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 Three


"Meow."

Minerva looks up. In a frame on her desk, patches of random colour swirl across the canvas and gather into kittens. A skinny tabby tomcat with black-on-chestnut fur and eyes splashed with forest green saunters a half-step ahead of a lithe, creamy Siamese with gunmetal-grey paws and teal eyes as frigid and bright as the North Sea churned by a winter storm. A wrought-iron lightning bolt swings from the red-and-gold collar around the tabby's neck, and a golden medallion bearing the jagged outline of an oak tree in winter hangs from the forest-green patent leather looped around the Siamese's neck.

Potter and a Greengrass? Curious.

She holds her thumb up to get the measure of two images. Harry has never been a tall lad, and if she put them both up against a wall, she suspects even little Astoria would be taller.

Daphne...the family secret betrays itself in her height, her sleek proportions, her blue eyes and knife-sharp jawline. Her ears are almost too round, too perfect, pink as tulips and curled and intricate as seashells. Unlike most pureblood girls here, she pins her hair up to show them. Whether she's advertising that she's a daughter on offer and showing off the family's jewellery, or disproving rumours about what her female ancestors got up to with Seelie knights in the armies of Morgan le Fay is the topic of much muttering from Slytherins in Minerva's classes.

The Greengrasses cover up their strange roots with permanent blood alchemy rather than a simple glamour, Nina claims. Not impossible, but not fully safe, and the potion regimens and scarrings are gruelling. Since the Greengrass girls are both winter babies, each sister was pushing twelve when she attended and likely had bled at least once. Enough to blend the woad and scar-paint for the ritual which could slow their ascent into womanhood, or steer it, speed it up, sculpt the curve of their hips or fix the proportions of their figures stone for the rest of their lives...anything really.

It's beyond illegal, but Minerva remembers when it was legal not so long ago and her classmates would return sore and wincing, too shy to strip off in the shower, and then a month later would blaze with vitality, artfully plumped and padded. And if she tagged along while her fellow lionesses popped down to London to ruin Muggle women forever for a few lads waiting in line to be sent to the trenches? All the better. Minerva was happy to take care of the lady friends the Muggles abandoned in favor of the witches.

Perhaps the use of such extreme measures is warranted for the Greengrasses, given the old families they must deal with: Their living is earned by signing contracts, putting up gold and fulfilling produce and potion ingredient orders for the Malfoys, Notts and Lestranges of the world. Easier to do when any hints of half-fae heritage are covered up. Best for betrothal negotiations that once she finally is known by her husband-once she is at risk of being found-he's already smitten, stunned by the creature he finds himself graced by.

Minerva keeps one eye on the painted kittens as she scribbles down Padma Patil's grade. The charm pivots the image to track them as they turn the corner in a hallway. A long-haired cat-white, soaking wet, and splashed with pinks and purples-ducks past them and Harry's image shakes his head. Could only be Lovegood. The Siamese turns to gawk and in the painting, she towers above tabby-Harry. Daphne Greengrass, she's sure of it now.

She drops her quill back into the inkpot.

Harry and Daphne. Interesting pairing. She's seen a few odd couples lately, and she'll see many more as students scramble to pair up in time to obey this empty-headed law.

Potter and Ginny Weasley she'd expect...a sign that something in this mad and heartless world still worked exactly as it was expected to.

Potter and Granger she'd toast-but that's a waste of good liquor. Granger reminds her of herself in many ways, like the way her eyes flick to the nearest pretty girl whenever she thinks she isn't being watched.

The tabby lays a paw atop the Siamese's back and raises another towards the glass inside the frame.

"Come in," Minerva calls out, flicking her wand at her desk drawer to hide the paints and brushes and to open the door before Harry can actually knock.

In the corner of her eye, Harry Potter's hand cradles Daphne Greengrass' to steady her as she climbs through the doorway- he's terrible at being a gentleman-but she laughs rather than scoffing or scolding. Perhaps like a good spell, good chivalry works on intent.

She doesn't look up. Make them wonder, she reminds herself.

"Mister Potter, as I said, the headmaster forbids students from leaving the grounds, even on family errands unles-"

"We know that," Daphne replies, any irritation at the obvious ruse buried under mountains of manners tutoring. "Unless it is in groups. Harry has offered to escort me to check with a goblin who works for my father."

