This is a fan work. I don't own the copyright to Harry Potter. She-Who-Should-Stop-Tweeting does, but I also don't spend millions trying to hurt trans folks, so...


Week Two


Daphne slides her robes off her left shoulder, clutching them to her breast but baring her back.

"Well, Pansy?"

"It might be a Beltane blemish, sure. You sure it's not centaur itch?" Pansy teases. "Care of Magical Creatures takes us close to the groves."

Irreverent whore. What I wouldn't give to be yearmates with a handmaiden from a different cadet house...

"Positive," she replies in her best imitation of Snape's soulless, dull tone.

"Then yes. It's a blemish. Bright, too. Have you let it go a while, then? If I had that, I'd be trying to shag a statue."

"Singularly unhelpful suggestion, Parkinson."

"Blaise is..." Pansy chuckles. "Sufficient, I am told."

The fact that she recommends him, not Draco, tells far too much about her. Either she does not realize the implied insult to her presumptive betrothed, or she does not realize that Tracey's secrets are sacred to Daphne, but keeping Pansy's confidence is a matter of convenience. Pansy is not a Slytherin by cunning so much as by connections and lack of scruples.

Daphne hums.

"I will think on it. Not a word, to anyone."

Pansy slides the robe up Daphne's shoulder and refastens the clasp. "As you say, liege-lady. Five minutes until I escort you to Charms."

"Leave me."

She waits for the click-click-click of Pansy's heels-Muggle-made high heels, though Pansy would swear on her life they're not-to fade before flicking her wand at the door to seal it and lifting her knees to her chest. Outside her bedroom, the giant squid glides lazily through the shallows, darting this way and that to avoid the spears of mermaids.

A week ago, this would've been simple enough. Ask Tracey and Blaise to help her through a night, trusting Tracey's love-it might well be love, she hasn't guarded herself there-to keep her warm and Tracey's protectiveness to restrict Blaise to those acts that scratch the itch but preserve her marriageability. Not cold, but not so tender as to entangle herself.

Then Potter had to go and have a baby mailed to him and instantly snap into the role of a protective, doting father: Shouldering the sleeplessness with a set jaw and straight back, carrying her to class, casting a one-way silencing charm with his offhand and using a dicta-quill so he can always have her in his arms.

The perfect nursemaid, really. Lets no one else's magic near her. Cleaning charm? He casts it. Flame-sparrow enchantment on the handle of her basket to amuse her? He carved it, which is no mean thing, for a fifth-year. Sleep-tight charm? He casts it, and Molly Weasley taught him the damn thing, judging by its power. Lucky little girl. Every time she feels magic, she'll feel love. Daphne's mother rarely cast her nursery charms, and she still knows how much she is loved.

He takes bottles and nappies from a familiar-looking house-elf that's practically vibrating with glee. She's seen the elf before, but not bound to Potter. Granger's doing, perhaps, with her little crusade. Rebinding an elf is no small thing. Granger's success isn't surprising-failure would be surprising when it comes to her-but unsettling all the same.

The poor boy cannot get through October without upsetting the entire school, although an uninvited preview of Potter the Father is less terrifying than the Triwizard Tournament. But why is he so kind to a child so dark? He's Dumbledore's man, and Ron Weasley is his best friend. Ronald is the only Gryffindor boy rude enough to feign illness at the sight of her. Her looks buy her at least polite silence with the rest.

Does Potter not not know the child is dark? Even if the mother had knocked him out and bred herself while he was unconscious, he should be able to sense the babe's magic. How could he not? She'd learned how to read an aura while playing with her cousins when she was six. Muggle-raised or not, surely someone caught Potter up by now? The littlest Weasley, if nothing else. Her intentions towards him are as transparent as her hair is red, though at least she has straightened herself out from that pitiful infatuation from her first and second year. Embarrassment to witch-kind, that.

Harry must know the child's nature. Unless the Headmaster's manipulations are worse than the rumors say...

She's greeted every pureblood child younger than she is, Dark, Light and Neutral, and danced with all but a few of the heirs. She's tasted Selwyn magic, and that of Bones, Avery, MacMillian, Nott, Malfoy, Abbot, Yaxley, Rosier...but not that. Not that smoky, salty-bitter taste on that child's skin. The discordant notes of magic were like a violin crescendo in her ears, jagged and fast. So the child was from the Dark. Her mother was pureblood too, unless Potter's seed is far, far stronger than anyone anticipated. The babe's aura is too contained for a Muggle-born mother. Her power clings close to the skin, rather than drifting off like fog or steam, like Granger's does. Even as a baby, her magic feels like tracing a fingertip down the coil of a sharpened spring.

