Triplicity

by psalmuel

Harry, Daphne and Pansy try to navigate their lives after the war.

19. Gala

Gala

---

Daphne

You can do this, she thought, as she took a deep breath, steeling herself one final time before she stepped out of the taxi, passing a galleon to the driver as a tip. One of the rare examples of ways that the Wizarding world took inspiration from the Muggle, their emulation of London's "black cabs" was a suitable way to arrive at the Winter Solstice Gala.

Daphne was – as she had anticipated – the first arrival. As Susan's own guest, her place wasn't necessarily one of honour, per se, but it was one which would nevertheless place a certain visibility around her arrival. As she strode through the gates at Bones Manor, she was aware of a couple reporters taking photographs of her, which was also something she already expected.

The Winter Solstice Gala was a tradition which, in darker times, had mostly fallen by the wayside. Now that the Wizarding world had officially proclaimed itself rebuilt from the Second Wizarding War (whatever the truth was), events such as this had re-taken a prominent role in their society, particularly in Pureblood society.

This meant that the gala was likely to be the single biggest social event of the year, one which would be attended by basically all of the movers and shakers of their world, which in turn meant that it would be the occasion to peddle influence, take note of who seemed to be aligned with whom, and otherwise engage in the agonizing Pureblood tradition of networking as a form of political power.

Daphne hated the idea. Were the circumstances even slightly different, she wouldn't have been caught dead at this event in a thousand years. The unfortunate reality was that she had to attend tonight, and more than that she must be at her very best in the world of backroom dealing; the influence and alliances that would be traded at the gala would have great consequences on the future of not only Wizarding politics, but on her life.

According to Hermione and Susan's assessments, roughly a third of the overall Wizengamot was opposed to her father's recent machinations, while another third were in favour. This left the remaining fence-sitters – Lords and Ladies who had yet to take a convincing stance for or against – as potential allies who might be turned against her father.

Harry, Pansy, and herself had thoroughly planned out the roles that each of them would play tonight: hers was relatively easy, to serve as an example of the "new Purebloods", more open-minded and accepting than the previous generation. Not far off reality, really, she considered. Pansy, on the other hand, was going to play to the pride and pretension of Pureblood culture, publicly questioning how it would benefit their society by allowing the Wizengamot into their private lives.

Daphne thought that Harry had the most difficult task ahead of him, to act a tripartite role of "the Man-Who-Won", "Lord Potter-Black", and "Harry Potter" all at once. Despite her own reservations, he'd been nearly eager to act as the public face of the arguable "reformist" faction of the Wizengamot, confusingly proclaiming that he'd "had to act as worse people before" to brush off her concerns.

Passing through the grounds, Daphne entered Bones Manor proper, taking in the considerable effort that Susan had undertaken to decorate her residence for the event. The "winter solstice" theme was clearly in effect, enchanted ice carvings suspended by tangles of mistletoe lining the halls, pale white colours offset by bursts of green and red in a way that came off as absolutely magical.

Of course, her own work served as the centrepiece for this decoration: while Daphne was not so arrogant as to consider herself a master of her craft, she had to admit that "Winter's Embrace" was one of her finest achievements to date, a towering sculpture of white marble that depicted two female figures in clearly intimate proximity to one another, while just managing to avoid any explicit depiction.

When Susan began to descend the lobby staircase to greet her, Daphne's breath caught in her chest, left with the impression that Susan must be the second work of art in her foyer. The young Lady wore a vividly red dress, the shade halfway between "holly" and "crimson", which complimented the rich auburn of her hair (worn in a single, elaborate braid) very nicely.

The accents of Susan's outfit similarly caught the eye: glittering splashes of ice-white diamonds set in wreaths of white gold, with glimmering rubies and emeralds serving to continue the colour theme of her gala. She looks every part a noble Lady of status, Daphne thought.

Of course, she also looks like a veritable goddess of winter, her observations continued; Susan's dress was not revealing in its cut, but the way it hugged the shape of her body was certainly not conservative, and the triangle of deep cleavage revealed at the top of her chest (beneath an eye-catching necklace) was deserving of a statue or three all by itself.

"Greetings, Miss Greengrass," Susan announced, grinning as she did so, "welcome to Bones Manor!"

"Greetings, Lady Bones," Daphne replied, "there's something to be said for tradition, after all, I suppose. Everything looks… fantastic."

"You look fantastic as well," Susan complimented her, and Daphne was sure that she must have blushed slightly, "let's have a drink before the guests arrive, yeah?"

Susan's appearance was nearly enough to make Daphne feel underdressed by comparison. Though she knew that she was considered beautiful, her own white gown was much more traditional, accented by sweeps of ice-blue satin, her silver jewelry completing the look. Her "Ice Queen" reputation was one that Daphne wished to move away from, but for tonight, at least, it had its purpose to serve.

As the two women stood in the foyer, each having a glass of champagne, engaged in easy, casual conversation, Daphne couldn't help but retreat to her own thoughts somewhat. She wasn't blind to the fact that Susan was clearly interested in her in a way that went beyond "artist and patron", nor was she oblivious to the fact that she was receptive to that idea.

However, Daphne was as of yet unwilling to actually acknowledge this dynamic beyond hypotheticals (or the occasional bout of dirty talk, or fantasizing…), as it seemed that there were several factors which would prove inconvenient should such an idea start to become reality. Most obviously, Pansy and Susan did not get along at all, the pair of women often engaging in open antagonism and trading barbs at most events they attended together.

The gala was nearly guaranteed to lead to yet another one of these interactions, though Daphne hoped that both her girlfriend and Susan would at least manage to keep to a relatively civil standard, in the midst of so many other Lords and Ladies. While Susan wasn't exactly in the "inner circle" of the schemes that the trio were enacting, she was at least aware of the fact that Pansy was on the same side as her, which Daphne hoped would limit the hostility between the two.

She had her own, private suspicions that those "hostilities" were actually something that both Pansy and Susan enjoyed, but she'd yet to voice those thoughts to Pansy (let alone Susan) for fear of her speculation backfiring. If anything were to develop with Susan and the trio, then the dynamic between Pansy and Susan was something that they'd have to sort out for themselves.

The relationship between their third member and Susan gave Daphne pause in the completely opposite way: Harry and Susan enjoyed an easy, energetic friendship with each other, but it seemed to be absent of any romantic kind of energy. This made sense, as Harry was the sort who seemed to be consciously oblivious to any interest a woman might have in him, while Susan's own preferences in her partners had been (to date, at least) specifically female. Daphne doubted that this was an unresolvable scenario - she'd certainly caught Susan's gaze lingering on Harry at times in a way that definitely wasn't indicative of an exclusive interest in women - but Harry seemed to require obvious, explicit declarations in order to even begin considering the possibility that someone would sleep with him.

Still, the bold, brash redhead seemed to bring some kind of confidence out of her boyfriend, which was yet another vague possibility that intrigued Daphne. Harry's passivity was no longer a cause of worry for her, but she (and Pansy, too) were always encouraged when they could inspire him to behave a bit more assertively.

As the first guests began to arrive, Daphne put such ideas out of her thoughts for the time being. Exchanging a quick, friendly hug with the gala's hostess, Daphne strolled to a nearby window, taking note of the different guests making their appearances. While it was certainly more interesting to consider the possibilities with Susan (no doubt spurred by the fact that, were she single, Daphne was certain she'd end the night in Susan's bed), the fact of the matter was that Daphne had a role to play.

One of the first guests to arrive were the Malfoys, making their entrance from a horse-drawn carriage, a subtle way of proclaiming both the traditional status of their house and the acceptance that their newest Lord had for Muggle conventions. The arrival of Lord Humphrey Burke, on the other hand, was foretold by the appearance of intricate lines of magic spiraling through the air, a teleportation ritual more "sophisticated" than mere apparition. Curious, who's his guest? Daphne wondered, as the traditionalist noble appeared to have brought along a young, male... relative(?) rather than his wife.

The vague allegiances of other guests were similarly hinted at by their mode of transportation: the Longbottoms (Neville and Hannah, as Augusta chose not to attend) had arrived by portkey (simple, not pretentious or flashy), while the ancient Lord Yaxley had made his appearance from a carriage drawn by winged horses, a retinue of House Elves swarming to unroll a carpet before his feet as he and his son entered the manor grounds.

The Minister's own arrival was as precisely measured as everything she'd heard about the man: Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived in a plain black taxi just as she had, but Daphne hadn't arrived in the company of several Aurors in black suits, and certainly not alongside… Narcissa Black?

Daphne's heart skipped a beat when a vehicle pulled up which could surely only mark the arrival of one person in particular: a magical limousine, enormous and gilded, operated entirely by spells and enchantments rather than any mundane form of machinery. The vehicle operated under one of the Parkinson family's many businesses, a replacement for the Knight's Bus for those who would never dare to sit in the company of common Wizards and Witches.

The driver, in his crisp suit, hurried to unroll a green, velvety carpet in front of the passenger door, before rigidly opening it and standing at attention as – of course – Pansy left the vehicle, making her own entrance in style. She wore (naturally) a robe of her own making, one which was so ostentatiously formal that it went past "conservative" and circled all the way to "regal".

Good show, Pans, Daphne thought, momentarily wishing that she could discard their plans and publicly greet her girlfriend, now, we just have to wait for Harry to arrive…

Her boyfriend had some sort of plans for his own entrance, but he'd been unusually coy about what said plans involved, stubbornly refusing the guidance of either Daphne or Pansy with uncharacteristic insistence that he knew what he was doing.

She couldn't wait to find out.

---

Pansy

Pansy kept her posture straight, her expression only slightly disdainful, as she entered Bones Manor for the first time. Her appearance at the gala was meant to be firmly on the "Pureblood" side of magical culture, with all the pretentiousness and barely-disguised arrogance that entailed.

Of course, she'd happily admit that she was both arrogant and pretentious, which didn't bother her in the slightest, but Pansy would usually direct those sorts of behaviours towards the useless twits which she instead intended to impress this evening. Her parents had – unexpectedly – sent their own pair of tickets to her, along with written instructions to "represent House Parkinson properly" and a suggestion of different rich old men that she might bring as her plus-one, their uncharacteristic generosity paired with the absolutely characteristic ruthless self-promotion her parents were so skilled at.

She felt a flutter of affection on spotting Daphne, one which she ensured didn't reach her face, though she'd be absolutely overflowing with compliments for her girlfriend as soon as they were in private. The blonde was stunning, her white dress and elaborately braided hair making her look like some untouchable, practically divine manifestation of beauty.

"Greetings, Heiress Parkinson," Susan Bones spoke to her, the traditional salutation for these kinds of occasions, "welcome to Bones Manor."

"Greetings, Lady Bones," Pansy returned the traditional words, "I accept your hospitality."

"No plus-one?" with the quasi-oath completed, Bones was now free to exhibit her so-called wit, "I am so surprised that you don't have any promising suitors. I believe Lord Bletchley remains a widower, if you would like to be introduced…?"

A widower because he's fucking ninety years old, of course.

"Oh, I am quite fine, thank you," Pansy smiled in an intentionally-cruel way, "I would not expect you to trouble yourself with finding suitors, especially since you abstain from such matters yourself."

While it was not a true Magical Oath, the ritualized form of greeting that Pansy had exchanged with Bones still carried a certain sense of obligations. Guests who were insulted by their host, or vice-versa, would have the right to challenge a duel to seek redress, a tradition that certainly served to promote the atmosphere of faux-politeness and disguised allusions in place of actual hostility in Pureblood culture.

Luckily for Pansy, she was well-practiced in this arena, and though she was playing the role of a particularly snotty Pureblood woman tonight, in truth she didn't even have to behave much differently when it came to trading barbs with Bones.

"Who can truly say they are an expert in matters of the heart?" Bones's expression was similarly polite, "there is, after all, no accounting for personal taste, or lack thereof."

"Ah, that reminds me," Pansy made a wave to gesture at the interior of Bones manor, "I do so love what you've done with the decoration, how delightfully quaint! Did you place the charms yourself?"

In truth, Pansy was actually somewhat impressed with what Bones had accomplished, but she might as well take the opportunity to "politely" needle the redhead and imply that she lacked the means to hire decorators.

"Not at all," there was a brief flash of frustration across Bones's face, which disappeared behind her admittedly well-handled poise, "there were a number of talented artists involved! Speaking of which, you should really see the centrepiece, I am rather impressed with the sculptor."

Pansy hadn't actually seen Daphne's sculpture yet, and on this, at least, she could agree with Bones. The marble carving was intricate, beautiful, and sensual, clearly depicting two women fucking each other without actually being obvious about it.

"Very nice," Pansy agreed, "I can see why it is to your preference."

"Oh, very much so," Bones smirked at her, "I think that I may retain the artist for future works, even!"

"Hmm, I think that displays of this quality might be better suited for a more artistic setting," Pansy returned the redhead's smirk with a cool, tight smile, "perhaps I might offer the artist an exclusive contract."

"Why, Miss Parkinson, that is rather unlike you!" Bones took a slow drink from her glass of champagne, "after all, isn't it 'bad business' to commit oneself so exclusively? One never knows when a better opportunity may arise, yeah?"

Fuck you, Pansy thought, politely accepting a glass of her own from a passing server, you're actually pretty good at this.

"Ah, the nature of any given contract must suit the situation, that much is true," Pansy took a drink herself, "but often it is sufficient to provide specific incentives, ones which lesser competitors would be unable to match."

