- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -
From the eyes of a tourist, it would be hard to believe that Hogsmeade had been a site of mass slaughter only months before. The village had donned its best attire, coloured fairy lights glittering in a dusting of snow. The Hog's Head Inn had been expanded with two storeys of boutique accommodation, fully booked by VIP guests and international Quidditch players. Vacant storefronts sold Quidditch merchandise. Along Main Street, throngs of people flitted into the tea shop, restaurants and pub.
Posters were plastered on shopfronts and lampposts, showcasing images of Viktor Krum and Harry Potter standing back to back or flying across the parchment on their brooms. The advertisements were simply decorative now, reminding villagers and visitors alike that the match was tomorrow - the all-star charity game had sold out on the day that ticket sales were released.
While most of the patrons drifting through Hogsmeade had arrived early for the match, there was one witch that was clearly there on business. Victoire outpaced the people meandering down the street, her stride confident and her robes sleek. Several wizards turned to watch her pass, her radiant cornsilk hair glowing in the snow, but once their eyes had found the wedding ring on her finger or the fierce look in her eyes, they quickly turned away.
Victoire only slowed her pace once she was in the backstreets of the village. Here, there were no colourfully clad tourists speaking other tongues. None of the homes were garnered in bunting. In fact, the villagers she could spot pruning their gardens or sweeping the snow off their front porches were dressed all in black.
Finally, Victoire reached an old stone building with a small sign over the door reading Hogsmeade Radio Studio: Home of the WWN. She slicked her long hair back into a ponytail, as if she were preparing to run a marathon. She felt as if she had eaten a Puking Pastilles. Drawing a deep breath, she entered the studio.
The home of the Wizarding Wireless Network was underwhelming. It consisted of a cramped, mouldy-smelling lobby with a sagging houseplant, a tarantula inside a glass tank and two very small recording booths. It had been one of the only buildings to have survived the dragon inferno, but this had subsequently meant it had not received any renovations. It seemed out of pace with the newly improved village facade.
Both the booths were lit up with red 'on air' signs that signified she had some time to kill. With nothing to do other than admire the houseplant, Victoire reached out to touch one of the sagging leaves. The planet shivered self consciously in response, and then shed all of its yellowing leaves in a single violent movement. She jumped back, mortified.
"Victoire! Sorry to keep you waiting!"
Lee Jordan exited the first sound booth, snapping the door shut behind him. She quickly slid in front of the now naked plant.
"I'm really sorry," she said. "I just touched it."
Lee let out a bark of a laugh. "Don't worry about it," he assured her warmly. "It does that at least once a day. It was a gift from George following my return - I think it's a practical joke, but maybe I'm just bad at caring for plants."
At first, Victoire was confused. The Wizarding Wireless Network has been under Lee's stewardship for twelve years. She had ascertained this fact when preparing for their interview, even flooing her uncle to check. It took her a moment to recall that the network, as a public broadcaster, had been seized by Gladstone during his despotic reign. Lee's return must have been recent.
"Is it good to be back?" she asked, making small talk.
"It's excellent. Back to the usual programming, actually reporting real news which is nice. So, down to business. Ginny put your name forward and I'm keen to hear about your experience."
Victoire, a born and bred Quidditch fanatic, had received word a few days earlier from her uncle that Lee Jordan needed a producer for the pre-match commentary and had encouraged her to send him her résumé.
The list of achievements accompanied by clippings of her former work sent an unfortunate message: Victoire had no experience in radio. Her résumé scaffolded a career built on print. Radio was foreign to her, as was producing. Her sudden departure from The Daily Prophet, left unexplained on the page, did not paint a particularly good picture. This interview was purely a result of her family network pulling the strings.
She briefly discussed her internships, then focused on her time working for the Daily Prophet as a foreign correspondent. It sounded much better than discussing her more recent appointment over the gossip columns.
"But I need to give you full disclosure," she continued. "I can't say I've had much experience in radio."
"We're a pretty small operation here," Lee said, waving his hand casually. "I operate the technical side of things. You'd be a content producer. You'll oversee what goes on air, who our guest speakers are, the music choices. That sort of thing."
"I can definitely do that," she said firmly. "I have great connections - and great taste in music."
"Consider the game your trial run. We'll need both pre-match and post-match commentary. Ginny's commentary during the match will be broadcast live on air."
It began to sink in that she had gotten the job. It felt as if a stone was being rolled off her chest.
"I'm really grateful, Lee."
"We'd be lucky to have you. Now, do you have anything this afternoon? I'd like to run through the program tomorrow and get your input."
"I'm all yours."
By the time she had wrapped up at the studio, it was dark outside. From a distance, she could hear the hubbub of Main Street although she was too far off the shopping strip to see the fairy lights and bunting. She wrapped her scarf more securely around her neck as she stepped into the cold in preparation of Disapparation. In mid-turn, she stopped.
Her husband was standing on the other side of the road. He was bathed in the soft light coming through the studio windows behind her. His hair a signature blue, his eyes warm brown. He had moved back into Grimmauld Place, which had forced them to talk - she couldn't leave her belongings behind at his Nan's if he was planning on moving out of there.
While she had moved back into Grimmauld Place with him, a silent fury simmered between them. The creaky old house was their own personal battle ground, the place of yet another conflict. She had spent the days avoiding him and the nights sleeping in the guest bedroom. They hadn't spoken much.
"Ginny mentioned you got a new job."
She hadn't told him she had quit the Prophet. It would have been a capitulation. She would not surrender on principle alone.
"We need to talk. Not about us. About something else."
He was trying a new tactic to lure her in. She didn't budge.
"I've just spoken with Ginny. Last night, the kids contacted her. They're in the Goblin Kingdom."
If this was a tactic, it was working.
