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PART 2
— Chapter 8 —
Augurey's Perch

ON MONDAY NIGHT, I GRABBED THE ROPE IN MY MIND. Tug, tug, tug. It was warm and gold. It felt like the sun, like fire, like Fleur. What if I followed it? When I entered my mind, if I did, I never traveled far — I didn't dare. But perhaps today, here, right now… yes, okay, why not?

A soulless white void thudded into being, one I recognized immediately. To my left was a forest, inky watercolor against an unformed canvas. To my right was a river devoid of substance, of water, and what swirled in its place was unxious, black smoke. It curdled like sludge and bubbled like tar, borne forward on the back of some invisible current. But where was it flowing? Where did it lead?

I started to walk, following the current, the rope, and as I did, the forest loomed higher and thinner, stretching skyward as my perspective of it warped. A sense of foreboding shivered through me — no, it was more than foreboding — it was fear, yes, fear, and perhaps even danger. Something lay hidden in the forest of black trees, in the forest I dared not enter. What could be? Was it my magic? Is that where it was hiding?

Fleur knew. Thorne knew. They didn't want to tell me, didn't think I could handle the truth, but I knew more than they thought, yes, I knew the monster had come out once. That day in the snow, the day when magic swirled and I became the storm, did they think I forgot that feeling on the day I almost came undone? The power, the swirling black tendrils, the feeling of freedom... the last time I'd been able to use magic.

What was to stop it from happening again? Did Thorne and Fleur, wardens of this knowledge, think my monster would remain dormant, quiet, and still? Foolish thinking, wishful thinking. Didn't they know how monsters worked? That day in the snow when I'd come undone, it had writhed out of me and —

...what had it done? I couldn't remember, it was a blur. I remember the tendrils, the black, the intoxicating feeling of power, but not —

I saw a tower in the distance, tall and thin, stretching higher than I could see. It blocked my way forward, my path to the other side. The rope and the river led to it, through it, but —

What was the other side? What lay on the other end?

...I didn't know.

"Fleur?" I asked, hoping against hope she'd hear, but she didn't. I was alone, and my mind was white and cold. No, wait, it wasn't a tower, but a river. That's where the water went, I realized. It went to the barrier.

Up close, the water was green instead of blue, and secrets swirled in the rivulets. Secrets inside of secrets. I pressed my hand against it, felt that it was warm, and that fish swam within it. Some had three heads, others had hands instead of fins, and more, still, shone with a color that wasn't red, wasn't green, and wasn't gold, but, somehow, was all of them. The fish eyed me as they passed, and instead of the bulging eyes I had expected, each of them had human eyes, green eyes, my eyes. They were eerily aware of my presence, startillingly intelligent, and I could tell they were resentful, yes, resentful, of the knowledge I sought.

But why shouldn't I seek that knowledge out? It was my mind, after all. Did I think… I couldn't handle it? Was it because I still didn't know what spunk was? I remembered Thorne's description like a brand upon my brain.

Spunk is the chip on your shoulder...

What would happen if I grabbed the vertical river and tore its foundations asunder? Would I be killed in the resulting flood? Would what lay on the other side be strong enough to save me? It was impossible to know, and yet —

It's the force inside you that stands up against the world…

The black forest beckoned, but I was afraid. The trees swayed growing more corporeal by the second. If the water fell and the trees swayed, would the secrets the fish guarded become available to me? Did I even want to know what they knew? What if I found out that —

Haven't you ever had a moment where you say...

If I and the monster fought, who would win? Perhaps I was afraid because, when it came down to it, I was unsure if I was David or Goliath. Worse, still, was that, if I was correct, both of them lived inside me. The dualistic nature of my consciousness scared me. When did it happen? Did it start when I received the brand on my back? When —

I want this, and you can't stop me...

No, I wouldn't, I wouldn't look further. It was too risky, too dangerous. A new thought occured to me, more dangerous than any I'd had before. Was it possible that what lay beyond the vertical river would not only make me stronger, but it stronger. If nature had balance, and magic had balance, it made sense that I would, too.

"Fleur?" I asked, but again she didn't answer. I looked at the rope, the golden rope, the rope that was warm and soft in my hand. I dropped it.

THE NEXT MORNING, SOMETHING FLEW INTO MY WINDOW.

Fwomp! It bounced off.

I jerked up in bed, fumbling for my glasses. The world outside my window was grey, not dreary-grey like clouds on an overcast morning, but silent-grey, the kind of grey that felt as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for the sun to fully rise in the sky, or for the moon to sink below the horizon. I pressed my cheek against the window and looked down.

Oh, I thought, it's a bird!

I flung the front door open, crisp morning air stung my cheeks, and as I ran into the garden, damp earth clumped between my toes as I hadn't thought to put on shoes.

The bird, I discovered, was a raven, and quite a large one at that. It was all-black, sleek and glossy with an array of black and midnight blue feathers. One if the raven's wings lay cradled against its body, its chest rose and fell rapidly, and its watery eyes bulged, no doubt trying to figure out what had happened.

"Hey buddy," I said, and the raven turned its head to look at me. "I'm Harry." The raven blinked. "I want to help you, but I have to take you inside, alright?" The raven pressed its wings tightly against its chest, almost as if it were trying to make it easier for me.

"Uh…" I said as I looked around the kitchen.

I looked around the kitchen. The pot from last night was still on the stove. Thorne had cooked Beef Stew as a going away present. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed the empty pot and set it down on the kitchen table. "Sorry little guy," I said as I put him inside. "I know, I know. I'm going to find something better in the forest, but I don't want to leave you just lyingon the table."

I ran back through the hallway, put on my shoes, and yanked the door open.

"Goodness" — someone jumped back — "you gave me a fright! Hello."

It was Hannah Abbott.

"Err — hello," I said. "Can I... help you?"

"Ah," said Hannah. "Yes, very good. Well, I was wondering if Thorne happened to be... available."

"Uh, sorry. She's...gone at the moment."

Hannah's face fell. "Oh, I see. Yes. That's very unfortunate. Shall I — yes, I think — yes, I'll come back later, shall I?"

"Err, wait."

"Yes?"

"You can come in if you want," I said. "Uh... if it's important. I'm not Thorne, but... she adopted me, so... I mean, if there's anything I can do to help..."