"Oh, I'm quite curious what such 'incentives' would entail," Bones smirked again, frustratingly, "but I'm afraid that this topic will have to wait for another time, I must greet my other guests. Good evening, Heiress Parkinson."

"Good evening, Lady Bones."

Pansy glanced to the side as Bones departed, catching a quick glimpse of Daphne in conversation with Neville Longbottom, a smile flashing across her girlfriend's face for an instant when their eyes met. In this moment, there was nothing that Pansy wanted more than to cross the floor and thoroughly stake her claim on Daphne, but she knew that this thought was both impulsive and playing into Bones's hands.

Pansy Parkinson was many things, but one thing that she was absolutely not was "stupid", which she'd bloody well have to be to not pick up on the dynamic that Daphne shared with bloody Susan fucking Bones. After she'd given it some thought, Pansy had finally confirmed to herself that she wasn't jealous of Bones whatsoever, and if anything, was absolutely eager to prove how much better she was compared to the redhead.

Still, Pansy supposed that she could give the gala's hostess some tiny bit of credit, if nothing else she seemed to be competent enough to handle the Pureblood convention of speaking in hints and subtle implications, and though it wasn't exactly to Pansy's preference, she could admit that Bones's dress tonight was actually quite stylish.

She floated around the growing crowd idly, stopping to briefly greet different people (such as Draco and Ginny Malfoy) who she "should" be associating with, playing the part of the disaffected, spoiled Pureblood woman to perfection. Pansy spotted Blaise's mother across the room, but had absolutely no intention of spending more time in the company of Adrienne Zabini than was absolutely necessary, the woman terrified even her. Pansy almost pitied whoever the man (at least twenty years her junior) in her company was.

One of the unexpected sights was that of a different friend's mother: Narcissa was in attendance, in the company of the Minister of Magic himself. Pansy knew that Narcissa had some sort of role with the Ministry, but the details hadn't been a topic of conversation the last time she'd taken tea with the older witch, and she was not convinced that Narcissa was there in any sort of "official" role no matter what the Minister might claim.

As expected, the gala was a concentration of the upper echelons of Wizarding society into a single event, many of the guests which Pansy spotted ones that were vaguely familiar to her from her father's dealings, or even from the Daily Prophet. One of the only notable absences was that of Hermione Granger, but as part of their preparation for this event, Hermione and Daphne had decided that Harry should attend alone, to keep the focus on himself.

Not that he had shown up yet, which was also according to their plans: Pansy had suggested that Harry make his arrival slightly late, enough so that his delay would be considered "disrespectful" by the most stringent customs, but not so much that it would be actually disrespectful to Bones, who for some reason seemed to be one of Harry's closest friends.

No accounting for taste, indeed.

The most curious set of attendees were those that Pansy was less familiar with personally, but overly aware of by reputation; the trio of Lords Burke, Yaxley, and Selwyn were infamous for all of the wrong reasons. None of the three had ever been Death Eaters, their support of that abominable ideology being limited to subtler, harder-to-prove means.

What was most curious to Pansy was the guests that each of the three had brought along. Archibald Yaxley wasn't an unexpected plus-one for his Lord Father, she supposed, and Lord Selwyn's guest sure had the Selwyn look about him, but she didn't recognize Lord Burke's guest at all. It wasn't unknown for an older Lord to bring his son or heir to events such as these, but it was unusual that some of the most public traditionalists had all chosen to engage in this custom at once.

As she was watching the trio of Pureblood men, her observations were interrupted by a loud, deep rumbling sound coming from above. Humphrey Burke flinched at the sound, but very noticeably, the three younger men merely flicked their gazes to the ceiling, their reactions seeming trained somehow.

Pansy, similarly, controlled her own reaction, wandering towards a window as if she were merely somewhat curious, rather than the actual thrill of excitement she felt. Her boyfriend had been infuriatingly cryptic about his planned appearance at the gala, accepting only the most general advice about how to convey himself properly, leaving her with no clue what he had planned.

Knowing Harry Potter, the racket in the sky above Bones manor was sure to be the first step in announcing his presence. Not one for subtlety, she thought fondly, which is just how he needs to be tonight.

Fucking hell, she thought, and didn't even bother to hide her jaw dropping in surprise.

Harry had mentioned it before, but seeing it in action was something entirely else. A fucking motorcycle carved its way through the sky, spewing flames from its exhaust pipe, the fiery display and bone-shaking roar it emitted bringing to mind the image of an actual fucking dragon circling to land in front of Bones Manor.

She watched him kick off the bike, swinging his legs easily from the seat, throwing his head back to flick his hair from his eyes. The comparison to a dragon was only reinforced by his apparel, finally solving the minor mystery he'd left her with, when Harry had seemed particularly interested in asking what, exactly, counted as "proper apparel" for a Noble Lord.

The practice was rare and mostly outdated, but Lords who had achieved sufficient renown in battle were permitted to wear armour in place of dress robes, and Harry had, apparently, taken full advantage of this possibility.

He wore a suit of actual fucking dragonhide armour, the bulky plates seeming to fit him like a second skin as he strode confidently through the courtyard, flicking a cigarette aside that burst into sparks in a casual display of wandless, wordless magic.

Holy fuck.

Pansy didn't often think about it, and neither would Harry be the one to bring it up, but in this moment she could not ignore that this was the man who killed Voldemort, the one who had ended the Second Wizarding War by his own hand, one of the most powerful living wizards in the world.

An awed hush fell over the crowd as Harry came through the doors, his footsteps seeming to boom and echo as he entered, as if he were actually larger-than-life rather than merely seeming to be so, every set of eyes in attendance locked on him, where he stood, looking every inch like a mythical hero made real. His armor glittered, his gaze smoldered, and his sheer presence loomed.

Merlin, Morgana, and Nimue, Pansy would have stuttered if she tried to speak these thoughts, you're going to absolutely ruin me later, Harry.

---

Harry

He felt somewhat ridiculous as he stood in the foyer, well aware of the fact that everyone was staring at him. While he knew that this was the impression he was aiming for, actually experiencing it was another matter entirely, reminding him uncomfortably of times like the Triwizard Tournament.

"Greetings, Lord Potter-Black, Champion, Grand Sorcerer," Susan called out, an absolutely manic grin on her face, "welcome to Bones Manor."

Fuck, I forgot I had that last title, Harry remembered, at least it's better than some of the other ones I've been called.

"Greetings, Lady Bones," he had to force himself not to begin his reply with "er", as he so often did, "I accept your hospitality."

It didn't take him long to spot Daphne in the crowd, looking gorgeous in a white dress, and as he took a quick inventory of the attendees, so too did he spot Pansy in short order, looking equally gorgeous. Her sophisticated, complicated black gown had its effect somewhat spoiled by the gleeful look on her face, but Harry supposed that if she liked it so much, he could show off occasionally.

The other guests were basically everyone that he'd been told to expect, a mix of his friends (Draco and Neville), adults he'd first met as a child (Ollivander, Kingsley and - apparently - Narcissa?), and other vaguely-familiar faces from the Wizengamot.

Everyone was still staring at him, which was frankly absurd when there were other, much more impressive-looking people like Daphne, Pansy, or even the hostess herself, Sue, in attendance. For a moment he wished that he'd managed to convince Hermione to come with him, but she had been insistent (as had Daphne) that he show up solo, to make an impression by himself.

Well, I guess that's a success.

He made his way vaguely towards Neville, swiping a glass of champagne from a passing server as he did, the fact that Daphne was also in that direction surely just a coincidence in the eyes of the no-doubt-suspicious Lords and Ladies in attendance. Harry found the piercing gaze from Blaise's mother particularly unsettling.

One of the only notable absences Harry noticed was, worringly, the villain of the evening: Daphne's father was not in the crowd. Harry doubted that he'd be quite so lucky as to find Cyrus Greengrass deciding to skip the biggest social event of the year, so the fact that he hadn't yet made his own appearance was troublesome.

"Hey, Neville," Harry said in greeting, not bothering with the traditional exchanges of "Lord this", "Heir that", not when it came to one of his best friends, "nice to see you."

"Nice to see you," Hannah interjected from Neville's side, "is that dragonhide?"

"Er, yeah," Harry drained his glass of champagne, setting it aside casually, "dealt with a dragon in Romania a few years back."

The uncomfortable silence in Sue's home had, at last, begun to dissipate, replaced by hushed murmurs and indistinct chatter. Harry was conscious of the space surrounding himself, Neville, and Hannah, as if the other guests were afraid to approach him too closely.

Not quite the right way to find allies, Harry sighed.

"Quite the entrance, Lord Potter-Black," a familiar, drawling voice spoke behind him, and Harry was once more aware of the ridiculous fact that Draco's taunts were now a source of comfort, "hard to miss, that."

"You know me, Lord Malfoy," Harry couldn't help but let a bit of sarcasm enter his voice, "always have to be the center of attention, yeah?"

Draco grinned in response, clapping a hand to Harry's shoulder, and the gesture seemed to finally dispell the strange tension in the room, conversation returning to its previous levels. Harry was glad to busy himself in casual conversation with his friends, catching up with Ginny (able to attend thanks to the winter break in the Quidditch season) always one of his favourite activities.

Not that he was entirely idle, scanning the room even as he chatted. It seemed that most of the other guests had made use of their own plus-ones, most of the various Lords standing beside their wives (he was happy to spot Arthur and Molly Weasley, who were talking to Lavender's parents), but the trio of hostile-looking young men surrounding the Lords Burke, Selwyn, and Yaxley were a notable exception from that trend.

I think I recognize that one, Harry thought, taking a look at the man in Burke's company, but if I've met him before, it wasn't in Britain. That young man was clearly not part of the Burke family, which made Humphrey Burke's choice in guest even more strange. Maybe he's a new son-in-law? Harry wondered. He couldn't recall off the top of his head, but he thought that the Burke family had a daughter or two in their main branch, who had avoided being caught as proven Death Eaters, at least.

He already hated having to consider these types of things: sorting through the complicated webs of who married whom, where favours were owed, what loyalties had been purchased, and the like; all that apparently passed as "culture" to Purebloods. For all that Draco had been an absolute prick while they were at Hogwarts, at least he'd never exactly been subtle about the enmity the two men used to share. Harry was mostly grateful for Daphne's patience when she tried to educate him on these matters, and for Pansy's sharp-tongued, cutting assessments of the relevant figures ("Lord Selwyn is cruel, but weak", "Lord Burke is a fucking coward", or "there's trolls smarter than Lord Yaxley, but he's filthy rich", and so on).

Speaking of "not subtle"… Harry thought, as a braying shriek echoed through the Bones courtyard.

It seemed that Lord Greengrass had finally deigned to make his appearance, a full ten minutes past the point where (according to Pansy) lateness stopped being "non-traditional" and started becoming "insulting". His chariot was drawn by a pair of Griffins, who landed within the courtyard itself, rather than just outside (which Harry understood to be the polite place to park your transportation).

Even I can figure that one out, Harry grumbled internally, showing up with leashed Griffins?

As the Lord at the centre of Harry's recent stress entered Sue's house, Harry was struck by a very specific similarity: though he didn't resemble the man in appearance, in his general demeanour and the practically visible waves of pure pretentiousness rolling off him, he couldn't help but see Lucius Malfoy standing in place of Cyrus Greengrass. Though Lucius would spend the rest of his life in Azkaban (and all of Draco, Narcissa, and the Wizarding world were better for it), it seemed almost as if the Wizengamot had manifested his spiritual successor, as if there always had to be someone causing problems for ordinary people, some sort of spirit of pure dickheadishness.

Pansy's rubbing off on me, Harry thought with amusement.

"Greetings, Lord Greengrass, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot," Susan announced, polite despite the loathing she held for the man, "welcome to Bones Manor."

"Greetings, Lady Bones," Cyrus, on the other hand, practically sneered, "I accept your hospitality."

Harry glanced over at Daphne, and wasn't surprised to see her lips drawn tight, her body language noticeably stiffer than usual. He wanted to go reassure her, but he knew that this would be too obvious a declaration in these circumstances, especially since he and his girlfriends had decided that he'd be publicly portraying himself as an eligible bachelor.

He couldn't help but feel a point of pride for her when he saw Cyrus's gaze flick to Daphne's sculpture in the middle of the foyer, then to his daughter, disapproval clear on his face. Still, if Cyrus made any further notice of Daphne, it was masterfully disguised, as he didn't even glance in her direction when he passed by, walking to join the group of Burke, Selwyn, and Yaxley. The way that Lord Selwyn's gaze slid from Cyrus, to Susan, and back didn't sit well with Harry, but he supposed it was only typical of the men.

Just add Lord Flint, Harry thought, and you've got the most noteworthy Pureblood prats trying to fuck us over once again.

Still, Harry supposed that this was kind of the point of attending this gala, to determine where various allegiances lay, and to see if any less-certain houses could be swayed to vote against Lord Greengrass. The obvious conspiracy gathering around Cyrus was not that big of a deal, all things considered, as they were at least only dangerous politically, rather than people who might try and curse Harry when his back was turned.

The trio of confrontational young men in their company might be another matter, he knew, and I sure fucking hope they try something.

---

Pansy

In the minutes following Harry's impressive entrance, Pansy had taken account of how his appearance (and the subsequent arrival of Lord Greengrass) had seemed to ripple through the gathered crowd. The usual suspects who were already familiar with Harry – Houses Malfoy, Longbottom, Weasley, and so on – had barely reacted, but Pansy was more concerned with the unusual suspects, anyways.