Goosebumps erupted along her arms, despite being so snuggly dressed against the cold. "They're what?"
"Harry's still going to play the game tomorrow but he's...well, he's a wreck."
"So, they're alive?"
"Look, can we please go home and talk about all this? It's freezing."
The cloud of breath that punctuated the night with each of his words was enough to make his point.
"Let's go," she said, holding out her hand so they could Disapparate together. "But Grimmauld Place isn't home."
While Scorpius had given up attempting to talk, his steely face suggested that even with the full use of his tongue he would not be speaking with the pair of Potter-Weasley cousins. The mirror sat between them, now just a mirror again. Just as when they made contact with everyone back at home, he avoided catching himself in its glass eye. He didn't want to see himself and he didn't want anyone back home to see himself either.
It was late and they had already dissected the information Orlick had fed them through their glass connection. After ending the mirror conversation, they kept crossing to the door, pressing their ear against it, straining to hear any sound of their guards. It didn't seem like they had noticed other voices in the room. In any case, no retribution had followed.
It annoyed Scorpius that he could not contribute to their discussions. Once, he would have been content with silence. Literally, as he had always been a quiet child that preferred monologues inside his mind than any exchange of ideas or thoughts. Even as he got older, silence was preferable than waying up on politics. Now, it was the greatest burden he had carried. His silence was costing him the opportunity to weigh in, to shape their plans, to express his ideas.
Despite his anger at having been left out, once again, from their plans, Scorpius couldn't help but worry after Rose. Seeing her mother had made her jumpy. Their first conversation, where she had asked her mother to get Orlick for them, had been charged with emotion. Hermione was clearly terrified. By the sounds of it, they all were. Rose kept picking at her cuticles, biting at the skin around her nails.
All he wanted was to talk to her.
If only Albus would take the risk to heal his tongue. Scorpius was certain he wouldn't butcher it. The risk of losing his tongue permanently seemed worth the chance to speak again - to plan, to plot, to be a part of their Potter-Weasley bond.
With a jump, they heard the door open. They were right to have kept their time with the mirror short. There was never a knock or announcement that anyone was coming in. A reminder that they were, in fact, prisoners.
It was the same guard, the one who spoke English well, bringing their evening meal.
"I have been told to ask why you are not eating your meals," he said. His guttural voice was flat, without infliction or tone.
"Not very hungry," Albus said shortly.
The guard only nodded. He stared ahead, as if none of them were in the room, and spoke to address them all. "The King would like to invite you to tour our city tomorrow morning as guests of the Goblin Kingdom."
"Really?" The incredulity rang clearly in Rose's voice.
The guard looked at her. Scorpius noticed this too. It was just a flick of his beetle black eyes. Most of the goblins looked past Rose or looked through her. This guard looked directly at her.
"Is there anything else I can assist with?"
"Yes," Rose replied, plucking at her filthy jumper. "Could we get some fresh robes? We haven't got anything clean to wear and I'd rather look presentable if we are going to be towed around as the King's guests."
The guard did not show much emotion in response, but Scorpius was trained to read people. Even the smallest of microexpressions registered to him. The swift blink of surprise. The slight lift of his brow.
"That can be arranged," the guard said, voice still flat. He turned and left, without another word. The tray of food remained on the floor between them. Scorpius stomach growled in hunger. He didn't think he could resist it any longer.
"Why ask for the robes?"
"So we can have something to hide the Sword in," Rose replied. She pulled herself off the bed and gingerly sucked her thumb. It had begun to bleed after all her picking and biting. "I need a bath."
"I don't think they heard us talking with Orlick."
Rose nodded to Albus, stretching once before kicking off her boots. Her feet were still swollen. Scorpius noticed this too.
Rose began to dig around the beaded bag again, elbow deep. "Or maybe they have and tomorrow is some kind of ambush," she suggested.
"Or maybe we'll get our audience with the King."
"Hmm."
She finally retrieved what it was she was searching for. Wrapped in black cloth, it was the counterfeit Philosopher's Stone. She pulled its wapping away to check it was still perfect, a glittering red drop of blood in her hand. Walking over to Scorpius, she placed it in his hand and then grabbed hold of his belt.
"Hide this on you," she said, loosening his trousers. "In case we need it."
He took the stone from her, annoyed that the roughness of her gesture had drawn heat into his face. He hoped it wasn't noticeable. She placed her hand against his cheek and tried to soften her expression.
"Don't be mad at us," she pleaded.
He couldn't be mad, even if he tried. Not at her or Albus. He was not mad, just filled with an insufferable longing that stretched his heartstrings to breaking point. He wanted to be inside whatever strange bond they had, to know their secrets, to be their family. He placed his hand over hers and moved her ragged thumb into his mouth, tasting just for a second the rust of her blood.
He closed his hand over the stone and shoved her towards the wash closet.
Before they had even reached seven o'clock, Zabini had gone through two kegs of Wizard's Brew and almost their entire stock of whiskey. It would mean a painfully early start tomorrow to ensure they had restocked supplies for the match's afterparty. The British all star players gathered in the pub were wearing their robes for tomorrow's match, sporting the new logo of the Three Broomsticks on their backs. Securing sponsorship was a good move. They had never seen so many patrons in the pub, even before the days of the siege. The Quidditch players had drawn a huge crowd. Isabella had more business sense than he had ever given her credit for.
They had brought on a few extra staff to help handle the rush. Toby Fleischer was helping out in the kitchen, and turned out to be a decent cook. Lorcan Scamander and James Potter were clearing tables and washing glasses. Zabini hadn't liked the idea of hiring two rowdy Gryffindors, clearly being selected by Isabella's bias, but Alice Lim had vouched for them. In any case, they needed the help and it didn't hurt that James Potter was making up for his father's absence in the pre-match reveries. People kept stopping him to slap him on the back or have a chat about his father's chances of taking on Krum.