"Ah." Hannah nodded primly. "Splendid. Was not expecting, but, perhaps... yes" — she nodded — "I think, yes." She pointed at herself. "Would love to come in if... if it does not put you out."

I stood aside to let her in, and Hannah shuffled into the house.

"Ah," she said with delight as she passed the fireplace, "the scorch marks are still there." Upon reaching the kitchen, she let out a small sound of surprise. "Oh goodness. A bird. Injured. How dreadful."

"Uh... yeah. It flew into the window just now. I wanted to, uh... find something better than..." I pointed at the pot, embarrassed. "That's what I was doing when I opened the door. But then — "

Hannah nodded. "I see. You wanted to save the bird. If I may?" Without waiting for a reply, she unclasped her purse, pulled out her wand, and gave the pot a good tap. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the pot shrunk, becoming clay, and from that clay, a swaddle of straw and wool emerged that climbed all round the interior of the nest.

It was an impressive transfiguration. Changing copper into mud wasn't easy, and to perform the spell non-verbally? My estimation of Hannah Abbott went up a few notches.

"Dreadful thing," she said as she inspected her handiwork. "Flying accidents, I mean. Thought I'd help. After all, pots are no place for birds." She tittered and fell silent. For a while, she stood next to the nest — knees joined, ankles pressed, hands gripping the handle of her purse— waiting with an air of polite expectation.

"Uh... would you like to sit down?" I asked.

Hannah nodded and smiled. "Yes, thank you." She placed her wand inside her purse, snapped the clasp shut with a gentle click, sunk into her chair, placed the purse on her lap, and folded her hands neatly on the table.

"Would you like some tea?" I asked.

Hannah smiled. "Licorice?"

I nodded.

"Little treats, always. Long as I can remember. For me, though?" Hannah paused, thinking. "Yes, I think, yes, tea would be lovely."

"Let me get this out of your way." I moved the nest from the table to the counter top. The raven had fallen asleep

Hang in there buddy, I thought. You'll be alright.

Teabags from the cupboard, water in the kettle, kettle on the stove. How many times had I watched Thorne do this? So strange I was making the tea now.

"You are very like her, very like Thorne," said Hannah. "Known her for... ages. Ages and ages. She's my grandmother's godmother."

Thatcomment made me turn. "Sorry — did you say, grandmother?"

"Yes." Hannah scratched her nose with the heel of her palm. It was an odd gesture that hid her eyes from view. "She was a lovely woman. Simply lovely."

"She's not — "

Hannah shook her head.

"How old?"

"Seventy-seven."

Thorne was the godmother of a seventy-seven-year-old? She must be at least —

The kettle sang, drawing my attention. I turned the stove off. Two cups hung from a rack above the sink. The first one, black porcelain with trimmings of gold, was Thorne's. The second, light blue with a doe cantering across the handle, was mine.

Pour the water, soak the teabags, I thought. Tendrils of smoke brought forth the smell of licorice. I closed my eyes. Thorne, it smelled like Thorne.

"Ah," said Hannah when I handed her the light blue teacup, "thank you very much."

For a moment, we sat in silence. The tea was too hot for me to sip, but blowing on it in front of a stranger seemed rude.

"So..."

I felt awkward. I didn't want to seem magnanimous or anything.

"...what can I... I mean, what can we..."

How does Thorne do this? I wondered. How does she put people at ease?

"...is there anything...?" I trailed off.

Hannah traced the edge of her cup. "My dad is... a proud man. Big and strong. He's" — she smiled a tender smile that existed only for her — "my hero. We, my family, I mean, plus our business partners, the Doges, we operate a newspaper called The Liberator."

I nodded. "I met your father. Thorne reads you guys."

"Well, she would," said Hannah. "Thorne gave us, my grandparents, I mean, she gave them the money to start it. She's always been lovely to my family, more than a friend to us, you understand. She's, well, she's family. She was at my grandparent's wedding. She was at my dad's birth. She was at my birth. We've known her for ages. And, as I said before, my dad is... a proud man." She sighed. "Too proud to ask for help."

Another soft smile. "He wants to be big and strong so he can be my hero. But family... family is, well, what I mean to say is..." She looked at me imploringly. "If you can't ask family for help, then... who's left?"

Clink. She tapped her cup, nail against porcelain.

"So... what's the matter?" I asked.

Hannah took a sip of tea. She set her cup down. Her hands curled around the handle of purse. The leather squared as her grip tightened. "At the beginning of August, we published an article about mud. Do you know much about it?"

"Uh... it's — err — wet."

"Wet?" Hannah's voice was incredulous. "No, no, silly, it's much more than wet. Mud is, oh, it's... it's lovely. There's more to it than what you see. And, in fact, that's its value — it's more. It isn't just one thing. It's... mixture, composition, harmony. It's only wet because it is... like a family. They only are because of their mixture. If they weren't they'd be something else."

Hannah scratched the bridge of her nose with the heel of her palm. "If mud isn't present, things can't, uh... they can't take hold. The reason rivers maintain their shape is because mud on the riverbank allows plant life to grow. If it wasn't that way, the river would constantly form new channels, never moving in the same direction. There'd be no... no..."

"Normalcy," I said quietly.

"Well, yes." Hannah laughed a little. "Goodness, that's a good way to put it. No normalcy. That's what our article was about. The Yaxley family wants to remove mud from the Pontarx estuary, and replace it with something responsive to magic so they can grow more pumpkins. Estuary land is... not good for growing, but the Yaxley's don't want to use it for that purpose. They want to treat the pumpkin seeds with water and magic to simulate the conditions under which they normally grow. They want to harvest pumpkins year-round."

Several disjointed pieces of information were starting to come together in my mind. Thorne's explanation about Corban Yaxley, Thomas's interaction with Pomona Sprout… they were leading somewhere, but —

"Well," continued Hannah, "of course, when we found out about it, we published the article about mud and its environmental effects on the estuary. In response, they" — Hannah gripped her purse handle tighter — "the Yaxley family, I mean, they, well, they attacked our paper. Sued us for libel, but that didn't stop dad."

"That's why Pomona didn't want him at the pumpkin patch," I said.

Hannah nodded. "Yes. Daddy has been stirring the cauldron, perhaps a little too much. You see, the Yaxley family is trying to get funding from the Wizengamot so they can expand their operation and gain access to the estuary near Pontarx."

"Sorry," I said, "Pontarx?"

