SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!

My first original novel, Strangers In Boston, is now available on Amazon under my pen name, T.S. Mann (get it?). It's free to Kindle Prime members and $4.99 to people who want to download the Ebook. Paperback copies are available for $12.99. Check it out, and if you like it, please leave a review. Basically, it's American Harry Potter. Except there's no school, no wands, and allegories about tolerance. Instead, it's more straight-up horror with a dash of comedy. Oh, and if you use magic improperly, it can drive you insane and possibly destroy the world. No pressure or anything.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled fanfic!

Harry Potter
and the Death Eater Menace

Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling I make no claim to ownership.

CHAPTER 33: Families at Christmas

19 December 1993
The Weasley Burrow
5:00 p.m.

With a flash of green fire, nearly the entire Weasley family spilled out of the Burrow's fireplace, having traveled from Kings Cross to the Leaky Cauldron via the Knight Bus. (Molly absolutely refused to take the bus all the way to Ottery St. Catchpole.) George and Fred were the last to pass through, and they bumped into each other as they did. This led to matching sullen glares, but Percy smoothly stepped between them before their parents noticed (and before another shoving match broke out – the one on the train had been bad enough). The twins quickly separated and moved to opposite sides of the living room.

Only Bill and Charlie were absent, but according to Arthur, both would be home by Christmas Eve. And for the first time that any of them could recall, that Christmas would be celebrated at the Burrow. For years, it had been Molly and Arthur's policy to leave their children at school for the holiday break because the traditional Hogwarts feast was far better than anything they could have provided on Arthur's meager salary. In fact, in years past, those children too young for Hogwarts would be taken to see their Aunt Muriel on Christmas Day, and while the food was good, it did not make up for the company of the bitter old witch who wasn't shy about pointing out every perceived defect in their entire family.

And so it was that the five school-aged Weasley children (plus two older siblings supposedly on the way) were quite surprised when they received word from their parents: this year, the Weasleys would all celebrate Christmas together for the first time in any of their lives. And all five were suitably shocked at the festive decorations which included the largest Christmas tree any of them had ever seen outside of Hogwarts. Ron, as was his nature, ignored the tree and headed over towards the kitchen, attracted as he was by the smell of his mother's cooking.

"Wow!" Ginny exclaimed in wonder at the decorations. Then, her eyes widened even more at the sight of boxes and boxes of presents beneath the tree. "Who are all those for?" she asked.

"Well, they're for you lot, of course!" her father said jovially. She gaped at him in surprise, as Arthur continued.

"You see your mother and I came into a bit of extra cash. Well, mainly your mum to be honest. And we talked it over and decided that since we could finally afford it, we would treat you all to a proper Christmas!"

"Mainly … Mum?" Percy asked almost suspiciously.

Molly blushed. "Well, it's a funny story. You see …."

Ron interrupted loudly from the kitchens. "Mum? Why are there five dozen Christmas puddings in the kitchen?"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley! she yelled back. "Do not touch anything in there! Those are for paying customers!"

"You have … customers?" George asked cautiously.

She sighed. "All of you, come and sit down, and I'll tell you everything."

The whole family crowded onto the living room sofas and looked at her expectantly (except for Arthur who knew the whole story and simply beamed at her in pride).

"Do you all remember," she began, "summer before last when Harry Potter stayed with us for a few days, and he gave me that cookbook as a present?" Everyone nodded.

"Well, after Ginny started schooling, I found that I had a lot of free time, so I started cooking things out of that book. Just experimenting, you understand." She chuckled. "I can't believe how many awful dishes I forced your father to eat while I was getting the hang of it."

"Now, now," Arthur chided. "Nothing was awful. I just … liked some things better than others."

"Anyway," Molly continued, "that year, I only made something once every month or so. But then, your father got a raise at the end of last summer right after you all went back to school. Not much, but I could afford to buy more ingredients and I really started to feel more confident in my baking. So, this past September, just a few weeks after you all left for school, it was my turn to bring a dessert for the monthly Ottery St. Catchpole Ladies Gardening and Knitting Society. And instead of my usual chocolate brownies that I've made for ages and ages, I decided to be daring and bring a plate of kremówka."

"A plate of what?!" Fred exclaimed.

"Kremówka, dear," she repeated. "It's a Polish variation on mille-feuille."

"Oh," Percy said dazedly. "I'm glad we've got that cleared up."

"Well, anyway, my kremówka was a big hit with all the witches at the meeting, and I swear we spent more time talking about desserts than about gardening and knitting put together! Before it was all over, Lucinda Mayberry asked me if I would bake something for her godson's birthday party, and she insisted on paying me for it. Then, some of the other ladies didn't want to be outdone, and they started asking me to bake things for them and offering more and more galleons to get first in line. Of course, things didn't really take off until Elspeth Diggory – that's Amos's mother, you probably haven't met her – asked me how much I would charge to do a wedding cake for her daughter Lucy – Lucy is Amos's baby sister; she lives in Wales, but she comes to watch Cedric when Hufflepuff plays, so you might have seen her there – but that's not important. What matters is, Elspeth wanted me to do a four-tier wedding cake for Lucy's wedding and asked me how much I would charge for that. And I had no idea! So, I told her I'd have to think about it and then sent an owl to Summerisles Catering and asked how much they would charge for something like that, and they sent me back a quote for eighty galleons! Well, I couldn't imagine myself charging anything like that even if I was a big-time hoidy-toidy catering service. I mean Elspeth is a friend. So, I said I'd do it for thirty galleons, and she handed it to me on the spot! Well, I was just a nervous wreck trying figure out what I could do that would be worth that much money. I finally decided on a lemon elderflower cake with both white fondant and lavender buttercream. I also sculpted these little white doves out of buttercream and enchanted them so that when someone cut into the cake they would fly around for a few seconds before coming back down again. Elspeth was thrilled, and I don't mind telling you I was quite proud of the finished result."

She finally paused to catch her breath as her children stared in amazement. "Anyway, to make a long story short …."

"Too late," Fred muttered.

"Next thing I knew, I was getting two or three owls a week from people who wanted me to bake something for them. And that was before I started advertising!"

"Advertising?!" Percy spluttered.

"Not much," Molly answered defensively. "I just took out a small advert in The Prophet around the middle of November announcing that Molly's Magical Morsels was now taking orders for Christmas puddings at a low-low cost of only 3 galleons each. Next thing I know, I've got over fifty orders to fill! I've been running myself ragged."

Despite her words, Ginny didn't think Molly looked tired at all. If anything, she seemed livelier than the young witch ever remembered. Meanwhile, Percy closed his eyes as he suddenly found it difficult to do simple arithmetic.

"You've been paid … 150 galleons … to make Christmas puddings?!" he finally exclaimed dazedly.

Molly looked up at the ceiling as if double-checking Percy's math. "For the puddings, yes. That doesn't count the six gingerbread houses I'm making with little gingerbread people who dance around and sing holiday songs until you bite their heads off. That's another 120 galleons for the month."

Arthur grinned merrily and pecked Molly on the cheek. "Sing until you bite their heads off! Isn't your mother wonderful!"

The five youngest Weasleys stared at their parents in silent amazement. Finally, Fred spoke up in a suspicious tone.

"So, I have to ask … did you two finally decide to let us come home for Christmas because you're gonna need help filling those orders?"

"Fred!" Molly exclaimed. "We brought you home because Christmas is a time for families to be together."

Then, she blushed slightly. "Of course, since you're all here anyway …."

22 December, 1993
Granger Residence
Crawley, London

As Hermione Granger was finishing dinner with her parents, she was in a pleasant mood, better in fact than she'd been in for quite a while. While the past term at Hogwarts had been immensely stressful for a variety of reasons, Hermione felt at this point that she had made it through the worst of things. She'd even gotten a good report on her dental exam and cleaning earlier that day. The young witch had been quite worried about cavities due to all the chocolate that had been passed around for most of the Fall Term, but her father reported that her teeth were as perfect as ever.

Well, not perfect, since she still had a pronounced overbite. She'd been surprised when her father asked her at one point that afternoon whether wizards had any special magic to correct such conditions. Before she could answer, Dan Granger suddenly noticed the look that his wife Emma was giving him, and he quickly changed the subject. That was the only time magic had been mentioned in the Granger household since she'd gotten home beyond a vague report that classes were "going well."

Unfortunately, on this day, magic unexpectedly became a major topic of family conversation when an enormous horned owl landed at the dining room window and began to peck loudly at the glass. Emma let out a brief squeak of fright. While she had, for the most part, tried to stay open-minded about "the whole magic thing," Hermione's mother had something of a phobia about birds. Especially very large raptors that landed on her windowsill and looked at her like she was a small and delicious woodland creature.

Cautiously, Hermione made her way to the window and opened it to admit the menacing bird. Dan followed her over, curious about the letter and the owl that had delivered it. He had expressed interest several times in purchasing an owl for his daughter, but Emma had always quietly but firmly vetoed the idea.

From the owl's leg, Hermione carefully withdrew a crème-colored envelope bearing an ornate family crest and addressed to her in stylish calligraphy. It was sealed with red-candle wax embossed with a large letter "P."

"Parkinson," Hermione realized in wonder. "Pansy Parkinson is … what, sending me Christmas cards now?!"

She looked up at her parents and did her best to look innocent, as if receiving such a dramatic delivery was nothing of any consequence.

"It's from one of my classmates," she said diplomatically before carefully opening the envelope and pulling out the vellum letter inside.

To Miss Hermione Jean Granger

I bid you greetings on behalf of the Noble House of Parkinson. It has been many weeks since you acted to save my daughter Pansy from death at the talons of a ferocious beast. I would have expected some sort of public acknowledgement of the life debt owed to you by my house by now. But I do understand that you are Muggle-born and so allowances must be made for your ignorance of our culture and traditions. If your guardians are amenable, I would meet with you in one week's time at noon on the 29th day of December at Summerisles in Diagon Alley to discuss arrangements for satisfying our debt to you. I am informed that my Pansy has been, shall we say, less than dignified in her past social interactions with you on account of your heritage. Alas, she is very young and is a product of the culture that raised her. As, to be blunt, am I. But some matters transcend considerations of blood and heritage, and for my family, the satisfaction of a life debt is one. However, if it will set your mind at ease, you may bring a chaperone of your choosing to this meeting. I would recommend someone other than your Muggle parents, however. I fear they might be overwhelmed by the solemnity of our negotiations which I wish to pursue with the utmost dignity, to say nothing of the opulence of Summerisles itself. I would not wish them to feel uncomfortable in an environment more sophisticated than they are accustomed. An RSVP card is enclosed. Please return it by my owl, Hekate. Until then, I remain

Cordially yours,

Andrew Lord Parkinson

Hermione's eyes widened as she read the letter. In the months since she'd rescued Pansy from a potential mauling by Buckbeak the Hippogriff, she'd had almost no interactions with the bigoted Pureblood prima donna, and Hermione had practically forgotten about Harry Potter's suggestion that a life debt was owed over it. But now, Pansy's father (who was almost certainly a Muggle-hating Death Eater) wanted to meet with her to "negotiate" matters.

