The Ambiguous Artifice

by murkybluematter

Harriet Potter's third year masquerading as a pureblood boy promises to be even more complicated than the last two. All she wants is to get through her studies unimpeded, but with pureblood politics, ancient artifacts, and adolescent hormones getting in the way... well, at least she's up to the challenge. Alanna the Lioness take on HP, book three.

2. Chapter 2

A/N: I think it's official: I have the cleverest readers anywhere on the web. Or perhaps my mysterious hints are getting a little too predictable? Either way, many of you guessed several upcoming aspects to the plot—well done! Don't get overconfident, though. This fic is in for a bumpy ride…And for anyone worried that I'll be breaking a random prisoner out of Azkaban, letting Harry spill her guts as soon as she gets a crush on someone, or conveniently forgetting the loose ends still dangling from PP and SS—it's like you don't know me at all. Stay savvy, readers, but have a little faith, too. ;)

The Ambiguous Artifice:

Chapter Two:

Diagon Alley was alive with the chatter and clatter of a bustling Friday morning, and Harry darted and dodged her way through the crowds with the same flustered urgency as any of the frantic shoppers filling the streets around her. Usually, she wasn't bothered by all the bustle, and would let it sweep her along to her destination passively, but today she was late.

At least, she thought as she jumped over a stray crup licking up someone's spilled ice cream from the cobblestones, I'm almost late.

If she wasn't there on the hour, Master Rutherage would lock the door. No one had actually been late, so she didn't know for sure, but Rutherage didn't seem the type to make empty threats. He had a brilliant mind, a keen understanding of the intricacies of potion theoretics, and an up-beat disposition, but not, Harry thought, a strong inclination toward forgiveness.

She sidestepped a woman selling True Love charms, and almost collided with a man carrying a tall tower of singing wineglasses. At the last minute, she threw herself out of the way—and promptly crashed into someone else entirely.

It was an older man, about her father's age, slightly heavy-set, with small, beady eyes that were nevertheless a pretty shade of light blue. He sat for a moment where he'd fallen in the street, apparently stunned by the abruptness of his tumble. Harry rolled to her feet with a groan and went to make a quick apology, but as she approached, the man's face took on a look of pure panic.

He was patting down his robes frantically, his eyes darting here and there among the throng of people stepping over and around the two of them in a rush. Harry, alarmed because he was so alarmed, began looking about as well. It was hard to even see the street because of the crush of passersby, but from her standing position Harry spotted a little brown sack that lay half-concealed behind the wheel of a cart vendor they had both nearly crashed into. She ducked down and snatched up the package quickly. The paper bag crumpled easily around her hand, as though it had been worked and worried over and over again, and she felt something hard and vaguely rock-shaped underneath as she carried it over to the man.

"Here," she said, thrusting the bag at him, "Is this what you're looking for?"

The man's eyes widened. He snatched the bag and felt the object inside possessively before taking a huge, gulping sigh of relief, "Oh thank Merlin, thank you Magic, it's here, it's safe, thank Morgana…"

He began to rise unsteadily, so Harry reached out a hand to help him up. He flinched minutely, but accepted her help with a nod of thanks. He shoved his package roughly into an inside robe pocket, and started dusting himself off. Harry stood watching anxiously, eager to get going again, but needing to make sure she hadn't injured the man as well.

"Are you okay?" she asked, "I'm sorry for running into you, Sir."

The man said nothing, only continuing to brush the street dust off of his cloak with single-minded attention. Strangely, the bottom third of his robes seemed to be covered with a silvery-black dust that Harry was sure couldn't have come from the street they were standing on. The dust in Diagon alley was whitish-tan, because that's what color the cobblestones were. She wondered where he'd been to pick up such dark-colored, metallic debris.

When he deemed himself satisfactorily dirt-free, he turned to her, as though he had only just then remembered her existence, "Hello, yes, do try and watch where you're going in the future, young man."

Harry nodded politely, "Of course, Sir, again, very sorry—er, I've actually got to run now—"

"Again?" the man shook his head, "Kids these days. Try not knocking into people on your way, won't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry said, bowing hastily, "Very sorry. Have a good day, Sir."

She took off running again, still feeling slightly guilty about her hasty departure, but she was really, really running late now.

She tore through the connecting street and emerged onto Craftsman Alley at a sprint. She didn't stop to greet the ever-hassled young man at the welcoming desk like she usually did, instead just running through the halls, down the stairs, and toward Lab 17, praying vaguely that none of the Masters saw her in such shameful disarray.

She ran straight up to the door to Lab 17, praying that is wasn't locked yet, willing it not to be locked. Be open, be open, come on, be unlocked, she chanted as she reached for the knob.

It turned.

With a huge gasp of relief, she hurried into the room, then froze as all three of its occupants turned to stare at her.

Master Rutherage was already inside. He was already lecturing, in fact, and both of his eyebrows rose in sharp question as she stood, unsure what to do, her hair windswept, bag slung haphazardly across her chest, panting like a lunatic who'd just run half a mile.

"It—ah—it wasn't locked," she said dumbly.

"Wasn't it?" Rutherage tipped his head toward her chosen workstation, but otherwise left it at that.

Harry had a sneaking suspicion. At the moment she couldn't feel her magic stirring beneath the blood still rushing through her veins, but it wouldn't take much to perform an unlocking charm…had she inadvertently forced the door to unlock itself? Or had Rutherage really forgotten to lock it? If he hadn't, why would he accept her unlocking it?

There was no time to decide which was the more likely scenario, as Rutherage was beginning to lecture again. Harry quickly found her seat and whisked out a sheet of parchment as quietly as possible.

Master Rutherage's lecture style was convoluted, sometimes difficult to follow, but always fascinating. He'd start on a random topic that had something to do with potions, introduce it generally, then ask penetratingly specific questions at random until he was satisfied that he knew the extent of their knowledge on the subject. Once he understood their level of knowledge, he adapted the rest of his lecture to filling the gaps in their knowledge as efficiently as possible.

On Monday, the topic was Classes of Ingredients. Tuesday had been Poisons and Antidotes, Wednesday Transformative Potions, and on Thursday…Harry mentally grimaced. Yesterday had been Love Potions, a subject she was admittedly woefully under-versed on. It didn't help that Lestrange had snickered softly every time she gave an answer that was merely correct, and obviously lacking in rigor and depth. He seemed to find it hilarious that 'the girl' didn't know her Love Draughts back to front.

She banished thoughts of yesterday from her mind and focused instead of what Rutherage was saying now.

"Apart from hieroglyphs found in Egyptian tombs and texts preserved for spiritual reasons among the Hindu, little is known of medicine in the magical sense before the Chinese mystics began to combine their impressive knowledge of Herbology with their rather rudimentary understanding of Alchemy," Master Rutherage said, "What we do know is that medically-purposed creams and tinctures evolved into the earliest beginnings of the field we now know comprehensively as Potions, and it is no accident that most potions have an intimate relation with the human body—for better or worse, depending on whether you're brewing up a Swelling Solution, a perilous poison, or a Draught of Desire. Other branches of magic were developed to effect changes on the world around us, but to this day the majority of potions are still meant to be ingested…"

A smile began to spread over Harry's face. Today's topic was Healing Potions. She couldn't think of a branch of potions she knew better, expect, perhaps, pranking potions, but somehow she didn't think those would be covered in the Guild's program.

"Casillas," Rutherage said suddenly, "What are the broadest categories of Healing Potions?"

"Restoring Potions and Repairing Potions," Renaldo answered in his usual monotone, "The former are used to restore a person transformed or otherwise altered due to a spell or potion gone awry, the latter to heal damage done to the body in the form of wounds or other trauma."

"What would you classify Skele-Grow as?"

Renaldo thought silently for a moment, "It would depend upon whether you used it because the patient had broken a bone or had his bones altered by a spell."

Lestrange chuckled in an infuriatingly smug way, which Harry knew infuriated Renaldo as much as it did her, even if the Spaniard was too collected to do anything besides grit his teeth.

"You disagree, Lestrange?" Rutherage asked mildly.

"A potion's classification can't change just because you're using it to treat different things," Lestrange rolled his eyes, "What a ridiculous assumption. Skele-Grow is always classified as a Restoring Potion."

"And why is that?" Rutherage asked, smiling calmly. Sometimes Harry thought Master Rutherage was trying to goad them with his unassailable good-cheer.

Lestrange sneered, "I don't know. I read it in the kind of useless book that teaches you how to classify things instead of teaching you how to use them."

