That Was Part of the Plan

by LysandraLeigh

One year has passed since Lyra (formerly Bellatrix) Black traveled thirty years into an alternate future. Unfortunately, this means she's expected to go back to boring Hogwarts for more boring normal people stuff. Except, there is that Tournament thing. And Angel Black. And her muggleborn girlfriend. And maybe an international incident or two... Never mind, should be fun.

19. I don't know how to curtsy!

Hermione's first hint that something unusual was happening was just how full the Great Hall was.

Mealtimes over weekends were usually rather haphazard, especially breakfast and lunch. Less constrained by class schedules, whether many students even made it to meals was sort of up in the air, and certainly not in so narrow a window as they needed to during the week. There was food available at the tables in the Great Hall pretty much constantly from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon, many of her classmates didn't bother making their way here at any particular time. Hermione did, just out of habit, but bothering to get up at the normal time on weekends put her in the minority.

When she came in for lunch on Saturday, though, she was surprised to see most of the seats were filled. In the next few minutes, as Lyra babbled away on something to do with their idea to artificially induce the feedback loop she'd experienced absorbing thunderbird and parseltongue — which was fascinating, Hermione was just distracted — she frowned to herself, absently chewing, confused by the unusual attendance.

"Are you alright there, Maïa?" Lyra poked her in the arm a couple times, apparently having noticed Hermione wasn't listening.

"Sorry, I just... Does the Hall seem strangely full to you? I didn't think the guests were arriving until tomorrow." Because, the Triwizard Tournament was starting up soon, even Hermione couldn't have missed that.

She would admit that, sometimes, she could be just a little bit oblivious, especially when it came to social things, quidditch games and whatnot. She'd been aware a game was coming up when Gryffindor was playing, but only because the growing excitement was at least partially focused on Harry, and he always became visibly nervous as the day approached — if Gryffindor weren't playing, she often didn't even realise one was coming up until she came down for breakfast the day of the match, and saw people were wearing their quidditch paraphernalia. In second and third years, other people's anxiety over the Heir of Slytherin and Sirius breaking into the castle had hardly registered. The former she'd only noticed when people were being awful to Harry — she'd been rather too distracted with her own anxiety over the matter to care what was going on with everyone else — and the latter she'd mostly been irritated with how silly people were being, those rare occasions she even noticed.

The build-up to the Tournament, though, that she'd noticed. It would be difficult not to, with how completely insane everyone was going over it. The castle even looked different. The staff — by which she mostly meant the elves and Filch — had clearly been scouring the place, forcing the eccentric castle into something approaching presentability. They couldn't do anything about the inconsistent topography or the moving staircases or the randomly-placed portraits, but they could at least make sure everything was clean. Hermione hadn't even realised how grimy many of the corridors had been until suddenly they weren't anymore, the stone of the walls and ceilings now a clear, pale off-white, subtle lines of colour visible in the tile flooring she'd never noticed before. Those unused rooms that seemed to be bloody everywhere had been dusted, the more deteriorated furnishings replaced, no longer looked as though they'd been abandoned for centuries. The omnipresent suits of armour had all been polished, along with all the metal accents here and there, the halls practically gleaming when the sun hit them correctly — which it did more often, since the windows had been cleaned too. The portraits had even been touched up, gradually over the last weeks, the occasional defect patched over and the colours now far more vibrant.

The cleaning project was intense enough Hermione had actually seen Hogwarts elves outside of the kitchens for the first time. She'd stumbled across a group of them, more than a few but less than a dozen, in the process of retouching one of the hallways — this one had been in serious enough condition it'd required stonework, replacing bits out of the wall and some of the tiles on the floor. The elves had started with surprise at her turning up, but had clearly recognised her, cheerfully greeting her instead of...whatever it was they would have done otherwise, she wasn't certain.

She'd even caught Filch at work a few times — it appeared restoring the portraits was his job. He would unhang the portrait to set it on the floor leaning against a wall, where he'd sit in front of it, Mrs Norris curled up in his folded legs, as he touched up the portrait with a set of brushes and a sizeable box of paints, muttering to the cat and chatting with the resident of the portrait. Which was interesting, for multiple reasons. Filch, evidently, had some degree of artistic talent and training to be able to do that sort of work, which wasn't something Hermione had known before. (Though, thinking back on it, she had heard he'd restored the Fat Lady last year, so she shouldn't have been surprised.) Also, magical portraits were, well, magical — wasn't Filch a squib? His brushes must be enchanted to interface with the magics of the portraits somehow, she wondered...

(Squibs could use potions and devices with their own magic...but could muggles? The distinction between the two hadn't been consistently recognised until after the Statute, which would suggest they could, but she hadn't read anything on the subject...because, obviously, testing it would be a violation of the Statute. Hmm.)

Even the Great Hall hadn't been left untouched. There hadn't been much in the way of cleaning to do here, but it still didn't look quite the same. The room had been expanded — it had already been somewhat larger at the beginning of the year, to accommodate the extended staff table, but there were now six tables in the room, the new one extending down the middle between the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Most of the apprentices were now sitting at this new table, which still left it mostly empty, but they were also joined by Professor Lovegood. She never had seemed quite at ease with the rest of the staff, looked far more comfortable there, happily chatting with a few of the older Ravenclaws.

There were also far more banners over their heads than usual. It was typical for the house banners to go up for the Welcoming Feast, but after that they were usually stashed away again, and the ones over the house tables weren't quite the same as usual — well, the Hufflepuffs' and Ravenclaws' were, but the Gryffindor one was obviously different, like a proper coat of arms with a griffin instead of just a drawing of a lion (though the colour scheme was the same), while Slytherin's was completely unfamiliar. The house banners alternated every few metres with the full Hogwarts crest, all the way down the Hall over each of the house tables, but over the staff table the Hogwarts flag alternated with magical Britain's (a red dragon over a purple field), and over the central table she spotted more copies of Britain's, one copy of the Union Jack (to her surprise, she'd never seen it on the magical side before), but also a few banners that were completely unfamiliar.

They weren't unfamiliar to Lyra, though. The Gryffindor and Slytherin banners were in the colours of the actual noble houses that had once existed, which were slightly different in Gryffindor's case and completely different in Slytherin's. (Which wasn't a surprise — Godric had been the first Gryffindor, but Slytherin was one of the Seventeen Founders of the Wizengamot, the family predated the school by at least five hundred years, and probably rather longer.) Hufflepuff's descendants had formed a noble house eventually, but it had been a few generations down the line, long enough Helga hadn't been the founder of it, so Hogwarts didn't use their banner; Ravenclaw's children had ended up in various British houses and Gaelic clans, and there had never been a single family claiming to be her direct heirs, so there was no banner to fly for her. (Apparently, Ravenclaw's inheritance had been complicated somewhat when Rowena had simply vanished one day, when she hadn't yet been quite properly old for a witch, so she hadn't arranged which branch of her large family should carry on her legacy after her, and they hadn't been able to settle the matter amongst themselves.)

According to Lyra, the flags she didn't recognise belonged to the ICW, Scandinavia (or Daneland, to use the proper magical term), and Aquitania — not France, classes at Beauxbatons were mostly taught in French but the school was located in Provence, which was part of a separate country on the magical side. So they'd included the national flags of everyone who would be here...with the obvious exceptions of Miskatonic, who would be sending a judge, and the Republic of Ireland, who'd been invited to observe. When Hermione had pointed out the oversight, Lyra had smirked, and said of course they'd left out the Americans and the Irish, they hated the former and sometimes forgot the latter even existed.

So, this international event was going to get off to a great start, was what Lyra was implying. Good omen, that.

While the changes in the appearance of the castle was the most obvious factor to Hermione, even she had noticed people had been behaving...peculiarly, the last couple weeks. It was a low-level excitement, slowly building as the Tournament approached, contributing to the other children acting out somewhat more often than usual. But Hermione, of course, had as little contact with her classmates as possible, and what little she did she preferred to be in the form of study groups, so she'd honestly only sort of noticed. (Which was the way she liked it, over-excited children were very irritating.) The professors had been somewhat more obvious to her — they all, from Snape to McGonagall and even Sprout, seemed to be operating on somewhat shorter tempers, snapping at their students rather more quickly, McGonagall even going off on people for minor dress code violations...which was especially stupid, because Hermione had been under the impression the "dress code" was a matter of informal habit, there wasn't actually anything about it in the student handbook. (She'd checked.) The major exceptions were Hagrid, who remained his cheerful, unruffled self, and Lovegood, who only seemed slightly exhausted by the scramble to make the school and everyone in it presentable.

(With some frequency — before the extra table was added, obviously — Lovegood would come down to a meal and, seemingly on auto-pilot, sit at the Ravenclaw table. Not that anybody at all minded — the Ravenclaws were, for the most part, more than happy to reclaim their famous alumna.)

If anything, the increasing air of excitement should lead to fewer of the school's residents being present at lunch — that the entire bloody school seemed to be here was...weird.

Lyra seemed equally confused, blinking out at the room as though she were just noticing exactly how many people there were about. "Huh, you're right. I didn't even notice... Wait, is that Éanna? What is he doing here?"

In time with Lyra's outburst, Hermione saw Snape's youngest, most awkward apprentice slip through the doors into the Entrance Hall. Hermione still wasn't entirely certain what she thought of Éanna Ó Caoimhe. He obviously knew his Potions very well, of course, and was miles ahead of even Lyra in Alchemy — they got into wandering discussions on the subject with some regularity, half of the time Hermione could barely even follow it (occasionally slipping into Irish really didn't help) — so he was qualified to help out in labs and teach some of the younger years, but Hermione wasn't certain he was suited.

He was, after all, very awkward. He tended to be a bit fidgety, he virtually never made eye-contact, he usually spoke in odd, stuttering, round-about sentences, and he was even more oblivious than Hermione, didn't even pick up on the most obvious of sarcasm most of the time. Autism, she thought, though she wasn't certain — the word he (and Lyra) used was "spastic", which was definitely wrong, and also very offensive, though neither of them seemed to realise that. (She assumed the word was used differently on the magical side, and neither Lyra nor Éanna himself knew what autism was.) Also, she didn't think she'd ever actually met an autistic person before, only read about it, so, just a guess.

Which, Hermione was mostly okay with that. She meant, it was vaguely uncomfortable sometimes, just being around him — he was very weird, it could be unsettling — but he also had no interest in and very little patience for the stupid pointless nonsense most of her peers spent their time talking about. If Éanna was around, they'd probably just end up talking about magical theory or enchanting or alchemy or Irish, which was just fine by her. Sometimes, she'd end up being asked to explain some confusing thing a "normal" person had said or done — Hermione apparently being the authority on "normal" people, for some inexplicable reason. That was far less entertaining, but thankfully Éanna didn't seem to care what "normal" people thought enough to stick with any one issue for very long, such diversions usually blew over quickly.