And I can't very well block Potter from escorting a lady, in front of her. All of the snakes would know by lunch, the rest of the school by dinner.

Minerva huffs. It's the closest she comes to laughing in front of her students.

"So, Potter, I see you found a volunteer to go to Gringotts with you?"

Harry's bafflement and the quickness of Greengrass' smile suggest the only one surprised at the turn of events is Harry.


Daphne taps her fingers into her palm to track the list of rules that McGonagall is reading off. Already a dozen more than the last time she and Pansy had left via floo to sit in on one of Papa's meetings with his partners. Some are geared towards letting watchers tail them. It's a list of precautions likely longer than the ones for the Minister himself, but Harry doesn't look surprised.

Harry doesn't even seem to pay attention. This is normal for him.

Which doesn't make sense.

Why on Earth would Harry need so man- A shiver crawls up her spine as she realises the answer before she dares to flesh out the question. Circe's slit. It's because he's telling the truth about Voldemort being back, or at least Dumbledore thinks he is.

She tightens her jaw and lifts her chin.

"Of course. I'll make sure he's safe, Deputy Headmistress."

The Professor arches a brow-perhaps reacting to a Slytherin choosing her highest title, not her most familiar one-and slides a bottle of floo powder across her desk.

"Anything else we should know?" Harry asks.

McGonagall's shoulder lifts in a shrug that Daphne had spent months replicating in her second year, when she'd finally found another witch to imitate.

Narcissa Malfoy is elegant. Never a single step behind in fashion and never a single hair, potion, or dab of makeup out of place. What Narcissa isn't, and isn't trying to be-perhaps isn't announcing, she is Black-blooded after all-is powerful.

Daphne doesn't want to be fashionable unless she can be powerful too, and even before Hogwarts, she knew that she needed other examples. And then, one day, the most fearsome and unflappable witch she'd ever seen pointed her to a chair and dropped a hat on her head.

She might not be fashionable, but McGonagall's well-mannered, and there's a unique grace to her stiff, humourless bearing. And no one can do fearless and calm quite like a war witch of Clan Sutherland. What a difference using her mother's last name made! How deceptively humble of their half-blood deputy to pretend that her Muggle bloodline is as ordinary as her magical line.

She's never heard the story, but Daphne suspects a witch doesn't come back from Grindelwald's war with the moniker 'the Ghost of Saint Petersburg' without earning it.


"Extra, extra! Read all about it! Potter Panic and Dumbledore Danger!" Jimmy calls out.

A giant blur blasts out of an alley and knocks him over. Before he can shoo away the shaggy dog, it's pulled a stack of papers off the bundle and torn them to shreds, standing snarling over the rest. Orange eyes stare straight into his. The hairs on his neck lift and he somehow just knows that his wand won't be enough to scare it off.

The dog lifts its leg.

"Come on!"

He could've sworn that the huff was the dog laughing at him. The public floo next to Flourish & Blotts fires up, blasting a long green flame that licks at his papers and would have set them on fire if they were...drier.

"Whoa."

Just his luck that he'd finally meet Harry Potter while selling a paper making fun of him. No autographs today.


A ripple of murmuring, gawking-Does this always happen to him? Poor Harry-riff-raff surrounds them on all sides. Florean Fortescue looks ready to put down the ice cream scoop and draw his wand to get the crowd off his doorstep.

Daphne should have thought of this. She really should have thought of this, especially since she offered to help him with the goblins just to be seen as courting Harry. Perhaps she should have told Harry that it would seem like courtship to others, since he's the only one in the square not in on the joke.

The Heiress of one Ancient and Noble House doesn't just show up in Diagon Alley at lunchtime with the Heir of another house on her arm, right between two of the best places to take a date. Not without it being a statement as much as it would be read out in the Wizengamot. Not that the unwashed masses or her unimaginative housemates understand that being asked to tiptoe through Flourish and Blotts is knickers-melting sexy and just as sweet as a bowl of Fairy Fudge or Mermaid Mint.

Harry flinches when a flashbulb pops behind them.

Rita Skeeter is under an awning at the back of the Leaky, eating lunch with her photographer and a friend. Because of course she is.

He shudders. Something to do with those articles she'd written about him and Hermione during the Tournament, probably. Skeeter certainly pulled the wrong dragon's tail with those. Her article about Hermione stepping out on Harry was the last before she went on an unannounced sabbatical for over a year. If her shabby appearance, grinding teeth and thousand-yard stare when she resurfaced at The Orchard for Astoria's birthday was any clue, Skeeter wasn't paid and didn't get any rest over the year.

