abhorrence struggled against Pettigrew's evident and rather impressionable excitement. But Harry didn't give in and pushed as much raw willpower into his demand as he could. And it won out.

In the blink of an eye, the sun rose and sank a hundred times, a million impressions condensed into a single second – alcohol, warmth, arousal, being dead drunk and the taste of bile and acid, bodily smells, and even more alcohol – and then he spun back like water up a drain until he came to on his bed.

For one second, Harry stared ahead in horror. And then he threw up.

He had to call Minnie again – and what a fuss she made.

'Oh, Master Harry!' she cried tearfully, effortlessly changing the sheet and cleaning both Harry's clothes and any other soiled textile with but a snap of her finger. 'What is you doings?! Please stop it!'

It took Harry another five minutes to calm her down, after which he decided to have a very long cold shower. Wrapped in a towel, he returned to his bed – which wasn't as easy as it would've been without the Cave Inimicum; he had to search for it on his knees, inch by inch.

When he made himself comfortable again, he stared with rising revulsion at his collection of memories. After this latest experience, Harry wasn't quite sure if he even wanted to dive into them ever again. It occurred to Harry that he had never quite appreciated the ingenuity of a Pensieve.

After a second of consideration, Harry put the phials from before Pettigrew's return to Britain in the last empty row. He'd never touch those again unless it was a matter of life and death. And even then, it had better be an important someone's death.

He brooded over the other rows of labelled phials. A vague idea taking shape in his mind, he picked one in the second to last row. He also summoned all of his backup test glasses for Potions use and his spare cutting board. Carefully, he dragged the memory from the phial onto the cutting board. Not looking forward to making a fool of himself yet again, Harry levelled his wand.

'Diffindo!'

Following the light red flash, Harry was delighted to notice qualified success. The memory had indeed split in the middle. Unfortunately, the spell had also split the cutting board. And the blanket. And the mattress. And the carpet underneath. For a heartbeat or two, Harry stared at the cleft on the stone floor.

Thinking back to his conversation with Amy earlier, Harry vowed then and there to restrain himself as much as possible, lest he lop his flabby wrist off after all. Cautiously, he scooped the first half of the memory back into the phial and put the other half on a leftover bit of his chopping board.

'Diffindo!'

Fifteen minutes later, Harry had severed the original strand of memory into fifty almost equal wisps, all stored separately in beakers, mugs, glasses, and a few empty bottles his trunk had yielded. Sitting at the centre of a circle of these varied containers, Harry lifted the very last memory, inspecting it against the light. It flickered a little erratically inside Daphne's souvenir from their vacation to Egypt a couple of years ago. Harry wondered if maybe he'd cut them too finely and damaged the memories somehow.

There was nothing for it. He dragged the stubborn residue out of the drinking glass, put it on one of his many pieces of dissected cutting board, took a deep breath, and licked it.

Immediately, he felt the by now familiar sensation of getting sucked down a drain.

He came to in a vague, colourless, apparitional setting almost too bizarre to behold, and almost immediately had a heart-attack. He screamed as Pettigrew took a step into sheer nothingness. There was no floor. His – or Pettigrew's, he thought – feet only landed on one of the sparsely laid out tiles every ten steps or so. The rest of the ground was just bottomless darkness. In front of him, smoke curled and twisted in seemingly random ways – only to coalesce into a door or wall at Pettigrew's approach.

Pettigrew's movements were horrifically abrupt. Despite the man's tardy pace, a step would sometimes carry them twenty yards or further without any passage of time. Harry began to feel quite unnerved as Pettigrew climbed a set of stairs to the third floor in episodes of laboured effort and blinding, unreal speed. Time itself was damaged.

There was no sound, not even when a ghostly door slammed right behind them.

Pettigrew approached another spectre of fumes, they shook hands – and suddenly Harry was flung through time and space, racing across limbo.

He sat in a chair.

Harry was having trouble coming to terms with this sudden turn of events when he saw another ghostly door swing open – and himself enter, next to an indistinct, blurry Daphne who had almost no features except her hair and mouth. Where there should have been eyes, cheeks, or the nose, there was … nothing.

Harry shuddered as the meeting played back before his eyes in sudden bursts of speed and random lulls of dilatoriness.

With utter disgust, he noticed that Pettigrew's focus throughout much of their encounter had been on the shape of Daphne's pair of norks, who even now remained particularly distinct. Other than that – Harry had to admit through gritted teeth – the rat's thoughts were mostly silenced, just like the sound and colours. He thought he caught flashes of other memories, even more distorted than this one. In one, Harry thought a featureless, grey column of smoke just might have been his father. Body size, hair, and pose, at least, were a match, so it was as good a guess as any.

Harry, filled with hate, watched as the disgusting dung pile of a vagabond tried to get Daphne drunk.

But the meeting drew near unnaturally fast, and the distortions in time and space became even more evident. This time, though, he saw what happened as Pettigrew fled the pub. He didn't get much further than a dozen yards or so before a plethora of spells slammed into him, some holding him, others disarming him, and one forcing him to revert to his human appearance. The Aurors at the edge of perception were hulking, disfigured monstrosities that stretched and shrank violently like oscillating light.

It was hopeless.

And yet, as Pettigrew once more levelled his resentful look towards the two shadowy monsters on the threshold of the Hog's Head, the rat clearly recalled a bit of paper.

'Stop, stop, stop!' thought Harry in a panic.

And, wonderfully, time froze.

Harry was still rooted to the spot, and he couldn't turn his head away from the corrupted vision of his own ghost. But there, at the edge of perception, but a phantom of a spook, was a piece of parchment with impressive seals and too much text for Pettigrew to recollect clearly.

But he was able to recollect one thing.

At the top of the form, next to Sirius' name, the space that had been left blank for the seat of residence had been pencilled in. With their actual address.

With the actual address of their house in London.

With the actual address of their house in London that – even back then – had been under the Fidelius for dozens of years. And which they had – up to this moment – believed to remain protected.

Memory Lane

Harry could hardly think rationally as he stalked the corridors of Hogwarts, wand in hand; righteous anger consumed every other thought. When he stampeded around a corner, a few first years looked up – and then collectively took flight like a pack of doves. He ambushed Daphne and Amy on their way to supper. Through the mist of fury, he roughly shoved Amy against the corridor wall and gripped her with his right by the scruff of her neck. Amy, who had watched his furious approach with an expression of puzzlement, didn't move.

But Daphne screamed, equal parts outraged and afraid. 'What are you doing?!' she yelled. 'Harry, stop that! Let her go!' She tried to pry his hand off Amy's collar, but Harry didn't let her.

Amadina, for her part, didn't react with alarm at all, her grey eyes were calm as ice. 'You're so forward, Harry,' she said without the slightest inflexion of her voice. 'What will people think?

'Back in early winter,' growled Harry. 'Do you remember us talking about enemies? Well? Do you?!'

Having lost her footing and dangling in Harry's vengeful grip, Amy calmly brought her index to her lips in the pose of the relaxed thinker. 'Hmm. Oh, yes! I remember. We talked about the Mudblood's teachers, didn't we?'

'Yes, we did,' said Harry, rage lending him strength as he lifted Amy a few inches from the ground. 'Continue!'

'Continue what? I believe I asked you if you'd ever wondered if it might be someone we know.'

'And?!'

Amy raised an eyebrow. 'And what? I believe you insulted my parents.'

Harry stared at her. Despite the boiling cauldron of rancour in his guts, a slither of sanity that fought back against the tide of anger came knocking. Amy wasn't lying. Amy hadn't ever lied to him.

Harry released her and took a few steps back, staring with revulsion at his own hands. 'Sorry, I … sorry.'

'It's all right,' said Amy with a shrug, straightening her robes.

'Harry, what happened?!' demanded Daphne. 'You can't just go … grabbing people!'

'I assume you found something?' said Amy. 'And what's with your arm?'