To Zabini's annoyance, he noticed James speaking to his sister Lily and cousin Hugo by one of the booths. He served three patrons three different rounds of drinks, and still James had not budged from the corner. Isabella was busy serving huge platters of Pumpkin Pasties to tables of guests. Alice was just as frantic behind the bar. No one seemed to see or acknowledge James fobbing off his work. Zabini's blood was pumping.
When James finally approached the bar, dirty glasses stacked against one arm, Zabini took advantage of the moment to lay into him.
"Wouldn't hurt if you spent more time serving people rather than chatting with your family."
"We've had contact from Albus and the others," James replied. Alice wheeled around, almost dropping the bottle of mulled wine in her hand.
"All three of them?" she asked quickly.
"Yeah, well," James set down the tray. "Only Rose and Albus spoke to my parents. I dunno about Malfoy."
"What do you mean you don't know about Malfoy?" Zabini demanded.
The steam had rushed out of him, cooling him off. He was relieved to hear that Rose was alive but the lack of information about Scorpius unsettled him. It felt like someone had jerked his guts out of his navel. It wasn't a feeling he was familiar with.
"I mean, I reckon he was with them. I dunno, Lily didn't have much to say."
"You should go be with your parents," Alice said. She handed a glass of the burgundy wine to a Bulgarian tourist who was trying very hard to eavesdrop on their conversation. Alice expectantly held her hand out for payment.
"You guys are swamped."
"Yeah, Lim. We can't afford to have him disappear on us now."
Alice snapped the till shut and flashed an angry glare towards Zabini. "You don't know what it's like to have your family's lives in danger," she snapped. "James - go."
James hesitated a moment, then slipped off his apron. He handed it over to Alice and thanked her, pushing through the crowd to join the booth where his sister and cousin sat. After a moment, they stood up and left together.
Zabini didn't have time to challenge Lim's decision or grumble about it. Already, other patrons had pushed to the front of the line, elbows on the bar, waving him down. The orders flooded in with different accents, some Welsh and some Irish, and some slavic, creating a cacophony that drowned out his irritation. Best to work through it. He kept pouring drinks.
It was close to nine when the mayhem settled, following the announcement that the kitchen was closing. Toby Fleishcher joined Alice and Zabini behind the bar, easing some of the pressure. He took the moment of reprieve to lean against the back counter, breathing steady, his feet throbbing from standing for so many hours. Alice leaned over and tapped his arm.
"Go bring up another keg from the cellar, then take a ten minute break," she said. It sounded like an order, but a generous one. He wiped his hands on his apron and descended down below, relieved that he could get a few minutes to himself. The hubbub above mellowed out the moment he was below ground. He would let Alice take a break when he got back, he decided. It only seemed fair.
Once he had dropped off the keg and taken off his apron, Zabini headed out into the crisp night. The strings of fairy lights hovered in tiny halos of blue and purple and silver. It was like the milky way had dropped out of the sky and landed above their lamposts. His breath puffed out into the air, the way it might if he had a cigarette.
All the other businesses along the street were almost as busy as their pub, trading late into the night. He could hear the muted cacophony from behind glass windows and doors, everyone inside to avoid the cold. Everyone, except for one silhouette approaching up the street in a long black coat. They were heading for the pub and he wondered if they were coming in for a late drink. He didn't recognise Selma until the light spilling out of the pub threw her features into relief. By that stage, they were too close for him to slip away and act preoccupied.
"I've been tossing up whether I should come see you," she said. "Especially after that conversation the other night."
"No need," Zabini replied, brusquely. He hated that he had tried so hard to win her attention, wishing he had been more flippant from the start. He rubbed his cold nose, sniffed and turned away to survey the street again. "We're really just strangers to each other."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
She looked unwell, like the first time she had come in. Her face hollowed out. Her dark dreadlocks were piled into a knot on top of her head, looking as if their weight would snap her neck. It made him uncomfortable how thin she was. He wished she had come before they had shut the kitchen. He could have avoided this conversation by suggesting she get something to eat.
"When you mentioned that name - Zabini. I recognised it."
"Not surprised by that. He's a pretty rich wizard," Zabini replied coldly. "In any case, I don't see how my surname is any of your business."
"I think I'm your half-sister," Selma said.
He blinked at her slowly. She looked like his mother. She had the same light brown skin, the same almond shaped eyes, the same wide nose. The resemblance only seemed stronger because she looked so gaunt. Just like his mother always did. Half drunk, on liquor or potions, skin swallow, eyes unseeing.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"What am I supposed to do with that information?" he asked coldly.
"I thought you might want to know you had some family around."
"There's a reason I don't know or see any of my family," he said. "I'm taking care of myself now. I don't need any charity cases hanging on. Not now."
Selma raised her eyebrows. He wasn't sure how she'd take that last barbed line. Based on everything Teddy had been saying, she was just as much a charity case as his mother had been. Selma only shrugged once. She was doing a much better job of exuding nonchalance than Zabini was. He couldn't tell if his rebuff had hurt her or not. She stepped past him, towards the door of the pub, but did not enter.
"I don't want anything from you. 've been alone my whole life, I've learned to take care of myself. If you want me to piss off, I will. But I wanted to let you know you're not alone in this world."
The boys were in the large bed, bundled up under a nest of grey blankets, asleep soundly. There was no self-consciousness to their confined state, not after everything they had lived through. Albus, almost a head shorter than her but muscular in a way she hadn't paused to notice, his face unguarded in sleep, his features slack. He slept on his stomach with limbs splayed, as if he were freefalling through his dreams, his head turned to the side. Scorpius slept on his side, his long, thin body curled into himself like a seashell. His blond hair fell in waves over his eyes. Even in sleep, he seemed hard to read. Impassive. She watched them tenderly, these two boys she loved more than she could bear. Love made them seem fragile. It measured the cost of their deep breaths, their unspooling dreams.
