Saturday, 8 January 1994
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Cornwall
Peter Pettigrew
There was a loud crash, and a small explosion from the floor below that where Peter was curled up on the pillow of the boy he had lived with for the past two and a half years. He flinched, and curled himself into a smaller ball as the boy's mother's incredibly loud, incredibly shrill voice shrieked up the stairwell, reprimanding her middle children for trying to blow up the house. (Again.) Ron just sighed loudly, looking up briefly from his last-minute efforts to complete his holiday homework, and muttered, "Bloody arseholes. I swear to God, if they blow up my room…"
Two voices echoed, "Sorry, mum!" just enough out of sync for the harpy to know that both of them had answered.
Peter relaxed slightly, knowing that they would keep things quiet, now, at least for a little while, planning pranks or mischief until their mother's temper waned. Then the experiments would start again. Explosions shaking the house, threatening its fragile stability. But for now, there was nothing to worry about.
There was, he knew, a time in his life when he would have been down there with the twins, if he could have been, helping them to think up new pranks, new potions to try and new enchantments to write. They reminded him of all the best parts of school, the best parts of the men he used to call friends, brothers: loud, wild, maybe a little dangerous, even, but tempered enough to be funny more often than cruel.
But that was a long time ago, and he knew it like it was a story that had happened to someone else.
He used to be the sort of person who wanted to be at the center of things, always hanging around the loud, dangerous, exciting boys – not loud or dangerous or exciting himself, but, oh, how he had wanted to be. He had wanted to be like James, like Sirius. He had thought scornful thoughts of Remus, who could have been like them, but wouldn't try, because he was too afraid of himself, of the Wolf within him.
He had wanted that right up until the moment the War had become real.
Until the moment he realized that Regulus had led him into a trap.
He didn't blame Reg, even now – the younger boy had been so kind to him, only trying to help – but he had fallen into the trap nonetheless, and then, only then had he realized what it meant to truly be at the center of things, caught between truly dangerous people. To harbor a secret that made you a danger to everyone around you.
He had never understood Remus better than he did in those years, those thirty-three months of torture, when he had been caught in that web of lies and guilt, with no right answers and no way out.
He had gone, suddenly, from a young enchanter on the fringes of the Order, supplying them, helping, but mostly taking care of his ailing mother, to a spy, coerced, attempting (all untrained) to become a double agent, to get himself back on the right side.
He had failed.
He had failed so miserably, so completely, that both sides would condemn him, if they knew he lived.
He knew that most people would probably think him mad for choosing to remain in his animagus form for so many years, but the war had broken him. Even before Bellatrix had torn into his mind, and You Know Who had shredded his soul, tearing the Secret from him, all he had wanted was a quiet life. A safe life.
He had been brave – as brave as he could be – refusing to give up, telling himself that he would find a way to get back to the Light, that he would get some crucial bit of information on the Death Eaters, go to Dumbledore, save himself. He had tried to betray only the least-important details, and only when he absolutely had to, all the while seeking that opening, but there had been no opening, and then they had damned him, asking him to take on the Secret, and he had damned himself, unable to tell his one-time friends, those dangerous boys grown into dangerous men, that he was weak, that he had betrayed them, that he could not be trusted. Not with that.
So trust him they had, and he had failed.
The moment he had put his own life before the Potters', even as he tried to convince himself that there was no other way, he had prayed to God for mercy, because he knew there would be none for him on Earth.
The Death Eaters left him, broken, lying like rubbish in a corner, distracted by their own games and politics as HE had gone off to murder the best man Peter had ever known, to kill his daughter for the possibility she represented, that she might be the one who could someday destroy him. Peter had crawled away, physically unharmed, but in pain beyond anything he had ever felt, before or since. Sirius had once said that there was a worse pain than the Cruciatus, beyond the physical, and Peter hadn't believed it, until then. But he could still do magic. He could still transform. He could run, and he did, leaving that dark place behind.
Maybe it would have been safer to stay, knowing that Sirius and Remus would be out for his blood as soon as they heard, but he couldn't stay there, with them.
And then he had heard, lurking around the back of the Cauldron, that the Dark Lord had fallen, and he knew that if it had been on his word, if the Prophecy had come true, and he had allowed it to happen, there was nowhere in the world he could hide from Bellatrix. God, what a nightmare, running from Blacks on both sides of the war.
He had been, officially, in too deep. But he had always been good at thinking on his feet. The only thing left to do was to try to save himself, no matter the cost. The only way to stop the Death Eaters from hunting him down and killing him very, very painfully, and worse, killing his mother to get to him, was to make them think he was dead. He had to die, and very publically.
He had to frame someone for his murder.
And, God forgive him, he had known immediately who it would be.
Remus was still out of the country, on business for Dumbledore, but Sirius… Sirius would be out there, somewhere, hunting him down. It was only a matter of time, really, until he found him. And when he did, well… it would be only too easy for most of the world to believe that dangerous, unstable Sirius Black had been the one to truly betray the Potters. That he had been working for the Dark all along.
Peter thought he would lie low until the Death Eaters were rounded up, until Remus would definitely have heard of his 'death' and Sirius' 'betrayal,' and then he would leave the country, start a new life somewhere else, where no one knew his face. Venezuela, maybe.
But then Malfoy had somehow suckered the Wizengamot into believing an Imperius defense, and any Death Eater with money and sense had ridden his coattails to safety – all the most dangerous ones, in other words. He had never known which ones held the other ends of the tracking charms embedded in his very blood and bones, but he didn't think he could risk it, taking back his human form, even half a world away.