Her blemish puts a hurry on things that she'd rather avoid. She can't wait long for a good, draining shag, and simply tackling him won't work. If Potter were vulnerable to a woman's charms, he'd have been in broom closets more than classrooms and likely have more than one bastard in a basket. She could owl her father and ask him to send her a pass to the brothel in Dublin, perhaps. Her cousin is always willing to supervise and keep things in bounds, even if she's slung her legs over her favorite stud.

Or she could owl Potter's guardian. She'd have competition, of that she has no doubt. Potter tends to be polite-almost too polite, house-elf polite-he lacks the unsettling habits of the Great Ginger Maw of Gryffindor, and Quidditch has been good to him. That would get him any heiress in Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and more than a few Ravenclaws. If the Ministry's bald-faced assassination attempt has any basis in rational thinking, someone highly placed feels he has the power to be a threat in a world where the next conflict will obviously be between titans like Dumbledore and Voldemort. The temptation of a powerful, unattached man in need of an ally ought to pique the interest of any girl in Slytherin, but the house seems to have degraded since her mother's day, just as Daphne was warned it would.

From what she's put together at a distance-no thanks to Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley's tireless work to divide the houses-the Ravenclaws, Gryffindors and the Slytherins who don't think anyone is looking agree that Potter is powerful.

Try as Malfoy might to suppress it, rumor started spreading in fourth year that Potter had cast a Patronus. Last spring, a trio of second years caught out in a rainstorm told her they saw a silver stag galloping around the Forbidden Forest and followed it to the edge. Peacocking with light magic, just as Draco tried and failed to do with Fiendfyre at summer solstice.

Knight in shining armor, Patronus in shining...everything. Most people don't cast Patronuses just to cheer themselves up, it's far too tiring. So the stag has to be Potter's. The Light has a few does to offer him, though she suspects he's only familiar with Weasley, and perhaps the Patil sorted in Gryffindor. So insulated is he in his house that she doubts he's aware of Susan Bones' or Hannah Abbot's existence. A lucky thing, because she'd never win that race against an allied house. The only house more aligned with Potter than Bones or Abbott would be Longbottom. The youngest Weasley's ire felt like a dragon's breath, though Harry's half-step in front of Ginny reminded her more of Ron protecting Ginny than a suitor's gesture. Or perhaps Daphne is seeing what she wishes were true.

She's more worried about the Patils. Her bridegroom gains access not only to her exotic beauty, but libraries, grimoires and family potions dating back to the first wizards in the Indus Valley, before Muggles had planted a single crop. Next to that, the oldest Greengrass family grimoire seems positively infantile, and that nasty old thing has a bookmark made of the hair of a Roman sorcerer-general that her ancestors defeated and is bound in the hide of his horse.

Patil, if he's smart enough to look past color.

Weasley, if he's a romantic, or likes some fire in his women.

Perhaps even the obvious suspect, Granger...

Daphne chuckles.

Hopefully, she is not the marrying type. Whether or not she's a witch's witch, Daphne would be surprised if Granger's to-do list included marriage. She's brilliant, and she's driven. Going by her academic ambition and spitting rage whenever someone stands up in the Great Hall and announces a marriage offer, Daphne doubts that Granger's own mother merely married and kept a house. That was not womanhood as Granger was taught. Her mother worked, most likely. If Granger the Elder married Hermione's father, it was not for status. Or at least, not the kind of status wizards care about. Perhaps the elder Granger even married for love? Just took from him as needed and raised her witch-to-be alone? Or loved, birthed and raised, paired without marrying? She's heard that such things happen. Such strange beings, Muggles!

Potter will need a wife. If it came down to it, the Wizengamot would seize a witch for Potter under the old laws rather than risk losing the line. Merlin, they'd declare him incompetent if need be, give his wife the reins until she had quickened.

After the Prophet's slander and the hearing before school, Harry's first impulse will be to thumb his nose, marry the person they hate the most-no better choice than Granger, since the swotty little thing is both fearless of pure-bloods and disdainful of the Ministry-which will serve nothing. Granger as Potter's shrew wife and puppet-master closes their ears. Granger on his arm is little better. A solstice dance is a wild and dangerous place, and wolves with their hackles up cannot be trained. Granger sneaking into his bed, whispering in his ear? That might be a boon, not a bane.

Granger will need more tending than the average witch simply to ground her mind, let alone her magic. But Pansy's not sure she's the marrying sort, and Morgana knows Pansy's usually right about that sort of thing, if nothing else. If Granger is not the marrying sort, and Pansy pulls her overly coiffed head out of her ass-she's too old to think that insults count as flirting-then Daphne can make something truly marvelous of this. It will be a tangle, to be sure. Jealousy. Passion, mad duels and madder lovemaking.

Torrid love affairs are never simple. What fun would that be?

Pansy's heels click-click-click back into her world, jarring her from her thoughts. She holds out an arm.

"To Charms, my Lady?"

"Thank you, Heiress Parkinson."