"Ah, yes," Rutherage nodded sagely, "The world does abound with books such of those—unfortunately, those same books are rather highly regarded by the venerable witches and wizards who write your NEWT exams."

The unspoken 'so shut up and learn the information' was loud and clear, despite Rutherage's easy smile. The Master turned to Harry, saying, "Why is Skele-Grow always a Restorative Potion, Potter?"

"Because to use it you have to first vanish the bones you want to re-grow, regardless of what was originally wrong with them, so the direct problem the potion addresses is always vanished bones—or spell-altered bones, if you want to be technical," Harry's explanation might have been just a tiny bit overdone, and strictly-speaking she didn't have to glance as Lestrange's face as she said it, but there was something satisfying about seeing his too-pretty face pinch in an ugly scowl as she answered a question he could not.

Rutherage didn't say anything like 'correct' or 'good job,' but Harry didn't need him to. The fact that he moved onto the next question without further comment meant she had been completely correct, and that knowledge was enough for Harry.

"Lestrange," Rutherage said, "What are the most difficult kinds of Healing Potions to brew?"

"Ones that affect the mind," Lestrange said, his tone as lazy and indolent as ever.

"Why is that?" Rutherage pressed.

Lestrange paused, then said, "Because the mind is so complicated. It's harder to make potions that affect it without damaging it, because the potions have to be more complicated, too."

"Yes," Rutherage said, eyes laughing, "But is the body not also complicated? Why is the mind so much more so when it comes to Healing magic?"

Lestrange frowned, "I don't know. Ask Potter."

Rutherage turned to Harry, who lifted her chin in response to the challenging eyebrow Lestrange sent her way—as if to say, answer that one, if you're so smart.

"A person's magic manifests itself in three ways," Harry said, smiling slightly as she sent a silent thanks to all the books on auras and Occlumency she'd read, "There's physical magic, mental magic, and aura magic, which is a combination of the first two. You have to take into account a person's mental magic when you create a mind-altering potion, and since mental magic is more imprecise than physical magic, it usually takes a complicated combination of ingredients to enact sufficiently precise effects on the mind. Mental magic is also much less understood than physical magic, so it usually takes a Potions Master who is also a Master of Mental Arts to create or improve upon potions of the mind."

Rutherage smiled widely, "Casillas, can you name two Potions Masters who fit Potter's description?"

"Laverne de Montmorency," Renaldo said, "She invented several mind-altering love potions. Also…Damocles Belby. He invented Wolfsbane."

"Both good historical examples," Rutherage mused, "But potions is a cutting-edge field. Can anyone think of current Masters who are also Masters of mental magic?

"Master Severus Snape," Harry said, suppressing a smile with difficulty, "He's been responsible for the most recent breakthroughs with the Wolfsbane potions."

"Master Regulus Moonshine," Lestrange added, "He recently developed a potion that works on the minds of hags, suppressing their appetite for human flesh."

Rutherage smiled even wider, "We've moved away from the central topic somewhat, but it's never a bad idea to be well-versed in the current body of research. History is important," here he smiled at Renaldo, who was by far the best-versed in ancient and classical potion development, "But the reason this internship is research-based is that history is happening all around is—so try to keep up. Potter, what sort of questions would you ask if someone came to commission a dozen bottles of Goslinder's Solution for their niece?"

"Well, first I'd explain to them that Goslinder's Solution cannot be legally sold in quantities exceeding 0.5 liters, due to the possibility that someone could get around the Ministry's sanction against Firemu seed oil by distilling large quantities of Goslinder's Solution, because it's so easy to reverse-brew by evaporating the binding agent," Harry said thoughtfully, "And then I'd ask how old the niece was, because although it's commonly used as a cure for nervous stuttering, it can actually be damaging to a child's vocal cords if taken either before they fully mature—before seven years of age—or during the transition period between 13 and 17 when the voice begins to drop."

"Lestrange, what ingredient would you use as a substitute if you wanted to make Wheezer's Relief for someone allergic to honey?"

"Marshmallow plant sap," Lestrange said easily.

Harry glanced over in surprise—she wouldn't have thought of that. She'd have said ginger, also an antimicrobial like honey, or maybe sage, to tighten the mucus-producing pores that caused irritants in the throat in the first place. Still…marshmallow was a good idea, since it could coat the throat, and simply stop it from being irritated enough to cough. It would also probably make the potion taste better.

"Potter," Rutherage said, "You seem surprised by Lestrange's suggestion. Do you disagree?"

Lestrange shot her a glare that just dared her to argue with him. She was originally going to say that marshmallow was a good idea, but at the quelling look on his face, she bristled, then smiled slowly.

"It's not that it wouldn't work," she said sweetly, "But it would be difficult to incorporate into Wheezer's Relief without taking out the goldenseal root. With both the goldenseal root and the honey taken out, the potion would have no microbial agents at all, so you'd be treating the symptom, but not actually helping the patient get better. You could use ginger instead of honey, and still take out the goldenseal to balance the mixture, or just use sage, which would let you keep the goldenseal, while also letting you add marshmallow if you really wanted to…though marshmallow would also make the second stage of the potion more magically draining, because you'd have to add an oil of some kind to keep the red clover from sticking to the marshmallow until it had dissolved, and more oil would mean more magic to prevent the properties of the oil from affecting the firecrow feathers. That would in turn make the potion more taxing, both in terms of magic and ingredient usage, which means it would probably be too expensive for most people in need of it to afford, since the majority of people who come down with Wheezing Coughs work at low-wage, labor-intensive jobs. Really, it would be simpler if you didn't use marshmallow at all."

There was a moment of silence as all three men in the room stared at her. Harry had to fight to keep her smile polite and distant, instead of letting it slip into the smirk it wanted to become at the sight of Lestrange's patent disbelief. The older boy scowled, then turned pointedly away from her, clearing his throat at Master Rutherage expectantly.

Rutherage blinked, then smiled serenely again, "Casillas, what Healing Potions work best in tandem with spells or charms?"

And so it went. Harry was really on top of her game that morning, though she made sure to keep her expression either neutral or pleasantly engaged. The last thing she wanted was for her face to end up looking as smug or superior as Lestrange's did whenever he answered a question.

-0

[HpHpHp]

-0

They got an hour for lunch each day, and rather than floo home and try to scrounge up something there, Harry had taken to walking down to the Dancing Phoenix to eat.

She walked into the cheerful inn and answered friendly greetings and inquiries from people who recognized her with a wave or a nod as she made her way to 'Leo's table.' It was the one closest to the central fireplace, and it was almost never completely empty. Today, Rispah was at the table, chatting animatedly with Solom and Marek and looking like a despoiled milkmaid, casually draped in creamy whites and browns.

Harry paused to bow courteously to Rispah before sliding into the seat beside her, "My Lady, how does the day find you?"

Rispah gave Harry her sauciest grin, "I could tell you, but Leo would have my ears for corrupting the youth."

Harry tried her hand at a conspiratorial leer, "He'd never hear it from me."

Even Rispah, player that she was, couldn't suppress a snort at that, "Your eyes are too narrow—you're supposed to be looking at me appraisingly, but it just looks like you're squinting to compensate for bad eyesight."

"And you should make your smile smaller," Marek put in, waving a hand vaguely to help articulate his point, "Not so wide, you know? It makes you look too juvenile. Curl the edges more."

"Like this?" Harry tried it out, widening her eyes and curling her smile upwards.

"No, no," Solom put his two knuts in, "Now you look like a crazed dictator. I thought you were good at facial expressions, kid."

Harry frowned, "So did I. Like this?" She smoothed out her lips a little, so they were quirked upwards, but not straining. She lowered her lids just a tad, and quirked an eyebrow for a dashing effect.

Rispah's own eyebrows rose, "Not bad. We'll make a rake of you yet."

Harry dropped the leer and grinned. She loved being able to practice her facial expressions where she could get honest criticism. She was already fairly proficient at subtle expressions—you had to be, to get by in Slytherin. She was also pretty good with all the variations on adorable and innocent, brought to a pinnacle in The Look, which she had perfected years ago. As time went on, however, she felt a larger repertoire of expressions was in order—ones more suited to adult features, and to 'obvious' characters.

"You really think so?" Harry put on her best 'simpering' face. She fluttered her eyelashes and tilted her face upwards, while holding her breath for good measure.

Marek laughed outright, "That's a good one!"

Rispah shook her curls, "For now, maybe—let me teach you a better one."

