Loyal Pet

by H Bregalad

Bellatrix is an animagus and escapes with Sirius, Harry catches her and decides to keep her for a pet, she decides to raise him into a Lord and Master that she can be proud to follow. Rated M for sex and animagus sex. Warning: Polyamory eventually. There is also violence, including towards children and animals. You have been warned. Based on timbarney110's challenge 'loyal pet.'

78. Year 6 Chapter 14

In which intrigue is uncovered at a solstice party

Bryon and Mary Angelopoulos shared a look. The invitation to a holiday 'dinner and possibly a dance?' had looked interesting enough. A good chance to acquire more information on the powerful friend group that was shaking things up all across the county. He still hadn't gotten a name of any of their shell corporations, and he was sure there must be one or several, they just seemed too canny not to do things with ironclad and by-the-book paperwork, even if whatever they did under the table already reeked of insider trading of the worst degree.

But then, was it corruption or 'the blessing of canny leadership' when the government officials investigated the local businesses thoroughly enough to be helpful?

But until he knew the names of the shell corporations he couldn't track down anything real about what they were up to.

Another difficulty was deciding which of the Indian girls was which, but he finally decided that the one who favoured blue and two French braids was the strategy lawyer, and the one in gold with one French braid and the green earring was the tactician lawyer, which left the redhead to be the COO, and probably fiancée. Though the way both the lawyer twins got away with ignoring all possible boundaries of personal space when they leaned in to whisper information or words of advice … well, it made it look like the young man had gotten engaged, and she'd convinced him to hire her whole sorority or something.

The fact that they all seemed to have been excellent finds, well, the young lord was lucky.

The Windrows were also here, both their teenage children brought a plus one. They weren't the only older teens in attendance. Most of the corporate officers from Byron's nearest competitors also attended. And some spokespeople from the new employee-owned farm.

That they were the farmer/entrepreneur type who started the thing was fairly obvious, and not the MBA type that productive companies needed welded on at the top to keep them aimed in profitable directions, rather than merely grinding away in whatever niche they'd started in but might soon no longer be profitable.

Bryon Angelopoulos was under no delusions that his company grew grapes; and that he did not. He facilitated a crack team of facilitators that kept the machinery of business running; so that the grape growers could continue to grow grapes.

Mary's hand slipped into his elbow. "Well?" he said.

"The house is as old as its paperwork claims, and has been shut up for years, but yes they have moved in. Every space I could get into shows signs of use, or at least has been cleaned in the last year, even if it's been shut up and ignored again since then. I can't make heads or tails of the security system. It acts like modern magnetic locks but I haven't seen a card scanner yet, heard a relay, nor seen any lock plates. Unless they're much longer range than what I've seen before, and that's what's mounted inside door frames and on the backs of walls by the doors."

Bryon thought back to the places where he'd seen those wooden boxes.

"Could be," he said, "But when the range gets that long, it gets less secure, you can't control which door you're opening, and for how long, if all the doors within 10 feet open to your badge."

"True," said Mary, "So what have you found out?"

"One of the Windrow children mentioned a wedding, in a couple of years, which reinforced my idea about how far ahead they plan things."

Mary nodded, "Parvati is feeling her oats and trying not to let it show."

That would be the Indian twin in gold (with the surname of Patil) if his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. The introductions had gone much too fast and been a smouldering chaos.

"That's … perhaps a rather good description of her yes, how does that connect?"

Mary rolled her eyes, "That she's marrying into the richest family in the area?" Mary leaned closer and whispered, "Chelsea spouts rumours that it's a hostile takeover, but that's not the sense that I'm getting from things."

Bryon frowned, "Richest, or most powerful? Because I'd say that the Windrows aren't doing too shabby; if I understand correctly how much better their investments did in the last crash than ours did."

Mary shook her head, "I think, the Potter estate is about three times richer in absolute terms, though I doubt his portfolio can match the ROIs that Daniel routinely finds. No, I'm talking about something about 5 times larger, some kind of entailed family trust, that she'll gain control over when she marries, apparently distinct from the Potter fortune that Harry already controls, (though everyone seems ready to downplay that as mostly just original stock in the two wineries, a chain of pharmacies, and some rental property. I think they're all chemists and looking to start a line of cosmetics or something."

"They don't seem the type," said Bryon, "but then … wasn't the boy's great uncle into that sort of thing also?"

Mary nodded, "that does sound familiar, yes. Can you make heads or tails of the reference to whether Daniel could bring in a second marketing team to research expanding our brand into a nearby untapped market?"

"Not really, though Phoebe seemed to know exactly which market he meant because she shot it down instantly with 'unfavourable currency exchange rates,' and that was that."

"Hmm," said Mary, "I don't tend to believe that, branding is key, if people know what you're selling and are willing to pay for it, let them pay for it."

Bryon nodded, "True, but some markets just aren't worth the trouble to compete in, nor the cost of paperwork to enter. That is the sort of thing it's Phoebe's job to research to plan how much of what kinds of vines to add."

Mary nodded, "And Harry listened to her?"

"Yes."

"Or listened to Daniel, listening to her?"

"I'd have said the former, but I'm not sure. Why?"

"Boys his age don't always listen to women, Parvati is a lucky woman."

"They're all lucky … wait a moment, I think you're off somewhere, it's Ginny, the redhead, that's marrying Mr Potter. The rest are riding best friend status into the legal department or something."

"No, it's Parvati who's marrying him, and he's the lawyer and VC investor, the rest are researchers or product development, who—"

Someone cleared their throat right behind the couple.

They turned around. It was a squat man with orange-blond hair in a mustard brown velvet evening suit. It took Byron a bit too long to place him, but then it came back, he was the father of the young woman who'd danced every dance, though about half of them to her own steps and with no partner. Earlier she'd been in the imitation Greek outfit whose pleats went in all the wrong directions. Let's just say, an Egyptian belly dance with no belly showing was just as silly as one with belly showing.

Though now she was in a sari that Byron would have assumed belonged to one of the Indian women, except that it wasn't in a colour scheme he'd have expected from India, but in a perfect English-Ivy green, with raspberry buttons, seemingly constructed from clusters of red glass beads.

"You're both right," said the man, "He's marrying both of them, and they're also marrying each other."

Mary frowned, "but that's not done."

The man shrugged, "The law doesn't provide for it, but it does provide for you to make any contract you want. And all four of them are perfectly capable of designing contracts."

"I'm sure they are," said Mary, "But it's provably unstable, both women will be wanting a monopoly of his affection and provenience for her own offspring."

"And when both want to go shopping?" said Bryon, "does he go with each in turn, or send them along without him?"

"He's done both," said the man, "usually he takes them both shopping at the same time. Though if it was me, I'd generally send them shopping without me."

Me too, thought Bryon.

Mary opened her mouth (not as if to talk, but as if to think aloud, especially the way she did sometimes when typing essays.) But this time she didn't say anything.

"Now then," said the man, "Polyamory has only been proved more unstable than monogamy when at least one of the participants doesn't believe in it. Same for the reverse case, monogamy is highly unstable when one of the participants doesn't believe in it. But with all four of them intent to formalise their relationships at the earliest dates they are allowed, and with full knowledge and blessing for the intentions of the others, I think they will do just fine."

"Humph," said Mary.

"Four?" said Byron, "You mean … both of the Indian girls?"

"No," he said, "Padma doesn't want children, she wants proteges. As soon as Harry gave her my daughter she backed out of the romantic race-to-the-centre. By 'four of them' I meant to include my daughter. Though I'm given to understand that three additional women are … romantically entangled; but they are intent to form a triad of their own, at least so far as inheritance paperwork will be concerned."

"I'm starting to think that they are lesbians," said Mary, "and the unstable element is the lone male."

"Isn't it always thus?" said the man, "My wife had a crush on his mother back then, but luckily for me, Lily was for monogamy and my Pandora was for children." He sighed, "I do worry about them though. But I'm choosing to take inviting entire ally families to holiday balls as a very positive sign."

Ally families. That was an interesting niche for Byron to contemplate inhabiting. Perhaps it fit, to the extent that the Potter estate imagined itself as family wealth and not corporate reserves.

The fact that he had not been invited alone, he and Mary had been invited directly with an addendum permitting as many children as they wished, along with any of their fiancées.

It implied interesting things about what future he ought to expect should the board of governors choose to replace him. Or perhaps it would not do to trust those implications.

Perhaps in a more general sense, it implied what sorts of excuses would and would not be found acceptable to the Potter vote if any of his policies were found to be less than optimally profitable.

"I need to speak to Potter."

"Not to criticise his love life I hope," said Mary.

