"You'll regret this, Aspen," the man spat out as the young Lord was smoothing out the lapels of his cloak.
"I'll thank you to call me Lord Selwyn, Steward Parkinson," said Aspen calmly. "And will I really? Who will make me regret it, exactly?" he asked, looking the man up and down doubtfully.
Sergei Parkinson was a fourth cousin of the current Lord Parkinson, and the poor unfortunate soul who'd been relegated to the task of representing the entire family in the Wizengamot since the Lord himself was too preoccupied with jugging his multiple affairs to pay attention to politics. Of the Ancient and Noble House, all the male members were marked or wishing they had been when the Dark Lord was still terrorising Albion. Raised by his maternal family, the Dolohovs due to his parents' incarceration following the end of the war, he had been one of the lieutenants of the Argentum Regina that preceded William Robards.
Upon seeing his considering glance, the man gulped and stepped aside.
"I thought so," concluded Aspen. "Now if you'll excuse me."
He made his way out of the council chamber, listening to the whispers in his wake with one ear. One could never know what would be useful to hear.
"The second purist House to change camp in a year," he could hear, "and to join the Longbottom Alliance this time?"
"What would Rowan Selwyn say of his son?"
"He'd kill him for sure. Thank Merlin he's still in Azkaban."
"But the new Lord has such a forbidding look, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd be willing to kill his own father."
Aspen suppressed an eyeroll.
"Wouldn't you kill him too if it were you? That man sacrificed a dozen muggle-borns to fuel an explosive array he set off into the office of a Bangor prosecutor! He didn't even need that many victims, he just liked hunting them!"
He bit his tongue. Blood burst into his mouth. Something pressed on his arm. He pulled out his wand and turned, ready to burn off the offending hand when he recognised Gemma gazing at him with concern, her grandfather standing a few feet away from them. His jaw unclenched. He rolled his shoulders and discreetly pulled his wand back in his holster.
"Do you want me to go home with you?"
"I - what about Terence? Aren't they taking the kid in tonight? You said you wanted to be there."
"Hm, I wanted to. But one of my best friends just announced to the entirety of Albion that his House disavows the values it has followed since its founding."
"Not since its founding," he corrected the Light witch tiredly. "The Lady Morgana would never have allowed an upstart like the Dark Lord to breathe the same air as her. They are not the same."
Gemma shook her head. "I think you need company right now, and I'm not talking about your cousins. They don't know you like I do."
She was right. He'd never been as unguarded with his family as he'd been with the group of friends who had forcibly adopted him in his first year. And his cousins were busy managing the elders anyway. He'd been given a week of respite before having to deal with the branch families.
"Fine," he sighed.
His friend smiled brightly and turned to say goodbye to her grandfather, who was in deep conversation with Lord Shafiq. Aspen waited for her before making a beeline for the Floo.
Aspen had just patted himself free of dust when the fireplace changed colour, indicating someone was requesting a call. He and Gemma exchanged a loaded glance. Aspen sent his magic through the Floo connection and Adrian's head appeared.
"Hi."
Gemma moved slowly, so as not to warn Adrian of her presence. She sat on the couch, on the left side of the sitting room's chimney.
"Hi, Adrian."
"Can we talk?"
Aspen sighed. "What is there to say?"
"A lot of things. I... I want to apologise."
"For what? For rejecting me? Or for avoiding me the rest of the year?"
Adrian winced. "Definitely the latter. I know I've been... distant. But I needed time to process, and then I got distracted taking care of the mess with Warrington, it's been... anyway." He paused. "I didn't reject you. I rejected Lord Selwyn."
"Lord Selwyn is me!"
"No, it's not. It's who you have to be to represent your family. I have no interest in being the sidepiece of the turncoat Selwyn Lord, bold enough to raise his head and announce to the entire world that he wants to steer his family into a better direction. Do you have any idea what people will do to me?"
"Of course I do. That's why I didn't ask you for anything. I just told you I loved you."
His voice broke as he said it, and Aspen hated himself for it.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"It's fine. We don't need to talk about it. Let's just... move on, okay? I'll see you... when I see you."
