Master Kitchen, East Wing, Potter Manor

Sirius Black was well aware of his reputation. As a prankster and womaniser from his youth, as an upstart and troublemaker from his political dealings, and more recently as a recluse. Along with a few letters of Owl Post, a special printing of the Daily Prophet had arrived, dark with news about the prior night's events. Numbered among the dead were quite a few of Magical Britain's financially and politically affluent, including names like Lucius Malfoy, Percy Weasly, the undersecretary to the Minister, and of course the Minister himself.

Sirius tucked the paper into his coat pocket along with a choice letter. He opened a letter addressed to him, and frowned. He didn't bother to knock as he entered the study, but waited a moment while Harry cast a series of mind-bendingly complicated diagnostic spells.

"I think I can help you there." Sirius broke the silence.

"Oh?"

"I reckon it's champagne."

"Good night, Sirius."

"Morning actually." Sirius said gleefully, handing Harry the paper and letter. "Would you believe you stayed up the whole night? My old heart can scarcely take the shock."

"If you make a joke about today's youth…"

"I am a part of today's youth, thank you kindly." Sirius bristled.

"That's only because you refuse to grow up." Harry frowned as he read the paper. "Lucius Malfoy? I thought…"

"Must've done something particularly pleasant to get murdered by his own side. Maybe he saved some orphans from a burning building without enslaving them afterwards."

"The audacity." Harry deadpanned, unsealing the letter. "I don't recognise the seal."

"It's the personal seal of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."

Harry looked up in shock.

"It's an official summons." Sirius added helpfully. "I suppose all it took for them to stop snubbing us was for a third of the other members to bite it."

"A national state of emergency." Harry whistled. "Yeah that'll do it. Weren't we already in a state of emergency since the Resurrection?"

"Maybe we're in a state of super serious emergency now."

"You're making awfully light of a terrorist attack." Harry chided.

"The way I see it, when confronted with a traumatic event, you have a few options presented to you. I've tried the reactionary approach, I would have killed Wormtail then and there if I could have, I nearly landed myself a lifelong getaway to Azkaban."

"And so instead you cover up your emotions with humour?"

Sirius shrugged.

"I know it might seem disrespectful. And repressing my emotions the way I do definitely isn't great for my overall mental health, but it sure is less destructive than the alternative."

"Just…" Harry carefully considered his next choice of words. "Try to behave while we're in public?"

"No promises." Sirius watched disapprovingly as Harry downed another set of Pepper Up potions. Harry sighed, closing his eyes as the potions took effect. "Something on your mind? You know, other than the usual."

"It was…" Harry mulled his thoughts over. "Good to see Astoria and Draco again."

"She's grown up." Sirius nodded. "Nearly as fetching as her sister. Were I but twenty years younger…"

"Gross."

"I'd have never pegged Draco Malfoy to marry for love." Sirius pondered. "If I'm not too rusty, the Houses Malfoy and Parkinson had a marriage contract set."

"I remember." Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I'm happy for Draco. Astoria's a much better fit for him than Pansy ever was.

"She even works for a living instead of sponging off his fortune."

"A hard life, being a healer." Harry noted. "Not many have the stomach for high risk, low pay."

"Maybe we should do something about that."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Sirius ventured. "St Mungo's is notoriously underfunded, and between the Potter and Black fortunes, we've got far more money than we know what to do with. Aside from your… hobbies that is."

"I never even thought about that."

"Were you planning to just sit on your gold like a little goblin?"

"Shut up, Sirius." Harry frowned. "I mean I never thought about helping Britain that way. I've been so focussed on bringing Voldemort and his cronies to justice, I never even thought about fixing what they broke."

"It's what I'm here for, kid." Sirius nodded sagely. "Words of wisdom and dating tips. Speaking of which, you think an old dog like me could get back into the dating scene?"

"I'll drop you off at the nearest retirement village."

"Oi!"


Not for the first time in his long life, Albert Horn cursed the day his late wife had installed a bell charm on the door to his apothecary.

"We are not open!" He shouted, bustling from behind the shop and stopped dead as he saw the Auror standing at the counter.

She wasn't tall, and the dark red robes of her profession covered her body shape too well to make any distinction, but most remarkable of all, the left side of her face was a mass of misshapen scar tissue, punctuated by a pearl white eye.

"C-can I help you?" He tried to work moisture onto his suddenly dry lips. "Auror..?"

"Granger." She spoke quickly, a smile tugging at the corner of her ruined lips. "I was hoping you could identify the source of this for me?"