Harry was performing rather well in his task, from what she saw, milling about and speaking to different Lords and Ladies outside of those he was already friends with, and quite a few times Pansy saw someone staring at his back in barely-disguised awe as he departed. The disgraced former Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, actually shook when Harry had approached him, exchanging a terse handshake and muttered words before leaving him behind in short order.

Pansy doubted that a display of power would be sufficient in itself to convince any of the more dedicated traditionalists to change their minds, but it certainly couldn't hurt to remind them of the fact that they risked making an enemy out of a man who might well be magically unstoppable. Not like Flitwick or McGonagall would decide to stand against him, she mused, recalling some of the other notable powerhouses of the arcane aspect of their world.

It's really too bad that Granger is Muggleborn, she thought (though in contrast to the prejudice she believed in during her youth, it was now for practical reasons), if she was in House Shafiq, or Fawley, or something like that, they'd be able to command the entire Wizengamot between the two of them.

Befitting her role as a "young Pureblood lady", Pansy meandered through the gala, exchanging polite greetings when she should, disdainful not-quite-sneers when it was "appropriate" (though she hardly had to act to dismiss the ancient Lord Perrot, who had tried to purchase her after the war). She eventually made her way towards one of the figures that she actually looked forward to talking with.

"Oh, as you understand," Narcissa Black spoke eloquently, in conversation with the Lady Perks (a minor, neutral House), "the Ministry is officially neutral in these matters. So long as the proposed legislation does not inordinately impact anyone by the status of their bloodline, then it is not one of our concerns."

"It could be argued," Pansy began, her diction precise, proper, "that the legislation of reference does place additional requirements on those of Noble bloodlines. I find myself surprised that the Lord Greengrass would be willing to make our private matters an issue of a public vote, as proposed in the 'Duty of Propriety' section."

"Heir Parkinson," Narcissa greeted her, smiling, "it is a pleasure to see you! Yes, the point you raise has certainly been a topic of discussion. It is the understanding of the Ministry that this provision is intended to prevent the exploitation of young Noblemen or women, however, the language could be argued to be… imprecise."

"Truly, you are a woman of many talents," a new voice spoke behind Pansy.

Fuck.

"Not only a success story in your business, but now becoming involved in politics? House Parkinson's traditions are in good hands," drawled Lady Adrienne Zabini.

Blaise's mother terrified Pansy. For all that she had modeled herself as someone darkly alluring, dangerous but also desirable, Pansy knew that she was but a pale imitation when compared to the Lady Zabini, the "black widow".

"Lady Zabini," if Narcissa was intimidated, it was not noticeable, "a pleasure. I am not familiar with your guest, mister…?"

The eager-looking young man in Adrienne's company made as if he was going to extend his arm in introduction, before her grasp tightened around his arm, freezing him in place.

"Oh, Antony here is of a minor Noble House in Italy," the Lady Zabini explained, "one which you likely wouldn't be familiar with. I suppose I am not as lucky as to attend alongside someone as auspicious as you are, Narcissa."

"Yes, well," once more, Narcissa was unshakeable, "the Department of Pureblood and Muggleborn relations requested my attendance tonight, so I am rather grateful for the invitation. Besides, it would seem that my Lord Black," she gestured elegantly in Harry's direction, "has the matters of our House well in hand."

"Ah, quite true," the smile on Adrienne's face was frightening, "the young Lord Potter-Black does cut quite the imposing figure. A shame that I have no daughter, or I'd likely offer a contract to him. Have your parents attempted such yet, Heiress Parkinson?"

Fuck off, Pansy thought, as she formulated her response.

"Oh, if my parents have considered such, I'm unaware of it. It has been said that Lord Potter-Black is resistant to offers of marriage, anyways."

"A shame," the Lady Zabini smirked, "to remain a bachelor, with his status? Why, I suppose he must be waiting for a truly exceptional match, so I would understand the Lord Parkinson's hesitance. Come, Antony," she pulled on the arm of her too-young-for-her date, "I feel myself desiring refreshments."

The Lady Perks, who had been silent in this conversation, made a nervous gesture of goodbye and scurried off somewhere. Pureblood conventions definitely aren't for the faint of heart, Pansy agreed internally, wondering how she had ever thought that the Black Widow was the sort of woman that she wanted to become.

"Well, she's as terrible as ever," Narcissa spoke lowly, so that only Pansy could hear.

"I'd say," Pansy rolled her eyes, "but she's not wrong, either. You did land quite the date."

"Oh, I'm quite sure I have no idea what you mean," Narcissa smiled gently, "and I must disagree with you, the Lady Zabini is actually entirely incorrect. You would certainly be 'exceptional' enough for the Lord Potter-Black, or any of the single Lords in attendance."

"It's good to see you," Pansy gave a genuine smile, "you're doing well?"

"Never better," Narcissa's smile was similarly real, "though trying to keep our people from destroying our own society simply to spite Harry Potter is worse than trying to herd kneazles."

"I couldn't imagine."

"Yes, you can," Narcissa smirked, "I had worried, you know, when you were young. It seemed as if you were trying to be another me, a bright young woman burying herself in a marriage that had been decided for her. You've done so well, just look at you now."

"We both have," Pansy felt a rare moment of vulnerability, recalling times from her childhood when she'd been ordered to make herself "properly submissive" to Draco, despite the fact that neither of them had wanted such, "it would seem that marrying a Malfoy man is something that doesn't suit either of us. Not that Draco's so bad, mind you. I'm still friends with him, after all."

"I'm glad to hear," Narcissa laid a hand on Pansy's wrist, "your generation has already done so much better than mine did, it actually gives me hope for the future."

"Unless Lord Greengrass locks us into place for another fifty years," Pansy muttered, too quietly for anyone to overhear.

"Yes, well," Narcissa looked at Pansy with a gaze that seemed far too aware, "I imagine that those working against him are more capable than he realizes. One word of advice?" her voice, in turn, was nearly whisper-quiet, "if you did happen to be conspiring with the Lord Potter-Black, you're being a bit too obvious about avoiding him. You and he are both single young Nobles, it would be expected that you flirt a little bit, at least."

"I'm quite sure I have no idea what you mean," Pansy lied, feeling a hint of a blush at the back of her neck. Though she wasn't sure if Narcissa knew about her relationship with Harry and Daphne, it wasn't unlikely that she'd picked up on something out of the ordinary: it had not been Lucius who was the true mastermind behind the Malfoy's success.

"Of course," Narcissa smiled once more, her voice returning to normal levels, "it has been good seeing you, Heiress Parkinson. I look forwards to discussing my next commission from you in more detail at a later date."

"Good evening, Miss Black," Pansy bid her goodbye, "I, too, look forwards to the next time we meet."

Good fucking thing that you're on our side, Pansy thought as she wandered towards one of the bars that had been set up in the Bones ballroom, I don't think we'd stand a chance if you were working with Cyrus.

As she ordered a martini – Buckthorne's Genuine, of course – Pansy cursed her luck when she spotted the Lady Zabini, now missing her "companion", strolling in her direction.

"Your gown is quite striking," Adrienne spoke, "is that one of your designs?"

"It is," Pansy replied, "though this is one from my private collection."

"Ah, yes, your commissioned work is rather impressive. The Delacour witch has certainly made herself noticeable, of late, and wearing your line in doing so."

"She's one of my best customers," Pansy took her drink from the bartender, forcing her hand to remain steady, "are you interested in making a commission of your own?"

"Perhaps I am," the Lady Zabini sidled closer to Pansy, too close for comfort, "it's a shame, after all, that there's an available Delacour woman going around London, and yet Blaise refuses to be seen with her."

"I'm not sure what you mean," Pansy muttered.

"Oh, Pansy," Adrienne's voice was low, dangerous, "you can drop the act. I've met the boy."

Really, Blaise?

"Ah," Pansy nervously sipped her martini, "and?"

"I don't begrudge my son his dalliances, of course, but to be so serious about one is disappointing. He knows that it is his responsibility to continue the line at some point, but this little rebellion of his is forcing my hand. I don't care for the way that I'll have to use laws to make him behave properly."

"You think," Pansy picked her words carefully, "that Blaise will care about legal obligations?"

"You're not stupid, and neither am I," their whispered conversation paused momentarily, when Adrienne cheerfully greeted Lord Montague, Pansy wincing internally to see the young Lord's obvious interest in the Black Widow before they continued to stroll past, "Blaise will care about power. I plan to abdicate my seat, leave him as the Lord Zabini, and enjoy myself rather than being obligated to attend ghastly excuses for parties such as this one."

"I'm not sure if he'll be convinced to take a wife," Pansy whispered, "nor do I think that the Wizengamot will be convinced of his intent, when they'd have to vote on any marriage he might arrange."

"I know my son is gay, Pansy," Adrienne seemed entirely unimpressed, "but he needs to find himself some young woman who's more interested in status than in 'falling in love' or anything so foolish, get her to pop out a child or two, and then he can occupy himself with whoever he pleases. I had hoped that you might even fill that role, for a time, but I cannot fault you for setting your sights on even higher targets."

"I…" Pansy became aware of how thoroughly out of her depth she was, deciding to resort to her usual tactic of shocking bluntness, "what do you want, Adrienne?"

"I want you to speak to my son," she hissed, "and to convince him to stop wasting his time with the Delacour boy."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't care about this little plot of Cyrus's," Adrienne's voice was laced with pure venom, "if it helps to bring my son in line? Good. If Blaise behaves himself without the need of a law behind it? All the better. If you assist in this matter, I'd happily work to prevent it from coming to pass, which would affect your designs."

Fuck, she's too good at this.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll do all that is in my power to ensure that this proposal becomes reality, and to guarantee that you become a broodmare for some pitiful Lord."

You're a monster.

"Why even go this far?" Pansy hissed, nervous gooseflesh rising at the back of her neck.

"Because," Adrienne smiled coolly at a passing Lady, as Pansy's heart hammered in her ears, "I am disappointed in my son. His paramour is a pretty, cheerful, stupid little thing, fit enough as a bed-warmer, but thoroughly insufficient as a member of House Zabini, whether officially recognized or not."

Pansy couldn't help but let a nervous laugh escape her lips, which she disguised as a polite titter.

"You find this amusing?" Adrienne's voice was now lethal.

"I think you may have misunderstood slightly," Pansy cautiously, carefully tried to explain, "you think Michel is 'stupid'? Why?"

"It's not difficult to take the measure of men like him," there was a dangerous gleam in the Lady Zabini's eyes, "I've certainly amused myself with enough. He's a little dandy, pleasing to look at, but worthless."

"I am… somewhat acquainted with the Delacours, at large," she finished her martini, the burn in her throat sufficient to take her mind slightly off the danger of this conversation, "and their traditions, granted, can easily seem superficial in our own culture. But Michel is not seen as a bauble in their family," she tried to find the correct words, "more like… an ornate dagger. Jeweled, eye-catching, yes, but sharp nonetheless."

Lady Adrienne Zabini, for the first time in (surely) years, seemed at a loss for how to reply.

"I find this hard to believe. I tested him, poked at his pride, at his family, and he merely treated it as a joke, grinning and giggling like a schoolgirl."

"Michel is…" fuck it, sorry Blaise, "he's seen as someone just like Blaise in France. They may be somewhat more accepting than we are, but his preferences are still seen as a weakness, something to target. He's happy to serve as a lightning rod, only to dismantle enemies of the Delacours when their insults go too far, when he taunts someone into giving him a reason to seek redress."

"Hmm," the Black Widow seemed to be – if not surprised – at least somewhat off-balance, "I suppose that I may have lived in Britain too long, that the traditions of the French escaped my notice."

"The Delacours," Pansy recalled a dozen times when Fleur had basically toyed with her, manipulating her reactions not out of any base cruelty, but simply for her own amusement, "are not like the Weasleys, despite their quantity. They consider Slytherins to be easily-manipulated and unsubtle, let alone those less capable."

"That is intriguing. Well, Heiress Parkinson, this has been most illuminating," Adrienne dismissed her casually, as her boy-toy of the evening reappeared, "if nothing else, you have inspired me to think further on such matters. Good evening."

"Good evening," Pansy replied, letting a tense sigh escape her lips as Adrienne finally left her alone.

Fuck, I need another drink.

---

Daphne

Harry's entrance had been spectacular enough that not even the subsequent (spectacularly pretentious) arrival of her father had managed to chase the sight from her thoughts. Merlin, Harry, she thought, a smile dancing across her face as she watched him idly chat with the Weasleys, their son-in-law Draco nearby, you look like… a bloody King, let alone a "Lord".

While a part of her wished that Harry had at least run his idea past her, she simply couldn't find it in herself to care that he wasn't sending the precise message they'd planned out, this was so much better. Showing up wearing a full suit of dragonhide armour may not have been "approachable", but it was damn well authoritative, his sheer presence serving like a hub which the gathered guests circled around.

"Man-Who-Won", indeed. You look like you're ready to go to war again, Harry.

She'd also spotted Pansy circling around the outskirts of the crowd, fulfilling her own role quite nicely, Daphne taking note of her girlfriend's conversation with Narcissa Black, who remained an important figure in their society despite her ex-husband's considerable fall from grace.

Which leaves my role…

"Good evening, Lord Bulstrode," Daphne greeted one of her "targets" for the evening, a burly, mutton-chopped man whose features leant themselves well to glowering. Her ex-girlfriend's father.

