Sympathetic Properties

by Mr Norrell

Having been treated as a servant his entire life, Harry is more sympathetic when Dobby arrives, avoiding Vernon's wrath and gaining a bit of freedom. That freedom changes his summer, his life, and the world forever. A very long character-driven story that likes to play with canon.

42. Snips of Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

AN: This chapter's dedicated to kgfinkel because I've deleted the synopsis he asked for from this Author's Note. ;)

Warning: There's quite a bit of swearing in this one.

.o0O0o.

This week was shaping up to be a bad one, and it was only Tuesday. It felt like a Thursday to him though, but having a lot of work to do could do that to you. It almost made him wish he could torture the kid at the root of all this by hauling him around and yammering about legal difficulties like he knew the boy couldn't get enough of. Knowing he'd soon be suffering through Professor Binns's lectures just wasn't the same.

"How dare you make the implication!" the old woman thundered at him from the front steps of her country home. "I've never done anything so unethical in all my life. Have you forgotten who you're speaking to, sir?"

"No, Minister Bagnold, I haven't," Lester replied as he let the woman's ire wash over him. "But who you are doesn't change–"

"It was a very different time," the former Minister proclaimed, as if that would change anything either. "Difficult decisions had to be made. Without Dumbledore, the whole country would've broken apart. Whatever he's become, he was a beacon of order and stability, the very things we needed most," Millicent Bagnold continued, almost as if she'd never retired from public life at all. "We couldn't have him resign just after we'd won. What sort of message would it have sent?"

"So to keep him where you wanted, you gave him Harry Potter," Lichfield said with finality.

"It wasn't anything like that," Bagnold protested with a dismissive wave. "Dumbledore was the only one who cared for the boy. Who better to have him?"

"It still doesn't change the facts," Lester stubbornly growled. "Crouch violated Ministry laws and guidelines, threw Sirius Black into Azkaban – trampling his right to a trial – and Dumbledore was going to resign in protest because you let it happen. You refused to do the right thing, and to buy Dumbledore's silence and support you gave him Harry Potter."

"Good luck proving it in your Inquiry," she said caustically as she drew herself up regally, which was quite a feat for someone in a dressing gown and curlers.

"I'm not with the Ministry, Minister," he reminded her in what he thought was a friendly growl. "Mine's a civil and criminal matter through Gringotts. And as luck would have it, we have the whole thing on Memory."

"Ha! Good luck getting it admitted into evidence then," the former Minister smiled. "Memories can be tricky things even in the best of times."

"Let me worry about that," Lichfield brushed the concern away. "I'm here as a courtesy, to let you know you may be called to testify."

"We'll see about that," Bagnold said imperiously before turning to duck back into her house and slam the door.

"That went well," he grumbled to himself as he turned to find a familiar snow white owl perched on the little wooden fence encircling the place. "Were you spying the whole time?" Lester asked as he made his way over. "Now what do you want?"

The bird angled its leg out, showing a letter tied to it dangling down to hide behind the fence. Withdrawing it, he read. It wasn't from the boy, like he assumed, and aside from a load of righteous indignation it only added more work for him to do. On the upside, it gave him an excuse to stop being courteous; that was getting him nowhere. The downside was it wasn't nearly as easy as it seemed.

Taking the more complicated and pressing issue first got him nowhere even faster than being courteous did, but it did give him a mighty headache. Dealing with anything related to publishing was enough to make him want to pull his hair out, roots and all, and it was just the beginning. After days spent talking to the Prophet and others about pictures, advertisements, rights and privacy, and what the law had to say about it, the whole thing seemed entirely straightforward and somehow an uncertain legal quagmire at the same time.

The Prophet put responsibility for using the girl's picture squarely on the advertiser while the advertiser blamed the Prophet for selling them the improper advertisement in the first place. The Prophet rebutted the claim saying the advertisement was fine and it was the picture that was the problem, which they claimed not to have any part in since it belonged to the photographer who took it. The photographer, of course, denied any culpability saying while he worked freelance for the Prophet most of the time, in this instance he merely used them to arrange the sale of the picture to the advertiser for them to use in the advertisement the Prophet was running.

It was the most effective runaround he'd ever seen. Nobody wanted to own what they were doing but everyone wanted to keep making money from it, so that was a wonderful thing to iron out. The advertiser ended up caving first though, thankfully, but who was to say what the girl would think about the proposed solution they'd come up with when she heard it?

Lester didn't know her well enough to know which way she'd jump, and trying to judge based on her letter and what she'd been getting up to on her own was no help at all. If the girl went about things the way she did in the letter then she'd take the sensible offer since it benefited all involved – but if she went after them the way she was going after Lockhart there'd be no compromising whatsoever. And to think, he'd thought she'd be the sensible one.

When it came to Witch Weekly and what was going on there, well, there the girl was out of luck. The magazine seemed to have right to publish what they wanted about the boy himself, and them as a couple, since being a celebrity made them a "public interest," which trumped their right to privacy as long as they didn't have a reasonable expectation of privacy in the first place, so dates and public displays of affection seemed fair game to report on. And before he could even think to argue for more privacy for her since she wasn't a public figure she had to go and elevate herself to it by picking a fight with a Hogwarts professor on the front page of the Prophet.

Days wasted with almost nothing to show for it, though one thing he found in the newest issue of Witch Weekly was something worth looking into.

"You must be mad if you think I'm going to stop," the second irritated old woman of the week said scathingly as she shoved his Cease and Desist Order back at him as the clacking and bangs of a printing press could be heard coming from somewhere nearby. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be beloved for your work? These aren't just some variation on Ministry mandates and derivative drivel I've plodded my way through, these are passion projects – which makes them better than any history.

"My Future Adventures of Harry Potter series brings something new and original to the readers' lives," the batty Bagshot broad belched at him. "They touch a deeply neglected part of them, waking their dormant desires for exciting romantic adventures the likes of which they've hungered for but have never had. I've got thousands of orders pouring in from all over the country, I can't let my readers down – I won't let them down," she finished determinedly.

"The smut you're peddling can hardly be called original when you have to use an orphan boy's name, description, and tragic past just to get anyone to buy it," Lichfield countered derisively before brandishing the Order at her like the sword from her books. "The boy never authorized you to use his likeness to sell your filth, so it's in your best interest to Cease and Desist all this activity now or it'll only be worse for you," he warned her. "This business with Lockhart should tell you everything you need about how people respond to frauds."

"My stories are fiction, Mister Lichfield," she smugly replied. "Fiction, not fact. I know the low-intelligence crowd, like you, can't tell the difference, but I assure you, my readers can. So what exactly is the fraud they're supposed to get so outraged about?"

"Your intelligence must've been too high to notice I already told you," Lester returned gruffly. "You're illegally using Harry Potter's name and image without his permission, which opens up legal liability not only to you personally but your entire operation."

"You can't touch me or Bumblebee Press," she smiled condescendingly from her front step. "The permission you're going on about was given to me by Albus Dumbledore himself. He's the boy's guardian and not only encouraged me to explore my artistic genius but also secured the funding I needed to start publishing them myself. I fail to see how anyone's doing anything illegal here except you," Bagshot said sharply, "or do the words 'Tortious Interference' not mean anything to you?"

Lester smiled at the woman; it was so much more satisfying when they bit back.

"You should learn to read between the lines more often, Miss Bagshot," he said softly. "If you'd been paying attention you'd know how this will play out, and why. Your buddy Dumbledore never had the ability to let you use the boy's image; he lost any guardianship rights he may've had the instant he abandoned the boy on his aunt and uncle's doorstep, which was before any of your books were ever written."

"And if you knew Dumbledore," the woman said with an equally quiet menace, "you'd know he'd never abandon a child the way you're saying. And if you think he did, it's only because you have no idea what's going on."

"And I'm sure he'll say the same," Lester agreed, "but it won't make any difference. The world's turned against him, and we're going to win. So this is my warning to you: when we're done with him, Gringotts and the Potter Estate are coming after you.

"We'll take your money, your house, your precious books," he growled slowly, savoring the threat. "–Maybe we'll have a pretty bonfire with them – and we'll make sure your oh-so 'scholarly' reputation suffers worse than Dumbledore's and Lockhart's have combined. I'm sure it'll be a very cold winter for you in whatever drafty hovel you end up living out the rest of your days in. This is, of course, unless the Wizengamot feels so indebted to us for letting this happen they agree to lob you into Azkaban for it."