It was the greatest of ironies that he had, in the end, found his safe, quiet life. There were worse fates than being "reincarnated" as the Weasley boys' pet rat. He had a warm, safe place to sleep and as much food as he wanted, he didn't have to work, and all of his enemies thought he was dead. Except one.
Sirius Black.
He wasn't stupid, even in rat form. Weak, yes. Scared, yes. But not stupid.
Rats were, as Percy had once liked to brag to his friends, incredibly intelligent animals. A clever rat could learn a lot of things, lurking in the background, listening to important conversations.
It had taken him all of half an hour after that fateful Daily Prophet had been delivered to learn that Sirius was out of Azkaban. He had escaped from Azkaban. Well… if anyone was going to escape Azkaban and then elude the dementors for months on end, Peter supposed he wasn't surprised that it was Sirius. He'd always had a gift for doing and being a little impossible. Larger than life.
Everyone thought that he was coming to Hogwarts to kill Mary Potter, but Peter knew the truth: Sirius would have protected little Mary with his life. If there was anyone he would be coming to Hogwarts to kill, it was Peter.
How he had figured out where Peter was, Peter didn't know.
But he knew about Peter's Wormtail form. He was one of the three living people who knew about that. Four, if Bellatrix had told You Know Who after she legilimized him, and HE counted as 'living.' (Another one of those important things Peter knew from strategic lurking was that whatever James and Lily had done, however Mary Potter had destroyed HIM, it hadn't taken. No one who had an ounce of sense really believed HE was gone.)
Still, Sirius was the only one of them who knew Peter was still alive. He was literally the only threat to Peter's living a long, happy (or at least reasonably content) life as a rat.
If he thought he'd stand any chance at all of tracking Sirius down and killing him before he could kill Peter, Peter half thought he might grit his teeth and have a go at it. But he knew, deep down in the tattered remains of his shredded soul, that he didn't. Sirius was, when it came down to it, still a Black: deeply unstable and utterly terrifying. Peter could still remember the look on his face when Pete had told McGonagall about how he had nearly killed Snivellus. Betrayal and bloodlust. And it would only be a million times worse, this time, after Peter had failed to protect James and Lily, and then threw Sirius under the lorry in his place, faked his own death, and disappeared to spend twelve years safe and secure and not in prison, or being hunted down by both the Death Eaters and the Order.
He wouldn't be surprised if Sirius managed to kill him with his bare goddamn hands.
If, that was, Sirius managed to catch Peter before the dementors caught him.
So now he had a choice to make. There were two options.
The first was to run. He could do it. He could run away from Ron at King's Cross, get on a train, be on his way to anywhere but Britain in a matter of hours. But that would mean taking the risk that, however Sirius knew how to find him, however he had known that Peter was up in Gryffindor Tower on Halloween night, he would be able to find him again. Taking the risk that Sirius would be able to move faster than he could. Give up his security, his easy life as a pet, in favor of the uncertainty of a life on the run, and not stop until one of them was caught.
The second was to go back to Hogwarts. He could keep his place as Ron's pet, safe behind the strongest wards in Magical Britain. Not that they had stopped Sirius getting in and out as a student or on Halloween, but they had to be slowing him down, at least. And more importantly, if they couldn't stop him, Peter was pretty sure no other wards would be able to. And everyone from the Minster of Magic to Dumbledore himself was determined to keep Mary Potter safe from Sirius. So logically, the safest place to be would be right next to her.
He knew he should go back, but he was terrified.
It was like sitting in a baited trap, where he was the bait, waiting for the dementors to finally do their goddamned jobs and capture Sirius again!
He knew it was safest there, but he wanted to run. He wanted to run as far as he could, bury himself in some lost corner of the world, and not have to worry about his one-time friend tracking him down and ripping him limb from limb.
The best he could hope for, if Sirius caught him, was a quick death, but Sirius had always been the cruel one, out of the four of them – he might regret it, after, when James told him he wasn't funny, but he thought nothing of picking out a victim's greatest insecurities and playing on them for a laugh. And now, thanks to Peter, there was no James to hold him back.
He shivered, uncurled so that he could ball himself up again, so anxious he was making himself sick.
Ron, who had obviously been watching, rose from his desk and stroked Wormtail's nose gently, murmuring soothing, empty words.
Peter made a conscious effort to relax. He knew he was not all that interesting of a pet, but he appreciated that Ron had made the effort to care for his old, hand-me-down rat. The least Peter could do was try to stop the kid worrying about him.
Ron, satisfied to have soothed his pet, returned to his homework, muttering invective against Snivellus, who had, inexplicably, kept his position as Potions Professor after the end of the war, despite the fact that he was no longer needed there as a spy.
Perhaps, like Peter, he thought it was the safest place for him, under the wing of the Headmaster he had duped into believing he was a double agent (and wouldn't Peter like to know how he had pulled it off, the whole double agent thing, in just a little over a year, when Peter hadn't managed to do so over nearly three, the slimy, sodding bastard). But then, Snape had always been smart. Peter might hate him for finding a way to live his life in the open, for getting his Mastery barely two years out of Hogwarts, and for refusing to bow before the might of the Marauders back in school, but the fact remained, he had managed to do all of those things. If he thought that Hogwarts was the safest place to be, it probably was.
He let out a small, rat-sized sigh. He knew what he was doing. He was trying to convince himself to go back. Or rather, trying to convince himself that the decision he had already made to go back was the right one. It left him shaking, but he knew it would be more dangerous to run. He was sure of it. But that didn't change the fact that making the best of a poor lot of choices wasn't really the same thing as making a good choice.
The war had taught him nothing if not that.