So distracted was she by the letter, that she didn't notice at first that her father was reading the letter over her shoulder.

"Okay, sweetheart," he began. "I know your mother and I haven't been as 'hands on' as perhaps we should have been since you started at Hogwarts. But that doesn't mean we should be kept in the dark. Now what is this business about you saving some girl from a ferocious beast and earning a life debt over it? And who is this pompous arse who thinks we should send our daughter to meet with him alone because as mere Muggles we might be overwhelmed by eating dinner with wizards?"

Hermione scrunched her eyes in frustration. She knew that tone of voice from her dad. It meant that for the moment at least, all her usual strategies of dissembling to her parents about what Hogwarts was really like would not work. "Luckily, they never did find out about Quirrell or the Basilisk," she thought.

Minutes later, she had provided the elder Grangers with a heavily redacted account of the Buckbeak incident. How Pansy Parkinson, a foolish young witch, had ignored a teacher's instructions on how to handle a potentially dangerous creature. How Hermione had saved the girl with a magical spell. How Hermione herself had never been in any danger nor anyone else involved. How Hermione herself didn't think the girl herself had been in any real danger (a slight lie). How now, due to archaic social rules followed by Pureblood families, the House of Parkinson apparently had decided that it owed her some kind of debt to be repaid.

Dan Granger pinched the brow of his nose as he absorbed this information while at the table, Emma said nothing as she poured herself another glass of wine.

"Okay, pumpkin," he finally said. "Can I assume it would be a horrible social faux pas if we were either ignore Lord Whatshispants or write back that we weren't interested in meeting him?"

"… probably?" his daughter answered reluctantly. While she had worked diligently since her first days at Hogwarts to learn about the insular wizarding society and the complex social rules that defined it, life debts were not a concept she'd ever bothered to research prior to the hippogriff attack. And with her heavy course load, she'd only made a cursory study since then. In all honesty, she'd heard nothing about the matter since September and had assumed the Parkinsons would simply deny that a life debt was incurred and that would be the end of it.

Dan sighed. "Okay, send the RSVP saying you'll be there. It's not until after Christmas, so we've got time to … I don't know, talk to a solicitor? Do they have magical solicitors?"

She nodded excitedly. "Yes! In fact, a good friend of mine is represented by a prominent magical law firm. I met two of them once. They seemed nice. And also … modern, I suppose. The man even wore a suit!"

"Thank heaven for small favors," Emma muttered to herself.

Moments later, after Hermione filed out the RSVP card and attached it to "Hekate," the mighty owl gave one last menacing hoot before flapping off into the night. Then, Emma finally spoke up.

"Hermione, would you mind going on up to your room for a while? Your father and I need to talk."

Hermione froze with her lips pursed tightly. "Of course," she finally said.

Moments later, the young witch was alone in her bedroom and suddenly very tired. After a moment of hesitation, she sat down at a small writing desk which currently held a wooden broom and the sharp knife she'd been using to care runes into its handle. Her Christmas homework for Ancient Runes had been to enchant a broomstick using just four runes, and this was as good a time as any to finish it. She paused in her delicate work after a few minutes to turn on the small television on the shelf facing her bed. "Top of the Pops" was on and featured a performance by some boy band aptly named "BoyZone." Hermione wasn't exactly a fan, but it did mostly block out the sound of her parents arguing loudly downstairs.

When she could clearly make out the sound of Emma Granger screaming "Well of course you're okay with it! You're the squib! I'm just the Muggle!" she wiped a few tears from her face and then turned the volume up higher before resuming her project.

The next morning, Hermione contacted Harry Potter for the name of his solicitor. That afternoon, Hestia Jones apparated to the Granger residence where she talked with Hermione and her father for nearly two hours about life debts in general, about what was publicly known about House Parkinson, and about what Hestia privately suspected. Emma was not present as she had patients that day. If Dan had any thoughts about her not rescheduling those appointments in light of the Parkinson matter, he did not share them.

To say that Dan was nonplussed by Hestia's report was an understatement. He knew by now that there was a certain amount of bigotry in the wizarding community against Muggleborns (though learning that there was an official slur – Mudblood, which sounded intensely vulgar – was news). But he was horrified to learn that within his daughter's lifetime, there had been an actual and violent civil insurrection instigated by wizards who wanted to exterminate people like his little girl. And that was before the other M-word was brought up.

"Marriage!" Dan bellowed. "Are you seriously telling me that forcing Hermione into marrying one of these bigoted swine is a possibility?!"

"No, Mr. Granger," Hestia said placatingly. "I'm simply saying that an offer of an arranged marriage is within the range of possible offers that might be on the table. Pansy Parkinson is the youngest of four children, and the second-youngest is a 19-year-old boy who has not yet been entered into a marriage contract."

"NINETEEN?!" the Muggle spluttered in a fury.

"But Hermione is under no obligation to accept such an offer," she continued. "Though in all honesty, for most witches not born into established Families, marrying into a Noble family would represent an incredible opportunity."

"My daughter is not accepting a marriage proposal," Dan said coldly. "Not at 13. Not simply to resolve some medieval notion of family honor. And absolutely not to placate someone who is transparently bigoted towards people like her and was accused of being a terrorist!"

"Fair enough," the solicitor said with a nod. "Right, I'll go back to the office and do some research. I imagine the easiest way to resolve this would just be to make a simple money demand." Then, she frowned. "Though the Parkinsons probably don't have nearly as much to offer as their status might suggest. They've been vassals of House Malfoy for decades, presumably because they can't afford to pay their own Wizengamot fees."

Hermione started and then leaned towards Hestia with a suddenly intense expression. "Um, could you tell us a bit more about all that?"

23 December 1993
Potter Manor
9:00 a.m.

Two days before Christmas, Harry finally bit the metaphorical bullet and Flooed to Potter Manor for Christmas. He'd begged off from coming to his ancestral home until now by saying that he wanted to spend some time with Neville away from school. The young Gryffindor had been particularly affected by Theo's Ultimate Sanction, and, concerned for his friend's mental health, Harry had wanted to spend some time with him away from school. Which was an exaggeration, of course, but it was a better excuse than "I needed to meet with my fellow conspirators in the Azkaban breakout." Harry had actually suggested at one point that the group have an actual name for its conspiracy, but Rufus had slapped that down immediately.

"One of the hallmarks of competently-run criminal organizations is that they don't have some pretentious name for themselves that will sound terrifying when described to a jury," he'd said.

"Why don't we compromise, and just refer to the group as 'our little thing?'" Regulus responded with a smirk, but except for Buck, no one got his reference to La Cosa Nostra.

In any case, Augusta was insistent about spending time with other family members this year and was not willing to return to Potter Manor for the holidays. Accordingly, Artemus Podmore would serve as Harry's chaperone instead. Harry had been quite apologetic about asking Artie to spend any of the holidays at Potter Manor on his account, but Artie waved those concerns off.

"I'm a widower with an estranged son, Harry. If I don't come with you, I'll be spending Christmas in a big house with naught but a house elf for company."

He went on to reassure Harry that a vacation at the opulent Potter Manor would compensate him for his time, and so he would only bill for those occasions when he was providing actual legal advice instead of simply enjoying the yuletide festivities. One such occasion would be later that afternoon during James's now-annual financial review of the Potter Estate for the benefit of his Heir. It was a good thing, too. Apparently, Pettigrew would be joining them for this year's review, and Harry was uncomfortable being alone in a room with just Pettigrew and James.

In fact, Harry had taken three showers at Longbottom Manor before Flooing over because of the presence of Jim's godfather. While Sirius was still unable to reveal Peter's exact animagus form, he had warned Harry that his former friend might have a preternaturally keen sense of smell, perhaps even good enough to pick up Sirius's scent off Harry. Or perhaps not – only the most gifted animagi could access the special abilities of their animal forms while still wearing a human shape, and Sirius doubted that Peter fit into that category.

After a series of welcoming hugs that Harry endured stoically, he dropped his suitcase off in his room and, at James's urging, switched into Quidditch practice gear. Since Harry's last visit to the Manor, James had transfigured a seldom-used broom closet into a 50x30 chamber containing what appeared to be an over-sized tennis court with an enormous 20-foot-tall net strung halfway across. James proudly identified it as the Quafflebash court.

Quafflebash, it turned out, was a Quidditch variant that had been invented a few years earlier by young Norwegian wizards who wanted a game that could be played with fewer than fourteen people and indoors when the Scandinavian weather made regular Quidditch impractical. It had since become all the rage on the continent. After hearing the rules, Harry realized that some wizards had finally become aware of volleyball and decided to improve it by the addition of flying brooms.

"Though to be fair," thought the Slytherin Chaser, "nearly everything is better when done on a broom."

In addition to James and Jim, Ron Weasley was also present and ready to play. The boy had apparently come over to deliver a few Christmas puddings and other desserts from his mother but had gotten permission to stay for a few hours.

Harry had played some volleyball during P.E. while in primary school (though it was most often just an opportunity for Dudley and his friends to throw big rubber balls at his head). Perhaps those vague memories were helpful because Harry took to the game rather quickly. For the first match, Harry and James teamed up to beat Jim and Ron quite decisively, though Ron did show surprising skill. To Jim's annoyance, Seeker training wasn't nearly as useful for Quafflebash as it was for Quidditch, but Ron' many years as Keeper for the Weasley family seemed to make him a natural for the game. Harry wondered if the other boy would try out for the Gryffindor team next year.

Jim showed no signs of jealousy over Ron's skill though, and all four of them enjoyed the game thoroughly for most of the morning, playing several matches and mixing up the teams each time. James was in rare form and seemed delighted to simply be playing a game with both of his sons, something that he clearly wished he could have done long before now. Harry, for his part, found his emotions conflicted. He was at once (1) feeling positively disposed towards James Potter, (2) angry at himself for feeling positively disposed towards James Potter, and (3) pretending that he was unabashedly positively disposed towards James Potter because his plans to assure his own inheritance required him to refrain from burning any bridges. It was a complicated emotional state that probably would have been impossible for someone who wasn't an Occlumens.

After several hours of play, the three Potters joined Lily and Artie for lunch. Ron politely demurred saying he only had the morning free and had another fifteen deliveries to make in the afternoon. The comment baffled Harry until he noticed that the desserts Ron had delivered were still wrapped up in a box proudly adorned with a logo for Molly's Magical Morsels … which only raised more questions than it answered.