Rispah closed her eyes, and when she opened them they were shining at her. Rispah's carefully lined lips were poised in the most hesitant of shy smiles. She looked at Harry sidelong, her eyes swimming with pure admiration and esteem—esteem for Harry. Harry could feel herself freeze, and tried unsuccessfully to gulp. Rispah lowered her eyes secretively, and when she looked back at Harry, her smile widened slightly, as though she couldn't help herself.

Harry cleared her throat, "That's…wow, what is that?"

Rispah broke the expression and chuckled deeply, "That, is much more useful than your childish simper. That look will get you anything you want—and the guy will think it was his idea."

Marek broke in hastily, "You can't teach him that! It's a woman's look."

Rispah huffed, "So? It'll work just as well for a delicate-looking boy—no offense, Harry."

"None taken," Harry took a deep breath, summoned all her admiration for Rispah's acting ability, and funneled it into her gaze, tucking her chin a bit to appear uncertain, then smiled at the older woman with hesitant hope.

Solom guffawed, "Not bad at all! This lad's a natural, by Merlin."

Rispah eyed her critically, "Put a little more yearning into it. Like this." The rouged woman tossed her a glance that seemed almost desperate for…something.

Harry focused on not blinking for a few moments, letting moisture well up to make her eyes glisten naturally, then tried to match Rispah's look. She parted her lips and quickened her breath to seem a little more needy, then brought her eyebrows ever-so-slightly together, as though she were at once pleading and at the same time worried about being rejected.

Rispah blinked at her, "Well…yes, that's almost perfect."

Harry relaxed her face into a grin, "Thanks."

Solom gestured to a serving lad, and one came running over right away. "Get young Harry here a shepherd's pie from the kitchen," the older man said, glancing at Harry for confirmation.

"And a glass of milk," Harry added, smiling in a friendly way as she fished a galleon from her purse. She flipped the coin the way she'd often seen Marek do, and grinned as it arched into the boy's waiting hand.

"Do you even serve milk here?" Marek asked Solom, sending Harry a teasing grin.

"Milk is good for you," Harry said.

"So is ale," Marek returned, "It'll put hair on your chest."

"I've got plenty of hair on my chest," Harry said. A choking noise from behind her made her turn around to see Leo, pink-faced and half spluttering, next to a redheaded man wearing rough, Egyptian-style garb and a neck scarf pulled up over his nose to ward off the blistering afternoon sun.

"Take a seat, Highness," Solom grinned, kicking out a chair for Leo, "And Master Will, you're most welcome as well."

Leo and his friend took seats across the table, Leo saying, "What's this I hear about Harry's chest?"

"It's hairy, that's all," Harry said, ignoring the snickers that went around the table at her words, "Why, isn't yours?" Solom and Marek choked on their own spit and Rispah snorted with hastily suppressed amusement.

Leo favored her with a confident leer, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Two can play that game, she inwardly smirked. She brought out the new leer they'd just taught her, raking her eyes across Leo's clothed chest for good measure, "Maybe I would. You offering?"

It was Leo's turn to once again choke as everyone else burst out laughing, including Harry. It was too hard to keep the expression going at the dumbfounded look on Leo's face.

"You—" Leo coughed and turned an accusing stare on Rispah, "Cousin, what have I told you about corrupting the youth?"

This only made Rispah, Marek, Solom, and Harry laugh harder, remembering what Rispah had said earlier.

"I feel as though we missed part of that joke," Leo's friend, Will, said wryly.

At the sound of his voice, muffled though it was behind the scarf, Harry stopped laughing and stared at the man. There was something…familiar about him, now that she looked.

"It probably wasn't that funny," Leo said sourly, though he grinned when his cousin shot him a vaguely apologetic smile.

"What brings you here, Master Will?" Solom asked, gesturing for another serving boy to come and take the newcomer's orders.

"Just paying my tithe," Will said. He chuckled as Solom leaned closer to hear better, then pulled down his scarf slightly so his voice wasn't so muffled, "Sorry. It's not due yet, but I won't be in the country much longer—not that I think His Highness would have trouble tracking me down, desert or no."

A tithe was another name for the taxes everyone who made a living in the Court of the Rogue had to pay to the King. As far as Harry understood, the King then used the taxes to provide things for the people in his Court who needed them.

"What sort of work do you do in the Court?" Harry asked, a suspicion forming in her mind as she traced his features mentally. His red hair was worn loose, so she couldn't see his ears, and his scarf still covered most of his lower face, but the long, freckled nose and sharp blue eyes were familiar.

Will eyed her warily, then seemed to do a double-take as he said, "Black? What are you…no, wait." He leaned toward her from across the table, searching her eyes. Harry gave nothing but mild curiosity away, even as her mind finally put a name to the face she was looking at. "Sorry, but you…look like someone I know. Not the eyes, but you're otherwise remarkably similar of face."

"You seem familiar, too," Harry said, her eyes dancing lightly across the young man's freckles.

'Will' stiffened and his face closed, "Maybe I've seen you in the alleys before."

"Yeah, that's probably it," Harry said, willing to drop it if he was. Clearly he was suspicious of her similarity to Rigel Black, and he had no doubt determined from the way she eyed his remarkably red hair that she suspected he had some connection with the Weasley Family. She hoped her message was clear: I won't dig further if you won't.

Not that she was worried if he did. She could easily tell him she was Harry Potter, and prove it, too. She just didn't want to expose her gender to the rest of her friends in the Court yet. They'd treat her like a foreigner if they knew she was a 'Lady' from the Upper Court, as they liked to call the folk who were connected to the officially recognized government in Wizarding Britain.

The shepherd's pies came out a moment later, so the awkward silence that followed Harry and Will's strange exchange was soon filled with the sounds of eating and exclaiming about how delicious the food was. It was always good, but Solom never tired of hearing it praised.

As he finished his pie, Will stood and excused himself, "See you next month, Highness. It was good seeing you all—and nice meeting you, Harry…"

He trailed off, waiting for her to supply her last name.

"It was nice to meet you, too, Will…" she answered sweetly.

William Weasley grimaced at her, but she thought it seemed relatively good-natured, so she grinned back at him in a no-hard-feelings sort of a way.

Once he'd gone, Harry asked, "So what does he do, Leo?"

"Will's a curse-breaker," Leo said, eyeing her questioningly, "He does fairly steady business hiring himself out as a curse-detector for those looking to re-sell old objects of…uncertain origin."

"He does houses, too," Marek put in, "He's not bad with wards, though he's better at deconstructing than setting new ones, I hear."

"What's got you so curious about him?" Rispah asked slyly, "He is rather handsome."

Harry colored and promptly stuck her nose into her own lunch, "He reminds me of someone I know. Where's he from?"

"That's his business," Solom said gruffly, "Where're you from?"

Harry acquiesced the point and concentrated on finishing her pie as the subject moved on to other areas of business in the Court. They didn't talk about anything terribly important around her, of course, but their Court gossip easily kept her entertained.

Soon she had to get back to the Guild for the afternoon practical. Leo offered to escort her back, but she waved him off, citing the fact that he hadn't finished his own pie as her excuse. In truth, she didn't want to be seen hanging out with Leo around the Guild. If the other two interns saw that she was close with the Aldermaster's son, they'd immediately assume she got the internship through connections, rather than merit. Harry wouldn't even be able to blame them for thinking it, as nepotism was extremely common in their world, and they had no way of knowing that Master Hurst was impressed with her potions before he knew she was his son's friend.

She was decidedly not late as she took her seat for the afternoon session, though Renaldo was already there when she arrived. She had not attempted to make conversation with him again after he brushed her off the first day, and he reciprocated her silence entirely. The only consolation to that was the fact that he didn't really speak to Lestrange, either. He seemed completely and entirely focused on learning, which Harry supposed was admirable in its own way.

When Lestrange came in, he took one look at her and sneered. "Don't think your little act this morning fooled anyone, Potter," he said as he stalked gracefully to his own station.

Harry heaved an inward sigh and counted to ten silently in her head. Un…deux…trois…eventually she gave up, realizing she wasn't going to ever calm down enough to be nice to Lestrange, and said, "Should I know what you're talking about, or do you want me to guess?"

"I watched Master Rutherage lock that door," Lestrange told her, "The only reason he didn't kick you out for forcing your way in is because it would look like sexism if the only girl intern in the last decade of this program got kicked out the first week. They'll probably let you stay long enough to shut up the feminists, then get rid of you so that those of us with real talent don't have to accommodate a child's pace."

Harry could feel her eye twitching, so she bit back the retort she wanted to make, and instead plastered an innocently curious look onto her face, "You think a child like me could overpower the Master's locking charm? It takes one and a half times the energy the caster put into a locking charm to unlock it."