Rose could not join them. She sat by the window, staring out at the blizzard below. That world seemed surreal and silent, trapped behind glass. It took everything in her mind not to return to her mother's face in the mirror. Another face that gripped her heart in a vice, reminded her just how fragile their love was. Seeing her mother's reflection had felt like the mirror had shattered, like its shards had pierced her heart.
Tomorrow, they were going to tour the Kingdom. The thought stirred up flurries in her stomach. Did it mean the King had accepted their invitation or had he called their bluff?
Pumping beside her heart was another strange organ, tumorous and cancerous, hardening her arteries and turning her blood to ice. Beside the love was the fury. She felt it when she caught Albus' guarded expressions, studied Scorpius' scarred face, saw her mother's strained exhaustion in the glass. She felt it when she thought of the weight of Meredith on her back, the love she had withheld from that sweet girl turning Rose's heart hard, calcifying the tumorous growth inside her. If she was to be loosed upon the Goblin Kingdom, what would stop her from taking out her wand and slicing their throats? She wanted them to feel what they had taken from her, she wanted to measure out her pain in their blood.
She went for an easy distraction, by now an old habit. With the boys asleep, she retrieved the little black book. As always, the pages beyond the rules were blank. She quietly clicked her pen and prepared to write on the page, her heart quickening as she did, pumping alongside the cancerous growth inside of her chest.
What can you tell me about the Sword of Gryffindor?
The responses came almost instantaneously.
You're asking the wrong people, love. We're Slytherins after all. Underlined, for emphasis, as if she had forgotten.
Maybe check out a copy of Hogwarts: A History?
As usual, she found herself having to establish a rapport with the shadow of these seventeen year olds, these former Serpent Bearers. She found herself trying to get in their good books.
This isn't for homework. Why did Gryffindor want a goblin made Sword? Where did this feud begin?
She waited for more snarky and sarcastic lines to fill the page. Nothing yet. A pause. Perhaps the magic that kept this enchanted hivemind alive was digging for her answers. She stared out of the window once again, to avoid looking at the boys. The blizzard had taken up a new ferocity. All visibility of the gorge and valley had been lost in a dark swirl of snow. It was as if the world had been swallowed up entirely.
When she glanced back down at the book, she almost dropped it. The entire page was filled with a beautiful, curling script. It was still shifting and changing, the way the words did whenever they were written in Old English, moving across the parchment like ants. The page was full, and when Rose flicked to the next, that also was written from top to bottom, as was the next. She had never seen so much text on the page from one hand.
Leaning against the chilly glass of the window, she began to read.
In the same measure that goblins despised humans, I despised Muggles. This odium was not born of unnatural prejudice. My hatred was seeded in injustice, and grew into vengeance. Like any weed, it springs forth from a root and must be watered to grow.
In my youth, Muggles pursued magical folk like hounds in the hunt. Those witches and wizards who were advanced in their skills could evade detection and escape confrontation. Yet children, unable to control their magic, were far more conspicuous subjects of suspicion. It was the children who were discovered, and suffered. Burned or drowned. Magic exposed them. They had not yet mastered the arts to offer themselves protection.
My brother, when only seven years, was discovered by a Muggle cleric due to a burst of spontaneous magic. He was drowned. When my family discovered the news of his death, it was too late for intervention. My father cursed the cleric responsible, leading to his slow death. This only heightened the persecutions, so we soon moved on from our village. It was following our resettlement in a new hamlet that I met my close companion, Godric. We would become as close as kin. He would replace the brother taken from me. We had traversed several continents before meeting our esteemed friends, learning all of the magical arts from all kinds of folks.
As the years progressed and our group grew in number, my hatred and mistrust for the Muggles strengthened. The others sympathised with the loss of my brother and had encountered their own trials against fanatical Muggles. It was this plight that motivated us to establish an institution of formal education that could protect and prepare our most vulnerable.
Helga was concerned with creating a sanctuary, Rowena interested in supplying a systematic education. Yet, Gryffindor and I shared a more practical vision. I was motivated by a need to preserve our kind from the mounting perils posed by the Muggles. Gryffindor, in turn, wanted our children to be capable of defending themselves against any such threat. Establishing Hogwarts only drew us closer together.
On one point we differed.
Those born from those without magical blood should not enter our hallowed halls, shout not receive instruction in the magical arts. They were a threat to our mission. These were the children of our enemies and their loyalties could be swayed, our secrets divulged. Their fathers had slain our sons. Allowing the Muggles any such magical ally could place us at their mercy. The others did not comprehend this threat. Any child who could perform magic was welcomed into their tutelage.
I resolved to purge the school of muggle-born witches and wizards. My attempts to coax Rowena's logic failed. I could not persuade them. Gryffindor grew impatient with my persistence. At times, skirmishes broke out between our students. When I did not discipline my students for their duels, our friendship became fraught.
In our youth, I had admired Gryffindor's valour, yet as time transpired, it transformed to foolishness. His fraternity with Muggles drew greater criticism from me. He accused me of being obsessed with vengeance.
I began to prepare for a time where I would leave the school. I became more selective with the students I chose to mentor. I set up systems to ensure their success even in my absence. I began to train them as my personal vassals, a military that could purge the muggle-borns.
It should be noted that my militarism was not unique. It was a time of great conflict. During this age, many wizards elected to carry Muggle weapons, particularly those, like Gryffindor, who were knights. Gryffindor's fondness for chivalry prevented him from using a wand against a Muggle when challenged to a duel. It was for this reason he commissioned the Goblin King, Ragnuk The Great Uniter, for a Sword.