Halfway through lunch, an expected (but unwelcome, at least in Harry's eyes) visitor arrived: Peter Pettigrew. James and Jim greeted the new arrival jovially. Lily, not quite so much, a fact that Harry noted. When Harry and Peter made eye contact, each of them smiled warmly at the other. And neither of them was fooled for a minute.

Peter joined the table for the remainder of lunch sitting between Jim and James with Harry as far away as he could manage without being obvious. Nevertheless, Harry did notice that on several occasions, the solicitor sniffed noticeably, as if he'd picked up a familiar but unexpected scent. Over lunch, the adults made small talk, mainly about Azkaban and the escaped Death Eaters. Harry was pleased that James seemed to have bought the idea that some sort of Muggleborn conspiracy was responsible for the breakout, though he had no idea what their motives might be.

"Keep that to yourselves, however," James warned everyone else at the table. "If it got out, we'd probably see a big surge of anti-Muggleborn bigotry."

Peter nodded sagely at that.

After lunch, the Potter family business meeting had been scheduled in James's study, where Lord Potter would be joined by both of his sons and their respective solicitors. Artie asked if Mrs. Potter would be joining them as well.

"No," she said easily. "I'm not in charge of the Charitable Trust anymore, and everything else you'll be talking about is 'secret Potter stuff.' No wives allowed."

"Oh honey!" James said consolingly as he pulled her into a hug. "I'd let you join us if I could, but …."

"I know, I know. It's one of the medieval rules of the Potter House charter. Matters pertaining to the Potter Wizengamot seat can only be discussed by men. Chauvinistic and outdated, but still magically binding on you." She returned his hug and added a kiss to his cheek.

Only Harry was both positioned and perceptive enough to see her palm a galleon into James's pocket while her husband was distracted.

As the five males made their way to the Master's Study, Lily watched them all leave before quickly heading to her own private sanctum. There, she opened thin journal she'd prepared earlier and left sitting on the desk. On the first page was a particularly complex runic sequence that had taken three hours to inscribe with ink made from the same potion in which the galleon had been soaking for days. She tapped the runes with her wand in a complex pattern while intoning an incredibly obscure Charm taken from one of the many, many books on the shelves surrounding her. It was a slightly illegal book written in Arabic and dating back to the Ottoman Empire. Not Azkaban-worthy, but it was probably bad enough to make James squeal over the size of the fine the family would have to pay if it were discovered in her possession by the authorities.

As soon as she finished the incantation, she turned to the second page which was blank … until words started to appear: the current date and time, followed by the start of a magical transcript.

JAMES POTTER: Okay, gentlemen. Welcome to the Master's Study.

ARTEMUS PODMORE, ESQ.: Impressive. I feel like we should be smoking cigars and drinking port.

JAMES POTTER: (laughter) Well, I'm sure that's been done in here on many occasions, but the boys are still a bit too young, I think.

Satisfied that her enchanted coin was working properly, Lily leaned back in her chair and pulled the book into her lap as she followed along with the private meeting.

For the most part, it was a somewhat boring conversation focused on House Potter's financial affairs, made even more boring by the fact Lily could not see the documents being referred to which made it hard to follow Peter's summary report. In years past, Lily had been justifiably proud of how the Potter Charitable Trust had grown under her management before her new job at Hogwarts forced her to turn the whole thing over to James's solicitor and longtime friend.

Lily had no reason to doubt Peter's competence and professionalism, but when she ran the Trust, full audits were an annual occurrence. Peter's decision to save on accounting fees by only having a full audit every five years (the bare minimum permissible under Ministry rules regulating charitable foundations) rankled her, but James had been persuaded by his friend so there was nothing more to say about it. She did smile approvingly when Artemus Podmore asked several insightful questions about the auditing process and other financial matters that Peter glossed over and which James barely understood.

Oblivious to Lily's eavesdropping, the group spent several hours discussing the House's finances before moving to a summary of everything that had happened in the Wizengamot in which the House had staked out a position. To James's disappointment, Arthur Weasley had once again politely but firmly turned down House Potter's offer of vassalage. The House had no other vassals presently, and Peter had some concerns about Sirius Black, wherever he was currently, and the Power of Attorney he'd executed years before in favor of James. If the Death Eater signed the proper paperwork and got it submitted to the Ministry, even while an escaped felon, he could invalidate that Power of Attorney, and House Potter would lose control over the ten Black votes.

James wrapped up the official part of the meeting by reaching into his desk and pulling out a small velvet box which he passed over to Harry.

"I was going to save this until we exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve, but … well, I'm a hot-headed Gryffindor with no patience. And anyway, this probably counts as Wizengamot business."

Harry opened the box and gasped. It was a gold ring with a stylized P in the center – the Potter Heir's ring. Or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.

"That's just a duplicate, I'm afraid," James said regretfully. "The real Heir's ring is still being Charmed. It should be ready this summer, so I thought we'd have an official ceremony during the Birthday Gala where I'll elevate you to Heir Apparent and give you the real ring, but if you want to wear that until then, that'll be fine."

He coughed in embarrassment. "To be honest, I never considered wearing mine when I was in school. Too gaudy and pompous, I thought back then. But I understand that the social climate in Slytherin is a bit different than Gryffindor."

Everyone laughed at that obvious understatement.

"It is indeed," Harry said with a genuine smile. "I will wear it with honor … until this summer, at least." Then, he turned to his twin who was craning his neck to look at the Heir's Ring simulacrum.

"You okay with this?" he asked cautiously.

"What, with you becoming Heir Apparent?" Jim pretended to think about it. "I dunno. When you become Lord, are you gonna keep me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed? Or are you gonna kick me to the curb without a knut to my name?"

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'm not sure yet. Ask me again after the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match."

Everyone laughed again, and no one seemed to notice that Harry had slipped the box into his pocket without putting the ring on (something he had no intention of doing until it had been checked out - no way in hell would he put on a ring that might have passed through Peter Pettigrew's hands).

Then, James reached back into his desk, this time pulling out a thick file folder.

"One last thing. Probably not as impressive as an imitation Heir's Ring, Harry, but you might find it interesting since you brought the matter to my attention. This file contains all the publicly available information about the death of Nobby Leach, as well as the deaths of Tom Riddle's circle of friends from his time at Hogwarts. And also the deaths and disappearances of several other political supporters of Leach that no one even thought to look at until you brought this matter up and I started looking for other connections."

"Who's Tom Riddle?" Peter asked in genuine curiosity, and Harry filed that ignorance away as a fact to be considered later.

James hesitated as he figured how to respond despite the Fidelius that protected Voldemort's true identity.

"He was a Hogwarts student from the 1940's who was implicated in the first Chamber of Secrets affair in 1943. The man himself disappeared back in the 50's, but he had a circle of close friends who all became influential in Muggleborn rights politics … until they all died under different and what we now consider suspicious circumstances. It was Harry who brought the matter to the DMLE's attention. And when the Azkaban crisis is resolved, I plan to reopen all those old cases." He hesitated. "We now think You-Know-Who might have been involved."

Peter blinked in visible (and, Harry noted, genuine) surprise. "Really? How extraordinary!" He turned to Harry. "And how equally extraordinary that you should be the one to discover these long-forgotten crimes."

The boy shrugged diffidently. "We're Potters. I think we're all obligated to do everything in our power to fight against You-Know-Who. And his lackeys."

"… indeed," Peter replied.

Soon after, the meeting finally ended. In her private study, Lily tapped the runes on the first page of her journal with her wand in a complex pattern. The runes flashed softly, and the coin in James's pocket ceased to have any magical properties. If and when James found it later, he might wonder how a spare galleon ended up in his trousers, but he certainly wouldn't think it magical, let alone a listening device.

Outside the study, Harry and Artie were headed back to Artie's room where they would review what they'd learned when a voice called out behind them.

"Heir Potter?" It was Pettigrew, who sauntered towards them with a bland smile on his lips. "I wanted to congratulate you on your rapprochement with your father. I know the last time we spoke, some … intemperate remarks were made. I hope you understand that I was just looking out for my best friend and my godson."

"Think nothing of it," Harry replied easily. "I fully understand what your priorities were … and are."

Pettigrew smiled without a hint of sincerity. "I'm so glad to hear it, Harry. And for what it's worth, I know that you will be an exceptional Heir and, someday, an exceptional Lord Potter."

And with those remarks, the kaleidoscope in Harry's head whirred and clicked into position, and he suddenly knew that Peter Pettigrew meant to kill him, probably before he could be officially named Heir at the end of July. But Harry also knew that the secret Death Eater would not try to do so right now here in Potter Manor and in front of a witness, so the boy could afford to have some fun.

"Thank you so much," he said with fake cheer. "It really means a lot coming from you … Uncle Pete."

Peter visibly flinched at that last remark. Harry smirked before heading away down the hall. The Death Eater stared after Harry and his solicitor with such intensity that he was startled when Jim came up behind him.

"So, I see you and Harry are finally getting along?" his godson inquired cheerfully.

Peter nodded. "I think we have … the beginnings of a relationship." Then, the animagus looked down at his godson and sniffed loudly. "And now that we're alone, I've been wondering all afternoon. Why in Merlin's name does your breath smell of Mandrake leaf?"

The boy laughed. "That's a really sensitive nose you've got there … Uncle Wormtail!"

Peter's eyes widened and he looked around quickly. "So, James finally told you?" he said in a low voice.

"No, and I'd appreciate it if you don't tell him I'm trying to follow in his footsteps. I want it to be a surprise."

The older man gave him a sour look. "I imagine it will be. For good or ill. Do you at least have a teacher? We were absolute idiots to have done it on our own at that age. And if James didn't tell you about my old nickname, how did you find out?"

"I've got a teacher," Jim answered cheerfully. "One who I'd like you to meet sometime. I think you and he have a lot to talk about."

That night, when Harry was alone in his room, he lay down on his bed, closed his eyes, and reached out to his new secret friend.

"Well," Harry thought to himself, "What do you think about Peter Pettigrew?"

"He isss marked, my Massster," hissed the snake tattoo that had slithered up Harry's neck to whisper in his ear. "It isss hidden and sssleeping. But it isss there."

Harry acknowledged the confirmation and then commanded Mark to slither back down and resume an S-shaped configuration on Harry's left hip. After a few minutes, Harry fell asleep.

24 December 1993
The Dewey Ledbetter Home for Senior Wizards and Witches
Dorset, Southwest England
11:00 p.m.

Dolores Jane Umbridge sat in an uncomfortable chair quietly working on the Prophet's crossword puzzle while waiting for her father to die. It was not how she'd wanted to spend Christmas Eve, but the matron had Floo-called her this morning to say that her father's condition had declined precipitously, and he was not expected to live much longer. And so, Dolores, having resigned herself to the worst Christmas ever, pulled on a grey jumper over a sensible black skirt and summoned a fresh bowl of cat food for Tiger, Lucky, Tiddles, and Miss Fantastico before apparating straight to the nursing home.