"I know that," Lestrange snapped. He did that a lot, asserting that he knew things just after being told them. As though being told something twice could cause his brain to rot and die, or something. "He must have underpowered it so that you'd be able to get in—like I said, they can't get rid of you yet."

"I wonder why he'd bother locking it at all then," Harry thought out loud, "It would be more defensible to simply pretend to 'forget' to lock it, don't you think?"

"What do you know?" Lestrange said dismissively.

"A lot of things," Harry said seriously, determinedly not getting angry, "Most of them having something to do with Potions. Believe it or not, Lestrange, I do actually belong here. And I won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

She thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, but he turned to begin pulling out his brewing kit with a derisive snort, clearly deciding not to dignify her statement with an answer.

A minute or two later, Master Rutherage came in, followed by three other men, all middle-aged and all dressed in good-quality brewing robes. Harry flicked her eyes down and—yes, they all had on flame-retardant boots as well. These men were potioneers.

"Good afternoon, interns," Master Rutherage said jovially, "Today is the final day of group instruction. After this lesson, you'll each be assigned one of the Guild's Masters, who will guide your research for the rest of the program."

In other words, Harry thought, these three Masters were there to evaluate their last practical lesson, and would likely make their decisions about which intern they wanted according to what they saw.

"They've all been briefed on your respective levels of proficiency already, so don't worry if you make a mistake this afternoon—it won't affect their decisions," Master Rutherage said.

Harry glanced at the other two interns' faces. They looked as skeptical as she felt.

Rutherage flicked his wand at each of them, and a roll of flameproof parchment flew from his desk to each of their stations, "Here is the recipe for today's potion. Some of you may not have brewed this particular potion before, so I'll tell you that the trick is in following the instructions exactly. Feel free to read over the recipe several times before beginning. You have three hours to complete your potion. Begin." With that, Rutherage conjured four chairs at the front of the room, and all four of the Masters settled in to wait.

Harry unrolled her parchment and glanced over the ingredient list. She frowned, and looked over it again. These ingredients…made no internal sense.

First of all, it called for chicken feathers, which she had never seen called for in anything…ever. Pencil shavings were also on the list, as well as baking powder and…snow. It actually said 'half a liter of snow.' Harry could honestly say she had no idea why a potion would need snow in particular, since snow was frozen water, and it would melt in the cauldron almost instantly. In short, if someone had asked her to write a list of the most useless potion ingredients she could think of, half of the ones off the top of her head would be on this list.

Bemused, she looked at the title, and internally groaned. Jourdain's Amalgamation. She should have suspected, but she honestly never imagined the Guild would have them make something so completely pointless. And, she thought, looking at the three feet of small-print instructions, unnecessarily complicated.

Jourdain's Amalgamation was an infamous potion. It was said that nearly every NEWT practical for the last four decades running involved brewing at least the first stages of the potion as one of the components. The odd thing about this potion, and the reason Harry had never bothered learning to brew it, was that it didn't actually do anything. At all. It was extraordinarily complicated simply for the sake of being complicated. It was created by some sadistic individual to test how well aspiring brewers could follow directions and successfully complete a potion they were unfamiliar with.

Harry read all the way down to the end of the parchment, noting that the potion would go through several stages and changes, but would end up a bright green broth the consistency of liquid mercury when finished, and ought to smell slightly of peppermint.

She took out the materials she'd need at her station—no special equipment, thankfully, though she'd need knives of no less than four different materials depending on the ingredient she was preparing. She had a few of the ingredients called for in her own kit, but most of the ingredients were, well, useless, or at least impotent in reasonable quantities, so she'd have to collect the majority of them from the Guild's stores.

There was a storeroom connected to their lab, so Harry left her cauldron to begin warming up (after checking it for impurities and treating it with snake oil, as the recipe called for), and took her ingredient list with her to get what she needed.

Renaldo and Lestrange were already busy gathering their own ingredients by the time she got there. The storeroom wasn't very big, and they were all gathering the same ingredients, so it was quite crowded. Harry had to grit her teeth several times when Lestrange elbowed her 'accidentally' as he placed pre-packaged quantities of ingredients into his basket, but she wasn't inclined to pettiness when there was a potion to brew, so she ignored the older boy and focused on getting what she needed.

She had only collected a few of the things on her list when Renaldo fell suddenly sideways and knocked clumsily against her. Harry lost the grip on her basket, and wasn't fast enough to stop the ingredients falling to the floor. She sighed, knelt to pick them up, and glanced over with surprise when Renaldo knelt down beside her and helped her gather them. He looked upset, and Harry saw him glare angrily at Lestrange as the other boy swept out of the storeroom without a backward glance.

"Sorry," Renaldo said shortly, "Git pushed me."

"No problem," Harry said, annoyed at Lestrange all over again for being such a prick all the time.

Renaldo nodded, then stood. He seemed to hesitate, then said, "You'll have to get new lilac pollen—it's useless now, since you don't know what it came into contact with on the ground. New Madder root, too, I think."

Harry nodded, well aware of this, "You're right. Thanks." She turned to get a new packet of lilac pollen, hoping she wouldn't get in trouble for the one she'd spilled all over the storeroom floor. When she turned back, Renaldo was holding a bundle of roots in his hand, his expression still unreadable. She took the replacement Madder root with a grateful smile, which Renaldo returned half-heartedly. She wasn't offended—it was a start, at least. Maybe they'd be friends, by the time all this was over.

They gathered the rest of their ingredients in silence, and returned to the lab to begin what looked to be at least two and a half hours of intensive brewing.

Time passed quickly, as it always did while she brewed. For the first time that she could remember, however, Harry was looking forward to being done with a potion for the simple reason that brewing it was annoying.

Jourdain's Amalgamation was, frankly, a huge waste of time. Half of the ingredients she added did nothing except render inert other ingredients previously added. As she brewed, she couldn't help thinking up dozens of ways to make the process more efficient, mentally cutting out and shortening parts of the recipe that were entirely unnecessary. Then again, she supposed, if the recipe was expedient, it wouldn't be nearly so difficult.

As she added the Madder root, she couldn't help but feel like she was brewing one of her father's prank potions. Madder root was common in joke potions, because it's primary use was as a color additive. It would turn a potion bright yellow—though, because she had already added blueberry extract to the mix, this potion would actually be a very…pretty…green…

Harry's stomach dropped as her entire potion turned a vivid purple. "What?" she muttered, completely confused. How could it be purple? The Madder root was yellow. No possible combination could have made purple out of yellow. Even if she'd made a mistake before putting the root in—which she hadn't—this garish purple couldn't have happened unless the Madder root had been rendered inert by something else in the potion—or rather, not rendered inert, but corrupted to some kind of red.

Harry shook her head and pulled out her wand quickly. She cast a stasis charm on the cauldron until she could figure out what had happened—maybe she still had time to fix it. She couldn't get from purple to green directly, of course, so she'd have to first find a way to neutralize the Madder root, or perhaps extract it somehow—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a choked snort from across the room. She spared a moment to flash a glare at its emitter, and wasn't surprised to see Lestrange openly grinning in amusement at her obnoxiously purple potion. She offered him an unappreciative scowl, and turned back to her cauldron. On the way back to her own station, however, her eyes passed over Renaldo, who had the tiniest of smirks playing about his mouth as he stirred his cauldron.

Her face flushed and her hands clenched shut. She had to very carefully put her wand back into her pocket and focus on willing her magic not to overturn the jerk's cauldron into his lap. It was Renaldo who gave her the Madder root, after her own had fallen. I bet Lestrange didn't even knock him into me, she thought bitterly, recalling his half-hearted smile as he 'helped' her.

Harry took a deep breath, then narrowed her eyes at her cauldron. She was going to fix this. Her potion was going to be the best, or she hadn't studied under the greatest Potions Master of their age. She swept off to the storeroom once more, taking some comfort in the fact that they wouldn't dare sabotage her potion further while under the eyes of the Masters. She eyed the shelves around where Renaldo had been standing, trying to guess what he'd substituted for the Madder root.

There were several roots in that section (the cupboard being organized by ingredient type, not alphabetically), but there was only one other that was the same sort of off-tan color as the Madder. She eyed the Himalayan rubhada root, which was used in red dyes, and sighed. At least she knew how to get rid of it. She reached for the packets of actual Madder root, only to groan out loud as she spotted the empty shelf.