'Never mind the sodding arm,' growled Harry. 'Yes, you could say that. I found something all right. But … you're okay, right?'

'What?' said Amy, perplexed. 'Oh, that. It was nothing. Father isn't half as gentle as you.'

Harry scowled, his anger now morphing into violent fantasies that included Rodolphus.

'Though I have to say, the way you pushed me against the wall really turned my head, Harry.'

'I'm not in the mood for jokes.'

Amy shrugged, blowing a strand of her curly hair out of her face with a sly grin. 'I'll save it for another time. So? What did you find?'

Harry looked around. With the first-years in the corridor having fled from the approach of what must have looked like a dark nemesis, they were alone. 'You're coming, too. Tomorrow. Bring all the potions, poison – whatever. You can jinx, hex, or curse anyone making trouble – I don't care! Just don't kill anyone until I'm through with them.'

For the first time, Amy was taken by surprise. 'I'll come. But this is a bit out of character for you, Harry. Not that I don't fully endorse this but …'

'Someone,' spat Harry, clenching his fist. He was almost too angry to speak. 'Someone betrayed our Fidelius in London – TO THE FUCKING MINISTRY!'

Daphne looked at him with shock and fear. 'What?!'

Amy, still leaning against the wall, was suddenly stock-still. 'That explains it, I suppose.'

'Tomorrow,' said Harry darkly. 'I'm going to talk to Lupin and Sirius. Leo is going to keep watch on Hermione's bloody teachers. And if I ever find out who betrayed my family, I'll make them rue ever having been born. I'm done playing games! I'm done playing nice! It's war now.'

Memory Lane

'Harry, calm down.'

But Harry wasn't listening. He'd left Amy to requisition Leo's help while he'd scrawled a few lines on a bit of parchment, signed it and pressed his signet ring – which he felt was too precious for everyday wear – into the hot wax.

'Harry, you're shaking the poor owl!'

Looking up, Harry realised that – in his anger – he was indeed agitating the ruffled eagle owl. He took a deep breath to calm himself. 'Right.' He scanned the brief letter to his grandfather with all haste. 'High chance of Fidelius in London compromised,' he read under his breath. 'Will elaborate in person. Suggest making preparations for renewal of Fidelius on all three properties. Meeting S tomorrow. H'

He folded the parchment, charmed it shut, and held his signet ring against it. 'Occulto Chartam!'

'What's that?' asked Daphne nervously as the parchment briefly lit up.

'Just a Secrecy Charm. It will garble the text unless the intended recipient opens it. And in this case–' He held up the ancient Black signet ring on his finger, the inlaid emerald blazing in the crimson evening light. '–that is anyone not wearing a ring such as this.'

Daphne stared at it with reverence. 'Is that the real … I mean, is that one of the entailed rings?'

'Yes.' Harry looked at it and his expression softened. 'Grandfather presented it to me before I came to Hogwarts.'

'Wow,' breathed Daphne. 'It looks … ancient.'

'It is.' Unbidden, Aenor's remarks about his family's alleged origins came back to mind, and his mood soured again. He held out the letter. The owl on his arm gave him a strangely exasperated look, took the letter in its beak, and flew off with a swoosh of feathers.

As they left the owlery, Daphne tentatively tried to start up an innocent conversation, but Harry couldn't bring himself to partake. He was still pondering how this betrayal had been possible. The only secret keepers in the family were Blacks by blood or oath. And the entirety of the family – safe him – were under magical compulsion not to harm the family. True, it could be broken with enough strength of will. Tracey, for instance, had managed to slap him as hard as she could only this year, hadn't she? But then, the curse had made sure that she suffered the same blow. What punishment had the curse in store for those who didn't merely strike in anger, but who planned and plotted to damage or destroy the family as a whole?

'How's your arm?'

'What?'

'Your arm. How is it? It still looks weird.'

Harry thought that he might as well tell her since she'd wiggle it out of him sooner or later anyway. 'I had to have my bones vanished. The bones in my wrist were almost ground to dust. And my arm and fingers weren't much better off.'

Daphne stood rooted to the spot. 'I'm sorry,' she stammered, mortified.

Harry sighed and took her hand. 'Come on, I told you I'm not blaming you.'

'Does it still hurt?'

'The Skelegro isn't … pleasant. And I'll have to be careful with the arm until the bone's fully regrown. But it could be worse, I suppose.'

They went back to the common room and occupied one suite in the far back of the room. The room was quite busy that evening, with people excitedly discussing their Hogsmeade plans. Amy, Leo, Tracey, Draco, and Hermione soon joined too.

Harry still had too foul a temper to join in their conversation and so brooded in silence, sipping at the Butterbeer he'd summoned from his trunk and grunting angrily whenever the Skelegro twinged in his arm. The magically amplified light trickling through the Great Lake and into the common room eventually lost the battle and left only the green gloam behind that pervaded the room at all times, disturbed only by the dull, irregular gleam from the flame-cut charcoal in the fireplaces.

'I'm turning in,' said Hermione, stretching with a big yawn. 'It's going to be a busy day.'

'Yeah.' Tracey stood up as well. 'Let's hope it's not going to be as crazy as this one.'

'I'd like that,' said Leo.

'While we're at it–' Draco stepped away and out of Amy's reach. 'Let's not cripple ourselves tomorrow, yes? A great resolution for a bright and shiny new day!'

Amy glanced in Draco's direction but – quite unusually – didn't give him any of her customary bollocking. She exchanged a few whispered words with Daphne and left without another word to any of the others.

Harry, still tangled up in dark thoughts, didn't even notice them go. He only looked up when he felt someone sit down next to him.

'Are you not going to sleep at all?'

Harry gave a jump, looking up from his hands at which he'd peered for half an hour. 'What?'

'Aren't you going to sleep?' said Daphne patiently.

'Oh. Yeah. Maybe. Can't yet though, my wrist is still itching something fierce.'

'So you're just going to haunt the common room again? At this point, the Hogwarts ghosts really will declare you an honorary fellow!'

Harry didn't reply.

'Is it that irritating?'

'No,' muttered Harry. 'No, the freaking arm is just a nuisance keeping me awake. What's irritating is that– I don't know how to put it. I feel like I'm losing my footing … slipping away.'

'What?'

Harry gestured wildly, flourishing both of his arms. 'There's just so much going on. So much!' He tousled his hair in a flurry of motion. 'My memories, Pettigrew, Sirius, those wretched teachers of Hermione, Dolohov. There's stuff you don't know yet either. It just won't end! Always there's more. Always there's just the next thing piling on and piling on. Nothing ever gets solved, it never gets any easier. Frankly, I'm not sure how long I can take it all! This year has been literal hell. I've almost struck one of my oldest and most loyal friends, had my hand crushed to bits, threw up all over my bed, and had to watch all sorts of vile memories – and that was just one day. Just today! I've nearly lost my mind this year – literally. And then, when you think it can't get any worse, I find out we've been betrayed – all of us. And, worst of all, it had to have been someone I not only know but think of as family. IT JUST – NEVER – STOPS!'

Harry ripped at his hair. 'I don't think I can take this much longer, Daphne. I really think I'm going to explode sometime soon. I feel like I'm becoming another person, slipping out of my own skin. I was this close to hitting Amy. Amy! And, worst of all, she didn't even blink! She didn't even bat an eyelash! Is this all just a joke to everyone else?!'

'Or maybe,' said Daphne in a low voice, putting one hand on his knee. 'Maybe she just knows you better than you give her credit for. She doesn't think any less of you because of it.'

'And how do you know?'

'Because she told me. And because she told me half an hour ago not to let you – I quote – bum around all night.'

Harry snorted.