Time to play the conquering hero saving the damsel, she decides. Daphne slides her wand into her hand, jerking the tip through motions she'd learned when she was six. An old family spell dangles on her lips, so quiet it's nearly a hiss. A chill runs down her wand arm, a shock prickles her finger, and her hair ripples in a chilly wind.

She wonders how long it will take the photographer to find frost damage and lighting strikes in the mechanism, and how much the camera will cost to replace.

Daphne pushes her aura outward, remembering some of the nastier things her mother made her practice, and layering the emotions of the curses on top of her little display. She hopes the crowd doesn't call her bluff. She's no pixie-she's started winning practice duels against her father and her mother-and a Greengrass roots herself deep. But there are thirty of them and some of them surely are better than she is. White hair abounds, meaning that some of them had gone to a proper version of Hogwarts before the Board of Governors was Lucius Malfoy, his toadies, and witches a century and a half out of touch with their grandchildren.

She has one of the most fearsome wizards in generations at her side, fairly vibrating with power. Harry is meek, seeming to shrink back from anyone and everyone. He seems weak to those who use only their ears and eyes to watch him, but his aura is anything but. So strong that it spills over, piling on top of and flowing into her own. Maybe it's her little crush-and how pathetically ordinary is it for her to have a crush?-but her mouth fills with the taste of oranges, chocolate and caramel when his magic brushes against hers. But she isn't sure where she is on Harry's sliding scale of heroism. He wouldn't let her die-he didn't leave Malfoy to his fate the last time Granger's hexes had started flying-but would he fight to clear a path for her?

The crowd parts at the far end, murmuring things like 'mudblood' and 'whore' and then a whoosh of conjured wind blasts a bowler hat and a toupee onto a fourth-story roof and someone practically whimpers 'Miss Auror'. Ted Tonks splits the crowd, shouldering the gawkers aside with his broad frame, just as sternly and as gently as she would expect for a star beater who played for Hufflepuff. His wife follows, and trailing behind them both is their daughter.

Auror Tonks' eyes scan the crowd-she's in the crimson dragon-hide robes but not wearing the potions belt, so she's off duty but in the day's reserve. Her height and her shoulders speak to her father's build, but the rest of her is every inch a Black. If Daphne didn't know that Ted wasn't a pureblood, nothing about his daughter would give it away. Nymphadora could easily be from the line of sleek, pale-as-moonlight murderesses whom the richest and most powerful wizards have lusted over for centuries. Her grin is bright and broad. Easily the most un-Black thing about her.

A Black's good looks and a Hufflepuff's good temperament. There's a lucky wizard somewhere.

Andromeda trails in their shadow-such as a Black-blooded witch can be overshadowed. Pureblooded grace and outcast defiance at once. She's a shade darker than famous Black complexion-perhaps time on a Muggle-style holiday, at a beach-without looking like she's tanned. Heartbreaking curves only enhanced by motherhood support a pantsuit that the plugged-up hags beside her must not realise is the Muggle equivalent of Madam Malkin's most hair-curlingly expensive formal robes. The grey eyes of a Black hide behind chrome-framed sunglasses of a brand that neither the average Muggle woman nor witch has heard of, the no-longer-mundane lenses flickering to a reflective beetle-green when the sun breaks out from a cloud. Sharp chin lifted, eyes winged with dagger-sharp lines of kohl, her smug half-smile painted with lipstick that sparkles with grindylow scales.

All that luxury, but the only jewellery she wears is a broad silver wedding band just like her husband's (on the right hand, honouring her beau with the Muggle tradition of praising the 'right hand' rather than the more magically sensitive hand).

"Harry."

Daphne lifts her elbow and Harry glances at it. She clears her throat and waves at it with her free hand and finally he takes her arm.

He's trainable.

He's more trainable than that wolfhound that just snatched a packet of biscuits from Andromeda Tonks' handbag, at least. Ted snickers when she casts a disapproving glance at the beast, but doesn't scold it otherwise.

Curious.


"I'm sorry, what?" Harry asks.

"I'm a busy goblin, Potter. I'm not in the habit of repeating myself merely because a human can't re-."