"Wait, Aspen!"
He pointedly didn't look at Gemma as he raised his wand and doused the flames with a whispered Aguamenti.
"You know he loves you too, right?" she said after a beat of silence.
"I know. It doesn't change anything."
The floating city of Aeris was glorious.
The celestial capital of the Principality of Mezzogiorno was nestled atop a colossal, cloud-kissed island bordered by waterfalls of magical dust – a common residue to find in places of concentrated magical power and the bane of Argus Finch, the housekeeper of Hogwarts. Coincidentally, it was also the favourite snack of land elves – that evaporated into thin air before it could even reach the roofs of the buildings of Napoli, the unknowing sister city it overlooked. Gigantic arrays hovered above the island, maintaining it afloat and regulating the oxygen for the comfort of its residents and visitors. Lush magical lands kissed the city walls they surrounded, vines of golden ivy climbing up the arches marking up Aeris' entrances and playfully waving at those who chose to enter the city on foot.
The cheekily nicknamed "Mispoli" was an architectural marvel blending old Roman constructions with Baroque flair, the highly decorative and theatrical style of the 17th century adding colour and richness to the harsh lines and imposing classical structures that composed the city's main landscape. Aeris' structures, crafted from a variety of white marble, gleaming obsidian, and iridescent glass, seemed almost excessive in their opulence. The facades of even the most common households were adorned with intricate carvings of magical creatures and feats, arcane cuneiform and Latin script were sculpted into the doorframes, providing wards and miscellaneous spells to its inhabitants. As was the case for many magical buildings, habitations were built with little care for the laws of physics; they leaned every which way and the most sentient edifices sometimes twisted into themselves into a spiral at their leisure, breathing sighs of contentment as they moved themselves into the shape that suited them. An exasperated wizard had to tap his wand to the front of his shop to make it stop encroaching on the street and blocking the way of the disgruntled passersby.
Harry observed all of this with a slack jaw as he let himself be led by his best friend from the platform where the Aetnaians' carriage had landed into the busy streets, his fingers twitching every time the city's magic greeted him, as if weighing the worth of the boy Mispoli's prince seemed so attached to carefully. When Harry inquired about making the proper introductions to Blaise's family before gallivanting off into town, the boy chuckled and waved it off, claiming that "Uncle Aristeo would be in state meetings until the evening and mother isn't even back from Tunisia yet. The only thing waiting for us at court is boring sycophants." Then he simply tugged him deeper into the streets, followed by an amused-looking Lazzaro and a blank-faced Crescenzia as well as harried-looking bodyguards who cast perimeter wards as they walked to let the youngest prince do what he pleased while still minding his safety. Harry noticed they didn't have the same alertness as when they'd walked down Diagon Alley, secure as they were that few in the streets would be able or willing to harm the royal family.
The city's heart lied in the Piazza Delle Strige, a grand cobblestone square surrounded by imposing edifices, their spires reaching higher into the sky and glowing with ambient magic. Countless lanterns illuminated the city's streets, casting a warm glow on the people ambling about, wixen and other magical races alike. Cyclops, fauns, lymphae, centaurs, cambions and sirens mingled with humans with no care for the boundaries of races usually enforced in other nations, gathering in the city square with the ease of a people that never had to worry about being made to feel unwelcome.
Blaise showed Harry the Biblioteca Nazionale, cosseted within a labyrinth of gleaming gold and red cobblestone streets. The sanctuary of ancient knowledge was second only to the palace's library, his friend murmured as they walked through the imposing building. Its walls, lined with towering bookshelves, were adorned with intricate carvings of caladrii and strige perched atop open books, their wings occasionally stretching as they observed the visitors with gleaming eyes. The library's atmosphere crackled with a tangible energy, the ancient texts brimming with power greeting the ambient air with the caress of their magic. Then he took him around the market stalls, letting him try local games and foods offered by obliging merchants who were both honoured to find themselves in company of royalty and eager to make a good sale. They passed next to the Virgilio Nero Academy, whose stairs and entranceway disappeared as soon as unauthorised visitors tried to step towards them. Harry barely had the time to catch a glimpse of a mother-of-pearl roof before the entire building vanished from view, an old woman swearing up a storm at her thwarted attempt to get in, claiming that she needed to have a talk with her good-for-nothing son. A stone colossus appeared and sternly told her to request an appointment instead of simply showing up.