I warned Gryffindor: he had underestimated the cunning of the goblins. Their clans were unstable, only recently united. I mocked him for desiring a sword, accusing him of forsaking his birthright of magic in favour of Muggle sport. We once again came to blows. It became clear that we no longer shared the same bond had been broken.
Gryffindor challenged me to a duel, on the condition that the victor would be exiled from the school. Gryffindor was a master duellist with wand and sword. I could not decline his challenge, yet I knew this meant exile was my certain future.
We selected a glade that would serve our purposes, away from the Castle and the eyes of our students. However, our duel was interrupted. Gryffindor was ambushed by the Goblin King's royal guard, claiming the sword Gryffindor wielded had been stolen from Ragnuk. Such a dishonourable claim could never be true of Gryffindor.
I could have let the goblins kill my old friend and present foe, thereby solving my imminent exile. However, I came to his aid. We fought the King's guard, he with sword and I with wand, side by side. I thought this solidarity against a united enemy would awaken Gryffindor to our need for preservation and protection.
Gryffindor bewitched the guard to return to their King and deliver the threat that if they ever attempted to steal from him again, Gryffindor would unsheathe the sword against them all.
I was disturbed by the ambush. I feared the enmity sowed in that glade would bring the goblin's vengeful wrath against future generations of wizards.
I blamed Gryffindor for refusing to privilege our own kind. His quest for a goblin made sword, crafted for the purpose of Muggle dueling, was the cause of this fray. Once again, we fought. The duel resumed. I with wand, Gryffindor with sword. Gryffindor was perhaps one of the few wizards who could have overpowered me. He struck me down with his goblin-wrought weapon, a doubly humiliating defeat. He banished me from the Castle.
I had prepared for this bitter eventuality, putting in place a plan that would one day purge the school of muggle-borns - and their sympathisers. I knew I would one day have my revenge against the Muggles, against Gryffindor and against the goblins.
Rose sat contemplating the words on the page. After a long pause, she closed the book and ran her thumb over the dark leather cover. It felt holy in her hands, as if she were holding a relic. She had always resisted the rumours, but they were now confirmed by the book. This really was the heirloom - the instruction manual - of Salazar Slytherin. Its rules were designed to train an army within his House, the children under his tutelage. His Serpent Bearers.
Tom Riddle must have found a way to use this book to open the Chamber of Secrets. He would have only been fifteen, recently made a prefect, perhaps groomed the way that Rose and Scorpius had been to one day receive the title of Serpent Bearer. It was not hard to imagine that someone as charming as Tom, with his ability to speak Parseltongue and his formidable family lineage, would gain access to the Little Black Book before his time.
When she thumbed through the book again, the pages were wiped blank once more. All traces of the dark ink and Dark Magic had been wiped away. Still, the story seemed valuable. Albus' warnings against Rose's obsessive vengeance were justified. The cycle of vengeance, between Gryffindor and Slytherin, between wizards and goblins, needed to come to an end.
It seemed significant that Albus and Scorpius were here for this journey. Both were from a long lineage of families that had only ever worn the red and gold, or silver and green, of their respective Houses. It was not hard to imagine that their lineage stretched so far back that they were descendants of the very first students hand selected by Gryffindor and Slytherin. Yet, Rose had broken that mould. She was the only Slytherin in her family to come from several generations of Gryffindors. Just as she had been in her youth, she was the bridge between two Houses and two families.
But what would Salazar Slytherin think of their current quest, so far from the plan he had originally put in place? After all, Rose was driven with the singular desire to restore the honour of a muggle-born girl from their House, a girl who Slytherin would never have deemed worthy of the serpent's emblem.
She looked up and started. Scorpius was sitting upright in the bed, watching her silently. His grey eyes caught the movement of the flurrying blizzard beyond the window. It reminded her of the many nights they had caught each other's eyes in the Slytherin dungeons. Becoming prefects had changed anything, put them on this path. They had promised each other they would be different from the other senior Slytherins, fairer and kinder. But the simplicity of the common room and their silly midnight raids had faded long ago. She held up the book then returned it to her mother's beaded bag. She slid into the bed, between her still sleeping cousin and her impassive boyfriend. She gently touched the scars on his face.
"I love you," she whispered. "I hope you're not still mad."
He rolled his eyes. He gestured between her and Albus, then crossed his fingers.
Rose tried to reassure him. "He gets jealous of how close we are, too, you know."
Scorpius scoffed and began to turn away, probably insulted by her choice of words, but Rose held his face firmly in her hands. Tomorrow, they would be accompanied out into the Kingdom. This unknown territory was far worse than anything they had traversed in recent weeks. She didn't know what would happen to them.
"I love you both so much," she said. Just as Scorpius was forced to keep his thoughts to himself, Rose chose to do the same. She did not add, I think maybe that's what keeps me alive. She did not say, if it weren't for you both, I would have become an animal. Instead, she just touched her forehead against his.
Scorpius ran his fingers through her hair and then leaned back against the blankets, closing his eyes. Rose tried to ease herself into sleep. She could feel Albus' breath behind her, his gentle snores. It reminded her of the days when they were kids and she would sleep over at the Potters, eventually collapsing from exhaustion beside Albus after a day of frolicking with her cousin. She could still feel Scorpius' hand in her hair, gently tangled in her curls. It reminded her of all the nights he let her sleep in his bed after Meredith died, the warmth of his body thawing her aching bones. For a moment, in that bundle of blankets, she felt safe. Tomorrow they would figure out how to set things right.