Though, Hermione had been replaced as the authority on "normal" people recently: instead of joining the other apprentices, Éanna drifted over to sit at the Gryffindor table, right next to Gin (and Neville). This was a new thing, Gin and Éanna, and Hermione wasn't quite sure what to think about it. Gin was rather protective of Éanna, even more than Lyra was, and Hermione was pretty sure Snape had wrangled Lyra into looking out for him somehow — Gin had even hexed a few Slytherins in her year who'd been mocking him to his face, she'd gotten detention for it and everything. (Not that Éanna had seemed to care or even notice he was being insulted, but still.) Hermione would almost wonder if there weren't something, like a romantic something, going on between the two of them, if it weren't so very hard to imagine Éanna actually dating anyone. But it was still very weird.

Case in point: before Éanna could even say anything, Gin had picked up a bowl of carrots and set it down in front him. Hermione had noticed Éanna was a very picky eater — he would have buttered toast for breakfast, and potatoes and carrots, mashed up together and covered in gravy and a surprisingly thick layer of pepper, and maybe a bit of chicken for dinner, she'd hardly ever seen him eat anything else. Gin had apparently noticed the same thing, enough to make sure the carrots were in reach without needing to be asked.

There was something going on between those two, Hermione didn't get it, it was weird.

"What are you doing here, Éanna?"

Gin shot Lyra a flat glare, Hermione jumped in before she could snap at her. "She means, you don't usually come down for lunch." He would show up for dinner — because Snape insisted, he'd complained — and sometimes for breakfast, but he almost never took lunch in the Great Hall. She assumed the elves brought him something in his office, she'd never asked.

Éanna didn't look up as he answered, focused on mashing up his carrots. "Master Severus said I had to be here for the announcements."

"What announcements?"

"Er, didn't you hear?" Neville asked, a very odd, uncertain expression on his face. Probably at the thought that she and Lyra both didn't know something, that didn't happen very often. "McGonagall told everyone there are going to be announcements after lunch today, the whole school is supposed to be here."

"Oh." Lyra blinked for a second, then shrugged. "We've been in the library all morning, must have missed it. Did she say what it was about?"

"Well, it'll be about the Tournament, won't it?" Harry said, flopping down on Hermione's other side. "They are coming in tomorrow, right, they'll want to lecture at us about proper behaviour first."

"Funny, you think they'd know not to ask for something that'll never, ever happen."

"Not everybody is you, Lyra."

"Of course not, Harry, I'm me. But there's also, you know, the Weasley Twins."

Harry grimaced. "Yeah, okay, good point."

Lunch went on as usual, if rather more noisy — and not just because there were more people than she'd expect on a weekend, their Tournament guests would be coming in tomorrow, the excitement on the air was almost tangible. Harry was even smiling, which... Okay, that wasn't entirely fair. It was true that, for most of their first two and a half years or so, Harry had been pretty consistently miserable, she'd hardly ever seen Harry actually look happy (except immediately after quidditch matches). But she'd noticed he'd been doing better, starting around winter break last year. She assumed it was because his home life had vastly improved, having somewhere to go besides his awful family, and having more than a tiny handful of friends, and adults around who were actually worth anything if he needed something. And then there was the mind magic, of course, sort of hard to avoid dealing with one's emotional issues when learning a form of magic that required awareness of one's own mind.

Hermione would admit she'd been...concerned, at first, with how the Blacks and Zabinis had been inserting themselves into Harry's life, but... Watching him now, smiling and laughing with Gin and the Gryffindor boys, he looked much better, he looked happy. (He'd put on some weight too, which was also good, and was she imagining it or was he a little taller? She thought he was taller.) Which... Good. That was good.

(She wondered if she looked different now too.)

Never mind that now, focus on her conversation with Lyra about...enchantment interface schema, right. The problem with non-magical people using magical artefacts was that many of them interfaced with a person's magic but, thinking about their omniglot hack idea she'd realised, if they instead interfaced through the mind...

Muggles could theoretically do mind magic — occlumency, of course, they didn't have the power to project themselves outward, so no legilimency. (Though, passively picking up things might be possible, since certain muggles did have divinatory talent, not the point.) In fact, Hermione noted that Andromeda had tested Emma a little, just to see if she'd be able to resist mind-influencing magics, and she did pretty damn well. Probably not well enough to keep out a true legilimens, but certainly more than enough to throw off compulsions and such. So, yes, theoretically, it should be perfectly possible to design enchantments mediated through mind-magic that muggles could use. Was Lyra thinking of trying their language thing with Mum and—

Wands.

Lyra was...contemplating a design for a wand...

...that drew on ambient energy...

...and shaped the spell with mind magic...

...so it could be used by a muggle...

...like Mum, so she could protect herself if she needed to. Oh, and also keep her tea warm.

And it... Hermione thought about it for a moment, and that should actually be possible. Unless there was some limiting factor she couldn't think of off hand...

Lyra had actually come up with an idea for a muggle wand, specifically for Hermione's mum.

...

Hermione bit her lip so hard it actually hurt — she'd probably be very embarrassed afterward if she out and snogged Lyra at the Gryffindor table.

(Sometimes, Hermione thought she might be in love with Lyra's brain. Was that weird?)

Distracted as Hermione was with the implications of that idea — and also trying to control herself, god damn teenage hormones... — it took a moment for her to realise something was going on. By the time Hermione noticed they had guests, they were already over halfway across the room to the staff table. A clump of adults in formal robes, with the exception of one woman toward the front of the pack, who was wearing a very expensive-looking black and red dress instead, could be wrong but it looked muggle-made. It was also showing rather more than was entirely decent, but—

"Wait, isn't that Mirabella Zabini?" Hermione had actually known about Mirabella Zabini before she'd known the magical world existed — she'd taken over as CEO of LES, one of the more important tech firms in the world, back in... Damn, she forgot. Hermione had been eight or nine or so, she thought. But anyway, she'd made a point of getting her face out there, taking television interviews and such, making hers probably the most recognisable face in the industry on this side of the Atlantic.

Hermione hadn't even realised that Blaise Zabini's mother, the Mirabella Zabini who was Director of Education and on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, was the same Mirabella Zabini who was CEO of LES, until winter break last year, when she'd confirmed it herself in a letter to Hermione's parents. She still didn't know what to think about the tech CEO and the woman in charge of magical education in Britain being the same person.

It didn't help that the magical Mirabella Zabini was rather infamous for maybe being a serial killer — everybody suspected she'd been marrying and then murdering men for their wealth, but nobody could prove it. Yeah, had no idea what to think about Mirabella Zabini.

"Merlin, it is." Neville sounded uncomfortable — he'd probably met all the people high up in the Ministry, maybe he knew her...or maybe it was the dress, his face was a little pink.

(She did look nice, Hermione could tell that much, but it did nothing for her, which was kind of weird, because she'd sort of thought she was gay now? She meant, Lyra was distractingly pretty sometimes, so...but, she was most distracting when she'd just said something brilliant, and Hermione didn't know Zabini at all, so maybe it was more complicated than just... She didn't know, she was confusing herself.)

Anyway, Neville wasn't done. "Oh, and there's Crouch too, next to her." The dour, fastidious-looking man next to Zabini, he must mean. Hermione knew Crouch was the Director of International Cooperation — essentially, the equivalent of the Foreign Secretary (though she had the feeling the position was somewhat less prestigious than it was in the UK). Crouch personally she really only knew because he'd been a totalitarian Director of Law Enforcement toward the end of the war, meaning he was responsible for Sirius (and dozens of other people, in fact) being remanded to Azkaban without trial, and because he was the only other omniglot Lyra could think of off-hand. "What are they doing here?"

Lyra shrugged. "They're probably giving this announcement."

"Did they really need to dress up just to meet us?" Harry said, sounding rather exasperated. He'd complained about Zabini's dressing habits, or lack thereof, more times than Hermione could count. Apparently, living with her could be...distracting. "Honestly, you'd think she was going to meet the Queen or something."

Hermione happened to be taking a sip of her tea at the moment, and almost choked on it. "What are— Harry, how the hell do you think women dress when they're going to meet the Queen?"

"I'm not talking about women, I'm talking about Mira."

She blinked. "Okay, good point."

Before long, their group of visitors got to the high table. While the whispers still raged behind them, Zabini and Crouch briefly talked — Dumbledore and Crouch looked miserable and resentful, but whatever it was wasn't troubling Zabini at all, still all smooth and graceful, Hermione could even hear her laughing from here. Come to think of it, the thing making them both miserable was probably Zabini herself — she'd been ramming a litany of (perfectly reasonable) educational reforms in over Dumbledore's head, and had spent her entire political career showing up Crouch, because she disliked him and wanted to mess with him (according to Lyra, anyway) — so she guessed that followed.

After a brief discussion, Dumbledore swept up to his feet, arms dramatically raised for silence. He got it after a few seconds, save for some quiet mutters and clicks of forks. "As you are all no doubt aware, the Triwizard Tournament is opening tomorrow evening." The last few words were drowned out a bit by a storm of cheering, Dumbledore raised his hands again, nodding indulgently at the noise until it tapered off. "Yes, yes, quite exciting. Our school will be playing host to a number of international guests for the duration of the Tournament. Our friends from the Ministry here wished to speak to you briefly on what they expect from you all over the coming year. If you would, Director—"

Edging a step toward the centre of the high table, Zabini called, "Thank you, Headmaster." Dumbledore looked slightly irritated — Hermione guessed he'd been expecting Crouch would speak for them — but he nodded gracefully, sinking back into his chair. Standing before them, her hands clasped in front of her and with a brilliant politician's smile on her face, Zabini started speaking. She had one of those politician's voices too, smooth and rich and meticulously articulated — but one of the good politicians, didn't sound at all like a robot. "Hello there, everyone. I understand you have many things you would rather be doing than listen to me, so I will try to make this as brief as I can.

"My name is Mirabella Zabini. I am Director of Education with the Ministry of Magic and, in that capacity, a member of the Board of Governors of this very school I'm standing in." She leaned forward a little, her voice falling into a false whisper. "You have me to thank for the changes in the classroom and the extra staff you might have noticed this year, by the way." There was a little bit of scattered cheering at that, Zabini quietly smiled through it. (Dumbledore looked like he'd bitten into something sour.) "And next to me, this is Bartemius Crouch, Director of International Cooperation, who you also may have heard of."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as the stiff-looking Crouch just moodily stared out at— Oh, my. Hermione hadn't gotten a real good look at him until now, but was that a Hitler moustache? Oh God, it was, it was definitely a Hitler moustache. Had nobody ever told the poor man he looked uncomfortably like Adolf bloody Hitler like that? And this was their country's head diplomat, Jesus Christ...

"Now, as I'm sure you know, the Triwizard Tournament is a traditional event, dating back to the Thirteenth Century, held between the three greatest schools of magic in Western Europe — Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and, of course, our very own Hogwarts. A single champion will be selected to represent each of the three schools, though there will be events open to whomever of you will like to participate. Some of these events will be the very same tasks the champions are competing in, where other students will have the opportunity to aid their champion or sabotage those of the other schools, depending on the particulars of the task at hand. Details on what exactly this will look like will be explained as these events approach. But keep in mind: just because only one of you will be this school's champion, does not mean you will have nothing to do for the duration of the competition."