He'd taken all of the extra root, probably so that she couldn't fix it when she realized what had gone wrong. Harry scrubbed a hand through her hair, furious. Never in her life had she been the target of such low-handed tricks. Imagine, deliberately ruining someone else's potion. It made her sick.

What could she do? She didn't have Madder root in her personal kit, precisely because all it did was change the color of things. She'd have to use a different yellow-producing agent. She saw Larkspur, but as much as she'd like to use that, she couldn't. Larkspur was poisonous, and none of the ingredients in the recipe would neutralize it. No one would be drinking it as far as she knew, but it was illegal to create a poison unless sanctioned by the Guild for research purposes, not to mention just bad form. She debated Gamboge resin, but that would thicken the consistency of the potion, and cow urine (yes, really), would have a disastrous effect on the potion's smell. She looked in vain for weld, also called dyer's weed, which would produce a nice, sunny yellow with the right persuasion…but it didn't seem to be stocked in this storeroom.

Eventually, feeling the press of time passing, she decided on Indian gooseberry, which was edible, without being too aromatic. She hesitated over the Leucanthemum for a moment, but in the end grabbed a few Croton leaves instead. Both plants absorbed huge amounts of sunlight, a natural bleaching agent, but although the Leucanthemem was prettier, the Croton would be more efficient in releasing the energy it stored, in her opinion.

She hurried back to the Lab, knowing that she would have to work quickly to make up for the time she had lost. She took the potion off stasis, and turned up the heat as high as she dared, conscious that if she set it too high the integrity of other ingredients would be compromised. By heating up the potion, the red dye from the Himalayan rubhada root would unbind partially from the other ingredients. Harry de-stemmed the Croton leaves and cupped them in her left hand, pressing her right hand on top. The Croton leaves had a lot of energy in them already, but Harry needed them to be bursting with energy, to speed up the photons the Croton leaves had absorbed from the sun. She imbued the leaves until they felt warm to the touch, and dropped them in the cauldron, stirring quickly to dissolve their energy into the potion. Within a few minutes, the entire potion had turned white, as the energy from the Croton leaves bleached all color from the mixture.

She still had some of the blueberries left over, but they had been in balance with the apple seeds (for some reason that probably made no practical sense, but which Harry didn't feel confident enough to disregard), so she added more of both, and stirred until the potion was once again blue. Then she added the Indian gooseberry, and finally the potion turned the green it was supposed to be.

She was back on track.

Harry veritably flew through the rest of the potion, so fed up with the whole afternoon that she barely restrained herself when the recipe called for a five-minute wait while it simmered. She was pleased to note, as she added the last ingredient, that Renaldo had just finished his own potion as she set down her stirring rod, and by the way Lestrange was still packing up his utensils, he couldn't have finished that much ahead of her either.

She eyed her potion critically, but despite the detour she'd taken around the Madder root, it looked right. It was green, thicker than oil but thinner than honey—just the thickness of liquid mercury, and it smelt faintly of mint, as it was supposed to. The shade might have been a hair off, but she flattered herself that by looking at the finished result you'd never guess it had been purple not fifteen minutes prior.

Master Rutherage came over and peered into their cauldrons, seeing that they'd all finished. He made approving noises over Lestrange's caldron, hummed in a contented way over Renaldo's, and smiled at her as he leaned over to sniff at her own, "Got a bit lost there in the middle, did you, Miss Potter? What happened?"

"I'm afraid so, Master Rutherage," Harry said smoothly, "I'm afraid my Madder root may have been a mislabeled Himalayan rubhada."

"Ah, yes, that explains the…interesting deviation in color you experienced," Rutherage said cheerfully, "Good thinking to draw the color completely out, then reapply it. Any reason you didn't simply use actual Madder root as the recipe suggested?"

"Unfortunately, there was only enough Madder root stocked for three potions," Harry said, shrugging easily, as though she hadn't wanted to rip her hair out over the shortage earlier.

"Well it doesn't seem to have done any harm, your improvisation," Rutherage smiled again, "The potion is to specifications, so I suppose you've completed your task regardless."

"The task was to follow directions," Lestrange muttered sourly.

"How nice it must be that everything you do goes according to plan," Harry said, smiling politely at the Durmstrang boy.

"Hmm, quite right," Rutherage chuckled, "Adaptation is crucial to potion-brewing—though of course following direction is a good starting point, in best-case-scenario circumstances."

Harry barely suppressed a smirk at that. She wondered when her inner-self had become so vindictive, but it stroked something positively smug in her gut to know that Renaldo's little trick had backfired. Not only hadn't it ruined her potion, it had given her a chance to demonstrate quick-thinking and problem-solving on the spot, as well.

"Well, that's it for today's lesson," Rutherage said, waving his wand broadly and vanishing the contents of all three cauldrons, "And that concludes your group sessions, as well. From now on, you'll meet with your assigned mentor in the mornings, and do research in the afternoons. You'll need to have your topic chosen and approved by the end of next week. Experimental brewing is to be done only under your respective Master's supervision."

He stepped aside, and the three Potions Masters stood.

The first to speak was tall, poised, and classically handsome, with a straight nose and high cheekbones. His hair was long, like a pureblood lord, and Harry recognized him after a moment as Edgar Whitaker, the public face of the Guild. He looked different in color than in the black-and-white photos printed in the Guild's bi-annual press release, but Harry recognized the big, even teeth as he smiled at them.

"I am Master Whitaker," he said, his voice smooth and his demeanor friendly. He was rumored to be quite personable, and Harry could see why. "My specialty, as some of you may know, is Transformative Potions."

Who didn't know about Whitaker's work with Polyjuice? Harry thought, hoping she'd impressed him enough that he'd pick her. He would be perfect as a mentor—she already had a great interest in Polyjuice, and she'd heard he occasionally worked with Professor Snape on Wolfsbane, too.

"Mr. Lestrange," Whitaker continued pleasantly, "You're with me."

Lestrange smiled broadly, and Harry couldn't help but hate that his face was even more beautiful when he wasn't sneering.

"It's an honor to meet you, Master Whitaker," Lestrange said, and Harry couldn't even sneer at the awed tone of the other boy's voice, because she was feeling the same way just being in the same room at Whitaker.

The next Master to step forward looked vaguely familiar, but Harry didn't recognize him until he introduced himself. "Master Montmorency," he said, his voice slightly clipped, "I'll be mentoring Mr. Casillas."

Montmorency the Meticulous, some called him. He was known for his tediously extensive experiments and the slow rate at which he published his papers. That said, he never retracted anything, because he never released his findings until he was absolutely certain of their implications and shortcomings. His specialty, Harry recalled enviously, was Healing Potions. His latest research was on stasis potions, and if she remembered correctly he'd actually come up with the version of Snowhit she'd used during the Sleeping Sickness. And he was Renaldo's mentor.

Harry suppressed a sigh, and pasted an eager expression on her face as she turned toward the third Master. He surveyed her with half-lidded eyes, looking…rather bored, actually. She altered her expression into a politely neutral one, and offered her hand, "I'm Harry Potter, Master…"

He reached out a clasped her hand, but his grip was weak, his expression disinterested, "Thompson," he said lazily, "Guess you're with me."

She nodded, not sure what else to say. She'd never heard of a Master Thompson—though the name was so common, perhaps she just didn't remember reading it. He didn't offer his specialty, and she hesitated to ask, feeling embarrassed that she couldn't remember him from anywhere and not wanting to offend him.

Thompson turned his gaze to the ceiling and examined it idly for a moment, before looking back down at her, "We'll meet at ten on Monday morning. My Lab is number thirty-three. I'll leave it unlocked."

"Not that a lock would stop Potter," Lestrange sneered as he moved past them, amusement at his own joke glinting in his eyes.

Harry forced a pleased smile, "I look forward to it, Master Thompson. Good afternoon."

She gathered her things, stowed her cauldron away at her station, and walked slowly out of the Guild, ambivalence in her heart. She wasn't that upset about Renaldo switching her ingredients. It pinched a bit that the other two interns so actively disliked her, but, she reasoned, not everyone in the world had to like her. She was mildly disappointed that Lestrange had been picked by Master Whitaker, when she probably knew more about transformative potions than he did. More than that, however, she was disheartened at her own mentor. She knew it wasn't always the case, but usually when a Potions Master wasn't well-published, it meant he wasn't contributing much to the field. This was a research internship, so she had imagined she'd be mentored by someone really relevant to current research, as Montmorency and Whitaker both were.