"They don't like my mother much over there," commented Blaise. "They were very offended by her decision to send me off to Hogwarts. Let's not linger. I want to show you the Museum of Sentient Pottery. They have interesting things to say about the politics of Ancient Rome and they're not too bad at remembering not to speak Latin too much."
They arrived to the Caladrius palace in the early evening. By that time, Harry was almost dead on his feet and his head was spinning with the wonders he'd seen during the day. If the rest of Aeris was beautiful, the palace was dizzying in its majesty. Up a cliff ending in a waterfall, it sprawled across the entire Eastern side of the floating island and overlooked the entire city. The first thing Harry noticed was the crimson windows adorning the black marble walls veined with gold. They were shaped like eyes and set upon Mispoli, their intense glare illuminating the roofs of the city and casting a protective glow over the city's inhabitants. Harry would have thought their intensity frightening if the magic emitted by the Latin script carved around them wasn't so warm and loving, dark and possessive in a way that only a very distinctive type of defensive Dark magic could be. The imposing white arches sculpted with a representation of all the demons said to have once been summoned by the mage-king Solomon first and Proteo Zabini after him were just as breathtaking, and Harry was once more reminded why his friend's family were thought to have demon blood. An immense fire crackled in the main courtyard beyond the entrance, which Blaise told him was the domain of the genius loci of the Caladrius palace, a protective spirit who had coexisted with House Zabini ever since the edifice was built.
They were greeted by Antea Zabini, who was surrounded by an entourage of a dozen people who seemed to hang over her every word. Crescenzia made a disgusted face upon seeing them and proceeded to kiss her siblings and cousin on the cheek one after the other, finishing with her older sister. Once that was done, she turned around and nodded at Harry before turning on her heel, leaving the group behind. Antea watched her go with a sad smile.
Lazzaro was the next to beg leave, claiming that he needed to get his menagerie in order.
"Dino will join us soon," said Antea to Blaise, "he's settling a few things with Donna Aragona. You know they've been hounding us about getting a permit to settle a hydra in their waterways. As if we'd allow these shady bastards unregulated access to a man-eating sea monster." She shook her head. "So how do you like Mispoli, Harry?" she asked in English.
"It's wonderful," he replied in Italian. "I've loved everything about it so far, and I'm excited to see more."
She smiled a bit more genuinely. "I'm glad to hear that. You boys won't need to make an appearance at court until tomorrow night, so we'll have a family dinner later in the evening."
Blaise groaned. "Looking forward to it," he sighed before explaining to Harry. "The first family dinners back home always contain some form of interrogation."
"Ah," he said, his askance expression clearing. "Sounds stressful."
Blaise nodded solemnly. "It is."
"Biagio's exaggerating, it's not that bad," chuckled Antea. "But Father will have more questions about the events of the last two years. You've done a good job evading them last year by bringing up Aunt Serafina's failings, but you won't be able to escape it this time. Our spies in Britain told us interesting things."
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Sure, I will."
"And now off you go! You have an appointment with Healer Alfieri."
"An appointment for what?" asked Harry, tilting his head.
The Italian prince blinked, looking caught off-guard, as if he hadn't expected Harry to ask. "Ah. Maybe we should talk first?"
Ron watched Ginny reading her letter with a small smile, his heart easing a little at the sight of his sister's tentatively renewed cheer.
He would have to thank Potter —Harry— for it, he thought resolutely. The boy did help his sister tremendously by telling Mr Higgs about Ginny. Ron's mum cried when the man reached out with an offer of assistance to get Ginny settled in muggle school. The fact that she now had a pen pal who could understand what she was going through on top of that made the whole thing much less daunting for her, especially paired with the muggle culture classes the Higgs family had offered to both students. Ron wasn't sure he liked Ash, the squib his sister was exchanging with — he could understand context cues enough to gather the boy was from a Dark family, fake name notwithstanding — but knowing that Ginny had someone to talk to who understood was reassuring.