If the students had been excited before, it was at a whole new level now. As far as Hermione knew, nobody had any idea what the Tournament itself would actually be like — the news that they could still participate even if they weren't the school's sole champion had the whole room abuzz, shuffling and whispering and laughing.

Zabini let them marinate in that for a bit before speaking again. "The delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be arriving tomorrow evening. For the duration of their stay, they will be dining here in the Great Hall — I assume this fifth table was put here for them — but while some may choose to move into dormitories that have been made available in the north and east wings, they will be providing for their own housing. Also, they will be coming with their own professors to keep up their education while they are here. Some may decide to join you in your classes, but I would not expect many to do so — their schools follow different curricula, and as English is not a major international language I don't expect many of them to be very good at it. Whatever they decide, I do hope you will all endeavor to make our guests feel welcome.

"But," Zabini said, lifting a single finger, "the delegations from our sister schools will not be our only guests. In addition to the three headmasters, a few international dignitaries have been invited to fill out the panel of judges. One is already here: Castalia Lovegood was invited as a judge, back before she took a teaching position at Hogwarts so could no longer be considered properly impartial."

From her spot in the middle table, Lovegood called, "I don't think anyone's ever called me a dignitary. I wasn't properly dignified before either, was I?"

Zabini waited for the laughter to die out, her expression of tolerant amusement unnervingly similar to Dumbledore's. "In any case, Professor Lovegood will remain on as a judge. The International Confederation was also asked to send a representative. They have selected one Régis Delacour, ambassador from the I.C.W. to Le Syndicat Impérial sur les Peuples de la Gascogne et du Languedoc." Her French was actually pretty good, with only a little bit of an accent — it didn't seem quite English, though, perhaps from Italian. "This is a regional veela government, operating in north-central Aquitania. Some of you might recognise 'Delacour' as the name of a large veela clan — as I understand it, Mister Delacour married a veela woman, and was essentially adopted by her clan, taking the name for his own."

There was some grumbling at that — because of course there was, British mages were racist idiots — but Zabini didn't linger over it, raised her voice to press on over them. "Our third guest judge may come as something of a shock. He is an ancient metamorph, an expert in all forms of witchcraft, and will be going by the name Salazar Slytherin. I understand if—" Zabini broke off when the storm of shouting from the students rose over her, it took her some seconds to get them quiet enough again she could be understood. Her voice raised a bit, "We can't say— I can't stress enough, we aren't certain if this man is truly who he claims to be. The Salazar Slytherin who was a founder of this school lived over a thousand years ago, and nobody yet living knows enough of the events or the people of that time to confirm nor deny anything he might say in an attempt to prove his identity. We at the Ministry are not necessarily taking him at his word, but neither can we be certain he is not exactly who he says he is.

"However, I must caution you: it is possible. It is known, from the few documents we have that survived from that time, that the historical Salazar Slytherin was, truly, a metamorph; metamorphs, as many of you know, cannot die of old age. It is worth noting that there has never been any confirmation of the death of Salazar Slytherin, not by his contemporaries nor in the centuries since. The metamorph who will be judging the tournament is a very powerful wizard, that is for certain, and a rather intimidating man to be in a room with, truth be told. It is very much possible that he truly is His Grace the Lord Salazar of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin. Whatever doubts you may have, I suggest you treat him with all due respect, just in case."

While their classmates continued going insane over that, Hermione threw up a couple privacy charms, turned to Lyra to ask, "Is that true?"

Lyra rolled her eyes. "No, obviously not, Flamel's judging the Tournament. I guess she just decided to have a little fun with it."

"I know that, I didn't mean that part." Though, it was a bit absurd to think the fairy — in the sense of the Greater Fae, not the little magical pests — pretending to be a middle-aged witch from Iran (badly) was actually the famous immortal alchemist(s) Nicholas (and Perenelle) Flamel. Especially odd, because apparently they'd only ever been one person, just pretended to be a married couple. (For some reason, Hermione didn't get it.) Also apparently the Flamels got far more credit for their skill with alchemy than they deserved — they had been master alchemists (or, just one master alchemist), but their crowning achievement, the immortality-granting Philosopher's Stone, had been a con from the beginning. They'd been a metamorph the whole time, the story about the Stone had, apparently, just been an excuse they'd come up with to explain away not aging like normal people.

Hermione wasn't entirely sure how she felt about metamorphs in general, or their new Professor of Divination in particular. The idea of metamorphs, immortal witches and wizards with often absurd magical abilities, was intimidating as all hell...but on the other hand, this solved her greatest issue with the Flamels: they couldn't share their secret to immortality because there was no secret, they'd simply been born with it. And it was a bit cruel, when she thought about it, that so many people were mourning the "death" of the Flamels, but there she was at the high table with the other professors right now, pretending to be a fairy pretending (badly) to be an Iranian witch.

And, apparently, she was going to pretend to be Salazar Slytherin for the duration of the Tournament. Okay, Hermione knew, from things Lyra had said and a few older history books she'd found, that Slytherin's modern reputation was mostly nonsense, and Malfoy's gambit had pretty much killed pureblood supremacy for the foreseeable future, but that didn't change the fact that Flamel was going to, just, waltz around pretending to be the historical figure the crazy racists of magical Britain held up as their hero. Hermione had to wonder exactly how she was going to depict him, because, there was just no way this was going to go well.

But, as much as she thought Flamel, or the metamorph who used to be the Flamels, might seem rather heartless and cruel, and maybe just a little bit completely fucking insane...she was a damn good Divination teacher! Hermione was actually learning things, she could do divination herself now! Nothing incredibly impressive, but... Objectively speaking, she was one of the better professors in the school — which only made sense when she thought about it, she had had hundreds of years of practice — and she was even funny! So, yeah, deciding how she felt about Perenelle Flamel or Kyrah Shirazi, or whoever, was very complicated.

But she also wasn't really the point right now. "I mean the stuff about Slytherin. Was he really a metamorph?"

"Oh, sure." Lyra shrugged that off — as though the suggestion that one of the Hogwarts Founders was immortal and might well still be walking around wasn't a matter of much interest at all. "There were a few things that were written about him at the time that suggest as much. Well, either he was a metamorph or a very convincing transvestite, I guess."

Hermione was assaulted with a mental image of Voldemort in a flower-patterned sundress, and felt herself flush. (That look Harry gave her, as though she'd let it slip enough that he'd seen it too, didn't help.)

"But, when the House of Slytherin died out in the Sixteenth Century, an unknown woman appeared in the middle of the floor, while the Wizengamot was debating who had the best claim to inherit the title, and cursed the fuck out of the family's seat, lectured at the assembled Lords for a bit, then disappeared. Nobody can crack it, they had to rebuild the Hall around the thing. Nobody's entirely certain who the woman was, but by the way she was talking the smart money is on Salazar Slytherin himself. Er, herself? You know what I mean."

"So, the Slytherin is still around somewhere."

"Maybe? That was probably him who cursed the seat, but that was four hundred years ago, he might have died since then, who knows. I would say we could ask Shirazi — if he's still alive, she must have contacted him somehow for permission to use the name — but I doubt she'd tell us."

That was...a weird thought. Hermione knew the historical Slytherin hadn't actually been the genocidal maniac people remembered him as these days, but still...

While she and Lyra had been talking about that, Zabini had finally gotten control of the room again. There was an odd look about her, almost anxious, an unpleasant sort of anticipation. Her voice somewhat flatter than before, she said, "There is one last member of our panel of judges, who most will consider quite...controversial. She is another metamorph, though somewhat younger than Slytherin, I believe, who goes by the name Sarah Selwyn. She is, I am told, a British expatriate, in some way connected to the Noble House of Selwyn, though not directly tied to it — it is my understanding that she predates the formalisation of the family in the Fifteenth Century, so it wasn't her name at birth, but she uses it now as a matter of convenience. Since leaving Britain, Professor Selwyn has drifted across Europe and the Near East, eventually finding herself in the Americas. Not long afterward, she joined with the community of European refugees who would, in time, organise themselves as the Miskatonic Valley—"

That was about as much as Hermione heard. The explosion of conversation between the students washed out whatever might have come after that. Even the professors were participating, some jumping to their feet to question Zabini, Dumbledore and Crouch approaching her, both pale-faced and, by their postures, yelling at Zabini a bit.

While this was probably a more dramatic reaction than was entirely justified, Hermione couldn't say she was surprised. The Miskatonic Valley Magical Cooperative had a very...controversial reputation, in Britain — throughout the ICW, for that matter. The Western opinion of the institution went all the way back to a time before it'd even technically existed, to events in the latter part of the 17th Century, the final years before the imposition of Secrecy on the magical world.

The mages' decision to isolate themselves from the rest of the world entirely had been made by Europeans and East Asians (particularly the Chinese), and it hadn't been a particularly popular one. Many mages had rejected the dictates of their rulers, a disagreement that escalated into revolts and even civil wars, as the earliest anti-Statutarians were suppressed, in some cases viciously. There had even been wars between magical nations, as pro-Secrecy states forced those who opposed it into compliance. These anti-Secrecy states were mostly focused in a band stretching from the Congo Basin, into the African Great Lakes, up the Nile, throughout the Near East and over into Persia, Bactria, and the Indian subcontinent, including some of the oldest magical cultures in all the world — Egypt, Persia, various Indian kingdoms Hermione was less familiar with — and some of the most populous. The conflict ravaged this area of the world, resulting in thousands upon thousands of deaths, the region still harbouring lingering anti-Statutarian sentiment to this day — though, perhaps, somewhat moderated by the hard fundamentalist swing taken up by certain Islamicists in recent generations, many were concerned that would make re-integration with their non-magical cousins far more difficult.

The conflict had, perhaps, been at its worst in the Americas. The American Natives, who had formed their own advanced civilisations long before the arrival of Europeans in the 16th Century, had already had a complicated relationship with the rest of the world by the time Secrecy came around. European mages did support their non-magical cousins in their empire-making, which obviously soured relations with outsiders; opinion on Asians was somewhat better, since their contact had been minor up to that point, sparse trade along the west coast mostly by enterprising mages. Unlike in most of the rest of the world, there had been no commonly-recognised international diplomatic structure to make a decision on Secrecy one way or the other — by the time the Statute came around, the Americas had been practically a post-apocalyptic hellscape. By some estimates, over ninety per cent of the native population had been wiped out by European diseases in the first century after contact, a disaster of proportions simply unprecedented in all of human history. The death toll among the mages was somewhat lower, but had still been devastating, the Americans far less organised than the Europeans and Asians as a result.

So, they thought forcing the peoples of the New World into compliance with Secrecy would be easy. They were very, very wrong.

The war the Europeans and the Chinese had prosecuted against the Americans was long, and bloody, and brutal — it wasn't at all unusual for American villages to be completely exterminated, every single resident murdered, or for entire teams of Old World warmages, backed up with their best curse-breakers to deal with the strange American wards, to leave in search of an American settlement only to disappear and never be heard from again. Countless people died, on both sides, but while the Americans did manage to resist being conquered the horrible toll of the war did eventually force them to come to the table, and they had, in the end, adopted the Statute of Secrecy. But there was still a great deal of bitterness over it, especially given the fate of their non-magical cousins in the centuries since, most modern American nations essentially promoting anti-Statutarianism as official policy to this day.