"Good evening, Miss Greengrass," Merrick Bulstrode answered, gruffly, "it's good to see you."

The Bulstrode family was something of a contradiction. Their typical stance was something vaguely on the "traditionalist" side of politics, and yet they had steadfastly refused to publicly support the Dark Lord in either of his attempts to take over Magical Britain. The exception, unfortunately, being their daughter: Millicent Bulstrode had been even more contradictory in nature.

It was hard for her, Daphne recalled, a bittersweet note in her memory, to be gay, mixed-blood, and to keep those secrets from her Pureblood-extremist friends. "My father ruined one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families," she had said once, tearfully, "and I'm the result."

"Your family is well, I hope?" Daphne asked.

"As much as can be expected," Merrick sighed, "I won't bother to return the question."

"I appreciate it," Daphne smiled, masking the twinge of frustration she felt, "I understand my father has been quite busy, anyways."

"Always busy with something," the older man replied, "this latest effort of his is certainly impressive, I suppose."

"You are in favour?" Daphne knew that Merrick was not a subtle man, from the few times she'd met him at various events in her youth.

"Haven't decided," there was a brief look of something almost haunted in his eyes, "it'd solve some of my problems, create others."

"I find it curious," Daphne let a bit of "ice queen" slip out, "how half of the bill seems almost progressive, in a way, and the other half rather traditional."

"Well, that's the trouble, isn't it?" he grumbled, "hard to decide which of our traditions are worth carrying, and which just lead to more bloody foolishness. Millicent's in favour, she keeps pressing me on that front."

"Oh," Daphne was surprise to hear this, "I don't… I am not in contact with her, these days."

"Yeah," Merrick shrugged, the gesture looking ominous with his large frame, "it hasn't been easy. Not to dredge any of that up, you don't want to hear it, anyways."

"Some of our generation does seem to struggle with the changes in our society," Daphne tried to be polite, "there is a lot to get used to, I suppose."

"Some of you are bloody-minded and stubborn, you mean," he scowled, "not that my generation's any better on that front. Walk with me?"

Daphne slowly nodded, falling in line beside Lord Bulstrode as he practically stomped through the ballroom, his apparently-grim mood serving to keep any others from engaging them in conversation.

"She actually wants a marriage contract," he explained, "figures it'd be a way of 'repairing her reputation', or something like that. Bloody short-sighted, but what do you expect?"

"I…" Daphne wasn't sure how to reply, "I can see how that might appeal to her."

"Leaving the door open for divorce," Merrick waved a meaty hand in a dismissive gesture, "only makes sense, in that case. I can't see how it would make her happy, but maybe in another twenty, thirty years, things would change."

"I find myself more concerned with obligations," Daphne admitted, "placed on people less interested in pursuing such contracts."

"Aye," a forlorn look crossed his face, "but there's always going to be a price to pay. Might have to take the good with the bad. Drink?"

"Certainly."

The older Lord trundled to a bar nearby, where on the other side, Daphne was displeased to spot Pansy ensnared in Lady Zabini's web. Bit off more than you could chew, Pans, she thought, nervously. She kept any obvious reaction from her face, instead smiling politely when Merrick Bulstrode returned with a pair of beverages; a glass of champagne for her, a full flagon of firewhisky for himself.

"Lady Bones has good taste," he muttered, swigging the drink, "now she's handling things better than most."

"She's quite formidable, indeed."

"Good for you," Merrick waved off Daphne's attempt to correct his apparent perception, "no, no, I won't pry. I honestly don't give a fuck."

His bluntness wasn't quite shocking, but it was certainly cruder than Daphne had expected. Though he was widely known for being straightforward, this was more open than she had anticipated any of the "traditionalist" old guard to behave like.

"Good family, House Bones. Strong. Braver than most, too, which is more than I can say for my house."

"I'm sorry?"

"If anything, that was my biggest failure, I think," Merrick sighed, sadly, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper, "sat out not one, but two wars. The first time, I was too young, just started a family, couldn't find it in myself to take a stand. The second, I was too unsure, not even able to argue with my own bloody daughter."

"I hardly think…" Daphne began, but the Lord Bulstrode was unstoppable.

"It makes me wonder. If I stand up now, against Cyrus and his allies, does that absolve my earlier neglect? Or does it merely give him time to strengthen his cause, to enrapture those of your generation like my daughter who wield tradition like a cudgel, instead of a shield. What if his next tip of the hat towards your side is less generous?"

"Taking a path with one step forwards, one step backwards hardly seems a way to reach any destination," Daphne replied, coolly.

"Heh," Merrick turned to her, his uncertainty obvious, "you always were clever, Miss Greengrass," he tipped his drink in her direction, a gesture of cheers, "it's good to know, if nothing else, that there's some organized opposition to his efforts. It's more popular than you'd expect, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he gestured vaguely in Narcissa Black's direction, who was once more in conversation with the Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, "a lot of the neutral families see the possibility of divorce as a boon of sufficient quality that they could accept the other limitations, ones which might not affect them. Others, like me, can't tell how much compromise is acceptable. Something to be aware of, if nothing else."

Well, that's grim.

"I… thank you," Daphne admitted, still surprised to see this much candor from the gruff Lord.

"I always thought you were a good egg, Miss Greengrass," Merrick turned from her, "sometimes, I wish things had been different. Good evening."

"Good evening," Daphne replied, confused.

Not what I expected, she thought, as she processed this conversation. Lord Bulstrode had been far more forthcoming than she ever would have guessed, but the information he'd revealed was a confusing mixture of reasons to be optimistic, and reasons to worry.

I suppose that's why I'm here, she mused, making her way towards the bar, her glass empty.

"Having fun, Daphne?" Susan asked, approaching the same bar.

"Oh, of course, Susan," she replied, cheerfully, "it has been quite some time since I've attended an event like this!"

"This is nice enough, in a quaint way," Pansy interjected, "other galas are somewhat more impressive, but Lady Bones has done well enough."

"Much appreciated, Heiress Parkinson," Susan drawled, "I'll happily admit that the guest list could have used improvement, but such matters are out of my hands."

"Quite right," Pansy smirked, "the host is traditionally on the guest list, after all."

Careful, you two, Daphne thought. While the exchange of barbs between Pansy and Susan wasn't unexpected even in usual circumstances, the role that Pansy was playing added an extra layer of prickliness to her jibes, one which might go too far if she wasn't at least a bit cautious.

"No need to worry, Heiress Parkinson," Susan had a glimmer in her eyes, "I'm sure that your family will have the opportunity to play host at some point. I understand that business is good, no?"

"My business is doing quite well, thank you," Pansy deflected, "and I would recommend you keep your business yours."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that!" the glimmer in Susan's eyes turned sharp, "after all that pesky business with the Aurors and all, why, someone with less acumen than Lord Penrose might have taken that as a sign to abandon his enterprise."

Daphne noticed that, uncharacteristically, Lord Burke had begun to approach the bar, trailed by his mysterious guest. Don't argue in front of other Lords, Merlin, she felt a twinge of concern.

"Well, I'm not particularly interested in businesses," Daphne interrupted, "but fashion is certainly an intriguing topic! Your gown is lovely, Pansy, is a similar model available for sale?"

"Oh, I agree with that!" Susan proclaimed, "all in black, classic Parkinson, really. Only need a mask to top it off, yeah?"

Fuck.

"Greetings, Heiress Parkinson," the thin voice of Humphrey Burke cut in, "I trust that you are not being… troubled?"

"Greetings, Lord Burke," Pansy curtsied, the image of a proper Pureblood, "oh, not at all. The Lady Bones and I are old schoolmates, after all, we have always enjoyed a certain level of repartee."

"Very good," Burke eyed the trio of women suspiciously, "as I am certain that the Lady Bones would comport herself in a manner befitting her role as hostess of tonight's event. Miss Greengrass, I am pleasantly surprised to see you in attendance tonight."

"Of course, Lord Burke," Daphne answered, "I would not wish to miss the display of my artwork."

"Ah, right," Burke didn't quite sneer, but he came close, "a suitable enough diversion for a young lady, I suppose, though not representative of your true talents, I suspect. Perhaps a future patron will commission less... controversial pieces."

"Controversial?" Susan cut in, and Daphne felt herself tense, "why, Lord Burke, I am uncertain what you mean by that."

"I'd expect you would be," Burke did sneer now, "but it appears that matters of propriety and taste are, sadly, less important these days."

"Ah, such matters are subjective, are they not?" Susan grinned, a dangerous look on her face, "I'd imagine that some might find it odd that you've brought this strapping young man as your date, and not your Lady wife, my Lord."

"Hold your tongue," Burke snapped, "some might take offense to such implications."

Daphne glanced about the room, desperately hoping that someone would take notice of this brewing conflict, to step in and prevent it from becoming anything more. Instead, she caught sight of her father across the room, staring intently at Lord Burke and Susan. Lord Greengrass then gestured to the Lords Selwyn and Yaxley, who, after her father spoke to them, turned to approach the bar, their own oddly-out-of-place guests in tow.

Fuck, Harry, I'm hoping you're catching this.

"If someone took offense," Susan shrugged, "then someone should say what they mean, so that any misunderstandings could be addressed."

"Subtlety is a rather unappreciated virtue," Burke's eyes narrowed, "especially for someone who was not raised in our culture, I suppose. It must be especially challenging for a half-blood."

Now would be a great time to swoop in, Harry…

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Pansy – thank fucking Merlin, Pans – interrupted, gesturing towards Lord Burke's guest, "I am Heiress Pansy Parkinson, and you are…?"

"Leonhardt von Krafft," the man replied, his voice thickly accented. Curious, that is… Bavarian nobility? German? Daphne tried to recall, not able to place his name.

"Ah, von Krafft, a noble family, indeed," Susan interjected, "shame about the 'supporting Grindelwald' business, though."

"An insult to my guest," Burke snarled, interrupting whatever this Leonhardt man was about to say, "is an insult to me. Mind yourself, Bones, lest I take this as an offense."

"Lest what, precisely, Burke?" Susan was not intimidated, not in the slightest.

"This," Burke's voice was shaky, though whether with nerves or rage, Daphne couldn't tell, "is an insult which could result in duelling."

"Take care, Bones," Lord Yaxley – short, stout, and ugly – added, "women like you have few friends here."

"Lord Burke is an honourable and respected man," Lord Selwyn – tall, thin, and moustached – continued, "I will not tolerate him being disrespected in this manner."

"Ah," Susan reached behind herself, retrieving a bottle of firewhisky from her own bar and taking a swig, "is that so?"

"You hardly conduct yourself as a Lady," Burke sniffed, "which makes a queer sort of sense, as if you fancy yourself a man."

Fucking arsehole, Daphne couldn't help but glare at him, his insult not even disguised by Pureblood standards.

"Now that," Susan, meanwhile, seemed unbothered, somehow, "is what I call an 'insult'! Lord Humphrey Burke!" she bellowed, "I challenge you to a duel!"

A quiet hush fell over the crowd with Susan's proclamation, and Daphne saw Harry – finally – approaching from the other side of the hall, a grim expression on his face.

"I accept!" Burke cried, eagerly, "name your terms!"

"The defeated party will issue a public statement," Susan grinned, "apologizing for their conduct."

"A public apology," Burke spat, "and ten thousand galleons, issued to the victor."

Fuck, that's a lot. Daphne knew that the Burke family was rich, but such a sum – in concert with the costs to host this gala – might well bankrupt Susan.

"Accepted!" Susan cried gleefully, her eyes ablaze, "do you want one of your little friends here to serve as the arbiter, or do you figure you've got what it takes without cheating?"

"You impugn my honour!" Lord Selwyn cried, "I challenge you to a duel!"

"How dare you accuse me of betraying our customs!" Lord Yaxley added, "I challenge you to a duel!"

"Hah!" Susan bared her teeth in a wild grin, "I accept both! Name your terms!"

"Ten thousand galleons," both men spoke in concert, as Daphne realized that this was engineered.

"I accept!" Susan couldn't possibly afford this sum, and winning three duels in succession was a feat beyond all but the greatest duellists.

Father, I swear to magic itself, I will bring you down one day, she thought, bitterly.

"What is all this?" a fourth voice interjected. The man who spoke – who Daphne immediately recognized as Lord Artaxes Carrow – was tall, broad, and commanding in presence. If he's part of their conspiracy, Daphne realized, we're in trouble.

"Oh, the usual," Susan casually set the bottle of firewhisky down, rolling her shoulders, "some fools saw fit to challenge me."

Lord Carrow looked from Susan to the six men (counting each of the Lords' guests) gathered around her, and Daphne was, if nothing else, glad to see a look of exasperation cross his face for the briefest moment.

"Very well," Lord Carrow rumbled, "I offer to serve as arbiter for these challenges, should all parties accept."

They did so, just as Harry arrived.

"An insult to Lady Bones," Harry growled, and Daphne saw Lord Burke visibly flinch, "is something I take very seriously, my Lords. We are guests in her manor."

"Already accepted, Harry," Susan cheerfully spoke, "no need to trouble yourself yet."

"I am well aware we are present in Bones Manor," Burke hissed, "thus, I invoke the Right of Second!"

Daphne glanced to Harry, who shrugged, then back to the tense confrontation around her.

"Mm," Lord Carrow seemed unimpressed, but not bothered in any way, "given that you are a guest who has been issued a challenge, such a claim is valid. Name your second."

"Herr Leonhardt von Krafft," Burke had an unctuous grin on his face, "will you stand for me in this duel?"