Sunday, 9 January 1994
Hogwarts Express
The last few days of break, Mary felt, had been just about perfect. The Doctors Granger were back to work, so there had been fewer opportunities for friction between them and Hermione. She and Hermione had been getting on well since the older girl had admitted that she had been keeping her association with the Weasley twins a secret. She swore up and down that Mary now knew all of her secrets, or at least that she wasn't intentionally keeping anything from her. They had spent the vast majority of the last half-week of vacation outlining a warding system for Mary's dorm room, with the help of the book Remus had given Mary and a few tricks the twins had taught Hermione. At Dan's suggestion, they had owled a copy to Bill, asking him whether he thought it would work.
The Professor had forwarded a notice from Gringott's about a pair of deposits to her account, which she was certain had to be a mistake, until it was followed by a note from Snape, which explained that he had completed the dissection and sale of the basilisk, and had deposited a ten-percent finder's fee in her name. The second deposit was exactly one third of the first, and after several hours of head-scratching, Mary realized that the twins must have followed through on the bargain they had made at the end of the previous year, to give her an equal share of the proceeds if she spoke to Snape for them about claiming the carcass of the giant serpent. Looking at the numbers, she joked that it was almost enough incentive to go into basilisk farming, if this was only thirteen percent of the profits.
Hermione, predictably, took this slightly more seriously than Mary had intended, pointing out that it would probably be easier for a Parselmouth to get a license to do so, but Mary thought it would probably be way too difficult for her to actually kill them – at least if they weren't actively trying to kill her. "Seriously, though – what is Snape going to do with… seven or eight times this amount of money?" she had asked, to change the subject.
It was somewhat reassuring to find that, despite her Ravenclaw friend's sudden and surprising relationship with the Head of Slytherin, she had no idea. It was good to know (though she wasn't sure exactly why she felt it was good) that there were some things Snape had not seen fit to discuss with Hermione, despite their time spent bonding over the Dark Arts (or whatever – that was how Hermione made it sound, at least, even if it wasn't intentional).
Spurred on by the reminder of the Chamber of Secrets Debacle, Mary buckled down and finished her translation of the main text of the book Riddle had sent her. (The marginalia were far more difficult to decipher, given that she wasn't entirely sure what language they were in half the time, and she had long-since given up on them entirely.) It was… interesting, to be sure, but not entirely useful. The best part of it, she thought was the syllabary and the discussion of possible uses for it in runic casting, but there were two major issues with actually trying to use any of the spells it suggested.
Firstly, the book often said something like "The symbol '[ ̴̥̽]' signifies the initial sound in the word which translates as 'expectare,'" which was problematic because expectare could be translated as to wait or to hope or to look, which all had very different initial sounds when Mary tried hissing them aloud in Parsel. Secondly, runic casting was illegal, not because it was actually dark (or at least not according to Hermione), but because it was potentially very powerful and destructive if it went wrong, even if you were trying to use it in healing or protection spells, which meant there was practically no one around who could and would teach her how to do it.
She had still had to spend half a morning convincing Hermione that they didn't need to re-write her bedroom wards to include a Parsel element to block unwanted noise, just to see if it would work as a carved rune-scheme. On the whole, she preferred that the wards worked, and she didn't want to risk messing everything else up just to test a Parsel rune or two.
Lilian had come over later that afternoon to laze about and fool around with the computer: she had never seen one in person before, and the others had had a good time demonstrating its use with Emma's small collection of games. Lilian, to no one's surprise but Hermione's, beat Hermione's high score in Pac-Man on her second try. They carefully avoided discussing their row over Yule, and Mary brought out her photo from the Wizengamot excursion, which earned her a (relatively quiet) wolf whistle from her fellow Slytherin. "I take it back," she had declared. "You're already a bit of a looker, Blitz." Mary had flushed slightly at the easy compliment, but she didn't think either of the others had noticed, because Lilian had gone right on to say, "Now if only we could get Hermione to do something about that hair…"
Dan and Emma had taken the girls out to dinner the night before they were to head back to school, to a Lebanese restaurant, which was nothing like any food Mary had ever had before. She found herself bemoaning, for the first time, that the Hogwarts elves didn't prepare a broader selection of meals. They were brilliant at the standard fare, of course, but there weren't a whole lot of opportunities to try new things.
The trip back to Hogwarts was very similar in many ways to the train-ride at the beginning of the year, with the exception that Remus apparated over (Mary hadn't told him where she was staying, so he had to have been in contact with the Grangers at some point), and escorted the girls through the floo, rather than the whole family driving up. He looked better, at least physically, she thought, for the vacation, but more troubled – about what he wouldn't say.
They – Remus, Mary, Hermione, Lilian, Ginny, and Luna – spent the first two hours of the journey catching up on their holidays. Remus, Mary suspected, was rather bored by their adolescent gossip, but he was a good sport about it, telling them about his friends Jessamine and Carlos, whom he had visited in France (leaving out the fact that they were werewolves), and asking polite questions about Lilian's new puppies, Luna's bracelets (which all of the girls were wearing), and Ginny's parents, whom he had apparently known once upon a time.
The puppies were still adorable (Lilian had brought pictures). Luna refused to say exactly how the bracelets worked, but after a bit of talking around in circles, they established that they were meant to ward off sadness. Whether this was metaphorical, or whether there was more to the runes woven into the bands than making them glow in the dark (which was all Mary had noticed them doing since Christmas), was not entirely clear. Hermione suggested that it was a placebo of some sort, and that was why Luna wouldn't explain, but the little blonde just laughed and told her to keep guessing.
Ginny's visit home, apparently, was every bit as awful as she had suspected it would be. Her parents were in good health, she told Remus, but they didn't really get along anymore – they just put on a show of family togetherness at the holidays. Lilian had commented sardonically that she wished her parents would do even that much, and the conversation hit a rather depressed lull. It was broken by the arrival of Draco Malfoy, of all people. His expression of arrogant ponciness faltered when his eyes met Ginny's, and nearly failed completely when he registered Remus' presence, but he recovered and invited himself in.