"What?" said Byron.

"It might need to be done," said Mary, "But not in public."

"No," said Byron, "Augustina Bloomfield's cancer treatment and disability pay."

"She's dead?"

"Her case highlights a specific contradiction in three company policies, I'd like to know his take on the situation."

"You … Oh!" said Mary.

"Not that two of them will continue to matter if the NHS reforms progress much further, but it is the spirit of the question. I'd like his take."

Mary frowned at him.

"Even if it might be skewed a bit for being solicited in the middle of a charity gala if that's what this is."

Mary gave him the stink eye, but also her blessing to go make a nuisance of himself.

He did.

And got an additional chance to solidify in his mind the names of the girls in question.

.

When he returned Mary was nowhere to be seen, but twenty minutes (also two dances) later she returned, and with a toasted cheese sandwich no less, "I found the children," she said, "they're upstairs in the music room playing board games and singing around a player piano. (Though one of them is calling it a 'looper piano,' if that is something different.)"

"Oh," said Byron, eyeing what was left of her full-sized sandwich with envy. The canapés down here were not very big (not that they ever were).

"In other words," said Mary, "We could have brought Chelsea, despite the mention of alcohol being available."

"Ah," Byron nodded, "well, we'll know for next year."

Mary nodded then pinched her lips together, "Yes, well. Not until I sit her down and see what she's ready to be exposed to regarding Potter and his harem."

Byron nodded, "good point," he glanced across the room.

Ginny and Luna were dancing together, and Parvati was moving in time with the music and glaring intently at them like … Yes, she was butting in.

Oh, that was well-timed.

And Luna was not retreating nor falling out of sync with the music, she was glancing around but maintaining focus on them, almost like she was interrogating market intelligence from the ceiling decorations, and then she turned back and raised both hands to tap both of them on the shoulder.

They both paused and tried to retreat in her favour, not understanding what she'd done until she'd stepped between them and spun around to pull them both back into the dance.

An idea which they both seemed willing to try, but had no idea how to accomplish, the lead role passed rapidly among them for three measures, and then Parvati took it firmly, and forced order on the proceedings.

Byron looked around again, Harry was over there, with a child on his shoulders, dancing with a young woman only a bit taller, who also had a child on her shoulders.

Both children were holding on for dear life with one hand, and holding on to each other with their other hand.

Oh, that was too cute.

"I wouldn't be entirely surprised," said Byron, "to find out that the harem belongs to one of the girls, probably Parvati, and Harry is just one of the members."

"You think so?" said Mary.

Byron pointed.

"Though given the way ownership and investments run locally, it might not be politic to know that."

"Hell," said Mary. She sounded vindicated.

"I can't tell if you are pleased or annoyed."

"Pleased that there is at least one woman in the world powerful enough to have a harem," said Mary, "annoyed that Chelsea knew so before we did."

"She what?"

"Told me that Parvati was more powerful than Harry, she was worried about a hostile takeover, I suspect that's not a danger from Parvati, but I'm not so certain about whoever is behind her and higher up. Chelsea was not complimentary about the sanity and morality of that family."

"Patils?"

"Blacks," said Mary, "I wonder if Phoebe knows anything."

"Probably," said Byron, "or can find out. Daniel can track down anyone's fortune and she can suss out the psychology behind the neighbouring commodity flows; if she can be pulled away from watching the nutrient flows inside her vines and within their neighbouring fungal mats. I swear the reports she turns in about cultivating grass and fungi to increase vine yields are … dense."

"I don't wonder," said Mary, "I'm tired of dance music, I'm thinking about crashing the kids' party again, see if they are still playing Stump the Pianist."

"Stump the Pianist?"

"AKA, Padma and Freya are still too young and naive to realise that taking requests always ends in embarrassment, frustration, and crushed dreams."

"There's nothing wrong with just saying 'no' or 'I don't know that one'," said Byron and yawned, "And yes, a sing-along sounds much closer to my current energy level, also."

.

Upstairs the doors were all closed. The one Mary led him to was locked but was opened from the other side when Mary knocked.

"Who are they?" was answered with "Chelsea's parents," "She isn't here." "Where is she?"

"She's at home," said Mary, "The invitation was a little confusing about whether it was a party for adults, or for families."

"The party was for adults," said Padma, "But Chelsea would have been welcome to hide up here with us."

"Interesting," said Mary, "are we also allowed to hide up here?"

"You're grown-ups," said one of the younger set.

"I am," Mary agreed, "I've gotten so old in fact that wine and coffee no longer seem more fun than water and milk."

Byron snickered, because, that was about the size of it.

"What's she mean?" said the boy.

"She means," explained the girl that Byron felt like he knew, but still couldn't place, probably one of Daniel Jr's cousins. "That the reason they adopted the oldest orphan they could get, instead of the youngest, is because they're almost old enough to be grandparents."

Byron stared at her. That was … both painfully accurate, yet also tuned to what the child could understand.

"Do I know you?" said Byron.

"I'm Freyazegen Windrow," she said, "I've seen you around, but you've probably only spoken to my brothers, my clothes are usually louder than I am."

"Oh," said Byron, "That's alright."

"And that's Andy, my new brother," she pointed across the room to a different little one, piling cards onto a stack. "—beating Kurt at 'Spit!'."

"Humph," said his opponent, and, "Just wait." He seemed an older boy or a younger teen, it was hard to tell when he was sitting hunched over his cards.

(Kurt was another name he knew from Chelsea's stories. Known to be selfless until he bled and then would disappear into a black fog until he could recover, and then do it all over again. Hopefully with an interested adult around he could learn to pace himself.)

Eventually, that run was over and Andy looked up and waved.

Then Kurt played four cards, and exclaimed "Spit!"

Which seemed to force Andy to scoop up both piles of cards and add them to his deck. "Now we're even," said Kurt.

Andy shrugged mutinously. They flipped over new cards and started playing again. As if there weren't turns, and they are trying to run out of cards.

Like some kind of high-speed inversion of 'War!'?

Byron looked away.

Freyazegen had just handed Padma the pet snake. And now she took the piano bench and began picking her way experimentally (Very experimentally) through a song that Byron didn't recognise, but seemed to have a chord progression that ought to be a hymn.

Mary dragged Byron across the room to the unoccupied sofa, (so much for snatching a sandwich on the way.) He glanced around and determined that the food trays were mostly empty but not ridiculously so. He could grab something later, (technically he could also wait for home if he needed to, but never mind that.)

And then Freya played it through again and Byron did recognise it. And then she muttered something to Padma, who made a quick movement he didn't catch.

And Freya played it again while singing the first verse.

Byron joined in with the others and barely noticed when Freya pulled her hands away and the piano kept playing. He did notice when the third verse came and the rhythm hiccuped by a quarter measure or some such.

"I don't know that one," was all Padma said about it after they stopped singing and she had to chase down the off switch for the runaway piano.

.

And so they picked their way through several more songs, mostly Christmas songs, or tangentially related one way or another. Usually whoever wasn't playing would wear the snake across their shoulders (which it tolerated), but sometimes it would get dumped unceremoniously on the back of the piano while they helped each other find their way through a tune. (which it also seemed to tolerate, but under protest, and eventually it would start to slither down to the glass of milk someone had left on a nearby candle stand and one of them would pick it up and wear it again.)

The children seemed to know the same songs, though Byron did not. A few of the carols they knew had very different words, perhaps more sacrilegious or downright occult than he'd be comfortable with in the mouth of an adult. (Kids being silly was a known hazard, it was fine). But most of the unfamiliar words were just … not the way the Anglican church described things.

Perhaps they were from a different denomination, but he was fairly confident that they weren't Presbyterian, nor did they seem Catholic, but he was at a loss to guess where the songs originated.

Was there a Welsh Nationalist Church hiding somewhere since … before Cromwell? And why would he run across it as far east as West Suffolk?

Were these merely orphans, or were they religious refugees?

How was something like that still happening in this day in age?

They did seem to share an accent, but it wasn't an accent that Byron would recognise as 'Welsh.'

He turned and gave a meaningful look at Mary.

She leaned close to hear what he had to whisper.

"I am just trying to identify," he said, but could not decide between the words 'church' and 'denomination' and 'doctrine' and 'philosophy'.

"Ben," she muttered back.

"Huh?"

"Ben Windrow, Freya used to be Ben."

"Oh, Thank You," said Byron, "I didn't think they operated that young."

"Not for free," said Mary, "But the Windrows could afford a trip to Germany or Morocco should they deem it necessary."

"Shouldn't be necessary, but that's a different issue. Anyway, no, I was wondering where these songs were coming from, a few seem recognisably not Anglican."