"Oh, yes, right. Pontarx is a…" — Hannah searched for the word — "hub for wizards who don't fall either way on the Dark or Light spectrum. It's residential, it's commercial… the lion share of British wizards who aren't nomadic live there."

"Gotcha," I said.

"You can imagine why the Yaxley's plan is so unnerving," said Hannah. "No one knows what will happen if he strips the mud from the estuary. Things could fall out of balance. For all we know, it could cause famine. My goodness, even the muggles will notice because the Thames will flood. And daddy, he thought, well, he thought it was his duty to write about it because the public has a right to be informed."

She smiled a soft smile. "He wrote, it was fantastic and so very brave, he wrote about how the Yaxley family was lying to the Wizengamot about what their seeds could realistically yield. They're trying to rush something through for… capital gain. No one is arguing we have a pumpkin shortage, but that's not the earth's fault. It's our fault for signing the Reformation Act into law. If every Dark-Aligned family is required to produce five children, of course the population is going to explode."

"And… what happened when you published this article?" I asked.

Hannah's face fell. "We haven't yet. Somehow, none of us know who, but, I suppose, there was a leak. The Yaxley's got their hands on it. Last Saturday, they, oh, our shop, it's only splinters now. And we can't circulate The Liberator because the whatchamacallit we use to print was damaged in the fire."

Clink. Her fingernail against the teacup. She took a sip. Then another. Her shoulders rose. A deep breath.

"Daddy is a proud man," she said quietly. "He's big and strong, but he can't fix this because, well, as embarrassing as it is, we don't have the money. We barely make enough to keep the shop open. But this is important. And" — her eyes met mine imploringly — "Thorne is family. So I thought, maybe... I thought if I explained, Thorne might be willing to help us."

"Asking for charity, Abbott? Why am I not surprised."

Daphne was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, arms crossed.

Hannah stiffened. "Daphne."

"Your father said he never wanted to see Thorne again." Daphne's voice was more vicious than I'd ever heard it. "What could have prompted this change of heart?"

Hannah rose from her chair. "I — oh — this was a mistake."

I threw up a hand. "Wait!"

Hannah stopped.

I had never seen Daphne interact with anyone other other than Blaise and Thorne. Sure, she was cruel to me, but up till now, a large part of me had believed I was the exception to the rule, and that when she was interacting with other people, she was... normal. But maybe that was all Daphne was. Maybe she was just cruel.

"I want to help you," I said. "I want to make sure the estuary stays safe. I don't want the river to overflow, I don't want things to change. Let me help."

Daphne's lip curled. "What could you possibly do to help her?"

My mind whirled and the solution tumbled out my mouth. "Cho. You said your printing thingie was a whatchamacallit, right?"

Hannah nodded.

"I know someone who makes whatchamacallits. She's really good. Thorne even thinks so. And while" — my mind turned again — "and while I don't have the money, I could... I could ask her if she'll look at it." I looked past Hannah to Daphne. "And she'll help."

Hannah still looked unsure.

I took a few steps forward. "I think you're right. I think this is important. I want things to stay... normal. Plus you helped the raven" — I pointed at the nest she'd transfigured — "which was really nice of you. If you don't want to be around Daphne, that's fine. I can meet you... wherever."

Hannah's face softened. "What we managed to salvage is back at our house in the barn. I, well, we don't have much — "

"You can say that again," snorted Daphne.

My temper flared. "Shut up," I said in an ugly voice, and turned back to Hannah. "How can I get there?"

Hannah pointed past Daphne into the sitting room. "Floo Powder. The fireplace. Your house is already connected to mine."

"Will you show me how to use it?"

Hannah nodded, and brushed past Daphne with a huff as she left the kitchen. When I tried to follow, Daphne stepped in front of me, blocking my way out.

"Move."

Daphne smiled. "No."

"Please move."

Daphne bared her teeth. "She's not worth helping."

"Whatever," I said, and physically pushed past her.

Hannah was waiting in the living room.

"Floo powder is easy," she said. "All you have to do is step into the fireplace, say where you want to go, and throw the power down. The name of our house is Augurey's Perch."

I nodded. "Okay. I'll go speak to my friend now. She might be asleep already, but... soon. One way or another. Today or tomorrow. I'm going to help."

This was something I could do. I could feel in my bones.

Hannah stared at me for a long moment. Then, she gave me a soft smile. "You're... unexpectedly lovely. I'll... let my parents know. I, well, thank you."

She grabbed a handful of powder from a pot by the fireplace and stepped into the hearth. It was a strange sight. "See you soon," she said.

I waved.

Then, Hannah dropped the Floo Powder — "Augurey's Perch," she said — and with a great whoosh, she disappeared in a howl of green flames.

I shook my head in wonder. Magic was… unbelievable. Every time I thought I couldn't be amazed again, it somehow found a way.

"I don't understand."

I turned. Daphne was still in the entryway to the kitchen.

"What do you want?" I asked impatiently. I had things to do — I needed to call Cho.

"I don't understand," said Daphne again. "Helping random strangers, saving a fucking bird... what do you get out of it?"

"Nothing," I said. "I just want to help."

Daphne's face twisted. "You're... a disaster. A wizard who can't use magic. How can you help when you can't even help yourself?"

That stung a little.

"How are you going to save them," she continued, "when the Dark Lord crushes you like a bug? What the fuck are you even — "

My self-control snapped.

"Shut up!"

Don't — I ran a hand through my hair — don't shout, I thought. Don't give her the satisfaction.

I took a deep breath, and said, "You know, I've been alone my whole life. Ten years by myself. Ten years where I would have given anything for it to be different. And you... you've had every opportunity, and you chose to be alone.

"The year you were adopted by Thorne, I was starving. While you were learning magic, I was struggling to stay alive. You think you're the only person with a shitty childhood? The only person with scars? The only asshole angry at the world?"

Hot, white anger — a month and a half's worth of anxiety about Fleur, Daphne, Thorne, and Magic — erupted.

"Fuck you, Daphne. Fuck you for having a life so good you can't see what you — "

I stopped. Even when I'm right, I still lose, I thought. Thorne had asked me to keep the peace, and I was doing a pretty shit job of it right now.

"I have to call Cho," I said, and turned to leave. Daphne was talking, but I didn't care, it was too much effort to listen.