"Professor," he drawled. "Potter, Moon, Granger. Lovegood. Weasley."
"Mr. Malfoy," Remus greeted him politely, obviously trying to suppress a smirk. "Good holiday?"
"Tolerable, sir." He stood stiffly in the center of the compartment, obviously unwilling to sit without being invited, or else uncertain whether he should sit between the blood traitor and the werewolf professor, or the muggleborn and the strange and unnerving… Luna. There was really no other word that captured the essence of her character. There were no other open seats.
Before anyone else could say anything, Ginny excused herself, brushing past the uncomfortable-looking Malfoy with a look that held a significance Mary couldn't place. Luna cocked her head to the side and said, "The first Stone was yours to speak of, Draco Scorpius. Secrets fester like wounds the longer they're untended, you know," before she followed her red-headed friend.
Draco stared after her, completely baffled. "Erm… what?"
"She has that effect on everyone, Draco," Lilian advised him. "Sit down."
He did, choosing the now-vacant seat across from Hermione.
"What brings you to our compartment, Malfoy?" Mary asked. They were not on such good terms as he and Lilian, off the Quidditch pitch.
"I was… hoping to have a word with Granger, actually," he said, obviously changing his intended wording mid-sentence, with a quick glance at Remus. Remus had pulled a book from some pocket or another, and was studiously ignoring them, which Mary thought probably meant he was listening closely, but had no intention of interrupting.
"I only translate Luna-speak for people I like," Hermione joked.
Lilian sniggered, but Mary said, "Wait – you understood that one?"
The older girl sighed. "Honestly, that was one of the straightforward ones. Try sharing a common room with her."
"I'll figure it out," Draco sneered.
"I won't," Lilian admitted cheerfully. "I'll just ask Jeanie after you're gone."
The boy glared at her, but turned back to Hermione, rather than dignify that with a response. "I'm not here to talk about Loone – uh… Lovegood," he corrected himself at the girls' sharp glares.
"Then what are you here to talk about?" the Ravenclaw asked.
"I don't suppose we could have a bit of privacy, could we?" he asked, in a tone that said he expected the compartment to empty at his word.
Mary rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right." They had been there first.
"Nope!" Lilian said simultaneously, popping the 'p.'
"Don't mind me," Remus lifted his book slightly, conspicuously confirming Mary's guess that he was, in fact, paying attention.
Draco glared around at all of them.
Hermione shrugged, falsely apologetic. "I'd tell at least Lizzie and Lili anyway."
"Fine then," the blond growled, and pointed at her. "Your mother was in my house over break, having lunch with my mother, and I want to know why!"
Hermione started laughing uncontrollably, and Mary was hard-pressed not to join her, simply based on the look of absolute indignance plastered across his face.
"It's not funny, Granger! I had to eat lunch with a muggle! I'm probably contaminated for life!"
"Mal –" Hermione cut herself off, laughing too hard to speak. "Malfoy," she giggled. "If you weren't so ridiculous, I'd be really offended right now."
"Your mum took lunch with Lady Malfoy?" Lilian asked skeptically.
Hermione nodded, chuckling again, as Draco spat, "Yes."
"What the bloody hell is your problem, Malfoy?" Mary asked, sufficiently unamused to be offended for both herself and Hermione.
"There was a muggle. In my house," he explained, speaking very slowly, as though she was rather thick. "I had to eat with it. I had to be polite. Mother made me call it Goodwife Granger. I demand an explanation for this!"
Apparently calling her mother an 'it' was a step too far, even for Hermione, who responded before Mary could: "I know English is a difficult language, Malfoy, and your hair-care potions have probably killed off three-quarters of the brain cells you've ever had, but even you should know that only gendered pronouns are appropriate for use in reference to any being or sentient creature, wizards and muggles included."
"I – you –!" Draco sputtered, his face growing very pink.
"Sorry, I forgot, wizards don't do science. Cells are the most fundamental –"
"I know what cells are!" the boy interrupted her.
She smirked. Mary wondered if she would have thought the expression Snape-like if she hadn't known that they were having weekly meetings. "I'm very happy for you. It's so good to see that your people are catching up with the times. My mother was invited to your home as a guest by your mother, as you are clearly already aware. I suggest you take up this matter with her."
"She wouldn't say," the boy admitted sullenly, now red with embarrassment, rather than fury.
"What makes you think Hermione would know, then?" Lilian asked, looking genuinely curious.
"Granger is an insufferable know-it-all! Obviously she knows."
"Wait – did you just… Jeanie! This might be an historic moment! Draco Malfoy has admitted that a muggleborn knows more than he does about something that's going on in his own house!" Mary smirked at the little reminder that Lilian was still on hers and Hermione's side, even if she and Draco were on first-name, Hogsmeade-date terms.
Draco punched Lilian in the arm, a habit borne of many a smart-arse remark in Quidditch practice. Before Remus could reprimand him, she smacked the back of his head, disturbing his stasis-potioned hair and prompting a very feminine 'eep'. He cleared his throat, and said in a deliberately deeper voice, "I hate you, Moon," as he attempted to fix his damaged locks without a mirror.
"Liar."
"You know, this is why people think you two are dating," Mary observed.
"We're not dating!" they said as one.
"And that," Hermione added, with the ghost of a smile.
Draco grumbled under his breath about insufferable witches, and Lilian fixed his hair with a grin, giving it a more deliberately tousled look than his usual slicked-back Noble Heir style.