"I accept," the mysterious guest of Lord Burke's answered, as Daphne realized a piece falling into place.

You've paired three weak Lords with three strong duelists, haven't you, father?

"Herr Krafft," Burke sneered, entirely too proud with himself, "is the reigning champion of the Bavarian Wizard's Mensur Association. Good luck, Lady Bones. I rather suspect you'll need it."

---

Susan

The familiar rush of apparition brought her to her bedroom, where she hurried to divest herself of her jewelry, to slip out of her gown. As good as she knew she looked in it, she'd rather have more freedom of movement when it came time to duel in a few short moments.

Susan slipped out of the ornate bra she was wearing (too bad, really), replacing it with a plain sports bra and buttoning a shirt overtop of it. As she pulled a pair of trousers over her hips, she reached for her wand, casting a quick series of charms to undo her elaborate braid, then quickly weave her hair into a practical plait, one which would keep her hair out of her eyes while also not being too easily grabbed by an opponent.

Shame, innit? Susan mused, taking a quick glance in a mirror, I did look good tonight. In a final gesture, she updated her makeup, replacing greens and silvers with black. The red can stay.

As quickly as she had disapparated, she made her return to the crowd gathered in her ballroom, the weight of the duels she'd just accepted still hanging over the audience as she reappeared with a characteristic crack.

"My Lords and Ladies!" Susan announced, a tingling feeling of nervous excitement beginning to work its way through her chest, "the Bones duelling arena is in the basement, if you'd kindly follow me."

As she led her guests down a curving flight of stairs, Susan took stock of what she knew about her opponents: First, this von Krafft bloke. Champion of the BWM is no easy thing, not that old Humphrey was really being subtle about why he'd bring him as a guest. She was eager to test herself against her first opponent. Second, Archibald Yaxley, Heir to his House. If he's anything like his dad, he's a blunt object, but he might hit hard enough to be worth noticing. Finally, Geoffrey Selwyn. I think he's Garland's nephew, or a second cousin? She didn't know much about this final opponent, but if he wasn't already notorious, that likely meant he wasn't worth worrying over.

The crowd split itself into the small gallery surrounding the duelling arena, predictably, along vague lines of allegiance. The older, more traditional Lords shuffled off to the right of the entrance, while younger or more progressive sorts followed in Harry's wake, off to the left. Don't go too far, Harry, she smirked, as she confidently strode into the bounds of the arena.

"The first challenge to duel this evening has been issued by the Lady Susan Bones," Artaxes proclaimed, "and has been accepted by Herr Leonhardt von Krafft, standing as Second for Lord Humphrey Burke."

Yeah, yeah, get on with it.

"By the requirements of the Duelling Restrictions act of 1932, the following limitations shall hold true: spellcraft must be limited to non-lethal casting, only the recognized parties shall participate in the duel, and should the arbiter – myself, Lord Artaxes Carrow – see cause to halt the duel, both parties shall cease their actions immediately. Is this accepted?"

"It is," her opponent, Krafft, murmured, as he took his spot across the arena from her.

"Yeah," Susan agreed.

"Very well. Do the duellists have any further statements to issue?"

"Lady Bones," the man across the arena spoke, his voice deep and thickly-accented, "are you familiar with rules of the Zaubererverbindung Duellistenliga?"

Susan racked her memory. Her aunt had certainly educated her on various forms of duelling practiced both in Magical Britain and the rest of Europe, and she thought that this lengthy string of syllables sounded somewhat familiar. Good enough, at any rate.

"I think so," she agreed, "third blood, yeah?"

Whereas Wizard's Duels in Magical Britain tend to be fought until one participant is either disarmed or incapacitated, "first blood" having fallen out of favour long ago, the way that duels are practiced in Germany and surroundings is somewhat more… bloodthirsty in comparison. The memory was clear in her thoughts, helping her prepare for the requirements of this sort of duel.

"Just so," von Krafft agreed, "I find myself used to those rules, ja? If you would oblige me, to duel under that command, I offer a streitgeld of five thousand Galleons, separate from my own victory."

Well, that's unexpected. Her measure of the von Krafft fellow rose a degree: this offer would mean that his own share of Burke's wagered sum would go to her whether she won or lost, in exchange for fighting under a set of rules which suited her quite well anyways.

Fuck the Galleons, I want to see Humphrey making an official apology.

"I accept this offer," she happily announced, eager to finish with the ritual build-up and just get to it.

"Very well," Artaxes rolled his eyes, "let it be known that both duellists have agreed to combat under the standard of Duellistenliga rules! This duel shall, henceforth, be a contest of strength between the two combatants, one which shall continue until one has drawn blood thrice-fold from the other!"

Across the arena, von Krafft began to unbutton his shirt, as Susan recalled (right, yeah) the particular requirements of these rules. She similarly divested herself of her own top, leaving her standing in her sports bra and trousers, both duellists applying quick No-Scrapes charms to themselves in order to ensure that any blood drawn was earned.

Her opponent was tall, blonde-haired and square-jawed, rather muscular in a way that Susan supposed many women would find appealing. Not really my type, she thought, though the few thin scars across parts of von Krafft's torso did draw her eye. Such scars were a mark of pride in the Bavarian tradition, the schmiss a trophy which had been eagerly adopted from their Muggle brethren, as much as the dick-headed traditionalists of Bavaria might claim otherwise.

Got enough scars to show he's been in fights, she guessed, but few enough to show that he usually wins those fights.

A grin broke across her face as Artaxes began the ceremonial count to begin her duel.

Good, let's see what you've got.

He didn't disappoint.

Susan quickly brought a shield to bear with an unspoken command of protego, just in time to absorb what seemed to be a high-powered stinging hex from her opponent. His gestures were short, snappy, and he wasn't wasting time announcing his attacks, all of which served more as proof of his duelling pedigree rather than coming as a surprise to Susan.

Let's see how you handle a real fight, big boy.

She sent a trio of quick attacks towards von Krafft as she dodged to the side, running towards her opponent. As expected, her opponent parried all three, though when she cried "Reducto!" while aiming at his left knee, he had to in turn cry "Skilt!", absorbing her attack with a shimmering, coppery-coloured shield charm.

His counter-attack was wordless and barely gestured, and Susan had to duck to the side as it rippled through the air, yelling "Expelliarmus" in return.

Oh, you are good, she was excited to see that von Krafft merely took the disarming charm, pointing with his now-empty hand and bellowing something like "Snid" in her direction. Susan twisted to the side but wasn't able to dodge the entirety of the spell, feeling a sharp burn as it grazed her shoulder.

"First blood by Herr Kraft," Artaxes announced.

Susan was glad that she could test herself against this opponent, watching as he snatched his wand out of the air, noting that he relied on his reflexes rather than charms or summoning to counter her disarming charm.

"Terradtremo!" she yelled, as she paired the spell with a powerful stomp, sending a shockwave rippling through the floor of the arena. Protego, she thought, deflecting a counter-attack, as she flicked her wand through a familiar sequence: "Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo!"

It was apparent that von Krafft was not used to battle in the same way that she was, regaining his balance rather than moving to a new position, the flurry of attacks she aimed at him landing true while he was unsteady. Neither was he unskilled, she could admit, as he parried one of the severing charms and ducked beneath the second.

The third landed in his shoulder, immediately drawing a line of blood across the site of impact.

"First blood by Lady Bones."

To his credit, von Krafft seemed to realize her tactic as quickly as she began to implement it; he took a measured step backwards as she circled around to his weak side, throwing a cutting jinx of some sort in front of her to force her to halt her forward momentum.

Many trained duellists are used to standing in place and trading spells, Susan recalled a lesson from her aunt Amelia, leaving gaps in their defenses which can be exploited.

"Swertring!" von Krafft bellowed, his wand dancing through a quick series of slashing gestures, producing an attack which – apparently – sent a circle of force flying around him.

Pretty good way of dealing with a mobile opponent, Susan judged, as she slashed her own wand down to parry the blow, might have to learn that one!

"Diffindo!" she repeated, the attack sparking off of von Krafft's shield charm, as she picked up her pace, sprinting towards his off-side, where he'd have to reach across his own body to counter her magic. To his credit, von Krafft tracked her, turning to follow her motion as he sent a counter-attack (too slow!) through the space behind her, but the fact remained that she had put him on the defensive, his counters hurried and ineffective, while her own continued peppering of severing charms wore at his shields.

Susan's heart thudded in her chest, her blood sang in her ears, as she felt completely in her element. Never forget, her aunt's words came to mind once more, to be a Bones is to be a warrior. Doesn't matter if you're half-blood, pure-blood, I don't care about all that. What I do care about is making sure you're tough enough to handle what needs handling.

Certainly, von Krafft was skilled, even powerful, but he was nowhere close to Amelia Bones, under whose strong hand Susan had learned how to fight.

"Scutum Obscillo," she roared, the powerful shield-breaking charm one of the many memories her aunt had left behind. "Diffindo," she thought, her hand flicking through the motions while the word remained unsaid.

Susan smirked as her first spell tore through von Krafft's shield charm, while the second snuck through the gap before he could reconstruct his defenses. A line of blood below his ribs on his left side marked her triumph.

"Second blood by Lady Bones."

"You are skilled, my Lady," her opponent spoke, as she dodged past one attack, shielded a second, "who has trained you?"

Mum, dad, aunt Amelia, my family, she thought, Flitwick, McGonagall, Potter, some of the greatest living magicians, Vincent Crabbe, Alecto Carrow, Macnair, enemies who had forced her to be strong or else to perish.

"Picked up a thing or two," she answered, parrying a flurry of spells, "fought a war, yeah?"

Though she'd never be able to match the complex charms that Hermione could weave in an instant, nor Ron's arsenal of various curses and charms, let alone Neville's sheer power he possessed, Susan's opinion was that she had acquitted herself quite well as a member of Dumbledore's Army. She'd repaid Walden Macnair the headsman's due, taking his head at the gates of Hogwarts.

Compared to that? This is nothing.

Susan battered through one of von Krafft's jinxes, ducked under another, all the while casting severing charms in a steady rhythm, dodging behind her opponent as he was distracted by blocking one head-level attack.

Got you now!

Her wand outstretched, Susan began to speak the final charm which would end this duel, already planning for how she'd defeat her next two challengers. He's not bad, but if this was their heavy-hitter, the other two will be easy.

Her triumph was brought short by the crack of bone on bone, von Krafft's empty hand chopping down on the inside of her wrist, her wand clattering uselessly to the floor below.

"Sehr gut, Lady Bones!" von Krafft now bore a grin of his own, "I know a 'thing or two' as well!"

Right, yeah, Susan remembered, the Bavarians aren't so namby-pamby about "Muggle duels" as the lot we have here are. This, of course, meant that being in close quarters with a man much larger than herself was probably not the best scenario for her.

"BOMBARDA!" Susan screamed, her fingers slashing through the air to point at the floor between herself and von Krafft. She'd put enough force behind the incantation to compensate for her disarmament, the explosion sending both her opponent and herself flying, though she rolled to her feet in a practiced motion.

"Accio Wand!" she spoke, the object in question flying through a cloud of smoke to thud into her hand.

Eight and three-quarters inches, ebony, Phoenix-feather core, she recalled, a warrior's wand.

It had been her aunt's, before Voldemort himself had ended her life. Even today, some people tried to use this as a strange sort of reassurance, as if it were an honour of some kind, that the self-proclaimed Dark Lord had personally tried to exterminate her family.

Yeah, brilliant, Harry and I can form a club for that, invite Neville and Luna, why not?

"Hold!" Artaxes's voice cut through the slight ringing in her ears, just as she drew a bead on von Krafft, who had lurched into vision, his own wand drawn and pointed at her.

Fuck, it was just getting good.

Sighing, she returned her hand to a neutral position, as the duel's arbiter spoke to Humphrey Burke, who was gesticulating wildly, his face red and furious.

"Before this continues," her opponent's voice was unexpected, "I wanted to say, you were correct."

"Yeah?" Susan couldn't remember what she was right about, but she usually was.

"The way my family associated with Grindelwald and his like," von Krafft's voice was low enough that she was likely the only one who could hear it, "it is our greatest shame. I hope that one day, we will be seen as warriors once again, much like House Bones."

"Glad to hear," Susan grinned at him, "but it's still two cuts to one, yeah?"

"Ja," von Krafft inclined his head in return, "and I would not dishonour you with any less than my full effort."

"Good!"

Bring it, Krafft.

"Lord Burke," Artaxes's next announcement was only barely short of disdainful, "has issued a challenge, on the grounds that Lady Bones's last spellcast was in violation of the 'non-lethal' requirements of this duel. This challenge is overruled, as the spell was not targeted at her opponent. Duellists! The duel shall resume on my mark!"

Susan delighted in the tension building in the air as she waited for this mark to be issued, her heart pounding, feeling power and magic coil and tighten through her body.

"Resume!"

Her offense was immediate, overwhelming, dozens of verbal and non-verbal severing charms spitting from her wand as she charged towards her opponent. Krafft was more than capable of meeting her onslaught, his shields glittering and sparking as they met her spells, his own counter-attacks sending sprays of light against her defenses.

Our styles aren't dissimilar, she thought: both of us are fast casters, favouring power and speed over complexity, but skilled enough to survive past the counters the offensive approach is vulnerable to.

I've still got the edge, her wild smile returned to her face, it's two to one, so I can take risks he can't.