The day of the big charity Quidditch Match arrived. The air buzzed with excitement, as if an invisible swarm of Cornish Pixies had torn through the village. People piled into Hogwarts, into the Quidditch pitch, wearing merchandise bought from the shops along Hogsmeade village. Cameras flashed, sporting chants rang out from the stands. The joviality was a song to be sung, a game to be played.
The bright red and white robes of the English National Quidditch team did not do any favours for the ashy colour of Harry's skin. If anything, they only made his pallor more grey. He combed through his thick beard, noticing that it too was beginning to look more grey and grisly. Ginny stood behind him, brushing her hands over his robes.
"Sure you don't want to go out there? You are a professional Quidditch player. I was just the president of your fan club," Harry grumbled.
Ginny continued to busy herself with her husband's robes. While wearing her fatigue with a little more grace, she also looked like she had suffered a sleepless night.
"People are paying to see you and Krum. They've signed up to see an old rivalry play out," Ginny reasoned. "Anyway, who will commentate?"
"Please, Gin."
He turned to face her, imploring her with his bloodshot green yes. She held onto the front of his robes tightly, leaning up to kiss him briefly.
"It'll feel good being up there. I remember all those years when you were out there, risking your life as an Auror. Getting out on the pitch used to calm my nerves."
"I don't think anything can calm my nerves now," he muttered.
"Trust me."
He had no choice but to trust her. He had been roped into this match. No matter how much he was suffering personally, he could not deny Hermione's genius in suggesting it. The village was entirely rebuilt and reinvigorated. People were employed again. Money was pouring into the coffers. The Ministry had regained some of its esteem in the eyes of its international allies. There was no backing out now. Not with 50,000 people in the stands, many of whom had travelled from beyond their borders to see this match.
Like the village, he had to wear another face. He had to change out of his mourning clothes. The world's eyes were watching.
He joined the rest of the team in the old changing rooms. Players more than a decade younger than him, still in their prime, greeted him with warm respect. No one begrudged him being there, the only member of the team who had never played in the league. The others were playing for free, something that he thanked them again and again for. In fact, gratitude was the only thing that he could offer. He didn't have any words of inspiration.
It felt surreal to be back in the school changing rooms, in Quidditch robes, broom in hand, as if a Time-Turner had taken him back. He wished he could go back, even for a minute, to be a kid again. That period of his life had not been easy. In fact, his time at Hogwarts had been some of the most challenging years of his life. Yet, to have the clear conscience of a child was something he envied of his former self. He kept thinking of Albus, seventeen but so prematurely aged, wondering what he had lost at the expense of his father's failures.
How could Grigarex be alive?
Even as he followed the team out of the changing room, he felt as if he had left his body behind. The cheers and chants of the crowd drowned everything out in his head. He clutched his broom and watched, across the pitch, as the Bulgarian team in their scarlet robes streaked across the field towards them.
The Captain, the current Captain of Puddlemere United, reached around to grab Harry's shoulder.
"We discussed, for the sake of the headlines, that you and Krum should shake hands."
"Yeah, sure," Harry said. He felt numb. The crowds continued to roar and cheer. The sound stirred the memory of being in front of a dragon. A vicious Hungarian Horntail, guarding a golden egg from a scrawny fourteen year old. Barely an adult, clinging to the back of a blinded, battered Ukrainian Ironbelly as it roared out of Gringott's bank. Then, a little over a month ago, Harry confronted a thunder of trained, armoured dragons swallowing up the sky and ground in an inferno. That was when he had felt most helpless.
Krum gripped his hand. He searched Harry's eyes carefully. Harry tried to bring himself back to his body.
He was expecting the ref's whistle but it didn't come. Tuning into the roaring sound around him, Harry noticed for the first time his wife's voice commentating.
"...for a real clash of the titans. However, before we officially begin, we must remember why we've come together for today's charity match. As Wizarding Britain begins to rebuild, we want to honour those whose lives were taken too soon over the course of the last couple of years. Could we have everyone upstanding for a minute of silence."
A hush fell over the stadium. The two teams stood in two lines, silent and sombre. Most of the crowds lit their wands, holding them high above their heads. The pinpricks of light blinked and glimmered all around them. A few children squawked or babbled, a few people coughed or cleared their throats, but beside these echoes, the stadium was silent. It was harder to endure than the roaring crowd.
The minute elapsed with Ginny calling for the start of the game. The whistle screamed shrilly. The players mounted their brooms and were in the air.
Ginny had been right. The moment he was up there, the rush of the wind around him, the Golden Snitch escaping from view, his head went quiet. There was no room for anything else. He was present in his body, heart pounding, adrenalin pumping. There was one simple thing to do - one simple thing to focus on. Find the Snitch, the game would be over.
He and Krum began to streak along the perimeter.
They were given new, dark navy robes and simple grey clothes. The trousers were a few inches short on Scorpius and Albus, but Rose was given a long grey skirt that adjusted fine to her height. The robes were exactly what they needed. Albus sheathed the sword and hid it within the folds of dark, blue fabric. Rose tucked the bag back inside her blouse. They strapped their wands to their thighs, inaccessible but securely hidden.
The guard came to fetch them shortly after. It was the same guard, the one who spoke English. He noticed the food remained untouched. He frowned at their tray on the floor, then nodded at the three in their new apparel. He did not try to search for them. They followed him from the room to the carriages. A fabric roof had been erected over the cart this time.
Grigarex was waiting for them, smiling pleasantly. He was entirely armoured today, helmet and all. They recognised his face through the small window of his raised visor. It made Scorpius aware of how much of their flesh was exposed, even if they had tucked their weapons away. They were not as well protected as their hosts.