Bagshot's smile was far less confident, but it remained.

"It'll take more than your threats to turn me against Dumbledore," she said as she nervously wet her lips with her head held high. "If you think you'll win, it's only because Dumbledore hasn't even begun to fight."

The smut peddler turned and walked stiff-backed into her Godric's Hollow home. There was no slamming of doors with this woman though, which told him his threat would linger in the mind and fester over time. It wasn't the best case scenario but it was one he could work with.

Life as an Auror had taught him one thing: the threat of losing everything was a great motivator. It, to paraphrase Bagshot, 'touched a deeply neglected part' of the person you're threatening because they no longer knew how their fight to survive would end. No matter how confident they were in their allies and abilities, they could never be completely sure, and when it came to a choice between utter ruin and mere survival, all but the insane chose to survive.

'If I can tighten the screws against Dumbledore enough,' Lichfield surmised, 'she'll fold before he will. Who knows, if give her a deal, she might even be willing to testify against him if it means she keeps her house.'

Lester could live with that. And no doubt the boy wouldn't like the thought of putting anyone out on the streets either, no matter what kind of smut the woman had written starring him. She wasn't a Dursley, after all; they deserved whatever punishment they could devise for them after everything was said and done.

"Mipsy?" he called, looking down near his right knee where the little elf appeared with a pop!

"Yes, Mister Lichy?" Mipsy asked immediately. "Mister Lichy needs the briefcase? The Vials? The legal vellums? The midmorning snack?"

Lester looked more closely at the little elf; she'd become increasingly twitchy in the last few days, so maybe the girl's concern for her wasn't misplaced.

"Take me back to the office, please," he said instead, hoping to put off the concern for one more day. One quick pop! later they were at his office in Gringotts, and he was left to once again wonder at how quick, comfortable, and convenient house-elf apparition was compared to their own. It would've taken him a good ten minutes to walk through Diagon Alley and Gringotts, but here he was without even the getting-sucked-through-a-tube sensation which normally went with it.

Before he could begin to thank her and send her away with something to keep her busy, the silence of his office was intruded upon by the raucous sound of chaos coming from the Legal Department's common work area. Remembering the general dislike of Mipsy's kind goblins had from the last time he brought her in, he motioned for her to stay quiet as he made his way to the door. Peeking out, he saw the flurry of activity – gofers running around, a lot of contract experts flipping through legal tomes and consulting thick stacks of paper – but nothing to tell him what all the fuss was about.

"Wait here," he told Mipsy as he slipped out and closed the door.

In the midst of the activity he saw Bladvak hold court with one contract goblin or another before they went back to work, so he headed in his direction.

"What's all this about?" Lester asked when he got there. "The Wizengamot pass some new restrictions on us?" he offered, knowing the Gringotts rumor mill had been working overtime with the possibility.

"Ha!" Bladvak laughed in response, "I almost wish they had, especially if they went for the Isle of Gringotts, then we could've just ignored them. No, this is worse."

"How much worse?" he prompted in return, "And what the 'this' that's worse?"

"Dolores Umbridge, the banshee your lot made Chief Warlock, that's what's worse," the goblin said, looking at him as if to ask where he'd been not to know this. "She decided to blow up the Wizengamot meeting by demanding they pass some unbelievably discriminatory wide-reaching legislation."

"And how'd it result in this?" Lichfield asked, nodding to the chaos around them.

"Because her law would make an entire segment of your population into non-Beings," Bladvak said with a sadistic grin before motioning him closer to explain the worst of it. What he said turned Lester's stomach.

"That's worse than she's ever done to werewolves," he grimaced as he stepped back again. "Worse than anything they've tried to do to your kind."

"All but once," Bladvak said, his rictus grin now showing hints of pointed teeth. "And we still responded with full-blown rebellion. These people haven't gone that far yet," the goblin said with a nod to the activity around them, "but it'd be interesting to see if they do. So far we're just getting inquiries about how to get out of contracts and what they could do for money if they had to end up fleeing the country."

Normally Lichfield would've asked if that wasn't a little extreme, but with what Umbridge was wanting to do… the extreme seemed necessary.

"With the Galleon being frozen out of foreign markets, money would certainly be a problem," Lester thought to himself out loud. "No foreign bank is going to honor any cheques of ours until the Stone issue is resolved and we can't give out any hard currency until it's all been checked."

"Now you see the cause of this chaos," Bladvak said pointedly.

"Well, at least the bill wasn't passed," he said, searching for an upside in all this. "Fudge getting the Wizengamot to table the issue by sending it to committee should buy people enough time to voice their concerns and come out against the issue."

"You think that'll help?" the goblin said with a look. "Wouldn't it just single them out as one of these 'other way' people they're after?"

Lichfield nodded gravely. It definitely put them in a difficult position.

"That reminds me," the goblin said suddenly, looking up at him shrewdly. "The Grand Overseer was looking for you. I believe it was something about getting your opinion on whether or not the bank should respond to these new developments."

As much as Lester wanted to, he was right at the line again, he felt it. On the safe side of it he was just a Litigator operating under the guise of the bailiff for the Potter Estate, and cooperating with Gringotts to bring their cases before the Wizengamot, while on the other he'd be a seen as a direct agent of Gringotts and the Goblin Nation it serves. It was a line that, for the good of everyone involved, he couldn't be seen on the wrong side of, no matter what he thought of the new developments.

"Unfortunately, I have something important which needs to be taken care of," Lichfield replied diplomatically, though Bladvak knew no more about his sensitive situation than most. "I'm sure the Grand Overseer will understand. But still," he added, after he'd half-turned away, "if I were a crafty goblin like you, I'd remind them great allies could be made by sticking up for the weak when bullies pick on them. It worked out very well for them with the shop owners, didn't it?" he asked meaningfully.

"It did indeed," the goblin said, nodding as he looked up at him with his shrewd smile back in place. "I'm sure the Grand Overseer will come to similar conclusions, there are many crafty goblins who work here, after all. But, if he should ask," the goblin interjected when Lichfield had turned away again, no doubt wondering why Lester was passing this advancement opportunity on to him rather than taking it himself, "where should I say you're going?"

"I'm off to do the most important thing I've done all week," Lester said seriously, before giving him a wink. "I'm going to see a dentist."

.o0O0o.

"This makes three Weekend Prophets in a month," the frustrated wizard said as he and his companion passed her in the alley, hurrying in the other direction as her stomach did flips worse than flying on a broom ever caused. "I've never seen the news get like this. Cuffe's mad if he thinks we can keep going like this forever."

"Barnabas the Barmy, I call him," the woman next to him said as their voices faded away. "How are we supposed to report this out in a day?"

Molly blocked out what they were talking about and took a few soothing breaths the way her husband suggested until the urge to run back and hide in the kitchen began to fade. And as nice as it was to think about doubling back to sit at Florean Fortescue's ice cream shop and review her response letters again, Arthur was right, she was just nervous about starting her new job. She only wished knowing it made it easier to continue but for some reason it didn't.

'You've got nothing to worry about,' she remembered her Knight-in-Shining-Arthur hugging her and saying before he left for work that morning. 'No one expects you to be an expert on your first day,' he'd said bracingly. 'All any employer expects is for you to do your best; they know the rest will come in time, you'll see.'

She'd gone from uncertain to determined to optimistic to then paralyzed with fear and unable to do anything so often of late; sometimes all of them in a single day. It was a tortured existence she wished she could be rid of but she couldn't quit before she started, her family's future was at stake. It was comforting to know Arthur supported her, and that she wasn't alone in feeling the way she did.

Rather than convincing her to run away, hearing Arthur tell of his experience at the Ministry helped a lot. As curious as he'd always been about muggles, the fear he'd felt had convinced him he didn't know anything about muggles, and he thought for sure they'd be able to tell as soon as he tried to do anything. He'd stumbled, he admitted, he'd made mistakes, but so did everyone else in the shrinking office – and while he didn't know everything about muggles, he knew enough to try and puzzle things out, which was a start.