Orford Umbridge was not yet 60 years old, but physically and mentally, the wizard resembled a Muggle in his 90's. Dolores never knew how he came to suffer a curse that both aged him prematurely and left him so addle-brained that he could barely cast a spell beyond what a Third Year could do. She was certain it was a curse, however. When she was a girl at Hogwarts, she took DADA classes all the way to a NEWT because of her obsession with finding a cure for her father's condition. She never did – the spell was far too dark and obscure to ever be covered by Hogwarts' generally low-quality DADA curriculum – but she learned enough to be certain that Orford had been heavily cursed either before she was born or soon after. She often wondered if part of that curse was what compelled him to fall in love with and marry a piece of Muggle filth by the name by the name of Ellen Cracknell. Or perhaps it just made him foolish enough not only to wander into the Muggle world but also to overlook the Muggle woman's flaws, and the Fate did the rest.

The dowdy witch shook her head and tried to banish those last thoughts. While a Slytherin, Dolores had never been either a blood-purist or a Muggle-hater, even if she shared her coworkers' disdain for Muggle-lovers like Arthur Weasley. Intellectually, she knew it was wrong to disdain all Muggles just because of her feelings for her own Muggle mother.

Alas, it was sometimes rather hard for Dolores to maintain such open-mindedness when her own mother had tried to drown her in a bathtub at the age of 8.

In 1963, the young witch had a bout of accidental magic which her frightened mother attributed to "demonic possession," and she tried to cure her daughter with a forced baptism … one that involved holding the child's head underwater for extended periods of time. It was not the first time the mentally unstable Ellen Cracknell had tried to harm her daughter, but it was the worst and, thankfully (after Orford showed up in the nick of time), the last. Dolores never saw her mother again after that day, nor did she even consider attending the woman's funeral in 1970. Still, that sort of thing made an impact on a young witch, so much so that Dolores lied to her Slytherin housemates for seven years and pretended her mother was a Pureblood witch who died giving birth to her.

Suddenly, Dolores was distracted from her reminiscences by a soft groan from the bed. Orford was waking up.

"Daddy?" she said softly as she leaned over towards the bed. "It's Dee. Are you in any pain? Do you want me to go and fetch the nurse?"

"D-Dee?" he mumbled, still half-asleep. "Izzat you?"

"Yes, Daddy. I'm here."

The fading wizard smiled but did not open his eyes. "M'glad you came to see me … b'fore th'end."

"Shhh!" she said. "Don't talk like that. Now, are your hurting at all?"

He shook his head. "M'alright. Potions take th'edge off. Just set there and talk to me for a while. Tell me 'bout yer new job again."

And she did. For nearly an hour (and through occasional tears and sniffles), she told him all about working for Minister Fudge, about how exciting it was to put on the official plum-colored Wizengamot robes for the first time, about how proud she was of finally being in a position to do some good in the world. The dying man smiled at her once more and closed his eyes as his breath became more labored. Finally, he spoke.

"M'proud of ya, Dee," he whispered in a raspy voice. "I truly am. N' I know, if yer mother were here, she'd be proud o'ya too."

Despite herself, Dolores snorted even as she wiped a tear from her face. "Daddy, I doubt that Ellen Cracknell would be proud of anything I ever did, especially as far as the wizarding government goes"

"Nah, Dee," he gasped. "N' Ellen. I meant Della. Yer real mother."

Dolores Jane Umbridge sat perfectly still as her entire world changed in the blink of an eye.

"… what?" she finally asked in a shaky voice. But Orford Umbridge did not answer her.

In fact, he never spoke again. Dead men tell no tales.

25 December 1993 (Christmas Day)
12 Grimmauld Place
8:00 a.m.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!" were two words that probably no prior Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Black had ever uttered, let along bellowed at the top of his lungs while banging on the bedroom doors of his family members. Moments later, a bleary-eyed Regulus and Bellatrix stepped out of their respective rooms to stare at Sirius (who was dressed like Father Christmas!) in consternation.

"Sirius!" Regulus snapped. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!"

"It's Christmas Day, Reg! My first since leaving Azkaban! It's a day of celebration! Of peace and good will to all wizards and witches!"

The Metamorphmagus yawned. "Yes, yes. Zuzu's petals, and all that. But that's hardly call for a pre-dawn raid on our morning rest. Bellatrix and I have important work this afternoon."

"Right-o," Sirius said merrily even though he had no idea who or what "Zuzu" might be. "Which is why I decided to have an early morning Christmas breakfast for us all! Including an honest-to-goodness Christmas pudding that some witch named Molly made and Dobby collected for me. We're family! And families celebrate Christmas! And also, who knows how things will go at Gringotts. We might all be dead tomorrow!"

Bellatrix grimaced at his morbid humor. She'd spent the last five days being interrogated by Rufus Scrimgeour about every bit of Death Eater-related bit of knowledge she could recall. Since he'd finished her debriefing already, it was decided that she would go today to fetch the Cup Horcrux from Gringotts. When Rufus was not interviewing Bellatrix, he spent his days brainstorming with Snape and Regulus (and with Lucius via Floo call) on how to penetrate the Gringotts security so that an escaped Death Eater could access her vault and retrieve perhaps the darkest object ever stored in that bank.

The three Blacks retired to the kitchen where Dobby had prepared a hearty feast for which the Christmas pudding was the climax. At 11:00, Scrimgeour arrived bearing several vials of Polyjuice Potion brewed by Snape so that if Bellatrix were forced to flee the bank, she would be able to change her appearance quickly. Regulus provided her with a highly illegal portkey Charmed by Lucius Malfoy that could transport her to a safe house in Paris if need be. Both Reg and Rufus would both accompany her to Gringotts and be on hand to distract any Aurors in and around the goblin bank – the conspirators were anticipating a DMLE presence of some kind since the Ministry surely anticipated that one or more of the escaped prisoners would make eventually try to reach Gringotts. At Rufus's insistence, the group once more reviewed his timetable for their caper as well as the map of Gringotts he'd somehow acquired.

The group left just before noon, with Rufus finishing off the last of the pudding and declaring it quite delicious. Sirius hugged both Regulus and Bellatrix and begged them both to be careful. Even ignoring the Auror presence, Gringotts security was legendary. As they apparated away to Diagon Alley, Sirius pursed his lips anxiously, wondering if he would ever see them again.

As it turned out, he saw them again less than an hour later, as the door flew open and an annoyed Regulus stormed in, followed by an equally annoyed Rufus and an amused Bellatrix.

"What's the matter?" Sirius asked anxiously. "What went wrong?"

Rufus and Reg ignored him and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. Bella followed behind with a heavy valise under her arm. She laughed.

"What went wrong? Why, nothing went wrong! That's why they're so upset!"

"Eh? What does that mean?"

"It means, Black," Rufus Scrimgeour said irritably, "that we've been planning this daring heist for days, and in the end, it was like breaking into a paper bag!"

Thirty minutes earlier …

"Ahem!" Bellatrix said to the goblin teller. Her voice echoed through the nearly empty bank. There were no Aurors here. In fact, there were no other wizards or witches here at all. Except for Bellatrix and her two companions (both of whom were standing elsewhere in the empty lobby, trying and failing to look inconspicuous), the place was devoid of customers on this Christmas morn.

"Yes?" snarled the goblin teller.

"I wish to make a withdrawal from my vault, but I do not have my key."

The goblin, whose nameplate identified him as Spinecrusher, sneered at her and then handed over a sheet of parchment and a blood quill.

"Write your name on that!"

After a moment of hesitation, the witch wrote "Bellatrix Black" onto the parchment, ignoring the itching sensation on her forearm engendered by the blood quill. She handed the parchment and quill back to Spinecrusher, who examined the it closely.

"Bellatrix Black?" he said loud enough to be heard throughout the lobby.

"Y-yes," she stammered. The goblin glared at her for several seconds before speaking.

"There will be a ten-galleon fee for lost vault keys. How do you wish to pay?"

"Withdraw the funds from my vault, please."

The goblin looked at her speculatively, and perhaps cruelly. "Do you wish to pay the Confidential Transaction Fee as well?"

She looked at him in confusion. "The what?"

"Except for certain banking activities for which confidentiality is automatically imposed, all Gringotts transactions with non-goblin customers are only subject to confidentiality if explicitly contracted for. Confidential service agreements range from the 10-galleon basic protection plan, under which we will refrain from actively seeking out people who might be interested in your affairs and selling your sensitive information to them, to the 500-galleon gold plan, under which all physical evidence of your transactions will be erased after our business is concluded, any unauthorized personnel who gain access to your transaction history will be Obliviated of such knowledge, and every authorized Gringotts employee will take an Unbreakable Oath never to reveal any such knowledge."

Bellatrix thought for a moment and then remembered she was rich. "The gold plan, please. Take the money needed for that from my vault as well."

"Very good, Miss Black." The goblin looked over her shoulder and across the room. "Here is your replacement key. Do you wish the two gentlemen who are pretending not to know you to accompany you down to your vault?"

Despite herself, Bellatrix snickered while the two wizards behind her looked at one another in consternation.

"After that," Bellatrix told an astonished Sirius, "we went down to my vault, I deactivated the defenses, and then I simply took the Cup … along with about 5,000 galleons for spending money. The goblins even generously gave me this lovely carrying case to transport it in."

She tipped the valise out over the coffee table, and an ornate golden cup (festooned with playful badger decorations) fell out onto the dining room table, followed by three heaping bags of gold coins.

"All in all," she said, "the whole thing was rather anticlimactic."

"I would describe the whole thing as bloody ridiculous!" Scrimgeour ranted. "Inconceivable. Simply inconceivable that there was no Ministry presence at Gringotts, even if it is Christmas Day. What in Merlin's name have the Aurors been doing for the last five months? Knitting!?"

Regulus shook his head, finally calming down enough to be as amused as Bella. "You keep using that word, Rufus. I do not think it means what you think it means."

Scrimgeour turned to him sharply in confusion. "What word? Knitting?! Of course I know what that means!"

Sirius interrupted him with an amazed expression. "Morgana's bloomers, man! Are you seriously complaining that getting one of You-Know-Who's horcruxes was easier than you expected?!" Then, he laughed. "Heh. Seriously complaining. That should be my job!"

Regulus curled a lip in distaste at his brother's bad pun as he poured himself another glass of brandy. "Oh for pity's sake! That one doesn't even make sense!"

Sirius snickered. "So, what now? Do we go ahead and destroy this thing?" he said while pointing at the Cup.