"Today is a day of great celebration for our Kingdom," Grigarex explained as they entered the carriage. "It is most unusual for humans to be here during such an event. In fact, no human has ever witnessed the Enighetsdagen. You will not be permitted to attend all of our events, but the Goblin Kingdom thought you may enjoy the public procession."
The cart began to move at a dizzying speed. They swept under the waterfall, protected this time from the cascade. This confirmed to Scorpius that the waterfall was enchanted, and they had passed the original test.
The cart did not continue along to the brick viaduct, but instead stopped just short of it. A lever was pulled connected to the tracts and they began to descend, much like a dolly system, down to the city below. Drums and trumpets could be heard echoing around the cavernous walls. The canals cut through the streets, boats drifting along the water. They were decorated in bunting, like the row of flags flying on the houses and stores. Goblins gathered along the streets, dressed in clothes similar to what Rose, Scorpius and Albus now wore. Dull greys, charcoal blacks and navy. They were all well dressed and uniform, although the monotony of the colour palette was overwhelming. It was hard to distinguish one face from the next.
When the cart touched down on the bottom of the cavern, they alighted quickly. The guard remained closely behind them.
They were not led to the streets as expected, but instead taken to one of the boats along the canal. It was beautifully built, the dark timber of the bow carved with an intricate design. Grigarex promised them that the canals offered the best view of the parade. Scorpius didn't think this was why they were ushered into the boat. The cabin where they were seated did offer a good view of the streets, but it also obscured them from view. It stopped the passers-by from glancing in. Despite the generosity of this invitation, they were there to see - not to be seen.
Grigarex remained on the cobbled stone street as they clambered inside, helped by the goblin guard.
"Sadly, I must now depart, for I am involved in the formalities. I will come back to collect you. The King hopes you enjoy the procession."
Grigarex bowed and departed.
The guard gestured for them to take their seats. His hand remained upon his sword. They ducked down into the cabin, settling themselves down on the wooden benches that ringed the simple room. In the centre of the cabin was a small table with a platter of cheeses and dark bread. The boat began to move of its own accord, gliding gently up the canal at a walking pace. Goblins milled about the streets on either side, some carrying children or babies. It was the first time Scorpius had seen a female goblin in his life, their long dresses skirting the cobblestones and their thick hair tucked into braided buns. It was the first time he had seen goblins attached to a family structure.
Scorpius turned back from the street and noticed the guard watching Albus and Rose, who were staring almost transfixed at the food. He couldn't bear to look at it himself without salivating. With their meagre rations now finished, they hadn't eaten anything at all in a full twenty four hours.
The guard reached forward and took a wedge of cheese, biting down with gusto. They stared at him for a moment. He ate nonchalantly, but as if it were a show, making sure to bite down into the wedge as if he were performing a pantomime for their enjoyment. Scorpius reached forward and took a wedge for himself. Without breaking eye contact with the guard, he took a bite. He felt the creamy taste of dairy swell in his mouth. It was hard not to close his eyes to savour the food. The moment he had swallowed, Rose and Albus followed him.
They ate everything on the platter, even the crumbs. The guard snacked on the bread and cheeses with a reassuring flippancy. It was as if he had let down the rigidity of his role for their benefit. Once satiated, they turned back towards the windows to watch the streets. Goblins now crowded the main promenade, waving small flags and lining the brides over the canal. Cheers and music filled the air. Rose and Albus watched with rapt attention, studying the happy scene, but Scropius was busy assessing the guard.
He had been placed to watch over them because he spoke English, something that was rare amongst the goblins. Only those who held diplomatic roles studied other languages. Yet, there were other reasons a Goblin may know English. Perhaps he had once worked outside of the Kingdom. Perhaps he was sympathetic to humans. For the guard to eat so candidly in front of them seemed to confirm he was an ally of sorts. He had noticed their untouched meals and noticed that they were afraid to eat. This could be a trap, Scorpius reasoned. The food may still contain a poison that the guard had an antidote for. It may contain a truth serum that would not affect the guard, as he would not be the one questioned. Still, Scorpius was included to trust the guard. Although this goblin hardly spoke, Scorpius had not failed to notice that they had not been searched since that first public greeting with Grigarex.
The sound of trumpets and drums began to draw closer and their boat gently came to a halt. The procession was beginning. Scorpius turned his attention towards the street. Approaching from the end of the street, turning the corner in perfect unison, the Royal Guard was approaching. Their metal boots could be heard ringing out across the cobblestones, matching the rhythm of the drums. Behind them marched a series of men in fire-proofed leather aprons and gloves, similar to those worn by dragon handlers. They also marched in unison. Then, from around the corner came a palanquin carried high above the ground, followed by goblins blasting their trumpets. It was their first site of the Goblin King. His crown glittered, his velvet robe draped down over the back of the platform on which he was being carried. He stood imboile and stiff as he moved through the parade, the goblins cheering and blasting streamers out across the street in bright purple spirals.
Why had the King wanted them to witness these festivities? To show that he was adored by his subjects? To show them how civilised and united the Kingdom stood, in total contrast with the behaviour of Romnuk's rebels?
As Scorpius mulled over these questions, he noticed that the procession had not yet finished. Behind the King's palanquin, following closely after the trumpeters, another group of goblins was rounding the corner at the end of the street. They held a second palanquin on their shoulders, but it did not display a living goblin. Instead, they carried a statue carved of beautiful glistening stone. It caught the light like opals, iridescent colours glimmering along its perfectly carved form.
It was a statue of another King, lean and fit, crown on his head and sword held high. As the procession drew closer, they noticed that the stone sword was embedded with sparking red rubies. Albus stirred, adjusting his hip slightly. The real sword for which that statue merely mimicked was tucked beneath his robes.
"I know this is controversial, but why did Ragnuk want the Sword of Gryffindor?" Rose asked, turning toward the guard.
