Author's Note: THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REWRITTEN! Please read through to make sure we're on the same page before I post the next chapter. Sorry to trouble you guys.

See the bottom of the page for more notes.


Chapter 4: Manifesting School Spirit


As much as he wanted to wallow in the pits of his sentimentality, Tony Stark was first and foremost a man of action.

Whenever he hit a wall in his life (and it wasn't often, because he was awesome that way), his first reaction was to squat. His second was to check it for a secret door, because all walls were bound to have secret doors. His third was to pull every brick out of said wall and build himself a statue with it. After all, there was no problem Tony Stark couldn't solve with a bit of patience, thought and tinkering, as well as a good amount of ego and charm.

His fourth reaction, of course, was to torch the goddamn wall to the ground, because (and he was quoting the Daily Prophet verbatim here) he was a crazy, obsessive and monopolistic jerk who wouldn't know failure if it hit his mother in the face with an Unforgivable.

Which was why he found himself inside Dumbledore's office again a month and a half later, nearly on the verge of yelling his head off. JARVIS was whispering urgently in his ears—"sir, need I remind you that it has been more than eighty hours since you were last asleep"—and the large bird perched atop the windowsill clicked its beak in obvious displeasure. On any other day Tony might have been impressed by the fact that Dumbledore owned a phoenix, but it was not this day.

He tapped the legs of his Tom Fords. JARVIS fell silent.

Sitting in the chair across from him was one Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, and next to him, a very, very old man none other than Nicolas Flamel himself, creator of the Philosopher's Stone. Tony felt his hand clench into a fist as his eyes fell on a bag of fine, red dust, ex-bane of his existence and one remaining curse; he had to pry his fingers open when Flamel picked the bag up, grimacing. The alchemist's movements were stiff and jerky, as if he hadn't moved in a very long time. Tony couldn't bring himself to look straight at him.

It didn't help that he was lit up blue and purple like low-budget concert lighting, as was Dumbledore.

"You're joking," Tony said. The words fell flat.

"I am not." Flamel's voice was just as wispy as his hair, which hung long and loose like the ends of a threadbare lace curtain. "The Stone's . . . magic seems to be expended. Had been so, for the good part of a month at least. It did not respond well to our attempts to dismantle it, and the Philosopher's Stone, once called the greatest creation of wizardkind, is now nothing more than a bag of dust." He bowed his head. "I am sorry, Mr. Stark, that I cannot be of more assistance."

Tony could have screamed. He could have shouted some more.

Instead, he flipped his shades back down onto his nose, breathing through his nostrils as he tried to quench the thoughts flowing in a circle of Morgan Pepper Morgan inside his brain. He'd bought himself a one-way ticket away from them.

"Heart rate is accelerating," JARVIS said. He sounded more upset than an AI had the right to.

Tony dragged his hands across his face. Deep breaths . . . "I hate you all."

"With a passion, I'm sure." For once Dumbledore had dropped the all-knowing, omniscient grandpa ego, instead leveling Tony with an expression that could only be sympathetic, so poignant that he could have gagged on it. "I daresay we all reached the extent of our individual abilities attempting to take apart this mystery. You especially, Anthony, as I am still amazed to see how well you have settled into the wizarding world."

Oh, but he hadn't.

Tony still had to clutch at his throat whenever he was wrenched awake from short-lived slumber, fumbling to push on the nothing at his chest as pulses of light—blue, red, purple, orange, yellow and green—flashed before his eyes. Then he would spend the large part of the day holed up in his quarters or in the workshop, building nonsensical towers out of a box of scraps before dismantling everything like the ruins of a sandcastle.

Because he'd known from the beginning, hadn't he?

When he first met Flamel two weeks ago; when they shook hands, and he saw the look of pity in the man's eyes; when he caught Dumbledore and Flamel exchanging that same look over his head at their first three-party meeting; when Dumbledore had pulled him aside after dinner one day to suggest that maybe Tony should think of patenting his inventions for the long run.

When he first saw what the magic in a wizard looked like through his new sunglasses: space-blue and power-purple.

The Infinity Stones of this universe had ceased to exist a long, long time ago, vacuumed into voids and magic all over the world. The Philosopher's Stone was nothing but a fluke of Flamel's that fed on their residue and a thousand liters of darn good luck, so he never had the fucking chance.

