The Fae did not attend, though some claimed to have spotted a knight on a white horse watching from the shadows of the wood. This would surprise no one, for the Fae are just as deeply vested as the rest of the races.

-Sayern nar'Hazozh (The History of the Treaty), translated circa 1952

"I'm sorry for figuring out your secret, Harry, Neville, Blaise, Daphne. I promise to learn Occlumency, though, and won't tell Daddy. Is there enough lunch for me too?"

Harry blinked at her, wondering what 'secret' she had figured out. He glanced questioningly at Hermione, who winced. Harry's eyes went wide. "What secret, Luna?" he demanded, heart racing in his chest.

"About the prophecies and your other selves and all of that."

"She's apparently descended from the Fae," Hermione muttered, not meeting anyone's gaze. "And her family's quite friendly with the centaurs."

"Oh, yes," Luna agreed. "I really just figured it out yesterday when Auntie Sybil gave her prophecy to Hermione. At least, I think it was to Hermione. She looked like she looked at you sometime in the prophecy, and none of the rest of you were there. I suppose she could have intended for Hermione to act as messenger to the rest of you, though."

Harry's head spun. He didn't notice Hermione's sharp look, her frown at Luna's lie. He didn't notice how Blaise closed his eyes, trying and failing to activate his Sight. He didn't notice how Neville and Daphne turned to each other, exchanging silent suggestions. All he saw was Luna Lovegood, odd, eccentric Luna Lovegood, who had somehow figured out his secret. Merlin, he could barely even call it a secret anymore! First Tyr, then Moony and Padfoot, now Luna. Who would be next, Crabbe and Goyle? Voldemort? Dumbledore?

"Are you okay, Harry?"

He didn't know.

"It's my fault, I think," Hermione mumbled, shuffling her feet.

"Oh, no." Luna shook her head. "You're not an Aquavirus Maggot, Hermione. You can't reach into my brain and rearrange my thought patterns and take away my memories. You're the opposite of an Aquavirus Maggot—you're Truth's Messenger. Is it any wonder that I learned the truth in your presence?" Her head-shaking accelerated, blond hair whipping back and forth, "It really just means that you're doing your job very well."

Harry fought back his curiosity as to what exactly Aquavirus Maggots were to ask, "How did you say you figured this out again?"

Just as she had before, Luna refrained from mentioning Hermione's Portkey. Harry might have seen the older Ravenclaw hand it over—she had no idea what he'd watched on the screens during yesterday's task; he might have been observing the Gryffindors or his own House when Hermione gave her the key—but if he had, he wasn't acting like it, and she saw no reason to remind him. He might be angry with Hermione, and that simply wouldn't do. No, better to blame Auntie Sybil, who really couldn't help spouting out prophecies every once in a while. Harry was friends with a Seer. He would understand Auntie's foibles without blaming her. "I figured it out by watching my auntie give her prophecy. I thought it was a bit strange that she would give it when one of the five wasn't present, but then I remembered that Hermione had four friends who fit the descriptions."

"Couldn't she just have spit it out during my Divination class?" Blaise whined. "That's one of the reasons I take that class!"

"She can't help it," Luna pointed out. "Can you help your own visions, Blaise Zabini, Smoking Mirror?"

A groan was his only reply.

"You said that you won't tell anyone?" Daphne repeated. She stepped ahead of the boys, her body language dominant and demanding.

"I won't." Luna held out her hand. "I'll even pinky swear it."

Daphne hesitated for a moment before linking her own pinky finger with the other girl's.

"I, Luna Lovegood, do solemnly swear not to reveal the prophetic identities of Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Hermione Granger unless they or Saysa the Guardian gives me explicitly expressed permission. Is that good?"

"I suppose it depends on what 'that' is," Daphne sighed. "Is it good that another person knows? No. Am I glad that you won't voluntarily tell? Quite."

The reference to the Mind Arts snapped Neville out of his temporary stupor. "Luna, there's something called Legilimency. Dumbledore sometimes uses it to look into peoples' minds."