Over the course of the fighting over the Statute, both in the Old and the New World, hundreds of defectors from European and Asian nations found their way to the Americas. Many of them ended up joining the Americans in their fight against the Statute, advising the Natives on how to counter European and Asian magics, which had been largely alien to them at the time. In the aftermath of Secrecy, many anti-Statutarians from all over the world found their way to the Americas, forming little pockets of Old World influence within a civilisation that was even now, on the magical side, still mostly dominated by Natives.

One such community formed along the Miskatonic River, somewhere in New England — Lovecraft put it in Massachusetts, but Hermione wasn't certain precisely where the real-world Miskatonic was located. The initial group were mostly defectors from the forces sent to subjugate the Natives, curse-breakers and ward-crafters and warmages. As more refugees arrived, their little community attracted those of a more academic bent, alchemists and enchanters and artificers and magical theorists. The residents organised, and in 1732 went to the local American mages, offering their services in understanding (and countering) Western magic — the Americans agreed, and the Miskatonic Valley Magical Cooperative was born.

Now, in the immediate aftermath of the Statute, most Western nations had started getting more serious about controlling the proliferation of the more unsavoury sorts of magic. Miskatonic, however, had been founded on a mandate to explore all of Western magic, with the goal of preparing their American allies to deal with a potential second war — so these laws against the Dark Arts, naturally, were never adopted in Miskatonic. In fact, many practitioners of the Dark Arts who had to flee their own countries as the local authorities turned against them found their way to Miskatonic, welcomed by the locals and protected against extradition by the American authorities.

Hermione knew by now Miskatonic's reputation as a refuge of terrible evil dark mages doing terrible evil things was not...entirely accurate. All magics were studied and taught in the Miskatonic Valley, they had a magical school much like any other — though they also had the equivalent of a Mastery programme, so more like Beauxbatons than Hogwarts. (And they were also a muggle university, of course, it was a large and complicated institution.) They simply didn't restrict what sort of research people were allowed to do. Well, even that wasn't entirely true — the American authorities did set ground rules, mostly involving not using their citizens as test subjects and not causing too much destruction or starting a war or something, but as long as they didn't offend their patrons they could do as they liked. Some of the projects Miskatonic was involved in were absolutely horrendous...

...but they also did very important, influential work, that couldn't be denied either. And, when she thought about it, Hermione could understand why the Americans might find European moralising about some of the subjects Miskatonic taught and the experiments they conducted to be almost hilariously hypocritical. It was important to remember that the Americans' first major contact with Western magic had been foreigners coming in and using it to dominate and murder their people — and that had been done before modern regulations against the Dark Arts, so Hermione didn't doubt some seriously vile shite had been used against the Americans. When she thought about it, the Americans attempting to ensure they were prepared should they ever have to face that sort of assault again made perfect sense.

Miskatonic did do a lot of problematic research, yes. A lot of the people there were quite awful, yes. But crazy Dark Arts wasn't all they did, not by a long shot, and not all of their people were involved in the worse aspects — it was a legitimate educational institution over there, after all, they had all sorts. The European impression they were all insane Dark Arts users was a bit absurd, considering the University also had literal muggles on the staff. Such an intense reaction to Miskatonic sending someone wasn't entirely justified.

Though, Hermione would admit, even she was a bit...leery. She'd read issues of the Árthra, the journal Miskatonic published, so some might well consider her a sort of collaborator, and even she was uncomfortable with the idea of one of their researchers being around! Especially given this Sarah Selwyn's particular history, that did sort of make it more likely she'd be one of the problematic ones...

Yes, Hermione did think this horrified outcry was a bit much, but she could sort of understand where they were coming from.

Though, she did have another question for Lyra. "I thought you said Miskatonic was sending Angel Black." If they had picked someone else, Hermione was on board for that — she hadn't been able to find much about this Angel Black person, but what little she had was not encouraging.

Lyra shrugged. "Angel is part of their delegation, I'm sure, but maybe they decided to pick someone else for the top name. Someone less, you know, Black."

And that was Lyra suggesting the Blacks were even a bit much for Miskatonic. Hermione wondered if she realised how funny that was. (Though, it was also a little reassuring, when she thought about it.)

It took some minutes for Zabini to get control of the room again — it didn't help that Dumbledore and Crouch were obviously very unhappy with her, she needed to shake them before she could even attempt to address the students again. Eventually, with the assistance of magic (an amplification spell on her own voice, a slew of palings and charms from Babbling and Snape Hermione didn't even recognise), she did finally manage it. "I know many of you find the idea of a professor from Miskatonic coming to Hogwarts concerning, but Professor Selwyn herself is not especially threatening. From what I am told, she is a master wardcrafter, with further specialties in mind magic, blood magic, and necromancy, but, but," she stressed, raising her voice a bit over a renewed bout of whispering, "she is mostly concerned with adapting these specialities toward protective magics and healing. I have spoken with her briefly, and she seemed nice enough.

"She will be accompanied by her partner, one Angel Black—" Oh, there it was. "—who is...perhaps rather closer to what you might expect of a Miskatonic researcher. However, everyone who comes to Hogwarts will be expected to observe ICW statutes for the duration of the Tournament, an arrangement Madam Black has agreed to abide by. You are in no particular danger from our guests from Miskatonic, no more than any of the others. In any case, I am certain they will be watched very closely for as long as they are here," she finished, with a peculiar note of irony on her voice. Yeah, Hermione didn't doubt the staff and security provided by the Ministry would definitely be keeping an eye on the delegation from Miskatonic, they wouldn't need to be told to do it.

Again, Hermione found herself turning to Lyra. "By partner, does she mean...?" One of Lyra's eyebrows ticked up in clear confusion. "Like, er... It's a euphemism, on the muggle side, for long-term same-sex couples." Come to think of it, she wasn't certain she'd ever heard the word used that way by mages — despite visible same-sex couples being around, it wasn't as big a deal over here — so Lyra not initially picking up on what she meant made sense.

"Oh, no, she probably means in a professional sense. Angel is a black mage under the Covenant, like me — I doubt she gets people any better than I do. Probably worse, actually, she's closer to the Dark than I am."

Oh, great, that was going to be fun...

Hermione shook off that dreadful thought in time to listen to Zabini, finally moving on after letting the students work out their nervousness some more. "However, the delegations from the schools and on our panel of judges are not the only guests we will have this year. Many of you are, perhaps, not aware of this, but the mages of these islands are required by treaty to keep our sister muggle governments informed on matters of domestic and international importance. There is a tricky little passage in the Treaty of Anglesey in particular that requires the Wizengamot to invite them to send observers to any event of significant diplomatic importance. You may remember the recent riot at the World Cup was, at least partially, composed of people attempting to murder Michael Cavan, an important figure in the muggle government of Ireland — he was invited to the World Cup in the first place due to this clause in the Treaty of Anglesey."

Hermione snorted. That was a charitable way of putting it — from what she'd heard, the Ministry had, in fact, forgotten to invite the Irish, despite their treaty obligation to do so. (Apparently they had sent an invitation to Whitehall, but the UK had elected not to send anyone.) Once Michael Cavan, the Labour leader in Ireland's parliament and the current Tánaiste — Hermione had heard of him before, her parents were fans — had realised just how he'd been snubbed, he'd called up Saoirse Ghaelach — basically, as Hermione understood it, the magical IRA — and shown up on his own. Without an invitation, he'd pretty much just turned up and dared the people running the thing to tell him to leave.

There were, after all, reasons her parents liked him.

"Respecting this treaty with our non-magical neighbours, invitations to send observers to the event have been sent to two of the major governments we share lands with — the Republic of France was not invited, as a result of other agreements they are only to be involved in matters solely concerning Brittany." Oh, Hermione hadn't even realised the French government might have been invited, sometimes she entirely forgot Bretagne was actually part of Britain on the magical side...sort of, it was complicated. "Both of whom have accepted, and will be sending delegations for the duration. Before they arrive, however, there are a few matters I would like to take the time to explain.

"One of the delegations we will be hosting here will be representing the Republic of Ireland. It is important to note, concerning the muggles of our islands, that they are no longer all one nation. There was a nationalist revolution in muggle Ireland, followed by a very complicated civil war — and this was, in historical terms, very recent, the major events taking place in the early decades of this century, with consequences that are still controversial points of political contention to this day. The Republic of Ireland is an independent country, consisting of the entirety of Munster, Leinster, and Connacht — along with small portions of Ulster, though the majority is still controlled by the British — and they are quite sensitive to any suggestion they are not their own nation. Our Irish guests will likely take offence to any suggestion they are British, or subjects of the muggle English queen, so, should you ever speak to any of them, I would take care to avoid doing so."

Slightly behind Zabini and to her right, Crouch shot the back of her head a cold, unpleasant glare.

"The muggle Irish delegation will be lead by Michael Cavan himself, who is a member of the leadership of the Dáil Éireann, a body analogous to our Wizengamot, and also Minister for Foreign Affairs, a position more or less equivalent to that of Director Crouch here," she finished, turning to give him a graceful nod — Crouch's glare vanished while she was facing him, then returned the second her back was to him again. "His proper title is tánaiste, but Mister Cavan or hey you will do in a pinch." A wave of uncertain giggles swept over the room. "Mister Cavan's duties leave him very little free time, so while he will certainly be in attendance for the major events of the Tournament he will be away from the castle most of the year, leaving a delegation of subordinates from his office behind in his place.

"So far as dealing with our Irish guests goes, I wouldn't worry about being overly formal with them. I am familiar with Mister Cavan myself, professionally, and while I would avoid being too directly offensive, the man does have a sense of humour — he can take a joke, and isn't likely to take a little rudeness personally. For the duration of their stay, the Irish will take up residence in rooms set aside for them in the north wing. I recommend staying well away from them if you are not explicitly invited. Our non-magical cousins are aware many mages aren't particularly welcoming to their people—" That was a very charitable way to say some mages were genocidally racist... "—and they are taking their security very seriously — Saoirse Ghaelach will be providing that security themselves, personally lead by Fionn Ingham, Ciarán Ó Báinfhéigh, and Síomha Ní Ailbhe. I would advise you avoid giving them any reason to think you are a threat to their charges."

Zabini had to break again, as the students muttered among themselves — not just the students, Hermione noticed certain of the staff looked less than pleased, especially Dumbledore. Which was sort of understandable, Hermione had just thought of Saoirse as the magical IRA a couple minutes ago. Though, if she were being entirely honest, she realised that wasn't quite fair. Saoirse hadn't ever been accused of being involved in the sort of violence the Provisional IRA was infamous for these days. Sinn Féin was probably a better comparison...

...though that militia Saoirse had started up recently did sound sort of scary to Hermione. Especially since there were British mages who were talking about organising to counter them. It didn't look that bad yet, Northern Ireland was still a lot worse, but the way the Gaelic and British nationalists talked sometimes was making her a bit nervous.