'And … I don't think it's been all bad this year. Sure, all the stuff you mentioned is pretty horrific, and it must be worse for you. And then there was Gran's death. I've got no clue how I'm supposed to feel about that either. And there was … that other thing too last summer. At your place.' She turned to look at him, and Harry reflexively looked up. 'I honestly think my life has taken a turn for the worse since coming to Hogwarts. But it's not all bad! I've become friends with Hermione. And honestly, I'm amazed Gran isn't rising from her grave to chew my ears off for that. I get to see you and Tracey and the rest of the guys every day. Potions is fun. Seeing you mop the floor with Macmillan is also great. I'm looking forward to the Duelling Club. I like just hanging out with everyone. And … I also like spending time with you. More than anything, I'm so very happy about how close we got this year. So don't tell me it's all bad, okay? Even if life is putting you through the mangle, we're here with you. And we're going to stick with you, no matter how shitty life gets, all right? I know I will.'

She leaned over and embraced him. Harry put one arm around her back as if he wasn't sure if he was supposed to or not. But the angry buzzing of his thoughts was swept aside as his chin nestled on top of her shoulder, his cheek brushing her hair.

Harry would rather have had his other wrist shattered than to say something like 'let's stay like this for a while', but he didn't have to. Daphne, her breathing even and calm, didn't move a muscle.

Eventually, after Daphne remained motionless for several minutes, Harry gingerly withdrew.

Daphne tilted her head, looking at him with bright, honest eyes.

'Oh, thank Merlin,' muttered Harry. 'For a second, I thought you'd fallen asleep on me.'

She grinned, crawling a bit closer on the couch so that her legs dangled over his lap. 'You'd deserve it! Don't think I've forgotten!'

'Yes, yes,' said Harry with a crooked little smile. 'It wasn't very gallant of me to nod off, I admit. That being said, I had been doped by a suspicious potion Amy stole from your storeroom. Not to mention that I needed that potion just to keep standing at one point.'

'Excuses, excuses!'

They silently enjoyed each other's company for a while. Harry didn't mind that either. Even though he'd been absorbed in dark thoughts for the better part of the day, Daphne had a way of calming him down. And calming down, Harry thought contritely as he remembered his last few days, was what he bitterly needed.

The last embers of the fireplace had long since gone cold when Daphne, cuddled against him, spoke up again. 'You're not thinking about sleeping down here, Harry, right?'

'I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest.'

'It's freezing!' And it was. Even with Daphne curled up against him, Harry's back had become cold. His mind had been in a bit of a lull, and he'd been so out of it that he hadn't even considered reigniting the fire or using some other charm. 'And no magic!' said Daphne, as if reading his mind. 'Come on, let's just go to bed. Curling up underneath a nice, soft blanket is good for your state of mind – believe me. A good night's sleep makes you healthy and fit!'

'I think it'll take a bit more than that to retain my sanity. But, yes – maybe.' Harry faltered. Even though Minnie had cleaned his sheet and mattress, he couldn't help but remember that only a few hours earlier he'd got sick there twice. Not to mention that the boys' dormitory had some unpleasant associated memories in store for him right now. If his thoughts kept racing about the Fidelius, he'd never be able to shut his eyes.

'What is it?' asked Daphne, stretching her neck backwards to look up at him.

Harry made a disgruntled face. 'I just don't think I'd be able to get a wink of sleep up there tonight.'

'Well, you could come up to my dormitory with me, I suppose.'

'Daphne!'

'What!' replied Daphne innocently. 'You set yourself up for this! If you're not going to bed, I'll stay here with you anyway. You know that, right?'

'Yes, I know how stubborn you are, no need to remind me.'

'Right! But you're also aware how shirty the prefects get about anyone crashing in the common room, don't you? Even if you don't care about the house cup, you wouldn't like to waste a few weekends in detention just for this, right?'

'Are you seriously suggesting that me joining you in the girls' dormitory will be less forbidden than me bunking down here?!'

'Maybe not,' said Daphne with a laugh. 'But who's to say we're going to get caught? I sneak up, look if anyone's awake, you follow, and do that little ward thingy you did for Hermione.'

'And you think that's a better idea than me just spending the night here?!' asked Harry, honestly taken aback.

'Yes? Of course, it is! If you're about to break the rules anyway, might as well sleep comfortably, right? Mum helped me charm it bigger, too. Space isn't an issue. Besides, as I said, it's a fool-proof plan. We definitely won't get caught.'

As far as Harry was concerned, he'd never heard of a less fool-proof plan, but Daphne was right that the head girl had gone medieval on some of the fifth-years earlier this year when they'd boozed up and laid waste to the common room until dawn in early October. Some of them were still serving their detentions – five months later.

Against his better judgement, he shrugged helplessly. 'Well, all right then.'

To his utter astonishment – and slight concern – the plan did go off without a hitch. Daphne stalked off first and returned a few minutes later to give him the go-ahead. Harry froze the ancient charm on the passage and cautiously crept up the stony stairs.

Daphne was waiting for him near the last step and grinned. 'So far so good, Mr Sexual-Predator-Who-Sneaks-Into-The-Ladies'-Dorm-At-Night.'

'This was your idea!' he hissed, peering about nervously. He wondered if his reputation, or whatever remained of it, could ever survive being found out now.

'Relax!' Daphne took his hand and led him to the third-years' room. The door was ajar. She stuck her head inside, had another look, and dragged him inside.

Harry had been inside this very room before, during the night as well. But he certainly hadn't intended to stay the night. He was feeling slightly feverish. It all felt very bizarre.

Daphne, on the contrary, seemed utterly relaxed as she took off her shoes, motioned for him to do the same, and hopped onto her four-poster. A bit more hesitant, Harry followed her.

Unnoticeable from the outside, the bed in question had indeed been cleverly enchanted to about twice its original size or more. Daphne, an ardent believer in the school of thought that there could never be too many cushions, was busying herself with making space for more than one person not to be buried under an avalanche of pillows.

Following one last second of irresolution, Harry pulled the curtains closed and tapped them each with his wand. A ward might be more suspicious than no spell at all, but there were other options. Anti-Burglary Charms, Silencing Charms, Locking Spells… For good measure, he also added Aenor's Imperturbable Charm and a persistent Stinging Hex.

Daphne, holding one pillow in front of her and leaning with her back against the wall, watched him cast his spells. When he'd finished, she rolled her eyes. 'Yes, that should be good enough unless we're invaded by another country, I think.'

Harry's eyes wandered from Daphne sitting nonchalantly opposite him to the single blanket between them. Frankly, he'd busied himself with the spells longer (and more extensively) than necessary because he was feeling quite rattled.

Which seemed to be a source of great amusement for Daphne. 'We slept in one bed for weeks last summer. And it's not like we've been strangers these past few weeks. Come on, don't make such a meal of it!'

'Fine, fine. But let me sleep on the left, please. I don't think you rolling on my arm will do it much good tonight.'

'Stop trying to guilt me into anything! You repeatedly said you didn't blame me.'

'Worth a try.'

'Anyway, you know the rules.'

'Rules?'

Daphne raised an admonishing finger. 'No street wear in bed!' Seeing him about to protest, she added, 'There's a little basket over there on this side of the curtains. Nobody need ever know.'

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was just no winning against Daphne once she'd made up her mind. He struggled out of his robes and trousers, kicked off his socks, unbuttoned his shirt, and flung it all towards the basket. Then, he slipped underneath the blanket, which was – he grudgingly admitted – very soft and nice.

Daphne took her time to undress. When she noticed that Harry was looking, she slowed it down even further until it became an act of a hundred, conscious motions. With an irresistible little smile, she undid every button of her shirt starting from the bottom up, gazing straight into Harry's eyes as she did so. The shirt slid off her smooth, fair shoulders, but it might as well have slid out of the world for Harry.

Her smile grew wider and playful as she sat on top of the blanket on Harry's legs and leaned forward. 'You don't look like you're about to fall asleep on me now,' she whispered.

Harry allowed himself to gaze at her in wonder, running his right hand from her waist, over the edge of her bra, all the way to her neck. 'I'm wide awake.'