The girl was nodding. "Hermione told me. She's going to teach me Occlumency. I think you should teach everybody Occlumency. You should write a Better than Binns pamphlet about it."

Blaise gawked at her. "That's actually a good idea."

"Is it? Oh, goody. You might also want to change the name. Professor Binns has been getting better lately. My classmates actually stayed awake in class this week!"

"Occlumency lessons for the school," Harry repeated. His racing heart had slowed some, though it was still faster than it should be. "Blaise is right, that is a good idea. If we're sneaky enough, we can get all sorts of material to the other students, and there won't be a blame thing Dumbledore can do about it without raising some questions he doesn't want anyone to ask." The boy lifted a hand to his chin. His heart rate reverted to its normal pace. "But it might also let him know that we're onto him. Perhaps through the VV instead?"

"Yeah." Blaise, too, had calmed down. "That could be one of your columns, Harry. It'd be a nice change from all your articles about how no, really, I'm really truly honestly not Voldemort's son."

Harry scowled. "I still blame you for that."

Daphne elbowed him. "Fascinating as your ongoing argument is, I think we should focus on what Luna can contribute to the cause."

Hermione winced. Her Slytherin friend could be almost brutally Machiavellian at times. "Daphne-"

"I'm not offended," Luna assured them both. "Hm, how can I contribute? I can introduce you to my great-great-great-grandmother Niamh."

"Who?" Neville asked.

"She's a Fae, silly. Haven't you ever heard the story of Oisin?"

Neville had. His eyes bugged out. "That Oisin? The one who vanished for years and years?"

"Yes. He's still alive, or at least he was the last time I checked. You know that time flows differently in Tir na nOg."

"Do you know much about the Fae?" Daphne queried slowly. She was talking to Luna, but her gaze was riveted on Hermione's face. "Because someone-" Baleful blue eyes flickered towards Blaise, who had the grace to wince "-got us into a spot of trouble with them this Halloween, and Harry got himself into trouble with them last year."

Luna went rigid, entire body shaking. "What do you mean, trouble?"

"Perhaps 'trouble' is too strong of a word," Daphne recanted. "But Hermione has been having some problems with your distant kin, and a few weeks ago Blaise roped her into performing rituals for them."

Luna placed her hands over her ears. "You shouldn't tell me this," she declared. "I don't know Occlumency yet. La la la, I can't hear you, la la la."

Daphne's face twitched, but she was forced to acknowledge that Luna had a point. If her mind was compromised, they wanted her to leak as few details as possible.

"I have the most experience with Occlumency," Harry sighed. Luna, who was still la-ing with her hands cupping her ears, didn't seem to hear him. The annoyed Parselmouth grabbed her hands, dragged them away from her head, and repeated himself. "I have the most experience with Occlumency, so I should teach you. Do you have your schedule on you?" He dropped Luna's hands to grab his wand. One Summoning Charm later, his daily planner flew into his grasp.

"No. I don't have one. I prefer spontaneity to rigidity. It's better for the soul, you know."

"Gotcha," Harry mumbled, a bit nonplussed. "But we kind of need a bit of rigidity when it comes to scheduling lessons. Otherwise we wouldn't know when to get together."

"I could help," Hermione volunteered. "We're in the same House. It would look less suspicious if we spent a bit more time together. Perhaps you and I could alternate?"

"Good plan, Hermione," Harry decided. He had the most annoying feeling that he was forgetting something, but what? Oh, right. "And Luna?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome to the team."

The trial of Peter Pettigrew—and, through him, of Sirius Black—dominated the news until Christmas. The entire wizarding world was appalled, horrified, disgusted. How, they asked, could this—this—this Death Eater have lived so long without garnering suspicion? How had Sirius Black, the poor innocent he had framed for all sorts of crimes, gone so long without a trial? How had this happened? Had it happened to anyone else? Could they trust any of the verdicts from the last war?