She shook her head sharply to clear the nonsense out of it. What was she thinking? Thompson was a Potions Master, well-published or not, and to think that there was a Potions Master she couldn't learn from…well, that was sheer folly. Probably, on Monday, she would see that her anxiousness was for nothing. The bitter, suspicious part of herself that whispered poisonous thoughts—that maybe the Guild didn't think a real Potions Master should be wasted on the upstart female brewer who'd only been let into the program on Master Hurst's recommendation—well, that part was just wrong, wasn't it? It had to be.

-0

[HpHpHp]

-0

Godric's Hollow was empty when Harry arrived home. It was late afternoon, but not quite time for her parents to get off work. James' schedule had been very reliable since he was taken off active duty, so he'd be home around five o'clock, but Lily sometimes worked late, still making up for the weeks she'd taken off for maternity leave, so Harry would probably see her around dinner.

If Harry were a better sister, she would floo over to Grimmauld Place and pick up Addy. Sirius watched her during the day, both because Addy still hadn't taken to Remus very well, and because her parents thought Sirius could use something other than his pet snakes to focus on.

She should go over and relieve Sirius of babysitting duty…but instead she changed out of her brewing robes and into her loose running clothes. Addy would only cry if Harry picked her up, and it was important that she keep her exercise regimen as regular as possible. Remus was disappointed by how much her stamina had suffered while the curfew was in effect at Hogwarts, and he wouldn't increase her weights until she could do a solid five kilometers again.

She pulled on her shoes and did a few stretches before heading out the front door. Godric's Hollow was a small village, and the Potters lived on the outskirts, so Harry usually made her run around the parameter. The sun hadn't quite set, so she didn't spare much thought to where her feet took her. As was her habit, the sounds of her breathing faded from her consciousness and her thoughts turned inward as her feet drummed on the earth.

She wanted to come up with a topic for her research with Master Thompson, but she found her mind drifting to other questions instead, like what Bill Weasley was doing earning a living in Leo's Court, when he already had a respectable job as a curse-breaker for Gringotts. That he wasn't open about his identity meant his family probably didn't know he worked for thieves in his spare time. She wondered what he needed to supplement his income for—he was young, single, and presumably debt-free if he still stayed at his parent's home on breaks from his job.

Maybe he has a gambling problem, she thought, before shaking her head in self-disgust. Who was she to speculate about someone else's secret life? If anything, she should be more concerned that he would figure out her secret life. She might have to make her trips to the Dancing Phoenix less frequent, though it would be a shame to do so. Leo and the other members of the Rogue were fun, and they let her relax. They never asked her very personal questions, never insinuated that she be grateful for their discretion, and seemed genuinely unconcerned with how secretive she was. With them, she could almost forget she had secrets. She didn't have to be Rigel Black, or even Harry Potter. She could be just Harry, a kid with a knack for potions.

Then again, 'just Harry' didn't get to study under Master Snape at Hogwarts, so she wasn't ready to run off and join the Court herself just yet. Maybe after I take my NEWT's, she told herself jokingly.

She made it home just before true dark set in, and quickly changed out of her sweaty clothes before flooing over to Grimmauld Place. The smells of dinner greeted her as she stumbled out of the grate ungracefully.

Her mother was directing her wand as it chopped vegetables adroitly, Addy strapped to a carrier on her back. Harry's little sister peered over Lily's shoulder curiously, seemingly entranced by the wand's quick movements. Sirius was squatting down in front of the oven, hands covered with pink and blue protective mitts.

"It won't bake faster just because you watch it," Remus said from his seat at the table as Harry walked in.

"It won't burn either," Sirius said absently, staring through the little oven window and wriggling slightly in anticipation, "It's almost done, I just know it!"

"Most people set timers for cakes," Lily said, her voice tired, but amused. She left off the vegetables and flicked her wand toward the cupboard to summon plates and cups for the table. Harry had thought her mother was rather lazy, growing up, as Lily tended to take any excuse to use her wand. When she got older, though, and realized that her mother had been raised among muggles, Harry decided she couldn't fault her mother for her near-constant use of magic. Lily no doubt appreciated her abilities more than wizard-raised witches would, and so included her magic as intimately as possible in her lifestyle.

"As if time has anything to do with baking," Sirius scoffed, "I am an artist, not a chemist."

"What would you know about chemistry?" James asked, setting the cutlery.

"I know it's a soulless, exacting pursuit that attracts only the most repressed and critical of individuals. Rather like potion-mak—" Sirius broke off in a cough as he caught sight of Harry's reflection in the oven door, "Harry! We were just talking about you—no, I mean, we were talking about…um…"

"The soulless and repressed nature of those pitiful wraiths who are drawn to become potioneers?" Harry suggested wryly. She bent down next to Sirius to peek in the over, "Chocolate? Or is it just burnt?"

"It's not burnt!" Sirius said, though he did peer worriedly through the window before turning back with an apologetic smile, "And I didn't mean you, of course. Just…certain other people who become greasy old Potions Masters because they can't find a way to actually participate in social reality."

"Professor Snape is your age, Dad," Archie said cheekily from where he was mixing Addy's bottle, "But I guess you are kind of old now that I think about it."

And he's probably improved more lives with his 'greasy' research than Sirius has giving prank toys to children at St. Mungo's, Harry thought uncharitably. She pursed her lips, immediately repentant. Sirius brought a lot of joy to the world, between the Marauder line and his volunteer work, not to mention the annual donations he made to a number of worthy causes. Harry didn't know where all these petty thoughts were coming from that evening, but suspected she was simply in a bad mood because of her afternoon at the Guild.

Sirius must have mistaken her pursed lips for disapproval of his comments rather than disappointment in herself, as he said, "Sorry, Harry, if I offended you. I was only joking."

Harry smiled unconcernedly, "I know, Uncle Sirius. I'm not cross with you, just tired—long afternoon, you know."

"So forgiving," Sirius grinned, ruffling her hair with an oven-mitt-clad hand, "Why can't you be more like Harry, Archie?"

Archie half-choked on a laugh, "I honestly don't think I could be more like Harry if I tried. We're practically twins, aren't we Harry?"

"Separated at birth, no doubt," Harry agreed, "It's the only explanation for you turning out so much cooler than Sirius—he must have snatched you from my mother's arms when he realized what amazing kids his friends were blessed with."

"Oi!" Sirius protested, "Archie is so not cooler than me."

"I've been meaning to tell you, Dad," Archie said mournfully, "But we all voted, and…I am definitely cooler than you."

"Impossible!" Sirius declared, tossing his head proudly even as he finally retrieved the cake from the oven.

"It was almost unanimous," Remus chimed in.

"The only vote in your favor was Lily's vote," James agreed apologetically, "And we counted her vote in Archie's favor simply because of how wildly off-mark her cool-detector generally is."

It was Lily's turn to gasp with affected dismay, "My cool-detector is just fine. I think you're cool, Darling."

"Exactly," Remus chuckled softly.

James threw a playful scowl at Remus and added, "You thought Snape was cool when you were younger, too."

"Master Snape is cool," Harry said automatically.

Sirius and James both turned disbelieving eyes on her, "Snape? Cool? That is just…wrong."

"How would you know, anyway?" James added, "Anyone can seem cool on paper. In real life, he's decidedly not."

Harry turned raised eyebrows on Archie, who froze for a moment, before shrugging sheepishly. "Uh, Professor Snape definitely has a…presence…" Archie fumbled, "I mean, he's sort of…intimidating, actually. But it's kind of cool…the way his cloak swishes when he turns…"

Harry resisted the urge to smack her own forehead as Archie somehow managed to compile the descriptions of Snape she'd given him into a litany that made him sound like a besotted idiot.

Sirius was staring with abject horror, "No…Archie, no, you can't think Snape is cooler than me. You just can't…." he trailed off into indistinguishable mutters of denial.

"I think you broke him," James said, looking disturbed, "Maybe we should all pretend you didn't say that, Archie."

"He's my Head of House," Archie said, flushing, "I can't pretend to hold him in contempt."

"Professional respect is one thing," Sirius said, snapping out of his daze with a vaguely ill expression on his face, "Personal admiration…is just so unnecessary. It's Snape."

"That's not an argument in and of itself, you know," Harry said, annoyed enough to speak up in Snape's defense, "Your dislike of the man has skewed your perception of him greatly, Uncle Sirius."

Sirius grimaced, "That doesn't really bother me, since I know his opinion of me suffers the same distortion."

Harry shrugged, consenting that point easily enough, "I guess neither one of you is better than the other, then."

"Salad's done," Lily broke in cheerfully, flapping her hands toward the table, "Let's eat."