It's hard to believe her Arthur had ever been as scared as she is, but even if the worst happened she knew he'd be there for her as she picked herself up and tried again somewhere else. With that – and getting to test out all the cleaning products she'd bought and been reimbursed for – she tried to stiffen her resolve again, for the job she hadn't truly started yet had already put her ahead of where she'd been at the outset. Indeed, in some ways her whole life seemed to be transforming in ways she never expected.

With as young as they were when she and Arthur married, they'd only had a few short years to get to know each other before they began a life together. When they'd first started out she worried if the difficulties they faced would make him feel somewhat cheated at having to leave school so soon, and what it would mean for them if he did. All of it disappeared, of course, as soon as Bill was on the way, but with the last of their children now at Hogwarts and the oldest being old enough to live on their own, those doubts had started to resurface.

Having her children was a blessing, and one she wouldn't change for the world, but a part of her wondered if she'd only been burying her fears by having them. The kids opened a whole world of new experiences for them and gave them endless things to do and talk about – but in the end all they'd talked about were the children. It was kind of remarkable, and remarkably sad, just how long two people could live together with only well-wishes and small talk passing between them besides that.

'In the last few days though everything had changed,' Molly smiled happily as her heart began to glow. 'We're talking again, really talking, and about us, not the kids. My worries, his work, our hopes and dreams for the future; we'd both changed so much and never knew it. It's like getting to know him all over again – like falling in love with him all over again.'

If going to work had given her all that, it certainly wasn't anything to be fearful of.

Walking into the Daily Prophet, she suddenly found herself surrounded by all the mad bustle and noise she'd stopped going to Quidditch games because of. Owls hooted and cried as they were carried to and from the back, all sorts of people were running around, no less than three of them were bent over different floos while others leaned over to try and talk to their neighbor – all while the whole thing sounded like an angry bee hive. At the center of it was her boss, the cigar-chewing Barnabas Cuffe.

"How am I supposed to get a picture for something like this?" a rather paunchy-looking wizard asked as he slung a large black camera over one shoulder when she tentatively got close enough to hear. "Ain't nobody gonna want to be attached to this, ain't nobody."

"With how many people have complained, one's bound to hold still long enough for a picture," her new boss said with annoyance etched into every line of his face. "Just try to get one that doesn't end with a litigator hounding us about it."

"That was not my fault," the camera wizard said prissily. "Those ad people should've known they'd have to get permission to use it before they used it, even if I sold it to 'em."

"Yes, well–," Mister Cuffe said, gesturing at the man with his unlit cigar as he came up with the right thing to say. "Just make sure they're either willing or publically known. I'm not going through it again," the man finished before turning to see her.

He blinked at her curiously for a moment before seeming to place her.

"Oh, Polly Prewett! That's right, I said Friday, didn't I?" Cuffe asked as he walked towards her. "Where's the week gone? I swear it flies by faster every day. So what have you brought me? Did you find anything worth responding to in what we gave you?"

"Oh, uh–yes," Molly said flutteringly as she took the letters and her responses out of her purse. "There was quite a lot of them, but I did what you said and picked ones I felt comfortable with," she replied, wishing she felt half so comfortable with them now.

"Good, good," the man said around his cigar as he took the bundle from her and flipped through to look at page after page of her writing. She soon got butterflies in her stomach from how quickly his brows furrowed.

"I hope they're not too short," she said worriedly as she looked down at her responses, hoping to see what part of them he didn't like. Molly had tried to do her best, only now she didn't know what he seemed to want from them.

"Quite the opposite," Cuffe said appraisingly before continuing on with a smile. "Conciseness is an art; length is a start. We'll get you sorted out. I'll pair you up with–"

Her new boss looked around at the people running about, not seeming to find one to his taste.

"Cynthia," he called out to his honey-haired secretary of a daughter. "Pair up with Polly Prewett here and see what you can do with–"

"Barney," an ashy wizard scurried up to interject, before briefly turning to her to apologize. "Just spoke with Ewan. He and Evora can't come in," he said hurriedly.

"Why not?" Mister Cuffe asked, more than a little put out. "You told him we've got a Weekend to get out, didn't you?"

"I did, and he didn't care," the ash-covered wizard explained. "Says his family's more important. The ague Evora's got has taken a bad turn. Ewan thinks it might be black cat flu."

"It can't be that serious, can it?" Barnabas asked to himself as he scratched his graying head.

"It rained five days straight, last match she went to," the interloper said. "I certainly wouldn't have stayed for it."

"And what about Ewan?"

"He's looking after the kid, isn't he?" the ashy wizard said as if it really should be obvious.

"I knew this was going to happen as soon as they got together," Cuffe grumped around his well-chewed cigar.

"No you didn't," Cuffe's secretary daughter came up to them to say. "You thought they'd break up and you'd have to send one overseas."

"One's just as bad as the other," he said with a wave of his cigar before passing her the bundle of responses Molly had come in with. "Look through this, Cynthia, and see if you can pare it down," he told the girl before turning to the ashy wizard. "Aisley, you go to Holyhead and–"

"I can't go to Holyhead," this Aisley person exclaimed, "I've got my own work to do. Besides, those Harpies will tear me apart after the howler they sent about my last Nimbus review."

"And right they'd be for it," said Cynthia, her face looking as put out as her father's. "You can't say the Chudley Cannons could beat them if they get a set of two-thousand-and-ones and not ruffle their feathers. You just implied they've got no skill at all and the brooms are doing all their work for them."

"I didn't mean it that way," the ashy wizard said stubbornly.

Molly might be becoming increasingly lost but she knew a developing row when she saw one.

"–Fine, fine, go do your work," Cuffe cut in to tell Aisley, letting the man scurry off before turning back to his daughter. "Do we have anyone left the Harpies won't bite the head off of?"

"Me, perhaps," the girl replied with a shrug, "but you've always said you need me here."

"And I do," her father replied, "This place is a madhouse as it is, I can't let you go. But without Ewan or Evora… That baby opened a lot of doors with the Harpies for them."

Mister Cuffe's eyes lit up.

"Hang on," he said as he turned to Molly with a smile. "You said your kids are into Quidditch, right?"

"Y–yes," Molly replied uncertainly, very much aware all she knew of the Harpies was the horrible screeching noise Ginny did on occasion.

"You're thinking of sending her?" the Cynthia girl asked her father after giving her a quick look.

"It's either that or wait for Rita," Mister Cuffe said meaningfully with a look of his own.

There was a moment's pause.

"She could work," the girl said finally. "You know anything about Quidditch?"

"N–not really," Molly said, feeling very singled out at the moment and unsure how anything she could say or do could be helpful at all.

"It may not matter," her boss said slyly. "The story's not about Quidditch, it's about people, and our Polly Prewett's got to know a lot about people."

"Oh," his daughter said, seeming to catch what Molly herself kept missing. "So you're thinking more of a human impact story than a 'whole Quidditch league exploding' story."

"We'll see what comes out of it, but it may be both," Cuffe said with a wink before turning back to her. "So what do you think? You up for it?"

"Up? Up for what?" Molly asked, unsure how any of this had to do with her at all.

"Dad's asking if you're willing to fill in for Evora and interview someone from the Harpies," the Cynthia girl explained in a more soothing voice.

"And what's going on with the Harpies?" she asked by rote, hoping someone would fill her in.

"They took umbrage with Umbridge and sent us a blistering statement," Mister Cuffe said as he stuck his cigar back between his teeth. "Almost got here before the woman stopped talking."

"Don't worry if you're lost," the girl said after a look to her father. "It's Wizengamot stuff and most don't follow it in the best of times. This just happened to be the first time it was broadcast on the Wizarding Wireless."

"It's a scoop for them, but we'll do more with it than they ever could," her boss chuckled.

"Actually, since you're new, not knowing what's going on might be better," Cynthia said with an appraising look straight off her father's face. "No one sends a statement like they did without a full head of steam behind it, and those are people who want to talk. Just go and talk to them about what's on their mind and they'll give you everything you need."

"But I don't even know where they are," Molly said finally, hoping they'd take pity on her and have someone else to go instead.

"Bozo!" Cuffe called, twisting around to beckon the camera wizard over to them. "You've been to Holyhead," her boss said when the man got close, only for her hopes to be dashed immediately. "I'm sending you out with Polly here; she's going to interview one of the Harpies. Take her to the stadium and see what you can scrounge up for a visual."

"Might be tough," the man said judiciously. "Those Harpies got claws."