Regulus frowned. "No. I want to wait until everyone can be here to witness its destruction." He looked at the others with a suddenly ashen expression. "Harry and I are the only ones to have been present for the destruction of a horcrux. I think everyone needs to fully understand what we're dealing with. Harry, Neville, Augusta, and Lucius should all be available on New Year's Day. We'll do it then."

Then, it was Sirius's turn to frown. "Is there a particular reason you want my godson present?"

"Yes," Regulus replied as he turned back towards the golden chalice sitting on the coffee table. "But for right now, let's just call it a Slytherin thing and leave it at that."

Sirius narrowed his eyes somewhat dangerously but said nothing more.

28 December 1993
Summerisles

From the outside, Summerisles did not look that impressive. The restaurant's reputation was famous across Wizarding Britain, and so it had nothing to prove to casual passersby. The Summerisles clientele generally consisted of two classes of diners: those who had the sense to make reservations days or even weeks ahead and those who had enough money and status to get in without a reservation. The latter group was an elite fraternity indeed, and so Summerisles had no need of an opulent exterior to attract walk-in customers. Luckily, Hermione and her party had a reservation today.

As the young witch entered the restaurant's foyer along with her father and her solicitor, they were met with an officious young maître d' who nodded approvingly at Hestia's fashionable winter robes. He was slightly less approving of Hermione, who wore a simple cloak with a Muggle dress underneath. He was openly disapproving of Dan, who against Hestia's advice had accompanied the two wearing a Muggle suit-and-tie.

"May I help you?" he said pompously.

Hestia stepped forward. "Hermione Granger and Hestia Jones. We're meeting Lord Parkinson for lunch. I believe we have a reservation under his name."

The maître d' pretended to study the reservation book for several minutes as if he weren't perfectly aware that a Noble Lord had reserved a private room for himself and two female guests.

"Hmm. I do see that his Lordship has reserved a room for himself and the two of you. However, he did not make allowances for anyone else," the officious young man wrinkled his nose in Dan's direction as if he could smell the Muggleness, "so I'm afraid your … gentleman friend will have to wait outside."

"Seriously?" Dan said contemptuously. "Outside? You don't even have a bar I could wait in? I should wait outside? What's the expression – No dogs or Irishmen allowed?"

"Daddy!" Hermione whispered nervously.

"I am sorry sir, but this is Summerisles. We can't just allow … anyone to come in."

Dan was just about to give an angry retort when someone beat him to it.

"Rupert!" said a burly middle-aged wizard with vivid red hair and bushy eyebrows and who had apparently been just beyond the main door. "What's going on here?"

The maître d' blanched. "M-Mister Legard! I was just telling this … gentleman …."

"Yes, yes. That Summerisles has standards. And it does. Just not the ones you seem to think."

He stepped towards Dan and stuck out his hand. "Gaston Legard, at your service. Welcome to my restaurant."

Surprised, Dan shook Legard's hand readily. "Dan Granger. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Legard."

Legard turned back to Rupert. "Escort these two ladies to their dining salon. I'll show Mr. Granger to the bar where he will be my personal guest for as long as he remains." The master chef's expression darkened. "Come and see me in my office at the end of your shift," he said coldly.

The young wizard went deathly pale, and then he nodded. "Of … of course, Mr. Legard." The chastened maître d' led Hermione and Hestia in one direction while Legard led Dan into a small bar area off to the side.

"You're welcome to wait in here, Mr. Granger. I assume that you realize what a bad idea it might be for a Muggle to crash a luncheon hosted by someone like Parkinson, right?"

"How did you know I'm a Muggle?" Dan asked suspiciously.

"You mean, aside from that Muggle suit that no Pureblood would be caught dead in? And that Windsor knot in your necktie that no Pureblood would know how to tie?" The chef/owner smiled. "I'm a Half-Blood, Mr. Granger, though I don't always advertise it. And I spent a lot of time in the Muggle world learning how to cook. Really cook, that is. Not just cast a spell to throw together some bland soup or else leave everything to a house elf. Hardly anyone in the wizarding world knows how to make a decent grilled cheese sandwich, let alone the stuff we sell here."

The side bar was not a large room, but it could seat twenty or thirty at the bar and the nearby tables. Currently, though, there were no other customers, as noon was not a popular time for drinking among reputable wizards and witches. Dan thought it looked posh but in an understated way, the sort of oak-paneled bar one might find in a Victorian gentleman's club or a very upscale pub. There was only one person behind the bar, a stout wizard with a bushy and heavily-waxed mustache that was stylishly curled on the ends.

"Max," Legard said. "Mr. Granger here is my personal guest for today. His lunch and drinks are on the house." The man paused briefly before speaking to Max in a quieter tone. "Don't let him have anything that might cause ... effects."

"Mr. Legard," Dan said. "This is all very kind of you, but you needn't go to such lengths. I'm just waiting for my daughter to finish her … business meeting."

"Think nothing of it," Legard said. Then, he leaned in and whispered into the man's ear. "I've been on the outside looking too, Mr. Granger." Then, the legendary chef clapped Dan Granger on the arm before leaving the bar to return to his kitchen.

While the exterior of Summerisles might be considered plain and even austere, the insides were another matter. Despite herself, Hermione gasped as the maître d' led her and Hestia through the main dining area. The large room was decorated in an Art Nouveau style that greatly resembled Maxim's of Paris, one of the most famous restaurants in the world and one which Hermione had visited with her parents when she was a little girl. But no one could mistake Summerisles for a Muggle eatery. The ceiling and all four walls were covered with glass windows that had been enchanted to show a false image of sandy beaches and crystal blue ocean waters with an inviting summer sun overhead amid a cloudless sky. It looked for all the world as if the dining room was literally situated in the center of a small island in the middle of the sea, lit by a summer sky no matter what time of year.

The maître d' led the two witches across the room to a small recessed alcove complete with a table large enough for the two of them and their host. Parkinson was waiting for them. He was a middle-aged man with jet-black hair that had been slicked back, and his robes were fashionable and neat, as opposed to the more foppish attire Hermione had come to expect from rich Purebloods.

The meeting with Parkinson started off well enough, with the man introducing himself politely (after taking a few seconds to set up privacy wards). Hestia, who set up additional wards of her own, had previously advised Hermione that Parkinson wouldn't get to the point quickly. Pureblood decorum meant that they would enjoy their meal and make civilized small-talk and then get to business over dessert and coffee. The only moment of tension before lunch was served came when the waiter, who was as condescending as the maître d' if not so blatantly bigoted, attempted to explain to Hermione what the menu said.

"Je sais parler français, merci," she interrupted in French. "J'ai prendrais la Salade Niçoise et le Jarret de Boeuf."

Parkinson crooked an eyebrow at that, but he said nothing. Hermione couldn't tell if he was offended at her bluntness or pleased that she'd put a servant in his place (always assuming either man had even understood what she'd said). She assumed Parkinson spent a lot of time slapping down social inferiors, which probably included everyone he encountered who was not obviously a social superior. To her surprise, however, he was generally polite with her over the course of their luncheon, if a bit stiff. The meal passed quickly as the three diners made small talk about Hermione's Hogwarts classes and her career ambitions. Parkinson was visibly impressed at the witch's heavy course load, particularly since his daughter Pansy's academic problems had been a bone of contention at the Parkinson house since her first year.

From there, the trio finally settled into the true purpose of their meeting. While Parkinson was genteel, if condescending, he made his position abundantly clear. The honor of House Parkinson demanded that the debt owed to Hermione be repaid as quickly as possible. In general, Lord Parkinson detested the idea of life debts, but he was also very paranoid and almost superstitious about them. Hermione responded, in a display of honesty that made Hestia wince, that she still wasn't sure she was owed a life debt since she might well have simply saved Pansy from a serious injury.

"That may well be true, Miss Granger," he replied. "And it is certainly a factor in our negotiations. But my Pansy certainly seems to think she owes you a debt." He smiled. "And I doubt I need to tell you how upsetting she finds that prospect."

"I can imagine," Hermione said drily.

"And to be honest, it is not a prospect I find appealing either. I've had opportunity to look into your background, Miss Granger. As I'm sure you've investigated mine. And so, you are probably aware of the tattoo that mars my left forearm. While I will deny to my dying breath ever willingly taking the Dark Mark, I must confess that my upbringing and the social circles in which I travel would make certain … political views essential to my wellbeing and will color any relationship between us."

He took a sip of his port. "That said, I assure you that I am not quite the ogre that you were probably expecting. Blood matters to me, Miss Granger. But so do talent, intellect, and ambition. From what I know of you, young lady, there are a great many opportunities I could offer you despite your unfortunate blood status. But there is a second factor that closes those doors – The Outcast."

Hermione lifted her chin. "What about Theo?"

"Pansy informs me that you have chosen to maintain a relationship with the Outcast despite the hostility imposed by the Ultimate Sanction. And whatever gifts you have to offer, not even a life debt owed by my daughter is enough for me to bring the Ultimate Sanction into my household. And so, right from the start, we can exclude certain options like marriage proposals or blood adoptions or simply pressuring your distant relatives, the Dagworth-Grangers, into accepting you as a family member, even assuming you would consider such options."

He chuckled. "It's a pity you're a Gryffindor, Miss Granger. If you were a Slytherin or even a Ravenclaw, I'm certain you'd see the wisdom of cutting ties with Theo No-Name. And profit mightily from doing so."

"But I am, so I won't," she answered firmly.

"Of course." He drained his glass. "So let us forego further shadow-dancing. What do you want in exchange for a declaration that Pansy's debt has been satisfied? Or, if you are more mercenary about it than I'm expecting, how much do you want?"

Hermione said nothing. She just nodded towards Hestia, who removed a small scrap of parchment from her purse which she pushed across the table to Parkinson. The wizard unfolded it and then had a brief coughing fit.

"This is … a very large sum of money," he finally said.

"It is 17% of your reported net worth, Lord Parkinson, at least according to your known holdings," Hestia replied blandly. Of course, she privately thought that Parkinson was underreporting the amount of financial debt he was carrying by quite a bit in order to uphold his family's social stature, but she wasn't going to be the one to suggest Lord Parkinson wasn't as rich as he liked to proclaim. That said, she did take a certain satisfaction in noticing the light sheen of sweat that had suddenly appeared on the Pureblood's brow.

"I've researched the history of life debt resolutions in Wizarding Britain over the last 300 years. Records are, of course, sparse as most debt resolutions are handled privately. But of those whose terms are publicly known and involve financial settlements, 17% of the debtor family's net worth is the average settlement price. In fact, possibly a bit on the low side."

Then, she reached back into her bag and removed a much larger parchment scroll.

"Of course, if that's not acceptable, we do have an alternative proposal. The total financial obligation is significantly smaller, but the proposal overall is more … novel."

