Snow fell in the little graveyard, mixing into the mud around the open graves. The old man lowered the two coffins solemnly, then sealed them with a dip of his wand.

Albus gazed into the gray sky as the man carved the inscriptions in French and English. Nicholas Flamel. Perenelle Flamel. Of all the funerals that had plagued him during the darkest nights of Tom's dominion, this one had never even crossed his mind. He put a hand up to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his spectacles. Why hadn't they told him?

Descendants from the French and English sides of the family went over to the graves, murmuring their last regrets and lighting candles. Albus waited for the them to trail away before he approached, stooping to place an iris on each plot.

"Thank you for coming all this way," a voice murmured.

It was an older woman in a dark, buttoned coat.

"Pardon," Albus said. "I'm afraid I don't…"

"Olivia," the woman said. "Nicholas spoke very highly of you."

"They were extraordinary people," Albus murmured. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Olivia smiled sadly. "I believe he had some notes for you. He said as much, before..."

Had he said anything else? Had she known? Albus opened his mouth, saw the grief in her eyes, and looked away.

The mourners were starting to trickle away. The snow was falling thicker, shrouding the world in white.

He nodded at the woman, his robes swishing as he turned toward the gate to apparate out.

She walked the other way, threading between the narrow rows of gray marble, around weathered crosses spilled over with ivy and polished blank angel's faces. She stopped at a little headstone, less than a year old, tucked away from the path. She drew a white flower out of her coat, standing over the grave. Then, a wind tore through the cemetery, bringing a swirl of snow and she, too, was gone.

"Fall in!"

The commander's orders echoed through the room, sending a pulse through the forest-green regiment. They coalesced into formation, wands at the ready. The new training hall was well-lit; a lattice of windows made up the ceiling, sending wide, crisscrossing shadows against the floor. Four dark semicircles marked the shadows of the balconies on the walls. If he glanced across the room, Loki could just make out Lucius chatting up some Ministry official— Wilkes. He hadn't met the man, but he recognized him off the employee records as an Unspeakable. And a fine job he was doing of it too, Loki thought.

"What temperature is this?" he asked, returning his attention to the Magical Maintenance worker. A panel of sixteen runes sat on the wall beside them, glowing quietly.

"0," Cattermole said, scratching a thin line into one of the runes. He pressed a different sequence and the room began to heat up. Some of the soldiers in the center of the room cursed, hastily removing warming charms.

"This one's 36-40. Desert conditions."

"What about the terrain?" Loki asked, toeing the wooden floor. "And the sky?"

"The windows are easy," Cattermole said, scrawling something on an empty pad. "Can be done in a day or two. But making terrain— that's not something we've really done before. Not much demand for it."

Loki took the pad, scribbled the word 'TERRAIN,' and handed it back.

"Clear enough?"

Cattermole paled and nodded.

Loki turned on his feet and apparated up to the balcony, ignoring the spasm of pain in his chest from the mortal magic. Wilkes broke off his conversation to Lucius, nodding to Loki.

"Minister," he said, turning to go.

"Wilkes," Loki said, making the man startle.

Lucius rolled his eyes.

"What do you think?" he asked when the Unspeakable had exited, resting both hands on his walking-stick to peer over the balcony.

Loki leaned against the railing, glancing down. The commander's turned, robes swirling around him, and shouted "Wands out… Fire!"

The crisscrossing pattern of shadows and light disappeared in the flash of a hundred stunning spells. The commander flew in, barking corrections and adjusting stances.

"Who is he?" Loki asked.

"Longbottom. He fought well during the war," said Lucius.

Loki turned back, but if Lucius retained any lingering feelings on the matter, there was no sign of it in his voice. Ever since their chat over the summer, he seemed to have made it a point to distance himself from his wartime associations. Loki suspected the man was still nursing grudges, but had found their expression imprudent. Not that Loki cared, so long as he stayed loyal.

He glanced back at meager formation, uncomfortably arrayed in their dark green robes. For all the fighting experience the last war had provided, they had little in the ways of cohesion. Hopefully practice would help with that.

"Come on," Loki said. "Let's go down."

Frank Longbottom stopped the exercise when they approached.

"Minister Loki!" he said with an eager salute. "Lord Senior Undersecretary," he added.

"Do you actually go by all that?" Loki murmured, smiling wickedly.

Lucius ignored that, drawing himself up.

"A moment, Commander?" he asked.