Whether she had intended to or not, the brassy blonde had effectively disarmed the tension within the compartment. Mary suspected that Draco didn't even realize he had had all the wind stolen from his sails. Or at least he didn't seem to mind. "Are you going to tell him what you mother is up to, Maia?" she asked with a grin.
"I might. But he'd have to apologize, first," Hermione gave the boy a hard look.
Pride very obviously warred with curiosity on his pale face, before curiosity won out. "My sincerest apologies for the slight against your mother. It was wrong of me to act as though she is less than sentient despite her lack of magic. Having interacted with her, I know that it is untrue, and I regret my show of temper in implying such a falsehood."
Mary wouldn't have accepted it – his tone was the opposite of sincere – but Hermione did, with a similar degree of disdain: "Despite the rather rehearsed and formulaic quality of your apology, I suppose the statement that you are aware of the impropriety of your actions and that you regret having lost your temper are true, if only because it means you've had to make the apology in the first place. My mother was at your house because she is working with your mother on a project to reform the process of muggleborn integration."
"Mother wouldn't work with a –" Draco began angrily, but cut himself off before whatever slur he had intended to spout. "Why, by Merlin's left ball, would my mother care about muggleborn integration?" he asked instead, too irritated to pull off his usual drawl, but making an effort nevertheless.
"Demographics," Hermione said succinctly.
"Demographics? What in the nine bloody hells is that supposed to mean?"
The Ravenclaw smirked. "Second hint: Democratic Expansionism."
The boy glared at her, scrutinizing her expression closely. "I don't believe you. You're having me on."
Mary laughed. "She's really not."
Draco ignored her, crossing his arms and slouching in a sulk. "There's no way Mother is working with your mother, and certainly not on any project that would benefit muggleborns. I should have known you wouldn't know anything! I don't know why I thought your mother would have told you anything when my mother didn't tell me."
Hermione interrupted with a sharp ha! "Fine, I'll spell it out for you. I'll even use little words. My mum wants muggle parents informed about magic and given access to resources to deal with it when their kids are recognized as magical, not after eight to ten years of dealing with accidental magic. Your mother can make that happen. Your mother wants to lay the groundwork for the Allied Dark to convince muggleborns, who make up a full quarter of the magical children born in the UK and Ireland, in case you didn't know, not to vote in representatives who will side with the Light when the Expansionists finally get their majority. My mum can help do that. Not to mention it's going to be mud on Dumbledore's face when it comes out that Narcissa Malfoy has actual muggle allies, when he's been painting your family as unrepentant Death Eaters for the past decade or so – an impression your behavior doesn't help with, by the way."
The pale pureblood had gone even whiter than usual about halfway through Hermione's explanation. "Even if the Expansionists do get the vote, muggleborns hardly matter! There aren't enough of you to make a difference!"
"Not now," the Ravenclaw agreed. "In twelve years? Well… that's where the demographics bit comes in. And politically, if they can get muggleborns to support Dark values by influencing them through their parents, they would not only get voters, but they would also undermine half of the Light's platform, since Dumbledore has made a point of equating pro-muggleborn, progressive, and pro-regulation."
"Ooh!" Lilian exclaimed. Mary belatedly realized that this was the first time she would be hearing this analysis. "That's really clever. Especially since if the rest of us can elect Wizengamot seats directly, we won't have to depend on the Ministry to have some influence."
"I thought so," the older girl nodded. "Anyway, Malfoy, that's the answer to your big mystery: your mother doesn't care that my mum's a muggle as long as she can use her to get what she wants."
"And you're okay with your mother being used like that?" Draco asked warily.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Weren't you paying attention? My mum's using your mother too. That's how politics works, Draco. Maybe if you'd grow up a bit and demonstrate the ability to think critically about political situations, your parents would tell you these things outright, but if you can't even get that basic principle through your pasty skull, and can't keep a civil tongue in your head when you're begging for information, I can see why they wouldn't."
"I don't have to listen to this!" the boy said, standing up abruptly.
"No, you don't," Mary agreed, suddenly realizing that, whether he had done it in the manner he intended or not, Draco had gotten the information he had wanted, and there probably was a reason his mother hadn't told him in the first place. "But you'd do well to keep it to yourself."
"Why's that, Potter?" he sneered.
"Because, I'm guessing that your mother and Emma have some kind of plan for exactly how they want this information to get out, and when. You know, not just filtering out of Hogwarts randomly because you two couldn't keep your mouths shut."
Hermione looked as though she was about to say something, then had a second thought, and closed her mouth, flushing slightly, looking rather embarrassed. Draco did something similar, though he looked rather more irritated.
"She has a point, Draco," Lilian added, and he huffed out the breath he had taken to speak.
"Fine. I take your point," he said, in a rather grudging tone.
"Go away, Malfoy," Hermione said with a pout, obviously sore that he had managed to so effectively goad her into giving away their mothers' plans. Mary didn't recall Emma saying that they needed to be kept secret or confidential, but she was pretty sure the revelation of the Granger-Malfoy IMP Alliance (or whatever it ended up being called) would need to be handled more carefully than either of the ladies' children was capable of doing. She would have to write and inform Hermione's mother of this latest development as soon as they reached the school.
Draco looked almost like he'd like to stay, just to avoid doing something Hermione had told him to, but after a few seconds' hesitation, he did, indeed go, with a nod toward the other girls, a conspicuous lack of a nod toward Hermione, and a hasty "Professor." He slammed the door of the compartment rudely behind him, leaving silence in his wake.
Remus set his book aside, looking around from one of them to the next, trying, if Mary was right, to gauge their respective moods.
Lilian smirked broadly. "Well done, Jeanie," she needled their friend, and received a two-fingered salute for her trouble.