Everyone grasped the change of subject readily, and exuberant praise and thanks for the meal were given and received until a general air of light-hearted gaiety returned to the kitchen.

It was only her cranky mood that made her wonder why her family was so good at ignoring the uncomfortable truths and focusing on the inane ones.

When they were clearing away the dishes, Sirius said, suddenly, "Archie, I forgot to tell you, but you got a letter today."

Archie left off teasing Addy with her pacifier and cocked his head curiously, "Who from?"

"Malfoys," Sirius said, half grimacing.

"Oh," Archie dug through the pile of mail on the counter and pulled out the square, off-white envelope addressed to him, "Looks more like an invitation."

"Another one of those summer parties the Malfoys had last year?" Harry asked with affected innocent.

Archie seized on the reminder, "No doubt Draco's birthday party as well." He ripped it open and scanned the embossed invitation briefly, "Cordially invited…hmm…it's this weekend—tomorrow! Dad, when you said I got a letter today, did you mean you just bothered checking the mail today? How long has this been sitting here?"

Sirius shrugged apologetically, "I don't check the mail often, so…two weeks?"

Archie laughed, but Harry frowned, "Will you have time to get Draco's present by tomorrow morning?"

"I'll go to Diagon Alley to get something before the party," Archie said.

"I'll tag along," Harry said nonchalantly, "I have a few errands to run tomorrow in the Alley anyway."

Archie agreed distractedly, still looking at the invitation with unease, "Dad…you're on here, too."

"What?" Sirius wasn't the only one who looked confused, "Let me see." He bent over Archie's outstretched hand, "Huh. So I am."

"Why's your name after mine?" Archie asked, frowning, "You're the Head of the Family."

Sirius shrugged, "Maybe they think if they make you the primary attendee and me the secondary, I'll disregard the Split and go. Or it might just be that your connection to Draco is stronger than my ties to the Malfoys, despite Narcissa's marriage, and decided to only invite me through proxy."

"Will you go?" Harry asked, trying to hide her unease at the idea.

"I…" Sirius trailed off, thinking, "The New Year's Gala was one thing. That was a political event…sort of. This, though…" he grimaced, "James, what do you think?"

James lapsed into thought, running a hand through his hair pensively, "It would be a stretch, but you could claim you went as a chaperone to Archie, not a real guest. If anyone asks. Do you want to go?"

Sirius shrugged uncomfortably, "I don't like Archie going alone."

Harry noticed he didn't really answer the question.

Remus spoke up tentatively, "Do you think the Split is still all that in effect? It's been so many years…principles are important, of course, but it's also your family, Sirius. This situation has always been harder on you than on others. Maybe you should reclaim your place in society."

"I never really had a place," Sirius said weakly.

"Exactly," Lily spoke up, "Sirius, I know you've chosen Light politics, but perhaps its time to become socially Neutral. For Archie's sake, at least. He'll be attending more and more of these gatherings as he grows older, with the friends he's made in school being who they are. It might be better if you had a bit of leeway in guiding him through society. You don't have to sympathize with Dark politics, of course."

"Please don't join the Cow Party, Dad," Archie begged comically.

Sirius barked out a laugh, "They wish! Once a Marauder, always a Marauder."

No one said anything about Peter 'wormtail' Pettigrew.

"Okay…I'll do it," Sirius said, more seriously. Then he grimaced, "Does this mean I have to get Lucius' whelp a birthday present?"

Archie rolled his eyes, "Yes, Dad, you have to get my friend a birthday gift if you crash his party."

"I was invited."

"After me," Archie smirked, "Guess I should be Head of the Black Family, seeing as I'm obviously more important than you."

"Don't forget cooler, too," Harry put in, smiling despite the sinking feeling in her chest. How was she going to pull this off?

"This new generation is a complete wash," Sirius complained.

"Whose fault would that be?" Remus asked, smiling pleasantly.

"Lily's, no doubt," Sirius sniffed.

"See if I let you watch Addy next week," Lily sniffed back.

"Who else would watch her? Remus?" Sirius laughed.

"I think she's starting to like me," Remus said hopefully, reaching out to pat Addy on the head gingerly. The infant's bottom lip trembled, and Remus retracted his hand quickly. "Or not," he muttered.

"And Harry can't watch her, with that Guild thing all day," Sirius said smugly, "Face it, I'm your best option."

Lily grumbled something about seeing if Alice Longbottom was available, and James turned curious eyes on Harry. "How is that going, by the way?"

Harry shrugged, "I'm learning a lot. I got assigned a mentor today from the Guild, and he's going to help me with me research starting next week."

"You're doing original research?" Lily frowned, "Is it safe?"

Harry hid a smile at her mother's naiveté. She'd hate to think what her parents would say if they knew Harry had already created—and tested—potions on herself. "Perfectly safe, Mum. Master Thompson will oversee any experimental stages."

"No one's better equipped than the Guild, Lily," Remus said reassuringly.

"Yes, you're right. Still, be careful, Harry," Lily said worriedly, "I think you're too much like your father, sometimes, and I've heard what he got into at your age."

Harry smiled reassuringly, but inwardly mused that no matter how much trouble James got into as a teen, it would never amount to what she had gotten herself into in the last two years.

That evening, Harry followed Archie up to his room. She needed to get back to her lab to work on Draco's present, but strategizing tomorrow's subterfuge was more important.

Archie shifted great, heavy tombs on Healing off of his bedspread to make room for them to sit. Harry knew many would be surprised by Archie's studiousness, but his carefree, often facetious nature was only the cheerful veneer that masked a deep, conscientious empathy for the world, and a sharp, engaging intellect. He was much like his father in that respect: he played the part of the jester willingly, finding laughter in any situation, but behind his smile lived an acute awareness of how sober reality could really be.

"So," Archie said, plopping down and hugging a pillow to his chest with the kind of ingénue affect that Harry couldn't help but envy. "What are we going to do about this?"

Harry took a seat beside him, wondering the same thing.

"We don't look exactly the same anymore," Archie said, thinking out loud, "It's close, but I think our actual bodies are starting to differ too much biologically—I'm growing to look more masculine, and you're starting to look more feminine. So my guess is the last dose of modified Polyjuice couldn't blend our features exactly without leaning slightly in the direction of the chosen biological sex."

Harry had been thinking the same thing. She and Archie were both androgynous and slightly awkward looking after the most recent dose of Polyjuice, but Archie had a masculine edge to his features that the Polyjuice couldn't replicate in her unless she changed herself into an actual boy.

Harry nodded, "There is a slight difference in our features now. The question is, is the difference noticeable enough that Sirius would recognize me as not you if you weren't there for the comparison? Could I style my hair in a new way and make him think any difference was due to something superficial like that?"

"As long as you give him no reason to look for deception…I don't think he'll notice," Archie said, "The change in our features is only a few weeks old, so he's probably not completely used to it yet." He didn't sound completely confident, but he nodded, as though trying to convince himself, "I have new robes that are cut in a different style than I usually wear. Put those on, comb your hair back from your face, and maybe put in a bit of product to change the texture slightly. Dad'll be preoccupied with those changes, and won't notice other changes."

Harry traced Archie's features thoughtfully, "It's our jaws that really differ, I think. Our shoulders, too—yours are a bit wider now. I could change my posture to make up for it—maybe put my shoulders back and lift my chin a bit when I'm with Sirius."

"Won't your friends from school think that's weird?" Archie said critically, "Rigel's personality is rather reserved from what you've said."

"They'll notice, but they're already under the impression that I act 'differently' around Sirius to fulfill some sort of perfect-son expectation they think he's projected onto me," Harry said, "The change in my behavior will be 'in-character' for Rigel, especially if I 'slip' and make it clear that I am changing my behavior for Sirius' benefit. Sirius is the one I have to fool. He can't know that I'm changing my behavior, because you wouldn't do that around him."

Archie grimaced, "I don't know whether to be impressed by us or disappointed in the rest of the world. It just shouldn't be this easy to lie to everyone."

Harry raised an eyebrow, "You think this is easy?"

"Well, not easy," Archie cast about for the right word, "It's just eerily effective. We create these personas that account for everything that goes wrong and seamlessly integrate all the parts of our stories that overlap—I keep expecting to be caught out, but it's the simplest thing to let other people rationalize away any contradictions or holes they see."

"I know what you mean," Harry admitted quietly, "Sometimes I come up with an answer to one of my friends' questions that not only satisfies their curiosity about that, but also answers other questions I didn't even know they had—as if they were looking for a reason to have their suspicions allayed."