Frank nodded, sending his lieutenants off with instructions before opening up a conference room smoothly disguised as a wall-panel.

Loki took the head of the table. "How goes the hunt?"

"It's not bad," Longbottom said. "There are still a few loose ends to tie up, you know, Greyback, Rowle— but we're working on it."

"Greyback is still out?" Lucius asked sharply.

"Yes— we lost track of him near Auchlyne, but we have some people on the trail."

"Are you monitoring entry and exit points into the country?" Loki asked.

"Yes, we have portkeys through the Department of Magical Transportation and the muggle governments have been notified," Longbottom said.

"What about apparation?" Loki asked.

"It would be difficult," Longbottom said. "It's fifty kilometers at least from beach to beach, and most of the coast is still hemmed in with wards from the 19th century."

"The nineteenth century?" Loki asked.

"1815," Longbottom said. "Renewed in 1940 when the ruling party sided with Grindlewald, though they were overthrown in 1942."

"You know a lot about this," Loki said.

"I like history," Longbottom said.

Lucius snorted.

"And what about our current events?" Loki said. "What is their relationship to this country?"

"It's… complicated, sir," Longbottom said. "Their memory for conflict runs long, but they won't forget that it was England that defeated Grindlewald."

"They won't forget that it was Dumbledore who defeated Grindlewald," Lucius said, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes," Longbottom said with a nod. "He's something of a celebrity over there, but even that wasn't enough to get French aid at the ICW last year. However, they did agree to deal with any escapees, and they have no reason not to honor it."

"Splendid," Loki said, with a sigh. It would be so much easier if France held onto the death eaters, giving them pretense to attack.

Lucius looked like he was thinking hard, so Loki said, "We should get someone from Creature Regulation over for Greyback," he said. "I was thinking you could do it, Senior Underlord Secretary, was it?"

"Lord Malfoy. Please," Lucius said, getting up to leave the room.

Loki moved to do the same, but Longbottom addressed him. "Minister?"

With the logistics over, he seemed boyish, almost shy. He fiddled with a piece of paper in his pocket.

"I don't know if you remember me, but we fought together once, against You-Know-Who— against Voldemort. It was late into the war, and I'd… I'd just heard some things that had caused me to lose hope." He smoothed the paper over his robes, smiling sheepishly. "I remember when you came into that fight and started turning the tide. When you told him to his face that you were going to be the one to kill him…" Longbottom looked up, his face etched with awe. "And then you did it."

He smoothed the paper once more and turned it over, confronting Loki with a small, blond child, smiling from ear to ear.

"My eldest," Longbottom said. "Same age as yours. When I saw you giving that speech, holding Harry, I just kept thinking, it could've been him. But you saved him— saved all of us, and I just wanted to say, Minister, it's an honor and a privilege to serve under you."

Loki took that in expressionless, a strange mixture of power and pride thrilling through him. He still wasn't sure which one had won out when he turned back.

"Thank you," he said. "Commander."

He turned to leave once more, but Longbottom stopped him as he opened the door.

"One more thing," he said quietly. "This force isn't just to track down Death Eaters, is it?"

Loki opened his mouth to protest, but Longbottom wasn't done.

"You think there's going to be trouble with France, don't you?"

"Who told you that?" Loki asked, blankfaced.

"No one, sir," Longbottom said. "I just figured, since… you know… I won't mention it to anyone."

"No," Loki said. "We wouldn't want to… start any rumors."

"Right," Longbottom said, striding through the open door to catch up. "Of course. I just wanted to assure you; we're training hard. No one is going to catch us like Voldemort did, ever again."

"And our future enemies?" Loki said, looking out. Just beyond them, the forest-green phalanx stood at arms, blurring the pattern of crisscrossing shadows and light from the lattice windows above.

Longbottom joined him by the door.

"We'll give them something to be afraid of."

Loki glanced up, looking past the soldiers all arranged like little toys, past the balconies and the watching politicians, past the crisscrossing shadows, into the open sky. He smiled.

Albus arrived at the Flamel residence in the evening, gingerly setting a high-heeled boot into the snow. The house was modest; old-fashioned and out of the way. It was also already quite occupied. A group of wizards in purple robes were buzzing about, levitating pieces of furniture out of the open doorway. Others darted in and out, issuing directives.

"Careful, John!" one of them called, as the corner of a trunk bumped against the doorframe.