Tony thought he might have laughed, because Dumbledore and Flamel were both openly staring at him.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled. "I have serious psychological issues. You reconsidering that offer to hire me now?"

"Oh, Anthony." Dumbledore leaned forward to rest his weight on his elbows, looking enthused. "I would be a foolish old man to even think of doing so. Your thoughts on integrating Muggle inventions and magic were well received by both the pureblood circles and general public, and as you have already been exposed in the papers, it would do you more good than bad—"

"I'm stopping you right there." Tony held up a hand. "Because you and I both know I have nowhere else to go, Headmaster, and nobody's going to take my word at face value after Malfoy pulled that crazy interview on the Prophet, let alone willingly buy products that have my name on them. Whose fault is that, huh?"

Dumbledore gave him a sheepish grin.

Whose fault indeed, when Tony had been caught red-handed in the Great Hall with his bots in tow the same day reporters flooded the castle for one last interview with Flamel. They also both knew that "well received" equaled to flagged as a "Muggle-loving, preposterous American that somehow managed to weasel his way into Dumbledore's senile heart", as a Mr. Lucius Malfoy said, but had opted not to talk about it. Mostly for the reason that Tony was teetering on the very edge of homicide.

There was no five-star PA team here to save him from the worst of the flames. No secretary, no privacy, no fiery-tempered ex-assistant whose arms he could retreat into whenever the world got to be a bit too much of an asshole. The entire Stark name was void, and he was still undecided if he should be happy or miserable about it.

At least he could rule out possibilities of death by doppelgängers.

"Whatever, I'll stay," Tony said. "Can I leave the room though, pretty please? With a gargoyle on top?"

To his surprise (it was probably surprise, if anything after this could dare faze him in the slightest), it was not Dumbledore who gave him his leave, but Flamel. "Certainly."

He was walking out of the office before the wizards could stop him. The truth was, he knew, too much of him was stuck in that zone between death and exhaustion to give a damn about where his feet were taking him, let alone some philosophical conversation he gave less than zero fucks about. He thought he heard a familiar voice calling after him ("Mister Tony!"), but when he turned, he was somewhere on the fifth-floor corridor with nobody in sight.

There was a door on the wall. It had no doorknob, no keyhole—a slab of nothing but an expanse of pure aged wood. A bronze knocker shaped like an eagle was at the space where the keyhole should have been. The door into Ravenclaw, then.

"Where do lost things go?" the eagle sang.

"Purgatory, hell, and hell again." He tapped on his glasses. "Because that's where I am right now."

"Well-grounded in experience."

He blew the knocker a kiss, turned without hearing whatever else it had to say, and trudged back down the hall.

"Sir?" JARVIS was speaking again. "Sir, you are supposed to head up the stairs, not down."

Tony stopped. "I meant to do that," he lied. Nevertheless, he changed his course of direction and hobbled up the steps like a weak old lady, never mind the fact that he was on a moving stair. He heard a row of portraits gasp as the staircase groaned under his feet and swung smack into the wall. He stumbled, but not down the stairs. "I meant to do that, too!"

Judging by the dissatisfied sniff that rang clear in his ears, JARVIS didn't buy it.

Tony was maybe on the sixth floor when he decided to spit it out.

"Looks like we're stuck here for a while, J."

A pause. "Sir, I assure you that I will be with you always."

JARVIS, bless the magical, sentient soul he was slowly evolving into, was an anchor that Tony reached out for in times of extreme distress (or every other day). Even if his codes were frozen sometime in May 2015, his last records of a short-lived conversation with Ultron, JARVIS was the best. The only.

Speaking of which.

"Didn't quite work out last time, though, did it? You didn't look so good back then, getting busted by your kid and all." It was a running joke between them, comments on their crazy wayward son. And FRIDAY had turned out to be such a good girl . . . Tony let out a huff of laughter as he pulled his fingers through his hair. He was in desperate need of a shower.

JARVIS hummed in contemplation. "I do remember hearing about this, sir."

It was always remember hearing in lieu of remember, because magical AI or not, any events that occurred after the Ultron Fiasco had to be spoon-fed into JARVIS's archives. Even Tony couldn't prove how those functioned. Yet.

The working theory was that the room on the seventh-floor corridor had somehow reconfigured his very Muggle workshop into a chamber that sustained itself on the castle's magic, but he would need a good night's sleep and eight cups of coffee to come up with an exact verdict, because adjusting to the magical way of thinking was damn hard. It was ten times more horrifying to realize he'd have to think like that all the time now.