Records and transcripts were opened to the public. Fudge washed his hands of the scandal, pointing out that Bagnold's administration had been responsible for Black's wrongful imprisonment and offering him a full pardon—if he showed up at the Ministry of Magic headquarters to claim it.

Sirius was, quite understandably, not entirely convinced. In an editorial letter in the Vox Veritatis, he wrote, I have no doubt of Minister Fudge's sincerity, but the fact of the matter is that powerful people were behind my imprisonment. At least two of these people are still around. Until I'm officially cleared through a public trial, until my reputation is redeemed in the eyes of the British people, I can't risk turning myself in…. Peter Pettigrew's trial can serve as my own. When the Wizengamot, having heard the evidence, names me innocent, I will return. Probably.

In all honesty, few wizards blamed him for his paranoia. The man had been imprisoned for years without a trial, without anyone even talking to him. He was innocently persecuted, unable to meet his godson (who just so happened to be Mark Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the darling of the wizarding world. That, of course, made everything ten times worse) without Aurors trying to drag him back to Azkaban for a fatal Kiss.

The Ministry of Magic was forced to set up a special room for all the Howlers sent Pettigrew's way.

At Hogwarts, Dumbledore had a similar problem. Sirius had mentioned in his editorial (in passing, of course) that the Supreme Mugwump had been the one to cast the Fidelius Charm which had failed to protect Lily and James. The old man was forced to admit to the press that yes, he had done such a thing, but Sirius hadn't been in Azkaban for his friends' death. He had been imprisoned due to the twelve Muggles whom Pettigrew had murdered to cover his own tracks. Most of the wizarding world accepted their leader's explanation, but the seeds of doubt had been planted in more than a few hearts.

The issue which contained Sirius's letter also held a nice little article on the history of Occlumency. Its counterpart, Legilimency, had been used by several Dark wizards throughout the ages, including Lord Voldemort and several of his followers. The article specifically cited Lucius Malfoy, who hadn't really been a Legilimens but was in no position to protest, and Bellatrix Lestrange, whose skills were genuine. If one Death Eater had escaped punishment and could use Legilimency, Pollux implied, why shouldn't there be others who had done the same? Perhaps, he cautioned, there were other Death Eaters running free who could also rummage around his readers' minds. If Malfoy had done it, what would stop the others? At the end of his piece, he informed his readers that the VV would be doing a series on basic Occlumency techniques (how to detect a Legilimency probe, side benefits of an organized mind, basic shields, and so on) and listed half a dozen books on the subject. Flourish and Blotts received so many orders for those books in the next few days (people evidently thought they would be great Christmas gifts for their relatives) that they ran out and had to order another publication.

All in all, Harry was rather proud of his little expose's effects.

Hermione restored her first rath just before break began. She should have done that in November at the first full moon but had opted instead to attend Daphne's ceremony. When the orange-eyed knight on his wild stallion had appeared, Hermione had attempted to get more information out of him. What exactly was the deal between Blaise and the Winter Queen? Why were his people so interested in her? Was there any way she could control her serpent sight while restoring the rath?

The Fae knight had just informed her that if she didn't do her share of the work next full moon, the deal was off. She wouldn't like that at all, he predicted, so she had better show up. Then he'd tossed a silvery bow at her, light and strong and sturdy, and galloped through the skies.

"You really should have known better than to expect a straight answer from him," Daphne muttered.

Hermione touched her new bow. It was rowan, the wood required for the ritual, strung with a single silvery strand of hair. It was beautiful and elegant, carved with a pattern of tiny feathers, an ancient symbol of air (not to mention their slightly more obvious association with owls).

One month later, she drew the bow back and shot. It was the first time she used her new weapon—it hadn't felt right to use something so beautiful and alien for her lessons with Firenze, but she almost had to use a Fae weapon for a Fae ritual. She squinted throughout the ceremony, afraid to look into the center of the rath. Whenever she blinked, her serpent sight would involuntarily flicker, only to be forced down again with her next blink. By the time she had completed the ritual, her eyes were dry as dust, her vision beginning to blur.