Andromeda's fingernail comes down on the windowsill with an amplified crack!. The goblin bows his head, and apparently that's not normal, because Daphne turns to stare at Andromeda like she just turned into a giant three-headed dog.

"Mind yourself, Bentknife. Consider it proof of your superior service to a client who has not been served well by others. Lest I need to tell the Senior Account Manager of your actions, Junior Account Manager."

He inclines his head towards Mrs. Tonks. "As you say, Black-blood. We mean no offence and want no quarrel." He pushes his wicked-looking letter opener towards her and places his clawed palm on the desktop. "Blood and gold."

"Blood and gold."

"As I was saying, Heir Potter, in 1218, the eldest daughter of the Muggle king was attacked by a feral centaur."

The gold-trimmed desk swirls and wobbles and the last thing Harry remembers is the silver paint on the ceilings.


Cunning has its place. A good bluff can often replace knowledge, especially if it buys time to acquire said knowledge. Followers want leaders and leaders are defined by courage and confidence more than competency.

But neither bluffs nor cunning will help her today. Daphne is beyond her depth and she wouldn't claim otherwise.

It's a perfectly ordinary en-noblement tale: A defenceless half-dressed princess, an insane centaur, a young dandy returning to his wife after getting drunk in the woods. Rescuing a royal earns a reward. Simple arithmancy, really.

So why did Harry faint on hearing it? Why did he handle the unnecessary details of the violence-oh, how the goblin relished those-only to faint during the fortunate part, where his ancestors were gifted the magical Earlship over what Muggles call Somerset?

Entirely unhelpful of Harry to pile that surprise on top of the rest in a day that also involved realising that Dumbledore agrees with Harry that Voldemort is back-best possible case, Harry's mind cracked from the strain of the tournament, and Dumbledore is gullible. Dumbledore being gullible is still dangerous.

Seeing Andromeda Tonks treated with a fear that goblins haven't shown a wizard or witch since Vacilius Malfoy and Eleanor Black the IV laid siege to the branch.

At least it gives her the chance to try out being the soft, womanly respite to recharge her wizard after a long day. There are worse futures to anticipate than to have Harry Potter's head in her lap as she waits for him to rouse from shock.

But why is he so small in her arms? White Orchard has a few portraits of the old Potters-far enough back, everyone had a daughter who married a Potter or a Longbottom-so she knows what a Potter man looks like. The blood remains strong in his hair and his complexion. His nose has the patrician slope of the Romans for whom the earliest Potters served as mercenaries and the cut of his jaw is sharply, sternly Potter. But he shouldn't be this thin and certainly not this short.

"S'going on?" He asks, blinking his eyes open. She brushes a lock of his hair off his forehead before he can.

Andromeda snickers.

She wouldn't have expected her interest to go unnoticed by Mrs. Tonks. She was cast out, not hit on the head. A second-born heiress of seventeen would have been fully tutored, spelled, and glamoured; taught all the ways of the debutante and wife.

The instant she laid eyes on Daphne, Andromeda spotted the arrangement of Daphne's braids and that she'd chosen a pink-throated lily for her hair rather than her usual tulip, and favoured the efforts with a smile.

Not a blessing from his guardian, but the first approval she's gotten.

"Welcome back, Harry."

"Gringotts?" He croaks.

"How astute," the goblin growls, forgetting his manners in front of Andromeda, likely hoping to have his office back.

Green eyes flick to the corners of the room, then to everyone around them, then settle on her face.

"Daphne?"


"What do I have to do?" Pansy growls at the mirror as she scratches out another entry on the list she'd put up with a Sticking Charm. "Piss on her homework?"

She adds that, grimaces, then decides she can't cross it out. She's too short on ideas...plausible ones, at least.

Pleasant ideas like crawling under the library table, rolling that silly little skirt up and giving a direct demonstration of her affections seem far-fetched.

Granger-no, think of her as Hermione-has proved to be a hard witch to get to know. Certainly some of that is her own fault, and the last four years will weigh her down...but this much?

Perhaps Potter had kept the photos she'd snuck into the marriage contract-he is a boy, after all-or perhaps Granger had tossed them in a drawer somewhere. The charm connecting the glossies to the mirror on her bedside table has only shown blackness. Still a satisfying wank, even if Granger's eyes weren't on her.

Granger has no reason to assume that Pansy means well, not yet. She's made sure not only to not insult Granger but to snub the company of those who do.