Albert gingerly took the offered item. It was a feather, longer than his hand, darker than a raven's, barely any sheen, and emitting an acrid black smoke that drifted lazily to the storefront's roof.

In an attempt to look more intelligent than he felt at the moment, Albert snapped a pair of magnifying spectacles to his face, dialling the brass knobs to enhance his view.

"I have never seen anything like it." He admitted. "Truly remarkable. Would you mind if I kept a sample?"

"I'm afraid this particular item is crucial to an ongoing investigation. Thank you for your time, Mr Horn."

"Anything for our lads in red." Albert said with a false smile.

The Auror paused by the door.

"I assume you're on your way to register that second wand, Mr Horn?" She asked quietly. "The one you keep in the holster on your leg?"

"Y-yes!" Albert paled. "This very moment in fact! Why, it's the reason I haven't opened the shop yet!"

"Good. I'll send word to the front desk. They'll know to expect you. Have a nice day, Mr Horn."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile as she watched the Apothecary Owner scowl and rudely gesture at her back. In truth, she had known it was highly unlikely that the old shopkeeper would know anything useful, but she was nothing if not thorough.

In fact, she had much higher hopes for her next destination.

As always, the shop smelled of history, aged wood and parchment. She still remembered her first time in Olivander's, the feeling of true magic as her wand chose her, her sheer joy at the promise of a magnificent new world to study and master.

"Ten and three quarter inches long, vine wood, dragon heartstring…" Garrick Olivander's voice was equal measures mystery and delight. "Dutifully rigid. It's still treating you well, my dear?"

"Well enough." Hermione admitted. "I've had more trouble with transfiguration than other magical arts, but I can't imagine a correlation."

"It has been to happen… that a wizard would undergo such a drastic transformation of character that they are no longer suitable for the wand that first chose them. Is that why you've come, my dear? Does the bond that once comforted now chafe?"

"No." Hermione said quickly. "No. I'm afraid I've come to seek your knowledge on wand lore."

The old man chuckled.

"You must know it is against the rules of my guild to reveal our secrets…"

"I do. I was merely hoping you could help me identify this?"

Olivander gasped, eyes widening as he regarded the feather.

"May I?" He held out a hand to receive the feather, running aged fingers along the fine, black material. "Powerful… incredibly so, and yet… tortured… I have never…"

With a movement so quick Hermione started, the old wandmaker snipped the tip of the feather off. She watched in awe as the tip slowly drifted to the ground, catching fire as it went, leaving nothing but black soot in its place. The same fire spread on the feather, growing thinner and smaller as the tip of the feather regrew.

"Rebirth, regrowth, regeneration…" Olivander whispered. "Innate qualities and form like that of a Phoenix feather, and yet, so very different. I'm afraid, Miss Granger, that I cannot help you identify this extraordinary subject. If a being or creature exists that produces plumage such as this, I have never heard of it."

"A foreign creature then?" Hermione speculated.

"Miss Granger…" Olivander chuckled. "Always seeking answers, always so clever. But no, I'm afraid. I might be just an old wandmaker, but I am a very well informed old wandmaker. While I do not doubt that there exist creatures and beings beyond my knowledge, I doubt very much anything capable of producing something like this would have slipped our notice so long."

"Thank you, Mr Olivander." Hermione sighed. "For your insight and your time."

"I will always be here if you need me." The old man smiled fondly.

Hermione paused outside the wandmaker's store, leaning against a stonework wall. She allowed herself to feel a moment of disappointment. While her visit to the apothecary had played out nearly exactly as she had expected, she had hoped for far more from Olivander. She knew that the old man was one of the most well versed in magical plant and creature lore and, as the old man had so helpfully pointed out, if he did not know about a specific magical component, it was highly unlikely that anyone in Magical Britain would.

In fact, she could only think of one last port of call. With a twist and a snap, Hermione apparated to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


Tom Riddle watched over the crowd milling about outside the Wizengamot hall. Potter and Black had arrived, an unexpected but not unwelcome turn of events. It was clear that Albus was desperate, that he felt the sheer necessity of this session. Magical Britain's fate was poised on a knife's edge, and with careful planning, and more than a little luck, Tom was confident that the Light would prevail. Anti-Voldemort sentiment was at an all time high, higher even than those first weeks after the Dark Lord's defeat at the hands of Harry Potter.

This was a crucial moment, not only for his plans, but for the Light itself. Many major players from both sides had been affected, leaving both factions off balance. If there ever was a time to make an aggressive push, it was now.