"If they're not Protestant, I assume Catholic, or just new since I went to college."

"Perhaps," said Byron.

But she seemed like she was listening harder after that.

Two songs later she was smirking and leaned back to whisper, "They don't know all of them, I'd say it's not a single denomination that you don't recognise, but lots of churches all playing a different selection. And I know I was saying earlier that Stump the Pianist was always a frustrating game. But now it cracks me up when they ask for an obviously Christian song, and two girls named after a Norse goddess and a Hindu goddess, don't know it."

Byron sighed, "Be nice."

"I'm not saying it out loud," she protested, out loud.

"Would the whispering grandparents care to share with the rest of the class?" asked Padma very loudly.

Mary turned red, "I was wondering about your name."

Padma shrugged, "My father's family is from India, My mother's family tend to name their children after Greek heroes and nymphs or whatever. They came up with a compromise, and I am named after the lotus flowers that Hindu deities sometimes use for gift currency and source material for building water chariots. And my sister is named after the goddess Parvati. I suspect they were not prepared for twins and our names were intended to be a first and middle name."

"Oh," said Mary, "alright, thanks."

Padma shrugged.

.

Byron got up for refreshments. When he came back the littlest boy had taken his place, then tried to curl up small enough to allow space for Byron to sit down anyway.

Byron did.

He wiggled until he was comfortable and returned to covering his eyes with his elbow.

"Who's this?" said Byron.

"This is Robbie," said Mary, "Eirian and Kurt's 'foster son'."

Byron glanced at Kurt.

Now 'supervising' as it were, the art table.

Foster brother would have been Byron's guess, not foster son.

But he'd seen how gangs could form and operate, and escape the inner cities looking for safer pastures. And he took great pleasure from time to time in hiring those old enough to work legally. If he introduced them to the welfare service a few months before he turned them into CPS; so they'd have time to get very stable and calm before someone came to talk them into enrolling all their 'younger siblings' in school. Well, everyone had their little hobbies.

Every CEO should work in HR before rising further.

"Not sure I've met Eirian yet," said Byron.

Mary shrugged that she hadn't either.

"Well Robbie, are you looking forward to Christmas?"

"No," said Robbie, "Mom will be wolfsick all day, Christmas Eve is a full moon, and Aunt Gwyn has gone visiting in America."

The room was as silent as a tomb.

The two musicians stood and turned. Everyone was on edge.

"Please tell me," said Mary, "That one of those is a euphemism and the other one is not?"

"Neither of those is a euphemism," said Kurt, "Please don't ask anything else. We're not allowed to talk about it."

"Not allowed to talk about what?"

Again the profound silence.

"Have you finished adopting Chelsea?" said Freyazegen, "No takebacks left or anything?"

Not precisely, thought Byron.

"Yes," said Mary.

"That doesn't make any difference," said Padma, dumping the snake off onto the piano as if taking off a jacket to wade into a fight.

"But it should!" Freyazegen exclaimed shrilly. Then turned to face Mary, "You should know. She needs you to know. And she's not allowed to tell you so she never will. But she needs you to know."

At least three children sniffed wetly. The tension was so high that even the pet snake was starting to pay attention to the people in the room instead of the direction to nearby snacks.

Freyazegen glared harder, "Magic exists. And Chelsea's parents tried to give her up for adoption specifically because she doesn't have any magic."

"Of all the blasted—" Mary started.

Byron put a hand on her shoulder before she could devolve into worse profanity.

"She's telling the truth," said at least three little ones.

And Padma's anger wasn't aimed correctly for that to have been a lie.

It was aimed at … Freyazegen for admitting it. And maybe even more so at the rule that was keeping Chelsea from explaining it.

"Are you in trouble for telling us?" said Byron.

"Only if one of you turns me in," she said, "So please, only talk about it with Chelsea and the others in this room."

"Understood," said Byron.

"How much danger are we in from 'magic'?" said Mary.

"Very little," she said, "the law protects the non-magical from us, and Harry's family wards protect like half the county from unauthorised magical incursion."

"Closer to a quarter to a fifth of the area of the non-magical county," said Padma, "we tend to speak of it as the whole county, because from the inside," she shrugged, "He is the mage with jurisdiction about mage things."

"He's a teenager," said Mary.

"And Wotcher answers to him," said Padma.

"Who's Wotcher?" said Byron.

"Little magical secretary and taxi service," said Freyazegen.

"She's much more than that," said Padma, "That's just which capabilities Harry has allowed you to access."

Freyazegen wrinkled her nose, the way Ben used to wrinkle his nose at Daniel Jr.

And finally, Byron could see it clearly, and then it faded, and faded farther. And then it was Freyazegen who used to dress as Ben, not Ben who'd started dressing as Freyazegen. Dizzying, Bryan would have to watch himself.

This was the feeling of being on the trail of something that might be lucrative if he could just parse it and time the market properly, or he could ignore the opportunity and make the safe choice that everyone else would make. But which was the safe choice and which was the best choice?

"Sorry," said Byron, "I just got very distracted, What was the point?"

"You're safe," said Freyazegen, "The law protects you, the same as it always has. And you shouldn't have anything to fear from Chelsea's parents, they don't want her back, they gave her up because they didn't want the stress of figuring out how to raise her and relate to her properly, given the tiny fraction of her that was different than them. There's a small chance that a quarter of her children might be mages, depending on who she marries. Until then you can pretend that she's entirely 'normal'. Because she is entirely normal. The problem is that she had to live through her parents discarding her, the way you might discard one of your own children if they were born blind or deaf."

"But I wouldn't!" said Mary.

"That is precisely my point," said Freyazegen, "But you might be tempted, and some people would give into that temptation."

"Humph," said Mary.

"The other problem," said Kurt, "is that Robbie's mum is a werewolf, so she's always safely away from home on full moon nights, (like Christmas Eve this year) and tired and sore as hell for a day or two afterwards. We've been discussing whether we're celebrating tomorrow or waiting until the twenty-sixth or -seventh instead."

"Oh, I see," said Mary.

"What does, 'safely away from home' mean?" said Byron.

Kurt shrugged, "That's another service that Wotcher provides, he has a forest picked out to move the werewolves to, where they can run as free as they want and there are no humans to bite. And two backup forests in case humans invade the first one."

So that added the presence of werewolves (plural!) to the other things (Freyazegen used 'us' to refer to mages) that Byron's animal brain was trying to freak out about while Byron's was insisting on it staying quiet enough that he could listen to the conversation.

"Is Wotcher a woman or a man?" said Mary.

Everyone who had an opinion stated it.

Including Freyazegen's whose opinion was, "a girl, but the boys think otherwise."

When that had either quieted down or resolved into an eternal repetition of contradictions that some children were prone to, Padma spoke. "Wotcher is a machine and a mirror, she seems human because you are looking at yourself while you talk to her."

"Really?" said Freyazegen and smiled.

"What kind of machine?" said Mary.

Padma shrugged, "half a dozen obelisks covered in runes, and a never-ending notebook to record her memories in."

"Not a trapped and enslaved demon or ghost or something?" said Mary.

"No," said Padma, "wards like that do exist, but that is not what Harry's family chose to make. Harry has given her instructions on how to act a little more human to make her more comfortable to be around. And contradictorily he's given her rules for a gardening game we may play with her, which encourages us to act like she's a dryad, but I've met real nymphs and dryads, and she's nothing like them."

"Oh, what are dryads like?" said Freyazegen.

"Peeves is a dryad," said Padma.

Freya shuddered, "Really?"

"Or whatever term is correct for the kind of spirit loci she is; since it is a multi-element confluence rather than just water or just plant."

"Hmm," said Freya, "I'm not sure that's any comfort to know."

"Oh, she likes having us around, but think of how uncomfortable it is to have her full attention on you. And not just because she's a prankster."

"Then what?"

"Which direction does she look at you from?"

Freya closed her eyes, "maybe not from her eyes?"

Padma nodded, "From all sides at once?"

Freya nodded.

"How big an area does she … represent?"

"Volume, I think," said Padma, "I'm not certain of this, but I think, not to the top of the astronomy tower, and as far down as slytherin dorms, but maybe not as far as the Chamber of Secrets. And partway across the lake, but not all the way. I think the lake has a nymph, and it may or may not have merged consciousnesses with the squid, rather than learning to manifest an avatar. I assume the forest also has a nymph or several, but I've never been out there since I learned what I know about … staying alert to the ambience of the place."

"What are they talking about?" whispered Mary.

"Their school is in a magic castle," said Robbie, "Where we'd be going at 11; if we had magic."