How in Salazar's dragging balls am I going to get Potter alone? Daphne wonders.


Delores flings her office door open and slams it behind her. The utter gall of that little girl. She'd expected Harry Potter to be a problem-that's why she's here-and getting him detention was child's play.

But she hadn't planned on wasting time on his little mudblood sidekick. Asking questions, correcting the textbook-it's the textbook for a reason!-refusing every detention with a chapter-and-page citation of the Hogwarts bylaws, not even saying 'have a good day, Professor' at the end of class. And she saw Potter sling his arm around her after class, making a joke and getting shoved away with a chuckle.

He may be easily misled, but Potter is of good stock. His father made a mistake, but Lily Evans can't have been entirely useless. She bred the Boy-Who-Lived. A matter of the seed and not the field, perhaps. A pureblood wife redeems the Potter line in the eyes of all but the Notts and Blacks. Proper feminine influence in his life will make him a great asset to the Ministry. He'll back Fudge until he retires, and then back her, and she will build the greatest nation the Wizarding World has ever seen.

But the mudblood is too clever to be approached directly. She's likely whoring herself out to the boy-what does she have to lose? her good name?-and a boy his age is easily controlled. But if she starts asking the other girls, the mudblood will hear of it and wise up.

She grabs a fistful of floo powder and flings it into the fire.

"Minister of Magic!"

Fudge's face flickers into the flames. His citrus-yellow sleeping cap is askew, and he's set down a tumbler of liquor to answer his floo.

"Yes, Dolores? Why are you calling at this unholy hour?"

What can I say? Because it took six hours to find out the bitch had the rules on her side?

"Well, I never!"

Fudge chuckles.

"You're a good friend, Delores, but there is a breaking point. Remember that."

He takes a long sip and waves his hand.

"Bah! Don't mind an old man cranky for lack of a nightcap. Go on. What news?"

"Potter. He's too close to the mudblood girl. She's controlling him. Whoring herself out, I just know it." She taps her fingers on a button on her cardigan. There's a loose thread. That will not do!

"Speaks French, I've learned. Must be a spy. She can't be a mudblood. She's too smart."

The Minister sighs and scrubs his fingers across his temples.

"Delores, we've spoken about using that word. It's crass. Besides, it makes you look singleminded where you want to be practical. I won't have my Ministry turned into an inquisition and a butcher's shop."

"So the girl's parents were Muggles!" He chuckles. "Mine couldn't strike a good deal to save their lives! Yours were a tailor and a cobbler. Kept a little shop on Knockturn, as I recall. Your mother loathed pink."

How dare he compare me to that girl? As if she's bettered herself? Filth cannot be bettered.

"I-"

She clears her throat.

"Be that as it may. We need to separate them. We can't have him this close to the girl or to Dumbledore."

Fudge nods.

"I leave the details to you. What have you learned about the child?"

"Nothing," Delores admits. "Dumbledore won't say a word. I've asked to speak to Potter's legal guardian. Sirius Black's his godfather and Alice Longbottom's his godmother. With them out of the picture, Dumbledore claims that he speaks for the current guardian. I tried to inspect the child, but Potter does not let her out of his sight. His doting has gotten the notice of every seventh-year in the castle, I think. Every little brat in Slytherin's NEWT class was daydreaming about being the mother of the Potter heir."

"Not exactly surprising." Fudge chuckles. "He's of good breeding. Handsome enough lad. Perfectly capable wizard, to judge by the tournament his third year. If he can get these wild tales out of his head, he'd be quite an eligible bachelor. Which, I remind you, is why you're there. I could've sent Mafalda Hopkirk or Percy Weasley for the school's five-year accreditation. I sent you to get Potter on our side and out from under Dumbledore's skirts."

She huffs.

"I did overhear some fourth years saying the child is from a Dark family. Dumbledore will want it smothered in its crib when he finds out. I can use that as a wedge between him and Harry."

"That's new information, Delores. Well done."

Excitement rips up her spine.

"But it's not much, I'm afraid. The Greengrasses are Dark, by who they vote with. Parkinsons, but are they voting for themselves or on the orders of the Greengrasses? Alastor bloody Moody , if you go by his family magics and the letter of the law. Davises, and they're brewers, for Merlin's sake. But they're not exactly the Lestranges or the Blacks, now are they?"

"No," she admits.

"Do they think the child is pureblood?"

She nods. Fudge leans back in his armchair and swirls the dregs of his brandy.

"Interesting. Is she Potter's? Youthful indiscretion? A relative? Goddaughter? Ward?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Potter's grandmother was a Black," Fudge muses. "That might explain it. The girl could be from the French branch. Maybe the Italian. They've had a rough few years. Might have sent her to be raised by Potter for the good press. I'm on good terms with the Italian patriarch. I'll make inquiries there."