Tom despised the designations, Light, Dark and Neutral. Originally, the factions were called Dark and Progressive, the Dark named for holding to doctrine from the Dark Ages, where wizards segregated from muggles while controlling their rulers through clandestine means and Wizard advisors to muggle kings, while the Progressives vied to integrate muggleborn magicals and magical creatures into their society.

Modern jargon like Dark Wizard, Dark Magic or Dark Creature, had come to take on an entirely different meaning from the traditionalist roots. Anything Magical Britain did not understand or could not control was slapped with the Dark label, now interchangeable with Dangerous, Malevolent or Evil.

It began with one of the earliest Ministers for Magic, though they were referred to as Archmage at the time, who had a personal vendetta against the ancient house Veridian, a Slytherin descendant later supplanted by House Gaunt, and began the naming convention of Light vs Dark politically undermine the Dark leaning Houses.

This had largely the desired effect, causing a powerful schism in the Noble Houses, resulting in the Light, Dark and Neutral factions.

Finally a dull chime echoed through the hall. Tom fell in behind a pair of gossiping journalists, making his way into the viewing gallery. As usual, Albus had insisted that he attend. As the last wizards and witches settled into their seats, Albus Dumbledore entered at the far side of the room.

"I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, in my capacity as Chief Warlock, hereby call this emergency session of the Wizengamot to order. The aged headmaster's voice was bleak as the grave, taking many in attendance aback.

"As the first order of business, I would ask that we take a moment to acknowledge those members that we have lost in last night's craven attack."

All in attendance stood, bowing their heads somberly.

"Alan Trembley. Ernest Malgus Hawkworth. Brunhilde Stokke. Nerys Orpington. Neville Longbottom. Regent by blood for House Prewett, Percy Weasly. Regent by edict for house Gaunt, Lucius Malfoy. And for House Blishwick, Theodore Nott Junior."

The attendees took their seats while the headmaster remained standing, seeming every single one of his one-hundred-and-twenty-four years. Before the headmaster could move to speak, a wand in the gallery lit. Cameras flashed.

"The Hall recognises Lord Bartimus Montague." Dumbledore said, resigned.

"House Montague would remind the institution that this body stands at less than two thirds capacity. By Ministerial Decree 347, 1822, regent members must be elected for those seats without blood heirs before conference may resume."

"Thank you, Lord Montague." Dumbledore spoke evenly, quietly. "I formally propose to postpone matters of succession, since matters of national emergency take precedence."

Tom held his breath. With the loss of the Longbottom, Trembley and Prewett seats, the Light was losing control. If the Neutral houses favoured the dark, driven by fear from the prior night's events, the Dark Houses could elect members as regents over the empty house seats that would favour a Dark agenda.

"All in favour?" Dumbledore counted the lit wands. He sighed. "Motion denied."

Another wand lit up.

"The Hall recognises," Dumbledore's eyes widened. "Lord Sirius Arcturus Black."

Sirius stood slowly, dusting imagined lint from his coat.

"House Black implores the institution to recollect Ministerial Decree 28, 1011, founding of the Wizengamot: Under no circumstances may matters of state be undertaken by the body without the current head of state present. Even in the event of matters of state concerning the head of state."

Another wand lit.

"The Hall recognises Mr Gregory Goyle, regent by edict for House Lestrange."

"House Lestrange," Goyle sneered nasally. "Wonders how the honourable House Black will resurrect the deceased Minister to attend conference?"

An outcry went up amongst a few of the seated members at the breach of decorum.

"The Hall asks," Dumbledore warned. "That Mr Goyle remember the proper etiquette expected of members of the institution. Lord Black?"

"House Black would like the record to show that Mr Goyle has a small-"

"Denied, Lord Black."

"House Black would remind the institution," Sirius continued unruffled. "Of Ministerial Decree 117, 1482. In the event the head of state cannot attend due to circumstances that include irreversible enchantment, de-animation, disintegration and irrevocable expiration, an election must be held to appoint a successive head of state."

An appreciative murmur passed through the viewing gallery. Tom had to admit his surprise. Of all the members of the current Wizengamot, he had not expected Sirius Black to be well versed in ministerial doctrine. Not only was it clear that Black understood the temperament of the floor, but also the precarious position the Light found itself in. Tom made a mental note not to underestimate Black a second time. The murmur cut off as Albert Runcorn rose and slammed his fist on the balustrade.

"House Runcorn demands that nomination be sealed to this hall!"

"The Hall warns Lord Runcorn to respect the etiquette of the institution." Dumbledore warned. He counted the lit wands. "Motion carries. The hall is now open to nomination."

"House Rosier nominates Lord Bartimus Montague!"

