Black Luminary

by YakAge

The war against the Dark Lord was the last straw. The oppressed, fed up with oligarchy, corruption, and injustice, sharpened their knives, rallying behind those who promised change. They won. Today, Magical Britain is a changed country – for the better. Hail and praise to our saviours! Finally, all is well. But listen! Can't you hear the grindstone turning still ...?

61. ML: The Mudblood Princess

Public announcement: Ahem (*great fanfare*): Don't waste alcohol, my friends. I mean – drink responsibly. Or not at all. Especially if you're underage and/or your country/society/religion/family (strike out non-applicable) holds views about such matters. Seriously.

The Mudblood princess and her little glass slippers

---

An ashen fortress rose from the middle of the coniferous forest like a modular molehill. Its windows were small, narrow, and as crooked as if they'd been deformed by the icy winds that gnawed at the weathered structure. A handful of thick, bulky defensive walls surrounded the ancient stronghold, and at its core towered a tall, distinctly skew-whiff keep.

A landing place with rows of boats that had been tucked away in multiple layers of canvas lay at the foot of the hill upon which the fortress rested. The vessels left a forlorn, neglected impression; a few slabs of ice had taken their place, rocking gently on the smooth surface of the vast, royal blue lake.

From one moment to the next, a woman appeared so abruptly and so silently from the hem of the treeline that she might as well have stepped out of the very shadows. She was just tall enough that people on the street might not turn to stare. Her figure, in a good light and with much goodwill, might barely pass as modest. Her shaggy hair, on the other hand, was beyond hopeless; it was so tousled it resembled an old stork's nest more than anything. The gales were blowing thick tresses all over the place, but even so, the unremarkable dishwater blond hair that hardly warranted a second look left the definite impression that the state of her hair-do wouldn't be any better even in a complete lull. Just about everything about this person screamed inconspicuous – if not outright unimpressive.

The frozen grass crunched under her steps as she approached the drawbridge and the little cabin next to it. She didn't bother knocking. Instead, she raised a strangely bright and intricately adorned wand and fired a spell at the highest window of the keep.

For close to ten minutes, she failed to move a single muscle despite the cold winds wrenching at her robes and hair, flapping them like sails at high-sea.

Eventually, the drawbridge lowered, revealing a tall man carrying a spiky storm lantern. An observant invisible spectator might have noticed the man falter for a second at the sight of the woman, but after the briefest moment of hesitation, he proceeded to stride sharply towards the patiently waiting newcomer.

'I thought you planned never to return,' hissed the man, the tone of his voice giving away that – as far as he was concerned – this wasn't a happy surprise. He was wrapped in precious silver coats and furs that allowed only a glimpse of his raw-boned face.

'Plans change,' said the woman simply. 'I need information, which – unfortunately – means I need access to your lower library.'

'You are aware, aren't you, that Dumbledore has been snooping around? Snape has been investigating old graduates,' said the man, drawing his lordly furs tighter. 'Your "name" came up. This is not wise!'

'Your disingenuous concern is touching but entirely wasted on me, so I suggest you spare me the drama and kindly open the gates.' The woman's voice was neither loud nor especially aggressive. It simply seemed as if she could see the end of the conversation and wished nothing more than to hurry along to get there.

'It is still I who is the headmaster of this esteemed college!' snarled the man. 'I will not be spoken to like that or –'

The woman sighed. 'Or what?' she replied. 'Will you complain? To whom? Do I need to spell it out for you? Who will you turn to? To your Minister? No, you'd be charged for treason if you did, and you treasure that thick skull of yours, don't you? Perhaps then Dumbledore, the forgiving fool? Would you drag yourself to his office like a petty supplicant and confess, confess that you've been playing all sides to your advantage?'

The woman flashed a fleeting smile, clearly amused by the disgruntled expression of distaste from her vis-à-vis. 'No … I think not. If there's anything you hold in nearly as high a regard as your meaningless life, it's your hollow sense of pride. Confessions aren't something you're interested in anyway, are they? You're beyond confessions. Confessions are for believers. You, however, my dear Igor, don't believe in anything but yourself. You are the only one on your own side because your short-sightedness and arrogance will forever leave you shy of making meaningful allies, much less anything beyond that. But if you test my patience with your self-flattering posturing – by Circe – I swear I'll toss you into your dirty moat and tear down every barrier I find on my way to your library.'

The woman lowered her voice to a guttural growl that made the man's hair stand on end. 'And you know what? Besides the obligatory outcry of polite shock in the papers, I think Durmstrang would be back to business by next Tuesday at the latest. There's nobody, nobody in the whole wide world, who would shed a tear for the likes of you. And that – in summary – is why I advise you to open the gates right this instant … Headmaster.'

Memory Lane

'I quite understand your anger, Harry,' said Arcturus Black gently from the depth of his chair. A warm fire crackled in the study, casting its lively orange light upon the two occupants and the rows of books. 'But you might want to calm down. You are being, or so I feel, rather unreasonable and – if you permit me to say so – just a touch vociferous.'

'Unreasonable?' repeated Harry heatedly, marching up and down in front of his grandfather's desk. He was still in his Hogwarts robes – just as he was still shaking with fury and frustration. 'Is that it? Unreasonable? You yourself gave me your blessing that I could deal with Dolohov! And now he's gone! She stole him right in front of me! She stole him! Now I'll never know. Never! My only, my best chance – gone! But I'm being unreasonable? Bellatrix had to have known. She must have! He was mine by all rights!'

'Harry,' said Arcturus, holding up a hand, 'combat is not a game. Others may think it is, but how can we be expected to follow any code of conduct when the integrity or core interests of our blood are endangered? I thought you knew this.'

'What?! Of course, I know that.'

'And yet there was no guarantee whatsoever that you would come out on top in a – and I resent to use the word – "fair" fight between you and Dolohov. When I gave you my blessing, I assumed it understood that this involved some planning on your part; I certainly did not anticipate you rushing straight at your mortal enemy – nor would I have approved. Boldness makes for a poor armour.'

'I would've done it! He wasn't any faster than me!'

'Nor,' replied Arcturus calmly, 'was he slower as I understand. But he had at least twenty years more experience than you and was, at least prior to his incarceration, a fearsome duellist. I'm sorry, my son, but I fully endorse Bellatrix involving herself in your fight. Your safety is not something I intend to gamble away.'

'But she could've disarmed him or … or stunned him. Anything! Anything would have been better than that!' Harry clenched his fist. 'Anything at all!'

'And yet you know Bellatrix. She doesn't concern herself with … half-hearted measures.'

'So you're saying she shouldn't have tried to take him alive?!' demanded Harry angrily.

'I'm saying no such thing, but you have to consider the personality of the individual in question. Bellatrix saw a danger to your life. She ended it. That, as far as I'm concerned, is all there is to it. Indeed, have you given any thought what the crowd would have thought of you vanishing with a severely wounded criminal? Even my influence has its limits, Harry. Bones will not tolerate us or anyone publicly taking prisoners. She can't. Whitewashing a case of more or less warranted self-defence, well, that's another matter entirely. The Prophet, I expect, will continue to nag about excessive use of force for the remainder of the week, but the truth is that the case is already closed. It's done.'

'There would have been a way,' insisted Harry, finally slumping into the chair he'd been circling. 'Transfiguration or … or a distraction or …'

'Harry, look at me,' said Arcturus, his eyes shining like grey searchlights in the glare of the flames. 'What happened, all of it, is … regrettable, and I understand your resentment. But you should focus on the here and now, not on what ifs. Antonin Dolohov is dead. Neither Bellatrix nor you need fear any repercussions of this … diverting accident, which – I might point out – is not something to be taken for granted, seeing as firstly you took the lead to fire a spell, endangering bystanders along the way, and secondly your aunt's use of a little known and quite illegal curse. I heard all of this directly from the Minister's office. Nothing you could do now, no reason you could possibly think of, no alternative course of action you could be able to come up with in the future will ever change that. He is dead, Harry. I'm not telling you to forget anything. But you have to accept the world the way it is. Wishful thinking is, at most, a sweet distraction best left for moments with your dearly beloved.'

Harry leaned forward, resting his forehead on his knees. 'It shouldn't have been like this,' he muttered under his breath. 'This was my chance!'

'Rarely, I regret to say, will you find the world bending to your desires. The idea of fairness is something humans came up with after all. It is the quaint illusion of man to conceptualise the rather primitive complaint that destiny somehow defied seemingly underlying, axiomatic laws of human society. Destiny is under no obligation to behave as we wish, fate under no obligation to favour the brave, the good, or the righteous. We must all make our own destiny! Don't complain about the way others shape theirs.'

'Make my own destiny?' repeated Harry hoarsely.

'Indeed.'

'Are you saying there's still a chance that I might discover who did … this … to me?!' Harry looked up, staring at his grandfather.

'I do not possess the power to say with absolute certainty that you will,' said Arcturus Black, his sombre mien slowly breaking into a minute smile. 'But, speaking from experience, hardly any crime is ever perfect. And more often than not, criminals – especially those revelling in the thrill of the unspeakable – return to the scene of their crime, to the victim of their odium like a dog to its vomit. Often it is the urge for self-affirmation – something these poor wretches commonly lack in their daily lives. At other times, it might be the thrill of revisiting that night, the desire to relive their moment of power. Sometimes, though rarely, they even seek atonement or forgiveness.

'I can't say for certain if what you seek will be revealed to you in time. Maybe I'm wrong about this – as wrong as I have been in the past – but in my heart, I feel like something … more important than just you and I are at play here. And big mysteries, my son, don't have the tendency to stay secret for very long. For good or bad.'

'So I should … bide my time and make the most of it?'

Arcturus' smile widened, finally reaching his steely eyes. 'You could do worse. It's what I have done for these past ninety-five years. My life has had its ups and downs, but here I am and so are you. It could have been worse, don't you think?'

Harry gave a hesitant little smile. 'It could have been.' A strange thought occurred to him. 'Do you have any other idea how I should proceed, Grandfather? Any other leads?'

Arcturus' face distorted oddly. 'The Ministry files about the Potters' demise are locked away, and even I failed to retrieve them. In any case, I'm … not sure if I'm the right person to consult in this particular instance. There was a time when I had my suspicions about this matter but–' Arcturus Black, uncharacteristically, faltered for a fraction of a second. 'I naturally paid close attention to the incident even before Sirius begged for my direct involvement. I thought it safe to assume that the incident wasn't the random act of discarded followers of the Dark Lord.'

Harry frowned. 'There was a time?'