He sets the tumbler down and picks up his wand.

"Figure out who the child's mother is. If she's not dead, get her betrothed to Potter immediately. Hopefully, she has a father or a brother who is of age. We need to get Potter under control, but it would be a feather in our cap if we had someone on the Potter seat in the Wizengamot. If you can't find the mother, just pick a girl. I'll speak to Carrow and Malfoy in the morning."

He flicks his wand and leaves her staring into fading green flames.


AUTHOR'S NOTE

The following section contains sexual content/themes, including sexual activity between young and non-married individuals (can't believe I'm having to mark that as a "fetish") which is a thing in thousands of accepted HP stories, but judging by reviews and PMs is literally the most evil thing ever when I do it. I'm a big believer in reviewing implementation, not content. Let's assume that the plot and events didn't happen by accident. I put in what I meant to put in.

If rather than "this was done well" or "this was not done well" if review boils down to "this scene exists"...

At any rate, I'm putting this disclaimer in hopes of letting people skip it and maybe not getting slammed with reviews freaking out / chastising me / calling the entire story garbage owing merely to the existence of this one scene. If you want to skip it, that's great. You do you!


BEGIN SEXUAL CONTENT
(skip to "END SEXUAL CONTENT" if you want)

Summary: Blaise assists Tracey and Daphne with a routine sexual ritual witches engage in to stabilize their magic and protect their mental health. Wizarding culture has adapted to it, making widespread use of contraceptive potions, and in the case of pureblood girls under marriage/chastity stipulations, no penetrative activity. This alteration as to how magic works is relevant to the plot, in particular to the implementation of the marriage law trope.


Tracey yawns against Daphne's back and murmurs something in Gaelic, sliding a hand around her hipbone to fit herself closer.

Blaise Zabini slumps against the headboard, utterly conquered. His still hard cock twitches and shivers, drizzling the last of his seed down the length. She rubs her slick fingers together, glancing at the strands that join them before muttering the Witches' Chant. Every drop of his seed vanishes in a flash of bruise-purple smoke. She feels a hot spike in her back, where the blemish had been, and magic flickering from her hair to the soles of her feet. Tracey presses a kiss to the spot.

"Gods, woman..." He chuckles. "Ten minutes, and you've ruined me for life."

He throws his arm across his eyes.

"Woe! No joy can be found in marriage, nor in all the wenches in the lands! For I have met the sea, and feasted mine eyes on the goddess on the half-shell, and she has thrown me back! I die, I die! Woe betide!"

"Exit, stage left," Tracey grumbles. "I'm busy snuggling."

She yawns, and a hand slides up to cup Daphne's breast. "Cushy." If there are sweeter things than fucked-out Tracey Davis clinging to her and talking nonsense, Daphne's yet to find them.

"I should check on Theo," Blaise agrees, tapping a long and talented finger-the effects of it on her clit still ripple through her body-on his chin. "He pines so."

"Why aren't you taking him to the Continent to make an honest wizard of him, Blaise? There's nothing stopping you in France, or Italy, or Prussia, even. The Czechs are talking about making it legal, too."

"Any other man, yes. You can't take a Nott to get married overseas. Little precaution they put in. Wrote the Pure-Blood Directory, old Cantankerous Nott did. Did you know that?"

"I do, seeing as how I had to memorize it before I was five."

He flashes a shark's grin: Toothy and dangerous and enough to make a girl wet.

"Oh, darling. Mother let me work on it until I was nine."

"Well," Daphne muses, waving at his half-soft cock. "Couldn't spare much meat for the brain, with that."

He barks a laugh.

"Too true! Ah, I shall miss these trysts, when your schemes inevitably bear fruit and some hopelessly overwhelmed man finds himself Mr. Daphne Greengrass. I'll envy him for the marvelous view, but I don't envy his workload."

She arches her brow.

"Takes more than you realize to please a witch of your caliber, Daphne. I'm fit to sleep till Tuesday after just this. Just from tasting you and a few minutes of that lovely hand of yours. Why do you think I didn't let you return the favor early on?"

Because the exchange was too lopsided. The extra gift he'd make to me while I wanked him would be too much. He's a better friend than I gave him credit for.

"Oh."

"Silly witch. You'll ruin the lucky bastard on your wedding night. Go to bed with a wizard, wake up with a half-starved squib."

He scoops his trousers off the chair by the bed and slides into them. He bows with a courtier's flourish and a jester's mocking.

"It was my duty to raise the power of the Witch, and my honor to taste of the Goddess and this I have done. So I swear."

"I take your flesh and your power as the gifts they were. No harm shall befall you from my words, my wand, my brews or my blade till next I entreat the Goddess. So mote it be."

"So mote it be." He flashes another grin and traces the pad of his finger along the ring on her left hand; still sparkling with goblin-made polishes. "Congratulations, Countess Greengrass."