WHEN CHO STEPPED OUT OF THE FIREPLACE LATER THAT MORNING, I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous knitted jumper she was wearing. It was yellow and had a stripe of red running through the middle. Across the top was an inscription written in bubblegum-pink cursive. "HAPPY CHRISTMAS: 1989," it read.

"Little early for that, don't you think?" I asked.

Cho slung an arm around my shoulders and ruffled my hair. "Now is that any way to talk to someone who's coming to help you?"

"Oi," I said. "Get off."

Cho clinched her arm around my neck, putting me in a headlock. "I gave up a night of sleep for this," she said.

"God," I grunted as I struggled to break free, "how are you this strong?"

"I'm not," sniggered Cho. "You're just pasty. And white."

"I'm not pasty," I hissed, but that only made Cho laugh harder.

Eventually she released me, and we stood there grinning at each other. "So what's this place called again?" she asked.

"Augurey's Perch," I said.

Cho jerked her head at the pot of Floo Powder. "Well, go on then."

I gave the powder a dubious look. "So I just… stand in the grate and throw the powder in, yeah?"

"Pretty much sums it up," said Cho. "Make sure you say your destination clearly, else you might get lost."

"I can… get lost?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," said Cho. "All wizarding fireplaces are connected to the WFN. There are grates all over the place."

"Sorry, what's — "

"The Wizarding Floo Network," said Cho, obviously anticipating my question. "Makes intercontinental travel a right breeze. Course you have to know where you're going, but once you do, you're on your way."

"Right," I said. "I'll just… get cracking then."

I grabbed a pinch of powder and stepped into the hearth. Cho crossed her arms, hiding the epithet on her ridiculous knitted jumper.

"Thanks for coming with," I said in a soft voice.

"See you on the other side," she responded.

"Oh, and Cho? That jumper is hot." I dropped the powder, and the fireplace roared to life. I laughed at the outraged look on Cho's face, coughed, and swallowed a mouthful of ash. "Augurey's Perch," I spluttered, and with a roar, the fire swept me away in a flurry of emerald green flame.

A HAIL OF DUST BILLOWED FROM THE GRATE WHEN I EMERGED from the fireplace, stumbled, tripped forward, and fell, face forward, onto the wooden floorboards below. It was dark. A musty smell hung in the air. Nearby, I heard a high-pitched whistle, the sound of escaping steam. Sloshing liquid, then bubbling liquid, then… nothing at all. A flurry of wings cut through the simmering silence — birds passing overhead — a sharp squawk, then another — I rolled onto my back — I looked up.

Dusty daylight slanted through the dilapidated planks of a pitched roof. Curving above, under, and through the wooden rafters were five lines of plastic tubing. At the back of the room, the tubing descended, threading through the filter of an hourglass shaped tank. There were five of these, too, and each was copper-plated and adorned with fittings of stainless steel.

"Great," I muttered as I walked toward the tanks. "Just great."

A long, rickety workbench sat in the center of the room, and a curious assortment of items lay upon it. I saw a transparent ball filled with white smoke, a simmering cauldron, and a jar filled to the brim with white hair. Propped against the doorway was a black cabinet complete with crown-molding and gold handles. Splinters of wood lay all around it, and a diagram was pinned on the wall beside it.

I walked toward it, curious. I felt a strange buzz coming from the cabinet — a sense of foreboding, a touch of dark magic. I reached out, intending to touch the burnished gold handle, but before I could, the cool tip of a wand pressed against my neck.

"Trespassing is illegal in these parts," said a voice. "Hands up."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to, it was an accident."

"Turn around slowly. Keep your hands raised."

I did as the voice commanded and came face-to-face with a boy a few years older than I was. He had a narrow chin, a wide jaw, and a protruding forehead. Beneath a generous mop of curly black hair were serious eyebrows, and two different colored eyes — one blue, one green.

"This property is warded against the intruders," said the boy. "How did you get in?" He leaned closer. "Why did you come here?" He took a step toward me, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Does anyone know you're here?"

"The… the Floo!" I spluttered. "I got out at the wrong grate."

"Seems like a big coincidence to me," said the boy.

"I was trying to get to Augurey's Perch — the… the Abbotts! Their printing press was destroyed in a fire."

The boys twirled his wand between his fingers. "So you thought you'd come and finish the job, eh?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all!" I said, and then I started to babble, my words spelling out in a rush. "Hannah, she came to Thorne's house, my house, asking for help, but Thorne left for France yesterday so she couldn't. I know someone who fixes doohickeys though, and she agreed to look at it. I was trying to Floo over, but... but I must've done something wrong. I'm sorry for trespassing. I didn't mean to — honest, I didn't!"

The boy's voice rose. "You expect me to believe you live with Thorne. The same Thorne who teaches Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass. That Thorne!?"

Relief flooded through me. "That's who I am!" I said. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Sure," said the boy with a laugh, "and I'm Merlin."

"No — look!" I pulled back my fringe to show the boy my scar. When I let my hair fall, black soot coated my fingertips.

The boy's mouth dropped open. "You are," he mumbled, "you're him." For several seconds, he gawked. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was free and boisterous, and so loud it dislodged the remaining birds from their perch in the rafters. They squawked angrily, taking flight in a flurry of feathers.

"That's too funny," said the boy. "Sorry about the fifth degree, mate." He held out a hand. "Clive Doge. My parents co-own The Liberator along with the Abbotts. It's been tough lately, what with the Yaxleys, and the shop burning down and all."

"Oh, um…" I shook his hand. "No problem. Sorry about the whole… breaking into your house thing. Do you know how I might… walk to the Abbotts?"

"Not keen on using Floo Powder again, eh?" chortled Clive. "Not to worry. Augurey's Perch is a ways down the hill. The Abbotts are our neighbors. It's us, them, and no one else for miles and miles. That's why I was suspicious, see? Sorry again about all that. I feel dreadful for being so beastly to you."

"No, no, it's fine," I said. "I totally understand."

"Let me walk you to Augurey's Perch as an apology," said Clive. "Just so you don't get lost."

I hesitated, unsure. Clive certainly seemed genuine enough, even if his demeanor hadcompletely changed from just a few seconds earlier. But then again, if I were in his shoes, I'd probably be on edge too. After all, I'd done the equivalent of breaking into his house. So, I did what I always did when I felt unsure — I asked Fleur.

"What do you think I should do?"