He frowned at that and then unfurled the scroll she'd passed over to him. Item #1 would require him to pay for all of Hestia Jones's fees to date, as well as any future attorney's fees incurred executing the remainder of the agreement. Item #2 called for a lump sum payment of 30,000 galleons, a fraction of the amount listed on the first parchment. To Parkinson's surprise, the money would not be going to Hermione herself. Rather, it would go towards establishing a foundation for the benefit of Muggleborns and squibs, providing scholarships for apprenticeships and other forms of financial assistance to the former and help with integrating into either Muggle or magical society as preferred to the latter. His lip curled at the thought of spending his hard-earned galleons on the dregs of society, but it was much better than the financial ruin that the first parchment offered. Besides, he assumed the Mudblood would at least be agreeable with him donating the funds anonymously.

Then, he got down to Item #3 and frowned. It stated that future financial support for the fund would be provided by House Parkinson by means of a Corsican Arrangement. He looked up to Hestia in confusion.

"What is a Corsican Arrangement?" he asked cautiously.

"It is a form of magical binding contract, Lord Parkinson, one which causes those bound to pay for breaches by magically-directed financial transactions. While most Corsican Arrangements affect only individuals, when entered into by a Head of House and then countersigned by a Gringotts representative, it is binding on all members of the family. Under the terms of such a contract, there would be a list of requirements which must be fulfilled and/or actions which are forbidden. Whenever any family member violates any of the terms, an appropriate sum of galleons is automagically transferred from your family's vaults to the vault that will be set up for the foundation."

His face hardened. "And what sort of terms will you be proposing?"

"You can't be bigots," Hermione said flatly. "Not without paying for it. Every time Pansy calls someone a Mudblood or a blood traitor, that's ten galleons. Every time she hexes one of us in the hallway, that's a hundred." She tilted her head slightly as she regarded him. "And of course, we know that you were only a Death Eater because you were put under the Imperius Curse and would never have served You-Know-Who otherwise. But, if you or any of your family ever seriously harms or kills a Muggleborn, a squib, or even a Muggle, the penalty clause would be … significant. Potentially to the point of being ... impoverishing."

He snorted angrily. "For someone seemingly so incensed at how magic has treated the Outcast, you are oddly at ease at the thought of putting my entire family under a geas with the potential to destroy us."

Hestia shrugged. "That boy never did anything to deserve being punished like he is. And if neither you nor anyone in your family does do anything to deserve it, you won't be punished at all."

He looked back down at the parchment. "This will not punish thoughts, then? Only actions and words used directly against Mu … against those described here?"

"When you and your family are not around people who would be offended," Hestia said with a smile, "please feel free to use the M-word to your heart's content."

He grumbled at her humor and then studied the proposal once more. "And is this it? This is all you want?"

"Yes," said Hestia.

"No," said Hermione at the same time.

The solicitor turned her head sharply towards her client, who reached into the pocket of her cloak and withdrew a third scrap of folded parchment which she slid over to Pansy's father. Intrigued, for this was obviously not something the girl had discussed with her solicitor before now, Parkinson unfolded the paper and read the contents. Then, he read them again, his eyes widening and then narrowing as he absorbed the final item being proposed.

"Unexpected," he said slowly. "Very unexpected indeed. Tell me, Miss Granger. Why is this a matter of concern to you?"

"It just is," she responded without emotion.

He studied her carefully but could not divine her intentions. "And what if, in the end, he is not able to afford to pay the cost?"

"Then, I suppose that clause is null and void, and you only need concern yourself with the other terms."

He stared at her with a frightening intensity before leaning back and nodding.

"The terms are satisfactory. Draw up the final contract, Solicitor Jones. When you are ready, arrange to meet me at Gringotts where we will sign the documents and execute the oaths."

He stood and bowed respectfully to them both and then left the private room. Hestia turned to her client in consternation.

"Well? Do you want to tell me what that was all about then?"

Hermione picked up her water glass and took a long sip. "Let's just call it … insurance."

Outside, Andrew Lord Parkinson pulled the slip of parchment out of his pocket and studied it once more.

"What is your game, Little Mudblood?" he thought to himself. "Or perhaps I should ask … what is his game?"

You will swear to maintain and continue your oaths of fealty to
Lucius Malfoy and/or the House of Malfoy for a minimum of ten years
or until the Head of House Malfoy voluntarily releases
the House of Parkinson from its obligation of loyalty.

31 December 1993
A subterranean cavern beneath Cauchemar Abbey
11:48 p.m.

The soft clack of Auntie Camilla's cane reverberated through the dark dank cave tunnels that were honeycombed beneath Cauchemar Abbey, ancestral home of the House of Selwyn. As she made her way down to the Spawning Pool, Camilla pulled her knitted shawl closer around her to ward off the bitter winter chill of the tunnels and catacombs. She grumbled under her breath. The ritual she was about to undertake worked best at midnight on New Year's Eve. Practically the whole world viewed this night as a time of transition, the moment when Janus exchanged one face for another, a brief opportunity when all doors could be opened - even those that the wise and the good and the sane would leave shut. That said, Camilla knew that only a few centuries before, Britain celebrated the start of the New Year in March when it was much warmer in these forgotten caverns. The December chill did not agree with her rheumatism at all. She supposed she should petition for Grandfather to heal her of the maladies of age.

Behind Camilla, the twin girls, Flora and Hestia Carrow, followed a respectful distance, their path illuminated not just by the ball of conjured light that floated over Camilla's head, but also by the eerie glow of bioluminescent lichen and fungi that covered the walls and ceiling.

"So, dearies," the ancient woman said to pass the time. "Did you enjoy your Christmas presents?"

"Oh yes, Auntie Camilla," they answered in perfect unison. "But we do wish we could have played with our dolls a bit longer. They broke so quickly."

Camilla clucked her tongue. "I did tell you, dearies. You have to take care of your dolls and other toys. Muggles are very fragile. It takes very little effort to ruin them until they die… or until they simply want to die so badly that they're no longer entertaining. Still, in the end, even after you broke them all, they at least provided a lovely Yuletide repast, didn't they?"

The twins nodded in agreement, as they pleasantly recalled their first Christmas feast. Finally, the trio entered the large cavern where the Spawning Pool waited. This room was much warmer due to the steam given off by the small hot spring located in the center of the chamber. It was also much brighter, as the chamber was lit by a pallid glow emanating from the large pod-like objects that hung from the ceiling. The light was not constant. Instead it flashed in a regular pattern, one that hinted at the beating of a human heart. Still, it was enough to illuminate the whole chamber if dimly.

Camilla led Flora and Hestia straight to the pool. The sickly-sweet scent given off by the pool made the two girls somewhat light-headed but not enough to impair their senses. They knew what was coming and were prepared for it. The three females swiftly disrobed down to the skin and left their clothes in a pile behind them. Flora was the slowest, for she could not take her eyes off the bubbling pool at her feet. Camilla noticed and put a hand on Flora's bare shoulder.

"Frightened?" Camilla asked with uncharacteristic kindness. Flora shook her head.

"No, Auntie," Flora said confidently. "Just curious as to what it will feel like. Does it hurt much?"

"Oh yes," Camilla said fondly. "Quite a bit. But not for long. In just a jiffy, you won't feel anything more."

Both girls accepted that without comment or concern, and at Camilla's direction, they each pulled their hair back to fully expose their necks. Now fully nude, the ancient witch produced a curved dagger sanctified through the darkest arts from the pile of robes at her feet. She moved to stand behind Flora.

"Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, nightmare of my nightmares. I reclaim that of myself which I gave to you. Die now so that we may be reunited once more."

And with that, Camilla drew the dagger neatly across Flora's throat. The girl gave a gurgle of pain and surprise, but she didn't fight back, not even as her life's blood poured down her bare chest. Then, Camila shoved the dying girl into the waiting pool, and soon, blood billowed out across the bubbling water, tinting the pool red. Hestia watched her twin's death impassively, and then she leaned her own head back without a care as Camilla moved behind her and repeated the ritual on the other twin. Soon, Hestia's corpse was floating next to her sister's … until, after a few moments, the two dead children began to dissolve into the warm waters of the pool.

When Camilla was satisfied that the waters of the Spawning Pool were of the right consistency, she took a moment to lick the dagger clean of blood before setting it aside. Then, she gingerly stepped down into the pool herself. The hideous nude crone made her way to the center of the pool and slowly lowered herself beneath the waters before coming to rest on the bottom without a hint of buoyancy. She stretched out her legs and arms and laid herself out flat surface beneath her. Then, she opened her eyes and peered up unblinkingly through the blood-tinged waters of the Spawning Pool as she absorbed all the knowledge the Carrow Twins had acquired since their Sorting.

As the old year was reborn into the new one, she continued to stare without blinking beneath the tainted waters of the Pool. Above her, the light-giving pods that hung from the ceiling pulsed with the beating of her heart. Each was three to five feet long, big enough to hold anything from a toddler to a young adult. And clearly visible through their slimy translucent surfaces, each of the pods did house someone: a nude female body held in stasis in a fetal position until fully ripened. There were more than a dozen pods, each containing the body of a girl – the same girl at varying early moments in her life between early childhood and puberty. And as Camilla studied the memories of the dead twins and reminisced about how she had once been a little girl just like Flora and Hestia, two of the pods began to shine brighter than the others. Smaller pods containing the torpid bodies of two young girls who looked like Flora and Hestia Carrow. Exactly like them because they had, in fact, been grown to replace them at Hogwarts when the time was right.

Two "children" borne of blood-soaked nightmares and swaddled in stolen human skin-suits, already eager to return to Hogwarts and continue their predecessors' work.

1 January 1994
Potter Manor
1:00 p.m.

On New Year's Day, Harry Potter slept in for one of the few times in his entire life. While he was normally an early riser still, the New Year's Eve Ball the night before had been exhausting. He'd stayed up until nearly 3 and gotten to enjoy his first taste of champagne (Jim had "snuck" off to a private room with a bottle for a few of their friends – though Harry suspected that James knew and secretly approved). Hermione had begged off this year, wanting to do something "Mugglish" with her parents for New Year's, and, of course, Theo immediately turned down the invitation, saying "No one wants to see a party ruined by an ugly scene, let alone a lynch mob."

But the Greengrass sisters came, as did the Patil sisters. Padma and Parvati seemed to be getting along much better since Parvati's near-death experience the previous summer. Harry gallantly danced with all four of them, though Padma and Parvati spent most of their dance-time with Jim and Ron, the latter of whom seemed mildly uncomfortable with Parvati's obvious crush on her savior. The rest of the Weasleys came this year except for Fred and George. During their waltz, Ginny somewhat gleefully revealed to Harry that the Twins had been grounded for the rest of the Christmas holidays after George had slipped Fred a potion that made every hair on his body fall out and Fred retaliated with a hex that left George unable to speak except in vulgar limericks. Molly was so furious with them both that she left them at home in their room – which, by the way, now included a ward line running right down the center of the room that prevented either of them crossing over into the other's "territory."