Still, Granger has every reason to assume that a prank might be in play if Pansy asks her to wait in the hallway, or to share a library table.

Granger had cast a shield around herself and bolted from the bathroom when Pansy had slipped in to check her makeup and flash her a smile. It was a logical reaction in hindsight...not that Blaise Zabini will ever let her hear the end of it. Some lookout!

She...let...Granger...touch...her...wand. Her wand!

With Tracey Davis watching-Parvati Patil or Lavender Brown would have been better-Pansy surrendered the very symbol of her witchhood. She had let Granger touch, tap, test, and even cast her own magic on it. In retrospect, it would have been less scandalous to hand Granger her knickers than to ask her opinion on her 'misbehaving' wand. The crinkle of her nut-brown brow and the focus in those caramel-sweet eyes while she'd peered at the shiny red oak had already ruined them.

She shakes the water from her hands, flicks her wand at the taps and sighs.

Maybe tonight, the mirror won't be blank.


Ginny gulps in a trembling breath.

"Shh. We're still friends. Unless you find a Crumple-Horned Snorkack and don't tell me. "

Her tear-soaked face makes the laugh into a slurpy noise so unflattering it sends Luna into giggles.

"I don't think they have those in France."

Tropical-sea blue eyes roll under messy butter-yellow bangs. Luna pulls Ginny's head down-everyone's taller than she is-and presses a long kiss to her forehead, smoothing her hands over Ginny's sides. Not for the first time, Ginny wonders why exactly Luna had stopped sleeping in her bed on visits a year before Ginny left for Hogwarts.

"Ask the nymphs in the Beauxbatons dining hall. If anyone knows where to find a nargle..."

The door swings open and Umbridge minces in, clutching a sheaf of parchment in her stubby fingers. Ginny's fist tightens around her wand and Luna covers her hand with her palm.

"Heiress Weasley, it's time for your counselling session," the Pink Thing simpers. "You'll be glad to know you're a very popula-"

A turtledove swoops past Umbridge's head, knocking her pillbox hat off. She whips her wand up, firing off a Cutting Curse. Nice and legal, so she must have learned from what she did to Harry. A charm hanging around the bird's neck flickers and her curse rebounds, missing her ear by a hair.

"Killing the messenger?" Ginny smiles and waggles a finger. "Naughty girl."

Umbridge opens and closes her mouth but can't come up with something to say yet. Did she expect me to pretend I didn't see it?

Luna goes on tiptoe and holds out her palm. The dove hops down from the rafter and snuggles into it. "Pretty bird, do you have pretty words for us?"

She holds out her cupped hands to Ginny and the cream-and-pink dove sticks out her little leg so she can untie the ribbon holding the bottle of gossamer-thin glass.

"I'm afraid your post will have to wait, Heiress Weasley. We have marriage contracts to look over. And it's high time you looked into a dress," Umbridge tsk-tsks, looking over Ginny's thin frame with an insult halfway off her tongue. "To make sure it's flattering."

"Put them on the desk, professor."

Umbridge shuffles over to the study desk and spreads out the contracts.

"Incendio!"

With a yelp, the Professor stumbles back.

"Now see here! You stupid lit-"

The smell of rain and honeysuckle billows into the room, heels click-click-click on the flagstones, and strange magic lifts the hairs on their arms.

"I 'ope that your next word was not something rude."

Umbridge spins, flailing her arms and finally toppling. Not one witch present casts a cushioning charm before she hits the ground. Her hat bounces off and rolls into the fireplace and one of her heels snaps and is snagged up by a kneazle paw swinging out from under the bed.

Luna snickers.

"Hi, Fleur."

Fleur strolls past the sprawled, shrieking professor and gathers Ginny up in a hug.

"You're taller," Ginny whines.

She's not just taller. Fleur has always been pretty, but now, pressed into a hug not unlike her mother's-the heat in her cheeks and ears isn't envy or longing. There's a flicker of something under it. Fear. Ginny's magic is warning her that Fleur is not like her. Curvier. Her skin paler, milkier, shiny in the late afternoon sun. Her usually pale eyes are darkened and heat rolls off her, warming Ginny like cuddling up to the hearth.

"My 'eritage means more than pranks from my room-mates. Do you have everything you need, little swan?"

Fleur turns to face her and Umbridge shudders.