Dumbledore sent a thunderclap resounding through the hall.

"The Hall demands that all sitting members of the institution take a moment to reflect upon the decorum of their station!"

Grumbles and murmured displeasure resounded through the hall. A wand lit.

"The Hall recognises Lord Halbrand Selwyn." Dumbledore nodded in satisfaction.

"House Selwyn nominates the venerable Pius Thicknesse, of the noble line Crowstutter."

"Seconded?" A wand lit up. "Nomination accepted. The Hall recognises Lord Sammuel Fawley."

"House Fawley nominates Lord Bartimus Montague, of the ancient and most noble house of Montague."

A murmur of appreciation resounded, and the nomination was carried. Another wand lit.

"The Hall recognises Mr Zacharias Smith, regent by blood for House Bagshot."

Smith was one of the youngest members in attendance, slim and fair of hair, he did not strike an imposing figure. His words might as well have been an explosion.

"House Bagshot nominates Tom Marvollo Riddle, of the ancient and most noble line of Gaunt."

Dumbledore's gaze snapped to the viewing gallery, boring into Tom's. He felt his heart flutter as he met the old man's gaze, dropping his legilimency shields. He didn't bother to hide his desire for the status, his lust for the power and control it would bring, but above all he brought his earnest and sincere desire for the Light to prevail to the forefront. Tom sagged as the probe withdrew.

"Seconded." Dumbledore himself lit a ball of light on the end of his wand. "Nominees for the post of Minister for Magic will be Pius Thicknesse, Bartimus Montague and Tom Marvolo Riddle junior. Mr Montague, to prevent a conflict of interest pending the election, you will resign your seat on this honourable body, and nominate a regent."

"House Montague nominates Reginald Montague."

"Acknowledged." Dumbledore deadpanned. "So Mote it be. I hereby call this, the Ninth Wizengamot Session of 2005 concluded. You may disperse."

Tom waited in the hall outside, smiling graciously at all the well wishers and reporters, answering their questions in good humour. From across the hall, he caught Dumbledore's eye as the old man walked steadily towards him.

"Headmaster." Tom nodded in greeting, letting none of the turmoil he felt show on his face or in his eyes.

"Tom. Congratulations on your nomination, my dear boy."

Tom wasn't fooled by the nonchalant tone, nor Dumbledore's smile.

"Shall we return to Hogwarts? I believe I have a class in half an hour's time."


"State your name and your business." Beryl Rosewood didn't bother to look up from her book. The only people who came to St Mungo's were the sick, and loved ones of the sick. If they were worth talking to, they could afford being elsewhere.

"Harry Potter. Donation."

Beryl snapped up her head so quickly, her glasses flew off her nose.

"You whot?" Her eyes widened. "I mean, yes sir, Mr Potter- Lord! Lord Potter! How may I assist you?"

"What's your name love?"

Harry Potter, THE Harry Potter was smiling at her. Beryl nearly fainted.

"Beryl." She gulped. "Beryl Rosewood that is, uh, my lord."

He laughed.

"Just Harry is fine. Can you point me in the direction of the treasurer?"

"Y-yes!" Beryl sprang to her feet. "Meet me, just around the hall, second left. I'll be right there!"

Beet red in the face, Beryl cast a quick charm to do up her hair and undid the top button on her blouse, shifting her cleavage to look as presentable as possible. She leaned against the doorframe, trying to look effortless, with some effort.

"Ready, Mr Potter?" She breathed, fluttering her lashes.

"Harry? Is that you?"

Beryl felt her heart drop as Astoria Malfoy entered the hall. Unlike Beryl, the brunette was truly effortlessly beautiful.

"Tori! Good to see you again." Harry smiled warmly.

Wonderful. They had nicknames.

"What are you doing here? Come to see Neville? He's had quite the number of visitors."

"I was… well, I was planning to make a donation actually." He grinned in a way that made Beryl even more jealous. She crossed her arms disdainfully.

"Don't you got work to do, Malfoy?" She emphasised the surname. "Or does your husband pay all the bills?"

"Oh come off it, Beryl you old tart." Astoria rolled her eyes. "Come on Harry, I can walk you."

Harry fell into easy step next to Astoria, smiling fondly.

"I much prefer you with teeth." He grinned.

"Thin ice, Potter." She smiled fondly. "Thin Bloody Ice."

She waved Harry into an office, and after a moment's hesitation, waited outside. If anyone bothered asking, she'd simply say she was taking her break early. Everyone else did.

She smiled as Harry left the office a short while later, leaving behind a very flustered in house Goblin treasurer, fixated on a shrunken trunk.