'Yes,' said Arcturus severely, and from his tone Harry knew that he would say no more about it. Why that was Harry couldn't even begin to fathom; Arcturus Black wasn't a man to shy away from speaking unpleasant truths. In lieu of conversation, the song of logs crackling in the fireplace flooded the silence. It was an odd kind of noise: both loud and quiet, wild and gentle. 'There was … another matter I wanted to speak to you about tonight,' said Arcturus after a while.

'Yes, Grandfather?'

'Your companion for the dance. I couldn't help but notice that you invited the Muggle-born,' said Arcturus slowly. 'Granger, I seem to recall, was her name?'

'I did,' said Harry, frowning. 'I didn't know my choice of company was up for revision.'

'It isn't,' assured Arcturus, politely lowering his head. 'But I will still have to ask: you aren't in love with the girl, Harry, are you?'

Harry made a face. 'No.' He didn't want to say so but – inexplicably – the question had offended him. 'I invited her to make peace with Tracey and as a favour to Daphne.' When his grandfather didn't immediately reply, he added, 'She's a friend – that's all.'

Arcturus simply sat and watched, weighing his thoughts against Harry's answer. After a few moments, he sighed. 'I try not to meddle with the personal relationships of our family members, Harry, I really do. But societies both large and small, I'm sure you follow my meaning, are nothing but conflicts waiting to happen. Witches and wizards, I fear, have long memories, and they hate change above all. That being said, you've never comported yourself in a manner that went against what we believe in, and not even the Minister himself could deny your impeccable taste and manners – whenever you choose to actually apply them. And yet, a public love affair with a … Muggle-born would raise more than eyebrows, my son; it would alienate other houses. And, or so I fear, snub more than a few of our more conservative family members.'

Harry nodded. 'That's not going to be an issue, Grandfather. I told you I wouldn't reject a political marriage.'

'And I told you that I would never suggest such a thing. The lives of those who trow to reign are oft but a plaything of powers beyond even their reckoning. That's what my grandfather used to tell me, and I think it holds enough truth to be remembered. Much of your life so far has been influenced and shaped by others, and I could never take this one last thing from you. But whilst I wish to assure you that you're free to fall in love with whomever your heart desires, you should be aware that there might be … repercussions.'

Harry didn't know what to say, so he resigned himself to yet another nod.

Arcturus smiled a grandfatherly smile. 'I'm sorry about this – truly. All the same, I cannot deny that I'm glad you understand the predicament. Come – let us speak of more pleasant things. Tell me about what else happened at Hogwarts.'

Memory Lane

It took Harry a few days to calm down, and even then there was this hot, simmering cauldron of anger bubbling away deep inside of him. On a rational basis, he knew that Dolohov was dead and nothing could be done about it now, but he still couldn't help resenting what had happened. Nor could he, despite his grandfather's gentle urgings, completely help but blame Bellatrix. Consequently, their continued duelling lessons evolved into increasingly vicious skirmishes in which Harry refused to pull any punches or ruses – no matter how underhanded or nasty. His aunt, to his chagrin, approved of this, praising him for finally taking practice seriously.

They never talked about what had happened at the station.

The only one Harry confided in was Daphne – after she had finished berating him for half an hour through the Floo the morning after the incident, presumably having just read the Prophet's headline.

Between Harry's reflections on his grandfather's words and his duelling lessons, there was little time for anything else, and he was anything but looking forward to the ball. And yet, there were some things you couldn't avoid. He had a hunch, though, how much of a drag it would be to pretend everything was fine and dandy throughout the festivities.

'And this,' said Harry a few days later, opening the fourth door on the left side of the rightmost corridor on the second floor, 'is the small morning room. We have another one more conveniently placed on the third floor near the master rooms, but I actually prefer this one. The mellow morning sun's warm beam breaking through the crystal, waltzing across the wall in a myriad of gentle colours – it's quite the sight. A shame, really, that you missed dawn. The windows are charmed to record and replay the most recent sunrise, but it never feels quite right. Daphne and even the elves still believe the room shows the evening's sundown as well, but – truthfully – the charm work, while beautiful, is rather limited in scope; it just replays the latest dawn in reverse.'

Harry faltered, aware that his words seemed to be falling into a chasm. 'Something the matter, Hermione?' he asked, turning around.

'Oh, no, it's lovely. Lovely!' said Hermione, her voice sounding slightly higher than usual. She was trying not to stare at the table situated between the armchairs 'No. Everything's lovely. Perfectly lovely. I'm fine. Everything's fine – and lovely!'

Harry's brow furrowed. He peered intently at the Muggle-born. In Harry's modest opinion, it was very clear that something wasn't lovely at all.

'No. It's lovely, really. Oh, and look at that – the cords holding the brocade curtains are made from gold threads. Lovely.' She came to a sudden stop as she caught his eye. Her expression of almost manic rapture broke. 'I, er, I said lovely too many times, didn't I?'

Harry nodded.

Hermione sank into one of Harry's favourite armchairs with a heartfelt groan. She did so with some reluctance, he noticed, as if afraid to damage the upholstery. 'I suppose … it's a bit … much. That's all.'

'Much?' repeated Harry questioningly, cocking his head. 'What is?'

Hermione raised both of her hands. 'All of it! Harry, my parents and I live in a house that would fit into your dining hall twice over! The long gallery is … stupendous! Awe-inspiring! I'm not exaggerating when I say it should be a world heritage site. It gives magnificence an entirely new meaning! It reminds me of Versailles.' She gave the strange and slightly worrisome chuckle of a person trying to cope with the world ceasing to make sense. It took her considerable effort to bear comparing Versailles to her schoolmate's home at any rate.

'Thank you,' said Harry graciously.

'And I've seen more marble and soapstone fireplaces in this mansion than we have door handles!' Hermione slumped down as if her bones had turned to jelly. 'And it's not like my parents are poor or anything. At least I thought as much until a few hours ago,' she muttered as an afterthought.

'Is that so? I like your home,' said Harry earnestly. 'It seemed very cosy and bright. Breakfast never feels like that over here.'

Hermione stared at him as if he'd gone mad before she had another slightly worrying bout of chuckling. 'I suppose cosy is all it has going for it, isn't it?'

'Not exactly,' said Harry, neatly sitting down opposite her. 'Living in a great house such as this might sound appealing, but it can be inconvenient in its own right. Frankly, I prefer the modest lodging we have in London.'

'Modest?' repeated Hermione with utter disbelief – as if the word was now thoroughly incompatible with Harry after the revelations of the morning.

'Extremely modest compared to this. It's a rather plain building in a Muggle neighbourhood, Hermione.'

This had the intended effect. Hermione didn't appear quite as hysterical at the very least. 'Do all the pure-bloods live in such extravagance?' she asked.

'Oh, no. Not in the slightest. Daphne, for example, lives in a house very much like your family's, and there are loads of families who live in even more rus– even more unassuming homes.'

'Leo and Amadina?' asked Hermione.

'Well, their home is a bit … different. You wouldn't like it,' said Harry with absolute certainty. The Lestrange home wasn't something an impressionable Muggle-born was supposed to see – ever.

'So it's just you who lives like a pampered 16th-century fairy tale prince?!'

'There you go again with your somewhat needlessly offensive choice of words … but essentially yes. There are other wealthy families, of course, but this is … beyond what you should expect.'

Truthfully, Harry was slightly taken aback by Hermione's reaction. He should have anticipated her discomfort, but since the only people who visited the mansion were either people intimately familiar with his family or important guests of his grandfather's that were careful not to show how impressed they really were, it had been some time since Harry had been faced with someone overcome with awe.

'Look, you kind of get used to it. It's just … stuff,' he said, trying to explain.

'Stuff,' repeated Hermione weakly, her eyes glued to the gigantic crystal geode that served as the base for the coffee table.

'Exactly.' Harry nodded emphatically. He was firmly convinced that – at this point – it would be counterproductive to mention their arguably more ostentatious third estate. 'Anyway, let's just have lunch and leave the rest for later. The clerk from Gladrags' will arrive soon.'

'We aren't about to partake in some elaborate six-course dinner, are we?' asked Hermione suspiciously, scowling at the jumper she was wearing as if it was her clothes' fault that she didn't fit in.

'Of course not,' said Harry with a suave smile. 'Because the elves are busy with all the last-minute preparations,' he added in the privacy of his mind. While Harry was perfectly okay with a bowl of soup and some bread for lunch, Cranky usually insisted on the complete and rather bothersome spectacle whenever they had visitors.

Hermione, to Harry's amusement, was somewhat mollified when they ate what Harry had pilfered from the pantry (sandwiches and crisps), visibly relaxing and jesting that even the Blacks had normal rooms after all. Harry didn't have the heart to reveal that they were eating in the servants' quarters. Not too long after that, the woman from Gladrags' arrived, heralding that the time for Hermione to get ready had finally come.

Harry, having suffered social occasions for as long as he could remember, was painfully aware that gentlemen weren't supposed to nag or – heavens forbid – rush a lady trying to get ready. But after four hours of sitting in front of a door like a petty applicant battling against the arduous wheels of bureaucracy in general and preoccupied public servants specifically, even Harry was approaching his limits.

'We's about ready,' Minnie assured him when he knocked, her head peeking around the door. 'We's about ready, Master Harry!' With an apologetic smile, she respectfully closed the door again.

'That's what you said two hours ago!' muttered Harry with that strenuous sort of politeness such occasions warranted. He couldn't wrap his mind around what was taking Hermione so long. Not only did she have the assistance of Minnie, who had experience grooming the wives of ambassadors and ministers, but that clerk from Gladrags' was also still in there somewhere.

Harry was long past being fashionably late. 'Hermione?!' he called through the closed door. 'I'm sorry but I have to go on and greet the guests. You just come along when you're ready – whenever you're ready.'

'How will I get there?! I'll get lost as soon as I step out of this room!' Hermione called back, stressed beyond comprehension.

'Minnie will take you there, don't worry,' Harry replied reassuringly. 'Anyway, try to, erm, try to get there before the dance begins, please? That leaves you … about thirty-five minutes.'

There were the sounds of frantic arguing behind the door.

'I'll be there. You go on!'

'All right. See you … soon?' said Harry with some resignation, nodding at the door. He straightened his tie, checked his shoes one last time, and made for the stairs. Here goes nothing.

The first floor was abuzz. From his elevated position at the stairs, Harry beheld the mass of people that had spilt out of the ballroom and into the foyer. There had to be even more guests than last year. At this rate, even their premises might no longer suffice in a few years. Many heads turned as he descended at a leisurely pace, one wizard elevated above the many. Pansy Parkinson, standing out with old rose robes and an outrageously plunging neckline, looked up from her talk with the Patil twins and a few other girls, grinning brazenly at him. She said something under her breath, her eyes glued to Harry, and the other girls giggled.