Ginny nods.

"WE HAVE A MEETING SCHEDULED! THAT GIRL HAS RESPONSIBILITIES!"

Fleur shakes her head.

"You should keep up on paperwork, Undersecretary. By sponsorship of myself and my 'usband, she is a citizen of Magical France, granted asylum and free from your unjust laws. She is under the protection of not only our Gendarmerie Magique as any citizen would be, but the protection of the Delacour family. You have no more power over her than you..."

Fleur's eyes rake Umbridge's sprawled form, a sneer curling her crimson lips.

"Than you 'ave fashion sense."

Ginny snuggles closer to her sister-in-law before pulling back.

"Thanks, Fleur."

"Bien sûr. One more thing, Madame Undersecretary?"

Umbridge mutters something like 'halfbreed'.

"We sent a letter to the editor. They know why the female line of the Weasleys and Prewetts will not be continued in England. If you do not repeal this law, I doubt my sister will be the last young witch to flee. You will undo the very families you claim to protect."

Fleur beckons to her dove, which swoops back to her shoulder after a quick detour to shit on Umbridge's twitching eyebrow.


"Minister of Magic!" Delores shrieks, throwing the whole bottle of Floo powder in.

"Yes, Delores?"

"The Aurors need to arrest Ginny Weasley. Some veela whore kidnapped her. No need to bring the beast back alive."

Fudge mutters something to someone at his end.

"Delores, tread lightly. I heard from Madame Delacour about you taking a shot at her favourite messenger dove and from Minister Delacour about some concerns his daughter had about your...personal hygiene around students."

Lying cunt.

"Bad habit, bird-killing. I don't need complaints coming in from overseas to go with the ones from people here."

"Of course, sir."

The letter that the Weasley bitch left for the Headmaster is crumpled in her hands. Pursuing a career in Quidditch, she said! No matter her feelings about Harry, she's not willing to get pregnant until she's ready, after she retires from the sport. Career? That's why witches get married in the first place-besides their duty to birth wizards and witches-to avoid all that nonsense.

They can't just get an exception to the pregnancy clause, that's the actual point of the whole thing! Marriage and rings and cake and music are just distractions so the spoilt brats won't get cold feet.

Delores has to get the girl back. Weasley's the only girl Potter is close with besides the Mudblood. He's been skiving off his counselling meetings with her, sitting the detentions without a word. No cheek, either. Just silence. She didn't get a single peep out of him until she used the blood quill.

None of the students she's paying to listen in have seen him paying a girl more than passing courtesy...unless Pansy Parkinson knows something, but she hasn't reported today.

There's less than three weeks to get him married-if need be, he'll go to Azkaban to get his head on right-and she can't hope to start peeling him off Dumbledore until it's settled. Starting from scratch won't be easy.

Harry barely speaks to anyone besides Gryffindors, which takes away the best options in her former house. Parkinson claims a pre-existing cradle betrothal, though she hasn't provided the papers yet. The Greengrass sisters would do nicely. Daphne is the obvious choice for any pureblood heir: A beauty, a rich family that's pure for dozens of generations-as far back as their records. Sadly, Isolde Greengrass has a reputation for speaking her mind-there are rumours she keeps her own businesses, even-but that's likely just her husband's weakness. Crabbes are easily cowed, even the lucky ones who aren't half-wits and come out handsome. Hopefully her daughters haven't been polluted by that habit.

Daphne might be too far gone, come to think. No telling what nonsense she was taught after her father started calling her the 'heir'-now hopefully that was a rumour!

Astoria will be of age soon enough, and she could get an extension for such an important case.

A Black, Lestrange or a Rosier would be better-they'd fix this Muggle-loving nonsense in short order-but she doesn't have one handy. Neither of the Black lads sired-Sirius's love of Muggle fashion made him questionable long before Azkaban-and the sisters are scattered to the winds.

Bellatrix never bred, too busy outside the home to do her duty.

Draco is the only respectable Black offspring and Lucius Malfoy wouldn't put his son through Sipriotes' Potions unless there was not a pureblood witch to be had in all the world and only his daughter could make an heir. The only daughter of the Black Sisters was born to the outcast and her mudblood husband. A metamorphmagus, according to her employee file, so she's got some magic in her. Surely she's pretty enough-or could be told to become so. But with her breeding, Nymphadora is only worth considering in an emergency.