"The last of our important guests," Zabini pressed on, raising her voice over the last few whispers, "is leading the delegation from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. A number of officials with the Foriegn and Commonwealth Office will be arriving tomorrow, though I do not believe the Foreign Secretary himself is expected to make the trip. The British delegation will be housed in the east wing, and will also be bringing their own security, so, again, I recommend not making a nuisance of yourselves. However, it is the leader of this delegation who represents a...complication.

"For the duration of the Tournament, Hogwarts will be hosting Her Majesty Victoria the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom and—" It sounded like Zabini intended to use the Queen's full style, but Hermione didn't hear any more than that — there was quite a bit of noise at that announcement, enough Zabini's voice was drowned out entirely.

Noise disproportionately, Hermione noticed, from muggleborns, but that wasn't really a shock. Hermione had been somewhat surprised when she realised magical Britain didn't actually recognise the Queen at all — she meant, the Wizengamot considered the Crown an ally, but not their sovereign, didn't recognise the Queen as having any authority over them. And that wasn't just a post-Statute thing, it'd always been that way. The political situation on the Isles had always been complicated, especially since there had been a significant number of noble families who held seats on the Wizengamot but also held titles in England or other, now defunct kingdoms, so also owed fealty to an outside king. Medieval history was a confusing morass, with all the competing kingdoms and split loyalties going on, it was difficult just to keep track of who was allied with—

Hermione blinked.

The...

The Queen was coming to Hogwarts.

The Queen was coming to her school.

And she would, apparently, be staying here for months.

Oh fuck, Hermione had no idea how to react to that...

"Er, Maïa? You okay?"

"I'm fine." It was possible her voice came out rather higher than it should have, Hermione tried not to feel too self-conscious. "I just, I— I didn't realise the Queen was coming to Hogwarts."

Lyra shrugged. Shrugged! "Why wouldn't she? I'm pretty sure the local kings always came to the Triwizard Tournaments. For the opening and closing events, at least, and since the monarch these days hardly has anything to do anymore, I'm not surprised she's sticking around for a while."

"I guess I just— I didn't realise she'd be here, for months, that's all." With how long she'd be here, and how very small the school was, Hermione realised it was almost inevitable that she'd be meeting the Queen this year, however briefly.

Hermione had seen the Queen in person, once, from a distance, though she could barely remember it. They'd gone to Westminster for the coronation — they did live in Oxford, London was only a short train hop away — and that had been, what, a little over ten years ago now? Hermione would have been four, probably. She vaguely remembered being carried on Dad's shoulders in the middle of an enormous, noisy crowd, looking up at a balcony where the whole royal family was standing, the newly-crowned Queen in the middle. She'd been tiny from that distance, Hermione had hardly been able to make her out — but she'd be at Hogwarts, for the rest of the year...

It was rather warm, all of a sudden. Was she the only one who felt warm? That was uncomfortable.

And Lyra still seemed completely unimpressed, which, of course she was, this was Lyra. "I don't see what the big deal is. Vicky isn't that interesting. It is Vicky, right?"

It took Hermione a few seconds to find her voice. "Vicky?!"

Lyra tipped in her seat a little, leaning away from Hermione, a look of mild surprise on her face — okay, maybe that had been a bit louder than necessary, but her girlfriend had just called the Queen Vicky. "Um, sure? I tagged along with my Uncle Draco to the Palace once — he was a Black Cloak, you know, he met with the royal family occasionally. That would have been in...Fifty-Nine or Sixty, I think?"

Hermione nearly yelled at Lyra for talking about being around in the 1950s before realising her privacy spells were still up, right. "You've met the Queen before."

"Sure. Well, it was Princess Vicky then, obviously, but yes. At least, I'm assuming this Queen Victoria is the same person, I don't actually know for certain, never checked."

"Yes. Yes, she is."

"Right. I did talk to her for a while, actually — Uncle Draco made Vicky play chess with me so I wouldn't make a nuisance of myself while he was trying to talk to the King."

Once again, it took Hermione a couple seconds to process that. "You...played chess. With the Queen."

Lyra still seemed faintly confused over Hermione lingering on this, but she nodded. "Yep. She wasn't bad, either — I mean, I still won, obviously, but she did better than most people around my age. She's like, what, two or three years older than me, I think? Actually forced a stalemate once, so, yeah, not bad. And, she's not as boring as most people, but I still don't see what the big deal is."

...

Nope. Hermione had no idea what to do with this. She wasn't touching it.

Zabini was still talking, repeating the same warnings she'd given about the Irish, to stay away from the rooms the British delegation would be taking over in the east wing, to not make nuisances of themselves or give their security any reason at all to suspect they were a threat. The English Crown, Hermione knew, had had an order of magical guardsmen going back literally as long as it had existed, and it was still around in the modern day. Zabini made an explicit comparison to the now defunct but still famously competent Black Cloaks — the first members of the office that would, in time, become the Black Cloaks had in fact been pulled from the personal guards of George II, and the two organisations had traded members back and forth throughout the entire span of their shared existence — and at least two of their current members actually had been Black Cloaks themselves back in the day, among the very few survivors of Grindelwald's campaign of elimination (suggesting they were especially good at their jobs). They took their duties very seriously and messing with them was a very, very bad idea.

Lyra looked ecstatic at the news there would be Black Cloaks, or at least people who were one small step removed from proper Black Cloaks, in the castle for the rest of term — and she wasn't the only one, there were childish grins and excited whisperings all over the room. Which, Hermione would say that was very silly, but she knew the reputation Black Cloaks had in magical Britain by now: they'd ended up as the heroes in a lot of recent fiction, their martyrdom in Grindelwald's war almost entirely erasing their older vilification as blood-thirsty muggle-loving traitors. (Their loyalty had been solely invested in a muggle king after all.) Which was itself ridiculous, but Hermione had also learned by now just how quickly public opinion could change in magical Britain — Harry's seemed to flip back and forth month to month, for an extreme example — she mostly just found this sort of thing exasperating by now.

Zabini then went on for rather longer than was probably necessary about exactly how they should behave while the royals were around. Unlike Michael Cavan, who Zabini believed would brush off all but the most extreme rudeness, they would need to show a much greater degree of respect toward Her Majesty. After all, Zabini explained, the modern erosion of the explicit power held by the sovereign notwithstanding, she was Queen to literally 115 million people — which was an absolutely absurd number to mages, she doubted there were a hundred million mages in all of Europe. (It was a slightly absurd number to Hermione, since the population of the UK was only about 58 million, Zabini must be counting the whole Commonwealth.) In her person, Victoria II also represented one of their country's most important allies — obviously, they shared most of their territory with the UK — and an ancient institution that had been massively important in their own history since practically the beginning. So, obviously, some significant degree of respect was called for, if the children did something to seriously offend the UK for no good reason, well, that wouldn't be good for anyone, would it?

Zabini was probably finishing up, with a last stern reminder they were expected to be on their absolute best behaviour involving Her Majesty, when there was another interruption. From the direction of the Entrance Hall, Hermione recognised the low grinding and creaking of the huge main doors into the castle opening. Clearly hearing the same thing, Zabini's voice went slightly absent, then cutting off instantly when a trio of people stepped into the room.

The three of them were, together, some of the strangest people Hermione had ever seen. Or at least in the context of Hogwarts — one of them, a middle-aged man in a meticulously proper muggle suit, a red sash around his middle suggesting he was someone rather important (though Hermione didn't recognise him at first glance, probably a minister of state with the Foreign Office or something), actually looked rather ordinary, she'd seen people dressed like that attending formal events on the television many times, but seeing one at Hogwarts was jarring. The other two men were clearly mages, in dueling leathers coloured black and red and gold, heavy dark cloaks fluttering dramatically in their wakes.

But they were also heavily armed, almost ridiculously so. There were wands, of course — Hermione caught hints of holsters on both wrists, and she thought the man in the rear had another one built into the inside of his left boot — and there were also little narrow metal instruments peeking out from their belts — Hermione suspected those were drop-keys, a tool designed to assist curse-breakers in cracking wards. They were also both carrying firearms, at least one pistol each openly hanging at their right hip, but judging by the subtle bulges the one in the rear could easily have three, which was completely absurd, most mages Hermione had spoken to hardly even knew what firearms were. And, perhaps most distractingly, the one in the lead was wearing a sword — obviously magically-made, the metal sparkling red and gold in the sunlight, the reflections warping slightly from the power of the enchantments in the thing — which was, just, the silliest thing Hermione had ever seen, mages hadn't made a habit of carrying swords since before the Statute, and even back then it had never been common, they had bloody wands, what the hell...

Hermione didn't need anyone to say anything to know those two men were some of the Queen's magical guardsmen. If the timing hadn't been enough, the combination of the colour scheme and their completely over-the-top magical–muggle arms would have been a dead giveaway.

The three paced down the Hall, between the central and Ravenclaw tables, seemingly paying the storm of whispering following them no mind — though, the presumably muggle man did at least seem to notice their audience was there, smiling and nodding to particular students now and again. Zabini stepped down from the slightly raised platform under the high table to meet them, their muttered conversation covered up by the continued chatter from the students. After a few seconds she popped back up, along with their three guests, who set into introducing themselves to the staff, starting with Dumbledore and moving on to the Heads of Houses.

While they did that, Zabini addressed the room again — even from a distance, her face looked slightly strained. "It seems that Her Majesty's party is running somewhat ahead of schedule. They were not expected until three-thirty this afternoon, but I have just been informed that they are making their way here from Hogsmeade station right now. If you would please—" Zabini was, once again, drowned out by an outpouring of noise from the students, it took a couple moments and more noises from wands for her to be heard again.

The entire population of the school was quickly pushed out of the Great Hall, a chaotic, cacophonous mess of humanity funnelling into the Entrance Hall. In the press, Lyra hooked her arm around Hermione's, which was probably a good thing, Hermione was feeling oddly warm and numb. (The Queen was coming to Hogwarts.) While the students milled in the Entrance Hall, the staff extracted themselves, filtering out toward the front doors. Hermione couldn't see from here, but it looked like they — plus the Head Boy and Girl, who they'd managed to track down at some point — were leaving to wait outside, to greet the Queen and her people on the doorstep. There was a moment of confusion, the students all chattering noisily at each other, swirling around with no real order, until—

A wave of tingling magic swept over the room, leaving almost tangible quiet in its wake — a silencing charm, a powerful one. "If everyone would move toward the sides of the room, please."

There was a moment of silent tension before people started moving again, the crowd pressing themselves away somewhat, opening up a corridor of empty space in the middle of the Hall. (If the Entrance Hall weren't so ridiculously large, and the student body so relatively small, fitting them all in here at once might not have been possible.) Lyra, still guiding Hermione by the arm, managed to claim a spot at the front edge of the crowd, only a few metres from the glimmering granite of the Grand Staircase.

Now that there weren't so many people in the way, Hermione could see the one who'd spoken (and presumably silenced the crowd), was one of the guards, the one with the sword. He waited until they were mostly settled to the sides before speaking again, in a low, casual pitch, quiet enough some magic was probably getting it to their ears in the first place (though, the students being magically silenced also helped). "Good afternoon, students of Hogwarts. I do apologise for the surprise — we managed to make the trip north rather more quickly than we anticipated."