He nodded back at them, making for the door at a determined pace. But Pansy was as stubborn as she was brash. She bounced over, a seductive smile plastered on her face, hands behind her back to emphasise her décolleté.

'Hey, Harry. Looking good!' she said, giving him a completely uncalled for hug with the clear intention of pressing her boobs against him to the greatest possible effect.

Harry sighed inwardly. He didn't want to make a scene with Rita undoubtedly lurking around. Then again, he wasn't exactly suffering torture, and since Pansy was obviously willing to stoop to this level, he might as well make the most of it. Draco had terrible taste in women, but maybe he did have redeeming expertise when it came to their mere physical qualities.

For a second, images flew past Harry's inner eye; he saw himself and Draco, fooling away their years at Hogwarts, enemies of womankind and heroes of any locker room. He suppressed a shudder.

'Thank you,' he said when she broke away, still clinging to his arm. 'You look lovely as well. As do your friends. Hello, Padma. Parvati.'

The twins smiled back at him with varying degrees of genuine enthusiasm. Thankfully, they hadn't dressed as aggressively as Pansy, though they were still easy on the eye. According to Draco's not-so-secret list everyone in the dormitory knew about, they were in the top five of girls he'd like to hook up but hadn't actually managed to talk with for more than three sentences. In fact, since they were identical twins, an entire chapter of thoroughly despicable and rotten fantasies was devoted to them alone. Harry coughed, collecting himself. Maybe Pansy's boo– dress was affecting him after all.

'Hey. Oi!' called another female voice from somewhere in the crowd. 'Make way, won't you?! Hello, I'm talking to you. Yes, you! Oh, thank you so very much. Jerk.' First, four cocktails appeared, being held by arms that seemed to vanish into the wall of people. Then, a head of flaming, angry red. After a second of silent struggle, an equally angry girl managed to free the rest of her limbs. 'Dammit!' she cursed. 'Sorry, ladies. The line was hell, took forever to – oh!' Her rant came to a stop as she realised that not only girls were present.

Harry was equally astonished. 'Weasley?' he uttered disbelievingly.

'Yeah?' she said defensively, scowling. 'What – got a problem with me being here?'

'No, it's just … unexpected.' After a short pause, an annoying thought struck Harry. 'Your brother's not here, is he?'

'What – Ron?!' Ginny Weasley laughed. 'No. Hell, no! "Ginny, you can't go!"' she said, her voice taking the tone of opinionated fretfulness. '"They'll curse you! They're an evil bunch – evil, I tell you!" He made it sound as if being a Black was contagious or something. Prat. I'm just here for the drinks. Mum'd never let me be at home. The twins wanted to come, but my oldest brother set them straight that they'd pay with more than detentions should they try to prank your grandfather.'

Parvati raised an eyebrow, nodding with a grin at Weasley's robes that were the same shade of jet black as Harry's. 'Maybe black is contagious after all?'

Weasley rolled her eyes. 'I didn't dress like this to impress anyone's colour sensibilities. Mum thought that if I was dead-set on going, I had to go dressed appropriately. She's weird like that. At home, she's doesn't mind chasing chickens wearing a sweater of her mother's, but in her own way, she's as prideful as a whole pack of pure-blood nancies. Here, take your drink already, Pansy. Your tits will leave a dent in Black's side at this rate.'

Parvati sniggered. Pansy – frowning – accepted her drink, shifting away.

'Well, I wouldn't want to intrude,' said Harry, jumping at the chance, 'and I can see I've overstayed my welcome. Please, enjoy the festivities.' He bowed politely in their direction. 'By your leave …'

As fast as politeness allowed, he vanished into the crowd. He hadn't expected a Weasley to attend. The damnable Bones girl attended often enough, along with her big-mouthed friend, but that was because of her aunt's work. A Weasley at the Black Ball. The world was a mysterious place.

Harry's progress to the table he'd reserved for his friends was severely hampered by the number of guests that required – at the very least – a perfunctory greeting. Some demanded more. Much more.

'Ah, my dear boy. Come over. Don't be shy!'

Harry halted, turning towards the voice that had clearly called after him. Standing in a circle of extremely prim and serious-looking gentlemen stood Josef Svoboda, the Czech Minister for Magic.

'Minister,' muttered Harry, bowing formally in his direction.

'No, no, that won't do. That won't do at all, Harry,' said the man, wagging a scolding finger. 'I told you to call me Pepa! Gentlemen? This is Arcturus' boy, Harry, currently attending Hogwarts in his … third year?'

Harry nodded weakly. He vaguely recognised one or two of these men, and one thing was absolutely, irrevocably certain; he would never be able to excuse himself and leave.

'Ah – yes, indeed,' drawled a blond man in his early fifties, twirling his enormous and dangerously spiky moustache. 'Arcturus speaks often of you. I don't see the similarity, but you have his bearing, no doubt. But you haven't even introduced us, Josef.'

'Goodness gracious! How careless of me!' The Czech Minister jumped, putting one arm companionably around Harry's shoulder. 'Too right you are, Armin. Too right you are. Getting old isn't all it's cooked up to be, Harry, but at least people are more willing to overlook your blunders with etiquette.'

'A useful excuse, to be sure,' said the newly identified Armin dryly. 'I should try it with the media next time a bill of yours fails.'

The circle of men chuckled.

'This humourless scallywag, Harry, is Armin Benaventura Albert Johannes von Glü– ah, to hell with it! Aristocracy has the tedious tendency to string up names beyond ridiculousness. I give up!'

'I think we can skip the rest,' agreed the man, nodding at Harry. Harry was having a hard time not staring at the moustache. It really was quite amazing how pointy and rigid it was. He privately suspected it might serve a secret secondary purpose: like hunting boars. 'For Arcturus' boy, Armin will do. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

'The pleasure is mine,' said Harry, bowing once more. 'It's an honour, your highness.'

'Aha!' said Pepa happily. 'I see you've kept up your studies of European dynasties. Well done! But we don't bother with titles here, Harry. Not amongst ourselves. Armin's family owns, in addition to their fancy but obsolete title, a considerable portion of central Europe. Fourth extensive private holdings, I believe?'

'Third, actually,' said the man casually. 'And the biggest private forest owners – for all the good it does us.'

'There you are, then. This,' Pepa indicated a man of smaller stature and fine, black hair, 'is Andrei. To this day, I don't have a clue what you do with your day, Andrei. What is it you do again?'

'Entrepreneur,' said the man smoothly, adumbrating a bow. 'How do you do, Harry?'

Harry bowed once more. His hands were starting to sweat, a fact worsened by his recognition of the man as Andrei de Rothschild. He hadn't been wrong in his initial assessment; this was his grandfather's little 'social club'. Powerful, rich men with time to spare.

'An evasive answer if ever there was one,' said Pepa cheerfully. 'This,' he continued, indicating yet another severe-looking gentleman wearing a red-gold crest on his cravat, 'is Hugo Enrique of Bourbon-Parma. Oh, and this tricky fellow we call Ricco. Italian has never been my strong suit, but I believe it sums him up nicely. Oh, and this is Mikko. He dabbles in Alchemy, and when I say dabble, I mean he's an absolute crackpot.'

'I prefer the term "blinkered specialist",' said Mikko, calm and serene.

'And this is …'

Harry kept bowing and smiling for what felt like ages. He soon found himself surrounded by an ever-growing circle of old wizards wearing exquisite robes who were all on a first name basis.

'Third year at Hogwarts … third year,' said Hugo, ruminatively rubbing his chin. He spoke English so impeccably well that Harry found himself paying extra attention to his own pronunciation. Even a WWN reporter might have taken notes. 'You must be seventeen then?'

'Not before the end of July,' replied Harry cautiously.

'Sixteen, but of course it makes little difference. Say, I have a grandniece, Louise. She's a very fine young woman and the pride and joy of our family. How about you come and visit us at Corsica this summer? Have you tried sailing before? Louise will turn nineteen this April, but I'm sure both of you would enjoy each other's company.'

'Now, now!' said Pepa with mock admonishment. 'No pilfering among friends, Hugo!'

The Frenchman gave a sly smile, producing a locket that framed a picture of what was quite possibly an angel. Harry felt his throat go dry as the young woman in the photograph waved shyly at him. 'She's something special, isn't she?' boasted the man fondly.

'She is,' said Harry earnestly. 'And this is very flattering … Hugo, but I'm afraid I have other priorities as of now.'

'Such a shame! She could teach you a thing or two, I'm sure. Are you sure you won't reconsider?'

'Hugo,' interjected Armin coldly. 'You're inconveniencing the poor lad. And don't try to sell off your grandniece like an ageing breeding heifer. It's disgraceful.'

'Breeding heifer?! Why I never– I'll have you know that this is the first time I've invited a young man to our summer estate. But if they end up liking one another … I mean Arcutus Black's heir!'

'Whatever happened to the young lady you danced with last year, Harry? Lively lass, sleek blond hair,' said Pepa, craning his neck to look around. 'I liked that one. Composed men need fiery ladies at their backs.'

'I haven't found Daphne yet,' said Harry. 'The woes of being the secondary host, I'm afraid,' he added, trying to tactfully indicate that he really wanted to get going.

'Is this Daphne your petite amie, Harry?' asked Hugo with almost comical disappointment.

'Not exactly,' said Harry carefully.

'Ah, but maybe you wish for her to be?' ventured Ricco.

'Don't torture the boy,' said Pepa protectively, ruffling Harry's hair. 'Not everyone's a notorious philanderer. Some of us still retain their decency!'

'To your regret, my friend,' replied the Italian with a smirk. 'Only to your regret.'

'Harry?! Harry Black?' called a bossy voice that made Harry's tussled hair stand even further on end.

He groaned. 'Oh, heavens no …'

His encirclement of older gentlemen was breached by the very last person Harry had wanted to see. Annoyingly proper blond curls, glittering spectacles, faux-expensive crocodile leather purse, and an acid green Quick-Quotes Quill at the ready: Rita Skeeter had come at last.

'Harry, finally! Excuse me? I'm a reporter for the Daily Prophet,' she said importantly, wrenching Pepa's hand off Harry.

The Czech Minister for Magic looked nonplussed. The prince's spear-like moustache, on the other hand, quivered dangerously. Rita Skeeter, or so it seemed, either paid them no mind or hadn't recognised whom she had just interrupted.