"Excuse me," Albus said in a tone of deceptive calm. "What is going on?"

"Confiscation," a stern voice said, striding up to the front. Broderick Bode. He'd been in Albus's class all those years ago at Hogwarts. "We're not letting any of this get into the wrong hands."

"The stone isn't here, Broderick," Albus said. He knew enough about Flamel to know that he'd brought his secrets to the grave.

The head Unspeakable crossed his arms. "We'll see about that then, won't we?"

"Broderick—" Albus started.

"I found bottles!" an excited voice called, a wine-rack zipping through the open window.

Albus drew in a deep breath, the snow beneath his boots hissing and trickling away. With a sharp wave of his wand, all the windows in the house flew open. The furnishings floated out and assembled themselves neatly on the street.

The Unspeakables stopped and stared.

"Now if you are finished ransacking a good man's home, perhaps you could turn over the notes he bequeathed, to me," Albus said mildly.

Bode's papery face flushed maroon. "Are you threatening me?"

Loki strolled back to his office, still mulling over his discussion with Longbottom. Perhaps he should carry a picture of Harry. The boy was growing so fast; every month he looked older and bigger than before. In Asgard, it took centuries for children to develop. Loki's stomach turned for a moment as he wondered if frost-giants aged the same. Surely someone would have noticed?

An image sprang into his mind; Odin with himself and Thor, one hand on each of theirs, telling them both that they were born to be king. How amusing he must have found it, toying with his little changeling monster. Loki clenched his hands, fixing his mind on the Allfather's face when the armies of Midgard came to his door; the towers of Asgard falling in flames, the screams of those who had laughed...

A knock sounded at his office door, scattering his half-formed plans. He stood up, shuffling and blurring his notes.

"Yes?" he said.

"Minister!" It was a young secretary with pink makeup and an accent from the annoying parts of England— Bertha Jorkins, he recalled.

Jorkins sat down without prompting. Irritating.

"It's Broderick Bode what sent me. There's been a dust-up with Dumbledore over the Flamel thing."

A dust-up with Dumbledore? Loki frowned, feeling the particular dread that came of being in trouble that he hadn't caused. Who on earth had thought now was a good time to pick a fight with the Headmaster? And who was this Flamel? Why was he the last to know? He turned back to Jorkins, who was examining her glittery nails on the arm of his chair.

"Flamel?"

"Duh," Jorkins said.

"And who might that be?" Loki would gladly exchange all his newfound magical abilities for legillimancy and the promise of never speaking to this woman again.

"You know," Jorkins said, waving her hands. "Nicholas Flamel. From the chocolate frogs."

He narrowed his eyes.

"I dislike chocolate."

"Really?" she said, taking an actual step back.

Loki took a deep breath. "Listen to me, Bertha— Ms. Jorkins. You are going to explain to me what is occurring now, or I will eviscerate you, tie your innards into a knot, and heal over the cut until you wish you've never uttered the words 'chocolate frog' in your petty little life. Are we clear?"

Jorkins shrugged.

"Okay, mate."

Loki couldn't quite suppress his groan. It was going to be that kind of a day.

By the time Loki arrived, the Unspeakables had set up a camp. He could see Wilkes and Rookwood tapping an old chest with their wands, searching for wards. Another unspeakable was levitating items over, a white doily passing centimeters from Loki's nose.

Bode and Dumbledore were standing next to each other— Dumbledore's face mild, Bode's red with rage. When Loki turned to him, Dumbledore looked back impassively.

Too soon, Loki thought. To have regained Dumbledore's trust, and then go behind his back like this… well he could understand why the man was less than impressed. Loki looked at Wilkes, narrowing his eyes. He somehow doubted the man's presence here hours after talking to Lucius was a mistake, but he couldn't deal with it now. Had to focus on the present mess.

"Minister, Albus Dumbledore is interfering with our search!" Bode said.

"And why are you searching this house, pray tell?" Loki asked. Jorkins had told him what she knew about Flamel and the stone, but he wanted it from Bode.

"We believed it to contain dangerous magical artifacts," Bode said. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation—"

"Is normally given to Improper Use of Magic Office," Loki said. "How did you hear about the will?"

Loki followed Bode's gaze over to one of the Unspeakables and sighed.

"Broderick, Nicholas… was my friend," Dumbledore was saying with a sigh. "He promised me that he had destroyed his research on the stone. You're leading a wild-goose chase."