"So are the reporters outside?" Astoria tested.

"I sure hope not." Harry groaned. "I'm really hoping to keep my appearance here on the down low. Might draw the wrong attention."

Astoria regarded him carefully.

"How much did you donate?" She asked, quickly stepping in when he stiffened. "If you don't mind me asking. If you do, just don't say anything. It's your business."

"Two mil."

"Two MILLION Galleons?!" Astoria's eyes widened. "Bloody hell, Potter! Do you often throw that kind of money about?"

"No, I don't, and can you please keep your voice down?"

"Sorry," She cringed. "It's just, well, after the show you put on at the ministry the other day… I would have thought…"

"I wanted the attention?"

She went beet red.

"Yes, actually. You seem quite taken with the limelight. And nothing is better publicity than charity."

"Well, someone," He grinned mischievously. "Wiser and much, much older than I am, pointed out that I can do more good with my parents' fortune than just sitting on it."

"So what are you getting out of it?" She narrowed her eyes. "One of the nurses catch your fancy?"

"I just…" He seemingly struggled for the right words. "I want to do something for someone other than myself."

"Well in that case," She hooked his arm in hers. "Come on. We're getting lunch."

"What?"

"Someone has to thank you." She insisted. "And you're much more likely to accept lunch from a friend."

"Astoria, I-"

She spun on him, eyes dangerous.

"I could eat." He finished lamely.

"Good." She turned her nose in the air. "And I know just the place."

To Harry's surprise, she led them out into muggle London, casting a quick charm on her uniform to disguise it. They followed the sidewalk for a block or two before turning into a red canopied storefront.

"Didn't take you for the type to enjoy muggle food."

"And what type did you take me for?" Astoria asked dangerously.

"Mrs Malfoy." A waiter greeted pleasantly. "Your husband's waiting. And who is this?"

The man took a good moment to give Harry a once over.

"Family friend." Astoria smiled. "Our usual table?"

"You know the way." The man winked, moving off.

Harry followed after Astoria as she navigated the uncrowded tables. Draco showed a moment of surprise at noticing Harry, but welcomed them over.

"Look what I found at work." Astoria teased, presenting Harry like a prize.

"Very nice," Draco drawled. "Please tell me you've found it a home?"

"Oi!" Harry protested, taking a seat across from the blonde.

"Oh, I dunno." Astoria teased. "I was thinking we could keep him. He's rather nice looking."

"As long as he sleeps outside and doesn't muck on the floor."

"Oi!" Harry laughed. "What makes you think I want to go with you?"

"Don't be silly." Astoria raised her chin. "Why wouldn't you want to live in a manor and be pampered every waking moment?"

Harry snapped his mouth closed.

"Now you mention it," He feigned consideration. "That does sound quite nice…"

"Sorry I'm late. Work was murder." Another voice joined the conversation.

"How many people do you usually bring for lunch?" Harry looked around, a second quip dying in his throat. He recognised Daphne Greengrass from the ministry functions he attended with Sirius in his younger years. Her golden blonde hair was held back in a bun with a few strands loose to frame her bright, green eyes.

"Oh." She stopped, taking Harry in. "Potter. Hi. I can honestly say I did not expect to see you here."

"Been a while, hasn't it." Harry forced the words out through a smile.

"Terribly sorry, Harry." Astoria said, sounding not even vaguely apologetic. "I had completely forgotten my dear sister was going to join me for lunch."

"Like she does every week." Draco smirked before making a face like a man who's had his toes stomped.

"Harry made a sizable donation to St Mungo's." Astoria grinned like a preying cat. "He was trying to slink away without so much as a handshake when I cornered him."

"Was he now?" Draco lifted an elegant eyebrow. "And what brought on this spirit of generosity?"

Harry felt his chest tighten as Daphne slid into the seat next to him, brushing her leg against his. He took a steady breath, focussing on maintaining his composure.

"Last night made me realise how vulnerable we all are." Harry said quietly. "I grew up in a manor, cared for, doted on even, all my life. I've attended balls and fundraisers and charity functions for as long as I can remember. I grew up with so much. And what have I been doing with it? Private schooling, trips abroad, fancy clothes and food? While the people and institutions of Magical Britain starved, I gorged myself. Last night, I decided no more."

They were all focused on him. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

"I just wanted to do something, something meaningful for a change." He fell back in his seat. A soft hand on his arm brought him back to the moment.

"I think that's brilliant, Harry." Daphne smiled at him.

"So do I, Potter." Draco said, evidently surprising Astoria. "Whatever you donated, I'll match it."