Objectively, Susan figured that her and Krafft were fairly well matched in terms of raw power, her edge in offensive spellcasting matched by his proficiency with shields. We can beat against each other for a while, she knew, which was a definite mark in favour of her opponent, but it's time to end this.

From his earlier display, she assumed that he was trained to some degree in so-called "Muggle duelling", or basic martial arts; her own training in such matters was very far from comprehensive, but it was sufficient to inform her as to what would be expected of a fight between her and Krafft.

He was bigger and stronger than her, and had at least enough training to nullify any advantage which her own skills might have provided in that regard. Common sense would say that taking their duel to a hand-to-hand contest should be avoided at all costs.

Of course, that means he won't be prepared for it.

One of the lessons that she'd learned from Harry early on was that the instant one's enemies started thinking "they wouldn't possibly be so foolish as to do that", doing precisely "that" often became the best route possible.

She took more inspiration from her once-hero, now-friend than he was aware of, relying on his philosophy that, once the situation had become one that neither she nor her opponent had prepared for, "guts, quick wit, and thinking on your feet wins out more often than not".

Dodging past a cutting jinx, Susan drew deep on her magical reserves and yelled what she hoped was her second-last incantation.

"Constito Incantatem!" she cried, a relative of counter-spells, one which would prevent her opponent as well as herself from casting spells for a few heartbeats, which was all she needed.

Susan closed the gap, bringing her knee into Krafft's diaphragm, buckling the man in half with the unexpected intensity of her assault. Before he could recover, she started to grapple with his right arm, locking his elbow against her body to gain leverage.

More flexibly than she'd expected, Krafft twisted to bring his elbow smashing into her face, sending an electric shock of pain through her nose, which was undoubtedly broken.

"Second blood by Herr Kraft."

I am Lady Bones, her thoughts roared with her aunt's voice, fighting within Bones Manor. I will not be defeated.

Gonna have to hit harder than that to put me down, mate.

She twisted his arm even as she spat blood to the side, pushing Krafft towards the ground, while she felt magic returning to the area around her. When his palm slapped against her thigh, the cold shock of pain which immediately radiated from the site was a clear tell of a wandless, wordless bone-breaker jinx, though its effect was at least muted enough to be merely "incredibly painful" rather than "crippling".

Doesn't count as a point, she grunted, locking Krafft's wrist in her hands, forcing his wand to drop from his fingers, and you aren't enough to beat me. She bolstered herself with nonverbal magic, pushing the pain in her leg aside as she released Krafft from her grip, stepping backwards in a quick, practiced motion.

Burke, Selwyn, Yaxley, she thought, her heart thrumming in her chest, fucking Greengrass, doesn't matter, I'll take the lot of you.

As she'd seen earlier, Krafft relied on his reflexes rather than his magic, lunging for his wand with his left hand as soon as it fell from his right. He had not, however, been expecting Susan to release him from the hold she'd had, unbalancing the large man, sending him sprawling as his wand clattered to the floor.

He was on his feet in an instant, but it wasn't fast enough.

Susan tasted blood as her grin showed teeth, her heart hammering, the magic of House Bones humming throughout her body. Her wand was already drawn on Krafft, and his was out of reach.

When he realized what this meant, a small, wry smile broke across his own features, as von Krafft subtly inclined his face towards her, presenting one of his cheeks to her next spell.

Right, yeah, the whole "schmiss" thing.

"Diffindo," she spoke, obliging her opponent, cutting his cheek open just below his eye.

"Lady Susan Bones has won this duel!" Artaxes announced, as Susan felt the adrenaline surging through her body practically screaming, to say nothing of the ache in her right leg that she just remembered.

"I will wear this scar with honour," Krafft spoke, softly, as he rose from the floor, "you are even greater than your reputation, Lady Bones."

Fuck yeah, Susan thought, her head swimming, don't fuck with me. She looked back into the crowd behind her, where the expressions she could make out were a solid mix of 'horrified', 'impressed', and 'concerned'.

Hmm. Why's Daph one of the ones lookin' concerned?

Her "date" for the evening – though Susan would certainly enjoy it if this were an actual status rather than a presumed one – was looking down at the duelling arena with a tight expression, worry visible in her big, pretty, blue, did I say pretty? eyes even from the distance between them.

Right, I guess I must look a fright, she realized, practically got my tits out, broken nose, covered in blood and all.

Fuck it.

Susan was dimly aware that Artaxes had been speaking in the background, but started paying attention again just in time to catch his next proclamation: "The second challenge to duel this evening has been issued by Lord Garland Selwyn, accepted by Lady Susan Bones. By the Right of Second, Mister Geoffrey Selwyn shall stand in place of Lord Selwyn."

Fuck you, Selwyn.

If it were any other time, Susan figured that she'd be able to dispose of the younger member of House Selwyn fairly easily, but as the adrenaline left her body, Susan became uncomfortably aware of the pain in her leg (not broken, but not exactly ideal, yeah?), her exhaustion (magical and otherwise) trembling through her.

It was a good trick, she admitted, try and bait me into a duel, then swap out for more-talented Seconds, with a couple in reserve because your hired wand wasn't enough to take me down by himself.

Fucking Pureblood gits only ever have one good trick, Susan practically snarled as she let her own blood flow over her teeth, recalling her aunt's words, and they never seem to remember that people can respond to their tricks.

"As the challenged party, I lay claim to the Right of Second!" Susan announced, gritting her teeth to force herself to stay upright, instead of collapsing on her bad leg.

"I will stand for Lady Bones," a familiar voice, though one that rumbled, enhanced by magic, spoke from behind her.

Susan's grin only grew wider, trying her best to commit the shocked looks on the faces of Lords Selwyn and Yaxley (to say nothing of their seconds) to memory, as Harry fuckin' Potter walked onto the arena floor, clad in dragonscale, his lean yet sinewy arm coming to wrap behind her back as her leg finally gave out, supporting her weight so effortlessly that it appeared as if she'd never faltered at all.

For a moment, Susan had the impulse to kiss her friend, who had stepped forward just when she needed it (and not a moment sooner).

Fuck, I guess I've probably got a concussion, she put that impulse aside for now, taking the opportunity to slump into a seat in the gallery, eager to watch Harry's turn in the arena begin.

---

Pansy

Oh no, she thought, Bones is actually kind of hot.

Not that Pansy would have shown any visible enthusiasm anyways, but she was particularly aware of the importance of restraining her reaction, seated in the midst of a bunch of stodgy old traditionalists as she was.

The redhead's performance in her duel had been impressive, trading spells and physical blows with a fury that Pansy realized she couldn't hope to match herself. While she'd never precisely considered herself a brawler of any sort, Pansy had usually been fairly confident in her ability to handle a magical conflict, and she now began to realize that she'd been sorely mistaken.

Fuck, I'm going to have to get Harry to teach me how to duel.

It was a complicated feeling for her, walking around in the Pureblood world once again, even if she was doing it with a new perspective. She'd been more than happy to leave it behind when she'd first been sort-of-exiled from magical society, but now, witnessing this display of sorcery, she felt as if she should acknowledge how lucky she was to be able to perform actual, literal magic.

I've already been bugging him to take me flying sometime, might as well add "also I want to learn how to fight" to the list…

While she didn't exactly want to imitate the look Bones was currently sporting in its full measure, the way that she'd swaggered off the stage, her makeup all in red and black, blood literally pouring down her face was just impressive to Pansy. It gave her all kinds of inspiration for different designs: gowns swathed in chain-mail, iron jewelry, blood-like highlights in makeup, a general "warrior queen" aesthetic.

Of the various outcomes she'd tried to anticipate for this night, being impressed with Susan Bones's presence hadn't been one of them, but, hell, Pansy was nothing if not adaptable. Nor, from what she could overhear, was her impression a unique one:

"If nothing else, she's strong," Pansy heard someone mutter behind her, "that counts for something on its own."

"Now THAT is how a witch should be," another, more exuberant voice – she thought perhaps it was Lord Bulstrode – added, "fights her own battles, doesn't she?"

Naturally, not all of the comments she overheard were supportive:

"Rather primitive display, no?" was paired with a dismissive laugh.

"Hardly ladylike in the slightest," a female voice complained, "though I suppose that is to be expected, given, well, the rumors and all…"

Still, from what little she could judge based on idle gossip, Pansy felt that the result was a positive one. She was hardly expecting that the traditions of Pureblood culture could be overturned by a single (impressive, granted) duel, but it couldn't hurt the reformist cause for Bones to have so emphatically affirmed her reputation as someone to be taken seriously.

As Artaxes Carrow began to rattle through the standard refrains preceding a duel, Pansy leaned forward in her seat. While Bones may have already had a reputation to rely on, Harry had yet to cultivate such a status, but she was certain that his own duel would go a long way towards doing so.

She couldn't wait.

---

Daphne

Daphne wandered down to the front seats in the gallery, seeking out her "date" for the evening. While it may not have been considered "proper etiquette" by the most rigid conventions, it would look even more strange if she didn't go to the woman whose guest she was, too transparent about the carefully-designed role she was playing tonight.

Plus, she was slightly concerned. While whatever else may or may not come to pass between the two of them in the uncertain future was one matter, the fact was that she did count Susan as a friend, and her friend had walked off the arena floor covered in her own blood.

It was almost frightening, seeing a duel like that. While she'd certainly witnessed enough duels between her father and different compatriots of his in her own youth, those had been polite, almost friendly affairs, held simply as a diversion rather than out of any actual intent to fight each other.

Not like my time in "combat" was much to speak of, she knew, her participation in the Second Wizarding War having been limited to stunning a Death Eater when his back was turned to her, hardly the sort of vicious exchange of spells that Susan had just accomplished.

"Hey," she spoke quietly, reaching Susan's side, "you alright?"

"Hey," Susan turned to her, her eyes looking a bit unfocused, blood still drying on her face, "you're really pretty."

"Oh, uh, thanks," Daphne blushed despite the strange timing of the compliment, "…are you alright?"

"Oh, yeah," Susan grumbled, reaching up to her face, "gimme a sec."

There was a crunch as Susan pulled on her nose, making Daphne wince. If the redhead was affected by the pain of re-setting her own broken nose, she didn't show it, merely pointing her wand at her own face, muttering "Episkey" softly, followed by a cleaning charm.

"Got my bell rung a bit," Susan admitted, cheerfully, "should be right as rain now."

"That was… well, that was something else. I didn't know you were so strong."

Susan barked a laugh, her characteristic bravado returning as her head cleared.

"Thanks, Daph, but I'm not actually all that impressive. Don't get me wrong, it was a good scrap, but there's 'prolly a dozen or so people here tonight who could have dueled von Krafft."

I am well and truly out of my element, Daphne goggled, he's the champion of a duelling league, and Susan considers him a 'good scrap'?

"Do you…" she picked her words carefully, remembering that she would be overheard, "do you think Lord Potter-Black will be as successful?"

Susan's chuckle was low in her throat this time, and the way that she leaned back in her seat, comfortably stretching to recline with her arms behind her head (okay, the way it looked when she's wearing just a bra plays a factor too) sent a shiver down Daphne's spine, simply from how Susan looked so confident and unworried.

"If you want to talk about 'impressive'," Susan smirked, and the fire in her eyes definitely multiplied the shivers Daphne felt, "then 'Lord Potter-Black' should be at the top of your list."

Lord Carrow began to announce the terms of this second duel, and Daphne felt goosebumps rising at the back of her neck.

"Harry's going to fuckin' destroy them," Susan grinned.

---

Harry

Sue fought well, Harry was proud of his friend, von Krafft wasn't an easy opponent. If these two are anywhere near his level, I'm going to have to be smart about this.

Still, as he stood on the arena floor, while Artaxes Carrow prattled on about the different duelling regulations that he'd already gone over, Harry felt like he was of two minds as to how he wanted to approach his own duel.

On the one hand, he was furious. He hadn't missed the ploy that these Lords had tried to enact, nor the fact that they'd waited until he was at the furthest end of the ballroom from Susan to start going after her. They hurt a friend of mine, he stewed, and if it wasn't for Sue's quick thinking, I wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it.

Maybe I'll hurt one of yours, see how you like it.

On the other, he felt the usual trepidation familiar to him when his thoughts turned dark like this. He'd trained with Alastor Moody (both the real one and a convincingly-paranoid impostor), and the idea that he was being baited into anger was one that he couldn't just dismiss off-hand.

I've seen Wizards who ruled through power alone.

This fear of his served as a reminder not to over-react, as despite his own anger with these stupid, bloody Purebloods, he still had a role to play tonight, and how he duelled might well wind up being more important than simply winning the match.

Right, take it seriously, don't go charging in half-cocked, he reminded himself, constant vigilance and all that.

"Lord Potter-Black!" Carrow's voice shook him from his inner thoughts, "as the Second of Lady Susan Bones, you have the right to stand as her champion in duel. Of the challenges issued by Lord Abraham Yaxley and Lord Garland Selwyn, represented by their Seconds, Heir Archibald Yaxley and Mister Geoffrey Selwyn, which will you face?"

He looked across the arena at the relevant men, both of whom wore scowls on their faces, neither familiar to him. Both wore traditional dress robes, but had the sense (at least) to discard their heavy, billowing cloaks, so they likely had some idea of what they were doing.

They didn't exactly look confident, but neither did they look intimidated; the one on the left (think that's the Yaxley) even met Harry's eyes across the floor, sneering as he did so.

Fuck it.