"Really?" Bode said. "How convenient then that he bequeathed you two-thousand one-hundred fifty pages of his notes, containing absolutely no pertinent information at all. And what about the stone itself? Where is that, if you knew him so well?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore said, and though his voice was as serene as ever, Loki wondered if he didn't look a bit troubled at the thought. "I imagine he destroyed it, given the circumstances."

"You see, Minister?" Bode said, turning back to Loki. "This man wants to stop our search for his imagination."

"Oh, are you asking my opinion now?" Loki asked politely.

Bode looked up, hesitant.

"Tell me, Mr. Bode, what does it say on that paper you're holding?" Loki asked.

"It's Flamel's will," Bode said, glancing at the parchment.

"I didn't ask you what it is," Loki said. "I asked you what it says."

"You'd like me to read the whole thing?" Bode asked.

"Go on," Loki said, conscious of Dumbledore watching impassively beside him.

Bode took out a pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose. He unraveled the paper, clearing his throat. Flamel had been generous— the gifts ranged from as little as an industrial-sized pewter cauldron (Olivia Bard-Flamel), to ten-thousand galleons and a Cleansweep two to Hermes Delacour.

French names, Loki thought. If his bifrost-trained-tongue didn't fool him, anyway.

and, "'my notes, to Albus Brian Wulfric Percival Dumbledore' but—"

"And look at that," Loki said, snatching the will. "No Broderick Bode and the Department of Mysteries, contrary to the evidence in sight. Now give back the notes."

Bode's face turned red. "Minister, I strongly urge you to reconsider," he said. "The notes must go to the Ministry. Even if we can't reconstruct the stone ourselves, you would give this up to those who have too much power already!"

"And you'd have me instead give it to a department acting outside of my interests and against my will," Loki said.

"So fire me," Bode said. "But know this— the Department of Mysteries is a closely-knit and closely-guarded operation— a single employee may possess a world of hidden knowledge, and I am its head."

"Very well," Loki said. He tapped his neck, magically amplifying his voice so that the workers in the yard could hear it. "Listen well. If you want to have a job tomorrow, you will bring every scrap of paper— no, every single item from this house to my office, where I will personally see to the terms of the will."

He bent down to Bode and whispered, "You may be Head Unspeakable, but I am a god of lies. Don't go behind my back again."

Bode glared at him but raised his voice. "You heard him!"

Loki glanced across the yard.

He turned to Dumbledore. "Would you mind waiting in my office?" he asked. "I need to see to something."

Dumbledore thought the stone destroyed. But that didn't mean it couldn't be useful.

Longbottom was running drills when Loki found him; pairs of wizards weaved across the room, dodging and throwing stunners.

"Longbottom," Loki said.

"Yes, sir," Longbottom said. "Did you need something?"

"Do England and France have an agreement regarding the stone on the event of Flamel's death?" Loki asked.

"I… don't know," Longbottom said. "I don't think so."

"Find out for me, please," Loki said.

"Yes, sir!"

"Oh, and one more thing," Loki added. "I need a guard for my office for a bit. Full time. I'd like to have some of your wizards switch off. See to it."

"Yes, sir," Longbottom said, glancing at the troops poorly eavesdropping around him. He walked closer along to the wall, and Loki followed him.

"Do you really have the stone?" he asked quietly.

"Would anyone believe me if I didn't?" Loki asked.

"Minister, this could mean war," Longbottom said.

"Earlier you said that I could trust you," he said. "Is that still true?"

"Of course!" Longbottom said.

"Good," Loki said. "Because we may not want a war, but we must not fear it." He placed a hand on Longbottom's shoulder. "I'm trusting you."

"I'll do it," Longbottom said earnestly.

"Excellent," Loki said. "Now, back to work."

Dumbledore was waiting outside his office.

"You still plan to give up the notes?" Dumbledore said.

Loki stood by the door.

"Albus, I do not know what you think I am," Loki said. "It is not my intention to steal from you."

"The stone is a powerful attractor," Dumbledore said. "Even good men can be swayed by immortality and perpetual gold."

"Are you trying to make me keep them?" Loki said, turning the doorknob.

"No," Dumbledore said, sounding distant. "No, merely saying thanks."

Loki smiled into the darkness of the office. He'd made it.

He sent a ball of light over to the chandelier and blinked.

The Unspeakables had delivered the furniture. They'd left it in a massive heap that towered over his desk, piling from floor to ceiling and blocking the windows from view. He supposed it was just revenge for parting researchers from their research material.