"I have no doubts about your ability to scrounge," Barnabas Cuffe replied with an unimpressed look. "Cynthia, see she has everything she needs to take notes, will you?"

"Already on it," his daughter replied, who was already walking away from them.

'This isn't what I thought it'd be like at all,' Molly moaned a little worry to herself, the nervous swirl of butterflies in her stomach becoming jumping jackrabbits as she was carried off by events to do who-knows-what.

Bozo smelled like an unwashed mixture of tobacco, cherry, peppermint, and sawdust but he seemed to know where he was going well enough to side-along apparate her there… or at least she thought he did until they arrived. They landed at an unexpectedly chilly spot, the wind swirling her hair around so she almost couldn't see where they were. Rushing down to join the unending ocean stretching off to nowhere, the steep rocky crag of a hillside was covered in grass far browner than anything else.

It was stark emptiness from one stony rise all the way to a green jewel in the distance.

"Is that a city?" Molly asked as she peered at the only true bit of life clinging to the shoreline.

"Porth-y-felin," the man they called Bozo said, tugging his cloak closer around him. "Holyhead proper's just around the bend," he gestured to the stone ridge closest to the city.

"Aren't we a little close?" she asked, worried about their lack of caution. "Won't the muggles be able to see us?"

"Nah," her wizard guide said with a smile. "They walk through here from time to time but they don't see nothing. I mean, how else are they gonna miss that?" he asked, gesturing behind her.

Turning around, Molly saw the slope rise another hundred feet or more above her, and beyond the distant ridge a Quidditch stadium stood as tall as any castle. The stadium looked far larger than she remembered from her time at Hogwarts, she thought as they huffed their way up towards it, and it looked to seat many times as many people as had ever been students. Each of the encircling towers were draped in green banners with golden thread depicting a feathery winged woman in flight, with only feathers to preserve her modesty and its clawed feet tipped red with blood.

As they crested what she now saw as a hill on a particularly unfriendly mountain, quick blurs of movement drew her attention skyward. Wave after wave of witches were flying their brooms far too close together for comfort. The sight of it made her stomach roil so much she must've looked a bit green herself.

Bozo suggested she sit down if the height was getting to her but Molly just wanted to be inside as fast as possible. She didn't trust her stomach enough to open her mouth to say anything though so she kept it covered and motioned him forward. He quickly had her up against the monstrously large stadium, which thankfully blocked the death-defying daredevils from view, but rather than entering any of the double doors at the base of the towers he took her to the tight-cornered narrow part of the oval building where he said their offices were.

The entrance here was as large as four of the others, though thankfully the banners only showed of the one of the harpy's golden claws curled around a ball of some kind on a field of green. No one was at the little windows they had lined up so she briefly thought they might be able to give the whole thing up as a lost cause. All the shouting and knocking Bozo did spelled an end to the hope as they soon found themselves facing a stern-faced older woman by the name of Madam Milton, a woman with short-cropped steel-colored hair.

"What can I do for you?" the woman said tersely after introducing herself as a 'Harpy Matron,' whatever that meant.

"Morning, Madam," Bozo said cordially as Molly let the camera wizard take the lead. "We're from the Daily Prophet," the wizard explained as he produced a small card from his robes to hand to her. "Mister Cuffe sent us so this woman here can interview someone about the er– goings on," he finished feebly without really explaining anything.

"Ah, yes. The statement from the players," the woman replied guardedly as she returned Bozo's card to him. "They've just started their practice, but I'm sure I can find someone to speak with you. Come in," she advised before stepping to one side to let them enter.

The entrance led into a common room type area lined with what appeared to be a shop. She saw large photographs of women, who Molly took to be on the team, prominently displayed for sale as well as colorful items and robes in what she was coming to think of as Harpy green-and-gold, some of them sized for small children. There was another counter on the room's other side as well but whatever it was for didn't make itself readily apparent.

"This way," Madam Milton said, gesturing to a corridor leading further into the structure before taking the lead to show them the way.

The curious little Harpy shop wasn't the only place they had pictures; the corridor she led them down was full of them. Thankfully they weren't diving or swooping around – or at least not many of them – but they seemed to be of every style imaginable. There was larger-than-life, up-close color photographs of modern-looking individual players, black-and-white shots of a game played who knows how long ago, old-style portraits of somber-looking groups of witches holding brooms probably not even good for kindling nowadays all mixed in with ceiling-to-floor silently roaring crowds, absolutely ancient editions of the Daily Prophet, and pictures of little girls holding up small Harpy uniforms of their own.

The corridor came to an end by joining a sort of U-shaped hallway that bent off to the left and right. Rather than going in either direction though Madam Milton led them to a doorway across the hall flanked by statues of those fierce-looking bird-like harpy women.

"You don't have real harpies here, do you?" she asked the Harpy Matron as they entered.

"Not for the last several hundred years," the woman said with a smile. "They ended up causing too many problems with the surrounding muggles and the Ministry had to remove them. If you wait here," she continued, "I'm sure someone will be with you shortly."

"Thank you," Molly said as the other woman departed, since she had nothing else to go on but courtesies.

When she was gone, a glance at the wider room was all it took for her to shy away from the obvious reason anyone would show you this room during a practice time. She busied herself instead with appearing to look at all the little plaques, trophies, and historical photographs while Bozo unhelpfully went to the sitting area on the far side of the room to look out the overly large windows taking up almost the entirety of the sloped ceiling. Eventually she couldn't help herself; just knowing it was there seemed to draw her eyes so she simply had to look.

Outside of the greenhouse-like window panes the stadium extended away from her. The green of the field seemed to go on forever, and yet it was encircled by the even more immense arms of the stadium itself. Thick towers rose above them to support an eggshell blue sky, while everywhere she looked she could see the diving, rolling, and veering which came with being on a broom.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" Bozo asked from behind his camera as he photographed the endlessness.

Molly didn't trust her stomach to reply so she turned her back to the wall of windows and tried to angle a seat so she could stay that way. After a few minutes of deep breathing, she opened her eyes to find Bozo wandering through the other trophy room displays. Why he'd want to get close enough to take a picture of a picture, she'd never know, but assumed he knew what he was doing.

Suddenly remembering what she was supposed to do, she reached into her purse to draw out the roll of parchment and flashy blue quill they'd given her back at the office. It was strange for her to think of the Daily Prophet that way but she was far more comfortable at their noisy office than she was at a place she'd never been before. The quill didn't seem to want to do its job either but she eventually managed to get it to stand up on the parchment somehow; getting it to write on its own though…

"Hello?" Molly said to it uncertainly, and just like Mister Cuffe's daughter said it would the quill wrote out 'Hello?' beside her name. "Oh, that's very nice, isn't it?" she said pleased, only to have the quill write it out too. "Why yes, I do think it's very nice. Thanks for asking," she finished with a chuckle as that was written down too.

Before she could test it any further the door opened and a tan-skinned young woman in yellow robes entered like she owned the place. She looked at Bozo questioningly.

"Oh, I'm just with her," he said, motioning to where she sat. "You think I could wander about?" he asked, gesturing to the stadium at large.

"Not my job to stop you," the woman shrugged, before trudging over to her as Bozo left. The girl couldn't be any older than Mister Cuffe's daughter but she certainly seemed so, especially when she gave her an oddly aggressive upwards nod and demanded to know, "Where's Evora?"

Distracted by the sudden question and the quill's quick scratching on parchment, Molly wasn't sure what she was asking. The word sounded familiar and it was only her wish to be elsewhere that reminded her what it was – the woman who was supposed to be here in the first place.

"Oh–uh, I don't think she's feeling very well," she replied, though she for one would've traded places in a heartbeat. "They said something about ague and black cat flu," Molly said, rambling out everything she knew, "and something about a baby?"

"Nothing wrong with the kid, is it?" the girl asked, almost as if she'd blame her if there was.

"I don't think so," she tried to say reassuringly before her honesty got the better of her. "Truth be known though I don't really know them. Sorry."

"Ah," the dark-haired young woman said as unsure what to do. "I guess I can send an owl or something," she said with a shrug. "You're kinda supposed to keep in touch when a kid's named after you, huh?"

Molly wasn't sure if it was a question she was supposed to answer. The girl didn't seem to know the social niceties, especially with the way she took a chair, spun it around backwards, and straddled it in a completely undignified manner. It certainly didn't sound rhetorical, but if anyone else were saying it they very well may have meant it that way. She instead moved on to something else.