The youngest of their trio laughed despite herself at the brunette's expression of mortified irritation.
"I have a proposal," she said, changing the subject. "Now that we've got the compartment to ourselves, we should talk about Patronus lessons!"
Remus seized onto the topic readily. "I've been thinking about that, you know – It's not as though we can really bring a dementor into the school to practice. The older students have been doing 'dry runs,' essentially, but I think if we're to do this properly, we need an emotional stimulus for you to overcome. Perhaps a boggart, if I can track one down…"
The remainder of the train ride passed quickly. The discussion of Patronus lessons was interrupted by Blaise and Theo, who regaled them with tales of discomfiting the latest of Blaise's step-fathers, and then that discussion was de-railed by the arrival of Dave and Alex, who were eager to hear how the rest of them had passed the holiday.
Ginny and Luna reappeared not long after the boys left to see if they could find Nora, and Mary finally received an explanation of Luna's comment to Draco: It seemed that he and Ginny had seen visions at Mabon that related to both of their families, and therefore neither of them had known which one they were allowed to talk about with anyone but each other (which they also hadn't done). Ginny still didn't want to talk about hers, but she said she could understand how Draco might, now that he knew which one it was.
In casting about for a topic to change the subject, the Gryffindor had asked whether Mary had finally ordered a new broom, which had led to Mary admitting that someone had supposedly sent her a Firebolt for Christmas, and the three Quiddich players rhapsodizing over the broom until they reached Hogsmeade. After a good bit of debate on the subject, both Lilian and Ginny agreed to keep it a secret until the first Slytherin Quidditch practice. Mary was looking forward to seeing the shock and awe on all of their faces at once, and in exchange she was more than willing to let the other girls have a go on the world-class broom (after she had broken it in, of course).
Tuesday, 11 January 1994
(New) History of Magic Classroom
Professor McGonagall had been nearly as excited about the Firebolt as Mary, despite her stoic presentation of the news two weeks prior. She had sent a note directly after the Welcome Back Dinner suggesting that Mary meet her at the lakeside before breakfast the following morning to for its inaugural flight.
It was brilliant. The Professor had probably only suggested the lakeside because the Hufflepuffs had a morning practice on the pitch, but streaking across the vast expanse of open water (far larger than the Pitch) and circling to admire the view of the castle, windows lit as the other students began to stir, was exhilarating. Gorgeous. It was also freezing, moving at that speed in the cold, damp air, but worth every second she spent shivering as they made their way back to the Castle. The acceleration was like nothing she had ever managed on her Nimbus, even in Suicide Dives, and the maneuverability was so sharp that she practically had to sit sideways in the air so she wouldn't throw herself off turning at speed.
Aunt Minnie had laughed and clapped as she demonstrated loose corkscrews and easy loops, hanging breathlessly in the pre-dawn light, but she had declined when Mary offered to let her have a go. She had been a beater in her day, but she said she knew better than to put her rickety old bones on a broom that moved like that. The Slytherin had obligingly reassured her that she wasn't that old, but she didn't really care to argue the point when she had mostly just been trying for politeness in making the offer in the first place. She took off with a whoop to make one last circuit of the lake at top speed, adrenaline fizzing through her veins with an almost magical tingle, prompting the Professor to more laughter.
She had been so high on the excitement of the early-morning flight that she almost wasn't irritated when she received a nagging little note from Catherine at breakfast, reminding her to apologize to Daphne. She had done so, asking for a word in private, and then going through the formal, scripted process that Draco had abridged in apologizing to Hermione on the train. She fancied she made it sound rather more convincing than he had, especially when she said that she regretted jumping to conclusions and would do her utmost not to act so Gryffindorishly in the future. Daphne had accepted her words graciously, and informed her that if Mary wanted to demonstrate her sincerity, she could attend the party Daphne was hosting that very Sunday. There was a glint in the socialite's eye that suggested she knew Mary didn't really want to go, but she agreed anyway, because, as she had been so-recently reminded, it was the advantageous thing to do. Plus there was no point in apologizing if she immediately instigated another falling-out.
Monday lunch had been an altogether more pleasant affair than many previous Mondays, because Lilian and Draco no longer had any complaints about Care of Magical Creatures. Professor Grubblyplank, a short, middle-aged witch with a very prominent chin and a no-nonsense attitude, had spent the first Slytherin-Gryffindor Care class outlining an abridged syllabus for them, to catch them up on the whole term of lessons they had essentially missed. The Gryffindors had, apparently, amused them by sulking over Hagrid's sacking and, as Lilian had announced triumphantly, every one of the creatures they were to study for the rest of the year was a vertebrate (even if they weren't quite so exciting as hippogriffs).
At Quidditch practice Monday evening, the team had been appropriately impressed by Mary's new broom. (Draco had been positively green with envy.) Flint, however, had pulled her aside at the end of the night to tell her, reluctantly, that she was benched for their upcoming match. As pleased as he was to have his seeker on the best possible broom, he wasn't about to let her risk life and limb flying it in a real match before it was entirely broken in, and a week simply wasn't long enough to become accustomed to the new handling. Mary thought he was underestimating her abilities, but he was right: her performance hadn't been quite as tight as usual. Plus, though she wouldn't admit it, she was still a little leery of another dementor appearance. There had only been one match and the make-up since her fall in November, and she didn't quite trust them to stay away, so she didn't argue the issue too strongly.
All of Mary's other classes picked up where they had left off, with the exception of History, which, like Care of Magical Creatures, had a new professor. It had also been moved to a new classroom. Most of the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs had arrived early for their first lesson, and were speculating on why.
"My brother says Binns is still lecturing in the old classroom," Hannah was telling the rest of the assembled students when Mary and Lilian arrived.