For a second time that day, she didn't respond. It was... unusual, but I didn't have time to worry about it now.

I decided to trust my instincts. "If it doesn't put you out, I'd appreciate it," I said.

Clive jerked his head toward the door. "We better get you out before my dad sees. He'll go ballistic. Come on."

CLIVE LED ME THROUGH A GRAVEYARD LINED WITH CRUMBLING tombstones on either side. A wrought-iron fence lay around it, and beyond that fence, was a burbling stream.

"Our family has lived on this land for generations," he said. "Firewhisky mill is new though — built by my grandfather, Elphias. Had Dragon Pox as a kid, poor bloke, and he couldn't find work because of it. So, he decided to make his own fortune. He's buried over there. All the Doge's are buried here. Including Great Aunt Theodora. She was a troll."

"Literally?" I asked.

"Nah," laughed Clive, "but Elphias, her brother, thought she was a right shit. So he put a club above her tombstone as a joke. Wicked sense of humor he had. Just wicked."

Clive was a chatty bloke, always laughing about something or other. As we walked over sun-kissed hills and through patches of violet brambles, he kept me well supplied with a (mostly one-sided) stream of conversation. I didn't mind much. He was funny and charming — like Blaise and Fleur. It would have been hard not to like him.

"So, how's dear old Daphne doing?" asked Clive as we crossed the stream we were walking beside.

"Uh… she's fine, I guess," I said.

Clive laughed. "Not too fond of her, eh? S'alright, you don't have to pretend with me. She's a piece of work."

I kicked a rock moodily. "Everyone seems to think so."

"Except Thorne," said Clive. "Don't envy you, mate. Living with her and all that. How long is Thorne going to be gone?"

"A week," I said.

"A week!" howled Clive. "Tough break."

"I know," I agreed. "She's awful."

"At least you know what you're getting into," said Clive. "Daphne don't hide none." We stopped at a tree with a large glowing 'A' carved into the trunk. "We go… right at the tree, I think." Clive turned and marched off. Then, without missing a beat, he continued. "Think I prefer people like her to these two-faced fucking dandies who walk around all day pretending to be nice to everyone."

"That's because you aren't living with her," I said. "I wish she'd pretend a bit."

"Nah," said Clive with a shake of his head. "You don't." He stopped and turned to me with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Betrayal is the worst feeling there is — nothing comes close. Take it from someone who knows."

The sun climbed high in the sky as we walked. The grassland transformed, turning wet and squishy. Before too long, we were walking through a mosquito-infested bog. Our shoes got muddy, water soaked our socks, and when we passed a deep well of water covered in moss, a blue tentacle broke past the surface, and waved.

"Sorry again about all that business about the Floo earlier," said Clive when we were on dry grass again. "Dad's been on the warpath about it."

"How come?" I asked.

Clive made a disgruntled sound. "He's been real paranoid since the attack, trying to up our security with the wards and whatnot. Problem is the WFN goes straight through them — all of them. Only thing that blocks it is the Fidelius charm, but that blocks everything, so we wouldn't be able to use the Floo either."

"Isn't there any oversight, or — "

"Oversight!?" howled Clive. "In this country? You really are new around here, aren't you? The WFN is controlled by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It's broken intentionally so people can't hide."

"That's awful," I said. "I had no idea!"

"Dad says people exploit it all over Britain." Clive picked up a stick and started whacking the trees as we passed, stripping them of bark. "Once you leave your fireplace and enter someone else's that connection stays open forever."

I frowned. If anyone could use our Floo, why on earth had Thorne left us alone?

"Of course," continued Clive, "the more powerful you are, the safer you'll be. No one fancies a stroll in Thorne's house, if you follow. It's mainly the little guys who get fucked." He paused and gave me a serious look. "I'd keep news of Thorne's departure under wraps if I were you. You never know who'd be interested in that information."

"Right," I said. "Thanks for the heads up. There's so much I don't know."

"But then again," said Clive, his jovial tone returning, "you are living with Daphne."

"She's scarier than Thorne!" I said.

Clive laughed. "Right. And — oh look — here comes the cavalry."

Hannah was walking toward us. She had changed outfits since this morning, and now wore a bright summer dress embroidered at the edges with flowers and bumblebees.

"Thank goodness," she said when she reached us. "I was worried. What happened?"

"I came out the wrong grate," I said. "If it wasn't for Clive here, I don't know what I would have done."

Hannah turned sharply. Her eyebrows met in a thin line. "I see," she said.

"I wanted to make sure Harry got here safely," said Clive with an easy-going grin. "I told him ole Clivinian Doge would show him the way back."

Hannah nodded slowly. "Lovely. Thank you, Clive." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "If daddy sees you here, he'll have a fit."

"Right, right," said Clive. "I'm going back. It was nice meeting you Harry. I can't believe…" — he chuckled and ran a hand through his curly black hair — "I just didn't expect to run into you. What a fun surprise."

"Thanks for everything," I said. "Really."

Clive raised a hand in farewell. "Take it easy. I'll see you later, Hannah." Then, he walked a few paces away, turned on his heel, and disapparated with a sharp crack.

FOR A LONG TIME AFTER CLIVE LEFT, Hannah and I walked in silence. I felt… awkward, unsure of what to say. Hannah fiddled with the leather handles of her purse, watching the ground below. Our footsteps seemed loud — too loud. It made me anxious.

"Did Cho get there alright?" I asked.

Hannah didn't answer.

"Hannah?"

"Yes. So sorry." Hannah laughed a little. "I seem to be distracted." The leather straps of her purse squeaked as she twisted them tighter.

"I — err — is everything… alright?"

Hannah sighed. "This is — I… oh dear. I didn't expect to see Clive today. It's… oh, it's awful to ask this of you, I know, but… if you could refrain from telling anyone you saw him, or saw him with me, it would be… lovely of you."

"Of course I'll keep it under wraps," I said. "It's none of my business anyway."

"It's… complicated." Hannah scratched her nose with the heel of her palm, obscuring her eyes from view. "You see, we were engaged. The Reformation Act, you know."

"Uh… no, I don't," I said. "Sorry. New in town, remember?"

Hannah made a soft, uneasy sound. "Oh, I see, well — yes, okay, I suppose I can — oh dear. I suppose you could call it a marriage law. It stipulates that all female wizards must be married come their seventeenth birthday. If they don't, well, the ministry can… appoint a suitable partner for them."