"And what name might that be?" Molly asked as the young woman tugged her robe to make it comfortable.

The girl looked at her with an odd half-grin, arms spread as if her name was written all over her for anyone to read.

"Gwen," the almost boyish girl said finally, with an odd look on her face. "Gwenog Jones," she prompted again. "Captain of the Holyhead Harpies…"

Surprisingly, one of those bits did jog her memory.

"…You don't follow Quidditch, do you?" the young woman asked as a bit of a letdown.

"Oh, no," Molly said apologetically. "Anything with flying really doesn't agree with me. I'm fine with it as long as they stay near the ground," she explained, "but as soon they get in up the air I – I just can't."

"And they sent you to talk to us?" Miss Jones said with a disbelieving smirk before turning it into a questioning look. "You're not…," she paused, "are you?"

Molly didn't really know what the girl meant by that.

"Well, I'm certainly not good at this," she replied nervously. "I'm actually not really sure what I'm supposed to do here, to be honest. Today's my first day," Molly confided in her.

Gwenog's face brightened with that.

"Oh– well, that makes sense then," she said, giving her a cocky grin again. "I guess I can try to go easy on you. Let's start over," the girl continued, extending a gloved hand. "Name's Gwenog Jones, Beater and Captain of the Holyhead Harpies."

"Molly, Molly Weasley," she replied, smiling as her hand was only slightly crushed by the girl's strong grip. "Oh, I don't know if I'm supposed to use that name," she said to herself, her first step already placed incorrectly. "They gave me a different one to use, er– Polly Prewett."

"Think I saw something about that a while back," Gwenog replied, looking like she was trying to remember. "Advice column, right?"

"Oh–uh, yes," Molly said more than a little self-consciously. "I thought I could help people like Glenda Goodwitch did."

"My mother read stuff like that," the girl nodded. "So why'd they send you?"

"Oh, well, I don't think Mister Cuffe had anyone else to send, to be honest," she replied.

"Why does Weasley ring a bell?" Miss Jones asked, taking charge of things.

"If you went to Hogwarts, you might be thinking about my oldest son, Bill," Molly said, more than happy enough to put off messing up what she was here for by talking about her family instead. "He's got to be around your age – or perhaps Charlie, he played Quidditch, but he came a few years later – they were both in Gryffindor."

"Same, and yeah, I think I remember 'em," the girl said uncertainly. "Same red hair?" she asked without stopping for an answer. "They were some years younger than me; might've scared the older one off Quidditch by accident," she admitted. "Picked the other for Seeker when I was Captain though, if he's the one you mean – little guy, skinny. What's he up to now?"

"He's working with dragons in Romania," she said proudly.

Gwenog laughed.

"Well, I didn't see that coming," she smiled.

"Yes, I don't think anyone did when he was little," Molly agreed, remembering what young Charlie had been like. "I would've much preferred him stay in the country, but you know how boys are. I do recall hearing your name before though," she added, hoping to continue things in a good direction. "My daughter, Ginevra, she loves Quidditch; screeches every time she hides in her room and doesn't want to talk."

"Raising a Harpy," Gwenog said with an approving chuckle before ruefully shaking her head. "But Ginevra, wow – that's a heck of a name. How'd you come up with that?"

"Oh, I just thought it sounded pretty," Molly said, only lying a little so she wouldn't have to tell the woman it meant 'fair one' in some language or other. "She doesn't really like it," she admitted to make up for it. "She goes by Ginny, mostly."

"I went by Gwen for the longest time," Miss Jones said with a smile. "Changed during my first pro game, of course. Announcer called me Gwenog in front of everyone, and it was put in papers and magazines – Merlin, I wanted to curse him for that," she recounted, furrowing her brow even as she kept her grin.

"–People have been calling me Gwenog ever since," she shrugged, "I've gotten used to it. After all, it does mark me out something special. As a kid though – Man, my brothers teased me about it; called me 'Gwen-Hog,'" the woman said with a sour, upturned nose. "I was a little piggy of a kid at the time."

"Brothers can be cruel," Molly commiserated, recalling the trying ordeal every girl with brothers had to go through.

"Yeah, and I had three – all older," the Harpy said meaningfully.

"Ginny's got six older brothers," she smiled.

"–Six?!"

"Yes, but it's really only the younger ones I've seen her fight with," Molly explained, drawing on memories of this past summer. "She's closer to the older ones, I think."

"Well, six will definitely make her tough," Gwenog said with another shake of her head. "And it's smart, making friends with the older ones. That way you can fight with the younger and send in the older ones to beat the crap out of them if you lose. She at Hogwarts now?"

"Oh, yes, she just started," she said happily before a realization broke through. "Oh, I meant to congratulate her for making Gryffindor and forgot," she said worriedly, wondering how she could've let herself to get so wrapped up in her own worries she forgot something so important. Her daughter would need reassurance when going through such a big change and she should be there for her.

"Well if your photographer turns up again we can send her a picture," the other woman offered.

"You mean it?" Molly asked, grateful of the unexpected gift. "Of the both of us?"

"It's what we do," Gwenog said, grinning her cocky half-smile and spreading her arms wide like it should've been obvious. "It's called 'outreach'; we're always on the lookout for more Harpies. She's going out for Quidditch, of course," she asked with more of a commanding tone.

"Well, she's only in her first year," she demurred.

"So? She can bully her way on," the Harpy said determinedly. "Guys won't take you seriously unless you're twice as forceful as everyone else, especially brothers – which is one reason I think girls make better players than guys," the girl added before wielding a clenched fist. "I had to pop my brothers a time or three before they learned, and even if she doesn't make it this year, they'll remember her for the next."

"I really don't think she's violent, but I suppose it could be good for her," Molly equivocated, still uncomfortable with the thought of her little girl chasing after a life so foreign to what she herself knew. "She did play Quidditch with her brothers over the summer though, so…"

"Good," Gwenog nodded, as if the whole matter was settled. "Have to make sure we get the Hogwarts games this year so we can check her out. Quidditch-playing witches with G names aren't easy to come by."

"G names?" she asked the girl.

"It's a good luck thing," the other woman waved. "A good while back we won the league and fans noticed everyone on the team had a first or last name beginning with the letter G, so it kind of became a tradition. You're not banned if you don't have it, and it doesn't always work out–," the Harpy explained before scrunching her face, "–just look at the traitor, Wilda Griffiths. I'm really looking forward to going up against her. Got a bludger with her name on it – and you can print that," she finished with a serious tone.

"Oh–I'll uh, make sure to pass it on," Molly said politely, unsure who to even talk to at the Daily Prophet besides Mister Cuffe.

"Guess we should talk about what you're here to talk about, huh?" the Harpy prompted with another of those upward nods.

"I suppose we have to," she replied, her jumbly stomach coming back just thinking about it.

"You heard what Umbitch wanted, right?" Gwenog asked, immediately exposing her ignorance.

"I'm afraid not," Molly admitted, wishing again they'd sent somebody else.

"So you probably didn't read what we sent either," the girl said, clearly somewhat frustrated.

"Sorry, no," she apologized. "It was very busy when I went to the Daily Prophet," she explained, "and I think they were doing their best just to find someone to be here. I hope I don't disappoint you too badly."

"Bah, not your fault, I guess," said Gwenog grudgingly. "At least they're covering it, which is more than what I expected. How'd the rest of the league take it, do you know?"

"I heard something like 'the whole league exploding,' but since I don't follow it… I'm not really sure what it means," Molly said, still silently apologizing for not knowing more.

The Harpy girl pounded her fist into the palm her hand with a smile on her face, looking more than ready to pick a fight with the back of her chair.

"Good, this is good," Jones said, practically bouncing in her seat. "That bitch stepped in it and she doesn't even know."

Molly had never particularly liked that kind of language before, but it wasn't like the girl was her daughter. And she couldn't deny seeing it was just the way this rough young woman was.

"I'm sorry but I'm afraid this doesn't get me any closer to knowing what you're talking about," she said instead, choosing not to make an issue of it.

"It's uh…" the dark-haired woman said, tugging on her ponytail as if considering where to start. "It's really not something a lot of people like talking about, you know?" the girl said, showing an unexpected reluctance. "Ah, fuck it," the abrupt girl said the next instant, finally smashing common decorum entirely. "Anyone who doesn't talk about it are a bunch of pussies anyway."