"Harry bloody Potter." Astoria wondered. "You disappear for seventeen years and plummet the whole world into chaos the moment you get back."

"Not on purpose." Harry insisted earnestly.

"Oh stop it, Potter." Draco smirked. "You know you love the attention."

"Remind me, Harry," Daphne started with an evil look. "We last saw you… Ministry ball of '88, right? Was that the one where Draco tried to swim in the chocolate fountain, or the one where he got startled by the enchanted ice sculptures and hid behind the curtains all night?"

Draco's pale face went so red he glowed.

"No no," Harry smiled, regaining his balance. "That was '87 and yule of '86. '88 was the one where he ate so many brownies that he puked through his nose."

"How could I forget?" Daphne swooned. "Such a cherished, childhood memory."


"-and if I am cursed with an essay so much as half an inch short again…" Severus Snape warned his sixth year class, frozen in fear. "We will be testing toxins and antitoxins next lesson. Get out of my sight!"

The Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors scattered, rushing to get out of the room as soon as possible. With a flick of his wand, the door to the classroom slammed shut, a surprised yelp sounding from beyond. Severus allowed himself a small smile as he sat down at his desk, preparing to grade the latest stack of drivel his students insisted were well-researched papers.

When he began teaching at Hogwarts, Snape had demanded the very best, only allowing select students to join his NEWT course. Yet time after time, the Hogwarts Board of Governorshad demanded he slacken his standards. First, every student with an O was to be allowed into his prestigious classroom. Then the bar was further lowered to Students with an E, and now, every dunderhead that could manage an Acceptable grade clotted his valuable time with their stupidity.

A knock on his door gave him pause.

"No extensions!" He shouted. "No tutoring! And absolutely no regradings!"

"It's official business I'm afraid."

Severus couldn't help it, he smiled.

"Enter!"

Hermione Granger entered her favourite classroom, a grin on her face. Knowing the potions master's preference, she closed the door on her way in.

"I see you've grown soft in your old age."

"Hardly!" Snape sniffed. "Those craven slugs on the board cannot bear the thought of their spawn not qualifying for posts requiring a potion's mastery. Thus here I am, attempting to instruct little neanderthals who barely know the workings of a spoon."

"Perhaps you should use less complicated spoons."

"As delightful as this reunion is," Snape drawled. "You mentioned official business? Do you need an untraceable poison for a competitor or aggravating colleague? Diggory perhaps?"

"Cedric is fine." Hermione waved him off, removing the feather from her pocket. "This… is why I'm here."

"Now that…" Snape said appreciatively. "Is not something one sees every day…"

"I've been to six apothecaries, and Olivander's. No-one seems to know what it is."

"I don't know whether to be insulted."

"I saved the best for last." Hermione smiled crookedly.

"Well, I could have saved you a lot of time." Snape snorted, but held up a hand to forestall an interjection. "Before I once again take up the mantle of teacher, would you indulge me with the knowledge of how you came to possess it?"

"I believe it to be imperative in the investigation of the Argent Lakes poisoning." Hermione considered. "It was found at the scene of the crime. I believe it to belong to the same creature involved in a recent ministerial break in."

"I see." Severus smirked. "Well, I'm very sorry to topple your theory, but this is not the product of a natural occurrence. What we have here is a perfectly normal phoenix feather that has been petrified with a Basilisk's stare."

Hermione's mouth fell open.

"Indeed." Snape grinned. "Exceptionally rare. Remarkably expensive."

"Why?" Hermione wondered. "What would the point be, I mean?"

"Let me demonstrate." Snape plucked the feather from Hermione's hand, and set it on his desk.

With a flick of his wand, a bright red cutting curse slammed into the desk, rending it deeply. In the space the feather covered, the desk was unscathed. Next, Snape grabbed a silver potion knife and bisected the feather. Hermione watched, again, as the feather burned away and regrew. Snape returned the feather with a bow and a flourish.

"The petrification process captures the Phoenix's natural healing and regenerative powers, and keeps the feather in a constant state of healing and decay, resulting in the characteristic smog. If damaged, the feather will burn, returning to its state at the time of petrification.

"The petrification itself has another very interesting side effect. Because of the innate power imbued in Phoenix feathers, the petrification leaves that energy in stasis. It has nowhere to go, and thus remains trapped inside the feather. When new magic is introduced, if it cannot overwhelm the feather's magic, it merely disperses."

"It's immune to magic?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Until damaged, yes." Severus clarified. "While damaged, the magic in the feather is used to repair itself."