"I can…" Dumbledore said, raising his wand.

"Don't bother," Loki said with a sigh, working out a spell to wiggle the parchment out without tearing it.

Dumbledore watched, curiously. "If you don't mind, what spell are you using?"

"What diagnostic charms do you use on Harry?" Loki murmured, watching the notes pile up. They were in some sort of code, most of them— he couldn't read it offhand and he understood human languages. It was hardly his issue, anyway— he had no concern for immortality, and little for gold.

"Loki... a piece of advice," Dumbledore said, "Many of these items have French owners. I suggest you bring in a French executor to ensure that there is no trouble."

"Thanks, Headmaster," Loki said, still looking at the notes.

Dumbledore fell silent, taking his point.

The newer parchment was a different texture, and danced with magic such that it took a moment to realize that the letters were not letters at all, but ever-changing glyphs, nonsensical but somehow hypnotic.

Loki blinked out of it, gathering up the rest of the notes.

"Here," he said, thrusting them out at Dumbledore.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said, moving to take it.

Loki held on, staring at the last page he'd picked up. There were letters on the paper. Letters he recognized. Asgardian letters.

"Loki?" Dumbledore said.

Loki let the papers slide out of his grasp, cursing out loud.

"The stone," he said.

"Sorry?" Dumbledore said.

"Flamel's death— it was unexpected, right?" Loki asked, his mind working furiously. He dropped his voice, almost to a whisper. "You thought they destroyed the stone. What if it was stolen?"

"You want the Ministry to look into it," Dumbledore said, his face hardening.

"No," Loki said. He needed France to think he had it. "No, I can't trust them with this. You saw how they were," he said, speaking low. "I want us to look into it."

Dumbledore frowned.

"You knew him best," Loki said. "He may have left a hint for you in his notes."

Dumbledore appeared to think about this for a long time. At last, he sighed. "Very well. What do you suggest?"

"When we leave, put a ward on this office door," Loki said. "Use the strongest spell you know. I'll do the same. Nobody comes in or out except the two of us, together."

"I will do as you ask," Dumbledore said. "But after thirty days, the Degree for Justifiable Confiscation will no longer apply. And I will be far more insistent."

"Insist away," Loki said, gesturing to the heap of items. "But let us start. I have an appointment at noon."

Loki walked down to the Ministry cafe, rushing a little. He was already a little late. The cafe was sparse and minimalistic, with small round tables, mostly ignored by the hurried diners. Above the counter was a sign encouraging workers to report suspected death eater activity in their neighborhoods, and one about werewolf registration. The diners turned and stared as he entered the room, but he ignored them, heading for a corner table occupied by one Harry Potter and an uncomfortable looking Remus Lupin.

"Unc'loki!" Harry shouted when he spotted him, running to give him a hug around the legs. Loki ruffled his hair, trying to hide a smile.

"He was very excited to see you," Lupin said with a wry smile. "Talked about it all day."

"How is he?" Loki asked, pulling Harry back to examine his face. Sure enough, his nose was running. "Is he getting sick?"

These mortals were so fragile...

"Just a cold," Remus said. "It happens. He's too young for Pepperup, but Molly lent me some of Bowdler's Sneeze Serum, and he's been much more like his old self since."

"Molly?" Loki asked, beckoning the waitress over.

"Molly Weasley, from the Order. I suppose her brothers were before you got in, but her husband works here. Muggle Artifacts or some such."

Loki recalled that from the employee lists. Arthur Weasley. Lucius had called it a dead end department, and pushed to shift most of its funding towards war expenses. Loki, chary about meddling with one of Dumbledore's pet issues, had refused.

He put a hand to his chin, thinking back. The funding, the Muggleborn Act, the Snape affair. He'd never told Lucius his plans for Dumbledore, but was it possible the man had connected the dots? If so, he was smart- smarter than Loki had assumed- and more devious. Start having the Ministry counter the headmaster, take away his power, and do with plausible deniability, so that if the plan failed, it would be hard to trace to Lucius and nigh impossible to trace it to him. He'd also bet that the Department of Mysteries had been itching to get hold of the stone already, and Lucius had merely facilitated things through Wilkes. It was a good plan, if not for the fact that it was utterly opposed to his own. He felt a flash of respect for his subordinate, followed by a much greater flash of irritation.