With the inevitableness of the attraction of magnetic forces, they kissed – and it was a demanding kiss full of heat and hunger. Daphne soon impatiently yanked the blanket out from underneath her, and Harry wrapped his arm around her as they wrestled in a tangle of limbs.

They rolled over the bed, desperately struggling against every fraction of an inch that separated their bodies. Their kisses and breathing grew ever more frantic and wild until Daphne – with a soft moan – pushed Harry into the pillows with her on top of him again.

Harry, oblivious to the state of his left arm, had both hands on the delicate string of satin that ran over Daphne's hips. But Daphne slid down over his body, took both of his hands in hers, and pushed them over her back, to the fastener of her bra.

His throat dry and his heart galloping like a wild herd of horses, Harry shakily undid the clip. It was all impulse and instinct. As the bra came away, he looked up in amazement and ravishment. There was not a single thought in his mind wasted on the notion of stopping. The only conscious thought that flickered up briefly before the gloriously luscious figure of Daphne burned it to a crisp was that – in the end – he hadn't been able to keep both promises after all.

I'm sorry, Regulus.

But right then and there as he greedily explored Daphne's writhing body and her fingernails scraped his stomach on their way downwards, any remaining doubt shattered in the fury of the moment.

Memory Lane

Harry arrived in the Great Hall the next morning three minutes after Daphne on the dot. He had just enough sense not to enter skipping, but it was a close thing. Evading Hermione's curious looks, he flopped down on the bench between her and Amy.

'Morning! Anyone else feeling famished?'

They all looked at him, taken aback by his abnormally insouciant greeting.

'Hey,' said Amy. 'Feeling better today?'

'Had a good night's sleep?' asked Hermione.

'Er, yes,' said Harry. 'Just like you said last evening, much to do today. This is for you, Amy.' He drew an envelope from his sleeve and pushed it towards her.

Amy looked at it curiously, took the knife she had used to cut her sausage and – ignoring Draco's, Leo's, and Harry's wince – used it to cut it open. She rolled her eyes. 'You guys need to get a hobby. Now … what's this?' She skimmed the letter, put it down, and focused her attention on her breakfast again. 'You shouldn't have done this.'

'But I'm doing it anyway,' said Harry. 'Just accept it.'

'I told you to forget about it yesterday!'

'What is it?' asked Tracey.

Amy scowled at the envelope. 'Nothing. Harry's being a handwringer again.'

Leo's hand darted towards the envelope before his sister could react. Ignoring her glare, he read it carefully, his eyes widening with every sentence. 'Wow.'

'What is it?!' demanded Tracey. 'I wanna know!'

'Harry thinks he owes me an apology,' grumbled Amy, skewering her sausage as if it had personally affronted her.

'And does he?' asked Hermione.

'No!' snapped Amy. 'And mind your own business!'

'Just tell me what it is,' said Tracey loudly. 'I'll take the free stuff if you're too stiff-necked.'

'Harry somehow weaselled his way into securing a spot for me and Leo on the yearly Continental Graphorn Hunt,' said Amy reluctantly. 'I'll be damned if I know how though. It's usually just the kids of big-wigs and a few seasoned trackers as security.'

'Damn!' said Draco, impressed despite himself. 'It's invitation-only?!'

'Graphorns?' said Hermione, looking worried. 'They're really dangerous, aren't they? Even trolls stay clear of them because they're so strong and vicious. And their hide is supposed to be even more impervious to spells than a dragon's! Why would you hunt something like that?!'

'Because it's fun? And because you get to use as much magic as you want because – for some baffling reason – the Czech Minister for Magic personally signed off on a temporary suspension of the underage nonsense,' said Amy plumply before she scowled again. 'Not that I'll accept it. You don't need to spend so much money on me! I told you to stop worrying about it!'

'How did you get that?' said Leo faintly, holding up the invitation addressed personally to Amadina and Leandros Lestrange as if it were a mythical treasure.

Harry grinned. 'I made a Floo Call.'

'Just like that?!'

'Pretty much.' Which was the truth. Harry had spent more time arguing with Pepa about why he didn't want to attend as well than about the fundamental point of their attendance.

'We're not accepting, Leo. Tear it up!'

Leo stared at his sister as if she'd commanded him to tear off one of his legs. 'Please! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!'

'No!'

'Can't we at least go and … pretend we didn't like it so Harry will feel bad about it?'

'NO!'

'Look,' said Harry in an undertone, leaning towards her so they wouldn't be easily overheard. 'You say I needn't worry about it. Fine. I get that, but just accept it for me, okay? You and Leo deserve a bit of a holiday. You'll notice the invitation very explicitly does not extend to anyone else. Two weeks of hiking and thrilling adventure in the face of great adversity in the Giant Mountains. Away from home.'

Amy scowled fiercer than ever, glaring at her table. 'So now you worry about that, too?!'

'I'm not belittling you. Merlin knows, you're strong. Frankly, I think you're amazing. But a bit of a holiday hasn't hurt anyone yet. Besides,' he added with a grin, 'it's my prerogative as the older one to spoil my cute little cousins once in a while.'

She turned her head towards him, her grey eyes staring right through him to his very soul. Once, her gaze flickered for a fraction of a second toward her brother, but Harry didn't miss it. 'You're a million years too young to call me little cousin.' Her unreadable expression relaxed a bit – immediately followed by a sudden vicious elbow strike to his guts. Harry bent forward, coughing up what felt like the entirety of his lungs.

Amy, grinning broadly now, genially put her arms around his shoulder even as Harry almost collapsed from lack of air. 'But if you so ardently insist, I suppose we'll spare you the shame of refusing.'

'YES!' yelled Leo jubilantly, pumping his fist in the air. 'Yes, yes, yes! I'm so excited! This is going to be great!'

'I'm happy for you,' said Hermione. 'This sounds like a great learning experience. I want to hear everything about it!'

'I'd rather not drudge through muck and rock for a fortnight only to meet a murderous, spiky, tentacle-faced killer-dinosaur on steroids,' said Tracey. 'But to each his own.'

'Seconded!' said Draco.

'It's not a dinosaur,' said Leo with an avid expression. 'It's more commonly related to–'

'Not – the – point!' hissed Tracey.

Harry watched Tracey, Draco, and Leo quarrel about Graphorns with a contented smile. Daphne, sitting across the table, winked at him and Harry grinned back.

'Thanks,' muttered Amy so quietly that Harry barely heard her.

'Don't mention it, big sis.'

Amy snorted. But Harry noticed she was her usual self again after that.

The rest of the breakfast passed by pleasantly, though Harry caught himself staring at Daphne several times. She was radiant. When she looked at him tenderly from across the table, Harry couldn't help but marvel how easy it was to get lost in the resplendence of her smile or the magnificent elegance of a simple act like tucking a wayward strand of her gorgeous hair behind her ear.

At which point Harry usually made a random remark to Leo or Draco to forcibly dispel his befuddlement.

'Oh, look!' said Draco, pointing towards a regal black owl with white markings and electric blue eyes that homed in on them when the owls arrived in a flurry of wings. 'My mother must have sent me something. It's quite annoying how smothering parents can be but I suppose I'll have to–'

The owl flew right through Draco's outstretched arms and settled down elegantly in front of Harry. Draco looked scandalised.

'That's my letter, Harry! Stupid bird must be getting old.'

'As a matter of fact,' said Amy with a smirk, 'it reads: To Harry James Black, The Great Hall, Hogwarts.'

Draco glowered, crossing his arms. 'Well? Read it then!'

With a shrug, Harry accepted the letter, patted the owl on the head, and unfolded the parchment. A purple bolt of lightning curled along the edge of the letter and violently jumped from the seal straight to Harry's face, but – except for making Harry swear profusely – it didn't do anything at all.

'That was my mother's,' said Draco in a low voice. 'I've seen what it does when it's not the right recipient. The words burned toast come to mind. Go on. Read it!'