"As fascinating as this is," Hermione sighed. "It stops my investigation dead."

"How so?"

"Well, now I know what it is, but it still doesn't bring me any insight."

"That's because you have been asking the wrong questions." Snape smiled. "Now that you know what it is… why would someone go through the extensive labour to create it? And who would invest the considerable financial burden to do so?"


Harry removed his finger from the pensieve. He had been going over his and Sirius' memories from the attack, looking for something he had missed.

"I give up." Sirius threw a scroll of parchment to the table. "I wasn't built for research. It feels like I'm back in Hogwarts trying to find a hundred words to make up the word count for an essay."

"No luck finding the connection between Riddle and the Gaunt family then?" Harry assumed, going over his notes on Sirius' memory of the event.

"I have a Tom Riddle, muggle, murdered all the way back in 1943 by none other than Morfin Gaunt. Effectively ending the odds of either being the father, what with 32 years between their last public appearance and our Tom Riddle Junior's conception."

"What about the middle name?"

"Marvolo. An ancestral Gaunt family name. The last known Marvolo Gaunt died 1927, survived by Morfin and Merope Gaunt, both of whom, you guessed it-"

"Died too soon to be Riddle's parent." Harry sighed.

"Whatever connection exists, if any really does, between our Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr, it is well out of public knowledge."

"Honestly, I'm surprised we got as much as we did. Take a gander at my memories? Maybe a fresh pair of eyes can give some new perspective."

"I hate going over your memories." Sirius grumbled. "You don't look down near enough blouses."

"And if you looked down fewer blouses, maybe you'd have seen something useful."

"Want to pull that stick out your ass?"

"Why? Do you want a turn?"

"Prat."

"Pervert."

Harry turned to his alchemy table, currently occupied by seven vials containing varying amounts of champagne. He ground dried Vervain petals into a powder, adding it to freshly diced mint leaves simmering in a small, silver cauldron. He added three drops of cinnamon liquor to the alkahest solution, alternating clockwise and anticlockwise stirs until the decoction turned a pale grey.

He carefully divided the decoction into two flat, glass plates. He selected the first, and final vials from his champagne samples. A drop from the first vial resulted in the decoction turning charred, slowly oozing oily smoke. A drop from the final vial turned the decoction a clear, bubbling golden. Harry growled in frustration, slamming his fist onto the counter.

"Let me guess, champagne?"

"I will hurt you."

"It was going to happen." Sirius reassured. "You were bound to get a sample that wasn't poisoned."

"I know." Harry ground out, gesturing to two vials with white caps.

"Then what's the issue?"

"That sample of pure champagne," Harry explained tersely. "Came from the Minister's glass."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, I might have something." said Sirius, interrupting what was quickly turning into one of Harry's brooding sessions. "Weasley."

"What about him?" Harry sighed.

"How did he know to leave just before the champagne was handed out?"

"What?" Harry perked up. "He was right by the Minister's side, died right there."

"Not him." Sirius shook his head. "Come on."

They entered the memory, watching the blurred edges and slight artifacting where Harry's spectrespecs ended and his peripheral vision began. Harry navigated the throng of politics, careful with the questions he asked, probing for information while pretending to seem unintelligent. Finally, he laid eyes on the mysterious DADA professor, and made his way towards him.

Harry and Sirius watched his past self converse with Draco, Riddle and Astoria.

"He really has changed." Sirius said appreciatively, studying Draco.

"He matched our donation to St Mungo's."

"Why now and not sooner?"

"Maybe, like me, he never thought about it."

"Doubt it." Sirius snorted. "I think he just finally has the opportunity to be his own man now that Old Lucius' boot is off his throat."

"Besides," His memory of Tom Riddle said. "It's not exactly her fault St Mungo's is as understaffed as it is."

"Move aside." A raggedly dressed, red-headed man spat, shoving Harry out of the way as he made his way from the hall.

Harry frowned, following Weasley beyond his peripheral vision.

"In quite a rush, isn't he?" Sirius asked triumphantly.

Harry emerged from the memory, immediately studying his notes again.

"I'll need to review." Harry walked back to the pensieve. "Note every instance we've seen of Weasley. Why was he there? Who did he come with, talk to? What made him leave?"


Lightning flashed. Rain poured from the sky, as if a vengeful god was emptying the ocean to flood the streets. The Horned Pear was dim, filthy, and the roof leaked like a house elf pissing on his head, but it was cheap.

"You Weasel?"

The boy was young, Ron Weasley noted, not yet at magical maturity.

"Whiskey or Beer?" Ron asked, waving a tavern maid over.