Ron wished it had been him, though. He wished for so many things. He wished he'd seen his little sister was possessed before being caught off guard. He wished he'd paid more attention to her that year. He wished he'd been strong enough to help Neville against Riddle. He wished he could wring Draco Malfoy's neck in front of the boy's father and get away with it.
He wished he could find the right words to say so his mum stopped crying herself to sleep. He wished he could figure out how to help his dad fall asleep in the first place. Arthur Weasley hadn't slept a wink since he'd found out that Lucius Malfoy was the one who'd slipped the diary to Ginny in the hopes of getting him in trouble so the law he passed could be overturned. The man was wrecked with unwarranted guilt, and no amount of reassurance had appeased it so far. Ron's mum worried his magic would unsettle enough for him to develop the Curse of the Vigil. Then he'd never sleep again.
Even the twins struggled to find the words to cheer them all up, though they tried their hardest to do so. Percy indulged them too, when he wasn't standing protectively over Ginny or reading law books in an attempt to find something, anything that would help them bring Lord Malfoy to justice. He'd had no luck so far.
Their only recourse was to settle the Feud with blood. There had never been a settlement between their two families, not after the Malfoys stole their grimoires, ruined their reputation and forced them to pawn off their seat on the Wizengamot and their title as an Ancient and Noble House to prevent the destruction of their ancestral hearth in Wistman's Wood — where the Matriarch of the Weasley family, Ron's great-grandmother still lived in to this day, tended to as best they could by her many descendants. Of course, the Malfoys hadn't come out of it unscathed; their line was cursed not to be able to bear more than one child at a time, heavily dwindling their numbers. Their old sprawling manor was burnt down with Cleansing Fire, leeching the ambient magic they had built on their territory and forcing them to rebuild in another land. Cedrella Weasley famously killed Draco Malfoy's great-grandfather to court Septimus Weasley, Ron's great-granduncle. But all that was small compared to the indignities Ron's family had suffered throughout the centuries, because most Weasleys refused to resort to underhanded means to one up their enemy House.
Bill, the best duellist in the family had offered to challenge Malfoy Senior to a fight to the death, but their mum had been hysterical at the very thought of her son facing down a Death Eater.
They all felt helpless.
It had brought the entire family closer, but it had also made them aware of how isolated their family was from society, and how much power the Malfoys still held over them as a result. It was infuriating. And Neville couldn't even help; the Longbottom Alliance hadn't managed to do more than push back against the purist faction, whose deep coffers had been instrumental in their rapidly growing influence.
Ron seethed at the thought.
Well then. If they couldn't reach Lord Malfoy, maybe there was something to do about his son, he resolved.
He just needed to figure out how to get the Slytherins to help.
Blaise took Harry to the guest room allocated to him. It was actually Blaise's drawing room, meant to entertain visitors, but he had written ahead and requested it be repurposed for his friend's use. Normally, guests would not be allowed to stay in the family wing. Blaise had needed to argue for a long time to get his way, but he had. Obviously.
The room was nice. They'd taken care to decorate it in royal blue, black and white gold, the colours of House Potter. There was even a House sigil on top of the bed, with the white stag's head's profile in a blue background facing towards the large window illuminating the room in the evening's soft glow. The black eye of the regal creature gleamed when the light hit the white stag just right.
They sat down on the armchairs one after the other, and stared at each other anxiously.
"I'm not ill," said Blaise, knowing what must be going through his best friend's mind. "I... hm."
Blaise was all too aware that his friend had been raised muggle, and that there were certain concepts he had likely not been introduced to. He had reacted well to the idea of cauldron babies when Daphne had told him about it, but the Italian prince wasn't sure if that extended to other things. Madam Pomphrey hadn't broached the topic either, he knew, and he doubted Mr Fawley would have. The old man was sweet, but Blaise was convinced he would forget his own head if it wasn't attached to his body. There had been more pressing things to teach Harry in the two years he had been in Ulrich's custody.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but I haven't grown an inch since we've met."