Molly sat there simply staggered, completely lost as to how to respond.

"You obviously know how girls fancy guys and guys fancy girls," the girl said quickly. "I mean, you're married with kids, right?"

"Y–Yes," she replied, wondering how explaining anything to do with Quidditch required giving an almost forty-three year old woman 'the Talk.'

"That's what they call the normal way," Gwenog continued. "What they call the other way is what they don't like talking about."

"And what other way is there but normal?" Molly asked, not seeing where this was going.

"When someone is 'the other way,' those girls don't fancy guys," the other woman explained, "just like other way guys don't fancy girls. Those girls fancy other girls, and those guys fancy other guys – I've even heard some say they fancy both girls and guys."

"I just–," Molly started only to stop almost immediately, unable to think. The young Harpy had really hit her on the head with one of those beating sticks with that one. "I just don't see how that's possible," she said at last.

"I can transfigure your chair into a water buffalo with a flick of the wrist," the girl said with an amused grin, "and you can't imagine how a girl can fancy another girl? It's not magic, it's just who we are. People like blondes, brunettes, or redheads like you. Long hair, short hair, skinny or fat – what does it matter? We're all people, and we all have different tastes."

"Yes, but–," the mother of seven started, "–girls and girls?"

"You must've seen 'em before," Gwenog stated. "Not exactly rare. Haven't you ever seen a pair of friends who're really close? Didn't you ever wonder why they never had a boyfriend, if they were girls, or a girlfriend if they were guys? You never wondered why it was always just them?" she asked with a cocky half-smile. "And at Hogwarts, you never saw a dorm mate sneaking into her friend's bed to 'stay warm' during cold winter nights?"

"Well, it can get very cold there," Molly pointed out honestly, but now she was thinking of it… She'd never been cold enough to share anyone's bed when she was at Hogwarts though she did remember two of her friends, Anna and Heidi doing it on occasion.

'They couldn't have been… snogging… could they?' she wondered. Having once been the girl in the next bed, she tried not to picture it but she couldn't deny hearing the soft giggling coming from behind the closed curtains. 'I'd always thought they were poking each other with their elbows from being too close together.'

'And not dating boys didn't mean they'd fancied each other though, did it?' Molly wondered to herself as she quickly skimmed through her pre-Arthur friendships. 'Anna and Heidi had always been good friends, very good friends; always together,' she thought as she recalled all the Hogsmeade trips and study sessions they were paired up for before another odd thing occurred to her.

While she couldn't recall Anna and Heidi ever dating a boy, there was a period they'd seemed to have fought and weren't speaking to each other. It was nothing in itself but Anna had suddenly become good friends with a girl named Melanie, who Heidi couldn't stand, from the year above them. And, just as quickly as it'd happened, they went back to being as thick as thieves again and Melanie was never talked about.

If it had been any of her other friends and all the boyfriends they went through at their age, she would've called it normal dating, wouldn't she? Maybe even getting the other person jealous by going out with someone else during a fight? She didn't know how to answer but one thing disturbed her greatly in all this.

"How could anyone begin to chaperone something like that?" Molly asked herself worriedly, only to hear a great guffaw answer her.

"You're just now hearing about it and that's the question you have?" a chuckling Gwenog asked. "Why worry about it at all? It's not like they're gonna get each other pregnant."

She suddenly felt embarrassed for talking about such things in public. Once someone was already pregnant, then it'd be an acceptable time to talk about pregnancy. Talking about the act of getting pregnant… well, no one should really bring it up except with a Healer, as a concerned parent, or with the person you're doing it with. Anything else was just improper.

"As–uh, ahem," Molly nervously cleared her throat and tried for a moment to stop herself from fidgeting too much. "–As colorful as this has been, I still don't see how it has to do with Quidditch or anything else."

"Oh, it's got nothing to do with the game," the other woman explained, "but it's an open secret a lot of people who're other way end up going into professional Quidditch in some way or other. Players, coaches, announcers, refs, even management. Can't swing a beater's bat without hitting someone who's other way, and that's for the whole league."

"Oh," the baffled former homemaker replied, as if discovering a new part of the world could be summed up in a syllable. "I didn't know that. So people who're complaining are all other way?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Gwenog said quickly, raising her hands as if to halt her in her tracks. "People who're speaking out could be anyone: other ways or normals, brothers and sisters of other ways or their friends and parents – or they could just not like what they're hearing. For every one other way person there's got to be ten-or-twenty people who know them and don't want to see their lives ruined, and more wouldn't want the same to happen to them, and even more don't want to see the Quidditch season ruined," the girl laughed.

"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me," Molly said as she tried to tamp down a new surge of embarrassment for her question. Mister Cuffe did say it had more to do with people than anything else, after all; she had to find a way to do better than this. "Everyone has friends and family and work and all. I guess I didn't think of it that way before."

"Don't think Umbitch did either," Gwenog said with a feral grin, "or she'd know she'd have a fight on her hands."

"Umbitch?" she questioned.

"Oh, it's–uh," the young Harpy cleared her throat. "That's Umbridge, the new Chief Warwitch. Umbitch is a nickname we came up with today. Suits her well in my opinion."

"So these people are upset with her for what, exactly?" Molly asked, trying to piece it together. "Because she's other way?" she tried, though that didn't sound right, "Or is it because she's not other way?"

"No, because she's attacking other way people," Gwenog said angrily. "She got up in the middle of the Wizengamot and demanded they strip us of Being status."

"Bing status?" she asked, her brief chance at not being lost disappearing in an instant.

"Not bing, Being, as in human being," the other woman clarified, putting her back on the pathway to understanding. "She wants other way people to be treated like boggarts, dementors, and poltergeists. How fucked up is that?" she asked, angry anyone would do something so profoundly idiotic.

"But how could they do that to people though?" Molly asked more to herself than the other woman, failing to see how even the Ministry could simply decide people weren't human beings anymore – it's not like they were changing into werewolves or anything, at least not from what the Harpy said.

"By simply declaring it, apparently," Gwenog said scornfully. "You have any idea what it would mean?" the girl asked without stopping for an answer. "Wand Use – gone. Right to determine things for ourselves – gone. Finding new work would be impossible, and if you do have work you'd almost be a slave," the girl said with a full head of steam. "And don't get me started on what you have to do to get any rights back."

"Yes, but getting them back is good, isn't it?" she asked the other woman. 'After all,' she thought to herself, 'no matter how bad it'd be to live that way, a chance to get things back to normal again would be a good thing, wouldn't it?'

"Not if you like who you are," the Harpy declared. "How'd you like it if you were forced to change everything you are just to be treated like a human being? Your mind altered and behaviors magically broken and rebuilt. It's horrific!"

"Can they really do that?" Molly asked, more than a little horrified herself.

"It's the Ministry of Magic," Gwenog reminded her. "Who knows what they can do? Point is, can you trust them anymore, even if they can't? I sure don't. If they want to do it one group now, you know they'll do it other groups later," the girl said, painting a nightmare scenario. "Goblins, centaurs, women, children – anyone who doesn't behave exactly the way they want them to. Do you want to live in a world like that?"

"Most certainly not," she replied. "It'd be like living with my mother all over again. She was always threatening me with potions and contracts and Merlin knows what else," she explained.

"And what would you do if she tried to dictate who you could love and marry?" the young Harpy asked with another upwards nod.

"I'd do precisely what I did," Molly answered without a thought. "Run off and elope."

Gwenog's eyebrows shot up at that.

'No doubt she didn't think I had it in me,' she thought with an inward surge of pride.

"Now that's an interesting idea," the Harpy said thoughtfully.

.o0O0o.

The Holyhead Harpies Press Room was a dumb name; at least she always thought so. A couple photographers come in for games, to create group and individual shots, and others came to pitch Management new items for the Harpy's Den Store, but she'd never seen actual press here before. She'd changed that, though if Merlin himself showed up to praise the woman's qualifications she still wouldn't believe it.

Molly "Polly Prewett" Weasley was far too simple and down-to-earth to be one of those untrustworthy rumormongers who sniffed around on occasion. May've been why her request for them to use the place had been approved, but what Management did and didn't do frequently made no sense. She would've thought they'd stand up beside the players in protest – but no, instead they called them 'rash and hasty' and sent them out to work off their temper with practice.