"Heir Zabini."


END SEXUAL CONTENT


Harry unrolls his copy of the Daily Prophet, glances at the front page to be sure he's not blown up Spain or summoned a demon or destroyed all cheese or who knows what awfulness, then goes back to his toast.

Hermione unrolls hers, then slams her fist down and draws her wand.

"I need to calm down, so I'm going to kill someone. Suggestions?"

"Malfoy," Ron suggests through half a sausage. "Or Snape."

The tips of her hair curl and curl and curl, throwing sparks like a wire brush. Something that looks like liquid copper drips from the tip of her wand and Seamus yelps, wiggling further down the bench.

"Did I miss something?" Harry yawns.

"Page six."


Marriage Law Passes in a Landslide!

Barnabus Cuffe, Managing Editor

In a midnight session of the Wizengamot, the Protection and Assurance of the People Act ("PAPA") passed the Wizengamot 68-22 despite protests from various blocks and threats of censure from the International Confederation of Warlocks.

The concern about a declining number of pureblood births and a sharp rise in Muggle-born births dates back to 1757 with the fornication and bastardy trials of Wilbur "Wench's Bane" Potter and Henry "Longspear" Longbottom and the research that followed. Researchers in the Department of Mysteries has worked on the issue ever since, and their most current findings are that given declining births, plummeting rates of male heirs, and losses from the war, within three generations, the Sacred Twenty-Eight will be extinct through lack of heirs and dissolution into Muggle-born marriages.

A marriage law has been debated intermittently for some time. Pressure to pass it first rose in 1943, hoping the fine witches of Britain would be carrying heirs when their husbands left to fight Grindelwald. The law was defeated, largely because the marriages were already happening. The heroism of our own Chief Warlock, Albus Dumbledore and his defeat of Grindelwald quickly rendered the issue moot.

Interest in the law re-surged during the reign of terror of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, which saw four of the Sacred Twenty-Eight's male lines (Avery, Bones, Rosier, Prewett) extinguished and left others represented only by widowers and prisoners forbidden to inherit (Crouch, Lestrange), along with the loss of many less-notable but still-honorable families such as the McKinnons.

Attempts to pass the law in the fall session in 1982 were rebuffed by then-Auror Captain Amelia Bones, with the infamous "Shaking the Bones" speech which made the topic untouchable. Her unvarnished language and harsh accusations earned her the Laurel of Circe from the Hellenic Covens, Speaker for the Daughters from the Druidic Council of Ireland, a Freya's Cross sponsored by the Seiðrdottirs of Iceland, a Plume of Steel from the Veela clans, as well as a Cluster of Ashes, Second Rank from the Salem Witches' Institute.

The law was introduced this session following the death of several heirs of pureblood families in the last year, most notably the suspicious death of Walden McNair two days after the Triwizard Tournament. When re-introduced, it was amended, with new strictures and some reforms to its terms.

Under the law, any heir or heiress of breeding age (13 for females, 15 for males) and pure bloodlines who cannot produce a signed, verified contract and marriage note by Samhain Eve will be assigned a betrothed by the Ministry's Office of Records and Directories in consultation with Witches' Healers from St. Mungo's. Muggle-born males are exempt from the act, as are any females below fourth year (their magic, obviously, may not be lasting) as well as any who are of known ill-repute.

Prestige will be honored to the greatest extent possible, with pureblood partners reserved for purebloods, half-bloods for half-bloods or Muggle-born, and Muggle-born drawing from whatever pool remains.

Following marriage, couples will have one year to provide proof of pregnancy.

Failure to comply will be punished by imprisonment in Azkaban. Attempts to flee the country will cause seizure of assets and the confiscation and destruction of wands.

This paper understands that this news may be shocking and takes no pleasure in any discomfort it may cause. It is, however, our sacred duty to the wizards and witches of Britain to report the news. We will do our part to ease this transition. Expect directories of wedding planners, dressmakers, jewelers and other professionals in the days to come, offering all the services you need to ensure your blessed day is perfect.

Blessed be to all,

Barnabus Cuffe, proud husband of Amelia Cuffe née Avery


Around him, murmurs ripple through the Great Hall like an icy breeze. Gryffindors mostly look surprised. Hufflepuffs are shrugging, showing each other new ways to mix jam on toast, and laughing. Quite a few Muggle-born there, and every one of them would do anything for any other Puff. Must be nice.

Except for Luna who's being Luna and making her hot chocolate's froth dance, and Morag MacDougal, who's twirling a short dagger between her fingers and gritting her teeth, the Ravenclaw table seems to have shrugged it off.

The Slytherin table is the most interesting. Milicent Bulstrode is beaming-maybe she wouldn't have gotten a husband any other way-Crabbe and Goyle are looking off into space, and what Ron calls the "Four Devils"-Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, Tracey Davis, and Pansy Parkinson-are leaning close to whisper to each other. The Carrow twins are shivering and looking around at older boys with wide eyes. Worrying which one they'll get, maybe?