'Harry,

I'm writing to you in all haste because I'm not sure if anyone else will. Your grandfather is currently not in London – nor Britain for all I know – but there's something you need to know. This last week, two separate members of the family have called me and asked to speak "in confidence". Their point of concern, in so many words, was you. And the apprenticeship to that Rose woman.

I honestly can't tell you if they're still resentful of you being entrusted with the family's future or, equally possible, genuinely concerned about what the apprenticeship and the pertaining privileges that woman now holds over you might mean for a time when you come into your inheritance.

Either way, action should be taken before contentious grumbling devolves into something even less constructive.

Look after yourself.

With love,
Narcissa'

'Did she mention me at all?' demanded Draco sourly.

'Oh, er, yes. Of course,' said Harry hastily. 'She sends much love.'

Draco harrumphed. 'What did she want?'

'Oh, nothing. Just asking about my birthday.'

Folding the letter, Harry tapped it with his wand. It instantly incinerated in bright blue flames.

'She makes such a fuss about you,' said Draco. 'Honestly, you'd think you were her child, too.'

'Your mother doting on Harry is such old news,' said Daphne with a huge yawn, 'that it's basically history. Get over it!'

'Didn't get enough sleep, Daphne?' asked Hermione on the right side of Harry. Harry gave her a nervous look. Was he imagining things or did their Muggle-born friend look a little smug about the question?

'Oh, er, yeah. You could say that.' Most unhelpfully, Daphne kept peeking in his direction. But nobody seemed to take notice. 'Anyway, I'm just glad today's a no-training day.'

'What are you talking about?' said Amy with a laugh. 'You've improved big time! We're up more than half a mile since last autumn. And hardly anyone has collapsed these last few runs!'

'If you keep pushing us like that,' said Tracey with a grimace, 'I'll probably never set another foot outside the door for the rest of my life. Your gruelling training regime makes Apparition look attractive.'

'And we've already got the licence, right?' said Hermione. 'Not that it does us much good here in Hogwarts sadly.'

'Oh, right,' said Harry, glancing at his watch. 'Maybe I should quickly pass that test too before my appointment today. Might as well get it out of the way.'

There was an awkward silence until Leo volunteered to say what they all thought. 'That was a touch conceited, Harry.'

'Try obnoxiously big-headed,' said Draco. He was born in June and was therefore the second youngest after Harry in their clique, counting only the third years. Not that Harry could honestly claim to be much older than the siblings. They were born in late September, not even two months after Harry.

'Well, Hermione and I passed perfectly on our first try,' said Tracey with a grin. 'No pressure.'

'We've got some time to kill before the Mudblood lessons and that other business,' said Amy. 'We might as well go. I suppose leering when Malfoy junior flunks it holds some appeal.'

'I'm not going to flunk it!' hissed Draco.

Slightly fewer people than usual made the trip to Hogsmeade. The temperatures were still well below freezing, and icy winds cold enough to rattle the bones swept across the streets. But their group made their way to the village anyway where – to Tracey's and Draco's annoyance – Harry passed his Apparition Licence without apparent effort. Draco passed, too, and he struck a ghastly pose with his right index finger pointed towards the sky and his right hand jauntily on his hip – until Amy whacked him again. Daphne, however, only just bumbled through.

They all stared at her when she re-emerged with a snigger from the test.

'What's up?' said Tracey. 'Did you pass?'

'Yeah.' Daphne, with a wide grin. When they turned the corner, she lifted her robes a few inches. 'I left one of my socks behind, but they didn't notice. I stepped on it when I got back and vanished it just now as I left.'

'Lucky break!' said Amy.

'Congratulations!' said Harry proudly, hugging her.

'Thanks!' She hugged him back and when they parted, she immediately kissed him on the lips with a bright smile. Linking arms with Harry, she whispered, 'At least no panties were lost.'

Harry grinned. 'That would've been bad.'

She leaned over even further, her hot breath tickling his ear. 'Depends on the time and place, don't you think …?'

'You two have been especially annoying these past few days,' said Tracey reprovingly from a few yards away. 'Can't you keep your paws off each other for a few minutes? Come on!'

Tracey yanked Daphne away, who turned around and smiled at Harry as she was led further down the village.

'She's in a good mood today, Daphne,' said Hermione in a quiet voice as she walked up to Harry's now empty side.

'Er, yeah. I reckon so.'

'Despite not getting much sleep, I mean.'

Harry glanced at Hermione from the corner of his eyes. 'You think?'

Hermione smirked back at him. 'Harry?'

'Yes?'

'Just a tip: next time, better hide your shoes, too.'

And with that, she chased after Daphne and Tracey.

'Girls, eh?' said Draco as he caught up to Harry with a laugh. 'Half the time irritating, half the time annoying.'

'Thanks,' said Amy.

Draco froze, turning around with a manic smile. 'I, er, didn't know you were still here.'

'Where else would I be? I've got better things to do than follow Tracey and Daphne to Honeydukes or Gladrags. Come on, let's go grab a Butterbeer. Or go to Dervish and Banges for a quick look?'

'Can't we visit Tomes and Scrolls?' suggested Harry.

'Butterbeer!' said Draco strongly, drawing his mantle closer around him.

'Dervish and Banges!' said Leo. 'I want to browse for a new Exploding Snap deck.'

'In that case, mine is the deciding vote,' said Amy. 'And I vote … Dervish and Banges! My old Sneakoscope is giving up the ghost.'

'Oh, man!' cried Draco, rubbing his hands together. 'Let's hurry it up then!'

Harry accompanied them to the shop for magical objects and repairs, but his interest was limited, and his mind kept wandering to the night before. Not long afterwards, they all met again in front of the Three Broomsticks.

'Right,' said Draco, hopping from one foot to the other. 'So, you got your lessons, right?'

Hermione nodded.

'Be careful, for Cagliostro's sake!'

'Don't eat or drink anything they get for you,' said Leo.

'You should be able to at least detect a basic Legilimency attack by now,' said Tracey. 'If that happens, excuse yourself to the toilet politely – and run like hell. Honestly, that's your best bet.'

'Just … keep your calm,' said Daphne, giving Hermione a quick hug. 'You'll be fine, I know it!'

'Thanks!' Hermione grinned toothily at them in reply. 'Wish me luck. I'll meet you afterwards in here,' she said, pointing towards the pub.

'Hermione,' said Harry. 'I want you to have this.' He produced a small package the size of a mouse, tightly wrapped in brown paper. 'If you think you're in serious trouble or just want to get out of there in a hurry, unwrap it. Otherwise, leave it exactly as it is, understand?'

'Thanks!' She stuffed it down the large pocket of her mantle, careful not to undo the packaging. 'What is it?'

'Just a bit of extra help in case you need it. Best of luck!'

'Thanks, guys. All of you! Well, be seeing you!'

They watched her enter the Three Broomsticks, the honey-coloured glow from the many fires and lanterns going astray in the storm outside that had been gathering for a while.

'It's going to be fine,' said Daphne.

'Hopefully,' said Harry neutrally.

'What did you give her?'

'Oh, a bit of a special Portkey. You won't miss it going off.'

'One of yours?' asked Amy.

'Yes. So it would be better if she didn't get caught with it. Not looking forward to explaining myself to the Department of Magical Transportation … or worse.'

'Where does it send her?' When everyone turned to look at Tracey, who was chittering so hard that bits of snow fell off her cap, she added, 'Well, it obviously can't be sending her back to Hogwarts.'

'It doesn't,' said Harry with a little grin. 'Let's just hope it never comes to that. She might not be very amused. Anyway, we'd better get ready, too. Amy, you know the spot, right?'

'Yeah. I'm gonna get there early. Make sure nothing is lying in wait for us.'

'Like what?' asked Draco. 'A cunningly placed dog treat? A rubber bone underneath the doormat?'