Stop it.

He was close to Maya's painting, walking and tripping over his own feet in a mad sort of lightness. "And then the psycho destruction bot was destroyed by an android, someone who christened himself Vision, remember? And then he ended up getting destroyed by Thanos, remember? Who I blew up? Do you sense a pattern here, JARVIS?"

The AI seemed reluctant to answer. "I remember you telling me that as well, sir. However, I sense no pattern."

"Don't lie to me, J. That's not in your system."

Another long hum of artificial intelligence. "Maybe I am developing, sir. After all, we are currently stranded in a fucking otherworld, as you are prone to shout out every other hour."

Tony shrugged. "Or maybe," he said, letting a bit of self-deprecation leak into his words, "I'm just a terrible engineer."

He was a terrible person and for that, he was sorry, he meant to say. Tony may have been crazy, obsessive and monopolistic, but he knew his limits. He made a bad stand-in for even Victor Frankenstein (and that was saying something), and the problem was that he was too proud to admit it aloud.

Of course JARVIS saw right through his words. "No offense taken, sir. I am concerned for your wellbeing."

"Yeah, I can at least choose to believe that."

JARVIS was unresponsive as Tony veered onto the corridor of his quarters. The familiar green tapestry came into view, and he sauntered forward to greet the small girl who kept watch over his door day and night . . .

"Maya?"

Silence. Inside the painting of the grass meadow, a little calico cat meowed.

Tony stared.

The tapestry was empty.


"Oh, dear. It's you again."

Beep.

"And just what is that thing you brought with you?"

Beep.

"Moral support," he said.

Dum-E chirped in agreement and offered the Fat Lady a plate of scones.

When Tony had first read about the four Houses of Hogwarts, he'd briefly imagined himself as a Gryffindor, decked in robes of red and gold with a ridiculous sword to complete the picture. He loved red and gold. His armor was painted red and gold.

What he didn't love was the portrait of the Fat Lady, whom he would go as far as to say he hated with a burning passion. One reason was that she was the only painting (and only other person) that Maya had talked to before going AWOL, but didn't know anything about the girl's whereabouts. Or seemed to care, even. The girl must have fled back to the comforts of the Slytherin rooms, she told him when he first asked her about it, because he was obviously a Ravenclaw that had gone so far off the deep end that any sane painting would want to deny association by default.

The other reason was that she'd laughed at him when she caught him knocked out cold somewhere on the seventh-floor corridor. Magical Malibu—or the Room of Requirement, as it was apparently called—had low tolerance for interminable power sources as well as arrogant engineers who thought they were too smart for their own good. He'd ended up with a face full of bricks after asking it for the six Infinity Stones in a burst of rage and stupidity. He was still nursing the bruises from that.

Like it was his fault magic made literally no sense whatsoever.

"Hi." Tony flashed all of his teeth in a saccharine smile. Next to him, Dum-E whirred in happiness, because now even his bots were becoming sentient from the magical wires he had reconfigured them with. God. "Happy to see me?"

"Don't give me that," the Fat Lady snapped. "I was hanging here when Sirius Black went to school."

He raised an eyebrow. He had no idea who this Serious Black guy was, except for the fact that his parents must have really hated him to give him a name like that, but he wasn't going to ask.

"Mm. I'm sure I have more boyish charm than him, though." He waggled his eyebrows into an expression that would have made the majority of his board of directors cower in fear. He didn't remember his face muscles being this flexible since Afghanistan, and for that he was glad. The wonders of semi-rebirth, et cetera, et cetera. "I've been gushed over so many times this week, mainly by a Professor Vector, I think it's getting to my head." Waggle. Smile.

Another blatant lie. He was scared of that woman like Steve Rogers would be of Inglorious Bastards.

The Fat Lady sniffed. "I still won't let you in if don't know the password, though."

"Well, technically I'll be on the staff this year."

"That should be an excuse? You could have asked the Head of House before she left for the summer, you know—"

"I was . . . I was . . . distracted!" He thought some more. "By my favorite painting's disappearance!"

By receiving another face full of bricks when he wished his way back home at the entrance to the Room, more like, but he was never telling her that. Dumbledore hadn't gifted him with a novel-length backstory for nothing. As much as he was suspicious of old men with inveterate meddling tendencies, he was impressed by the guy's bullshitting abilities.

