There were all sorts of hobbies that filled the summers of magical Britain's elite. A grand celebration of the summer solstice was to be expected, alongside hunts, riding, and the prestigious Junior Dueling circuit. Meetings between Hogwarts friends over the summer gained a political dimension as well, especially with the strange rumors of the Dark Lord. No one was bold enough to voice support directly, so there was a quiet sort of probing that had to be done. A careful mix of implication and dog whistles…

Daphne Greengrass was one young Slytherin learning the ropes of this delicate political maneuvering. It was something the upper years did, to some extent, but Hogwarts was largely a test bed, even as far as the fifth year. The relationships forged there– and the grudges– lasted long, but there was only so much a schoolchild could do. Her meeting today was even lower stakes than usual. The Bulstrodes did not have the name they once did… and frankly, Millicent Bulstrode did not seem a political expert.

However, she was an expert on something else… falconry. It was a respectable pastime, and she was glad to teach Daphne a bit of that delicate art, in exchange for changing up her usual hunting grounds.

There was a sort of pinging sound, the one the wards made when someone approached them. There she was. Daphne made for the front gate. At any other time, they would have used something like the Floo, but falcons didn't tend to agree with magical transport.

Even with an ivy-covered gate between them, it was impossible to miss Bulstrode. She… to use an unflattering word, loomed. Daphne could imagine the girl's sour expression, the one she had been wearing non-stop since the end of her fifth year, and her spat with Potter.

(Harry had always been the odd one out in Slytherin. Distrustful, even by the standards of the house, and just short of being abhorred by Professor Snape… not a winning combination. For years, they had stayed in their own little corner, happily out of everyone's hair, but no longer.)

Daphne went through the familiar spell to open up the gate, although she didn't bring the wards down yet. Checking with your own eyes was a pretty obvious security step, after all.

When it swung open, Daphne could confirm that it was definitely Bulstrode– the face had not changed– but she was swiftly distracted: a magnificent goshawk sat on Bulstrode's arm, beautiful black feathers on its back and eyes like emeralds. That alone made it a remarkable specimen, but it was supremely obedient. No need for a hood or bindings, no signs of the usual daze falconry charms caused. It stood on Bulstrode's arm completely free, claws digging into the worn leather of an aged gauntlet.

"Heiress Bulstrode." Daphne dipped her head a little. "I must say, your goshawk is magnificent."

"Thank you, Heiress Greengrass." There was some pride there, but it's not like the girl had much else to be proud of…

"I'll open the wards." She muttered a code phrase, and the air between them seemed to shimmer for a moment. Bulstrode took a step forward, only to freeze up as a strange, unfamiliar tone played. A strange halo of silvery light surrounded Bulstrode.

The ward system was indicating something, but what? Not dark object red, not polyjuice green, no compulsion charms… "Animagus?" Daphne gasped.

Millicent nodded. "The registration hasn't gone through yet…"

Daphne nearly dropped her wand. Sure, she knew that those long study sessions she and Potter had were probably bearing fruit somewhere, but becoming an Animagus after her fifth year? It was insane. Genuinely dangerous, but an indicator of remarkable skill.

Considering how Potter performed in every class that wasn't Potions, Daphne figured he had done the academic heavy lifting, but even then…

"Can you really…?" Daphne asked.

"Take Andronicus," Bulstrode ordered, holding out a falconer's glove. Daphne did, and the goshawk moved to her arm with only a little encouragement. She flinched as the claws tightened uncomfortably. Bulstrode was made of stern stuff if she didn't mind that squeezing.

Meanwhile, Bulstrode's features shifted, growing blunter and less delicate. Her complexion darkened, the hair grew long, a tail sprouted forth… Bulstrode stood as a mighty ox, heavy-hooved and huffing. There was perhaps a certain intelligence in the eyes, and the horns had strangely mottled patterns on them. Maybe that was the distinctive feature?

After a few moments, Bulstrode transformed back and took the goshawk from Daphne, restoring blood flow to her hand. She shook her arm a bit and followed Bulstrode, so she could see what this whole falconry thing was about.

Bulstrode loved that bird. She doted on it, even as she prepared it to hunt. Daphne could understand when she watched it spring off of Bulstrode's arm, taking to the air and flying in a widening gyre… there was a bit of a jangle from the bells as it flew away, sweet music to accompany the sight of the bird in flight.

They followed it as it flew over the grounds of Greengrass Manor, searching for game with the keen eyes of a predator. Eventually, it picked out some unfortunate hare and swooped, catching it with razor-sharp talons, blood splattering on the feet as the goshawk went in with the beak… Bulstrode was frowning, probably because it was a messy kill.

Suddenly, falconry didn't feel like a gentleman's sport. It felt like duping a bird into killing something a lot smaller than you.

When Harry Potter first saw Millicent Bulstrode, he was afraid. He saw Dudley in that bulk and that contemptuous expression and their initial interactions didn't change his opinion.

She was, frankly, mean. Was part of it from a feeling of being snubbed? Maybe, but make no mistake: there was some cruelty all her own in there. Making friends wasn't easy for her.

Making friends wasn't easy for Harry, either. He was the victim of bullying from non-Millicent sources. That was what pushed them together, really: both really wanted a friend, and Harry honestly wanted a skirt to hide behind. A bully to bully back.

(Millicent couldn't do much against upper years, but they licked their wounds together.)

It led to a bit of a feedback loop. Harry and Millicent were distrustful and abrasive, respectively, and anyone looking to befriend either usually evoked the ire of the other.

Working up the bravery to talk to Harry Potter or ask about his study techniques was one thing, sharing a table with Bulstrode was another.

As for Millicent? It was Harry's fault, although more indirectly. Was it that strange, to be a bit of a cynic? He knew no one really wanted to meet him; they wanted the preconception of him in their heads. Draco, the boy on the train, and the whole wizarding world wanted something from him. And he shared his theories with Millicent. They didn't care about us at the start of the school year, why start now?

So they operated by themselves and were usually quite fine with that. The rest of the world could shove it.

"How were the wards?" Millicent asked.

"They cast a wide net, but they're pretty old," Harry remarked.

"Can we break them?"

"Absolutely," Harry said. "Felt like one of those Potsdam schemes."

Millicent snorted in an extremely unladylike fashion. "Potsdam? What is it, the 1700s?"

"It was bleeding edge back then."

"Toilets were probably bleeding edge back then."

"Well, if they've been living there for three hundred years, the library has to be good."

"And the stash."

"And the stash." Harry conceded with a grin.

The argument they had was a cover, so Millicent wouldn't suffer any political consequences of being friends with Harry Potter when Voldemort returned.