'Shut up, idiot! Besides, the more important person might not be in the right state of mind. Best to take a few precautions. I'd prefer not to curse my cousin once removed.'

'That would indeed be preferable,' said Harry somberly. 'We'll be up there in ten minutes, just like we discussed.'

Amy nodded and, without another word, marched off. Harry's eyes tried to follow her, but she'd only made it a few dozen yards when another crowd of Hogwarts students ran into Harry's field of vision. And when they passed, there was no trace left of Amy.

'How long has she been practising that Disillusionment Charm?' said Daphne next to him with a frown. She had also been trying to watch her leave.

'I honestly don't know.'

'It's p-p-probably best not to ask anyway,' said Tracey, stuttering from the cold and running on the spot to shake off the cold.

'One last thing,' said Harry darkly. 'If there's trouble, do whatever you think is necessary. The gloves,' Harry flexed his wand warm, 'are off. You're seventeen already, Tracey, so don't hold anything back. You, Draco and Leo, try not to go on a rampage in the open. We really don't need the Ministry sniffing around for an excuse to intervene. Stay inside the crowds. Since they went to so much trouble to hide their identities, they might run.'

'Don't worry, Harry,' said Leo. 'You can count on us.'

'Muggle-born babysitters, at your service.' Draco bowed sarcastically. 'Do you guys honestly think they'll try something stupid in the middle of Hogsmeade village?'

'Well, now would be their l-last chance, right?' Tracey patted one of her pockets. It jingled like glass. 'Anyway, I packed a little something just in case. Come see us later. And good luck you two!'

'Yeah, enjoy yourselves,' said Draco. 'Try not to die or something.'

'Very funny.' Harry glared at Draco. 'You try not to indulge too heavily in your lamentable fondness for Butterbeer.'

Daphne and Harry watched them enter the warm glow of the tavern.

'Alone again,' said Daphne as they leisurely strolled in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. 'Normally, I'd be annoyed at how we always tend to split into groups in Hogsmeade, but today?' She turned to smile brightly at Harry, entwining her arms around him.

Harry felt himself get sucked into those ocean-blue eyes. 'I'm not complaining,' he said in a husky voice. 'I've been meaning to do this all morning.'

He put both of his hands on her cheeks and pulled her towards him. Lights danced playfully along the many icicles and frozen ponds. The snow, merrily marching in tune to the melody of the gathering storm, swirled in white spirals and eddies through the crystalline air. The wind howled a lament through the tiniest cracks of the ancient buildings, whistling, screaming as it ripped through the alleys and mess of people. But Harry, at that second, had only eyes for Daphne. Her fiercely, defiantly bright eyes. Her soft, sinfully sweet lips as they parted.

In Harry's eyes, Daphne was all there was.

Memory Lane

Hermione was a great believer in liberty and the freedom of thought and action. Rowle had been useful, she had to grudgingly admit, in more ways than she could have anticipated, but he was also limited by his beliefs, locked in his way of thinking. Hermione wanted to look into her teachers' eyes. She had been grateful to them. To the effortlessly cool Lazarus – his layabout ways notwithstanding – and to Monboglott, who was not only a very strong, independent, and intelligent woman but was also willing to extend a hand to people with a disadvantageous start to their wizarding life.

She had looked up to them.

It was for this reason that she was so incensed. Rowle hadn't been able to find anything technically wrong with the documents but insisted that they were wildly unusual. At the merest mention of the Last Department, he'd gone off on a raging tangent.

'Might as well tell you, seeing as I'm out of that rathole anyway. The thing is, maybe you think they're heroes, right? The good guys. Maybe you think they're fighting for justice, liberty, equality of chance and all that rot.' He had roared with laughter, his hulking body shaking with humourless amusement. 'The sad bit is, they really fight for people like you, Miss Granger. They recruit people like you, too. Bookish Muggle-borns with good grades and lofty ideals. I don't know exactly what it is they're trying to do, and I was never stupid enough to ask. But one thing I know: they are a political arm of the government. It might be best to think of them not as a department at all. They are dreamers, ideologues, and demagogues.

'And,' he had added with a snide grin, 'what have all holier-than-thou do-gooders in common? Huh?! No idea?!' Cackling at her look of defiant confusion, he had added, 'You'll see. You'll learn. Trust me. I'd rather put my life in the hands of a cold-hearted son of a bitch like your good friend Harry Black than open the door of my burning house to Alice Longbottom carrying a bucket of cold water.'

Hermione decided he was an angry, jaundiced old man. Still, she wasn't so arrogant as to dismiss his warnings and genuine terror at the thought of that elusive Last Department. And, given how Tracey had reluctantly revealed that they probably worked to radically transform Britain's political environment, wouldn't that be natural?

The Rowles were a very old family, from what Hermione had found out in the library, though not quite as respected as some of the others. A few of their members had also stood out badly in the test of time, like Damocles Rowle, who had issued the edict to grant the Dementors asylum on Azkaban Island in exchange for their service.

In short, the Rowles were exactly the type of family who would lose the most from radical political change. Their claim to power relied purely on their social esteem and heritage. From what little she could find out, they weren't even as well-off as some of the other pure-blood clans. Their name was their only fortune.

She accepted the fact that if her teachers were, however distantly, involved with the Last Department, she might well be in real danger. But – as she had shouted at her solicitor – Mrs Monboglott and even Lazarus had taught her, taught her so much more than any single book ever could, pointing out little habits, explaining cultural backgrounds, giving her direction on what material she could look up and where.

They had faithfully taught Hermione.

And they had, in all likelihood, betrayed her in the most despicable way.

Resorting to Memory Charms to keep their identities confidential was – in the end – the same for Hermione as obliviating to keep their identities from Hermione. Or even the Department for Magical Law Enforcement.

Either way, it amounted to the same thing. They were obliviating Hermione for their private gains. Maybe Hermione had foolishly consented last summer. Maybe she hadn't. She tended to lean towards the latter. It just didn't quite add up that Hermione had been unaware or obliviated of the fact that there was the real possibility of Obliviations in the first place.

It all hinged on that.

Hermione assumed that her teachers would continue to obliviate her and would consequently take measures to defend herself. Rowle – for all his vicious, small-minded, pusillanimous ways – had been both adamant and surprisingly conscientious when it came to dealing with these countermeasures. He also had, unbeknownst to anyone but Hermione, somehow obtained a round little glass ball that was supposed to tell her if she had been subject to any variant of the Memory Charm within the last week or so.

'How much did it cost?' Hermione had asked in wonder, accepting the perfectly round sphere through the fire.

'Never you mind that. Your friend is paying for all of this. That one was particularly expensive, a magical bauble to be flogged off to tourists.'

'Is it special?'

'Because of the price?' Rowle laughed harshly. 'Not at all.'

Armed with both this handy artefact, the little quill, and the legal document Rowle had provided and explained in excruciating detail, Hermione felt reasonably safe to meet her teachers – no matter how loose their wands might be. If it turned bad, Tracey, Leo, and Draco were just below her in the public parlour of the tavern.

And even in the worst of cases, one more Obliviation wouldn't kill anyone, and she would have proof this time.

The only thought that didn't occur to Hermione at the time was that – in the grand scheme of things – Obliviation is a fairly gentle technique in the hands of an expert to cover one's tracks and obtain information without a witness.

The thought that didn't occur to both Hermione and Thorfinn Rowle was that – if the stakes were high enough – a pushback by Hermione would inevitably be met with even greater force.

Then again, how a middle-level employee from the Ministry and a random Auror could be involved in any charade grand enough to justify limitless escalation, and what they could possibly want from Hermione Granger of all people just didn't make a lot of sense.

At the time.

Memory Lane

Audrea Monboglott and Mr Lazarus were already seated when Hermione entered their private parlour. Mrs Monboglott, wearing a lumpy cotton pullover and a hand-knitted wool scarf, stood up with a smile. 'Hermione! I'm glad you came. I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd called the lessons off. I wanted – at the very least – to deeply, deeply apologise. It couldn't have been easy for you.'