"Business." The boy said, doing his best to seem stern, holding up a hand to reject a tankard of frothing amber liquid. Ron accepted both tankards.

"I don't do business sober." He insisted, glueing his eyes to the departing bottom of the maid, leaving his table as quickly as she could. He raised his tankard in salute to the boy across from him. "Women, amiright?"

"Are you or are you not Weasel?" The boy turned up his nose.

"Depends who's asking." Ron slurped deeply from his drink. "And keep your voice down. You never know who's listening."

"I want to join." The boy whispered. "I'm ready. I want to serve the Dark Lord."

Ron stopped drinking, slowly lowering his ale.

"Are you?" He asked, voice low. He slammed the tankard down on the table, making the boy jump. "Do you think you have what it takes? Can you prove your devotion to the cause?"

"I'm ready." The boy insisted.

"No. No you're just some kid who's got the wrong friends."

"How would you know?"

Ron gave the boy a discerning stare. He leaned forward.

"You know of the initiation then?"

"Yes."

"Fuck off." Ron leaned back, sneering.

"I'm ready to do whatever it takes."

"Are you?" Ron asked dangerously. "Let me tell you, kid, no matter what your friends have told you, you are not ready. When I was your age, my friends and I all went to receive the mark together. I was fired up, ready, big man along with my mates, yeah? We each followed a different one of the Dark Lord's followers. They took our wands, and led us into the dungeons where they keep their captives.

"I saw in front of me, a terrified girl, not old enough to have been in Hogwarts a year, bound and silenced, sobbing tracts through the grime on her filthy cheeks. 'The Mark', they said 'Is not idly taken. It requires sacrifice. But it need not be your sacrifice. In front of you is a muggle. The Dark Lord decrees that this base creature will pay the price for you. Their life so that your life may begin.' Then… they lifted the silencing charms."

Ron's voice grew quiet, but he did not let the boy escape his stare. He lunged forward, pulling the boy to his ear, the stench of ale on his breath warming the air between them.

"I listened to screams, sobbing and gagging." He whispered. "Blows landing on flesh and the crack of snapping bones. I can still hear them. When I close my eyes I still see that girl's face."

He flung the boy backwards, watching pitilessly as he sprawled, white faced, on the stones of the tavern.

"Piss off." Ron spat. "And don't come back. I've heard they've stopped being soft on recruits who skive off the test."

He watched the boy slip on the rain slick steps before downing his tankard. He stood, walking on less than steady legs before being stopped by the barkeeper.

"Oi." He protested the hand keeping him from the lavatory. "I've got to piss, haven't I?"

"Do it outside." The barkeep gave a gap toothed sneer. "We're cleaning."

"It's fuckin' pourin!"

"So it is."

Ron flipped him the bird as he stormed off, ducking into an alley outside the tavern.

Unseen on a rooftop overhead, a flash of lightning illuminated a hunching, shadowed figure, painting the edges of its black feathered cloak in brilliant white.

Ron kicked a can down the alley as he made his way further inside. What did he care if he got wet? He'd just tread water in the tavern, and then cast a drying charm on himself. Ron cried out in terror as he flew into the sky, held aloft by a black, clawed hand holding his foot.

"Bloody hell!" He darted for his wand, crying out in pain as a line of blood opened where his hand was cut. "Someone! Anyone! Help me!"

"No one can help you now."

Ron was sure that if Dementors felt fear, the creature holding him was their nightmare. He screamed as he was hurled bodily over the roof, sliding across the slick tiles, finally hanging on for dear life on a rain sleek gutter. Ron yelped as a heavy foot landed on his hand.

"What did you use to poison the Minister? Tell me!" Lightning flashed, casting the feathered thing in sharp relief. A clawed hand grabbed him by the neck, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets as he flew over the roof again, slamming to a halt against a chimney, a black foot pressing him against the brick by his throat. Ron no longer needed to visit a lavatory.

He struggled, clawing against the leathery foot as the creature leaned closer. Its glowing white eyes bore into his skull. Ron screamed, as a feeling like grated rakes turning over his brain overwhelmed him. Fingers of rusted and jagged metal dragged through his thoughts and memories, and he surrendered them willingly, if only to make the pain end sooner.

He sagged against the brickwork, gasping, gagging, blind from the pain. When he opened his eyes the creature was gone. Staggering to a crouch, Ron scanned the barren rooftop, still crashing with rain. He took a deep, ragged breath, urging his racing heart to calm down.

After slipping his way to the edge of the roof, he stared down into the floor of the alley, four stories away.

"How the fuck am I supposed to get down?"