"Maybe they don't want to admit you're doing anything wrong," Archie said, "They're your friends, and people all like to think they have good taste or judgment, even when it comes to other people. Maybe they value your friendship so much that they explain away some of the inconsistencies for you, because they know that maintaining the illusion is good for you and their relationship with you. Win-win."

"Those psychology classes really took, Arch," Harry said, grinning slightly, "But…you might be right. Sometimes when Draco questions something I do, he has this worried look on his face—underneath his angry, disappointed look, I mean. When I come up with a good enough explanation, he seems relieved. Maybe part of it is he's relieved there's not a more sinister explanation, but part of it could also be that he doesn't want to deal with the consequences of realizing the extent of my lies."

Archie hummed thoughtfully, "We can use that…but it's going to make us feel more guilty."

"I'm not sure I could feel more guilty," Harry said, sighing, "I try to open their eyes to my unsuitability as a friend as much as is safe, but usually my friends just ignore the veiled warnings, or get offended by them, as if I'm insinuating that they can't handle my friendship, when I'm only trying to explain that I'm unworthy of it."

"You're not unworthy of friendship, Harry," Archie said sharply.

"I didn't mean it like that," Harry said, "I'm quite comfortable with our friendship, Archie. You have to admit that it's hard to defend a friendship built on lies, though. Don't you feel like that with Hermione?"

"Not really," Archie said seriously, "My friendship with Hermione isn't dependent on details like what my name is. We're friends because of our shared interests, experiences, and the emotional work we've put into our time together. Lies can't destabilize a friendship like ours, because what I'm lying about isn't related to the reasons we're friends."

Harry chewed on that for a moment, "Maybe you're right." Then again, the lies she spun were a bit more complicated than the ones Archie lived with. He wasn't secretly a girl, after all.

"Enough moralizing!" Archie said suddenly, "You need to get some sleep. We'll switch places in Diagon tomorrow, and if anyone asks you're going book shopping—that's what I'll do until the party's over."

"What if Sirius wants to come to Diagon with you tomorrow?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Oh," Archie bit his cheek, "Maybe…can we switch now?"

"I have to go make Draco a birthday present," Harry said, shaking her head. "Tomorrow morning? I'll come over early, right after breakfast, and we'll 'study Healing' for a couple of hours before the party. That way Sirius and I can floo to the Malfoys' together."

"What will you say about the present, then?" Archie pointed out.

"I'll say Harry was kind enough to help me out last night, since I confessed I didn't know what to get Draco. In fact…come home with me now, so we can 'work on it together' in my lab," Harry suggested.

Archie agreed, and they explained the circumstances to Sirius, who shrugged and told Archie to be home before the late night floo wards went up.

Archie took a stool and watched curiously while Harry set up a standard pewter cauldron.

"So what are you making?" Archie asked.

Harry, already in brewing mode, twitched slightly at the question, but she said, honestly, "No idea."

Archie laughed, "What did you get him last year again?"

"A potion that would let him fly temporarily," Harry answered, recalling her success at incorporating formed magic into an already-complete potion the year before.

"What, really?" Archie looked interested, "Cool. You could do that again. I'd like to see you brew it."

Harry smirked wryly, "Give a repeat gift to the great Draco Malfoy? He'd never forgive me the lack of originality, not to mention the slight. He would think I didn't put much thought into it, and that would hurt his pride and his feelings."

Archie blinked, "Your friends are a lot of work. Hermione would love it if I got her a book for every occasion."

"It's part of his charm," Harry said absently. What could she brew for Draco? He didn't have any ailments, so he didn't need healing potions. She refused to brew anything dangerous, especially if Sirius was there to witness the gift.

"Think out loud," Archie said, "It's boring just watching you think."

Harry huffed, but complied, "It has to be something he can't buy at the local apothecary. Something he'd value as unique or useful." She was struck by a sudden thought. "Archie—you're not great at potions."

Archie raised his eyebrows, saying, "Gee, thanks, cuz. I'll have you know your scar-fading technique isn't all that elegant, either."

Harry shook her head, "I mean, you'd know better than I what kind of potions are interesting to someone who can't just brew them whenever she wants. If you could have any potion, what would it be?"

"The Potentialis Potion," Archie said at once, "Hermione told me about it last semester. She wanted to brew it for herself, but the Potions Master at AIM wouldn't give her extracurricular lab time. I actually had to talk her out of brewing it illegally in an unused bathroom stall."

Harry cocked her head, "The Potentialis Potion? I could brew that for you, if you want."

"Brew it for Draco," Archie said, "You can't get it in an apothecary, right?"

Harry nodded. It was a good idea. A really good idea, actually. The Potentialis Potion revealed a person's magical potential. When drunk, it pulled at a wizard's magic, forcing it to manifest in the ways it was most suited to. Generally drunk while the wizard was by himself, so the magic couldn't hurt anyone else when it manifested, the Potentialis Potion could reveal a wizard's Light/Dark affinity, elemental nature, and even the kinds of magic they were best suited to, like transformative magic, locomotion magic, mental or emotional magic, and so on. It had even been known to reveal magical gifts, like Parseltongue. Also, it normally wasn't recommended to children under thirteen, because their cores might not be developed enough to respond to the potion properly.

"It's very difficult to brew," Harry said thoughtfully, "And the ingredients needed are nothing to sniff at, but the real problem is it has to be imbued with the person's essence in order to be keyed to their use only. That's why you can't get it in shops—it has to be custom-made every time." Unlike Polyjuice, where you could add the essence after it was completed, the Potentialis Potion required the essence of the target to be added during the brewing process.

"Don't suppose you have 'essence of Draco' lying about," Archie said jokingly.

Harry hummed, "Actually…"

"What?!" Archie choked on a laugh, "You…you can't be serious."

Harry shrugged her shoulders defensively, and went to retrieve her travel potions kit, the one she used at Hogwarts. "You never know when something might come in handy," she muttered. She reached into one of the magically expanded compartments and pulled out a single, blonde hair.

Archie shook his head, "You seriously stole you friend's hair knowing you might use it in a potion one day?"

"I didn't steal it," Harry retorted, "I found it. Not my fault he left it on my pillow." Archie choked, but Harry ignored him, "I'm always telling people to be more careful about where they shed their essence, but no one ever listens to me."

"Because you're the only one who actually sees discarded fingernails as an opportunity for future potion endeavors," Archie chuckled, "That's really too much, Harry. What are you going to say when he asks where you got his essence for the potion?"

"I'll say 'I told you so,' and maybe he'll be more careful in the future," Harry sniffed, "It's a good life lesson."

Archie just laughed, "Whatever you say, Harry. Do you have all the ingredients you need, then?"

"I think so," Harry began moving about her lab stores, plucking things from shelves and drawers and arranging them in order of anticipated use on one of the lab stations. She collected everything she could remember, then moved over to the bookcases on the far wall where she kept reference materials, "I'm pretty sure Graham has a good recipe somewhere in Occasional Potions…"

It took nearly two and a half hours to brew the Potentialis Potion. The recipe had at least five distinct stages, and she imbued more magic into it than was required for three Snowhit batches, but it looked perfect by the time it was finished. Archie was yawning tiredly, but even he commented on how well the final product matched the description in the book.

Harry bottled the correct amount for a single dose, and Evanescoed the rest. It would be useless to anyone who wasn't Draco, and he didn't need more than a single dose to figure out his magic.

"I hope Master Snape didn't think to brew this for Draco," she said, frowning at the little bottle.

"You worry too much," Archie said tiredly, taking the sample from her hand carefully, "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Night."

"Thanks for staying, Arch," Harry said apologetically.

"Anything for you, Harry—or, for me, I guess," Archie chuckled, "All for the ruse, after all."

All for the ruse indeed, Harry thought, clearing and clearing her workstation. How far were they willing to go?

She shook her head, the answer obvious. As far as necessary.

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[end of chapter two].

A/N: So there were mixed reviews about the last chapter length. This one is a bit longer, 13,800 words, but not long enough to be considered a monster chapter, so we'll see if it works out. Also, a lot of people didn't like Harry's passivity in the last chapter. All I can say is…Harry's passive. She has to be, to grow up in a family that doesn't understand her without resenting them (much). I don't think I've changed her character much, so all I can think is that during the school year her friends stand up for her, and without them there it seems like she's getting walked on? Well, she is, but she doesn't notice, because that's just how she is. Sorry if it bothers you, but it's a defense mechanism she needs to stay level-headed throughout the game. Thank you to everyone so patiently reading and reviewing. All the best. -V