She stood up and bowed reverentially, gracefully lowering her head to almost waist height.

Hermione had only been fully submerged in the Wizarding World for about three years now, but the deferential bow was not without effect. Feeling very awkward and embarrassed, she waved both of her hands. 'No, please don't. I … I'm sorry for overreacting. I was just so angry, and I lost my head over it.'

'Obliviations,' said Monboglott with a sigh as she reluctantly straightened her back, 'are one of the most hateful aspects of wizarding culture. I don't blame you at all, Hermione. Not at all. I work for the Ministry, but I nearly quit out of protest in my early twenties when I learned how widespread their use was.'

'Why didn't you?' asked Hermione curiously. 'Er, if you don't mind me asking.'

'I don't.' Mrs Monboglott smiled, motioning for her to make herself comfortable at the seating arrangement by the fire. 'I thought about quitting for days. But, in the end, we – that is a good friend of mine and I – thought that it wouldn't change anything. My government would still obliviate both non-magicals and magical beings whenever convenient.'

'I thought there were strict rules for those.'

'There are!' said Lazarus with a grin. He was wearing a very thick, durable dark leather coat over some strangely ragged textile Hermione had never seen. 'You all right, Hermione? I'm sorry for all this shit, seriously.'

'Let's just move on from that, please,' said Hermione with a little smile.

'My thoughts exactly!' Mr Lazarus put his heavy boots on the coffee table between their seats, ignoring Mrs Monboglott's glare. 'You're right, though. There are a bunch of stiff rules for Aurors and Obliviators. The use of Memory Charms by what you might call ordinary citizens is even more restricted. But … put two and two together here, Hermione. Ubi non accusator, ibi non iudex and all that. If some vicious pure-blood cunt obliviates someone of no social standing … what do you think happens?'

'Nothing,' said Hermione bitterly. 'Because no one will ever know. Or even care to know.'

'It's got a bit better in the last few years,' said Monboglott. 'But we're still miles away from where we should be. I won't even deny that your suspicions were quite grounded in reality. Many people grumble about the current Minister for Magic, and – to speak plainly – I don't like him very much myself. But one of his better sides is that he positively abhors corruption and illegal practices. And yet, even under his very rigid leadership, there have been a several incidents of what I'd call highly suspicious activities. Sometimes, there is an investigation, but the number of times they come to a conclusive finding is negligible, believe me.'

'Yes, so I've been told,' said Hermione with a sigh. 'As I said, I'd rather we leave this issue behind us for now. Do you mind if I get something to drink downstairs? I'll be back in a second.'

'Of course, Hermione.' Mrs Monboglott smiled a little sadly. 'A little bit of caution never hurt anyone.'

Hermione felt a bit embarrassed that her lingering doubt had been so easily exposed, but she persevered through the awkwardness and went down to the bar to have Tracey order her a drink. When she returned, one of her teachers had raked the coal and stirred up the flames. Their private room, even more so than the bar below, was nice and warm, not to mention the relaxing crackling of the logs and the hissing of the coal.

'Take a seat, Hermione,' said Monboglott heartily. 'Might as well make ourselves comfortable. This winter is especially fierce, don't you think?'

Hermione nodded and took a seat on an old but lovingly restored baroque armchair. 'Before we start, my solicitor wanted me to have you sign these.' She produced a thick bundle of parchments and handed one copy each to Mrs Monboglott and Mr Lazarus. 'I know I said I wanted to leave the issue behind us, but this is for my peace of mind.'

Taken aback, Mrs Monboglott quickly scanned the rather extensive legal act.

Lazarus glanced at it and looked up at Hermione. 'You got a solicitor?' He chuckled. 'You don't mess about, do you, Hermione? Who is it?'

'Would you advise me to tell you this?' asked Hermione with one brow raised.

'No,' said Monboglott at once. 'I wouldn't. But you know this monkey here well enough by now to see that his mouth sometimes lags a few crucial seconds behind his brain. You don't need to tell us at all, my dear. Anyway,' she quickly turned a few pages, 'this seems to be a conditional plea of guilt.'

'Yes. As I said, it's just for my peace of mind. Well, that and my solicitor insisted I do this. He said it wouldn't have any effect whatsoever in case everything stays within the bounds of the law. To protect your identity, I'm legally sworn to confidentiality about this contract – should nothing unforeseen occur.'

'And if it does,' said Monboglott, her eyes a blur, 'it will automatically effect legal action as well as file for independent legal experts to watch over both the proceedings and make sure the provisions for lawsuits against government agents and agencies are met – yes. Let me see here … framework to combat legal blindness … legal actions and representation in case of incapacity … legal custody of documents by extra-national guarantor and so forth. Well,' she said with a grin, looking up at Hermione. 'Your solicitor is a nasty piece of work, but I can't fault his line of reasoning.'

Hermione handed her a dark quill with a strangely elongated, blade-like tip. 'Of course, seeing as how you're working with aliases by necessity, you'll have to sign with this. The spell on the parchment will render your true names invisible to everyone but the signatory. There is a second blank space,' Hermione pointed towards a little section further up, 'for you to test the effect of the spell and – if necessary – erase it. The entirety of the contract, or so I'm informed, will only take effect if you sign the last page. This will allow the both of you to verify the efficacy of the charm to each other, too.'

'How much did you pay your solicitor?' asked Lazarus, whistling appreciatively as he flicked through the appendix which contained the legal foundation and other pertinent information. 'No! That wasn't a serious question, don't worry. But I wouldn't mind if our legal department was this waspish.'

Hermione smiled but didn't answer. Rowle had, very pointedly, made it clear that he'd never accept another mandate in Britain after this one. Whatever Harry had done to assure his allegiance (and Hermione was positive she never wanted to find out) Rowle was on his way out, and this was his last stop.

'Do you mind if we discuss this for a second, Hermione?'

'Oh, not at all. We could also continue this lesson some other time if you want your own legal advice first?'

'No, that's fine,' said Monboglott. 'Technically speaking, I have a doctoral degree in law myself – though I never made an attempt or had any inclination to pass the bar. Just give us a second, all right?'

'Of course,' said Hermione, wondering who in the world got a doctoral degree in law if they had no interest in either the practical applications or – much more likely – an interest in an academic career. She watched Monboglott briskly wave her wand and point out a few legal clauses, talking behind her hand to Lazarus. Sound, Hermione realised, had been turned off.

She took a quick sip from her hot pumpkin juice and thought about all the different scenarios Rowle and her had come up with. Some had been rather bizarre in that special pure-blood paranoia way, but later on, Tracey had privately assured – or rather worried – her that the solicitor hadn't been barking mad after all. Nervously, her hands met the strange little object Harry had given her earlier.

There was a tiny little splosh from the direction of the coffee table that made Hermione snap her head around. For a heartbeat, she nervously eyed her drink. But then she noticed that Lazarus had dropped a fizzy tablet in his glass of water.

Hermione stared at it until the effervescent tablet dissolved within twenty seconds.

'Okay, done,' said Mrs Monboglott with a smile.

Their Privacy Charm had to have been undone.

'What happens now?' asked Hermione, her fingers on her wand within her cloak.

'We go right ahead, of course.' To Hermione's amazement, Mrs Monboglott grabbed the Blood Quill and signed with a flourish.

Hermione stared at the signature with incredulity. There was a sudden flash of light and Hermione knew that a second copy of the contract had been magically lodged at a safe place. That, too, had been stipulated as a matter of course.

'I'm afraid I can't though,' said Lazarus with a disappointed sigh. 'Sorry, Hermione, really. In my department, we're prohibited from signing things like this without formal legal counselling by our legal experts. Even if I send it over now, those old farts won't get back to me until tomorrow at the earliest. And I assume you don't want me here without the signature, right?'