"No, you'd be going to London with Eirian and Tate and Sandra," said Andy Windrow.

"My cousins and big brothers went there," said Robbie, "it's where I'd go if I still had my magic."

There were silent stares.

"Robbie, what's your last name?" said Freyazegen.

Robbie turned and crossed his arms at her. There was a battle of glares for twenty seconds.

At last, Robbie said, "Whatever Kurt picks for us."

Freyazegen's eyes went huge, "Alright, I deserved that. Never mind. I'm sorry."

Robbie nodded and curled up again.

"Am I detecting multiple class divides in this mage society?" said Mary.

"Oh! Don't get me started!" said Padma in exasperation.

"Yes, Obviously," said Freyazegen, "Harry is at the top. Who else do you know?"

"His fiancees, I presume?" suggested Mary.

"There are at least three competing gradation schemes and two to three strata in each." Padma began, "But at least skin tone and sexual alignment aren't any of them. And Harry is only at the top by one of the class sortings."

"Economic?" guessed Byron.

Padma shook her head, "Political. Economic … well he's independently wealthy if you look at it from one angle, but that wealth doesn't belong to him, most of it belongs to his inherited political entity. And as these things go, it's not a very wealthy one. And he's a half-blood."

Freyazegen shook her head in disgust, "No one cares about blood status except the pure-bloods. And most of them don't care except to tell the pure-bloods that do care to get back in line."

Padma rolled her eyes and looked away.

Leaving Freyazegen free to begin a lecture of her own, "All Harry's wives are middle or lower classes economically, but each with a grandmother in the nobility, and a mother who taught them as much as they were willing to listen to about how to act upper class (noble). And a father who got them into Hogwarts, either through money, in their case," a finger hooked at Padma, "or government connections in Ginny's case."

"Hogwarts?" said Mary.

"The upper-class school," said Padma, "for the children of the aristocracy, and corporate magnates, also immigrants and muggle-borns, specifically to set them up for false expectations and failure, rather than for marketable skills, unless they can network their way into opportunities to learn on the job."

Freyazegen spun and glared at her.

"Your parents are employed based on their muggle university degrees," said Padma, "I am planning on getting a muggle university degree. The School of London where Harry is sending Melantha, Tate and Sandra will feed them directly into guild apprenticeships if they want them, Hogwarts does nothing of the sort. If we want employment or continuing education opportunities or anything else, we've got to figure out who to ask and how, and then ask for ourselves. If your family has positions available for you in its international shipping firm or whatever it has, you can go straight there, but muggle-borns have got no connections unless they make them for themselves."

"I see your point," said Freyazegen, "but you're wrong about my parents."

"How am I wrong?"

Freyazegen's fists were balled tight and turning white.

"They built careers on muggle degrees to stick around and wait for Harry to come back. They should have been in Fleamont's the whole time, but there was no Potter around to tell Fleamont's how big it was allowed to grow or who it was allowed to hire. Everyone else left for Ogden's or Reubens Winikus. My parents stayed. Even though it took extra work to get muggle degrees, even though it's stressful to hide from muggles 100% of the time at work. But they still stayed."

"Have you told Harry about that?"

Freyazegen shook her head, "Not in so many words."

"Did your parents tell you that?"

Freyazegen shook her head, "Not in so many words."

Padma nodded, then sighed, "It's a beautiful picture, and I'd commend you for decorating your mental world so lovingly, but it's entirely delusional: your timeline doesn't line up. Harry's parents died in 81, and your parents worked for the winery before that. I'm not clear when the Potters went into hiding, but … no let me put this differently, Your mother has a keen mind for a lot of things and she would have been an asset wherever she worked. And I hear tell she's very talented at what she does."

"You can say that again," said Byron.

Freyazegen sent him a thankful smile.

"In my very limited exposure," said Padma, "She's also something of a prima donna,"

Mary snickered.

"I don't know what that is," said Freyazegen.

"She's more than a little abrasive, under specific and controllable circumstances," said Padma, "for anyone willing and able to control those circumstances for her, she can be very productive. Otherwise, things can go downhill fast."

Freyazegen shrugged.

"And your father … who is also quite talented and easier to work with, but also … I'm not sure you understand how big Fleamont's is. Yes, it has national reach on the mage side of the nation. But it's actually quite small compared to the vineyard and winery. I'm not sure Fleamont's could make full use of his talents."

"He's not useless," said Freyazegen.

"That's not what I said," said Padma, "I said Fleamont's isn't big enough to make full use of him."

"You're saying that if he had his current job but at Fleamont's he'd have time left over to work on someone else's job also?"

"No, I'm saying that he's so far up in the winery that his job doesn't exist at Fleamont's, if he transferred to Fleamont's right now any job he took would be a demotion, it's not that they wouldn't be better off with him than without him, it's that they could not, even in theory, give him enough to do to warrant hiring him."

Freyazegen made another nonsensical protest.

"Then let me put it this way," said Padma, "Fleamont's could not pay him as much as he makes where he is. Though perhaps it would be in a more convenient currency. And where he is, I expect, he brings in more for the Potter estate than he could at Fleamont's despite the estate owning a much smaller fraction of the company. Harry is very glad to have both of them right where they are. Do not disrespect the muggle degrees they have, do not disrespect the careers they chose. They seem to have been very well-calculated choices, not for the emotional and sacrificial reasons you outlined, but by the cold numbers and impeccable logic. Do yourself a favour, and investigate both aspects as you choose your career, don't sacrifice your happiness, your morals, nor your prospects for the other two, find a place where you can satisfy all three, and don't be afraid to ask for help looking."

Freyazegen stared, "alright."

"What does Fleamont's produce?" said Mary.

Freyazegen opened her mouth but got stuck.

"Cosmetics and Pharmaceuticals," said Padma, "My current prediction is that my sister will almost certainly work in cosmetics and sell her patents straight to them for production."

The pet snake started hissing. Padma spun around and reached for it, then paused. And … hissed back.

The snake hissed again and she left it there, spinning around again to come and sit across from them.

"Robbie?"

"What?" he said without sitting up.

"When we were talking about you going to Hogwarts, Did you say, 'if you still had your magic'?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about that?"

He shrugged.

"How did you lose it?"

"My big brother August made me trade it to him for something I didn't even want."

"What was that?"

"My hair and toes."

Byron shivered at that image.

Padma's face tensed in every direction, "If I killed him would your magic come back, or would I need to convince him to renounce the ritual before I kill him?"

"Don't?" said Robbie.

Across the room, the snake hissed and somehow stood up and became a middle-aged woman in a simple course-weave off-white sun dress, with an outline of a blocky geometric pattern embroidered along the hems in bright blue.

"Raven queen!" cheerfully greeted one of the girls. Several others waved shyly.

She waved back but made her way resolutely over to where Robbie and Padma were facing each other.

"Miss Patil. Don't go reverting any rituals, until you know all the specifics. Once you know that, you'll be armed to have better replacements prepared if they are necessary."

"Yes, Great Aunt Margaid," Padma said as if sullenly, but perhaps she was not. Perhaps she was relieved to hand the case off to an adult.

The woman knelt in front of Robbie.

"Do you want your magic back, if it can be done safely?"

"Yes," said Robbie.

The woman nodded, "do you know why or how you were missing hair or toes?"

"No."

"Were you sick? Were you just born like that? Was he just being tricky to see if you'd fall for it?"

"Maybe all of those."

The woman sighed, "May I come in and look at your memories?"

There was a long pause.

"Umm, will it hurt?"

"Only if we fight," she said gently, "if you tell me 'no' I will leave, you do not need to try to push me out, you are not yet strong enough to push me out, I or Padma can teach you that kind of fighting when you are as old as she is now. Concentrate on wanting me in, and wanting me to see only everything regarding how sick you were, and what your parents and the doctors knew about it. And if you feel like showing me your brother's ritual."

"Like, through Wotcher?"

"Similar but not the same, you're not inviting Wotcher to send me your thoughts, you're asking your mind and magic not to fight me, to let me see the memories that you pick out for me to look at."

"Ulright," said Robbie.

She put her hand gently under his chin, and then they had a staring contest, perhaps also a not-breathing contest.

Byron was just about to ask how long that was likely to last. And then she was withdrawing her hand, "The memories are sealed, very tight and secure," she said admiringly, then she smirked ominously, "but it doesn't matter, I recognise whose handiwork, which is a giveaway of its own. And there are not nearly enough memories. You either have severe amnesia or you are not as old as you are big."

Robbie giggled nervously.

He hasn't a clue what was being discussed.

"Nor is there enough space for memories. What is the earliest thing you can remember?"

"Umm, in my dreams or awake?"