He'd gotten the hint, though. The Room didn't like supplying him with solutions that answered the hows and whys. Exactly how he expected the spirit of a high school to react, now that he thought about it.

The Fat Lady raised her eyebrows, too, in a ridiculous impersonation. "And I'm telling you again that the girl isn't here."

"I might know for certain if you let me inside the common room."

"Not a chance."

"Not even with a pretty please?" Bat bat went his eyelashes. "I really need to finish the map before September."

Which was why he was here, nagging at an uncooperative, annoying portrait when he could have spent the whole day fixing up the prototype of his magical glasses. He hated touring the school on foot, but there were rooms and enchantments JARVIS couldn't get through on his own. It was a lot like cracking advanced firewall measures, in fact, not that they held a candle over what the pair of them could accomplish with both tech and magic on their hands.

But he kind of needed a valid excuse to go around asking people and objects alike for the deep dark secrets of the castle. He still had no idea how to get inside the Slytherin common room, because its Head was so obviously in absentia until the end of the month. He supposed he could always wait, but he wanted in, and he wanted in now.

He was so, so burning this place down the moment he got the chance to pack his bags.

"So that was your purpose!" The Fat Lady was outraged. "Had been so, all along! I knew somebody as American as you couldn't possibly bring yourself to care about portraits when, when, all we do is sit, smile, and guard a door! For children! For people like you!" She burst into uncontrollable tears. "At least the Slytherins have the right idea, choosing a wall to do it instead . . . Oh dear, I'm spoiling the canvas . . ."

Aha.

He knew he was testing her patience, but he had to find a way to wrap this up nicely. "Just once, though, as a small favor?"

Dum-E whirred in abject dejection, lowering his plate in a manner that very much resembled that of a kicked puppy.

The Fat Lady was adamant in her refusal even through the tears. "Get a Gryffindor to do it for you."

"Oh, come on." Tony grinned. Despite everything, he was enjoying himself. "I know I'll make the cut."

Or not. For all he knew, the Hat would scream "AZKABAN!" before bursting into flames atop his head.

It was only after ten more minutes of hassle, blackmail and shameless flirting that he declared his supposed defeat, by all appearances retreating down the corridor as the Fat Lady yelled "Americans!" behind Dum-E and his back. He tapped on the legs of his Tom Fords as he went down the Grand Staircase, voice lowering like an evil Sith Lord's.

"You got that, JARVIS?"

"Of course, sir."

Tony blinked as a muted blue sheen enveloped his sight, windowpanes of light pulling data out of nothings and nowheres. A little prodding at the scene of their reunion had JARVIS admitting that his abilities were compromised, for lack of a better word. There was no pre-established telecommunications network in the wizarding world that the AI could upload himself onto. For all his sophistication, he should have been dysfunctional.

And then when Tony had complained in an offhand about how horrible the classification system of a magic library was, he'd announced in a monotone that Irma Pince the librarian was currently reading in the staffroom, would sir require assistance in dealing with magical books.

By the time the second week of July rolled around, he'd finished his first prototype of Project IDITH (I Did It To Hang-one-over-you, because he wasn't going to rip one off Peter, no matter where in the universe the kid was), only the breakthrough of the century, capable of tracking magic flares within a hundred-feet radius.

Tony's eyes swept through barren chambers and floors to where the Slytherin dungeons would be, which he would take a crack at tomorrow. A small group of blue and purple dots littered the Great Hall for lunch. It was just him, Vector, Hooch, Argus Filch and a handful of faculty in the castle this week. Most of them were gone to enjoy the summer. And weeks of stress-free, hellion-free sanctuaries, but he could get where they were coming from.

And that was fine by him, because he didn't need any more adults on his hands than he could handle. Children wanting to figure out passwords to secret corridors and secret rooms were one thing, but him trying to crack their codes was another.

Tony was trying to prove a point. There were too many of those secret secrets hidden inside Hogwarts for anyone sane to believe that this was a safe learning environment, especially one inhabited by rug rats. The Hogwarts governors didn't buy it. Which meant that either they were all insane idiots or were dumber than most ten-year-old Muggles, in regards to safety hazards, as he told them so in a letter.

And then Lucius Malfoy had sicced Rita Skeeter on him, so they were back together at the drawing board.