'Harry, it's been far too long! You don't mind if we get right into the thick of it, do you?' She opened her notebook, and Harry caught a glimpse of what looked like dozens of questions. 'What would you say to the accusations of some of our readers that you're dragging an innocent, upstanding Muggle-born into the mud, exposing her to all the backwards politicking your elitist family is known to be guilty of?'

'I, well, I –'

'Where is she, by the way – this Hermione Granger? Would you describe your fascination with her as a sort of idle curiosity or would you like to admit to some … fescennine adventure? The lure of the forbidden, maybe? Do you think your parents would approve?'

'I'd be proud,' muttered Ricco almost inaudibly.

'Hermione is still getting ready,' said Harry curtly. He envied her.

'A Muggle-born?' repeated Armin, twirling his moustache. 'How novel!'

'I say!' said Pepa politely, though he didn't seem too impressed.

'I fail to see how her birth matters,' protested Ricco. 'It's the, ah, personal qualities that matter, right, Harry?' He gave Harry a conspiratorial shove. 'I certainly never discriminated against women in my youth.'

'At least not based on their origin,' added Mikko the Finn with a sidelong glance.

'Like I said,' said the Italian, laughing. 'It all comes down to personal qualities!'

'She's just a school friend,' said Harry irritably. 'Not that it's any of your concern, Rita.'

'You don't think she's ugly, Harry, do you?' asked Rita sweetly, her quill trembling with anticipation.

'Not at all,' said Harry smoothly. 'But I fail to see how that could have any bearing on our friendship.'

'Aha! So maybe the truth of the matter is that you try not to mind how pretty she really is? Would it hurt your view of the world to admit to a Muggle-born's beauty?'

'Say, Harry,' said Pepa, watching Rita with some wonder. 'Who is this obnoxiously proletarian person that so blatantly keeps trying to show you up?'

'Oh, pardon me. This, gentlemen, is Rita Skeeter,' said Harry with a smirk. 'She is, in some menial way, involved with the British press.'

Rita's eyes glinted evilly, but before she could say anything, the taciturn Andrei cleared his throat. 'Oh – Daily Prophet? The British newspaper? I do believe I have a stake in their enterprise – now that you mention it. What was your name again, Ms …?'

Rita gave a jerk, carefully eyeing the surrounding men for the first time. Her eyes widened noticeably before her face settled into an entirely disingenuous, warm smile. 'Maybe we should continue this at some other time, Harry.'

Pepa watched her go, squinting through his scarred eye. 'Do you really own a share of that rag, Andrei?'

'Of course, not,' said Andrei dismissively. 'A magical newspaper is hardly a business promising unexpected returns.'

'You sly money grubber, you,' said Pepa, chuckling. 'Off you go, Harry. I'm sorry we kept you so long. Do send my compliments to the feisty Miss Daphne.'

'I will, thank you.' Harry bowed low before he took a step into the crowd, careful to plot a course in the opposite direction of where Rita had vanished to. He couldn't help wondering what it was his grandfather and his 'friends' were doing during their meetings. The press would have a field day if they found out, and Harry wouldn't be able to blame them. These men, he was beyond certain, had the money, the connections and – if they were anything like his grandfather – the will to influence world affairs to their liking. In this little club of his grandfather's, a gentlemen's agreement might have ramifications that could topple regimes, solve crises, and shape countries. A beautiful – if slightly intimidating – thought that brought home just how different the leagues and stakes in Harry's and his grandfather's games were.

'There you are,' said Amy by way of greeting when he finally reached his own table. Like always, she was wearing the conservative, non-descript black robes she was married to. In fact, she didn't look any different whatsoever than how she prowled the cold corridors of Hogwarts.

'Hey,' said Harry, collapsing into his chair. 'Sorry for the wait. Where are the others?'

'Daphne went looking for you when you didn't come,' said Tracey, resting her head on her hand and listlessly nudging her straw. Tracey was wearing unassuming robes as well, though – most unusually – she had put some effort into taming her thick, ashen coils of hair. Harry's bet was on either her mother or Daphne forcing her to. It was the first time he had ever seen her make the attempt, and it came as a shock just how long her hair really was. It certainly was almost as long as Daphne's. Unfortunately, her thick, pitch-black hair smoothly framing her delicate, fair face only further underlined her doll-like appearance. She looked a bit like something potty old ladies might collect and display in their living rooms. 'I told her to stay here and wait; it's not like you can find anyone in this crowd. But will that girl listen to reason?'

'She wouldn't be Daphne if she did. Where's Hermione?' asked Leo, sitting next to his sister and wearing identical robes. He was idly balancing a stack of beer mats on his fingertips. His hair was parted so rigorously that Harry wondered if he used a special kind of spell to achieve this maddeningly meticulous result.

He rolled his eyes. 'Don't ask me. She's been getting ready for almost five hours now.'

Amy shot him a commiserative look, pushing the same cocktail Weasley had got her hands on in his direction.

'Thanks. What's this, by the way?'

'Try it,' said Amy, smirking. 'They wouldn't give us any when it was still kind of quiet, but they're fighting off customers by any means right now. It wasn't even a challenge to swipe a few.'

Harry had a sip. The thick, fruity cocktail was too sweet for his taste – not to mention that it was awkward to drink without using the ridiculous straw if one preferred not to be showered in fruit salad.

'And?' asked Amy.

Harry shrugged. 'So, so.'

'Suit yourself,' said Amy, snatching back her drink and taking a long draught.

'Can't wait to turn seventeen,' said Leo, sighing.

Tracey snorted contemptuously, glaring daggers at her straw.

'Did something happen?' whispered Harry to Leo.

'They wouldn't give Tracey alcoholic drinks before the rush even though she's seventeen. That one server … well … he didn't take her seriously. Threatened to have her parents called out. It got ugly from there.'

'Ouch!' said Harry, making a face.

'Exactly,' agreed Leo sagely.

'Oh, look! There they are!' said Tracey, jumping to her feet and waving.

Even though Daphne had obviously failed her mission of retrieving him, she had – or so it seemed – come across Hermione. Hermione was wearing the night blue robes they'd picked up together. It was odd to see her in robes that actually accentuated her curves, but her hair had undergone the most drastic changes by far. Gone was the wild, untamed brown tangle, replaced by an elegant, decorous knot at the back of her head. More than ever before, her lessons finally bore fruit; she was nervous, unaccustomed to her outfit, but she still held herself with a grace she had never displayed before.

And yet Harry's eyes, once they recovered from the initial surprise, slid off her almost immediately. Daphne had always enjoyed dressing up, but to his slight surprise, her robes weren't nearly as risqué as the dress she had worn last year. In fact, even Hermione's clinging robes were arguably more provocative. Daphne's silky robes were dark emerald with black lapels that stood in stark contrast to her fine and shiny blond hair, brightening the saturnine ballroom like golden strands of light. Beyond that, there was this smile of hers as she waved back at them, her eyes never leaving his.

'Wow,' said Leo next to him.

'Yeah,' muttered Harry.

'She looks amazing,' said Leo earnestly. 'Our Hermione.'

'What?' Harry blurted out. 'Oh, er. Sure.'

'She's pretty,' said Amy reluctantly. 'I'll give her that.'

'Pretty?!' repeated Tracey with a laugh. 'She's scrumptious!'

Amy shot the little witch at her side a glance. 'Something we girls need to be aware of, Tracey?'

'Oh, come on! Don't be like that; just admit it!'

'Well,' said Amy grudgingly, 'I guess she might not be as big a disgrace to Harry as I had feared.'

'Master Black?' Daphne curtsied cutely in front of their table, beaming at him. 'So glad you could join us. Look who I ran into!'

'Hello,' said Hermione, bowing shyly.

Harry was having trouble not to laugh. Amy's expression was pure gold.

'Well, I'll be– Ugh! Fine! I admit it,' grumbled Amy. When they all turned to look at her, she added, 'I still don't like your guts, Granger, but I hereby promote you from Mudblood to Mudblood princess. Don't let it get to your head.'

They all turned to stare at the sullenly scowling Amy. Harry was the first to burst into laughter.

Memory Lane

'That was the … twelfth, I believe?' said Leo, impressed.

Hermione felt herself blush, averting her gaze. 'I'm not used to this kind of attention. Macmillan didn't even recognise me!'

'Don't take this the wrong way, honey,' said Tracey with a complicated smile, 'but I foresee that he won't be the last.'

'Don't mind the losers,' said Daphne. Her eyes, Hermione noticed, were riveted to where Harry was currently dancing with the wife of some Ministry official his grandfather was acquainted with. To her relief, Harry was required to entertain so many people that she only had to embarrass herself for a single dance. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it all the same. Daphne had been right; Harry really was a superb dancer, skilfully and smoothly leading her through steps and figures she had been nervous about, all while complimenting her politely or whispering outrageous gossip about all the dignitaries he pointed out into her ear. It had been fun. Feeling all the eyes on her hadn't been.

'Just take it as a compliment,' Daphne went on. 'Most of those spluttering fools … well … they're not exactly interested in your intellect if you get my drift.'

'Emeric's Evil Eye!' spat Amadina. 'Speaking of lacking intellect, Parkinson approaching at eleven o'clock.'

'Not again,' groaned Daphne. 'Can't you do anything about her?!'

'Want me to curse her?' volunteered Amadina eagerly.

Hermione stiffened. She wasn't sure if the girl was serious or not and – somehow – that made it all the worse.

'I think,' said Leo, making a calming gesture, 'Harry's personal guests sending another pure-blood to St Mungo's would needlessly inconvenience our host.'

'Shame.'

'Hello,' drawled Parkinson in her nasal voice. 'Have you lot seen Harry at all?' She very pointedly looked anywhere but at Hermione.

'Not a clue,' said Leo dismissively. He didn't even look up from his attempt to build a house of beer mats that threatened to reach the chandelier. 'Sorry.'

'I tipped the band to play a slow waltz next,' said Parkinson, smirking suggestively. 'That always works.'

'I told you to stay away from him!' Daphne was clawing at the table with her nails.

Parkinson's smirk widened. 'Too bad – tonight's fair game! Think he'll be able to resist these puppies?' she said, arching a triumphant eyebrow in the direction of her décolletage. 'Should've let yours out to play, too. Hindsight's 20/20, eh?'

'Slag,' muttered Tracey quite audibly.

'I feel you, Davis. With your pitiful endowment, you'll probably have to slave away in some musty office after school. And you know what's funny? In the end, you'll still have to suck it up with whatever gross senior is bored with his wife at home.'

Hermione felt distinctly hot around her ears, and it wasn't just anger. This woman, she decided, had no shame whatsoever.