She cocked her head to the side for a moment, "Show me some of your dreams, if I may come in again."

He nodded and stared at her.

She met his gaze and again they were still, but only about half a minute this time.

She yanked her hands back and rubbed her eyebrows. And then her hands.

The first seemed like an excuse to not meet anyone's gaze, the second looked like dramatically affected blood guilt. Which he doubted was her first intent.

"Child!" she said, "Kirk, Come."

Kirk came over and let Robbie take his hand, while he faced the woman a head taller than he was.

"His spirit isn't where it belongs, hold his hand to help him stay grounded while I go looking for it."

"Huh?" said Kirk.

"Just hold his hand, or let him sit in your lap if you'd both rather, but I want access to his back, at least to start with."

Kirk and Robbie shared a look. Robbie hopped up.

Byron and Mary tried to scoot away to give them space, but they were already intent on moving to the other couch and settling down again.

The woman that Padma addressed as 'Great Aunt Margaid' crouched before them and laid a hand near the centre of Robbie's back.

For half a minute they were still.

"Alright," she said, "From the top, someone's pet griffon, someone (I infer first child) forced him through a transformation without understanding the ritual they were using to accomplish it and neglected to preserve his spirit across the transformation, the ritual did not intentionally disconnect it, merely did not take the necessary steps to preserve and protect it across the transformation."

"Do griffons have spirits?" said Padma.

"Normally, not so you'd notice," said Margaid, "Mammals and other creatures that give birth to live young, usually the genetics contain the instructions for physical development, and whatever spirit they get is constructed for and around them while they are in the womb. Imprinting can also take place during that time, though doesn't always.

"Whereas egg-layers construct their spirit from the start, subsuming bits of material shed by the adult incubating them, or when fate so determines, collecting an entire free-floating spirit wholesale, giving rise to reincarnation theory."

"Um," said Padma, "I don't hold — wait! … are you saying that reincarnation does happen?"

"Can happen, no guarantees."

"Oh, huh."

"And egg-layers generally imprint to the first thing they see that seems mostly adult-sized.

"Griffons are mammals that hatch from eggs, they will construct spirits after a pattern copied from their incubating parent or parents, but their parents are usually other griffons: largely awful two-natured hunter-bullies."

Kirk wrinkled his nose and hugged Robbie tighter.

"They usually make even worse familiars than natural birds. But it has long been known that if you steal a griffon egg from the nest early enough, and incubate it yourself, not merely with blankets and hot water bottles, you can hand raise them and end up with a familiar even more desirable than a cat. "And I'm saying, Robin's spirit was already mostly human-shaped before he hatched, and imprinted on the child who'd been given his egg to wear around his neck, near to his heart.

"Oh."

"As the relative who acquired and gifted the egg no doubt intended.

"Robin, you had a very nice life with your big brother. But I don't think he had the nicest life, he was much too young to be responsible for a baby griffon, let alone one with birth defects. I don't think I'd want to trust his parents' sanity too far. Nor would I want to send you back into that situation. I don't know what happened, there seem to be six to eighteen months missing between the last memories in your spirit and the first unsealed memories in your body."

Robin just stared at her.

"Do you want those memories?" said Margaid.

Robin shrugged shyly, "I get them in my dreams sometimes."

Margaid paused for several seconds, then nodded, "Which proves that your souls are already trying to merge again. Good. I'll make you a necklace to help that happen faster and more reliably. Do you want me to extort the key from the man who encrypted your memories, or are you willing to go through life not knowing why you were taken from your first brother and abandoned … where you found yourself?"

Robin shrugged.

"Do you want … no, you're not equipped to answer that. I will check on your first brother. Find out if he's safe."

"Ok," Robin said.

"Originally I was going to check the hospital for your medical records, but if your birth defects were as a griffon they wouldn't have been investigated at Saint Mungo's, I'm not sure where to go looking for them."

Robin shrugged.

She stood and turned to Padma, "Permission to scour your library for literature on mind healing, mind alchemy, and necromancy."

Padma sighed dramatically. "Do you think the Potter Library would have any of that?"

"Not a lot, granted," said Margaid, "But it's more accessible and less booby-trapped, and probably more ethically sourced than whatever your sister's adopted family's library is likely to contain. Maybe it won't have the exact design I need, but I'd rather have the introductory view before I take the plunge there."

"Yes, of course," said Padma, "And when you've scoured the top shelf we can explore the mystery closet together."

"With backup does sound ideal," agreed Margaid.

Padma nodded.

"Thank you," said Margaid and turned towards the door, as she crossed the room she gave an inverse shrug as if donning a winter coat, and her clothes became full-length and fine green velvet.

Maybe not quite something that a high society lady might wear while donating outrageous sums of money to a public library. Maybe more like, the sort of thing a high society lady might wear to a library or school to lead a reading time for disadvantaged children. Something to be comfortable for the children while also seeming untouchable enough to allay the suspicions of the school board.

The door slammed shut behind her.

"Who was that?" said Mary into the echoing silence.

"She helps us with homework," said two of the children.

"One of Harry's prisoners," said Padma, "My great aunt."

"What's she a prisoner for?" said someone.

"Trying to steal Harry's fortune," said Byron.

They all turned to look at him.

"I remember her," said Byron, "it took me until I saw her in real clothes. She came by and tried to 'requisition' a lot of documents based on a very ancient power of attorney document."

"What?"

"The government changes these things every few years. There's no way a fifteen-year-old signed over any power of attorney to manage his stock on a new piece of paper, freshly printed in a twenty-five-year-old style. We fobbed her off for as long as we could with investment documents that anyone is allowed to have. Eventually, she got what she wanted. I'm beginning to suspect she cheated."

"She always cheats," said Padma, "when she's motivated."

"And when she's not motivated?" said Mary.

"She lays around and pretends to be a snake," said Freyazegen, "I'm … I'm going home."

Padma looked up, then sprang up and went to hug her tight.

Not to be outdone Andy went to her also.

They whispered a little, then Padma let go and the other two disappeared.

As if they were only stickers which could be ripped straight from the pages of life in a direction that Byron did not have words for.

"Where did they go?" said Mary.

"Wotcher … gave them a ride home," said Padma, "Now that you are read in on magic, I'm requesting Harry give you access to Wotcher."

"What's that like?" said Mary.

"Like being able to fax thoughts at people," said Padma, "Or request maps of plants you've helped cultivate. Or request portkey transportation to the general vicinity of any of those plants, within reason."

Mary stiffened.

Byron looked at her.

She had a glassy-eyed stare. "I can see … my flowerbeds, and a few grape vines, and … Chelsea."

Padma smiled.

"Why does she get to see Chelsea and we don't?" said Robbie.

Padma sighed, "Wotcher is not especially smart about relationships. The only relationships she was made to see extremely well, are parent to child, specifically so she could track who she belongs to and when they are old enough to give her orders. I'm not sure that she has watched you and Chelsea for long enough to know how you feel about each other. And even if she has, she might notice Chelsea taking care of you long before she'd notice you taking care of her. And besides that, she's mostly not allowed to talk about people when they are inside a house other than yours."

"Oh," said Robbie.

"I think we should go home," said Mary.

There were any number of reasons for that to be a good idea. Including that Chelsea was ignoring her bedtime, either accidentally by losing track of time. Or intentionally because her new parents weren't home, and they hadn't yet gained her trust that they would come home.

"Alright, let's do that," said Byron standing up and turning to offer his hand to Mary, "Padma, please pass along our thanks for an enjoyable and enlightening evening."

Mary climbed to her feet only pausing a moment to rub Robbie's back in farewell.

"Tell them yourself," said Padma, "you've got Wotcher mail now."

"And I will try to figure out how to use it, but in the meantime?"

Padma shrugged an acquiescence that experience Byron taught not to trust, he'd write out his thank you note long hand and mail it, more likely for it to be saved and passed to the correct parties if it couldn't just cease to exist the moment that someone got distracted.

"Will Raven Queen get me my magic back?"

"I have no idea," said Padma.

"Will she kill August?" Robbie asked behind them as they made their way to the door.

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Padma, "But not until she's sure it wouldn't hurt you further."

"Oh," said Robbie, "will you?"

"I might have," said Padma, "if I didn't trust her much more than myself, about knowing how to research these things. Do any of you want more food? Or music?"

.

"What do you think?" said Byron as they drove home. He'd wondered if Mary was going to try the magic shortcut. It didn't make sense for both of them to do so. They'd still need the car in the morning.

"It's a lot to take in," said Mary, "And I'm partly … reserving judgment until I check how much Chelsea is willing to confirm."