Lyra let out a disbelieving snort, drawing Hermione's thoughts to the claim. Yeah, Lyra was probably right to doubt it — Hermione wouldn't be surprised if the Queen had intentionally arrived early to tweak Dumbledore's (and the Ministry's) nose a bit. Arriving early, after all, forced the habitually self-righteous mages to scramble to welcome her, both putting them off balance and making a point. With how the magical government had treated their non-magical counterparts over the last century or so, taking the opportunity to mess with them a little bit seemed like exactly the sort of thing the Queen might do — she was known for subtle plays like that, after all.

"I am Sir William Langley, Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order and Captain of the Guard." Hermione twitched at the name — not the title, that she might have expected, but the name Langley. It could be a coincidence, it wasn't an unusual name, but on the magical side it happened to be one of the Most Ancient Houses, had been defunct since...the 17th Century, she thought they might have been one of the families exterminated in the war against the Cromwells. He did have a slightly peculiar accent, but it didn't sound like the purebloods', exactly, Hermione couldn't quite place it. She shot a quick glance at Lyra, but she looked just as uncertain as Hermione was. "Her Majesty will be arriving in a few minutes. After speaking with the Chief Warlock, the Directors Crouch and Zabini, and your professors, she will be proceeding directly to her rooms in the east wing until dinner, though she may linger here a moment.

"I would ask you to remain behind these lines." The man flicked his fingers in an almost casual gesture, and the air snapped with magic, strips of moody red-purple light appeared on the tile of the floor an instant later, marking out a corridor from the front doors to the Grand Staircase. Several students on the wrong side of the lines let out squeaks of surprise — the first noise anyone had made for some seconds now, she hadn't realised the silencing was gone — and shuffled around a bit to squeeze in. "However, I do understand if, in the moment, you find yourselves pressing in a bit. If that happens, that is alright, but my men will stop you from getting too close to Her Majesty. Consider this fair warning: any magic cast directly toward the Queen will be considered a threat, and we will respond accordingly." The man glanced over his shoulder toward the front doors. "Any questions?"

From somewhere across the room, someone yelled. "Are you one of the Langleys?"

"Are you the Sir William who caught that stalker?" Hermione had heard about that, the rather dramatic capture of someone trying to sneak into the Queen's residence at Windsor Castle had been in the news a few years ago, but she hadn't remembered any of the names involved.

"I thought the Langleys were all dead..."

Looking slightly exasperated, Sir William flicked his fingers again, another silencing falling over the room. "I'm afraid I can't comment on any of those matters. If you'll excuse me." With a dramatic swirl of his cloak, he turned on his heel, and vanished through the front door outside.

He was hardly gone for a second when Lyra leaned in to mutter, "He probably is a Langley. I think he's a metamorph."

"How can you tell?" Hermione didn't think metamorphs looked any different from normal people, at least until they changed something right out in the open. Even detecting them magically was very, very difficult.

In fact, Hermione had learned that security measures against metamorphs usually involved misting throughout a room minor transfigurative potions, one of the ones metamorphs reacted badly too but in a low enough dose the effect on normal people was negligible. Which, depending on the potion, could easily result in the death of the metamorph, especially if they weren't found right away, but people who were concerned enough about thieves or assassins to bother with such complicated security usually considered that risk acceptable. The point was, they weren't distinct enough from normal people to specifically ward against, they were almost impossible to identify without doing something extreme that might accidentally kill them.

(It was funny the things she picked up, spending all her free time with someone who'd been personally trained by probably the most famous cursebreaker of the 20th Century.)

"Other than how stupid powerful he obviously is?" Lyra shrugged. "I can't. Just a guess."

That was a point. People did grow more magically powerful as they aged (technically, as they used magic, but it was effectively the same thing), so metamorphs were absurdly overpowered just by nature — that was a hell of a silencing he'd been throwing around, with no sign of effort at all, and he hadn't even drawn his wand to do it. Since he was also calling himself Langley, a magical family that had died out about three hundred years ago now, that he was a metamorph wasn't a bad guess.

Though, if he was a Langley, and had been around back when the family had gone extinct, that raised...complications. The Langleys were one of the magical families that had been killed off during the British Civil Wars and the Protectorate, and there had been a few odd shifts in the monarchy over the few centuries since then. If this Langley were one of the Langleys, he would have grown up when the Stuart kings were still around and, well, they weren't anymore. Due to a combination of factors — multiple civil wars, the Glorious Revolution, the Act of Settlement 1701, complicated intermarriages with Continental families — the current royal family had originally been German nobility, had very little to do with the old Stuarts Sir William would have attached himself to, if he really had been around that long. Really, with everything that had happened in the time since, it wouldn't make any sense at all to expect a commitment made to, say, Charles I, to carry all the way through the centuries to the modern day with—

Hermione froze. She and Lyra were standing at the very front of the crowd, just next to the Grand Staircase. Clearly visible.

"Oh, shite..."

Lyra raised an eyebrow at her. "You okay there, Maïa?"

"I just realised— I didn't know the Queen would be coming!"

"No? And...?"

"Lyra, I'm wearing pyjamas." It was the bloody weekend, she hadn't expected to need to be presentable, she hadn't seen any reason to bother with anything more formal than flannel pyjama bottoms and a bloody knitted jumper. And her hair was probably a mess, she'd barely touched it this morning, just quickly tied it back out of the way, she was not in any state to be—

"You're being very silly, you know."

"Not helping, Lyra." Hermione took a moment to breathe, which wasn't very easy, she was feeling weirdly hot and twitchy. (Though Lyra was right, she was being very silly, what did it matter, really.) "I don't suppose you could pop me up to our room so I can change." Lyra had never pulled her through shadows before, and it did sound unpleasant, but...

"Um, I could, I guess, but there probably isn't time for it. I think Vicky's going to be here any minute now."

Dammit, why didn't she— Okay, stop being silly, it was fine. Just...don't think about it. Yes. That would be fine. It wasn't like she had any reason to be embarrassed, the Queen would hardly be paying any special attention to her, it was fine. It was fine.

Thankfully (or perhaps unfortunately), Hermione didn't have very long to fret over it. Probably only a couple minutes later — the Great Hall filled with the low noise of hundreds of students lowly muttering with their neighbours, restlessly shuffling in place — people were walking through the huge double doors. There were more of the very odd-looking guards, rather more than Hermione thought could possibly be necessary, mixed in with the professors several people in formal dress she assumed were from the Foreign Office or something. Quite a few more people than she'd expected just in general, but when she thought about it that did make sense — they weren't just here to meet the Hogwarts staff, after all, there would be delegations from Ireland and the ICW here as well, she wouldn't be surprised if they were hoping to get some actual work done under the table as long as they were here. But she didn't pay all those people very much mind at all.

Because at the front of the pack, arm in arm with Dumbledore, was the bloody Queen of the fucking United Kingdom. Just...right there. It was slightly surreal, if she was being honest.

Even if she didn't quite look like herself, at the moment. Hermione had seen the Queen before, of course, on television — and on currency dating to the last ten years or so, obviously — and... Well, it seemed somehow odd to say, but she had always struck Hermione as very plain — slightly dour-looking, long-faced and solemn, but otherwise unremarkable. If she'd passed her on the street (and hadn't realised she was the bloody Queen), she probably wouldn't give her a second glance. It helped that she'd never really been one for finery, coming off strangely modest for someone who was, well, obscenely wealthy. But now...

The only explanation was that she'd decided to dress like a mage, because she could probably pass as one. Just looked like... Well, not dueling clothes, exactly, but those sort of fake dueling clothes — trousers and tunic in the proper cut, but a shimmer to the cloth (black accented with royal red and gold) that hinted at silk, which wasn't really combat-appropriate. Though, it wasn't quite right for magical dress either. The cloak was odd, tilted at a peculiar angle, clasped over one shoulder at a band of silverish metal dotted with black and blue gemstones, the cloak itself a complicated mix of too many colours, obviously meant to represent something, but Hermione couldn't figure out what it was.

Some of the students, obviously, did. Around the significant portion of the audience who just stood quietly staring — probably muggleborns who, like Hermione, weren't entirely sure what they were supposed to be doing with themselves right now, and so stood in anxious silence — there was a tense storm of whispering, sounding surprised, and confused, and almost...annoyed?

Leaning slightly closer to Lyra, pitching her voice as low as she could, Hermione asked, "What is it? Is something wrong?"

There was a faint smirk on Lyra's lips. "Apparently, Vicky decided to come to Hogwarts dressed up as a Lady Protector."

Hermione blinked. Oh.

The Lord (or Lady) Protector was a Wizengamot office that was only filled during times of war and crisis. The practice dated to an older tradition when, against some outside threat, old Celtic clans would unify and select a warleader from among their own number, dissolving again to the status quo ante once the threat was dealt with. For the duration of the emergency, the deliberative process of the Wizengamot was steeply streamlined, and significant executive power was invested in the Lord Protector alone, who replaced the Chief Warlock but had powers far more extensive. Once the emergency was taken care of, the Lord Protector surrendered their powers, a new Chief Warlock was selected, and the Wizengamot resumed ordinary business.

The whole thing reminded Hermione very much of the dictators of the Roman Republic — complete with later historical events entirely poisoning the office in public perception, leading to new ones no longer being appointed. In the case of magical Britain, that Lady Protector had been Frances Cromwell, who essentially conquered the magical side of the country, illegitimately claiming the title for herself. (She hadn't been the first to claim the title without affirmation by the Wizengamot, but she was the only one to succeed in actually taking over the country.) The war between Cromwell and the Wizengamot in exile — she'd "dissolved" the traditional Wizengamot and replaced it with her own Senate, long story — had been absolutely devastating. In the centuries afterward, even when they would otherwise have had very good reason to, the Wizengamot had never selected a Lord Protector, the office was just too politically toxic.

(In a weird way, magical Britain couldn't declare war: the legal process required selecting a Lord Protector, which they simply weren't going to do. Which made dealing with certain things rather more difficult — like, oh, genocidal terrorists out to overthrow the government, for example. It was very silly.)

Hermione wasn't certain exactly what part of that outfit was supposed to be particularly...Lady Protector-ish, but it couldn't possibly be by accident. It would have to be intended as a message...though Hermione also wasn't certain exactly what that message was supposed to be. The truth of the matter was somewhat more complicated than it was usually depicted, but Cromwell was almost universally considered to be the greatest villain in all of magical British history — Hermione could only assume whatever message the Queen was intending to get across was an inflammatory one.

Privately going off on that tangent, Hermione had managed to get distracted by her own thoughts long enough the Queen had crossed much of the room, now not so far from the Grand Staircase — and, so, not far from Hermione either. Not close, exactly, since the Entrance Hall was bloody huge, but it couldn't be a dozen metres, and...

Hermione felt a little light-headed. Was it just her, or was it rather warm in here? And the bloody front doors were open too...