Harry refuses to speak to Lavender Brown simply because the Mudblood made an enemy of her at some point. Probably a task for the Aurors. She no doubt cursed the poor girl, afraid of Brown's womanly figure.

The Patil brat turned and walked off when Delores suggested it, muttering about the Yule Ball two years ago. Her sister in Ravenclaw did the same. Their mother hexed Delores right off the steps and into the gutter when she went to make an offer. How was she to know that their kind didn't 'sell their daughters to pig herding filth'? And why didn't her husband restrain her?

Harry seems comfortable of the older girls he's on the Quidditch team with-Miss Johnson poses a problem, they wouldn't want children with her complexion-and he's closest to Miss Bell. But he clearly sees her as a sister, not a prospect.

Delores wouldn't put it past him to elope with some random whore the day before just to spite her. Maybe even the Mudblood. There's no coming back from that. Not for Harry, and not for her career.

England needs Potter-a proper version of him, with the right guidance-or the Dark families and the Light families and the Mudbloods and the bloody ICW will keep pulling on the Wizengamot until it comes apart.

Nothing settles the uneasy rabble like a figurehead and some tax cuts. And with the endorsement of the Boy-Who-Lived-surely a small price for the right wife-maybe even him as her Undersecretary, she could do anyth-

"Delores?" Fudge huffs. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Sorry, sir. Lost in thought."

A ginger head pokes into the Floo at the other end-fantastic, a Weasley-and holds up a manila folder with 'approved' stamped on it.

"Delores, you've met Weatherby, yes? He's been filling in for Barty Crouch. I asked him to pop over with Miss Weasley's paperwork."

Fudge chortles, clapping a hand on the skinny young man's back. Weasley makes a little squeak! sound but stays up right.

"Thank you, sir."

Percy fucking Weasley.

Everywhere she turns around at the Ministry, he's there, ripping through paperwork for his bosses faster than she can. Taking on work and projects without asking for favours or bribes in return or even collecting blackmail-unless he's very good at being unseen. Skips most of the charity balls but somehow still has not been sacked. She won't be rid of him anytime soon. He's nothing like the competition she's had in the past.

"The paperwork is in order, Madam Undersecretary. She wrote it three days after the law was announced. Filed it the morning after Wilson Davis lost his appeal, in fact. It seems to be a reasonable assumption that she left for the reasons she stated."

"If we can't get her back, we can't get Potter! I'll not have him married to some-some-so-"

Weasley raises a brow.

"I had to wait on a book for three weeks my seventh year. Nearly cost me the Potions NEWT. Turns out it was stolen by a second-year who brewed the toughest potion in the book. Polyjuice. Did it on her first try, in secret, in a cubicle in the girls' loo and without a soul being the wiser. She broke the rules but you had to admire the quality of her work. Never felt worse taking points off Gryffindor."

Weasley shrugs. "I don't have to like Harry's politics to know he could do a lot worse than being Mr. Hermione Granger." Madam Undersecretary, always a pleasure. Minister, I should get back to it."

"Of course, Weatherby."


The goblin drops another ledger from his parents' businesses onto the desk with a crack! and he or maybe she-he's seen at least two sorts of goblins, but he's not sure which is which-just stands there and scowls.

"Read."

"Voldemort was simpler," Harry huffs. Someone gasps and he turns in his chair to see Daphne trying to hide her how fingers are shaking by putting them in her lap.

"Sorry. Dumbledore makes me say it. Being afraid of his name makes me more afraid of him."

Daphne's head jerks up and down over and over in what might be a nod.

"You alright?"

She smiles and waves his question off.

"Adjusting to my new friend," she teases.

We're friends?

She has spent the whole day in Gringotts helping him to understand these ruddy books...just like Hermione helps with his homework. She's dragged him out for ice cream and to watch people go by...just like Ron makes him play chess when he's getting too wound up.

"We're friends," Harry says, mostly to himself.

Daphne mutters something after brushing a curl off her forehead.

Tonks snorts. She must have been close enough to hear.

"That's impolite, Nymphadora dear."

"Mum, would you sto-WHOA!"

Something crashes to the floor. He glances over to check if she's hurt right when Padfoot walks over and licks her face and she flips him the bird.

He's got a third friend now. But Tonks is still clumsy. Good to know some things didn't change.


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 dot tumblr dot 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.

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