Something about the Prophet's camera guy must've flown up Harpy Matron Milton's backside though because ever since they showed up she's refused to let him out of her sight for an instant, even to develop his film. Might've been nothing, but she still wouldn't be surprised if he was on one of the suspicious people lists the Matrons kept pestering them with. No way that'd happen with the Weasley woman though.

"Thank you again, so much!" the little round housewife said as she took the newly-developed photograph from her to look at what she wrote. "My daughter's going to love this."

Behind the woman a petite figure with bobbed blonde hair drew her attention for an instant, and Gwenog was hard-pressed not to smile at how the little Seeker always managed to find what she was looking for so quickly you hardly saw her move. 'Leaning on the door frame is a bit obvious though,' she thought.

"Not a problem," Gwenog told the Molly woman. "Least I could do. Thanks for listening," she said in an unusually polite moment for her. "Not many would," she finished brusquely to make up for it.

"Oh, anytime, dear," the Prophet lady smiled. "It was actually quite fun."

Gwenog didn't know what to say to that. It hadn't been normal fun, but it hadn't sucked. And it wasn't like a real interview with someone either – so what do you call that?

"Tick-tock," the camera guy said, holding up his open pocket watch for them to see. "Cuffe's gonna want his Weekend filled soon."

"Oh, yes. I suppose we should be going," Molly agreed with a nervous flutter. "Thank you again for everything," she added again for maybe the tenth time, though this time with a handshake.

The slim Seeker slid out of the room as Harpy Matron Milton ushered the visitors out but when Gwenog put the quill away and followed along behind them she found the hallway almost completely empty. Made no sense for the girl to leave, but she couldn't have gotten very far. When the visitors disappeared around the curve she felt a weight hit her back and a pair of arms suddenly become visible and wrap around her from behind.

"No Evora?" her Seeker, Luanne Gill, asked, the fresh clean scent of her striking her nose.

"Sick, apparently," Gwenog replied, her hands going to her partner's own before the whimsical woman decided to do something silly, like grope her in the hallway.

"When I heard you were with the press, and it wasn't her, I thought I'd come rescue you," the blonde said playfully. "Never expected to see you actually enjoying yourself."

"Might be a bit much," she replied with a look back at the other woman.

"You weren't biting her head off, and you were smiling," Luanne said with a smile of her own. "For you, that's enjoyment. Have I got competition?"

Gwenog broke away from her partner's hands and reached an arm back to take the other woman and pull her around in front of her. Looking down at her with a grin she said, "I think her husband and seven kids might say something to that," she chuckled.

"Good," the blonde slip of a girl said as she poked her in her chest, "because you're mine."

"Still, she's hard not to like," she said tauntingly, looking at the way they'd left. "Reminds me of my mum," she continued, letting her partner off the hook.

"Hard to see how that's a good thing in a sports reporter," Luanne said curiously, not rising to her bait.

"She's no sports reporter," Gwenog said dismissively. "She's an advice columnist on her first day. She didn't have a clue what she was doing, and it showed. No pointed questions, no stirring up conflicts – just talking about whatever; made it like talking to another person," she explained before a niggling part of it came back to her again. "Like telling your mother you're other way at times," she shrugged, "but still."

"Well, whatever keeps you from biting the press, I guess it's a good thing," the blonde woman smiled at her playfully.

Gwenog pulled her in for a kiss.

"I love you," she told Luanne, holding her for a moment so she could look in her eyes… before lunging forward to spook her by biting at her. "But if you ever think I'm going to get better with the press, you're mental," she added with a cocky grin.

The other woman looked at her like she was stupid, but she knew she loved her anyway.

"Can't stop a girl from dreaming, I guess," the blonde said with a shrug and a grin of her own.

"Guess not," she shrugged before swatting her partner on the butt. "Go get the rest of the team and meet me in the War Room," Gwenog said. "Got an idea to make the biddies in Management take us seriously."

"Oh?" Luanne asked curiously, still digging on her assertiveness. "I like the sound of it already."

.o0O0o.

"In light of the revolt coming from your own Department of Magical Games and Sports–," the annoying reporter person continued, the man's angle becoming perfectly clear, "–do you still stand by Dolores Umbridge and what she hoped to accomplish?"

"I told you before, I had no knowledge of what Madam Umbridge was going to do today," Cornelius reiterated, still in lockstep with Lucius's advice of distancing himself from her. "The objections lodged by members of the D.M.G.S. and others were all right and proper," he continued instead of answering the question he was asked. "Several committees should've had a hand in crafting any such bill like the one Madam Umbridge proposed, which is why I sent it to committee, where it belongs," he pointed out before adding, "It's in their hands now."

"But do you stand by Madam Umbridge to be your Chief Warlock?" the man maintained.

"Dolores Umbridge is not my Chief Warlock," he told the reporter pointedly. "It's the Wizengamot who selects the Chief Warlock, not the Minister of Magic."

"But you did endorse Madam Umbridge for the position," the annoying reporter said, pestering him with facts. "And you picked her to be your Senior Undersecretary before that."

"The Traditionalists are a large and ever-growing faction," Cornelius said, stretching the truth a bit in order to build public perception. "It's impossible to know everyone in it. When I came to this office as a Traditionalist, many of my supporters supported Umbridge as well," he explained, "so it only made sense to pick her for Undersecretary.

"And as I said, the Wizengamot chooses its own Chief Warlock," the Minister continued, "but when her name was put forward as the Traditionalist candidate, of course I endorsed her, just as every other Traditionalist did. After decades of Dumbledore's non-Traditionalist leadership in the Wizengamot, I naturally welcomed the opportunity to work alongside a proper Traditionalist," he said, readying the next part of Lucius's plan on how to handle things, "but little did I expect she'd cause this sort of distraction when we have very serious issues to address."

"So do you think Dolores Umbridge should step down?" the reporter asked, finally asking the question Lucius had been wanting them to ask.

"That's for the Wizengamot to decide," Cornelius said offhandedly before making his rhetorical turn. "But I, for one, don't see how she be an effective Chief Warlock when she insists on creating chaos and distracting the country from the serious concerns we face, rather than championing the stability and good governance Traditionalists are known for," he said as he casually shredded any possibility for her to remain where she was. "And in the unlikely event she does maintain her position," he finished meaningfully, "the Wizengamot should remind her the Chief Warlock serves the Wizengamot, the Wizengamot doesn't serve her.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do," the Minister said with a polite smile, gesturing to his secretaries to see the reporter out. Cornelius turned and made his way back to his office where he found his good friend Lucius already at ease in a chair.

"Today could've gone very badly if you hadn't told me what to expect," he told the man as he made his way over to his desk. "I can't imagine what Dolores was thinking. A bit of discrimination is fine, but doing it like this?"

"I couldn't agree more, Minister," his staunchest advocate said, a bit of a sly smile curling his lips. "Every bit of scandal does present its own opportunities though," the man said nebulously.

"I don't see how," Cornelius replied. "Our friends in the Wizengamot know we not only suggested Dolores for the job, but did everything we could to put her there," he said, reminding the man just how thoroughly their political fates were joined together.

"Our friends know precisely what we want them to know," Lucius said in his sly and slippery way. "They know Gringotts demanded her resignation, along with Mockridge, for the disruption in Diagon Alley and what happened on Flamel's island," the man reminded him. "They also know Umbridge's elevation and Mockridge leaving for 'private medical reasons' was a way not to give the goblins what they wanted, while silently signaling tough new anti-goblin legislation was sure to be on its way."

"And Umbridge turned around and cursed us like a broken wand," he said testily at having yet another one of Lucius's clever moves foiled by other people's incompetence.

"It could certainly look that way to some," the man said as he fiddled with his silver-capped cane.

"How else could it possibly look?" Cornelius asked, looking up at the taller man.

"A clever person would say you were too smart for her by half, and you'd planned for her to fail from the beginning," Lucius smiled.

He sat there properly stunned, in awe of the man's cunning.

"You planned this?" he whispered as if they weren't alone in his office.

"Not the particulars of what she did today," the man replied, "She did that herself. But when someone you trust fails as completely as she did," the man continued, "the only sensible thing to do is to trust her to fail."