Harry frowned thoughtfully. "I guess it didn't register because you're still taller than me." Blaise chuckled. He could see him searching through his memories. He waited to see his eyes widen before continuing with a half smile.
"Still as unobservant as ever. But to your credit, you're not the only one who hasn't noticed. I think Theo's the only one who did, unless the girls figured it out and didn't mention it," he said doubtfully. "I don't see how they would. Theo knows because he woke up early one day and saw me apply a very distinctive salve meant to renew the effects of the puberty seal I took during the summer before first year."
"A puberty seal," muttered his friend to himself, processing the information.
"When I was nine, I met a girl about three years older than us in the city of Kêr-Is, in Brittany. My mother had seduced a French Lady who amused herself by making kidnapped magical creatures fight to the death. She found me tearing my hair out."
"Why?"
From Harry's expression of dawning comprehension mingled with confusion, he could see where Blaise was going though he didn't have the terms for it.
"Nothing, really. I just... my skin itched all the time, like there was this sense of wrongness I couldn't quite shake off. I was too young to understand why. The only thing I knew is that I hated my hair, I hated wearing feminine clothes, I hated my name and I hated being called a witch. I thought I couldn't do much about the latter two but I quickly replaced all of my clothes with things that suited me better and that day, where I was feeling particularly terrible about my hair, I tried to rip it out entirely. She stopped me and brought me to her mother, who cut my hair herself. Then she asked me questions, and explained what was most likely bothering me." He paused. "I'm trans, Harry."
He looked out the window, studiously keeping his eyes away from his friend.
"I was born female, but I identify as male. It's... uncommon, but it happens in the muggle world too. They just have a harder time making the transition. The magical world has more options." He paused. He wished they could offer this service to muggles, but their lack of innate magic got in the way of that. It had been tried before, to disastrous results. "I was too young to make deep changes, so my healer gave me a potion to seal the puberty process. I'll be purging it from my body and starting a new treatment this summer to begin with surface changes that would allow me to develop normally. Reversible things to start with. Healer Alfieri said we'll go more in depth once I've finished growing."
Blaise chanced a look at his best friend. Harry looked thoughtful. "What does that entail? Is it still potions or transfiguration? Hm, a ritual maybe?"
The Italian prince replied without thinking. "Alchemy actually. Transmutations don't revert to their origin state by themselves, unlike transfigurations. And rituals are too invasive on your magic, especially for young people. There are a few potions that have the desired effects, but I'd have to take them every day so alchemy was deemed more suitable."
Harry's eyes lit up. "Can I ask your Healer about it? That sounds fascinating."
Blaise shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. He didn't know why he expected anything else.
"Sure."
"And, uh, thanks for telling me." Harry tilted his head. "I hope you didn't feel like you had to."
"No, I... I prefer not to mention it. I'm not ashamed or anything like it, I just hate discussing it. But you're my best friend and I knew you'd like to be there during my consultation if it didn't weird you out too much, so..."
He shrugged.
"I knew about trans people before, you know," commented Harry. "Though Uncle Vernon wasn't talking about them in such nice terms."
Blaise snorted. Knowing his friend, it had prompted him to be wholly accepting before he'd ever figured out what the term meant.
"I am not surprised. You know, I knew they existed too, but at nine years old I didn't exactly put two and two together. I'm glad to have met Fleur and her mother," he mused. "She's trans too, you know. That's why they knew so much about how to help me."
"Did they choose your name?" asked his friend, leaning forward.
"Fleur did, yes. She said it was her grandfather's name, if I remember right. Antea pouted a lot, she would have preferred me to have an Italian name. I think I told you that she's the reason everyone in the family calls me Biagio?" At Harry's nod, he continued. "I don't mind it, she used to call Dino way worse. She and him had a terrible rivalry, she'd gotten it into her head that she wanted to be Uncle's heir - then she had a taste of politics and decided she'd rather have the opportunity to take breaks from it. She called him every name under the sun. Ah, I think Lazzaro made a list. It's somewhere in my room, I'll show you before we go see Healer Alfieri. I think you'll like it, some of them are quite inspired..."