With a painful little smile, Hermione shook her head. 'Sorry. It's just … my solicitor insisted.' Which was a convenient lie that had the benefit of, while fairly transparent, being hard to disapprove.

'It's all right. I understand. This is what these lessons are for, right? To give you a fighting chance in this madhouse of a country. It'd be a bit hypocritical of us to protest you being cautious – especially in light of what happened.' He chugged the contents of his glass in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 'No hard feelings.'

He held out his hand, and Hermione, after a second of hesitation, shook it. 'See you next time, Hermione.'

'Yes! Until then.'

Lazarus nodded towards both of them and left with a whirl of his cloak.

'Well, now it's just us women.' Mrs Monboglott took a swig of her steaming tea and leaned back with an air of relaxation. Hermione, with a little grin, followed her example. 'In some ways, I dare say this will make things easier.'

Hermione laughed, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice. In a strange way, she felt instantly more relaxed. So much more relaxed. As if an entire world of worries and concerns had left her. Mrs Monboglott had signed – and with the right quill. Hermione had been careful about that.

It wasn't something Rowle had predicted, and Hermione couldn't help feeling smug about proving the pure-bloods – and Harry, naturally – wrong yet again.

'This is a big weight off my shoulders,' admitted Hermione. 'These last couple of days have been stressful.'

'I can imagine,' replied Monboglott kindly. 'I wouldn't compare our situation to yours, don't get me wrong, but we've had a certain level of uneasiness, too. The Ministry isn't a very friendly workplace for those who shed a bad light on the entire organisation.'

'That makes sense.' Hermione stared at the roaring fire in the hearth. It was almost too warm for comfort now. She took another sip of her drink and relaxed again. With a happy little sigh, she held the mug in both hands in front of her.

'It's been a while since our last meeting. How is life in the castle?'

'It's okay, I guess…' They chatted a little while Hermione's thoughts raced. Thinking back to this morning, it had been a shock to recognise Harry's shoes in their dormitory. She hadn't yet told him so – he deserved to stew a bit – but she'd been the first one awake and had been kind enough to push them completely underneath the bed.

Hermione didn't approve at all of Daphne inviting Harry up into their dormitory, but she also grudgingly concluded that it wasn't much of her business what she and Harry did – even if it was technically against the school rules. At least, so long as they kept it between them, it wasn't really hurting anyone. And so, she'd resolved to keep the existence of their love nest to herself for now.

Hermione took another sip, revelling in the soothing relief of her beverage.

'How do you feel about their relationship?' asked Mrs Monboglott.

Hermione didn't know how to answer that. In a way, she had been happy for Daphne. Her friend had finally been able to let go of her almost pathological fixation on Harry. But, in the end, that had only resulted in the deepening of their emotional involvement, so she couldn't help asking herself if that hadn't been Daphne's goal all along.

'People grow up,' said Mrs Monboglott with a kind little nod. 'I think someone might have sat down with your friend and set her head straight. Her mother, maybe. Ophala, I believe. Do you know anything about her?'

Hermione stared almost transfixed at the fire. The roaring flames, the wild shapes that danced in the fire, the lively colours; it was almost … hallucinogenic in its overwhelming splendour.

'Nothing much. Daphne's spoken of her family a few times, of course. Her mother seems like an open-minded, strong person with a big heart.'

Hermione blinked, staring with confusion at the fire.

'Something wrong, Hermione?' asked Mrs Monboglott, taking another sip of her tea.

Hermione mirrored her and relief instantly washed over her. She was feeling very relaxed. She was feeling very at home. She was feeling so glad to let her guard down.

'What do you know about Harry's friends' childhoods? I'm sure it must've been very interesting from your perspective.'

'Oh, yes!' And just how fascinating it had been! Leo had let slip some comments that had made Hermione think that the twins might not have had the best environment growing up, which unsettled her. Leo, despite it all – in clear contrast to his sister – was warm-hearted when you got to know him. She wanted to be there for him.

Hermione blinked, tangled in her thoughts. Had she just thought that – or been speaking?

Following her vis-a-vis, she took another sip.

Of course, Draco never really talked about his home, which she'd always found ever so odd. He was the most exuberant of all of her friends by far, but his home life remained a closed book. Tracey, Hermione gathered, had an easy childhood. Her parents worked at the Ministry, they were reasonably well off, and – not least of all – since her father was a Muggle-born, Tracey was very much at home with modern non-magical technology.

Hermione stared down at her trembling cup. Both of her hands were trembling.

And Daphne? Hermione got the impression she had been a wilful child – in some ways she had been until very recently after all. And despite what Tracey had privately told her, Hermione still thought the younger Daphne had to have been a bit of a tomboy. If tomboys could be self-absorbed little princesses that is. Still, despite her somewhat more … ample figure, she had been able to keep up with Amadina's martyrdom of a training regime. And that scar on her arm probably also meant that she had to be a lot tougher than her looks suggested.

'Scar?' asked Monboglott. 'She's got a scar?'

Hermione stared at her wildly shaking cup of pumpkin juice. Her hands were vibrating so hard, she'd spilt half of her drink over the antique armchair.

Opposite her, Mrs Monboglott, with very exaggerated movements, took another sip of her tea, and automatically, Hermione's arms forced the cup to her lips. In the reflection of the dregs that remained, Hermione thought she saw tears in her own eyes.

'The scar,' prompted Mrs Monboglott calmly.

Trying to separate her feelings and thoughts with every last ounce of her mental strength, Hermione, with a migraine-inducing effort, finally heard her thoughts flow out of her mouth. It was clear, dull, and monotonous, but it was her voice leaking out of her consciousness. Without any of Hermione's direction.

'I saw it early this year. I'd never seen it before. A long, brutal gash from the palm of her hand almost to her shoulder.'

Mrs Monboglott stared at her.

On the inside, Hermione screamed, raged, cursed against the confines of her mind, but her voice betrayed her memory yet again. 'It looked like a cut from a knife or blade. Which is strange because why hadn't they healed it up? Only cursed wounds can't be healed by healing magic immediately, right? And why did she hide it underneath a charmed bandage? I hadn't seen it before this year.'

'Do you know where Daphne was last summer?'

'At Harry's.'

The cup in Hermione's hand shattered, her entire arm was shaking like the epicentre of an earthquake, and her fingers cramped excruciatingly. Her muscles were flexed to the point of pain as several shards buried themselves in Hermione's skin.

But Mrs Monboglott was too transfixed to notice. Her eyes were bulging. An expression of raw rapture contorted her face.

Some minuscule measure of control returned to Hermione with her rising panic and the pain from the wounds in her hand. The broken, brown cup. Brown. Like brown paper. Wrapping paper.

Slowly, fighting every inch of the way, she shoved her hand with all her might into the mantle pocket.

With a jubilant outcry, Mrs Monboglott stood up. 'Excellent, Hermione, very well done! I'll leave the room for a little while. But I want you to tell me everything that's ever happened to you from the age of six to the age of sixteen in as much detail as possible. You can gather your thoughts while I'm gone, I'll be back in a little while.'

Mrs Monboglott noticed the broken cup. For a second, she stared. Then her head snapped up, towards the agonised, silent look of terror and hatred on Hermione's face, tears falling from her puffy, red eyes all over her face. Monboglott's eyes flew to the mantle pocket in which one of the girl's arms was rummaging.

With a yell, the woman jumped from her seat – but already Hermione's fingertips peeled the brown paper from the item within even as her former teacher lunged at her.

With the following shrill whistle, burning white light, and the thunderous roar of a cannon that shattered the windows, Hermione was torn away, slipping through outstretched arms.

The gathering storm outside had almost reached its peak. The racing mountains of grey-blue clouds and the faint orange glow that only hinted at the sun beyond painted the storm as a champion of tempests holding a grudge. Far from snow or other mundane precipitation, it looked like it would beget lightning, thunder, hail, and misery.