"But–," Cornelius said, trying to puzzle out the delicate intricacies of Lucius's plan, "–but if we made Dolores the Chief Warlock as a way to keep the goblins from getting what they wanted, why set her up to fail? Why get rid of her when the stupid Frenchman already settled the island issue in their favor?"

"Because this has nothing to do with the island issue," Lucius replied, "it only suited us for them to think it did. Setting up Umbridge was an exercise of power, and a minor way to annoy them in the short term," the man explained. "Pulling her back down again likewise shows our power and affords us an opportunity to frustrate the goblins in the long term, with our next Chief Warlock, while also sending a signal to that new Chief Warlock as to who they're in service to."

"And who will this next person be?" Cornelius asked.

"Just leave that to me," the clever man said. "The first step to take is to have the D.M.L.E. release a report on what happened at Flamel's island and Diagon Alley."

"W–why would we do that?" the Minister asked, flummoxed as to why they'd bring up the explosive scandal they'd just gotten rid of when they're in the middle of a new one.

"Someone needs to be blamed for everything going wrong in this country," Lucius replied, "and I can't think of anyone better for it than Miss Umbridge. The failure at Flamel's tower, Diagon Alley, and now this Quidditch rebellion? They're all her fault, so why not tell the truth?"

"Oh, that's perfect!" Cornelius cried amidst a burst of laughter. "If she won't leave, we'll push her out! I'm glad you're on my side," he told the crafty man before something started to bother him. "All this 'other way' business they're mentioning now," he said quietly, "you don't think people will start to change their mind on them, do you?"

Lucius Malfoy's perfectly arched eyebrow told him everything he needed on the subject but it didn't stop the man from responding.

"It'll take a lot more than Dolores Umbridge for that to happen."

"Yes, of course," he replied, thinking himself silly for even suggesting it. There was only so much people could tolerate, after all.

.o0O0o.

The more you worked the more the world seemed to close itself in around you, though not in an uncomfortable way. The noise and bustle which had made everything so difficult earlier faded away once you were used to it and left you with what you were doing, who you were talking to, and what they said about the whole thing. It was very much like trying to get your homework done at the last minute in a particularly noisy common room.

"Did you really do what you said here?" Cynthia Cuffe asked to her through the din as she read through what the quill had taken down. "You really ran off and got married when your mother disapproved?"

"Oh, yes," Molly replied, uncommonly fond of the most daring moment in her life, though it wasn't one she'd ever tell her children about. "Mother didn't expect it – because we were still too young to marry without permission, you see – but my brothers got father's signature somehow and–"

"–So how's it going over here?" a rough voice said behind her, causing her to jump and turn around to see Mister Cuffe. "Our Polly find anything useful?"

"It's not bad, for a first interview," the young woman remarked, taking her father's appearance in stride. "Don't know if it's big enough for a story of its own but she's got quite a few quotes from Jones that could be rolled into either Willum or Darla's stories, depending on what they get from the Ministry," she said appraisingly. "Never expected Jones to open up but the rest is conversational and reads like an article for Witch Weekly more than anything for the Prophet."

Despite of all her hopes to the contrary, she couldn't help but feel very discouraged.

"I'm so sorry, Mister Cuffe," she told her boss automatically, hoping he knew she'd done her best. "I'll understand if you want me to go home and not come back," Molly said, not knowing what it'd mean for her family if he did.

"Ha! Why would I want that?" Barnabas Cuffe barked with a smile. "You got useful quotes and an interview we can sell to Witch Weekly," he said as he waved a well-chewed cigar at her. "Now that I think of it, it'd probably be a good item for them: the Prophet's hot new advice columnist sitting down to get to know the most notoriously hard-nosed Quidditch player in the league – and Cynthia says she opened up? What's not to love?

"You're okay with selling this, right?" he asked with a quick change of tone. "They see it as the money-spinner I see it as and there'll be a nice little bonus coming your way," he said with a wink.

"Oh, well–," Molly said nervously, not knowing what to say to the unexpected opportunity. Of course it'd be nice to make even more money for her family but she couldn't help feeling there was a trap she wasn't seeing. She looked over to Cynthia.

"There's a good bit of personal information in it she might not want everyone to know," the blonde girl said, raising a concern she hadn't even thought about. "Her real name, the names of her kids – things a pseudonym are supposed to hide."

"Ah, well," Mister Cuffe said as he chewed his cigar thoughtfully, "I'm sure we can arrange for some of it to stay private. We can always rewrite what you got so it's not a part of the record – they can't print what they don't know," he said with a smile.

"Oh, well, I suppose it might be okay…," Molly said ditheringly since it seemed like what they wanted to hear. The truth though was it still didn't quite sit right with her. Once she and Miss Jones had sat down and started to talk they'd both seemed to forget the enchanted quill was even there, so it was more like talking to a Bill-aged daughter than anything else.

'Well, perhaps less like a daughter and more like an adult niece,' she thought to herself. 'But it's still too close to go running around and printing things behind her back – especially after what I had to do with Harry.'

"…But I don't feel comfortable doing it without Gwenog's permission," she finished a bit more confidently.

"With her temper, I can see why," her boss said with another wink. "Witch Weekly doesn't go to print until the middle of next week; it'll give you several days to talk her into it, if need be. What about her column?" Cuffe asked his daughter, "Did you manage to get it sorted out?"

"There's one which only needed a bit of trimming," Cynthia replied. "She even managed to get a plug in for Sir Scrubsalot. Once we're done picking through this we can rework it and try to get it done for the Weekend," his daughter suggested.

Mister Cuffe looked at her thoughtfully.

"I'll have to see how we're doing on space, but it's a definite Maybe," their boss said finally.

"Barney!" a mousy young wizard called as he ran up to them waving a piece of parchment. "This just came in to the mailroom," he said, handing it over to Mister Cuffe to read.

"Oho!" their boss cried with a smile before turning to back them. "It looks like your story's arrived. The Harpies have given their management an ultimatum: either the team agrees to leave the country before Umbridge's bill leaves committee or they're all walking away from their contracts."

"They can't do that," Cynthia said dumbfoundedly, before asking, "Can they?"

"No idea," her father said as he passed the letter over to her. "Either way, they seem to be taking their threat seriously. Their management is calling on Umbridge to resign," he smiled.

"This is – it's way too big for us to cover today," the woman said, to which Molly could only nod because she couldn't even imagine being responsible for all this.

"Just do what you can and save the rest for Evora," Mister Cuffe said with a wave. "If there's one thing that'll get her out of Saint Mungo's it'll being itching to cover this."

Molly felt sick to her stomach but didn't say anything until the man left. Afterwards she leaned in close to Cynthia.

"You don't think my talk with Gwenog had anything to do with this, do you?" she whispered.

"I don't know," the girl replied, "but the last thing the Prophet needs is people blaming us if the Quidditch season is cancelled. So maybe we shouldn't try too hard to sell that interview – or at least we scrub that whole part out."

Once again, all Molly could do was nod.

.o0O0o.

AN: All the swearing in this chapter was an unintended result of a change I had to make to Gwenog Jones. I'd originally envisioned her to have a far more agreeable personality, but after reading more about her – that's not the character Rowling had in mind at all. Her Gwenog is hostile and aggressive, so I had to completely change how I thought of her, which was one reason the scene took two weeks to write. In the end, I think she ended up being more like Beauregard from Critical Role, campaign two.

As I did before, the titles of Chapters 39 to 42 were made to be strung together, using parts of an old nursery rhyme: "What Are Little Girls Made Of?", "Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice", "What Are Little Boys Made Of?", "Snips of Snails and Puppy Dog Tails." Initially it was done to reference why the potions Hermione took in Chapter 38 tasted the way they did: the girls' potion was nice and sweet while the boys' potion tasted to her like snails and wet dog. As the chapters developed a more thematic reason presented itself, which showcased how different female characters (and even the same character) could behave in ways conforming to, and deviating from, stereotypical cultural norms in different ways.

There was a bit of a hiccup when I chopped Chapter 40 in half though. It made my naming scheme a little hinky, with the events of this chapter originally supposed to be in the "What Are Little Boys Made Of?" chapter, but in the end I think the extra time allowed me to expand things so it's not just the female characters shown in different ways but male ones as well – most notably Lockhart.

As always, thanks for reading.