"That's so stupid," Zacharias laughed.
Pansy apparently agreed. "They should've just exorcised him – why are they keeping him around?"
"Ghosts have rights too, you know," Blaise said, with a tone of false concern.
Most of the students laughed, Mary included, but Ernie Macmillan shook his head. "I don't think that's it, Zabini."
Blaise looked taken aback for a long second, as though trying to figure out whether the Hufflepuff was serious. Then the rather quiet Sally-Anne said, "He was being sarcastic, Ernie," and laughter broke out again as Macmillan flushed.
"Chelsea Miller said Professor Snape gave her brother detention with Binns yesterday," Leanne Malone volunteered.
Lilian gave an overly-dramatic shudder. "That sounds way worse than scrubbing cauldrons."
"So they kept him around just to bore us to death during detention?" Greg asked. He sounded outraged.
"My understanding is that it frees other professors from the burden of supervising lines and so on," a deep, strangely accented voice broke in.
The mob of students turned to see their professor standing in the doorway. From his voice, Mary would have expected a large, heavy-set man, but the wizard was actually rather gangly, with a Mediterranean complexion and a rather absent-minded smile. If she had had to guess, she would have put him between Professors Snape and Vector in age. He shooed them toward their tables, and meandered toward the front of the room, pacing before them as he introduced himself.
"I am Marzio D'Onofrio. I was born in a little town outside of Ravenna, in Italy." Mary sneaked a look at Blaise, who was predictably thrilled to have an Italian Professor. The professor in question cast an illusory map of the boot-shaped country on the wall behind him, and pointed out the region.
"This is in the territory of the magical state New Illyria." The map changed, expanding to show the countries to the east of Italy. A new border, in gold, instead of the black of the muggle political boundaries, drew itself around the little spit of water between Italy and the other countries. Only part of Italy was included.
"New Illyria is a young state, established after the end of Grindelwald's War. The war ended in 1945, and New Illyria was established in 1948. You do not need to write this down," he added, as many of the class shuffled for parchment and quills. "New Illyria is a young state, but it is built on very old territories, and includes many cities and institutions far older than itself, much as Hogwarts predates the formation of your Ministry of Magic and today's Magical Britain. The capitol city is Venice, here," he pointed. It was not very far from Ravenna.
"I made my studies first at the Venetian Academy of the Magical Arts, where I earned my basic and advanced competencies. I then continued to study magical and non-magical history under Maestra Ilona Cortese of the Scuola Magia Salernitana, in Salerno. Salerno is also in Italy, and the magical state of Etruria, which includes the entire region of the Tyrrhenian Sea."
The city was in a different part of Italy, much further south. Etruria was, much like New Illyria, mostly water, part of Italy (the western side of the peninsula) and the land on the other side of the water – in this case, three large-ish islands, which Mary didn't know the names of: one to the south, and two to the west. There was space between the borders of New Illyria and Etruria, and the girl found herself wondering what magical state claimed that land, but the professor did not address it.
"I earned my own accreditation, my Mastery, in 1979, and have since taught all levels of history and modern politics lessons at Beauxbatons, in France." That, Mary thought, must explain the accent – halfway between Italian and French.
He smiled self-depreciatingly and added, "Unfortunately, I cannot show you the location of the school, for even in illusion it is Unplottable, but if you fly high enough, from its grounds, you can see La Montagne Tournette." The map expanded even further to show France, and a red dot for the mountain. "Magical Frankia," he noted, "is rather more extensive than muggle France." Its borders included a good section of Germany, as well.
"I am looking forward to working closely with you and your Examination Board to revise the standards of this class – I have met the ghost of your former professor, and it is clear that there is a reason your Headmaster and your Board of Governors were obliged to seek qualified applicants abroad." There was a bit of sniggering at this, though D'Onofrio said it in a completely neutral tone.
"As some of you may know, it is the norm in most of the nations of the Confédération Internationale des Sorciers, that is the International Confederation of Wizards, to meet the standards for education set by the Conseil Européenne d'Équivalence pour l'Éducation, the European Council for Equivalency of Education.
"Magical Britain is not alone among C.I.S. member states in setting its own competency exams, and in most cases an O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. from the Magical British Wizarding Examination Authority is accepted as equivalent to corresponding basic and advanced international qualifications. There are some variations by subject, and some states which hold standards higher than the International Equivalency Standard, where British qualifications are not honored, but for the most part they are sufficiently similar that there is no problem.
"The History of Magic O.W.L. is one of the exceptions. I am afraid that an O.W.L. in History of Magic will not suffice in any other country, should you desire to pursue history at an advanced level or seek employment on the continent in any position which requires such a credit. To be perfectly clear, the O.W.L. in History of Magic is, as it stands, useless for all intents and purposes. As such, I shall not be teaching to it."
The class broke out in muttering at this statement. Mary herself leaned over to hiss, "Sounds good to me," to Lilian, who nodded enthusiastically, sketching a copy of the map of Europe in her notebook.
Professor D'Onofrio waited for the class to settle before he continued. "A fully competent History of Magic curriculum should include not only the dry facts of names and dates and events, but discussion of the cause and effect leading to each event, allowing one to place it in the larger context. It should also include discussions of current events, and the formation of history: the practices and policies of the institutions that shape your nation's history, its interactions with other nations and between the peoples within its own borders, and the social forces and principles which have affected and continue to affect the political landscape of history-in-the-making." Daphne, Mary noticed, was grinning from ear to ear, not even trying to hide how pleased she was with this new philosophy of history.