'Do us all a favour and go crawl into some filthy corner and die like the sleazy vermin that you are, please,' said Tracey sweetly.

'Aw – cute!' To everyone's horror, Parkinson took Harry's seat. 'Hit a nerve, have I? It actually does bother you that you're as flat as a pancake, doesn't it?'

'Better than –' Tracey scowled, clenching her fist, and Hermione suddenly realised that Tracey didn't want to insult Daphne, who could easily compete with Parkinson. 'Just … just shut up,' she said instead. 'What's got your panties all excited anyway?'

Hermione's eyes wandered to Leo. The younger sibling and only boy at the table was currently pretending with all his might to blend with the background. Next to him, Amadina was eyeing Parkinson's robes with a measuring look.

'Truth be told,' said Parkinson, licking her lips, 'it's all thanks to Greengrass' little freebie, really.'

Daphne's face of barely concealed rage instantly lost all its colour. Deathly pale, she stuttered, 'If– if you breathe a word, if you breathe a single word about what happened in that room, I'll … I'll beat seven kinds of snot out of you, I promise!'

Parkinson chuckled. 'Gosh – scary!' she lilted. 'But it's par for the course, I suppose. Like, when it comes down to it, you're more gorilla than woman anyway.'

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Amadina stealthily train her wand in Parkinson's general direction.

'Whatever,' said Parkinson, tugging her robes into place. 'If you ask nicely, I might even lend him to you for a ride or tw–'

There was the sound of tearing fabric, immediately followed by the entirety of Parkinson's robes' front giving way, neatly peeling off her and leaving her sitting in all her naked glory.

The silence was so complete that it seemed to Hermione that all the sound, too, had been peeled from the world. The sudden lack of heated conversation drew other people's attention. Heads were turning.

'Draco is so going to flip,' whispered Leo disbelievingly, oblivious to his collapsed stack of beer mats. Parkinson had his full attention at last.

The girl in question, it became rapidly clear, had retained some shred of shame. Her fashionable pallor was now blotched with a shade of red. She shrieked, grabbing her torn robes to cover herself and made a run for it.

In silence, they stared after her.

'That went well,' said Amadina, coolly slurping her drink.

'Well? That was bloody brilliant!' cheered Daphne. 'Let's cross our fingers for this year's newest rumour: Pansy, the nudist banshee!'

'Yeah, good job,' added Leo wholeheartedly.

Tracey rolled her eyes. 'You can put your tongue back in now, Lucky.'

'I did not pant!'

'Sure, you didn't. Maybe you should be Tucker instead of Lucky. Or Lassie?'

Leo scowled but, seeing Daphne's, Tracey's, and especially his sister's expression, chose not to retort.

'She really is unpleasant, isn't she?' said Hermione to change the topic. 'I thought she was only that unpleasant to me.'

'She's not unpleasant; Scottish weather can be unpleasant. Parkinson's a bitch!' stated Daphne categorically. 'As far as I'm concerned, being ignored by Pansy bloody Parkinson would be an improvement to my social environment.'

'What's going on here?' called Harry. He was slightly out of breath, tugging at his collar as he leaned on Amadina's shoulder to take a sip from her glass. 'Miss something fun, did I?'

'Oh, boy,' muttered Leo excitedly but froze when his sister turned to look at him again.

'Nope, nothing at all,' said Daphne brightly. 'Finished entertaining all the lonely middle-aged wives and their wandering hands?'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'I hope so. Guess you saw that, huh? Remind me to stay away from Mrs Wilkes in the future.' He took another swig of Amadina's cocktail, wiping his fringe out of his eyes.

'I'll be happy to,' said Daphne solemnly.

'You know,' said Hermione, her eyes darting between Harry, Amadina, and Daphne, 'it only just occurred to me. If you don't mind me asking, you always seem oddly relaxed around Amadina. I mean, if I had to put it into words, I guess you act around her more as you do with the rest of the boys.'

They all turned to stare at her. 'I, er, I didn't mean anything by it,' she spluttered. 'I didn't mean to imply that you're gamine or –' She forcefully snapped her own mouth shut. 'I mean you're quite womanly in your own right bu–' They were still collectively staring at her. Leo, in particular, was gawking as if she'd confessed to hailing from the moon. Hermione threw an imploring look at Tracey before she made it any worse. 'Please help,' she whimpered.

'Oh, no!' said Amadina, her eyes narrowed. 'Do speak your mind! This is getting interesting.'

Hermione wilted under her gaze. 'It's just … even before Harry relaxed a bit around us all, he – well – he … always seemed quite at ease with you specifically. Erm, yes. That's all. Really!'

Harry and Amadina exchanged a quick glance. Amadina appeared to be hiding a smirk. Harry, by contrast, sighed, leaning against her chair. 'Oh – that. It's nothing.'

Tracey, Hermione couldn't help but notice, was pointedly looking in another direction and trying not to laugh.

The music in the background came to a halt.

'Let's dance,' said Daphne suddenly, jumping to her feet. 'You had two dances with Mrs Bulstrode. I saw you! And before you say what you're about to say,' she added smilingly, 'I don't care in the least who she's related to, who she knows, or where she or her husband are working!'

Harry chuckled. 'Well, all right. Let's hope the next song's a good one. Lead the way, my lady.'

Daphne gave another curtsy, beaming as Harry led her towards the dance floor.

'How very Slytherin of her,' said Amadina dryly, emptying the rest of what Harry had left in her glass. 'It's easy to forget whenever she's throwing another of her tantrums, but – in the end – Daphne really can be quite fast on the uptake.'

'What?' asked Hermione, looking after them. 'What do you mean?'

'Remember that hussy babbling about paying the band to play something to set the mood?' She speared a few pieces of decorative fruit from her drained cocktail on her skewer, nibbling at a slice of orange. 'Guess who ends up reaping the fruits of her labour now.'

'That's Daphy for you,' said Tracey proudly just as the music restarted. It was a mellow waltz.

'Whatever advice have you been giving her, Tracey?' asked Amadina, watching Harry and Daphne sway gently to the music. They were dancing very close to one another, Hermione noticed. Very close. As Daphne snaked one hand across the nape of his neck, it was getting difficult to tell where one person ended and the other began. 'It's like she's a different person around him this year.'

'I didn't give her any advice,' said Tracey, almost indignant. 'She wouldn't even admit to me that she wanted some. She must have been talking to her mother. Ophala was insanely popular at Hogwarts from what Mum told me. I guess she somehow managed to penetrate that thick skull of her daughter's with the notion that she has to ease up a bit and to stop smothering him all the time.'

'I really wish Draco was here tonight,' said Leo, squirming uncomfortably. 'Can't we talk about something normal like Quidditch or the newest Firebolt?'

'Stop whinging! And not a word to Harry!' said Tracey warningly.

'All right, all right …'

'Come on, let's get out of here,' said Amadina, getting to her feet and stretching.

'What? But it's still kind of early,' said Hermione.

'Good idea. It's stuffy in here. Not to mention …' Tracey threw a glance in Harry's and Daphne's direction. 'Call it a gut feeling, but I don't think that'll be their last dance. Daphne has been really tense for the last couple days. It looks like it's serious with her grandmother. Harry doesn't look entirely relaxed either. Let's have him spoil her for a bit.'

'You're probably right,' said Amadina, emptying the rest of Daphne's glass, too. 'Let's head to the pool room before someone else does.'

'You play pool?' asked Hermione curiously. She somehow failed to reconcile Amadina, the most pure-blooded witch she knew, with something as distinctly Muggle as pool.

Amadina's reply was a disdainful snort. 'That room's got a private bar!'

'Alcohol?' said Hermione, feeling queasy.

'You're seventeen, aren't you?' Amadina looked at her with something like despair. 'Are you seriously telling me you haven't even got hammered yet?!'

'I hardly think Hogwarts is the place to –'

'This,' exclaimed Tracey happily, 'is definitely as far from Hogwarts as it's possible to be while still being in relatively civilised Britain, my dear Hermione! Come on, it won't hurt you to loosen up a bit now and then!'

'The elves make excellent mulled wine,' said Leo, nodding encouragingly. 'Harry and Daphne will know how to find us.'

'Should they want to,' added Amadina slyly.

'Well,' said Hermione. 'I suppose one drink wouldn't hurt.'

'That's the spirit!' said Tracey, linking arms with her. 'Minnie?!' she called to the empty air. Immediately, the sweet little elf that had helped Hermione all afternoon apparated directly in front of them. 'Lead the way to the pool room, Private Minnie! Attention! Forward … march!'

Hermione couldn't help but laugh as Tracey dragged her out of the ballroom, the elf and Tracey both marching in a kind of misshapen goose-step that was severely impeded by the length of Tracey's robes. She was immensely grateful the elf was leading, too. Harry had shown her the room, of course, but she couldn't for the life of her remember where it was. After a while, all the different rooms had somehow fused into one overwhelming jumble. She hadn't dared to say so to Harry, but there was also the fact that the judgemental looks of some of the portraits were scaring her a bit, narrowing their eyes or turning up their noses at the sight of her, glaring with cold eyes at her passing.

She tried to pay them no mind. To distract herself from the scowling portrait of one Cygnus Black, she decided to speak her mind about something that had weighed on her all evening. 'Erm, Amadina?'

'Hmm?'

'I wanted to thank you for not making this evening awkward for me,' Hermione muttered, freeing herself from Tracey and falling in line with the siblings. 'I know you don't really approve of me. Actually, I think this might be the first time we've exchanged more than a few words in passing.'

Leo sighed, hurrying to catch up to Tracey and leaving his sister with Hermione.

'Well, I couldn't very well keep doing that, could I?' grumbled Amy. 'Don't get the wrong idea. I think Harry's been much too lenient with you. This isn't one of your cute little Cinderella stories. In the end, one of you is going to get hurt. Not because of something stupid as infatuation but because there's a rift between you and Harry. Harry, maybe due to being a half-blood himself, has always been somewhat in denial of that rift. He sees this, sees you, as a chance to prove that he isn't any different than anyone else.'

She looked up, her cold grey eyes slamming into Hermione's. 'But he's wrong. You're both wrong. You can't become a princess just because you want a fairytale, and he can't walk with the peasants just because he doesn't care to admit the difference between your station and his.'

'I'm not looking for a fairytale,' objected Hermione hotly. 'I'm Harry's friend, and I'm definitely not aspiring to be anything more than that! Do you really think Daphne would have let me come here, would have helped me all the time if she hadn't grilled me over this?! This is what I don't get: we're all just students. We're all learning. Pure-blood or not, you can't tell me I'm a worse witch than the likes of Parkinson because I know it isn't true!'