Harry looks past a shaking Hermione who is being restrained by Ginny and all three chasers from the Gryffindor team-Angelina looks like she's ready to bolt-and scans the staff table. Dumbledore looks like he found a lemon candy too potent even for his taste. McGonagall looks like Hermione does, but she's dunked her wand in her tea, which is boiling over. Snape...Harry's got no idea what that look means on Snape.

Umbridge giggles.


"It's legalized rape, is what it is!" she huffs, clearing the second-floor corridor as she stomps her way to Transfiguration with the boys scrambling behind her. Harry's barely keeping pace. He can't run; it would jostle Delphini's basket. She's picked up their mood, and the instant the silencing charm drops, they'll all get an earful.

"You're right brilliant. You'll get out of it. I'm more worried about getting stuck with Big Bulstrode or Broomstick Brocklehurst, to be honest."

She wheels around on him.

"How old am I, Ronald Bilius Weasley?"

"Err, fifteen, like us."

"Sixteen, because I started a year later, because I wasn't eleven on September 1st."

"Oh, right."

"So I'm sixteen, past my fourth year, and not of 'ill repute'." She spits the last two words. "And you know full well that some limp-dicked, empty-headed, smelly arsehole in Slytherin will bribe someone to make sure that Malfoy, or Goyle or some lunatic draws my name."

It's not hard to imagine what they'd do to her. Even if a child is required...it's not as if they need all her limbs to breed her. Or her teeth. They'd probably leave her eyes, so she can see what's happening.

"'Mion-"

"Don't you 'Mione' me, Harry James Potter! Or should I say Earl Harry James Potter? Ought to work out great for you! Hedwig will need an entire flock of owls to carry the offers."

"Do you think I want this? I'm fifteen, Hermione! Fifteen! Nine days ago, I..."

He gestures at the basket, panting.

"Dobby."

He pops in behind them, making Ron miss a trick step and go flying. Hermione flicks a lifting charm at him without turning around. Ron croaks out his thanks.

"Great Wizard Harry Potter is calling for Dobby?"

"Could you please take Delphini somewhere safe? Tonks' mum, maybe?"

Dobby's eyes fill with tears. Hermione can hear her blood sizzle in her ears.

How dare he treat Dobby like that?

"Harry Potter is trusting Dobby with the little mistress?"

Dobby does a little dance from foot to foot and pulls on his ears, grinning wide.

Oh.

"I trust you, Dobby." He waggles a finger. "But no cursed bludgers or flying cakes. She's too young. I think maybe take her to Tonks' mum?"

He turns to her. She knows that look. It's his look for 'be mad at me later, I need your help now' and damn it; it works on her.

"Yeah, she's the best. Let me write a note."

They turn back to head to class when they catch sight of a bright pink shape.

"Detention, you three, for rudeness in the halls. A hundred and fifty points, Miss Granger, for insulting your betters."

She turns on cotton-candy-colored heels and walks away.

"That'll put us in the negative. Great bloody job, Hermione!"

Ron stomps off.

Harry puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

"Talk to McGonagall. She'll find some loophole. And if she doesn't, look on the bright side." He chuckles. "We've found someone you can kill to blow off some steam, eh?"

Hermione sniffs, wipes her eyes on her jumper, and smiles.

"You're all right, Harry Potter. Or should I say, the Right Honorable Earl Harry James Potter?"

Harry groans.


Hedwig alights on the window outside DADA, scratches at the latch, and swoops inside, heading straight for Harry's desk. Umbridge shrieks.

"Expelliarmus!"

A green bolt of wrongness sails over their heads and shatters one of the lamps in the chandelier. Umbridge's wand flips end-over-end right into Hermione's hand.

"HOW DARE YOU!"

Hermione casts something on Umbridge's wand, lifts it to her ear and listens to whispers. She doesn't like what she hears, clearly, because she slides Umbridge's wand into her bookbag.

"Dennis?" She hollers.

The third-year freezes in the hallway outside the classroom. He looks as surprised to be noticed while out of her line of sight as Umbridge looks at having been disarmed.

"Run and get Professor McGonagall, would you?" Hermione asks over her shoulder.

"On it!"

"Give me my wand back this instant, disrespectful girl!"

"While the killing curse is not illegal if used on animals, I think that killing a student's owl might be poor form."

Why would she hurt Hedwig?

"Especially a titled student like Harry's. At minimum, he could demand payment for the value of the owl and sue you for loss of property. Knowing how close he is to his familiar, I would expect a lawsuit about emotional suffering, if I were you."