The Queen and Dumbledore were talking, and there was some kind of amplification charm on their voices, so despite their low, casual tone Hermione could hear them. Not that it seemed to be anything important, chatting on about polite nonsense to do with the school, whatever. They were nearly at the Grand Staircase when the Queen halted, quite nearly jerking Dumbledore to a stop, the faint frown that had been on her face becoming rather more obvious. "Sir William?"

The same man from before, mostly identifiable by the sword at his hip — his features were almost suspiciously bland and unremarkable, enough Hermione assumed he'd somehow made himself nondescript on purpose — was immediately looming over the Queen's shoulder, appearing out of nowhere, yet somehow so smoothly he might have been there the whole time. He leaned in close (closer than Hermione thought could be entirely appropriate, in fact, but perhaps being her primary bodyguard came with privileges), and they had a brief, whispered conversation. Interestingly, the amplification charm had cut off, Hermione couldn't hear anything. The Queen had covered her lips with her free hand before speaking to him, and Hermione found himself wondering if it was possible to create an amplification charm that could be freely modulated like that, or if whoever it was who'd cast it had simply responded to the signal.

Whatever, the amplification picked up again the second the Queen turned back to Dumbledore. "It occurs to me, Albus, that there is a critical member of your staff you haven't yet introduced me to." Hermione noticed, again, that the Queen's RP was somewhat off, sounding rather more like modern news programmes on BBC than proper Conservative RP.

Dumbledore looked faintly confused by that suggestion, glanced over his shoulder for a second, as though counting the professors quick. "I'm afraid I'm uncertain who you're referring to, ma'am." It probably wasn't entirely fair, but Hermione was a little surprised Dumbledore was calling the Queen ma'am, like he was supposed to — he never used proper address for people, she'd half-expected him to use her first name to her face (despite how blatantly disrespectful that would be, but Dumbledore had never struck her as being particularly concerned with being blatantly disrespectful).

"I admit I am uncertain how such things are done over here but, where I am from, it is considered polite to introduce oneself to the domestic staff."

Wait, she couldn't possibly mean...

Dumbledore looked just as dumbfounded as Hermione was, for a few seconds he could only stare down at her. (Literally, she meant, he was rather taller than the Queen.) "Ah... Are you referring to the house-elves?"

For her part, the Queen looked entirely unimpressed with Dumbledore's surprise. "Yes, Headmaster, I am referring to the elves."

There was some more unpleasant muttering at that, but Hermione hardly even noticed — she was a little too busy being blindsided by the fact that, not only did the Queen know what house-elves were, but she apparently actually gave a damn, if her clear (if politely subtle) disdain were any indication...

It took a moment for Dumbledore to recover, clearing his throat before speaking. "Yes, ma'am, I could call Rose up, if you would like. She is the... I suppose a comparable concept would be seneschal — she manages the elves here, and is ultimately responsible for the day-to-day operation of the castle, though I would argue the elves consider her more like, say, the chief of a clan. If that makes sense."

Dumbledore was entirely correct about that, from what Hermione understood. She wasn't exactly an expert on the way elves did things, but from a few hints Lyra had dropped and the way the elves spoke to each other, the impression Hermione had gotten was less overseer–subordinate, and more like Rose was a respected matriarch of a very large family. Sort of analogous to how magical families were run, come to think of it, which was itself a modern extension of how the old Celtic clans worked, so Dumbledore's simile was far more appropriate than it'd seemed at first.

The Queen smiled, though it seemed a rather unpleasant one, thin and slightly mocking. "That will suffice for now, Albus."

If he noticed how displeased the Queen seemed with him, Dumbledore didn't show it, gracefully nodding. He disentangled his arm from hers, took a step away. "Rose, if you would come up for a moment." After a brief but noticeable pause, there was a sharp pop, and there was a house elf standing in the Entrance Hall, before the eyes of the entire student body and all their guests.

Of all the Hogwarts house elves, Hermione was perhaps the most familiar with Rose. For the most part, the elves didn't make a point of actually conversing with students at all, going about their business with utmost efficiency, so Rose might well be the only elf Hermione had ever talked to for any real length. And that almost entirely due to their exploits last year — to accommodate their extensive time-turning, Lyra had negotiated with Rose to get extra meals in the kitchens, and then again to help with her prank with the babbling potion. Hermione herself had spoken with her a few other times, asking after how the castle was run, how the elves got along here.

While Lyra had had plenty to say about the topic, it had been Rose who had disabused her of her old notions about elves entirely. Hermione still wasn't at all comfortable with how things were done elsewhere in the country, and the abuse some elves were subjected to was a serious problem, but the situation at Hogwarts, at least, seemed perfectly fine. To hear Rose tell it, Hogwarts was their home, and the students and even most of the professors were merely temporary guests here. Guests they gave hospitality to, according to terms set by the original agreement made between their ancestors and the Founders, but the elves were ultimately the masters of Hogwarts, even if the humans didn't realise it.

(Lyra had seemed faintly amused when Rose had said that, had later told Hermione most elves had a similar attitude — if in a rather more personal form in the case of elves attached to particular families, they tended to consider themselves part of the family, not subordinate to it. That was, in fact, a large part of why so many of them found the suggestion that they were helpless slaves who needed someone to come in and save them so offensive. Hermione still didn't quite know how to feel about that.)

Much like Cherri, the only other chief elf Hermione had ever met, Rose always seemed to have a quiet sort of dignity about her. Despite how honestly ridiculous she looked to human eyes, but that couldn't be helped, elves and humans simply weren't proportioned the same. The overlarge eyes and overlong ears and fingers and odd grey-green skin tone would always seem alien to Hermione — and she did mean that literally, she wouldn't be surprised to see elves used as a friendly alien race in a science fiction film or something. (Which was even sort of accurate, elves weren't strictly native to this world, like all fae.) Rose in particular had bright blue eyes, with a perceptive sort of sharpness about them, her thin hair twisted into complex plaits, here and there accented with modestly colourful glass beads, which she'd probably made herself. (According to Lyra, elves tended to be very talented metal- and glass-workers, they were just rarely asked to do it.) Despite hardly reaching Hermione's waist, she stood tall and straight, a solemn gravity about her most human politicians failed to match. One would think that would clash with her very simple clothing — basically a formless shift, stamped in Hogwarts colours — but Rose somehow managed to pull off looking modest, slightly ridiculous, and dignified all at once, which was some kind of bloody miracle, Hermione thought.

Dumbledore introduced them, the proper titles shaved down somewhat for brevity. For a second, Rose seemed surprised she was being introduced to the bloody Queen, going more still than usual and overlarge eyes even larger, but she recovered quickly. (Quicker than Hermione probably would, honestly.) Just as he finished, before Rose could say or do anything, the Queen edged a step closer and—

Hermione didn't quite manage to hold in her gasp, and she wasn't the only one, a noisy wave of shock crossing the room. Because the bloody Queen was greeting an elf, and crouching down to her level to do it. Or, not quite her level — she did sink dramatically, her cloak flaring a bit with the movement, but even lowered about as far as she could go without actually sitting down, her eyes were still a bit above Rose's — but still. Hermione hadn't seen anyone talk to an elf like this, it hadn't even occurred to her to do, she...

Over the noise in the Hall, the amplification charm still carried the Queen's voice to Hermione's ears. "Thank you in advance, Rose, for looking after me and my people during our stay here. I understand you even had to restore portions of the castle ahead of our arrival — I'm given to believe that area of the east wing had been out of use for some time."

Rose looked rather flustered, shifting a bit in place, long ears going noticeably pink. Sinking into a surprisingly graceful curtsy — Hermione definitely couldn't pull that off — Rose squeaked, in her meticulously correct English, "It is no problem, Your Majesty. We elves are happy to do it."

"I'm sure." An odd note slipping into her voice Hermione couldn't quite read, the Queen said, "But it is still appropriate for the one on my end to show appreciation when it is called for, don't you think?"

(Hermione thought she might love the Queen, just a little bit.)

The elf practically beamed, eyes bright. "Yes, ma'am, thank you. We elves do appreciate it. Besides..." Rose leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering a bit, an odd note slipping into hers too, as though sharing in some private joke. "...between you and me, that work on the castle needed to be done anyway. Your visit was as good an excuse to get it done as any."

The Queen let out a short chuckle. "Of course. I hope our early arrival doesn't pose too much of an inconvenience."

"Oh, no, ma'am! We've had your rooms ready for over a week now."

"Good," the Queen said, with another little smile. She covered her mouth with a hand again, cutting off the amplification charm, and muttered something inaudible to Rose — whatever it was, Rose's lips twitched, as though trying not to smirk — before straightening to her full height again.

Hermione nearly jumped when Lyra suddenly spoke. "Now, I think."

"Er, now what?"

Lyra didn't answer. She just started walking, with no explanation, dragging Hermione by the elbow along with her.

"Lyra!" Hermione hissed, low enough she hoped it wouldn't carry too far. "What are you doing?"

"Introducing myself, obviously." Obviously.

They'd been at the edge of the crowd, so they were out into the open space in the middle of the Hall after only a couple steps, she saw in her peripheral vision guards were already moving. "Lyra, you can't just—"

"Sure I can. It's only polite." The nearest guards were within a few steps of them now, but Lyra didn't seem concerned. She made some sort of hand gesture, quick enough Hermione didn't quite catch it, and the guards froze in place, visibly surprised. And Lyra continued on toward the Queen, perfectly casual, as though she weren't doing anything out of the ordinary.

"Lyra!" But she wasn't listening, she wasn't going to stop, it was impossible to get Lyra to listen to reason half the time, and what was she even doing, she couldn't just walk up and introduce herself to the bloody Queen, she was insane, and Hermione was not dressed for this—

"Hello, Your Majesty," Lyra chirped. Cheerfully and easily, as though what she was doing right now were perfectly ordinary and reasonable, and not at all insane.

The Queen (only a couple feet away, oh god, this was actually happening) turned to Lyra, a single eyebrow tracking up her forehead. "Hello, there." Her eyes flicked to Sir William, standing a step over her shoulder, as though silently asking what the hell these two random girls were doing here.

Sir William, looking slightly exasperated, gave her a helpless sort of shrug.

"Miss Black, now is really not the—"

Lyra ignored Dumbledore, speaking over him — by the tingle on the air, there was some kind of magic involved, but Hermione wasn't quite sure what it was. "I'm Lyra Bellatrix Aradia Ankaa of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," complete with an oddly florid bow, letting go of Hermione's arm for a second to do it properly. "I simply thought it appropriate to introduce myself, Your Majesty."

Hermione still felt the impulse to correct Lyra — one was only supposed to call the Queen Your Majesty the first time one addressed her in conversation, it was ma'am afterward, with a few exceptions — but she was too overwhelmed right now to follow through on it. Especially since lecturing at Lyra with the Queen right there was a bit...

"Oh." The Queen's eyes had widened slightly, for a second she stared at Lyra, apparently taking her in. Lyra wasn't exactly dressed to be meeting the Queen either, in jeans she'd stolen from Hermione (transfigured to fit) and a tee shirt for a band Hermione didn't recognise (probably also stolen, from Sirius or Tonks), but Lyra had absolutely no shame whatsoever, of course she didn't give a shite. "Then I have you to thank for the invitation. I had wondered why it hadn't come through official channels, but if you were simply correcting the Wizengamot's oversight..."