After Harry finally woke the next morning, he enjoyed a leisurely brunch with Artie and the Potters before Flooing back to Longbottom Manor. Jim and James had both all but begged him to stay the night and leave for Hogwarts from their house the next day. But Harry demurred, saying that he still had to finish enchanting his broom for Ancient Runes. Lily praised him for his conscientiousness, but both James and Jim seemed baffled that anyone would turn down more time spent on a broom in favor of broom-related homework.

Harry and Artie Flooed straight back to the Longbottom home, where Harry gratefully thanked Artie for coming with him for Christmas. Artie gave him a hug and wished him a happy New Year before leaving through the Floo for his own home. Then, Harry counted to ten before throwing another pinch of powder into the fireplace.

"12 Grimmauld Place," he called out.

Seconds later, Harry stepped out of the fireplace (nearly tripping in the process) into the parlor of Sirius and Regulus's home. The rest of the Azakaban conspirators (including new members Rufus, Buck, and Bellatrix, though Marcus was still at Hogwarts) were waiting for him. There was a table in the center of the room upon which sat a golden chalice that Rufus and Lucius were examining cautiously as if it were a sleeping cobra. Next to the Cup lay the group's last remaining Basillisk fang.

"Is that it?" he asked immediately.

"No, Mr. Potter," Lucius said without looking up. "It's an entirely unrelated golden cup that I found while antiquing in Paris."

Harry sniffed at Malfoy's sarcasm and then hissed as softly as he could (though not softly enough to stop several people from flinching).

"Mark, do you sssense anything?"

"Yesss, my massster. I sssense the presssence of the Creator. He ssslumbers within yon cup. I hear it sssinging to us."

"Uh-huh," Harry said before speaking aloud in English. "Mark says he can hear it singing."

Several of the other conspirators looked at one another nervously.

"Um, I don't hear anything, Harry," said Neville.

"Neither do I, Nev. I'm just passing the message along – the fragment of a Dark Mark that I presently have resting in the small of my back says he can hear it singing." Harry paused to listen to words only he could hear or comprehend. "Well, I suppose humming would be more accurate."

The young Parselmouth moved forward cautiously. The Cup was simpler and less ornate than he'd anticipated. No jewels, just a simple gold chalice with several dancing badgers carved into the surface as filigree. At the basis were two words in Latin: Vinum Bibistus.

"What does Vinum Bibistus mean?" he asked.

"It means drink wine," Sirius said with a laugh. "I might have considered Hufflepuff as an option for my Sorting if I'd known old Helga was such a party girl."

A few others chuckled along with Sirius, but Lucius suddenly studied the inscription more intently.

"Drink wine," he finally said with a sad expression. "This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life."

He looked up at the assembled group, all of who were staring at him in confusion.

"It's from the Rubaiyat, a collection of 11th century poetry written by a Persian wizard known to the Muggles as Omar Khayyam. According to my research, in her youth, the German witch who later took the name Helga Hufflpuff traveled extensively in the Middle and Far East and took Khayyam as a lover for a time. Her own legendary Cup was based off the fabled Seven-Ringed Cup of Jamshid, about which Khayyam wrote many poems, most of which were removed from Muggle libraries by the Statute of Secrecy."

"Huh, learn something new every day," said Buck. "So, do we know what the fabled Seven-Ringed Cup of … Jam-Shed … actually did? Maybe that will tell us more about this thing."

"Very little is known about Jamshid or his Cup. Jamshid himself was a sorcerer-king of Ancient Persia, but most tales about him are less history and more legend. Even less is known definitively about the Seven-Ringed Cup, but the consensus view is that it duplicated some of the properties of the Philosopher's Stone of Nicolas Flamel. It could transform wine into a potion similar to the Elixir of Life, one that could cure all injuries mental and physical and both restore youth and extend longevity. I don't know whether Helga's own Cup had the same properties, but she was the longest-lived of the Founders, dying at well over 200 years of age. And she supposedly maintained a youthful appearance until her last few years before aging quite rapidly. This was only after the death of her fourth husband, Ambroginus Blacksmith, the founder of what later became House Smith. He was by all accounts the most beloved husband of her paramours, and not long after his death, Helga began to age rapidly before dying. I can only assume that grief caused her to voluntarily stop drinking from the Cup, even assuming its magic was the true source for her long life. By that time, she was also the last of the Founders, having outlived the other three by decades, and unlike the Flamels, she had no one to share eternity with. The Cup passed to Ambroginus's heirs, but the process for accessing its magical properties did not. It has been nothing more than a priceless heirloom since then, whatever magic it held before."

"Wait," said Regulus, "Helga Hufflepuff was an immortal witch until she killed herself?"

Lucius shrugged. "If our conjectures are true, then she voluntarily ceased taking a potion that had extended her life perhaps indefinitely. I suppose that can be considered a form of suicide."

"And now He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has that same longevity," Augusta said with resignation.

"Most likely. Tom Riddle, after all would have been in his late 50's at the time of his apparent destruction, but he seemed to be much younger. Of course, even someone who regularly imbibes the Elixir of Life can still die, simply not from old age or disease."

"If … if we could … remove You-Know-Who's soul piece from the Cup," Neville asked nervously. "Would it be safe to use? You know … for healing and stuff?"

Augusta reached over to squeeze his hand, but Scrimgeour shook his head in the negative.

"No, my boy, the risk is too great. I don't think we should hesitate to destroy any of these things when they come into our possession." Next to him, Lucius nodded his assent.

"Still," Sirius said while staring intently at the Cup, "Neville may have a point. I mean, not only is this thing genuine Hogwarts history, but it's a powerful healing device. Is it right for us to simply destroy it without even trying to purify it?"

"I was the one who brought it here," said Bellatrix firmly. "I want to destroy it to revenge myself on the Dark Lord for what was done to me. But I also want to make atonement to the people I hurt while I was under his control."

She looked over to Neville. "I know who you were thinking of when you asked your question, Heir Longbottom, and I agree with you." Then, she turned back to the group. "I think Neville and Sirius are right. We should not destroy the Cup so long as there's a chance it can be used for good!"

"If nothing else," Regulus interrupted. "We should at least hold onto the Cup to determine if it's possible to communicate with it. I mean, we only found out about the Cup because Harry was able to speak with the Locket. And we have no idea where any other horcruxes are, so if we can't learn anything from the Cup, we're at a dead end."

"I cannot articulate how stupid an idea it is to try to interrogate a powerful magical artifact that is housing a piece of the Dark Lord's soul!" Snape spat out.

"And I'll thank you not to call my son-in-law stupid, pally!" Buck growled angrily. "I think he may be onto something. Let the boy try to talk with the Cup and see what happens!"

At that point, everyone in room began to argue about the disposition of Hufflepuff's Cup, but Harry was distracted by a soft hiss only he could hear.

"Massster! The sssong growsss louder!"

Harry did not share this warning with the rest of the group. Instead, he took a moment to observe the increasingly angry debate and see who was on each side. Then, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly enough to silence all argument. He moved closer to the Cup and addressed the group.

"Instead of arguing, why don't we put it to a vote? Everyone who wants to hold off on destroying the Cup for whatever reason, raise your hand." Neville, Bella, Sirius, Regulus, and Buck all held up their hands. Harry nodded.

"Okay, now raise your hand if you want to destroy the Cup now, this very second." Snape, Rufus, Lucius, and Augusta all raised their hands.

"Gran!" Neville exclaimed as if betrayed.

"I'm sorry, Neville," Augusta said contritely, "but the risk is too great. Your parents were targeted by You-Know-Who because they had declared themselves to be his enemy. Frank would never forgive me if I hesitated to destroy a piece of his dark soul, even for a chance to heal both him and your mother."

"What about you, Harry?" Regulus asked. "Right now, it's 5-4 in favor of holding off. Either you vote with us and make it 6-4, or you vote to destroy it and we're tied."

Lucius snorted. "Shall we send someone for young Master Flint to cast a tie-breaker?"

"No," Harry said. "That won't be necessary."

Suddenly, before anyone could react, he shoved Regulus aside, nearly knocking him to the floor. Then, in a flash, he snatched up the Basilisk fang and plunged it into the Cup. Instantly, a deafening scream of pain and fury blasted out of the cursed chalice, followed by a billowing black cloud that rose up to cover the ceiling over the table. Bellatrix screamed and clutched her hands over her ears to block out the noise. Neville, Buck, and the Black brothers were also deeply affected, though not to such extremes. The other wizards present, though frightened, still had the wit to point their wands at the cloud even as angry red eyes appeared in the heart of it to glare at the room. But before anyone could cast a single spell, the malevolent scream faded away and the cloud dissolved, the blood-red eyes simply fading away.

"Bloody hell," Regulus muttered shakily as Snape rushed to a quivering Sirius to force a Calming Draught down his throat.

"Harry!" Neville cried out reproachfully. "How could you! You were the one who wanted a vote in the first place!"

"Yes," Harry answered without taking his eyes off the melted hunk of slag that had been the fabled Cup of Helga Hufflepuff. "And the results of that vote were as follows: Everyone in the room who has strong Occlumency defenses wanted to destroy the horcrux immediately, while everyone who didn't was making excuses for keeping it around indefinitely until we could figure out how to use it."

A chill descended over the room as the five who'd voted to keep the Cup intact realized to their horror the subtlety of the horcrux's manipulation. Buck let out a low whistle.

"Well," he said. "That's bloody creepy, that is."

"Indeed," said Snape. "But on the bright side, that's three down and …" He paused and grimaced. "And we still have absolutely no idea how many horcruxes there are, do we?"

An uncomfortable silence answered his question.

Potter Manor
The Quafflebash Court
4:40 p.m.

Two-man Quafflebash was even more challenging than the team version, and even though James was taking it easy on Jim, the Boy-Who-Lived presently felt more like the Klutz-Who-Couldn't-Fly. As dinner time drew near, James finally took pity on his son, and the two came in for a landing.

"Well, that was miserable," Jim said ruefully.

"Don't feel so bad, Jim," his father replied while putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You have incredible gifts for Seeking, but none of those gifts apply to tight maneuvering, let alone bouncing a Quaffle off your head. If this was broom-racing instead, you'd blow the straw off my broom."

James paused and looked thoughtful. "I wonder how much it would cost to put in a broom-racing course out back." Then, he smirked. "Oh well, I'm rich. I'm sure I can afford it."

Jim laughed. "I bet Harry would like broom-racing. That may be the only part of Quidditch we're both good at. Of course," he said meaningfully, "he does have an unfair advantage what with that Firebolt he has. Hint, hint!"