"I… oh… I don't know what to say."

"It is," said Hannah softly, "one of the reasons why our population has expanded so rapidly. Everything is connected, you know. One change triggers another. An old ending is a new beginning and so on."

"Did it not end well then? You and…" I trailed off when Hannah looked at me sharply. "You don't have to tell me, obviously," I said in a rush. "It's none of my — "

"No," she said. "No, it's… I was just… surprised." She smiled a little, and hugged her purse to her chest. "I was… thirteen when we got engaged as is typical. The Doge's were our closest friends. Clive was my age, it seemed like… destiny?"

"What happened?" I asked.

"Clive and Daphne…" — Hannah paused, searching for the right word — "made love, and after that, Clive went to daddy and broke off our engagement."

"So that's why it's so weird between your family and Thorne," I said.

"We all made choices that day." Hannah sounded tired and sad. "Daddy went to Thorne and demanded Daphne take responsibility. And Thorne… well, she — "

"Defended her," I finished.

"Right," agreed Hannah. "But that's the way of the world, I suppose."

A familiar flash of hot anger shot through me. Thorne should take some fucking responsibility, I thought. By her own inaction, she's responsible for everything Daphne does.

Ahead of us, the crest of a sharp incline came into view, marked by patches of blue and violet brambles. Dark clouds glazed the sky grey, and while it was only noon, the air felt quiet and cold, as if the stillness of midnight still lingered on in the waking world around us. The higher we climbed, the more the mist dispersed, and when we reached the peak of the summit, all the murky gloom finally melted away to reveal a hidden valley.

"Welcome," said Hannah quietly, "to Augurey's Perch."

Rolling pastures of green sloped away from us, bending into the mouth of an ancient valley. A long, rectangular stage lay at the base of the descent, marked by a flat-topped ranch house on one side, and a steepled barn on the other. Benches, separated by walkways, climbed up the valley walls, not an intrusion on the landscape, but part of it, birthed from it. A wooden grid hovered above, and great mournful birds sat astride it, birds with greenish-black feathers and beady little eyes who cawed when they met my gaze. Clay fixtures, brilliant lavender poppies, great streamers of sputtering fire — they all came from mud, soil, earth.

Without another word, Hannah led me down a center aisle. When we reached the bottom, Cho emerged from the barn and ran up to us. "Nice of you to finally show up," she said.

I shrugged. "Sorry — Floo travel isn't as easy as it looks."

Cho ruffled my hair. "Figured you got out a grate too early. It happens. Besides, while Hannah was off looking for you, I got a chance to look at their whatchamacallit."

"And?"

Cho shook her head. "No dice. Whoever tampered with it knew exactly what they were doing."

I sighed and turned to Hannah. "So… what now?"

Hannah smiled grimly. "Now we have to fight our hardest battle yet."

"And… what's that?" I asked.

"We have to talk to daddy."

AT FIRST GLANCE, THE INTERIOR OF AUGUREY'S PERCH seemed no bigger than an outhouse. It had four walls: tall, cramped, old, broken, wood- and metal-framed. The floor, if you could call it that, was untilled; a kind of damp, mushy, wet-earth type of mixture filled with bugs and the heads of writhing worms. There wasn't even a roof, just a flat piece of grimy copper held in place by rusted nails. A door, perfectly round and green, lay behind us, and when Hannah closed it, the glaring white of direct sunlight disappeared, and a murky gold sheen took its place. Cho and I looked at each other — surely this couldn't be it, could it?

"Wuggles," said Hannah, "I'm home."

"Oh goodie," squeaked a voice. "Miss Hannah's back! Hey boys, did you hear that? Miss Hannah's home!"

"Miss Hannah?" asked another voice.

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!" squeaked another, catatonic with excitement. "Miss Hannah's back! Such a great day it is."

The grimy copper plate dropped from the ceiling, flipped over three times, and fell, grimy side down, on the floor. The opposite side was burnished, closer to bronze than copper, and along the edges were trimmings of silver and sunken pockets of gold which had been hammered into the metal. Curiously though, it was no longer a sheet, but a frame, and inside this frame were steps that led into a narrow hallway lined on either side by candles that were held aloft by tiny wooden creatures whose arms looked like tree roots, and whose hair looked like leaves.

"This is a Bowtruckle sanctuary," explained Hannah as she led us down. "The front of the house is a facade." At that moment, one of the Bowtruckles wriggled from the ceiling and fell on her shoulder. "This is Wuggles," she said, utterly unsurprised by his appearance. "He's the guardian of the sanctuary. Say hello, Wuggles."

Wuggles peeked at us over Hannah's shoulder and shyly waved one of his root-like hands. "Hello friends of Hannah," he squeaked.

Past the hallway was a cavernous barn of a room. While technically a cellar, it didn't looklike one. Encompassed by rich mahogany and supported by sweet-smelling cedar beams, Augurey's Perch was a bean buried in earth. It had three lofts, a dining room, living space, and writing alcove which flowed into and away from each other, and an oculus in the ceiling. Above this oculus was a Bowtruckle metropolis, a fully-fledged city hewn into branchless tree trunks and mossy sheets of low-hanging vine.

Sitting at the dining room table was a giant man with red hair, red cheeks, and a prodigiously red beard. It was Thomas Abbott, the man I'd met at Pomona's Pumpkin Patch. His face mottled when he saw us.

"No."

"Daddy!"

Thomas's face darkened like the cloud of an incoming storm. "I said no, Hannah. I'll take no help from Thorne."

"It's not Thorne," said Hannah. "It's Harry."

"Aye," said Thomas and he shot me a distrustful look. "For all we know she could have sent him."

"Um, excuse me," I said.

"She didn't send him," said Hannah. "I went there this morning to ask for help."

"Hannah!" boomed Thomas. "I expressly asked you not to do a thing like that. We're fine."

"We need the help, daddy." Hannah was over two feet shorter than Thomas, yet she stood toe-to-toe with him. Her breathing was labored, her freckled cheeks were flushed, and she gripped the handles of her purse like a sword. "This is too important to let pride get in the way?"

"Pride!?" Thomas looked like he'd been slapped. "You think this is about pride?" He gaped like fish, and then he exploded. "This isn't about pride! It's about integrity. About morals. About principle."