"It would have been the Ministry who should have informed you, actually, Director Crouch or one of his people. But I had it on good authority they weren't going to fulfill their obligations where you're concerned, Your Majesty, so I took it upon myself to do so."

The Queen quirked an eyebrow. "Took it upon yourself? My ministers were operating on the assumption you were acting on behalf of the Chief Warlock."

"No, Your Majesty, it was my idea. In fact, I get the feeling the Chief Warlock and Director Crouch are quite annoyed with me. My peers tend to prefer to keep the United Kingdom out of our business as much as possible, you see, even when they shouldn't. Secrecy has endured long enough too many forget just how closely tied we are."

"I have gotten that impression, yes." The Queen glanced briefly at Dumbledore — Hermione couldn't see her face at this angle, but judging by the Headmaster's expression (he almost looked sheepish) she must not be particularly happy with him. Not that Hermione hadn't put that together already, she thought the Queen was singularly unimpressed with the famous Albus Dumbledore. Turning back to Lyra with a slightly crooked smile, she said, "All the same, I do thank you for the invitation, my lady, no matter how...unsanctioned it might have been."

"Happy to do it, Your Majesty," Lyra chirped. She did sound happy, almost infectiously so, but Hermione would bet the fact that she'd inconvenienced Dumbledore and Crouch was the larger part of why. And then, as though suddenly remembering she was there, "Oh! And this is Hermione Granger, my muggleborn girlfriend."

Hermione did feel the impulse to smack Lyra for referring to her as her muggleborn girlfriend — she'd asked her not to do that multiple times, but of course she didn't listen, and to the bloody Queen no less — but she was too overwhelmed at the moment to follow through on it.

The Queen's eyes widened slightly in what was probably surprise — at the muggleborn part or the girlfriend part Hermione couldn't guess, could go either way. Or perhaps simply that Lyra went around introducing her like that, it was a very strange thing to do. She recovered quickly, turning to Hermione. (The bloody Queen was right there, looking directly at her, this was actually happening.) "Hermione Granger... I do believe I read your letter in the Quibbler."

Something came out of Hermione's mouth, but it probably wasn't identifiable English. Forget for the moment the idea that the Queen read the Quibbler, she— Hermione had known, when she'd written the thing, that people would be reading it, but the thought that actually important people would somehow hadn't occurred to her.

This was, just, completely surreal. That was the Queen, right there, and here Hermione was, in her lazy weekend clothes and her hair a complete fucking mess, and Lyra had gotten hold of her arm again so it was probably completely obvious exactly what she'd meant by girlfriend, and the Queen had read her letter, and she had absolutely no idea what to do with herself right now.

"You... Oh, I'm sorry, I'm—" Hermione froze, horror abruptly washing over her. "Oh god."

"Er, Maïa?"

Hermione hissed (too loud, much too loud), "I don't know how to curtsy!"

Lyra burst into high, bubbly laughter. Because of course she did.

The Queen looked a bit amused too, the corner of her lips curling, blue eyes dancing. "Dear girl, you're wearing trousers."

She felt her face go very warm.

The faint smile turning into an obvious smirk (this was so embarrassing, could this have gone any more badly?), the Queen said, "Well, it's a delight to meet you two, of course, but we should be getting upstairs. I'd like to get settled in before dinner, and I understand Sir William intends to take his people and scour half the castle."

"He wouldn't be good at his job if he didn't," Lyra said, her voice slightly mangled by the giggles she hadn't yet managed to suppress.

"Quite so. Rose, if you would." Rose, who had been glaring up at Lyra in disapproval, jumped to attention, and started skipping up the Grand Staircase, presumably leading the way toward the rooms set aside for their British guests. The Queen shot the two of them one last, calculating look before turning to follow, flanked by Sir William and Dumbledore and trailed by a pack of ministers and bodyguards.

As the students around them started to loosen up, the large room filling with the noise of people moving around and chattering, Hermione turned to Lyra. She was still chuckling under her breath a little, lips stretched and eyes dancing with her usual reckless grin. "Well, Vicky certainly hasn't—"

Before even Hermione had realised what was happening, she'd raised her free hand and smacked Lyra over the chest. (Not hard, really, just—) "God damn it, Lyra, don't do that!"

Lyra blinked. "Don't do what?"

The giddy anxiety that'd been filling her chest twisting into hot frustration, Hermione hit Lyra again, started pulling her arm out from hers. "Just, dragging me up to talk to the Queen, what the hell were you—"

And Lyra was grinning at her, so Hermione, instinctively, lifted her hand to smack her over the shoulder, but Lyra caught her by the wrist before the hit landed, moving lightning fast. "Damn, Maïa, you get violent when you're angry." (A part of Hermione, partially but not entirely buried by how frustrated she was with Lyra right now, was a little relieved she was still using Maïa, couldn't actually care about the hitting.) Her smile turning crooked, she drawled, "I like it."

The suggestive tone on Lyra's voice might have made her flush, if completely humiliating herself in front of the bloody Queen hadn't already had her face practically on fire. "Shut up, Lyra. Don't pull shite like—" She tried to shove Lyra away with her free hand, but Lyra caught that wrist too; trying to yank them back only had Lyra pulled off-balance, stumbling into her. "—I can't believe you just—"

That tension crawling up her throat making an odd, almost audible shiver, before she even fully realised what was happening, she was somehow kissing Lyra.

Lyra jerked with surprise, but not far, not with Hermione's hands suddenly buried in her hair, and was frozen for a single shocked second, before her arms tightened around Hermione's waist and started kissing her back. Rather...enthusiastically, which, Hermione was still self-aware enough to be a little embarrassed about that, because they were still in the middle of the Great Hall — in fact, everyone knew they were a thing, yes, but Hermione didn't think they'd ever actually kissed in public before — but she was, just, too carried away with a confusing mix of conflicting feelings to really care about it that much.

Because see, those hot, crawling tingles weren't just anger. Yes, Lyra had just humiliated her, in front of the whole school, and the bloody Queen...however unintentionally — she knew Lyra herself was simply incapable of feeling humiliation, and didn't quite understand the concept. That whole farce had been supremely embarrassing and supremely irritating, yes, but Hermione would get over it. She was practically already half-way over it. She hadn't been at all prepared to meet the Queen, but that wasn't even entirely Lyra's fault, was it? Lyra wasn't responsible for the Queen's party showing up three hours early — if they'd arrived according to schedule Hermione would have had opportunity to at least change first. And, the Queen had to be accustomed to people occasionally acting like tongue-tied idiots around her, and she had no real reason to give a damn about Hermione, she'd probably forget all about it in a couple days. And the rest of the school's opinion of her was already well-formed. (Though this, right now, snogging Lyra in full view of bloody everyone, might have some effect on that, she should probably stop...) So it didn't really matter, that much. It'd been unpleasant, but it hadn't been that bad, it was over, it was fine.

She was still angry with her, yes, but it wasn't all anger. Sometimes, far more than she was comfortable admitting to anyone, Hermione really did wish she could, just, do things, and not care, the way Lyra did. It was the very first thing that had initially fascinated her about Lyra, over a year ago now.

Lyra had, just...walked up to her, the bloody Queen, and just introduced herself, as casual as anything. (She was also responsible for the Queen being here in the first place, that too, couldn't forget that.) And she'd, just, talked to her, joking and smirking, like it were no big deal. Not just talking to her, but openly shit-talking Dumbledore and Crouch — one of whom had definitely been in ear-shot — and she just... Hermione...

It wasn't without some ambivalence, because it did tend to make trouble for everyone nearby. But Hermione was honest enough with herself to admit Lyra's wild, infectious devil-may-care attitude was one of the things she most admired about her. It was... She...

Ah, fuck, she could think this sort of thing about her own girlfriend, it was fine! It was sexy as hell, that's what it was!

It was a bit messed up, and that Hermione could be in such a confusing mix of embarrassment and frustration and arousal and envy all at once, and flip from yelling at Lyra to kissing her so quickly, probably didn't say anything good about her own psychology. But she just couldn't help it, that whole thing had been overwhelming, and Lyra was just...

Lyra. Lyra was just Lyra, that was all.

(Hermione was in so much trouble.)

Eventually, Hermione snapped out of it, pulling away a bit — not so much that Lyra's hands weren't still lingering on her hips, or that she couldn't still smell her, but enough to breathe, anyway. She resisted the urge to self-consciously glance around to see if anyone was paying them undue attention, it was fine, don't think about it, it was fine. (She probably shouldn't have done that, but, Lyra, being so Lyra, ugh.)

Lyra was grinning at her, of course, though not quite so bright as usual, a faint sense of uncertainty about her. "Giving me those mixed signals again, Maïa. First you're hitting me, then you're kissing me — really not making figuring out this dating thing easy on me, you know."

"Yeah, I know. If it's any consolation, I have no bloody idea what I'm doing either."

"Funny enough, it is, actually." Lyra's head tilted to the side a little, some of her hair tipping over her face. (Hermione had managed to muss it up a little, oops.) "Does this mean I can snog you outside the dorm now? I've been avoiding it, figured you'd be weird about it."

Pulling the rest of the way away from Lyra, Hermione groaned, lifted both hands to rub at her face. At least Lyra had been considerate enough to even think of it, but... "This is just going to encourage you, isn't it?"

Lyra grinned. "Yep!"

A traitorous smile twitched at Hermione's lips. "Yes, well..." She cleared her throat, forcefully ignored how distractingly warm she was feeling right now (they were in public, god damn). "I, er, I need to go write my mum."

"What about?"

"Meeting the Queen, obviously." And also possibly about that...odd moment just then, if she could work up the nerve to actually tell Mum about it. (She didn't expect she would.) "Meet up in the library later?"

Lyra hummed, her lips quirking a little in thought. "Nah, I'll come with you. There are notes in our room I want anyway." One eyebrow ticking up, still smiling like a crazy person, Lyra offered a hand.

Grinning back, Hermione took it, and immediately set off for Gryffindor Tower.

---

That went on way longer than it probably needed to. Whoops?

Poor Hermione. Feelings are so hard...

[must be counting the whole Commonwealth] — Specifically, Mira is counting all the countries in the Commonwealth of Nations that actually still recognise the Queen (the so-called "Commonwealth realms"). Republics aren't counted in the total, but countries like Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Papua New Guinea are. (Which is why the total isn't closer to two billion, India doesn't recognise the Queen anymore.) And I had to come up with that number myself, adding up population figures from around 1990-1995 for all sixteen Commonwealth realms, bluh.

In case anyone intends to say anything, yes, the Queen is a different person on purpose, obviously. I prefer not to use real people in fiction if at all reasonable, come up with my own characters to swap into their place instead. The Victoria II here was originally invented as an important side character for another fic I never got to, one where Lily survives Hallowe'en and eventually leads a revolution against the magical government. Her role here is much, much smaller than it would have been in that one, she's mostly just present, being a sarcastic royal bitch.

Right, more Hallowe'en weekend scenes to come as we finish them.

—Lysandra