"Do you want any?" Remus asked, looking at him and then back at the waitress. She'd already summoned food for the other two. There was something wooden between his fingers- Voldemort's wand. He frowned, pocketing it.

"No thank you."

Harry was making a merry mess of the steak and potatoes while Remus vainly helped cut it for him, his own plate hardly touched.

"Here," Loki said, putting a hand on the steak. It fell into bite-sized pieces. Another spell cleaned his hand.

"Thanks," Remus said, but Loki didn't respond, already far off.

"The Department of Mysteries," Loki said the next day, sitting across the desk from Amelia Bones. He had decided to leave Lucius out of this particular meeting. "How concerned should I be?"

Bones frowned, looking up from the DMLE reports she was reading.

"They're powerful," she said. "But I've never seen them do something like this. They know they rely on the Ministry for funding. And they rarely venture out. I'm surprised they even knew about the death, honestly."

"Yes," Loki said. "Someone put them up to it."

"And you want me to do something?" Bones said.

Loki tilted his head, looking out the window into the artificial light. "No," he said. "It was well-intentioned."

"Very well," Bones said, making a note on the parchment. "What about the antiques storehouse in your office?"

"I'm redecorating," Loki said.

"Do you actually have it?" Bones asked, looking up.

"You don't need to know that," Loki said.

"I don't," Bones acknowledged. "But that bird doesn't come from these parts, and its owner is going to be asking the same thing."

Loki turned around.

There was indeed a black-and-white bird at the window. He didn't know the specific breed but he knew from his own self-transfigurations that it was built for speed. It had a letter tied to its leg, with a red seal embossed with 'AMN.' He opened the it up, and scanned down the page, gaze lingering on the signature. Ministre Lefèvre.

Loki turned the letter over. The other side was blank. He snatched a quill off Bones's desk, scrawled two words, and threw it out the window, letting the bird swoop down and bear it away.

Bones watched.

"Are we ready for this?" she said, looking back out the window.

"We will be," Loki said.

Bones nodded, returning to her papers.

"One more thing," Loki asked. "Do you know where I can find Ms. Jorkins?"

A knock sounded at the door and Lucius glanced up. Twelve o' clock, just in time for his meeting with Loki. He expected the minister would want to grill him about Flamel, but he had excuses for that, and it was all for the man's own good anyway. He was certain he could convince him of that fact, more or less. So it was with just the slightest of hesitations that he stood up, reaching for his walking stick, and opened the door.

And almost shut it again.

It wasn't the minister. It was that low-ranking temp from the third-floor. The one with the shimmering nails. The individual in question had stopped the door with a foot.

"Heya, Mr. Undersecretary?"

"It's Senior Undersecretary, actually," Lucius said. "What can I do for you?" He injected enough hidden venom into the phrase to give Salazar Slytherin himself pause.

Unfortunately, Jorkins proved oblivious.

"Sorry, mate," she said. "It's just- I'm s'posed to be here, you know? That's what 'e said."

"He?" Lucius asked.

"Tall, brooding, pretty green eyes. You know." She glanced at her fingernails, already bored.

"The Minister?" Lucius asked, incredulous.

"Duh," Jorkins said. "I mean I was listening to W.S, signing off on things for the Doc, and he comes over and says 'Bertha, I'm giving you a promotion.' Like, as if. No extra pay; no time off, just report straight to you as soon as I'm done. Says I'm to be your secretary.'"

"He- what?" Lucius asked. Deep in his heart, he felt something uncoil in horror.

"Yeah," Jorkins said flatly. "Says, tell him it's a present to his secretary, to show 'exactly what you mean to me.'" She emphasized the point with little finger quotes.

Lucius opened his mouth, and then shut it again.

"I know," she said. "Like what am I, his slave?"

She brushed past him, stepping into his office.

"Ew, dark green. Like, I can't even…"

Lucius put a finger to his temples, glancing up at the ceiling, and prayed to the spirit of Salazar Slytherin for swift and merciful end.

A/N: W00t! Another chapter out. Sorry about the wait- I've been sitting on this for awhile, trying to come to a place where I was happy with it. Much gratitude, of course, to Prevaricator's Penchant, whose beta skills will one day push me to spell that word correctly the first time and to TheTzip, who've been amazingly helpful and encouraging throughout.

Many thanks to all of you reviewers- I love reading your encouragements and critiques, to feel that this story is being read by people and not just flung out into empty space.

Until next time!