Blink.

"Ah," she said, completely unsurprised. "I thought you'd be here."

The pumpkin-eyed knight tapped his horse's neck. The beast ambled over to Hermione. This rath is strong, Truth's Messenger. Others of my kind can walk here as well.

"Others?" she echoed. "You mean that not all Fae can go through each portal?"

The fiery eyes grew sad. My people are much weakened.

"That's awful," said Hermione, and was surprised to realize that she meant it. Were the Fae dangerous? Yes. They were spiteful, capricious, and just generally unsafe, but…. They were so beautiful, so wild. There was something sad about them not being as free as they should be, even if it might just be for the best.

Safety and freedom, security and wildness; she wished with all her heart that these things were closer kindred.

You understand, the knight noted approvingly. That is well, for you are more strongly tied to our people as a whole than the other four. The Prince of Flowers belongs to dwarves and centaurs, the Smoking Mirror to veela and the house-elves who will follow this road, the Daughter of Frost to the lost selkies and the mer, the Lightning Speaker to the goblins and the hounds of God, but you are ours, and you belong to us more thoroughly than they belong to their folk. One hand, cool as moonlight, touched Hermione's hair.

She swallowed, regained her voice. "W-what do you mean?" Her head was spinning. They belonged to the races? Daphne belonged to the selkies and the mer? That shouldn't be possible—Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them claimed that selkies and the mer were one and the same. Perhaps different tribes of merpeople?

But the mer question could wait. "Could you please explain why, exactly, I belong to you?"

The inhuman knight withdrew his hand. His eyes bored into hers, two nighttime suns. Fear not Fire's bargain.

And then he was gone.

Blaise waved goodbye to his friends. They waved back. Well, Harry and Neville did. Daphne and Hermione hadn't seen him, but he was quite certain that they'd have waved too if they had noticed his farewell. Then he turned his attention to someone who was decidedly not his friend.

It wasn't that Blaise didn't love his mum. He did. He just didn't approve of her, trust her, or want her to get her way. He rather liked her latest husband, even if the man had forced him to sign up for choir for the second year in a row. Endymion was a naïve music-lover, not a criminal who deserved to die.

"Hello Mum, Endymion."

"I've told you, Blaise, call me Dad." Endymion forced a smile, a hint of hurt in the corner of his eyes. He was an alright bloke, his stepson reflected. A bit dim, but alright.

Anath cleared her throat. She never had been one for public displays of affection.

Endymion blushed. "Sorry, darling. I'm just so glad for you, for me, for us." Potion-induced love shone in his eyes.

"I am too," Anath lied, "but we're in public."

Blaise sighed softly. His mum always got like this just a few months before his stepfathers disappeared. He didn't have much time.

They entered the long line for the public Floo, waited in silence for their turn. Blaise forced his thoughts onto more pleasant—or at least more productive—subjects. He was quite certain that he knew the procedure down pat, but he'd copied out the relevant sections anyways and had the notes in his carry-on. All he needed was one of the older wizard's hairs (which should be pretty easy to acquire. Why would anyone lock up his comb?) and he would be set.

Dinner caused Blaise to revise his earlier estimate of Endymion's time left, and not for the better. The man had until April at the latest. With that in mind, he skipped desert ("I had too many Cauldron Cakes on the train." "Blaise, you know those things will rot your teeth." "I know, Mum, but they're just so delicious!") in favor of raiding the master bedroom.

It was almost funny, how little space Endymion's possessions took up compared to those of his wife. The man's belongings, much like the man himself, had been pushed aside in favor of the more dominant magician. However, they were a great deal more organized than Anath's possessions, so Blaise was able to find the hairbrush and take away half-dozen hairs. It was five more than he needed, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Besides, it wasn't like Endymion would notice that six of his hairs had vanished off his comb.