"There's a lot of sense in that," said Byron, "But … once you accept that telepathy exists, checking the stories of two parties against each other becomes useless."

"No more useless than if the parties coordinated their story before you separated them," said Mary, "We watched people vanish, and one change from a two-and-a-half meter snake into a 170cm woman. It makes no sense to assume that whatever make-believe realm the children might have made up to comfort themselves at their orphanage was delusional when the reality demonstrated is odder than anything they asked us to believe for their benefit."

"Touche."

"No, I was more trying to get at. If Chelsea is older than all of them except Padma, I'd expect her to have a more nuanced take."

"I wonder how far out of accepted wisdom our tour guides would have had to go," said Byron, "before that snake woman would have intervened to offer corrections."

"Hmm," said Mary.

"She doesn't exactly have a stellar reputation with the truth so far as I can tell, and yet, I'm having trouble finding any hooks to model her motivations."

"If she is a prisoner," said Mary, "She might be masking her motivations for additional reasons than whatever counts as her normal level of criminality."

Ok, yes, That was also a worry.

"I was trying not to give in to the stereotype that literature is providing me for monstrously old witches who like to turn into snakes and have some kind of unnatural beauty, but maybe I'm working too hard, given the rumours about her criminality."

"Humph," said Mary, "Not saying that's right or wrong, but Harry … also hasn't exactly won my trust. If their law allows him to keep her a prisoner, that's interesting. But is he doing a responsible job keeping her contained when she seems to assume she'll be let out on a whim to terrorise a hospital's records department, and in between times is known to … it seemed like, terrorise Phoebe's … child."

"That poor girl," said Byron.

"You saw it too?" said Mary.

"No," said Byron, "I did see that the abruptness of her departure must mean something, and Padma's reaction confirmed it. But no, I could not interpret what it meant. What I referred to is … I cannot imagine transitioning between male and female, the transition between boy and man was quite horrible enough for me. And there are social traditions in place to support that transition. I cannot imagine what it's like to transition in a direction that society isn't prepared for."

"What are you saying?"

"Separating linguistic gender from social roles," said Byron, "children are a different class of beings than adults, at least in the eyes of the law, and being married is different again, and adults with children are yet again a different social role with different responsibilities piled on us not just socially but legally as well. Even when those changes are desired and sought after, they are still changes.

"I think various languages recognise each of those as important enough to recognise with a difference in address if not also a difference in pronoun. Some languages don't even use pronouns. When the traditions fit comfortably, stating that you're Mrs now, or Chelsea's Mum? Hmm, you get the support you are entitled to. And the prestige."

"I suppose."

"When the traditions don't fit comfortably, I imagine an unwanted marriage or being responsible for an unwanted child. Sure you can claim certain rights and privileges by stating your role, but it might … hurt to do so if the role isn't the one you wanted."

"Do you remember that my sister's husband is from Spain, and they kept both their family names?"

"Yes," said Byron, "I probably owe them an apology for not knowing how to deal with that for a year or two."

"That's … huh, alright."

"Since then I've noticed a few families doing hyphenated names," said Byron.

"We haven't brought it up with Chelsea, but we probably should," said Mary, "her adoption would be the ideal time for her to change her name if she wants to."

"Good point," said Byron.

"How much would you freak out if I offered her our names hyphenated as if we'd gone that route?"

"I'd think it very odd," said Byron, "unless you are also going to change ours to match."

Mary sighed, "I might be asking for that," she said.

"I'm not fundamentally against it," said Byron, "but it will take a horrendous amount of paperwork to get it all changed over."

"True," said Mary, "I'm not sure if I'm asking for that, at this late date, or only mourning the fact that I didn't know to ask for it twenty-three years ago."

"Twenty-four," said Byron.

"Oh, don't be autistic," muttered Mary.

"Too late," said Byron flippantly.

Mary burst out laughing and laid her hand on his thigh, she knew better than to touch him anywhere else while he was driving.

"Would hyphenating our names make you happy?" Byron asked.

"No," said Mary, "but it would have made me less unhappy for about two weeks half a lifetime ago."

That was annoyingly ambiguous. It didn't tell Byron what he was supposed to say next. Eventually, he gave up and tried to figure out why she'd been unhappy. A name was just a name, like a phone number or an address, it's what people called you when they wanted your attention.

But no. They were specifically talking about last names, about family names.

It did seem unbalanced that men kept their names and women did not, surely women liked to remember what family they were from as much as men did.

And children likewise … Byron remembered his maternal grandmother with warmth and awe and …

"Do you suppose," said Byron, "That Chelsea would like to keep her old name, or have it hyphenated with ours?"

"That's plausible," said Mary, "Or she might want to be rid of it."

"Depending on whether her memories of it are good or bad," said Byron.

"Among other things," said Mary

"I think we should offer that," said Byron, "and leave it up to her."

"That's very big of you," said Mary.

Byron shrugged.

"You really think Freyazegen is a girl now?"

"What?" said Byron, "woman, yes, very obviously."

"Huh?"

"I was sure she was one of Ben's sisters or cousins until she wrinkled her nose the way he used to. At which point it was obvious that they were the same being, merely leaving the question um, I don't know how to say this, just … a boy that is going to mature into a woman instead of a boy that is going to mature into a man. I'm not sure how to say this, it seems an obvious concept to me, English just happens to be missing a word for it. I've complained before that English is missing a lot of words."

"Because human physiology is missing a need for that concept," said Mary.

"Human physiology is obviously incomplete," said Byron, "but harder to amend than language."

"Incomplete how?" said Mary.

"Everyone should be as smart as me, as a baseline," said Byron, "and as empathetic as you. I'd say something about your beauty also, but you'd let it distract you from— Ow! Ow, Damn it Mary, I'm driving here."

Mary laughed and rubbed at the pain of where she'd pinched him.

"See if I don't cut your fingernails in your sleep," said Byron.

"You'd better not," she pouted.

Byron took his eyes off the road to smile fondly at her. There, everything is better. He put his eyes back on the road.

"What did you mean by … it being obvious that … Ben or Freyazegen is going to mature into a woman?"

Byron shrugged, "I meant that she felt like a woman to be around, probably smell. I'm just confused because … my memory says that usually, teenagers feel like that to me at the middle of their transition to adulthood not at the end, like at twelve to fourteen not at seventeen. Perhaps they've got her dosage of something ungodly high to compensate for waiting so long to start. Or maybe my memory is bunk."

Mary rubbed her face like he'd just stuck his foot in it somewhere.

"What did I say?" said Byron.

"I'm … not going to say right now," said Mary, "I'm going to wait and find out if you are right before I confuse both of us by trying to correct you."

"Oh," said Byron.

Mary sighed, "Alright, I need to sleep on that several times before I'm ready to discuss it, so … leaving the subject Phoebe's children for now. I want to mention that I am still exasperated at you for being autistic at a Christmas Gala."

"Which time?" said Byron. He was proud of himself for remembering all those old Christmas songs. Almost as proud of himself for noticing the discrepancies in their versions and not complaining about them … not out loud anyway.

"And I quote, 'Augustina Bloomfield's cancer treatment and disability pay,'?"

Humph! "I'm paid to use my autism in the man's favour, he ought to know what he's buying."

"That is a horrid excuse to not control yourself and you know it."

"Humph."

"Anyway," said Mary, "I love your autism, but not everyone is prepared for it."

"So you tell me, but … something about the whole atmosphere tonight, I won't say it was comfortable, (because it wasn't), but it was … welcoming?"

"Oh," said Mary, "do you … think they did that on purpose?"

"I have no idea how they managed, but I suspect that it was intentional."

"Hmm, go on?"

Byron used the fact that he was driving to suppress any feeling of awkwardness that he didn't have anything ready to verbalise right away.

I didn't see Harry interacting with Freyazegen, but from the peasant devotion that I saw going the other way, I have to assume that she feels safe there.

But we're leaving her aside.

"He had the top two echelons of officers from both wineries, and the new vegetable farm, I didn't recognise at least half of the others, but if a third of them are officers of this firm that sells cosmetics and pharmaceuticals to mages, that leaves an entire third of the guests to be officers from two more big firms? And that is not the vibe I got from some of them. Though perhaps mage still fits."

"Brionna and her daughter were there," said Mary, "Do you think that was a family connection rather than business?"

"I don't know?" said Byron, "And that man in brown, Luna's father? Something Lovegood."

"Yes, he seemed half out of touch and half itching for some sort of argument."

"Ah," said Byron, "But yes, if half of our unknown guests were family connections, plausibly mages? That leaves a sixth of the guests unaccounted for."