'You've got brains,' conceded Amadina slowly. 'I'm not denying it.'

'See? I managed to make it through the entire evening! Harry himself said that I did well. I took you talking to me as a sign that, well …'

'No. Those two things are not related. I don't like you, Granger. I thought I made that unmistakably clear. I don't like your naiveté. I don't like how nosy you are about us. I don't like how starry-eyed you are. You are a loose cannon. I think Harry has much to lose and little to gain from hanging out with Mudbloods – princess or not. You have yet to convince me otherwise. Harry has been helping you for more than two years now, behind the scene and otherwise. What have you done for him so far? Oh – right. I remember: nothing! The only reason why I can't get away with ignoring you altogether now is because Harry did choose you to accompany him for this evening. I don't have to agree with his decisions … but I respect them.'

'Well,' said Hermione with more bravery than she felt she had any business possessing, 'I'll just have to prove you wrong then, won't I? My teachers warned me about people like you. But I'll learn. I'll prove you wrong in the end! If I make it out of all this, make it out of school as Harry's friend, you'll have no choice but to admit that you were mistaken!'

Amadina scoffed. 'Emeric's Evil Eye, you are obstinate. Look, the way I see it, you and Harry are playing tug-of-war with fate. And between you, there's nothing – just the brink. This world isn't very forgiving to those who fail to pick a side. If you make it to ours – fine. I'll swallow my pride. I'll even apologise to you. Publicly if you insist. But if Harry – at any point in time – is in danger of being dragged towards the brink, I'll be there to shove you in first. Don't tell me later I didn't warn you. Enough of this – I'm still too sober for this shit.'

Without another word, she accelerated, stomping off into the gloam of the corridor.

'Sorry about that,' said Leo, falling back in line with her.

'You were listening?' Hermione muttered, fighting back tears.

'No, but I can just about imagine what she must have said. She's a little biased in some ways.'

'A little biased?!' said Hermione shrilly. 'She's a supremacist!'

Leo kept silent. After a while, he said, 'She means well. I appreciate it might be difficult from your perspective to see that, but it's clear as day to me.'

'Means well?' repeated Hermione yet again, stunned. 'She as good as told me Muggle-borns are trash compared to pure-bloods. How can you defend someone like that?! I know you don't agree with her!'

Leo gave a pained smile. 'Quite easily, actually. She's my sister. She's family. That's all there is to it.'

'So it's all good, everything's forgiven as long as she's family?!'

Once more, Leo was still for a while. Hermione knew by now that Leo was not only considerably more rational about these matters than his sister, he was also the more emphatic of the two by a mile. That was also why his answer hit her even harder.

'Yes,' he said solemnly. 'Don't misunderstand; forgiving isn't the same as approving. Forgiveness isn't quite the same as absolution or even remission either. Forgiving is … something beyond all of that. Truthfully, there are many things I don't like about my sister. We disagree on many topics, always have, always will. We used to row a lot, back when we were younger. But no matter our differences, we both came to realise that we have more in common than all the controversies in the world could do to disunite us.'

And then Hermione finally understood. 'You love them – your family, I mean.'

Leo chuckled sheepishly, evidently embarrassed to have it put so bluntly. 'You cannot pick your family, Hermione. Nobody can, and – yes – I realise that applies to you as well. As does Amy, even if she wouldn't ever say so. No matter what my family does, no matter who my family is … no matter what … I refuse to be the kind of scum that does not even stick by his own family. No matter what.'

Hermione stared at him, biting her lip. 'Harry! Amadina, she –'

'We grew up with Harry as our cousin, and Amy and Harry have always been close – much closer than he and I or even Amy and I, to be honest. Amy is strong, strong in a different way than Harry or me. What's more, Amy is aware of that. Can you really blame her that she's at her most vicious whenever Harry or I am concerned? I can't. Don't you see? In the end,' muttered the boy next to her with a strangely wistful smile, 'we may not be all that different. Not so different at all …'

This time, they both walked in silence. Tracey's silly little ditty that was bouncing off the walls seemed far away. Leo baring his own sentiments about his family was, Hermione realised with a jolt, without a doubt the most personal feelings any pure-blood had ever shared with her. From the tail of her eye, she watched him shuffle along right next to her, lost in thought.

'Thank you for trusting me with this,' she said. 'I … I realise this was a big deal for you.'

He nodded. 'I wish you luck in proving her wrong – I really do.'

'Thanks,' she whispered back. After a second of hesitation, she grabbed his wrist, squeezing it gently before letting go.

He looked up, surprised. But Hermione was already looking away again by the time he did. Her hair had come undone now, too. The spell – or so it seemed – had run its course.

They silently followed in Tracey's wake.

'What's that strange thing Amadina keeps shouting all the time anyway?' asked Hermione at some point in time. 'Eric's evil something something …'

'Oh, you mean Emeric's Evil Eye?' replied Leo, clearly relieved to pick up the conversation at this innocuous question. 'It's an … expletive – sort of.'

'What does it mean?'

'It doesn't actually mean anything concrete, I think. But it references a particularly nasty children's story.'

'A children's story? For pure-bloods?'

Leo nodded. 'And one of the absolute worst. Let's see, I should be able to remember the last bit, seeing as it kept me awake for months:

'"Be still and sleep, sweet child, be still, don't weep
– or Emeric will peep, leap, sweep at you, I swear it's true.
Don't stare, my child, at the stranger in the glass, do not rise
– lest Emeric will claim his prize, despite your cries, and feast your eyes.
Close the door, poor child, and pray. Don't say a word, lie still.
Dare not even think his name … or he'll come all the same."

'Something like that. I don't mind telling you that it scared the heck out of me back when I was five.'

Hermione rubbed her arms. The corridors, in contrast to Hogwarts, were comfortably warm, but Leo's 'children's story' had made sure she still had goosebumps. 'It scares me even now, I think.'

'It's just another of those tales to frighten misbehaving children.' Leo chuckled. 'In this world of magic and mysteries, children's stories should be the least of your worries.'

Hermione grinned at Leo, and he – to her delight – smiled back at her. 'That sounds about right,' she said. 'Come on, I think I'll take you up on that mulled wine.'

They spent the rest of their walk talking about this and that. Leo was, once you managed to crack the smooth, uncaring shell, surprisingly easy to talk to. They were so deep in conversation that they almost stumbled over Tracey arguing with Minnie.

'Minnie is sorry, Miss Davis! But Minnie musts go! You must be letting go of Minnie now! Someone is wandering towards the third floor. Minnie musts be doing her duty!'

'No!' slurred Tracey, childishly clinging to the little elf and refusing to let go. 'Have Kreacher do it!'

'Kreacher is currently attending a distressed young lady who has barricaded herself in the Ladies and refuses to come out!' Minnie tried to gently wiggle herself out of Tracey's grip, but the petite witch held fast.

Tracey snorted. 'That harlot can rot away in there for all I care!'

'That woulds be very unsanitary,' said the elf seriously. 'Minnie doubts Cranky would approve. Minnie is sorry. Minnie musts be going now!'

With an apologetic smile, the little elf vanished with a plop from between Tracey's arms. Tracey sighed, picking herself up from the floor.

'She's really sweet, isn't she?' said Hermione.

Tracey nodded. 'Come on, it's not far now. Let's get there before Amy tries downing Firewhisky.'

'You know the way?' asked Hermione, who still thought that the maze of rooms and corridors was terribly confusing.

'Yeah,' said Tracey with a lopsided smile. 'I've been here a few times before. Though I admit, I wouldn't want to wander the third floor alone. It's so strange that they kept most of it in its original state; buildings without corridors are just too bizarre. There's only this one long hall and the rest of the rooms are only interconnected. If you think the second floor is bad – the third one really is a labyrinth.'

Leo nodded knowledgeably. 'Corridors are a relatively modern invention. I, for one, am glad they changed the layout of the first two floors to accommodate guests.'

'Wait,' said Hermione, trying to keep up. 'The long gallery looks ancient!'

'Galleries aren't corridors,' said Leo with a patient smile. 'They were intended as rooms you could leisurely stroll through on rainy days. Harry told me once.'

'Huh!' said Tracey. 'Didn't know that. Harry really is a nerd.'

'This building is old, isn't it?' asked Hermione. She remembered having asked Harry this question, too, but his answer had got lost somewhere in the overwhelming flood of information.

'Yup! Ancient,' said Tracey happily.

'Does it have … secret rooms? Secret passages? That sort of thing?'

Leo's eyes suddenly lit up with a slightly disconcerting inner light. 'I bet there are! Must be. Loads!' Then, he sighed, and his enthusiasm drained from him. 'But it really would be foolish to explore this building without Harry. The ancient Blacks took the protection of their home very, very seriously.'

'I bet,' agreed Hermione. 'The wards outside were incredib– Hey, did that portrait just bow to you?!'

'What?!' said Tracey, turning around with a questioning expression.

'That portrait!' said Hermione, pointing at an elderly wizard who was now – mysteriously – fast asleep. She squinted at the aged plaque. 'Taurus Blackthaw,' she read out aloud. Had she heard that name before? 'Why did that portrait bow to you?'

'Did it really?' asked Tracey, tilting her head and peering at the man and his ghastly orange nightcap.

'Are you sure, Hermione?' asked Leo curiously. 'These witches and wizards … they're all Blacks or their descendants. Why would one of them bow to Tracey? They don't even dignify other pure-bloods with a nod. I should know!'

'I'm … sure I saw him bob his head at least,' said Hermione, biting her finger. Suddenly, she wasn't all that certain anymore.

Tracey shrugged. 'Maybe some kind of age-old and totally unnecessary pure-blood custom or something? A compulsory greeting to long-haired women during the secret third lunar phase but only on Saturday between eleven thirty and eleven thirty-five?'

'Whatever for?'

Tracey shrugged. 'Luck? Since when did customs have to make sense?'

'I once heard rubbing a dwarf's head is lucky,' said Leo innocently.

Hermione just managed to turn her laugh into a sort of snort.

Tracey gave Leo a very pointed look. 'Ice, Leo. Thin. Cracking, in fact.'

'I notice they don't bow to me!' Hermione pointed out to come to his aid.

Tracey made a pained sort of grin, patting her arm. 'Well … I did say pure-blood custom, honey. Don't mind these dirty old men. Come on, let's find Amy!'