"We'll talk about it for your birthday. Until then, I guess you'll just have to talk your brother into letting you borrow his broom."

"Gee, thanks Dad," the boy said sarcastically before turning more serious. "So, Harry's really coming to live with us full-time next summer? No more lawyers or chaperones? He'll just be a Potter like the rest of us?"

James rubbed his fingers through his son's hair. "Just like the rest of us." Then, he turned serious himself. "You know, Jim, I made a lot of mistakes with Harry. A lot. And I'm going to do everything I can to fix them. Are you going to be okay with it if it seems like I'm showing him favoritism from time to time? You know I love you both, right?"

"Of course, Dad," Jim said easily. "And I've been getting along with Harry just fine, I'll have you know. Are you sure you're going to be okay with having a Slytherin son and Heir?"

Despite himself, James winced. "I won't lie. It's going to be hard on me at times, letting go of my … feelings, I guess, for Slytherins. It's because of the way I was raised. And … the things I … know." His voice trailed off at the end, and his expression grew frustrated. And perhaps a bit haunted.

"The things you know?" Jim asked.

"Forget it, son," James said, shaking his head. "There are things you and Harry will both need to know someday, but not until you've come of age. Hell, I didn't know them until well after I turned 21. Though, I promise you and Harry will both know before then. I won't repeat my parents' mistakes of waiting until it's too late. And I can only hope you can both understand and forgive me for the things I felt that I had to do for the Greater Good."

Jim looked at him quizzically. "Oookay, that's not cryptic and spooky at all."

"It's alright," James responded. "It's … something Potters have to deal with. And hopefully, you and your brother will handle it better than I did." He flicked his wand for a wordless Tempus. "And on that note, we both need to go wash up. Supper's at 6. And you really need to change into fresh clothes."

Jim grinned. "You just don't like my lucky shirt is all."

"To be honest, I'm not sure what to think about a shirt that says 'Supreme Git of the Universe' that you insist on wearing all the time. You don't wear that around the dorm, do you?"

"Not … all the time," he said evasively. "Hey, its ironic! And like Harry said, we Potter men need something to keep us humble."

"Harry said that?" James said in surprise.

"It's okay. He specifically included himself in that statement."

James laughed. "You should return the favor. For your next joint birthday, you can get him a t-shirt with something equally ... ironic."

"Like what?" Jim asked cheekily.

"Oh, I dunno. 'Slimy Snake Numero Uno,' or something like that."

"Pfft," the boy scoffed. "Snakes aren't slimy, Dad! And Harry needs something classier than that for the Slytherin dorms." He stopped for a second just a few feet from the door as inspiration struck.

"I know! How about … The Prince of Slytherin!" he said with a laugh.

Silence.

Jim turned back to look at his father. Then, he paused uncertainly. For James Potter seemed almost petrified with an expression of absolute horror etched on his face.

"Dad?" the boy said cautiously.

"Where … where did you … Jim, where did hear about that?" James gasped out as if he were suddenly out of breath.

"Dad? What's wrong?" Jim said with concern and mounting unease as he stepped closer to his father. He had never seen the man look this way before. It was almost ... frightening. Then, before the boy could react, James rushed forward, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him forcefully.

"ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!" James roared in a sudden and terrible fury. "WHERE DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE PRINCE OF SLYTHERIN!"

"Dad! Stop it! You're hurting me!"

James ignored his son's cries and continued to hysterically ask about the words Jim had used.

"IS IT HARRY?! IS HE THE PRINCE OF SLYTHERIN? WHY DO YOU THINK THAT?! WHAT DO YOU KNOW?!

Finally, Jim's martial arts training took over. He twisted his shoulders while grabbing James's arms with his own. With a sudden twist, he tossed the older man to the ground before turning and running for the door, calling for help as he did. Before he could reach it, James yanked out his wand, and sealed the door shut with a single angry slash.

"LISTEN TO ME, JIM!" he yelled. "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S AT STAKE!"

James's hand shook madly as he pointed his wand at his younger son while scrambling up to his feet. The elder Potter was so overcome with emotion that Jim might have been able to take him in a duel … if the boy hadn't left his own wand sitting on his nightstand.

"Dad! Just ... just calm down! Tell me what's going! Just explain it to me!"

By this point, James was crying and pulling on his hair almost hard enough to tear it out from the roots. His mouth opened and closed as he struggled to speak.

"… he's going to kill us all, Jim," the man finally whispered in a delirium. "The fire that burns cold! Harry's going to bring everything crashing down around us. And it's because I was too weak and stupid. You have to help me stop him." James's voice broke as he begged his son. "Please … TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!"

Jim swallowed painfully. He had no idea why the title "Prince of Slytherin" should have such an effect, but it seemed to have driven his father mad. He looked around desperately, but there was no way out, and for all his training with Remus Lupin, none of it helped in a big empty room where there was no cover, when he had no wand to fight with, and when his opponent, even in his current condition, was a well-trained Auror. Jim shook his head sadly.

"Dad, whatever is going on, we can all face it together … as a family. But don't ask me to turn against Harry because I won't do it. I love you, but I won't help you hurt Harry any more than this family already has."

The boy reached out to his father, as gently and reassuringly as he could, as if trying to calm a mad dog. Tears poured down the elder Potter's face. The man's whole body shook as if he were on the verge of a fit, but his wand was still pointed firmly at Jim.

"Now, please. Dad. I know you don't want to hurt me ... or Harry. Just unlock the door, so I can go get Mom. Then, we can all sit down together and…."

"IMPERIO!"

Jim had just enough time to feel a sense of shock and betrayal at his own father's use of an Unforgivable Curse against him. Then, all he knew was a wonderful floating sensation that erased both his fears and his power to resist.

The room was silent, save for the painful gasps of James Potter as he stood transfixed in shock at the line he'd just crossed. And in that instant, he understood why the Imperius Curse was deemed Unforgivable. Because he had just imperiused one son in order to use him against the other, and for that, James thought a life sentence to Azkaban was exactly what he deserved.

The seconds ticked by in agonizing slowness, but still James did not release the spell. He simply closed his eyes and let the self-loathing pass through him. Then, he opened his eyes again, now with fresh purpose.

"You will answer my questions," he said coldly. "Where did you hear the phrase "Prince of Slytherin" and what does it have to do with Harry?"

"I heard it from Ron," Jim said in a flat emotionless voice. "He had a flashback to when Tom Riddle was possessing him in the Chamber of Secrets. He still doesn't know any details, but he remembered bits and pieces of Tom and Harry talking about it. That Tom thought Harry was unworthy to become the Prince. That's all either of us know about it."

"Tom … Voldemort was talking to Harry about becoming the Prince of Slytherin?!"

James's vision began to swim. He feared he was in danger of passing out. Or perhaps merely throwing up. Then, he shook his head and focused on Jim who was starting to fight off the Curse. A small part of James was proud of his son for showing such resistance, but he had no time for such emotions. James redoubled his focus on controlling the boy.

"You will forget all this. You will leave this room right now. Go and get cleaned up. Forget everything about what was said or done after we finished our game. Forget you even mentioned the Prince of Slytherin to me."

He hesitated for a moment before continuing.

"When you return to Hogwarts, you will avoid Harry because he is dangerous to be around. If you see or hear of anything at all suspicious involving Harry, you will contact me at once. Go now."

Without a word, Jim turned and headed for the door, and James dismissed his locking spell as the boy reached for the handle. Once Jim had left and the door closed behind him, James's legs finally buckled and he dropped to his knees, his wand landing on the floor beside him. Slowly, he crumpled to the ground and started pawing at his collar when he found it impossible to breathe. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, and the sound of it rushed through his ears like the roar of a dragon.

Deep in the throes of a panic attack, James desperately tried to gasp out the one word that could help him. "El … El … Elmo!"

Instantly, there was a soft pop, and the Potter's chief house elf was at his side.

"Master James!" the tiny creature gasped. "What is the matter! Here, let me summon Mistress Lily!"

"N-n-o!" James managed to get out. "Bring … calming … draught!'

"But Master …."

"Do … do as I say! Now! ... please!"

Elmo nodded and popped away only to return just a few seconds later with a small vial that James snatched out of his hand and drank at once. After just a few seconds, the wizard's heart rate slowed, his breathing returned to normal, and his uncontrollable trembling ceased.

"Master James," Elmo said tentatively. "You are unwell. Can Elmo go and fetch Mistress Lily now?"

James turned to look at Elmo with a dull expression, as if he'd been awoken suddenly and was not sure if he was dreaming or not.

"Listen to me carefully, Elmo, and obey me," he said in a thick slow voice. "I order you to say nothing about this to Lily, to Jim, or to anyone else. You have served this house faithfully since I was a child, but I swear I will give you clothes if anyone else learns about the condition in which you just found me. Do you understand?"

The house elf nodded fearfully, as his eyes widened like saucers. At James's command, Elmo popped away, leaving the wizard alone on the floor of the Quafflebash court. He leaned back until he was lying on the cold hard floor of the court and put his hands over his face. The Calming Draught had ended the worst of his panic attack, but it did nothing for the overpowering dread that poured over James once more, a dread that had been at the root of nearly every bad decision he'd made since 1981. Ever since the day he first heard the damnable words of Cassandra Trewlaney from an orb he happened to find in his father's private safe.

This is how our world will end –
In a cold but all-consuming fire.

AN 1: I'm sorry, but I must admit defeat when it comes to scheduling updates. For the immediate future, I will update as I can. Future chapters will still appear first on my website and will be available free to followers of my Discord server. They will be published there in chunks which will be merged into completed chapters and then posted here when they are finished and edited. I'm sorry for any frustrations that my publishing schedule (or lack thereof) may cause.

AN 2: Casting Call!
The part of Dan Granger will be played by Bradley Walsh at age 40.
The part of Emma Granger has not yet been cast, but I'm leaning towards Rachel Weisz.
The part of Gaston Legard will be played by Gordon Ramsey.
The part of the snooty maitre d' will be played by obscure American character actor Jonathan Schmock, who played a similar role in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

AN 3: Special thanks to my editors from the POS-Editorial channel on Discord: akitcougar, Asmund, curedetTepes, dragoria, Dom_the_rock, Emily Elizabeth, FeatheryMinx, Gloweye, HeidiWolf, INSTICNT_Klutz, Ladyshjwblack, Miss Anne Thrope, Prince of Conspiracy, ProfessionalDragonslayer, Pokeflute, slytherin's daughter, TrendyTreky, nispeed, vibhavi, Vin5

AN 4: Hermione's French is supposed to say something to the effect of "I am fluent in French, thank you. I'll have the Salad Nicoise and the Beef Shanks."

AN 5: Check my author page for links to my Discord page, the POS TV Tropes Page, the POS Wiki, and the P*****n page for my original, non-Harry Potter writing.