After he returned to his room, Blaise flicked his wand at one of the hairs. It began to shimmer softly, a sure sign that the magic was working. The boy smiled.

The next day, when the hair had stopped glowing, Blaise-as-Apollo Peverell Portkeyed with it to Founder's Isle. He'd brewed the necessary potion last week. Now all he had to do was drop the hair into it and wait. Sure enough, the potion darkened to deep, almost bloody red. The red pooled there for several minutes. Blaise's heart pounded. It was supposed to change now, wasn't it?

The red color leached away, to be replaced by an infamous mother-of-pearl sheen. Steam rose from the potion in characteristic spirals. Blaise swore as the scent of hot coco and wood fire reached his nostrils.

Amortentia. His mum had been using Amortentia, the one love potion with no antidote except time, on her spouses. He wasn't surprised, just unhappy, for how could he get Endymion away long enough for its effects to wear off? He even considered asking Saysa to Petrify him before remembering that the Petrification wouldn't let the potion leave Endymion's bloodstream.

"It would be so much easier if there were just an antidote," he grumbled.

The potion was evaporating more rapidly now, cloying the air with its scent. Very little remained in the cauldron. Blaise huffed, time for Plan B.

He let the Portkey carry him home, where, after changing back into Blaise, he made his way to the potions supply cupboard. None of the ingredients for Amortentia were present. Once again, the Slytherin was less than surprised. Of course his mum had a private stash.

Blaise almost wished he had Hermione's serpent sight. Yes, it would be horrible to be stalked by a Fae knight (especially one who seemed to think that his people OWNED her), but it would make finding his mum's secret room a lot easier. Too bad he couldn't invite her over, either, because her snaky sixth sense-

"I'm an idiot."

An hour later, the family owl winged his way off to northern Scotland and Harry Potter with a letter attached to his leg. Dear Harry, it said, would it be possible for me to borrow Sisith for a while? If it is, please just make sure to bring him to our next meeting. Thanks, Blaise.

He watched the owl go with a smile.

"Gregory," grunted Mr. Goyle. "You have been honored."

The dull-eyed boy perked up. "Honored?" he repeated.

"Honored," his father confirmed, but refused to say anything more until they were at the manor.

Their elf, Coco, silently greeted her masters with piping-hot tea. She had grown thinner since Gregory had left, the lines on her face more pronounced. Her arms trembled a bit as she handed them their cups, though fortunately not enough to spill anything. "The Great Master has been waiting," she told them.

Mr. Goyle nodded. "Come along, Gregory." He led his son through the elegant halls of the manor, which were even cleaner than usual. Considering the care which Coco and Hob, her husband, took while cleaning, that was saying something. Gregory followed without a word. He had long ago learned that it was pointless to ask questions. Never a curious child to begin with, his remaining wonder at the world had been quickly squashed.

The door slid open.

Gregory's jaw dropped. The thing before him (what was it? Not a hippogriff, not a flobberworm, but something like a twisted human child, big-headed and demon-faced, red-eyed and pasty-white) was the most hideous creature he'd ever seen, a true abomination.

"The Dark Lord," his father whispered, sinking to his knees. "My lord, this is my son, Gregory Goyle, Junior."

The boy followed his father's example, dropping to the floor. "My lord," he mumbled, heart pounding in fear.

If he had been looking up, he would have seen Lord Voldemort's monstrous face contort into a cruel semblance of a smile. "Rise, boy," he rasped, his voice high and horrible like nails against a blackboard. "I have a task for you."

*cowers from angry readers* I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I was in England for a month, and then school started up again, and I'm just sorry. So, so sorry. The next chapter will be up faster, I promise. And speaking of next chapters, does anyone have any advice for starting a schedule for updates? Spontaneity might be good for the soul, as Luna claims, but I'm sure you guys would prefer me to update once every X days instead of randomly. And hopefully that will keep me a bit more honest as well. Again, any advice?

-Antares