"I will face both!" Harry proclaimed, "at once!" Not letting these dickheads get another shot at Sue.

"Hmm," Carrow managed to sound imperious while making a noise of contemplation, somehow, "this is unconventional, but not without precedent. You are aware, by the Earl of Harrington rules, that you will have to disable or disarm both of your opponents concurrently in order to attain victory, correct?"

"Sure," Harry answered, "I'm aware."

"And you understand that you represent not yourself, but stand for Lady Bones?"

"I endorse this!" Susan called from the background. Thanks, Sue, you're brilliant.

"Very well. Finally, I am obliged to inform you that a contest of two against one is not considered… sporting," Carrow just kept talking.

"They can bring more," Harry answered, snapping the reply before he really thought it through.

"Pardon?"

Once again, fuck it.

"You're right," Harry looked across the field, past the two men who were muttering plans to each other, to the Lords that they stood for, "two against one doesn't really seem fair. Let's make it four."

This finally seemed to leave Carrow at a loss for words.

"Lord Yaxley!" Harry cried, "Lord Selwyn! You may stand alongside your Seconds!"

All Harry could do was grin at the shocked murmurs running through the crowd, as he rolled his shoulders, settling himself into an easy duellist's stance. After all, he thought, the point of a Second is to stand with someone, yeah?

His challenge would be impossible to turn down by either the codes of duelling or the expectations of Pureblood society without marking these men as the cowards they were; since he'd already agreed to duel while outnumbered, to decline would be tantamount to admitting that they weren't prepared to duel over the "insults" they'd received.

The two older men glanced about nervously, clearly not anticipating that Harry would have a basic understanding of duelling code. They inevitably reached the same conclusion that he already had, begrudgingly and slowly making their way onto the floor to stand with their Seconds.

Raising his wand before him, Harry inclined his head the slightest degree that he could, refusing to bow to these sorts. He was met by pretentious half-nods, receiving no more respect than he'd given.

Good.

"The duel will begin on my mark!"

Harry felt a thrill burning in his chest, his heart beginning to race in excitement.

"Begin!"

He took a step forward. Harry watched as the two Seconds began to cast spells, their wand-work elaborate and over-gesticulated. One sent a telegraphed stunner flying towards Harry, but his haste sent it off-course, passing harmlessly over his shoulder. The other, more precise, aimed his stunner on-target, but Harry had already prepared to wordlessly cast Finite from his off-hand, the spell sputtering away before it could reach him.

Behind the two younger men, Selwyn senior (hmm, let's call you "Old Selwyn", Harry thought) had produced an impediment jinx, but true to Pansy's measure of the man, the spell was underpowered. Harry took another step towards them, letting the jinx bounce harmlessly off his dragonhide breastplate.

The elder Yaxley – Old Yaxley – meanwhile, had erected a shield charm around his allies, similarly meeting Harry's expectation that he wasn't a bright man. Group shields limit your movement too much, Harry knew, better to rely on your own spell-work unless you're a charms master.

Well, if that's your opening salvo, it's my turn.

"EXP-" Harry bellowed, letting the power of an unspoken Sonorous bolster his voice. Just as he thought, he saw the group of men clutch their wands, Young Selwyn actually beginning a retrieval charm before the Expelliarmus that he so clearly anticipated was even cast. Watch this, he thought, as vague memories of his girlfriends came to mind. "-ECTO PATRONUM," Harry finished.

His plan to shock his opponents into making a misstep worked better than he could have expected, as instead of a silver stag erupting from his wand, an enormous silver dragon took wing towards the men, roaring in – harmless – fury as it did so.

Huh. That's new. He'd ponder the implications of his Patronus changing later. Maybe it's because I'm wearing dragonhide?

"Discutio!" he yelled, taking advantage of the distracted men looking up in surprise, casting an Auror-designed charm meant to counter shields. Old Yaxley's protective charm shattered into pieces with an audible crack, and the four men instinctively closed ranks, unprepared for this outcome.

Harry let a cutting curse glance off his midsection, countering another stunner with a gestured thought of Finite. His two younger foes weren't bad spell-casters, at least, but the way that the four had clustered together when their shield fell was the exactly wrong way to react.

"Incarcero Ferrum!" Harry bellowed, and thick iron chains appeared from thin air, twisting and winding around the group, Young Yaxley's attempt at a counter-spell simply plinked off Harry's more powerful spell, Young Selwyn's cutting jinx failing to slice through the chains as it may have done against mere ropes.

Harry had witnessed some of the greatest magicians of their generation in combat, and - though he hated to give a shred of credit to the monster - had even crossed wands with one on multiple occasions. He knew that his own spellwork was nowhere near as intricate as Dumbledore's (to say nothing of Filius Flitwick), and he wasn't the sheer force of nature that Tom, the Noseless Wonder had been, but even at his most self-deprecating Harry would admit that he was easily stronger than most.

His opponents hadn't been able to handle the power he brought to bear, as he ignored their spells and broke their defenses, and now they were seconds from defeat for it.

That was… pretty easy.

"I issue an objection!" Old Selwyn dashed Harry's hopes quite expertly.

"Hold!" Carrow ordered, and Harry sighed as he flicked his wand to dismiss his spell, strolling back to his starting place.

"This is a clear violation," Old Selwyn wheezed, "of the Enchanted Objects and Accessories regulations! His armour is not fair!"

Whining about things not being "fair", that's a new one, Harry rolled his eyes.

"Incorrect," Carrow had an impressive command over the regulations, Harry had to admit, "as Lord Potter-Black is a recognized member of the British Wizarding Order of St. George, he is entitled to wear dragon-skin won by his own hand. The duel shall resume on my mark…"

"Wait," Harry said, holding up a hand.

You think I'm winning because of my armour?

He set about touching the various enchanted clasps, ties, and belts attaching the various plates of dragonhide together, divesting himself of the armour in mere seconds. Handy, that, he smirked. With a touch, he banished the armour back to its stand in 12 Grimmauld Place.

Harry now stood in a long-sleeve t-shirt and a pair of "fitness trousers" that Pansy had made for him. While his dragonhide fit him like a second skin, he had noticed that the phrase tended to be uncomfortably literal when he wore it against his bare skin, heating his blood in a way that he didn't really care for. The clothes he'd worn underneath were barely even "casual" by the most accepting Muggle standards, hardly "appropriate apparel" for a Wizarding gala, he chuckled to himself, but let's see you complain now.

Feeling inspired (and no small part frustrated with this interruption), he pulled the shirt from his torso as well, leaving himself standing shirtless, almost as if in imitation of Susan and von Krafft's duel. He heard murmurs from the crowd, and a few positively scandalized gasps, but simply tossed the shirt aside, rolling his shoulders as he got used to being free of his armour's weight.

I guess I am a bit more vulnerable now, he supposed, but I'll be faster too.

"Does this please my Lord?" Harry called out, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his tone, "am I sufficiently un-armoured?"

"This is acceptable," Old Selwyn stammered, and Harry cracked a vicious grin at the nerves in his voice.

"Very well. As stated, the duel shall resume on my mark."

It seems like you didn't like fighting against power that much, Harry thought, let's see how you handle speed.

"Resume!"

---

Pansy

Okay, what the fuck?

Logically, Pansy knew that Harry was a powerful Wizard. Rationally, she knew that her boyfriend had already achieved heights of sorcery that few would ever attain in their lives, and he'd accomplished many of those feats as a child, let alone the grown man he was now.

All of her logical knowledge paled in the face of the display she was witnessing.

It was almost hard to believe that the same man who got awkward and fidgeted whenever she put him on the spot was now dismantling not one, nor two, but four opponents at the same time. Harry shrugged off jinxes as if they weren't even there, batting stunners out of the air like he was lazily swatting at flies.

He summoned a fucking dragon as a Patronus.

Pansy's thoughts whirled at an impossible pace, as she tried her best to simply comprehend the power he was wielding so casually. In moments, he'd already torn through their shields, all-but-ignored their spells cast against him, and he was mere seconds from victory, his opponents bound in iron chains.

Fucking typical, she thought, when Lord Selwyn made his desperate plea.

Harry's response, though…

She had hoped he'd just ignore the complaint, showing his disdain and dismissal of these Lords and dispatching them out of hand. This would have sent a message that Pansy supported, that such concerns were simply beneath Lord fucking Potter-Black, cementing his status as a powerful, dignified Wizard. In the traditions of the Pureblood world, this kind of gesture would have spoken volumes.

Instead, he exceeded her own expectations in a way she never could have predicted. He stripped himself of his armour without complaint, then stripped himself, showing his scars, all his memorial tattoos, and – perhaps most impressively for her – his magical tattoo of a dragon, prowling around his torso, spitting flames of black ink over his skin.

In the span of moments, he'd transformed himself from a frighteningly powerful Noble Lord into a war hero, there was no way that anyone in the crowd could possibly forget that this was the Man-Who-Won. The message would – she hoped – be clear: the man who had once been the greatest champion of the war against the Dark Lord was taking the field of battle once more, and any of those Lords and Ladies who found themselves "undecided" should fucking well take notice of whom they might find themselves standing against.

It was all she could do to stop herself from throwing her head back in laughter.

---

Susan

And that , Lords and Ladies, is what happens when you fuck with Harry Potter.

Susan laughed as she watched Harry not only remove his dragonhide armour, but when he also took the literal shirt off his back, the best possible way she could imagine for him to show his utter lack of fear for any of the four who stood against him.

Harry wasn't exactly a large, muscular man (which she'd never really seen the appeal in), but Susan had to admit, the way that his corded muscles stood out from his lean frame when he stalked back towards the Lords and their Seconds with fire in his eyes, and an ink dragon running rampant around his torso, well…

Alright, Harry, you're really not too bad-looking, for a bloke and all.

As she recalled how she'd almost kissed him while in a daze, with her mouth full of blood at the time, she descended into outright cackling over her own impulsivity.

Nah, he's got two girlfriends for two Houses already, c'mon Sue, get it together.

Besides, something much more immediate about Harry had captured her attention.

She could not wait to see him continue absolutely fucking wrecking their enemies.

---

Daphne

Wait… what? You…?

Daphne was an educated witch, with in-depth knowledge of many aspects of the Magical world, and it was her belief that everything she had learned as a child, at Hogwarts, and after graduation would have prepared her for what she had just seen.

It had been thoroughly insufficient.

One of the facts she understood was that, as a rule, having a magical creature as a Patronus was extremely rare. Dumbledore was known to summon a Phoenix, while occasional figures through history might pop up here and there with a Unicorn, or a Fire Salamander, or something of that caliber.

Another thing that she thought she'd understood was that it was very rare for someone's Patronus to change, most frequently as a result of marriage, when the magic of the married couple wound up blending together. Occasionally, a "rebirth" of a mystical nature could have these results, but those were vanishingly rare.

Finally, it had been well-established that Harry Potter had been capable of manifesting a corporeal Patronus in their fourth year; a silver stag.

So, when an enormous dragon burst from the tip of his wand – a Hungarian Horntail, at that – Daphne was, quite simply, at a loss for words.

She'd barely even managed to follow the rest of the duel - where Harry exerted power beyond the hope of his opponents to match - she was so enthralled by the possibilities of what this could mean.

It was rumoured that Merlin had three different Patronuses he used… she wondered, and one of them may have been a dragon?

Other than that, she could not recall any mention in various histories of a Witch or Wizard whose innermost self, their most fundamental nature, would be represented by the single most powerful magical creature in the world.

Pansy and her had joked around about Harry being a strong wizard on plenty of occasions, and they'd both understood that their boyfriend was a hero in the literal definition of the word, but Daphne had simply never before grasped the magnitude of what this meant.

She stared across the arena floor, seeking out her father in his side of the crowd. When she spotted him, she was pleased to see that he looked more shocked than she must have, his hands practically crushing the arms of his seat with how tightly he gripped them.

When Lord Selwyn attempted to claim that the duel was unfair, she watched Cyrus Greengrass's frown deepen, as he'd undoubtedly already realized that his agents were doomed against Harry. When Harry literally began to strip himself in the middle of the arena, so casually disdainful of his enemies, she was tempted to join Susan in an outburst of laughter.

You have no idea the sort of man you've made an enemy of, father.

---

Harry

"Begin!"

As soon as Carrow uttered the word, Harry sprang into action. He chanted "Stupefy" as quickly as he could, flicking his wand through the bare minimum of the gestures in his right hand, bringing an unspoken Protego charm into existence with his left hand, as he sprinted at an angle towards his opponents.

"There're basically three types of combatants," Harry recalled a lecture of Robards's he'd attended (in disguise, of course) which covered the basics of magical combat for a new crop of prospective Aurors, "broadly defined as offensive, defensive, and utility specialists. Conventional wisdom states that an overwhelming offense defeats someone who relies on utility, that defense stifles offense, and that utility bypasses defense."

"Conventional wisdom is incorrect, for a number of reasons."

First, and most obviously to anyone who'd actually experienced a fight, there was a significant difference in fighting against someone who sat back and hurled spells from a distance, compared to one who used mobility as a weapon of its own.

It became clear to Harry in short order that his opponents in this duel had not yet learned this lesson, and he was more than happy to instruct them on this matter.

He'd managed to hit Young Yaxley with one of his opening barrage of stunners, the shield charm that Old Yaxley had cast (once again) proving to be thoroughly insufficient, as Harry changed his angle of attack, requiring Young Selwyn to cast a shield charm of his own to defend their group as Old Selwyn busied himself trying to rennervate his fallen compatriot.