Did she sense that he was an ally too? Or was she just being as reckless as ever?
The guard smiled slightly, the first expression he had shown in the two days he had been there.
"Our stolen Sword?" he asked. It was hard to read his meaning, whether he was correcting her or mocking the idea that the Sword has been stolen.
"What you know of Goblin history has come from wizard's records," the guard acknowledged. The procession carried on behind him, the drums growing louder, the trumpets continued to blast, the marching boots of the King's royal guard ringing out through the street. "We were once three warring clans. Ragnuk the First was our first king and finest silversmith. He united the three goblin clans. You may know that it is now our tradition that the goblin who creates the finest silverwork takes the crown."
They nodded, asking him to go on.
"Ragnuk made this ruling shortly after he united the clans as a fair way to select the next leader. As you say, he made the Sword for Gryffindor. It was the first thing he had forged since becoming King. It's beauty was unparalleled. He regretted giving it away. Many in his Guard felt that this Sword should have represented his claim to the throne."
Scorpius was surprised by the tone this goblin was taking. This was not the usual propaganda - that the Sword had been stolen by Gryffindor.
The guard stared at them all carefully. The procession was beginning to pass them now, carrying its jubilant sound with it. The brief glimpse into the goblin world was drawing to a close.
The guard lowered his voice, forcing them all to lean in to hear him over the noise of the crowd.
"If it is the Pit you seek, then the King must know that you will be useful to him. He kills prisoners that cannot serve him."
So, the guard had been eavesdropping on them, but not in order to report them or turn them in. He was an ally after all.
"How do we get to the Pit?" Albus pushed.
"It has taken me many years to gain the King's trust. There are few of us left who share the same goal as you," the guard warned. He leaned back, shrugging, nonchalant again. The sound of the parade had faded. "I cannot risk my position in the Royal Guard by helping you. The best I can do is continue to turn a blind eye."
"Which is more than we can ask," Albus said.
"You can eat the food we send in. It is not poisoned," the guard added. "If it is the pit you are going to, eat as much as you can while you can."
The pre-match commentary had brought in more listeners to the Wizarding Wireless Network than anyone could recall in recent memory.
Harry had refused to give an interview as planned. While this had set the advertisers grumbling, Victoire was far more forgiving. As Teddy had explained the previous night, the kids were somewhere in the Goblin Kingdom, trying to single handedly take down their King. She was surprised Harry was still playing at all.
Victoire had come to the rescue by getting Viktor Krum to appear for a live pre-game interview. It had been easy calling in this favour, with Viktor Krum still very fond of his mother. For this reason, Lee also suggested she do the interview. Their rapport was great. She managed to coax more than just grumbles and grunts out of the grisly retired Bulgarian Seeker. By the end of the interview, they had both been laughing warmly.
She was invited to sit in the commentator's box during the game, where Lee was broadcasting Ginny's run down of the match live on air. Teddy was somewhere in the crowd, watching. Despite their late night discussion, nothing was resolved. She was as stony with him as when their fight first began. Dread had settled into the pit of her stomach, like a seed, and it was growing. It was evidenced by the constant nausea she felt, even now, during a low-stakes charity game.
"The Bulgarian Beaters send a Dopplebeater Defence straight at Morgan - she drops the Quaffle - Kirilov makes a pass - intercepted by Spanner who reverse passes to Morgan, she's near the goalposts and - England scores! The score now stands at forty to thirty."
The stands echoed triumph or frustration from beneath the respective flags and banners. The Seekers continued to circle the pitch. The game had been going for close to an hour. A tight defense on both sides had slowed down any progress with the points.
"Potter moves into a steep dive. Bold to try a Wronski Feint against Krum. Wait, it looks like he really has seen the Snitch! Krum has circled back. They're skimming the ground. It's close, Potter hangs on to the lead - oh! A Bulgarian Bludger knocks Potter into Krum. They hit the gravel. No chance for Krum to steal the Snitch this time around."
The crowd's ooohs and ahhhs rippled out across the stadium. Krum reached out to help Harry up with one firm hand. They dust off their robes and Harry straightens his glasses. This gets a bit of laughter and cheers out of the crowd.
"What a nice moment. A little reminder that this is a charity match, people. Our Seekers are airborne once more and are scouting for the Snitch."
Victoire found herself watching the clock instead of the game, drifting into a daze. The match had been a perfect distraction. She was dreading the moment the Snitch was caught, the game was over. Quidditch games could last for days. She found herself hoping that this match might rival some of the records.
"Bulgaria scores! We're tied up again, forty all."
They had avoided the topic of their argument, but its evidence was scattered around the house. Teddy had cleared out the guest bedrooms in Grimmauld Place, getting rid of the more grisly ornaments, updating the curtains and changing the linen to fresh white sheets. She had noticed the twin beds, empty but primed. She had noticed that he had wallpapered over the pockmarked Black family tree tapestry. He was already making changes.
Teddy hadn't wanted to start a family until he was prepared. That had been his exact words. When had Teddy ever been one to make preparations? He was the most erratic person she knew. He had jumped from one unstable job to another, dictated by his passions. For all of his idealism, he lived a very selfish life. She had known all of this about him and still, stupidly, married him.
"Our Seekers have spotted the Snitch from opposite ends of the Pitch. Krum is closest. Krum is forced into a Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger. Potter gains ground. They're now heading straight towards each other - it's a midair collision! Who has the Snitch? It's Krum! Krum finishes the game! The win goes to Bulgaria! That's the match."
The Snitch had been caught. The game was done. The distraction over.
A/N: I promised the next chapter would be up quick. Let's see how long I can ride this wave and churn out the last few chapters! Thank you everyone for your kind reviews and for sticking with this story for so long. Van x