"With that in mind, we will devote this coming term to discovering what you already know, and bringing you up to a similar level of knowledge, as the base and foundation from which we shall truly begin to build your understanding. The curricula will be re-written and negotiated over the summer, and we will begin your studies anew in the autumn. Any questions?"
Macmillan raised a hand. "What about end of year exams? And homework?" Half the class glared at him.
"This year, I am thinking that we will have a geography test at the end of the year, of both the magical and non-magical countries and their capitols throughout Europe. I will also assign a term-paper, at the spring holiday break, to be turned in during your exam week." This sounded much better to Mary than their usual interminable essay exams, and looking around, everyone else seemed to agree.
"As for your homework, each week I will give you a topic, a question, to research. You will form an opinion, find references to support your opinion in the library, and then we will discuss and debate each topic in class. You will not turn in any homework or essays for this class, but you will have to participate in the discussion. If you do not participate in discussions, then I will be forced to ask you to write on each topic, which is more time that all of us do not have, no? So you will all discuss each topic in class? Bene. Any other questions?"
The students exchanged excited looks with each other. No homework and ten weeks to work on their final exam? D'Onofrio was certain to be everyone's favorite by the end of the year. He looked around to verify that none of them were about to ask another question, then clapped his hands, and rubbed them together excitedly. "So. Let us talk about something I am sure, after the past six months you all already have an opinion about: dementors. Should they or should they not be used to guard prisoners? Are there alternatives available? If you would do otherwise, why do you think that Magical Britain uses the dementors as prison-guards? Ah, yes, you there, Mademoiselle…"
"Greengrass," Daphne said, her hand in the air in a most Hermione-like bid for attention. "Imprisoning criminals with dementors is counterproductive, because it slowly dehumanizes them, making them more dangerous to society when they are released."
The professor smiled and asked, "Does anyone have a counter-point to Mme. Greengrass? What about you, Monsieur…"
Zacharias grinned, apparently as eager to play Devil's Advocate here as he had been to test Lockhart's authority the year before. "Smith. I think the threat of Azkaban's existence serves as enough of a reason not to commit crimes that it makes up for the dehumanization – if I was there and got out, I'd never want to go back, even if I didn't care much if stealing was wrong, or whatever."
"An excellent point, M. Smith. The argument for punishment as deterrence. Anyone else?"
"It's inhumane!" Malone snapped at Smith.
"Ah," the professor said. "This is another good argument. But what solution would you propose instead, Mademoiselle…?"
"Malone. And anything but dementors. A death sentence would be less awful than life in Azkaban."
"A popular point in Frankia," the professor nodded. "Can anyone think of the costs to society if Magical Britain stopped using dementors to guard its prison?"
Blaise and Theo had been arguing in whispers at a nearby table. Blaise raised his hand. "Zabini," he introduced himself. "And Magical Britain doesn't use the dementors on prisoners, we use prisoners to keep the dementors satisfied with being trapped up on Azkaban themselves."
Lilian sniggered. Mary, along with many of the Hufflepuffs, and most of the other Slytherins, just stared. It was the opposite of everything she thought she knew about dementors, but it fit.
Theo scoffed. "I'm telling you, that can't be it – if it were, they'd just find a way to kill off the dementors!"
"Can you kill a dementor?" Mary asked.
"They breed," Theo said, crossing his arms defiantly. "And the world hasn't been overrun by them yet, so they have to die sometime."
"Yeah, but that's not the same thing as being able to kill them," Susan Bones pointed out. "I don't know about you, but I've never heard of anything that can actually hurt them, let alone kill them."
"There has to be some way to hurt them, or they'd never have gotten them to Azkaban in the first place," Pansy said reasonably.
Oliver Rivers looked skeptical. "Maybe there's some way to trap them?"
Smith had a positively devious expression on his face. "Even if we could kill them, should we? I mean, like Zabini said, ghosts have rights, too. Why not dementors?"
"Don't be stupid, Zach!" Abbott reprimanded her house-mate. "They prey on humans. They don't deserve rights!"
"Well, that's awfully species-ist of you, Abbott," Tracey needled the Hufflepuff.
"Let's re-focus," the professor suggested. "There have been purges carried out on dementors before, though they always seem to return somehow. But let us assume that they could all be killed. How then would you deal with magical criminals?"
"Nurmengard?" Bones suggested. "Something like that?"
Blaise laughed aloud. "Never thought you'd be the type to condone the use of Dark Arts on prisoners, Bones!"
"Couldn't you just take away their wands?" Finch-Fletchley asked.
Mary found herself shaking her head, thinking of a certain detention. "You don't need a wand to do magic, if you want it bad enough." This gained her a few odd looks from students of both houses, but quite a few others were nodding along.
"Even if you can't do wandless magic, there's always runes," Lilian added.
"Nurmengard has wards in each cell that use a wizard's own magic to power anti-magic containment fields," Daphne volunteered.
Draco shuddered. "I'd rather be stuck in Azkaban with the dementors than have my magic taken away," he admitted.
"It's not permanent," she said, but he shook his head, looking faintly ill at the idea of life without magic.
"It's still Dark Arts," Macmillan pointed out.
"But dementors are Dark Creatures," Megan Jones argued.
The debate over whether they should sanction the use of Dark Arts on prisoners, and whether it was better or worse than siccing Dark Creatures on them lasted for the remainder of the class period, until the professor announced, "All right, good discussion, everyone! Next time, I'll discuss different methods that have been used throughout history as solutions to this problem, and then we'll have a bit of Geography, and a new topic for you to explore over the weekend at the end of the period!"
It was, hands down, the most interesting History of Magic lesson Mary had ever had.
If you're interested in more details of Peter's betrayal, check out 'The Changing of the Guardian' ( s/11994237/1/The-Changing-of-the-Guardian)