"In fact, if he wanted, since you have repeatedly challenged his honesty with witnesses present, and since you claim pureblood status through House Selwyn, and Harry does through House Potter, he could call for a duel. Somehow, you don't strike me as someone with dozens of friends willing to take a hex on your behalf. So I'll keep this until the end of class, for your protection."

Duel? What?

"You little mudblo-"

Hermione snorts.

"Do you actually think I give a wet hippogriff shit what you think of me?" she asks, her voice flat as the Black Lake and twice as cold. "I'm a fifth year. This is my second weakest subject, and yet I just disarmed you...our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

She holds up the textbook.

"The strongest counter-charm in here could be pierced by a third year, let alone a charging werewolf! The chapter on vampires suggests 'asking nicely' as a defense! There's a chapter on Veela allure that puts it higher on the threat scale than a redcap bite. Last I checked, sex doesn't make anyone bleed to death out their ears."

"My best friend is Harry Potter, Mr. Deadly Problems Twice a Week, Three Times on Sunday, and I'm still here. Death Eater impersonating a professor? Still here. Azkaban escapee bringing every Dementor in Scotland? Still here. Basilisk targeting Muggle-borns? Still here. Death maze leading to lunatic possessed by Voldemor-"

"DON'T SAY HIS NAME! YOU LI-"

"Silencio enduri, sanguinem ligatus."

Hermione's lip splits and a drop of blood floats out, which she catches with the tip of her wand. He feels the weight of her magic crush against him, like when Mrs. Tonks used blood magic. It's like he's drowning in salt water, and it smells like hot iron.

Umbridge winces when Hermione flicks her wand, and the drop of blood sails across the room and splats into her face. The entire class, Gryffindors and the Slytherins alike, has turned to stare at Hermione. Draco's got his wand halfway out of his pocket but Pansy's hand is clamped on his wrist, keeping it down.

"Amazing, isn't it? How easily a simple charm can be boosted into something more? As long as my blood is warm, that silencing charm will remain in effect. Being mute would affect your performance, both here and at your Ministry job."

She hands Harry her bookbag, takes her textbook out, and heads to the front of the room. She grabs the blackboard, wheels it in front of Umbridge-who is busy stamping her feet and shrieking into thin air-and starts writing out some questions.

"Right. Seeing as how our teacher is indisposed but we've got..."

She glances at a chunky silver wristwatch Harry hadn't realized she wore.

"Almost an hour left. Let's go over chapter six, hmm? It made some good points about alternating your shield charms."

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle bolt from their seats and scupper off, no doubt to make sure Draco's father hears about it. Pansy has her wand out, but pressed close to her thigh, and hasn't taken her eyes off Hermione. It's almost like she's smirking but that's ridiculous. Pansy doesn't smile. The Greengrass sisters raise their eyebrows-did they practice doing it together?-then Daphne grabs another sheet of parchment, leans back in her seat, and whispers for Astoria to do the same.

"Bloody menace, isn't she?" Ron mutters.

Harry can't help but grin. She really is. And he likes that about her. Hedwig hoots her agreement.

"Don't come back here, girl. Stay away from anything pink. I don't want you getting hurt."

She nips his ear and holds out her legs so he can untie the note.

Come see me immediately. - Ted Tonks


Pansy splashes her face and reaches down with shaking hands to turn off the faucet.

Umbridge may not be the most intimidating witch, but it takes power to disarm someone with a matured magical core-whoever they are-and precise control to yank someone's wand out of their hand while they're casting a Killing Curse without getting the spell shot into your face.

Granger made it look easy.

Minus a crass insult or two-possibly calculated to throw off her opponent-she played a respectable game. Defeated her enemy, humiliated her, changed the subject, took her place, and then did a better job of it.

Not exactly Slytherin material, but hardly a Gryffindor charging face-first into a wall, either.

And the blood magic. Where did she get blood magic from? Is she squib-bred? Morgana's bush, did she steal a family grimoire somehow? No, even she couldn't have survived that.

Too many questions.

"Cheeky little swot."


Hermione feels like her insides are going to melt. McGonagall hasn't said anything since she confessed, just sipped her tea. She hasn't undone the charm on Umbridge yet, who's still grinding her teeth in the corner. She was too enraged to do anything but stand stiff as a rod, so a house-elf brought her up here using a cart.

"Professor, I am so sor-"

Professor McGonagall holds up a hand.

"Potter's owl, you say?"

"Yes, ma'am. I figured if she was casting just because the owl was in the room, it wasn't good. She could've asked Harry to shoo her off. Wouldn't have needed to draw her wand."

"And you're sure?"

"It wasn't standard Priori Incantatem, but it's equivalent. Rather than showing the names, it reads the spells back quietly, so it's not embarrassing to hear them." She pulls the wand out. "Most recent spell is the killing curse, then a few dozen hair-dye charms and a thread-mending charm. Check for yourself."