Mary hummed thoughtfully, "refusing to bow to modern fashion, might imply that the mages have separate clothiers and whatever trends they're having aren't ones we recognise."

"I'm afraid I cannot keep up with fashion," said Byron, "not mentally at least. I'll continue to take your advice about evening wear."

"That's not my point," said Mary, "Do you suppose magic can be used to make clothes last longer? Their progression of fashion trends might move relatively slowly."

"I'm under the impression that the economics of signalling implies that the more excess wealth one might need to signal about, the faster the treadmill must spin to demonstrate everyone's relative ability to keep up, or not."

"Yes, and no," said Mary, "And they might just be in a different phase of the 'retro' spiral than we're at."

"And they may choose to signal wealth with something other than clothing. Business card stock or capital gains reports or what have you."

"True!" said Mary, "I wonder if ostentatious displays were happening that we couldn't interpret. Or if the mage community is small enough, hmm, if it is sufficiently small, there are 'small town' effects, you don't need to flash your wealth or power when everyone who needs to know your status already does."

"Ah! True. And Harry did introduce us around … somewhat. It might be interesting to watch how many of those guests re-appear next year. Etc."

"Yes, and if … did you catch the same implications that I did, that Freyazegen's decision to tell us about magic was ratified first by Padma and then by Harry."

"Are you pointing again at the question, about lines of power vs influence vs trustful delegation? Or are you planning a social campaign into this mage community whether they want you there or not?"

"Heh, all of the above," said Mary the smugness thick in her voice, "But I figure I don't need to be too aggressive about amassing social capital if the only thing I'll ever have to use it on is easing the way for Chelsea's children, if she won't want my help with that anyway."

"Certainly," said Byron.

"Conversely," said Mary, "Freyazegen seems to be developing into someone to ally with, and her mother isn't exactly the type to … ease anyone's way anywhere. I'll have to consider it carefully. Hmm."

Well, there she went, she'd be plotting for months. And all Byron would ever know about it would be interesting people to meet and dinner invitations being exchanged.

Maybe an investment opportunity here or there.

Should be fun.

Everyone should have hobbies.

...-...

An unexpected welcome

Draco made his way to his room. He wasn't tipsy but he was that pleasant shade of drunk that let him see the humour in discrepancy instead of only his usual paranoia that plans were afoot and he ought to get to the bottom of them (to decide whether to buy in, or subvert them, or stop them.)

For instance, tonight watching Hermione's parents trying to provide a yule party for Hermione and her house members with only a skeleton of a description of what was involved and some symbolic interpretation of why.

Buying blankets and tents and canned food to distribute to all the little muggle refugee enclaves was an odd choice but it did precisely fit with the holiday theme. Especially since Hermione's parents seemed to think that they had money to spare but were overtaxed on space at the moment.

(Draco was not clear what was going on in the muggle world that there were refugee enclaves, but he was too proud of his reputation for knowing things to ask in public.)

And Draco figured twice as many people could fit in this house. Not comfortably, but could fit.

Anyway, it had kept everyone who couldn't cook out of the way while the big meal was being prepared, then they returned, had a proper holiday meal, and intermittent dancing (around a stereo instead of a live band), etc.

There was wine and butterbeer, (except for Kat,) someone had clued Hermione's parents in that far at least. "Yes, we drink and enter contracts at thirteen, (preferably not at the same time, obviously!). All other adult rights at seventeen, or appropriate certification tests, or when our parents deem us ready."

.

So Draco was pleasantly full and pleasantly drunk, and it was after midnight, so he'd done his duty. He wasn't the host so he didn't have to stay up until all the guests had left or gone to bed.

And so he climbed the stairs to his room and made his way (deliberately) through his evening ablutions.

He was just drunk enough to remember (and be annoyed), that Hermione had called it 'Harry's Room' the first two times Hermione's parents had asked which room he'd be sleeping in. Because Harry had picked it for himself the first time he visited when he hadn't dared believe that he'd have been welcome to pick the guest suite across the hall.

.

Draco had later determined that the question was about sleeping arrangements. And how they had originally divided with Hermione's suite becoming The Girls' Suite, and the guest suite across the hall being labelled The Boys' Suite.

But that had devolved over time with Pansy never sleeping in her assigned bed, at first with Hermione, until it became: with Hermione until Hermione's resting mind had hatched a plot that she wanted to run by Theo, so she'd send Pansy off to summon Theo, at which point it would be Theo sprawled beside her until they fell asleep or until the plot was dismissed, and Pansy would be in Greg or Vince's bed.

Which Kat intermittently took as permission to invade Theo's bed (if he hadn't yet been summoned that night). Or maybe that dates back to that first Christmas at Hogwarts. But it had eventually spread here. And of course, some of these developments had taken place at Harry's Manor over the summer. Where they all shared a single suite, but at least the individual bedrooms within it were big enough.

Rumours were that Hermione's parents were half bemused, half annoyed.

Draco had the feeling that they still had not gotten over it, but Hermione had said something to mostly shut them up, and stop them from bringing attention to the difference between what mage culture and muggle culture found acceptable.

Rumours were the final argument involved the hypothetical of Hermione demanding Theo's help making an heir, and whether it would still count as statutory rape when both of them were forty.

Draco still wasn't clear what was 'statutory' about rape. He usually had more interesting puzzles to solve when he was in the mood to revise the law.

.

Fifteen seconds after he slipped under the covers his door swung open.

Draco looked up, it was Astoria, her back-lit hair creating a mundane sort of halo. The rest of her also glowed faintly, probably some slight over-channelling.

"Hey Astoria, What's up?" he murmured.

"Hey Draco," she said, "It's just … I enjoyed tonight."

"Yeah," said Draco.

"I'm tired and ready to sleep. But I'm not ready for it to be over, I just want to sit and let it be a pure memory of itself for a while longer; before I close my eyes and let more nightmares mix in with it."

"Fair enough," said Draco, "Me too. Do you want to sit in here?"

"Yeah, Please," she said, but she didn't sit in the chair, she lifted the bedclothes and climbed in next to him.

Draco took a deep breath while he decided how (and if) to respond to that.

And she smiled like she'd taken that as a purr of relaxing, not of disapproval.

Draco gave up, he couldn't stay angry at her.

Partly because he couldn't distrust her enough to need his anger as a defence.

Also, she didn't lay down like she intended to stay, she sat with her back against the headboard, like she was just hanging out for a while, and would leave eventually.

Hermione had done that once or twice. The first time might have been last Christmas Eve, and when he'd objected, she reminded him that she was required by tradition to be gone (and asleep) by midnight so that Saint Nicolas's helper elves could tell which bed to deliver presents to.

That had been a really complicated fallacy to have fabricated as an excuse, Draco had been too much in awe to demand time to share the several-page rebuttal it would have required. Instead, he'd maintained his silence and let her have the interview that she'd wanted, it had only taken 12 minutes or something. A proper rebuttal would have taken twice as long, or longer.

Astoria stayed and glowed. She played with her hair and reminded him of bits of the evening that had made a special impression.

Draco heard her out.

She ran down in about ten minutes and started quizzing him about similar.

Based on the complexity and nuance of her previous monologue, Draco had an idea about what level she was operating at. And with his current state of pleasant inebriation, he knew better than to go much deeper anyway, if he confused her, he'd only confuse himself further trying to find out where she'd gotten confused. So he kept it simple.

And then she stole a pillow and slipped lower under the covers.

"Should I take it that you're staying?" said Draco.

"Do you mind?" she said.

"Less than I would have predicted," said Draco.

She sighed through her nose and Draco could almost guarantee she was smiling.

.

Almost a minute later she spoke again, "Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you have nightmares about?"

"Huh?"

"When I said I didn't want to sleep yet because I wanted my memories of tonight to be easier to remember first, you agreed about nightmares getting mixed up in things. What do you have nightmares about?"

"Oh, well random shite, things going wrong, the costs of plans failing, the costs of plans succeeding, whether I should change my plans. Normal stuff, I guess."

"Oh, ok."

"Why, what do you have nightmares about?"

She shrugged, "Since part way through the summer, until we finished the ritual, I had a lot of nightmares about doing a different ritual and it failing."

"Oh, oof, how was it different?"

"I don't know exactly, it was all Daphne and Padma and Harry and Susan working on it, and I don't think any of them are all that strong on things like healing and bio-alchemy and astronomy, like we used, just on arithmancy and potions."

"That's interesting, why them?"

"Because umm, back before the arrests and we petitioned for there to be a House of Granger, umm, I was umm … kidnapped?"

"What? When?"

"At school," said Astoria, "An older ravenclaw, I don't remember his name, he just caught me as I left the staircase down from the astronomy tower, and levitated me far enough off track that no one trying to retrace my steps would have found us."