"If I could just — " I said, but Hannah cut across me.

"But what good will all that do if we can't share the article with the world!"

"You know what they did!" snarled Thomas and his big meaty hands curled into fists. "What she did! This is about — "

"I don't care," said Hannah primly. "No, I really don't, and you can glower all you like."

Thomas's bushy red beard bristled. "When a man draws a line in the sand — "

Hannah reared. "Don't you talk about what men do and don't with me! I won't have it, I simply won't."

"Hannah — "

"Daddy — "

"Hey!" I yelled, so loudly that both Hannah and Thomas turned to look at me with matching expressions of surprise. I cleared my throat. "Um… I just wanted to say that, uh, Thorne doesn't know… I'm here. But — err — even if she did… she wouldn't have a problem with it. That's the kind of person she is."

Thomas's cheeks grew molten hot. He opened his mouth to respond, but I plowed on before he could.

"I know I can't do much. I don't have money or… much of anything, really, but… I have friends." I looked over at Cho and grinned. "And they're amazing and wicked smart. I think… this is important too, so if there's anything I can do to help… I want to."

Thomas was silent for a long moment. Then, he turned and stomped off into the kitchen. "We're having pork tonight," he called gruffly over his shoulder. "You might as well stay."

"Well," said Hannah after a moment. "I think that went swimmingly, don't you?" And without another word, she walked into the kitchen to join her father.

"This family is mental," I muttered to Cho.

She shrugged. "Most are."

THE ABBOTTS WERE A FAMILY UNLIKE ANY OTHER. Hannah became a completely different person around her father. Polite, timid, and shy, she may have been, but around her father, she was a firecracker, and just as hot-headed as he was. They argued while Thomas roasted the pork (without magic), argued when Hannah cut up the vegetables (also without magic), argued about the correct arrangement of cutlery (a conversation which wasn't about magic), and argued who should sit where at the dinner table.

Thomas's wife was a very young witch. She had round, rosy cheeks, a forehead disrupted by acne, and dark red hair that was closer to russet than ruby. When I introduced myself, she looked up from the copy of Witch Weekly she was thumbing through and told me her name was Susan Bones.

When Thomas announced it was time for dinner, a small boy climbed down from the middle alcove, ran up to Hannah, and hugged her legs. He looked very unlike the Abbotts with his curly blonde hair and electric blue eyes, but Hannah introduced him as her younger brother, Dayton.

Cho stayed quiet as we ate. Her skin was hot and sweaty, mostly on account of her ridiculous knitted jumper, but also because Augurey's Perch ran on the warm side (when I asked, Hannah explained that Bowtruckles were cold-blooded). The Abbott's offered several times to take her jumper, but each time she refused, saying she, like the Bowtruckles, enjoyed the warmth.

I was… worried she wasn't enjoying herself, worried that she was dragging herself along for my sake, but when I drew her aside to ask, she told me I was looking into it too much and there were just more people here than she was used to. I wasn't sure I believed that story. Several times during the meal, she'd reach out and clench my hand tightly under the dinner table — and I mean, tightly — merlin that girl was strong.

Just as we started on dessert, a boy with black hair and watery eyes walked into the dining room. He looked familiar, and it took me a moment to his face in my memory. It was Theodore — Corban Yaxley's assistant.

"Here's the rent for this month." Theodore placed a pouch of galleons on the table. "Harland asked me to drop it off before I left for the day."

Thomas grunted in acknowledgement through a mouthful of pork.

"Won't you join us for supper, Theo?" asked Hannah.

Theodore shook his head. "Sorry — my dad's expecting me."

Hannah's face fell. "Oh, well, alright then. I'll walk you out." She made to stand up, but Thomas spoke before she could.

"No, I'll do it. I have a few questions about our good friends, the Doge's."

Hannah watched them leave with a peculiar expression on her face. "They had a bit of a falling out," she explained. "Daddy and the Doge's, I mean."

"Because of the article?" I asked.

Hannah didn't answer, but five-year-old Dayton did. "Daddy says they're a bunch of meanies!"

"The Doges have their Firewhisky business," said Hannah, a bemused look on her face. "They don't want daddy's controversies getting in the way."

"And Theo is…?" I trailed off.

"Their employee," said Hannah, "thought they don't use him much. They usually send him to help us with the paper since they're too busy."

Thomas didn't look happy when he returned, and the rest of dinner was a (mostly silent) affair. When it ended, Thomas said he wanted to speak with me — his tone made me quite nervous — and without further ado, he led me onto the front porch with Cho and Hannah following behind.

Three spindly rocking chairs sat on the porch, the kind of chairs which were comfortable, not because of their construction, but because they'd seen use for years and years and years. When I offered the chair to Cho, she refused, and opted, instead, to sit on the ground and lean her head against my knee. When I ran my fingers through her sleek black hair, she sighed, and moved closer.

Thomas took out a box of matches and spent a while trying to light a clay pipe filled with tobacco, but a summer breeze hung low in the valley, making that task more difficult.

"Can't you use magic for that?" I asked.

"Aye," said Thomas, "I could." But he didn't. Several more matches met their end, during which time I looked out on the slumbering valley. Fireflies glowed in the night, and a sea of stars sprawled above their golden light. I had never seen so many — not even at Thorne's house. It was another example of the quiet, patient magic that seemed to exist here, a magic that seeped from the earth itself.

A hiss drew my attention as one of the matches caught flame. Thomas made a sound of approval as he lit the end of his pipe. Smoke billowed past his bushy beard, inlaid, as it always was, with tiny yellow flowers. Thomas blew a smoke ring into a night, and one of the Auguries dived and sailed through it.

"Auguries are curious creatures," he said. "Shy but shrewd, prophetic yet distrusted. When you hear an Augurey's song, rain's a-comin' before too long."

He blew another smoke ring, and another Augurey corkscrewed through it.

"This valley floods in the wetter months. Landslides and the like. It was quite a problem for my ancestors — caused them no end of grief. My father was the one who figured out a solution."

"The grid?" I asked.

"Aye, the perch," said Thomas proudly. "It's made from thorn and bramble, the same matter the Auguries use for their nests. My father collected it in Ireland, piece by piece, over the course of four years. It took him three more to merge the raw materials, make the grid, and enchant it to hover about the house. Seven years — not a short amount of time."

"No," I agreed. "It isn't."