Professor McGonagall does just that, using the Ministry's preferred spell. Her steel-gray eyes go wide when the telltale green slash of light appears.

"Good intentions in protecting the owl aside, this is a serious matter. Professor Umbridge, Miss Granger clearly feels remorse, since she brought this to my attention. As the head of her house, I will discipline her. Detention, Granger. Tuesdays and Thursdays in my office, Mondays and Wednesdays in hers."

"Yes, Professor."

"Would you mind?"

Hermione pulls a safety pin out, pricks her finger and smears the blood around. With a sharp snap of the fingers, the spell ends and half the papers on McGonagall's desk are tossed askew.

"I demand she be taken to the Aurors at once!"

"Professor Umbridge, given the facts of the matter, if you want to involve the Aurors, I would be remiss in not securing legal counsel for Miss Granger and Mister Potter. If you wish to, see me before class and I'll arrange it with the Headmaster and the DMLE. I'll produce copies of the memories for a Pensieve, including the reading of your wand I just performed."

"I...I see."

She hands Umbridge back her wand. Before Umbridge could possibly aim it at Hermione-she might want to, judging by the pulsing vein in her forehead-Professor McGonagall taps hers on her teacup to warm it. She paints a weak fire rune that's written in Latvian, unless Hermione misses her guess. A mix of Nordic and Slavic influences.

A reminder of what she did in the war, Hermione realizes. She's reminding Umbridge who led the Eastern Front for Dumbledore.

"Go directly to the common room, Miss Granger."

Hermione's all the way back in Gryffindor tower when she hears the crinkle. Checking her bookbag, she finds a package of her favorite biscuits.


Minerva fumbles for the hat-hook by the door, misses entirely, looks at the hat, thinks to summon it off the floor but thinks better of it. The office house-elf can help her straighten it tomorrow. She hasn't felt this tired or fuzzy-headed in ages, although this time it's in good humor, not dazed grief.

How can the antics of one protégé, even Hermione, be as tiring as the Eastern Front? Surely she's not comparing the little witch to mopping up armies of shambling Inferi after the Grindelwaldists fled Stalingrad? Yes, I actually am comparing them, Magic help me.

"Min? That you? I thought I'd actually cook tonight!"

She answers her wife in Gaelic, or Russian. She's not quite sure which. Nina pokes her head around the corner from the kitchen, her buttery curls spilling out behind her as she does.

"Oh, darling. Whatever's the matter?"

"Granger," she grumbles.

"She's no-"

"She's fine."

Nina wipes her hands on her apron and folds her arms across her chest.

"Ah. She enjoyed my Solstice gift, then. Memorized the whole thing, no doubt. Well? How'd she do?"

"Nearly started an inquisition. That's how well she did."

"She went after the pink one?"

"Like a rabid nundu, yes. She blood-locked a silencing curse. Would've outlived Hermione, let alone that sour-hearted bitch."

Nina pads over, her bare feet quieter even than Minerva would be in her animagus form. Her hands smooth up and down Minerva's arms, chilly relief spilling from her fingertips.

Gods and Fair Folk, how is she still so beautiful?

"Off with the glamours, Min. The Headmaster is not here. You don't have to pretend my little bargain failed, hmm?"

She lifts a glass of white wine to her lips.

"And I like your hair red when you're in bed with me."

Minerva fumbles for her wand, points it to her heart and speaks the only three words of the Fair Tongue she actually knows. A draft of muggy, wet air swirls around her, only to drop an instant later as fleeting snow. She glances down at her hands-she never really does believe it, no matter how many times it happens-tracing her thumb across smooth skin that belongs to a woman of thirty, maybe less.

Nina bites her lip, not quite right for a moment as she watches. Teeth a bit sharper, eyes glinting like a rainbow after a summer squall, hair tumbled down to her hip on the left side, baring the point of her right ear. Her pupils turn to slits as she takes in a long, deep breath, only to return to normal a moment later with the last notes of a snow leopard's growl echoing from her throat.

"Come, eat. We'll get you to bed early. But I want to hear everything our little kitten pulled off, no later than teatime tomorrow, deal?"


Happiness rattles in Nina's ribs. She flicks her tufted tail, lays her head upon her paws, and huffs happily as a tiny tabby curls up in the circle of her paws.

Good night, my firebrand.

They always sleep better this way.


I write various things for various sites including FFN, AO3, and others (see my profile).

If you want to know more, I have a Tumblr (alephthirteen-writes . tumblr . com) that ties it all together-every site I touch, I link there in a pinned note-and I also I post musings and ramblings about my various headcanons, characterizations, character and trope rants both for and against, and follow fanartists I like.

Posting for each site requires different edits, adhering to different rules, etc. so it's not always simultaneous, and FFN is one of the stricter sites.

So if you're looking for more, checking Tumblr is my suggestion.