He was almost on the grounds now, Dum-E following in a series of chirps and beeps behind him (how he made those wheels work on marble staircases, he was trying very hard not to scientifically consider). A painting of another dead, angry woman muttered something along the lines of "filthy Mudblood" as he passed it, sniffing in distaste. He gave her a wink.

He would never understand portraits. Like them, even.

But he knew how to talk to them, and it would be enough.


"Mum! Dad! Look, there's a new course being offered, it's been years since they did that to the curriculum . . ."


July drifted to a close. The letters were sent, McGonagall back in the castle ("why have you been harassing the Fat Lady, Anthony?"), and Tony was now the father of a third sentient bot, this time built entirely from what he was calling magitek.

"You aren't some pirate copy I stole off the alternate version of my lab," he began, slow and calm. "Wherever did you get that idea, huh? Where the hell did you get that idea? Are you not going to tell me where you got that idea?"

Dum-E the Second whirred in denial. The First stood nearby with a fire extinguisher at the ready. It was almost frightening how much of history tended to repeat itself, because Tony could imagine this exact scene playing out some forty-odd years ago at a lab in Howard Stark's workshop.

Even after four decades, Tony built when he was pissed. Considering the fact that his not-so-afterlife was fucked up and things had all gone to shit, he wouldn't be very surprised if he ended up with an army of Dum-Es a month later.

JARVIS was simmering. "Sir, to my knowledge, no alternate versions of you exist."

"Don't care," he said. "I'm still having you do those files on the student population, look for a, um, Virginia Potts and James Rhodes first, and any family that goes by the name of Parker, Hogan, Rogers and Banner, the likes."

If he wanted to expand his archives, Tony was going to have to find his way to the Ministry of Magic, and soon.

"Getting off track here, JARVIS. Time to do a test run, ah, shit."

The new arm robot wheeled itself at breakneck speed into the new Cushioning Charmed feather couches that decorated his sumptuous workshop, courtesy of a research grant he'd gotten off Dumbledore. Tony jumped onto the bot, holding it in place as it struggled for its freedom. Why anything would want freedom in a madhouse like this, he had no clue.

"Stop, Dum-E! No, not you, I meant Dum-E the Second—Junior—Jesus, that's a mouthful. Hey, Dum-Dum!"

The bot stopped struggling. Tony let Dum-Dum go. "Be glad I don't know of a garage here I could donate you to."

Both Dum-E and Dum-Dum ran for cover behind the relative shelter of his work table, chirping and whirring in a language only they spoke. The threat was so ingrained in Dum-E's system, he probably felt terrified out of solidarity.

Tony was nodding his head like a proud father when his AI cleared his throat.

"Sir," said JARVIS. "May I recommend—"

He knew where this conversation was headed. "No."

"May I recommend," and a bit of vitriol laced into the voice. Tony would be kidding himself if he thought whatever magic that first gave life to JARVIS hadn't rubbed off on his increasingly snarky personality, "that you head down to the Great Hall for dinner immediately."

"I slept. I showered. I drank water."

"You slept forty hours ago, sir. It's not enough."

"I know that," Tony said. He was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands again, another tick he'd gained after his sleeping patterns reverted to the shitty mess they'd been before Morgan and Pepper. God.

JARVIS was insistent. A light on the ceiling blinked. "Sir, I would still suggest—"

Tony snapped. "Shut it, J."

JARVIS's voice was clipped as he answered, "As you wish, sir," and dimmed the room.

Tony went back to work. He should have known JARVIS wouldn't lie low after that disaster.

It might have been hours, it might have been days, but when Tony rose at last from his work-induced stupor, there was a something standing before him—complete with bulbous eyes and a large, membranous head, its tiny body wrapped in nothing but a tea towel.

He thought he shouted something real intelligent like "oh my god what the fuck izzat!" before crawling backward on all fours, because the creature was wringing its . . . bat-like ears in obvious anxiety, whimpering slightly.

"Fibsy is sorry, sir," it said. "I was not meaning to upset."

It was talking.

It was talking.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. He could have fainted, he was that shocked.

Magical world, remember, a voice quipped in his head, someone who sounded an awful lot like Natasha.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a few moments as he put down his tools, climbed onto couch number two, and crossed his ankles in false repose. Of all the things he could have asked, the first question out of him was: "Who in the world let you in?"