"Oh no, what happened?"

"He figured out that I was magically exhausted from keeping warm and already out of breath from the stairs and keeping me excited was making me worse actually, and I was likely to die of it and he let me go again, muttering about wanting a quiet way to blackmail Daphne into something, not the scandal of murdering me by an accidental heart attack."

"Wow, what did you do?"

"I was tired and cold, I went to bed," said Astoria, "But a lot of my nightmares start with me going to Daphne instead, and her taking me to Harry and them for help getting revenge or whatever. Then we and Tracy often end up in the House of Potter instead. Or maybe just hang out with them a lot. You know. Sometimes Daphne is his girlfriend. Sometimes Padma is her girlfriend. Always if we ask them to do something about my curse, one of the things they try is whether Harry turning me invisible makes my curse lose track of me and go away."

Draco restrained his urge to pick her up and carry her away to hide her behind wards that Harry would not be able to find her behind. But neither he nor Harry were dragons, and Harry wasn't like that, regardless of how easy it was to accuse his adoptive instincts of seeming dragonish from the outside.

"Did it work?"

"Not … precisely, I think it gave me an indefinite pause, but not a cure. Like the curse wouldn't torment me while I was invisible, but as soon as I came back it would find me again. The most practical thing was to sleep like that. Since the curse is slow to damage and gradual to wear off I guess, if half of the time it couldn't do anything to me, then it was half as bad, you know, but it wasn't a cure.

"But it did have other odd effects, like … in one nightmare while I was under that sulking about yet another ritual failing, I gave up and tried to kill myself. It didn't work, which is odd. I always succeed in killing myself in my nightmares. Anyway, I did succeed, a cutting charm through one's heart is kind of permanent if you refuse to tell anyone that you have done so, but I didn't die all night, sleeping well but with a silly amount of pain, only to die and wake up from the nightmare the moment I got visible."

"Harry's magic having an odd relationship to death," said Draco, "sounds plausible, but sleeping soundly without a functioning heart is not plausible."

"Humph," said Astoria, "I sleep soundly all the time, but my heart functions just fine, and thanks to you (and the others), now my blood functions just fine also."

"Sure," said Draco, "You're welcome."

She rolled over and laid an arm over him. Her careful confidence made him suspect that this wasn't her first time sharing a bed. For a moment he worried, but he decided that there was no way she got this far without going to her sister for comfort on the regular, they just never saw the need to talk about it.

"Since the ritual," said Astoria in a much quieter voice, "most of my nightmares have been about trying to complete the ritual without stopping to ask Theo's permission. And how badly that would have gone."

Draco swallowed and managed to keep from trying to model the arithmancy of how things would start failing first.

"But the rest of my nightmares," said Astoria now in a true whisper, "are about going back to school, and people realising that I'm just resilient enough to capture without destroying. And things going much worse than last time."

"Hmm," said Draco, "Yeah, that is frightening, do you want an escort or something."

"I want to be bloody fecking invincible like Pansy."

"That will take a while," said Draco, "And a lot of work."

"I'm not afraid of work," said Astoria, "My heart is ridiculously strong I think, from always running on a treadmill made of honey instead of on a real racetrack like everyone else."

That was … at least partly plausible. Her spirit at least was much stronger and more resilient than seemed normal. Or maybe … if the resilience of a spirit could be measured in as many separate dimensions as might be required, some of them were normal sized for her age, but others were all out of proportion due to her experience.

"I see," said Draco.

"Um," she said, "Thank you for the enchanted exercise belt and gloves and sandals."

There it was.

"You're welcome," said Draco.

"I mean it," she said, "Thank you."

"I heard you Astoria," said Draco. He rolled closer and kissed her forehead, "I listened before when you said what you wanted, and I listened when you hinted why you wanted them, though you hadn't told me about the failed abduction yet, and I found something that could help, not just at the beginning, or the middle or the end, but for a lot of the journey. It's not the only tool you need, but it seemed like the most useful one to get first."

"Oh, um."

"I heard you, and I said, you're welcome."

"Oh," said Astoria like she'd been rebuked. Which wasn't quite what Draco had intended.

"Do you know what, 'you're welcome' means?"

"Umm? Possibly not."

"If you're the jealously honourable type, it means you don't owe a debt about it, you can relax. If you're the selfish bratty type, it means, you haven't used up your gift credit yet, challenge me by asking for something bigger. And if you're mature enough to want something more valuable than the gifts, it means I have declared that our friendship as worth more than the gift, so take that into account when you're deciding how much gifts or favours you consider investing in the friendship from your side."

"Sounds like something that the new defence professor would say."

Draco smiled, "I suppose he does have a perspective on the mechanics of interpersonal relationships that is … contagiously articulate."

"Whatever," said Astoria.

Draco smiled wider and flopped back, away from her and back onto his pillow.

.

"I also got a set for myself," said Draco, "to practice alongside you, and to make sure that I don't give you ridiculous advice about how much mass to add or how many hours a day to wear them."

"Oh," she said, "Have you tried putting your feet in the air, adding weight, and climbing to your feet before they float to the ground."

"How many stone of mass did you set them to?"

"All of them."

"32 stone of weight crashing to the floor at once, did you break the floor?"

"No?"

"Or your ankles?"

"No?"

Draco thought for a second and imagined the scenario again. Oh, because they simulated mass not weight, she hadn't dropped 32 stone of weight, she'd launched a weightless mass of 32 stone, and then climbed on top of it while it settled to the floor, the total impact against the floor was the same as dropping herself the same distance, just slowed down by about one in six, because she was painfully slight. (Though she was already looking better since the ritual a week ago.)

"Alright," said Draco, and he explained how mass and weight were two different things, and the exercise straps only simulated mass.

She started making up ridiculously dangerous things to try, like throwing a glove as hard as she could then adding mass tokens while it was in the air, to see how high it would get, or to see how hard it could be travelling when it landed.

"You do realise that they're made out of leather?" said Draco, "Thin, comfortable leather, you do tricks like that, they're liable to disintegrate the first or second time you smash them into anything that hard. I don't know what the embedded rune medallions are made from, but I wouldn't count on them lasting much longer to that kind of abuse."

"Oh," she said, "alright never mind."

"If I catch you breaking anything or hurting anyone with them, I'm going to confiscate your 16-, 8-, and 4-stone tokens."

"Why does it go so high anyway, are there people who can walk around with 32 stone in their shoes or gloves?"

"There are people who can lift that much, yes. No, I don't think anyone does endurance practice with that much. And you wanted endurance, for staying power in a fight, or escaping, not for silly power tricks for fame."

"Yeah," said Astoria.

"So pushing around half a stone around your wrists and ankles all day while you live your life is a better exercise for you than sitting around for half an hour, twice a week, to throw around eight times as much."

"Sure." She agreed.

After a few minutes, she said, "You know?" she'd switched into an accent she had copied from Kat, who'd copied it from Theo, who'd copied it from Draco.

Here it comes.

Draco used that tone for a completely different kind of mocking than Theo or Kat, so this would be interesting.

"There are 14 pounds to a stone, but the mass tokens are in sixteenths of a stone."

"True."

"And in your letter, you called them pounds, but they aren't."

"You are correct that they aren't pounds," said Draco, "But you are making an assumption about what I meant in my card."

"Hmm?" she wiggled up onto her elbow and looked down at him.

"The stupid things come with fractions down to a 64th or 512th, I thought that was ridiculous and not worth either of our time, prove me wrong and we'll go buy a different set."

"Oh." She lay down again.

"Anyway, I wrote your card before I decided which set to buy you."

"Humph."

"And my advice about not going too fast is valid regardless of how the tokens are valued, as long as the smallest available denomination is smaller than or equal to the 1 pound increment I advised."

"Humph,"

"And a sixteenth plus a 128th is very close to a 14th."

"I don't believe you."

"Ask Kat how many per cent off I am."

She was quiet for a while.

"Humph," she said at last.

"Humph?"

"Humph," she said again.

"Are you going to ask Kat? Or Theo?"

"No, a per cent is a 100th, if you've already gone as close as a 128th can get you, you're closer than a per cent."

"There you go," said Draco.

Astoria sighed.

Draco was preparing himself to explain that he suspected the smaller mass sets weren't for exercise, in the strict sense, they were for practice judging the mass or density of things merely by picking them up. Like sorting oysters that had pearls or which dragon frogs that were with young.

But she didn't object, so he didn't explain.

Or maybe that sigh had been a yawn. And she was asleep now.

Draco too drifted off.

...-...

{End Chapter 14}