They found Amadina lounging on top of the magnificent chestnut pool table, enthusiastically examining a few dozen bottles. Hermione had no idea if it was the difference in lighting or something else, but Amadina's robes looked messy and dishevelled, leaving Hermione to wonder how many of those fruity cocktails the girl had had over the evening. To Hermione's fascination, Amadina Lestrange grinned blithely at them over her shoulder, waving with a bottle that proudly displayed a very mature, dark label. The ornate, spiry bottle looked pricey, and – if her eyes weren't deceiving her – someone had already broken the seal. Hermione winced, closing her eyes and praying that they wouldn't get into terrible trouble for this. 'Anyone up for cocktails?' asked Amadina, shaking her loot.

'You know how to mix cocktails?' asked Tracey admiringly.

'Haven't got a clue! But this one tastes best,' declared Amadina brightly, pouring an almost lethal dose of whiskey into her cup. She stared thoughtfully at the row of hard liquor. 'This one, I think!' she exclaimed, adding another barely sub-lethal measure of what looked suspiciously like vodka.

'Er,' said Hermione cautiously. 'Shouldn't you, you know, be adding … fruit juice or … or soda or something?'

'Should I?' After a second of mulling this over, Amy shrugged, taking a careful sip, smacking her lips like a connoisseur of fine vintages.

'And?' asked Leo hesitantly.

'Dreadful!' declared Amy cheerfully. 'But it sure warms you up! My feet are kind of cold.'

Leo groaned, rubbing his eyes. 'Where are your shoes, Amy?'

She didn't pay him any mind. 'Come on, I'll make one for you, oh baby brother of mine.'

'Five minutes! You're not even five minutes older than me!' grumbled Leo, and to Hermione, it sounded like an argument that had played out at least a million times in the past.

Amy wagged a finger. 'Now, now – no need to throw a hissy fit, my sweet little Leandros. Complaining about the facts of life is a very childish thing to do. I think I saw some pumpkin juice here somewhere. Maybe that's more your league.'

Leo scowled. He marched up to his sister, snatched the drink out of her hand, and – to Hermione's utter shock – chugged the whole thing.

'I, er, I don't think I'd survive one of those,' muttered Hermione feebly.

Tracey chuckled, patting her on the back. 'Don't worry. I wouldn't either. See?' She pointed at the bar Amadina had raided. 'The bar actually is stocked with juice and stuff. I bet Amy's plan was to goad her brother to do something idiotic right from the start – something idiotic like, say, downing that devil's brew.'

'Oh …'

'You know,' said Tracey as the pair of them looked on at the quarrelling siblings, 'I sometimes feel like I missed out not having a brother or sister. But then again, it's times like these that make me strangely grateful that my parents might be secret prudes.'

'I don't know,' said Hermione. 'They look like they're having fun. I think I'll go look for a mulled wine. Want one, too?'

'Forget that stuff! Want to get acquainted with the White Russian first or wanna skip straight to the Hanky Panky?'

Hermione froze. 'Er … what?'

Tracey stood on the tip her toes, laying a comradely hand on her shoulder. 'Leave everything to me!' she said in a serious voice. 'We'll make a woman out of you yet.'

'Tracey?' said Hermione cautiously. 'We are still talking about drinks … right?'

Tracey stuck out her tongue, winking. 'Maybe?'

As it turned out, Hermione was more of a Hanky Panky type of girl. Tracey kept mixing a few other unpronounceable drinks for all of them, but how many exactly, Hermione was having difficulty recalling.

Having explained the rules of pool, she was currently enjoying an utterly embarrassing defeat against a first timer. She was still trying to figure out if Leo was simply better at holding his liquor or if something more sinister was at play after he stopped missing more and more shots after his third try when the door opened.

'Merlin – open a window, won't you?! Cripes, this reeks worse than the Hog's Head!'

'Harry!' cheered Leo, waving his drink and – inadvertently – spattering whatever it was they were drinking again all over the billiard cloth. 'Look at me! I'm totally rocking this Pewl-thingie!'

Harry chuckled. 'Good for you, Leo.'

'It's Po-al. Po-earl. Eh?' Hermione tried to focus on the gently rocking floor. Her mouth seemed to be stuffed with something flossy. 'Strange word, that. Don'cha think? Pewl.'

'Where's Daphy!' demanded Tracey loudly, still engrossed in her examination of the bar's contents.

'Just put her to bed.'

'What – here?!' asked Hermione.

'Well, she has a sort of … regular room.'

'I thought you'd be at it all night,' said Amadina, swinging a cue like a sword. Strangely, thought Hermione, the motion seemed well-practised. She didn't dare ask.

Harry sighed, pouring himself a bit of lime juice. 'Well, I –'

'NOOO!' screamed Tracey suddenly. She lunged madly at him, knocking the glass out of his hand just before his lips could touch the glass. She crashed hard into the floor.

'What the hell?!' shouted Harry, shocked. 'Are you all right, Tracey?'

Tracey scrambled to her feet, staring at him. 'You're welcome,' she said, dead earnest.

'Good job, Tracey. No non-alcoholic drinks allowed, Harry!' called Amadina, striking at the glass on the floor with her cue.

'Wow, you guys really are totally wasted,' said Harry, laughing.

'Thanks,' said Amadina, smiling proudly.

'It wasn't exactly a compliment but … whatever. So … can you hustle something up?'

'Sure can!' volunteered Tracey eagerly.

Harry waded through the sea of empty, broken, and full bottles. With a frown, he salvaged a strangely deformed bottle with a dark label. 'Did you seriously adulterate the twenty-five-year-old Tasmanian single malt? Do you have no shame?'

'None!' boasted Amadina, smacking the bottle out of his hand with another strike of her weapon.

'Ouch! Merlin, careful with that! And put on some shoes! There's shards of glass everywhere.'

'Silence – Hooray Henry!'

'Hooray Henry?' repeated Harry disbelievingly.

'Exactly!' Amadina pointed her cue threateningly at him. 'So what happened. I thought you'd be at it all night with Daphne.'

Hermione couldn't help herself and giggled.

'We were dancing all night,' said Harry, rolling his eyes.

'What – just dancing?!'

'Just dancing.'

'Not even some more or less accidental hand stuff you might be able to talk yourself out of tomorrow?!'

Harry's expression didn't even flicker. 'Dancing.'

'And?' demanded Amadina, squinting suspiciously. She struck an impressive pose with her cue-turned-sword held sideways, staring down at Harry from atop an overturned table.

'What – and?!'

'There's no way in hell a cissy like you could have more stamina than Daphne after all the jogging we've been doing,' said Amadina. 'Why isn't she here now?!'

Harry was about to accept the drink Tracey was offering him when Amadina's cue came swishing down again. He retracted his hand just in time. 'Merlin!' He jumped back. 'Stop that!'

'No drinks for the accused, Logistics Officer Davis!' declared Amadina sharply. 'Speak!'

Harry sighed, raising both of his hands. 'Well, truth be told, you'd probably be right. But – as it were – she kept drinking from my glass and … well … I don't know if you've noticed but while Daphne readily agrees with alcohol once she's had her first taste, the feeling doesn't seem to be mutual.'

Amadina nodded, signifying for Tracey to hand Harry his drink. 'I see. And I suppose you kept ordering increasingly alcoholic drinks?'

Harry took a sip, smirking. 'I resent the accusation!'

Amadina smirked back at him. 'Of course, you do.'

'I don't get why you guys must be so sneaky all the time,' slurred Hermione, bored from watching Leo finish the game all by himself. 'I can't even begin to imagine who might be the sneakiest of you all.'

To her astonishment, fingers were pointed. Tracey, Amadina, and Leo were all unanimously pointing at Harry. Harry, on the other hand, was pointing at Amadina – which apparently was a source of great amusement for the girl.

'Come on, you,' she said, laughing as she jumped and gave the loudly protesting Harry a rap on the head. 'Grow a pair! It's been … what … eight years or summat?'

Harry scowled, adjusting his robes.

'Oh, that,' said Tracey gleefully.

'What?!' asked Hermione.

All eyes, again, turned towards Harry. Harry flicked his tongue, swishing his wand to set up the table Amadina had been posing on and casually sitting down. 'Fine! Might as well tell her.'

'You remember how reclusive Harry was in his first year, right?' said Tracey, smirking at Harry's obvious discomfort. 'Well, it was a hundred times worse when he was younger.'

'Really?' asked Hermione.

'Well, kind of, yeah,' confirmed Harry with a shrug, taking another sip.

'It was the absolute worst for us girls. It took ages – AGES – until he eventually stopped flinching whenever I made an accidental gesture in his direction. And I was really careful too – in contrast to Daphy, I might add.'

'So?' prodded Hermione. Daphne had already revealed as much when she'd come around to confessing why she had freaked out so badly back during their first year.

'Well, I'd heard that Harry had kind of a thing with women and girls,' said Amadina. 'And it sounded dead boring to deal with something stupid like that. So the day before we were scheduled to be introduced, I cut my hair, borrowed some of my brother's robes –'

'Stole!' interjected Leo from the sidelines. 'You plundered half my wardrobe!'

'As I said, acquired some robes of my brother's,' continued Amadina unperturbed, 'and that – well – that was really it.'

'I don't follow,' said Hermione.

Harry flicked his tongue again. 'I didn't realise she was a girl for almost an entire year. And by the time I did – I don't know – it wasn't the same as with the other girls.'

'That … that's …. brilliant,' breathed Hermione.

Amadina raised her chin. 'Well, it wasn't much!'

'For a few weeks, Harry was totally confused that his best mate had turned out to be a girl,' said Leo, grinning. 'I still remember all the adults laughing about him having cooties now.'

'Best mate, but I thought …'

'No, it was Amy who dragged him all over the place the entire year. Draco and Harry didn't become friends until later, and I wasn't really into playing with other kids at the time. Daphne was around all the time, but she really never was much into playing outside. It was always Amy getting him into trouble and Harry somehow managing to lie, cheat, or bribe their way out of it.'

'Harry wasn't allowed to leave the house without adult supervision anymore at some point in time – but before that? Yeah – it was fun. I mean, sure, we sneaked out our fair share later on, but I'm pretty sure one of the elves, at the very least, was always following us. Leo was boring to an almost lethal degree at the time,' clarified Amadina. 'I'd already given up on him. Thankfully, my dear brother finally came around a bit later.'

'Well,' said Harry, finishing his drink, 'there you have it. I think it's clear who the real evil genius is here. I never hoodwinked a very dear friend and family member of mine on a daily basis for almost an entire year.'

'Nope, my vote's still on you,' said Tracey.

'Mine is as well,' said Leo. 'Even Amy didn't wrongly accuse random bystanders and give false testimony when she was nine.'