Thomas's voice turned reverent. "The Augurey's came soon after his work was complete — all of them. It happened so quickly you'd have thought they were waiting for him to finish… like they knew what he was building." He chuckled and stroked the handles of his mustache. "You have to wonder if my father built the perch because he needed the Auguries, or if the valley flooded because the Auguries needed a new home."

"That's amazing," I mumbled.

Thomas nodded, his chin drooping down to rest atop his chest. "It makes me question the wisdom of using magic for… frivolity when it could be used for… more."

Hannah sighed. "Cho said whoever destroyed the press left no trace of their identity daddy."

Thomas grunted. "It's what we expected." In a gruff voice, he nodded at Cho, and said, "thanks for looking into it. We're in your debt."

"But… what does that mean?" I asked.

"It means," said Thomas heavily, "that it was destroyed by someone who knew how it worked, someone who spent enough time in the shop to get familiar with it, someone… we know."

"Do you have any ideas?"

Thomas shook his head. Smoke furled from his nose like a dragon. "None that I like. The thought that someone we know would do this… it's unthinkable."

"How many had access?" asked Cho.

Hannah ticked them off on her fingers. "Us… the Doge family… and Theo."

"Is there… anything else we can do?" I asked.

"Without a printing press? No." Thomas barked out a laugh. "Hell, even with a printing press there'd be no guarantees."

"But at least the Wizengamot would have accurate information," said Hannah. "At least their decision would be informed. But now… it seems we're at… a dead end."

"The Wizengamot…" I said. "Those were the people who attended my auction, right?"

Thomas nodded. "Aye."

Blaise's mom was a member of the Wizengamot, wasn't she?

"We might not be at a dead end after all," I said. "I think… I might know someone who can help."

WHEN WE GOT BACK TO THORNE'S COTTAGE, Blaise and Daphne were in the living room — an oddity all on its own as I'd never seen Daphne make an effort to interact with anyone. But, hey, it worked in my favor.

"Blaise?"

He looked up. A confident smile broke across his face. "Harry."

Daphne's eyes flicked from me to Cho, and her hands tightened on the armrests of her chair. Blaise didn't notice, but I did.

"Do you think your mum would be willing to help me with something?"

Blaise's eyebrows rose. "My mum?"

I summarized the day's events. "...and since it will take time to fix the printing press, I thought, uh... maybe, you know, maybe I could attack this from a different angle." I gave Cho a sideways glance to make sure I had said everything correctly, but she wasn't looking at me; her gaze was fixed on Daphne.

Blaise's smile grew strained. "Mum is... an unknown entity. Even to me. I'll ask her, but..."

"Thanks, mate." I tapped Cho on the shoulder. "Ready?"

We turned to leave.

"So, is the asian girl your mummy now?"

I froze.

"I mean," — Daphne's voice turned mocking — "after your ten years of loneliness, it seems like you'll latch onto anything that'll love you."

Don't give her the satisfaction, I thought. Don't let her know she gets to you.

I took a deep breath. "Blaise?"

"...yeah?"

"You'll let me know?"

"Yeah."

"I don't like that girl," said Cho once we'd reached my room.

I crossed to the dresser, and smiled when I saw the raven was still there, lying snug in the nest Hannah had conjured for him that morning.

"Is she always like that?" asked Cho.

The raven's tiny eyes were closed. "He seems peaceful," I said. "I was worried."

"Is that why you've been so weird lately?"

Black feathers rose and fell — slow breaths, even tempo. "His breathing is more even too," I observed.

"Harry, are you alright?"

The raven opened its eyes and stretched. "Awh," I said with a smile, "he's looking at me. Hey there little guy, you doing okay?"

Cho grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around to face her. "Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" I snapped. "Yes, she's awful. Yes, she says stuff like that all the time. But it's fine. It's not… I don't have… I know how to handle it."

Cho sat down on my bed, and threaded her fingers together. "Do you want me to stay?" she asked.

Yes, I thought, but I said, "No, it's fine."

Cho didn't seem convinced. "Are you sure? Because — "

"Yes," I said, with more force. "I don't need... I mean, you've done so much already. You should go home and sleep."

"Harry, I don't think — "

"Cho." My voice rose. "Drop it, alright?"

Silence fell, and in the empty space where Cho's words had been, Daphne's parting jab echoed in my mind.

Is she your new mummy?

"So," I began, wanting to fill the silence more than anything else. "When my parents died, I ended up at my Aunt and Uncle's house. Don't remember them much, but I have this... visceral memory of my cousin throwing a tantrum about a candy egg. It was chocolate on the outside with cream filling inside — never had one myself, but they looked pretty good.

"One day, the company who made the eggs did a promotion where one egg out of every ten thousand would be golden. When Dudley found out he made my uncle buy… hundreds of them." I laughed a little. "Hundreds. Eventually, he got lucky. I heard the whole thing happen. He unwrapped the egg, took a bite, and just... started crying.

"See, the reason the eggs were golden was because the cream on the inside was gold instead of white, and the wrapping paper was all fancy. The joke of the whole thing was that cream tasted the same regardless of what color it was, but by the time Dudley found his golden egg, it wasn't about the taste at all. It was about the fact that it was different, special. You can imagine how upset he was when the egg was empty. No gold cream inside. No white cream inside. Nothing. It's not in here, he said. Why did they lie to me?"

The raven cawed softly.

"So," I continued, "what did Dudley do? He bought a thousand more eggs. And would you believe it? He found three golden eggs all of which he threw straight in the bin. I think that first disappointment ruined it for him. He couldn't escape that moment where his belief turned out to be... nothing but an empty promise."

Daphne's words echoed in my mind.

Is she your new mummy?

"I can't stop thinking about it," I said eventually. "Not Dudley, but the egg. It was meant to have gold cream, but it just... didn't. It wasn't even a normal egg. It was empty. Seems like... a cruel joke."

A dresser, a bed. Wooden floorboards. The slanted shadow of a window pane. Dying fragments of light cast by a waning moon.

"I never blamed him," I said. "After all, why would anyone keep an empty egg."

Ending Notes:

[1] Beta'd by Jarizok.

Next Chapter:

During an unexpected trip to France, Harry meets Gabrielle Delacour, attends a funeral, and catches a glimpse of the famous Albus Dumbledore. All this (and more) in Chapter 9: The Value Of Mud