I can't deal with this.

"Fibsy is knowing of the Come and Go Room already, sir. A voice in the wall lets her in!" it (she?) squeaked. "Jar Viz is being very kind to Fibsy. He tolds me Tony Stark requires food and drink. Fibsy is happy to serve Tony Stark, sir!"

"O-kay." He was running a hand over his face again, sousing himself all over with the magical equivalent of motor oil. He was going to have the infernal stain on his beard forever. "The kitchens, huh? JARVIS, I don't believe we've ever done a scan of that place."

JARVIS took his precious time answering. "You never visited, sir."

"Well, yeah, but you could, you know, still try to tell me about them."

There was a faint hum in the air. Damn, was JARVIS sneering at him? He was going to have another artificial fiasco on his hands soon if he wasn't careful. "My apologies, sir. The kitchens are on the same corridor of the Hufflepuff dorms, and that is the extent of my knowledge."

Fibsy pulled at her ears again. "Jar Viz is very intelligent, sir!"

"Thank you, Miss Fibsy."

No, he's just a sarcastic little dick, Tony wanted to say.

Fibsy bobbed her head and did a little curtesy, her knees so thin and wobbly that Tony worried she would fall over any minute now. She didn't, though, and her face was shining like a moonstone (he was reading too many Potions textbooks) as she righted herself. "You is being very kind, too, Jar Viz, sir. Fibsy is preparing Tony Stark's meal now!"

She snapped her fingers, and a steaming platter of muffins was hovering in front of him.

Tony stared. Dum-Dum rolled forward with another fire extinguisher.

So this was a house-elf. Dumbledore had let it slip in their first late-night talk that quite a few of them lived in the castle, and he'd read about them as a species, sure, but he'd never seen them.

He'd also had his mind on a number of other things when he paged through a book that listed the magical creatures of Britain, mainly, for a way to go home. This was more Banner's area of expertise than his, if the man ever decided to pop up into existence, and with that thought his reading had taken a rather sour turn. After eliminating all possibilities of running into anything crazy and inhuman at Hogwarts an hour later, he'd pushed the volume aside to never look at again.

Fibsy chatted to him as she poured out tea, what was it with Brits and their tea, pumpkin juice and hot chocolate. He was tempted to ask for a beer. Or a bottle of acid. He shooed Dum-E, Dum-Dum and the extinguishers away.

"Today's dinner was very good, Tony Stark, sir. We is wanting to spend the rest of the summer cooking and cleaning, but there is no students here in the summer that we cooks for. And Mr. Filch does not likes us house-elves very much!"

"Yeah," said Tony, munching on a blueberry muffin. "Really great. Um, and I'm not trying to be rude, but when are you going to leave?" He could tell the house-elf was freaking all three of his bots out. And him.

Fibsy tilted her overlarge head sideways. Seeming to come into sudden realization, she clapped her hands, the movement so abrupt that U swung a claw into the air. "But that reminds Fibsy! I has a message to give Tony Stark, sir!"

She handed him a piece of parchment. It was signed with a flourish, the script written in a curving hand.

Anthony, it read. I do love Cockroach Clusters.

Tony made a face. Why Dumbledore wanted another long hour of winding, exhausting conversation when he'd had one just yesterday, he couldn't understand. He considered burning the note to ashes out of spite, but pocketed it instead. There was a theory on magical signatures he wanted to tackle. He hadn't spent all eleven years of his primary and secondary education copying Howard's signature for nothing.

JARVIS let out a very pointed cough.

"Uh, Fibsy?" Tony said.

The house-elf perked up. "Yes, Tony Stark?"

"Thanks."

He was out of the room and slamming the door shut before the squealing got more awkward.

"JARVIS."

"Yes, sir?"

"This was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"I plead innocent to all false accusations, sir."

"Sucker."

"Thank you, sir."


Notes: It seems to be the general consensus that the Hogwarts school year ends on the last week of June, or during the first few days of July. The school letters are sent out sometime during the middle of the month.

Fifth time rewriting, guys. As previously mentioned, magic makes zero sense and is literal bullshit, so I had to bullshit my way around it even more to write anything. Honing BS abilities is all I got out of twelve years' education.

The witch in the painting was Elizabeth Burke, if anyone's curious.

A warm and hearty thanks to all my readers. I love y'all three thousand.