's'cuse me?!' Hermione coughed up the sip she'd just taken.

'I did it to get us out of another of your stupid freak accidents!' protested Harry. 'What would you have done?!'

'Er … nothing probably? My point is, not many nine-year-olds have the gall to lie to an entire patrol of public safety officers.'

'Flattered as I am, I, too, stand by my vote,' said Amadina. 'Remember that business with the book?!'

'What book?' asked Hermione, enthralled. She needed to get pure-bloods drunk more often. She'd been given more free information these past few hours than she'd managed to wrench out of their tight-lipped mouths in almost three years.

'There was this one really, really big and shiny book in Harry's library that was absolutely off-limits, even for him.'

'So, naturally, he wanted to read it?' guessed Hermione.

'Naturally,' confirmed Leo.

'What's so sneaky about that? I mean, in comparison to posing as a boy for an entire year or framing random bystanders as a nine-year-old, that's pretty tame, right?'

Amadina just smirked. 'For months, he mapped out everyone's daily routines, including all family members likely to visit, his own grandfather, his elves – everyone! He researched the wards encasing the book, asking innocuous and seemingly irrelevant questions to all the adults he knew, careful never to ask too much of any one person. He even improvised his own glass cutter.'

'How did you get your hands on a diamond tip, by the way?' asked Leo.

Harry grinned his roguish grin. 'Yanked it off some ugly old tiara.'

'Nice!'

Hermione gaped at him, gobsmacked.

'I really wanted to read that damn book, okay?' said Harry defensively.

'Was it worth it?' asked Hermione. It was kind of strange that this was the first question that sprang to her mind. For a second, she wondered if that would have been her first question two years ago, as well.

'It was cursed,' grumbled Harry, ignoring Tracey's catty snickering.

'But the adults were really complimentary, all the same. Well, as soon as it became clear that he'd make it,' added Amadina – almost as an afterthought. 'Even our mother was impressed, and that's not something you see very often.'

'No,' muttered Leo absent-mindedly. 'You don't.'

'Anyway,' yelled Tracey coltishly. 'Enough with the memory stuff already! Let's get down to the main event!'

'And what's that?' asked Hermione with a dreadful feeling of premonition.

'Now that I know that my super cuddly Daphy won't be joining us for the rest of the evening, I hereby challenge you, Hermione, and you, Amy, to a game of drunken Twister! No billowing robes allowed! One shot per round, loser takes off a piece of clothing!'

'Oh, boy!' cheered Leo, dropping his cue without a second thought and hopping onto the pool table like a kid expecting the curtain to drop.

'What's Twister?' asked Harry matter-of-factly.

'Oh, come on! Stupid pure-blood household! Ask your elves to buy one!'

'Not happening.'

'Killjoy!' Tracey stared at the floor, grumbling under her voice. In the end, she knelt down, picking up a bottle. 'You're at least familiar with spin-the-bottle, right?'

Harry and Amadina looked questioningly back at her with – yes – almost envious innocence. Hermione, on the other hand, paled. Tracey was grinning at her with something that could only be described as predatory zeal.

Memory Lane

Ilya Ivanov, Durmstrang seventh year, was convinced this was the worst day of his life, and it probably wouldn't have cheered him up had he known that it would also be his last. It had started off bad enough and had only gone downhill from there. First, his girl, Līga, had told him that it was all over. She hadn't even given him an excuse – much less a blasted reason – and classes had kept him from cornering her for now. Not that he was particularly attached to the wiseacre's nagging personality, but she was from a somewhat decent family famous for having seer blood, and his father had endorsed their relationship. Then, his professor had berated him that, based on his average performance, he was in danger of failing Transfiguration. When he'd been called to the headmaster's office, he'd been fully expecting to suffer another tiresome and presumably full-throated lecture on laggardness and neglectfulness, but it seemed Karkarov didn't even care about his future career any longer.

No, while all the others were attending their revision courses for the upcoming exams, his headmaster had – with a particularly nasty smile – ordered him and his erstwhile and enviously absent paramour to play tour guide for some no-name newcomer. Him – the scion of more proud pure-bloods than most of his pathetic condisciples could scrape together even if they started glueing a few dozen other family trees to their own. Worse, no matter where he looked, he couldn't find Līga to pass the undoubtedly tedious time he was going to spend with this foreigner in some more pleasurable way.

He sneered, his eyes lingering on the pitiful curves of the non-responsive woman he was to assist with her research. There was nothing pleasurable about her – whatever her name was – that was for sure. He wasn't even certain if she could understand him, for that matter. She'd spoken to Karkarov in some gibberish that certainly wasn't Polish, German, Swedish – or even English. He would have at least recognised French, Spanish, or Italian, too – so she couldn't be from somewhere civilised anyway.

And now, he – Ilya Ivanov – was standing in some dark, damp cellar, holding a torch for some swotty grockle. His eyes darted to this woman's – and he thought he was using the term woman loosely here – frizzy hair. Just his luck, he was playing torch holder for a bloody gipsy.

'Lux,' breathed the woman suddenly. Her voice was as thin and soft as the dust slowly settling around them.

'Huh?!' he barked.

'φῶς … lys … light … Licht … ljus … fény … světlo … światło … cвет …'

Ilya stared numbly as languages lashed down at him. 'Right,' he muttered, approaching a step or two, raising the magical torch in his arm.

A glance as quick as a flash over her shoulder and the woman returned to her pondering. She was absorbed in a thick leather tome from the deepest level of their library – one of those mouldy long-forgotten pieces of trash chained to the walls. He'd vaguely recognised the title as something written in Ecclesiastical Latin when she pointed for him to retrieve it from its alcove.

'Not a gipsy, then,' he thought, yawning. 'Maybe some religious nutter. Just my luck.'

He shifted uneasily, scratching his cheek. This was beyond boring. Scrawny thing that she was, not even this woman's backside could distract him from how dull this day was promising to be. Where was Līga?!

'You're an Ivanov, aren't you?' the stranger mumbled off-handedly in stellar Belarusian.

He smirked. Small wonder, his family was famous after all. 'Yes,' he drawled. 'Ilya Ivanov, son of Aleksey Ivanov.'

'Is that so?' she replied sluggishly.

'Heard of us, have you?'

'You could say that. I attended school with your … father's younger brother?'

'Taras?' guessed Ilya. 'Turned out to be a retard. Sudden mental disorder. Wasting away in some sanatorium now.'

'So I've heard. I was taken aback by how fast he succumbed. To his illness.'

Ilya snorted. 'He was weak.'

'Agreed,' said the woman airily. She hadn't looked up from her tome, nor – as far as he could tell – had her reading speed slowed down.

'How was he at school?' asked Ilya. He wasn't really interested, but even dull conversation was better than holding a bloody torch in silence.

'Impatient,' said the woman, throwing another lightning-fast glance over her shoulder. 'A family trait, as I begin to suspect.'

'We Ivanovs know what we're owed!'

'Yes, he used to say the same … until he eventually forgot how to. Fetch me those loose stacks of parchments, third corridor, second row, right at the top. Do try not to trigger the Bloodletting Curse if at all possible.'

Ilya scowled, bristling with fury at being ordered around like a servant by this grizzly chicken. He retrieved the parchment, dropping it unceremoniously next to the lectern. 'There,' he grunted.

She nodded absent-mindedly, picking up the first page without turning her head from the text she was so enthralled by.

'So you're a graduate?' said Ilya after a few moments of laboured silence.

'You could say so.'

'Grades?'

'Barely average,' she replied with an uncaring shrug.

Ilya sneered. He should have known better.

'Majors?' he demanded, feeling what little respect he had for this troglodyte drop by the second.

'Wizarding History and Ancient Runes.'

Ilya spat at the floor. 'Pathetic,' he muttered. His father would have had something to say about anyone who didn't pick Duelling or – at the very least – the Dark Arts as one of their major fields of study.

She didn't seem to have heard him. Calmly, she turned another page. 'Not this one either,' she mumbled, absorbed in thought. 'Bring me those late Iron Age Lusatian rubbings.'

'What? Where?!'

The savage had the gall to sigh at him. 'Aren't you a student here? Second corridor, ninth row, right next to those pretty, murky brown stains on the stone floor – if memory serves.'

Grumbling, he went and fetched what looked like crude, yellowed drawings on tracing paper.

'Can you actually read that rubbish?' he growled, slamming the paper on top of the first stack.

She didn't reply.

'You're not trying to impress me, knowing I'm an Ivanov, are you?' drawled Ilya patronisingly.

She picked up a page at random, running her diminutive finger over the lines. '… gone. Can't find him. […] pit. Some lines are faded beyond recognition. […] running when the scream– [...] House in ruins, patriarch dead. They look […] terror. [...] warm and breathe, but … wits? ghosts? spirits? [...] Emeric's staff, shatter–'

'All right, all right,' laughed Ilya. 'I've got no clue if you made that up or not but you can stop now. Say, you might be a barren little cronk,' he said, squeezing her arse through the robes, 'but maybe you can do something about these stiff shoulders of mine?'

'I suggest you remove your hand while you still can,' she said uncaringly, turning a page.

Ilya hadn't meant much by it, but her dismissive attitude, the arrogant way in which this failure of a nobody refused to even look at him made his blood boil. He twisted her frail arms behind her back, holding both of her wrists in the grip of his right hand, and bringing his mouth to her ear. 'Why don't you make me?' he growled in a guttural fashion, biting into her earlobe.

'Acceptable.'

A few moments later, there was the sound of hurried footfalls. A group of prefects, wands in their hands, stormed into the lower library. The only other person present was a weedy-looking young woman with frizzy, dirty blond hair.

'What was that?!' they shouted, fanning out. 'What happened?! An accident with the books?'

'What was what?' replied the woman serenely.

'We heard a scream! What are you doing down here?' demanded one of the older students.

'I'm here at your headmaster's pleasure,' she replied, not looking up from the dusty sheets of paper she was browsing.

'You're not supposed to be alone down here. Where's your watchdog?!'

'Ah … young Master Ivanov, I regret to say, tired of his lot in life.'

'He left you here alone?!' snarled an aristocratic prefect in the back.

'That's one way of putting it.'

'That stupid, lazy, pompou– I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I'll make sure a replacement will be with you shortly. Malina? Stay with our guest until then and help her as you see fit.'

'I will,' agreed a slightly younger female prefect, smiling at the stranger.

The woman flashed a quick glance, nodding back.

'Again, sorry for the inconvenience, Ms …?'

The woman didn't look up again. 'Not to worry,' she said lightly, passing over the silent question. 'It really wasn't much of an inconvenience.'