According to "conventional wisdom", you've got two offensive specialists, one defensive, and one utility, he thought, but even by that outdated measure you're failing. You've got one of your best attack-charm spellcasters busy maintaining a shield, your shield specialist didn't block my attacks, and the weakest link you've got in support isn't anywhere near fast enough to be effective.

In an instant, Harry had all but crippled their ability to cast spells against him, proving once more to himself that Robards's assertions were on the mark. While the defensive charms that his foes had cast might have been sufficient to weather his spellcasts head-on, the simplest action of moving was enough that he could bypass them entirely.

You might actually have a shot at this, he could have rolled his eyes, if Old Selwyn tried to do anything to throw me off my own strategy. Young Yaxley's fast enough and has shite aim, so he should be on shield charm duty, and if Old Yaxley's got any brains at all, he'd realize that he needs to chip in by trying to attack me instead of making useless shields over and over.

Harry ducked to the side as a yet another stunner whizzed by his head, grumbling to himself as he did so. Wish I'd stepped in for the first duel, he thought, von Krafft actually seemed pretty competent, and I figure Sue could've taken your Seconds if I'd have dealt with him first.

The fact that Harry was beginning to find himself bored while in a duel against multiple opponents spoke volumes. He idly fired a stunner close to Young Selwyn's head, the man panicking and redoubling his shield charm as he realized the gap in his defenses well after Harry had already spotted it.

With their (apparently) more-talented Seconds either stunned or dedicated to shielding themselves, Harry merely watched as Old Yaxley stumbled his way through the gestures of "Locomotor Mortis", the less-than-brilliant Wizard's spellcasting giving Harry more than enough time to raise his own shield charm before the leg-locker curse landed.

Still, you're the first one to have an actual good idea so far, and you're supposed to be the biggest git of the lot.

He was reminded that he was still (technically) fighting when Young Yaxley rejoined the duel after being rennervated, casting an Incarcerous curse which was (surprisingly!) aimed accurately enough that Harry had to slash his wand down to knock it aside.

That's the problem with relying on stunners, he remembered Moody (the real one) explaining, if you don't got overwhelming numbers, the element of surprise, or – best of all – both on your side, all you do is whittle away at the edges while the ones in the middle keep waking their little friends back up.

While Harry couldn't exactly employ Moody's more… permanent solutions to this problem, neither did he intend to rely solely on stunning charms to win this duel.

In the back of their group, Old Selwyn had begun to cast a more complicated spell of some sort, one that Harry didn't recognize. While Young Selwyn hadn't exactly been fast in reacting to Harry's opening salvo, he was proving to be frustratingly perceptive (at least after Harry had kindly demonstrated the flaw in his defensive charms), tracking Harry to keep his shield charm in between his allies and Harry's stunning charms.

You're still standing stationary, you utter gits.

Harry cried "Stupefy" once more, casting a charm which was meant as a distraction but almost struck Old Yaxley, before aiming at himself and muttering "Levicorpus". Jinxing yourself wasn't typically advised, but – recalling Moody's words once again – the element of surprise was often worth it.

His perspective whirled around as he was hauled into the air by his own ankles, where he quickly took aim at Old Selwyn, speaking "Impedimentia" calmly, interrupting the older Wizard's ritual before he could complete it.

When Young Selwyn glanced over his shoulder to check on his ally, Harry quickly cast another shield-breaker charm, with a non-verbal stunner following immediately behind it, completing the sequence by casting the "Liberacorpus" counter-jinx on himself. Harry spun through the air, landing in a roll as gravity retook its hold on him.

A stunner from Young Yaxley came close to landing home, but Harry merely dodged to the side, sighing in frustration as he did so. If you're going to take a shot at me, do it while I'm hanging in mid-air, not when I'm on my feet.

Young Yaxley's follow-up stunner flew wide without Harry even having to dodge.

And learn how to fucking aim.

If Old Yaxley planned to contribute much of anything to this duel, Harry had yet to see any evidence of it.

Alright, I'll stop screwing around.

"Depulso!" he cried, pointing at the recently-stunned Young Selwyn before the man could topple to the ground. Propelled by Harry's banishing charm, Young Selwyn's rigid form flew backwards, crashing into Old Yaxley on the way, leaving only Young Yaxley standing.

"Stupefy!" the man yelled, and Harry thrust his left hand forwards, thinking "Protego" as he did. The stunning charm hit the shield charm in his palm, and fizzled away uselessly as Harry snapped his hand shut.

I could win this right now.

Instead, he turned his wand backwards, on himself.

"Flipendo", he thought, making sure to dampen the power behind his knock-back jinx so that instead of sending himself flying clumsily through the air, it appeared as if he suddenly leapt a great distance backwards, opening a gap between Young Yaxley and himself.

He purposefully walked back to his starting position as, glancing suspiciously in his direction, Young Yaxley started going about rousing his allies, rennervating Young Selwyn in short order.

This is inappropriate apparel, after all, I've got to look the part when I finish this.

Harry was actually glad that he'd been nervous about attending the gala in full dragonhide armour, because he'd had the foresight to place a bunch of handy charms on a tuxedo - hanging in a closet at 12 Grimmauld Place at that moment – which he'd intended as a backup outfit in case his confidence failed him.

"Accius Potens, Clothes," he thought as he snapped his fingers, casting a more powerful version of the reliable summoning charm he used so often, and the clothing popped into existence around him, the charm dressing him as precisely as if he'd spent hours fussing over his appearance.

I should know, took me ages to get the bow tie right.

---

Pansy

Who are you, and what have you done with Harry "err, uh, I don't know" Potter???

Pansy presumed that she must have been a good influence ("good" being relative, I suppose) on her boyfriend, because not only was he continuing to impress with his displays of prowess, but then he disengaged from his last standing opponent, only to snap his fingers and suddenly appear dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, draped in a positively perfect dress robe.

Fucking Merlin, did you finally learn how to be fashionable?

While Pansy certainly appreciated her boyfriend's last choice in outfit ("shirtless and slinging powerful spells around" is a good look), if anything was going to send the right message to the gathered Lords and Ladies, it was this moment of pure style he'd just – literally – pulled from thin air.

It was almost enough to distract her from how utterly impressive his performance in duelling was. Of the many "of course Harry can do that" realizations she'd had as she got to know him over the previous months, she'd somehow managed to forget that on top of everything else, he'd been a Quidditch star, and the demonstration of his speed and reflexes showed just how well those skills had transferred to more serious situations.

She could barely even track his spellcasting, let alone follow the way that he seemed to react to his opponents' actions before they even started them. She sure fucking noticed, however, when he caught a spell in his hand, extinguishing it like he was snuffing a candle. It became more and more evident to her every day was that Harry fucking Potter was, bar none, the most impressive man she'd ever met.

Her sense of vanity wouldn't let her go without thinking "good, that's just what I deserve", but she would happily admit that she was indeed extraordinarily lucky to be dating not only Harry, but Daphne as well, and – more surprisingly – his obvious power and status didn't even crack her top five reasons why she was so bloody taken with the man (and woman).

His dominance in the duelling arena was not going unnoticed by the spectators, either. Where the conversations she'd overheard earlier - during and after Bones's duel – had been a mixture of "impressed", "disdainful", or "ambivalent", there were precisely two topics that she could hear.

Muttered expressions of disbelief, and utterly shocked silence.

---

Harry

"It's funny, isn't it?" Harry found himself recalling Robards's theories on magical combat once again, "the more we learn now, the more it seems like the old ways really had the right of it."

The medieval concepts of "combat magic", to be fair, were developed in an era when "combat" meant "open warfare", but Harry had to admit that this old system held a certain sort of appeal to him.

"The ancient Wizards figured that there weren't three sorts of combatants, but five. The first ones they called 'spears', the sort who learned a few good charms and curses and stuck with them, relying on the idea that the best offense is, well, a good offense."

Sue and Ron fight like that, Harry thought, and it looks like Young Yaxley's one of that sort as well, except nowhere near as competent.

"The second type were called 'shields'," the direct counterparts. Specialists in defensive charms, hard to crack, but not particularly dangerous by themselves."

That'd be Tonks, but of this lot, Old Yaxley's their shield.

"The third were 'swords', those more versatile, capable of offense and defense alike."

Neville's definitely a "sword" – fitting, that – but that seems to be Young Selwyn in this case.

"Next, there were 'arrows', Wizards who were particularly focused on waiting for an opening for a singular, especially effective attack."

Fuckin' Seamus for sure, but if Old Selwyn's fulfilling that role here, he's doing a piss-poor job at it.

"Finally, the ultimate type of combatant were dubbed 'wands'; those Wizards who had mastered each of the other 'weapons', all-rounded fighters capable of handling any type of battle magic. In that day, a Wizard who had earned his 'wand' would enjoy a position of honour, and many of these individuals indeed went on to found Noble Houses through their battlefield prowess. It was believed that you needed a master of each of the other four styles working together simply to match a single 'wand' in battle."

Hermione would be in that category, Harry knew, and so would I.

He fussed at one of his cufflinks which had become somewhat askew, while taking note of the four men across the arena struggling to get their legs beneath them. They hadn't been able to match him in power, nor had they stood up to his speed, so Harry was fully confident that, ultimately, he was about to take them apart with skill.

If you need all four styles to be at your best, he mused, then you arseholes are out of luck.

As the last of his opponents – Old Selwyn – was finally back on his feet, the four men returned to duelling stances, aiming their wands towards Harry once more. In response, he began to calmly walk forwards, as he set about putting an end to this duel.

"Pyroprotego!" Harry yelled, summoning a swirling shield of flames in front of himself, absorbing the stunners that had been sent his way. His opponents appeared to have finally formed an actual strategy, with Young Selwyn providing a shield charm, Young Yaxley close behind throwing stunners overtop. Not a winning strategy, but it's something. As he approached, Harry noticed Old Selwyn attempting to begin his ritual again, while Old Yaxley apparently took a different bent, pointing his wand at the floor behind their group.

Too late, "Abe", he thought, with a cruel sort of satisfaction. As splinters of wood began to peel loose of the arena floor, shaping themselves into something resembling a wicker-man, Harry simply muttered "Silencio" while aiming his wand at the gap between Young Selwyn's shield charm and his ally behind him.

The elder Wizard's attempt at transfiguration failed as his voice caught in his throat, the spell interrupted partway through.

"Strangulonimbus!" Old Selwyn shrieked, having completed his spell after his laborious efforts, and a cloud of vivid green gas flew towards Harry.

"Aerobibus Fumos," he replied, the charm he'd developed (which now functioned mostly as his ash tray) serving to pull the cloud from the air, drawing the attack away from Harry before it could come close to harming him.

"Quattrorecrepo," Harry continued, casting a charm which summoned a four-sided prism in front of him, guiding it into place with his wand as another stunner from one of his enemies harmlessly ran into his fire-shield charm.

"Discutio," he repeated the shield-breaker charm from earlier, demolishing Young Selwyn's own spell.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried, aiming at the prism in front of him. Where one beam of scarlet light struck the object, four emerged, each striking true on one of his opponents, their wands sailing into the air.

Accio Wands, he thought, casting the spell wordlessly and wandlessly, summoning the wands into his empty left hand before their owners could recover them. He felt four satisfying impacts in sequence, as he stood still, his hand stretched out before him.

"Lord Potter-Black has won this duel by means of disarmament!" Carrow announced.

A hush descended over the room following this announcement.

"Let it be known!" Harry yelled, his voice carrying through the dead-silent arena, "that Lord Potter-Black stands beside Lady Bones! Any who would make an enemy of her, makes an enemy of me."

Harry opened his hand to let the wands he'd grasped clatter to the floor beneath him.

---

Daphne

That's what you fucking deserve, she thought with a thrill, as she watched Harry dismantle his opponents in one, final, absolutely conclusive sequence. His closing statement could really have used some work, though.

A glance across the arena saw her father looking positively vacant, no more expression on his face than if he were a corpse. If he had any words of admonishment for his allies, they'd apparently have to wait, as Daphne saw Cyrus rise from his seat and storm off, his cloak flapping behind him as he went.

"Right!" Susan called out, rising from her own seat, "that's all dealt with, then. My Lords, my Ladies, I am most grateful for your company this evening, but the Winter Solstice Gala has come to an end."

There was a rumble of hushed conversation that rippled through the crowd.

"Show's over," Susan yelled, "go home!"

"That was…" Daphne spoke quietly, as the crowd began to make their way back upstairs, leaving Bones manor, "wow. But..."

"Yeah," Susan's smile beamed brightly, "he kind of does these things, y'know?"

When Susan leaned in to take Daphne into a tight hug, she whispered in the redhead's ear.

"I don't think Harry realized what he just declared, and I don't want..." Daphne started.

"Ssh," Susan replied, "it'll be fine, we'll work it out so that it winds up in our favour."

"It's not the worst thing we could suggest to the media, I suppose."

"Seriously, it's fine, don't worry! Have fun with the rest of the night," Susan teased, "I can see that Pansy's practically foaming at the mouth, and I'm sure you're not holding up any better."

"Oh?"

"Obviously," Susan smirked, leaving Daphne with one final hushed comment before she turned to congratulate Harry on his (their?) victory, "the two of you are going to fuck that boy's brains out after watching all that."

Well, she's not wrong, Daphne felt a hot blush rising as Susan walked over to give Harry a significantly more "bone-crushing" hug of his own.

That was quite the event.