Tug of war: begin!

Harry stumbled through the welcoming corridors of the castle like a man seeking shelter from fate itself, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, resting his back against the nearest wall. His head was on fire, an inferno of turbulent thoughts, but at least the castle was cool and calm – especially now that the vast majority of its population was in Hogsmeade. Dementors, Azkaban; death and dementia – he was glad to enjoy a few moments of tranquillity sans existential crisis, as short-lived as respite commonly proved to be at Hogwarts.

'Hello, you.'

Extremely short-lived.

Harry forced his weary muscles into obedience. He wanted to lie down and get a bit of nap-time already, preferably not on some sandy shore in the middle of the North Sea with needling winds tearing at your bare-thread robes and the spray of the waves smacking you across the face every other moment. It was a mark of how dead tired he was that he hadn't noticed anyone approaching, even if this particular someone was tricky to notice at the best of times. Amy, lurking in the shadows of a corridor to the abandoned part of the dungeons, looked him over attentively – as if every detail, every impulse was a clue to solve some ponderous enigma.

'Oh, hey,' said Harry with a truly lion-hearted attempt at sounding casual. 'Not in Hogsmeade?'

She didn't dignify this with an answer. 'You look like shite,' she said instead.

Harry coolly raised an eyebrow.

Amy pushed off the wall and nodded at him. 'Your eyes are puffy, you're as pale as clay, your robes look like something that'd give Daphne a heart attack … and it takes a special kind of absent-mindedness to wander about barefoot when the snow's piling up in the corridors. And is that sand on your toes?'

Harry followed her gaze towards his feet. 'Oh, yeah. Forgot.'

She raised an inquiring eyebrow. 'What are you up to?'

Harry hesitated but only for a moment. 'What are you referring to … specifically?'

Amy smirked, relaxing a bit. 'You could always start with the obvious and confess to where you were last night. Then again, it's none of my business. What I really want to know, I guess,' she produced a wrinkled newspaper from somewhere within her robes, 'is what in Morgana's name this is supposed to be!'

Harry took the paper, scanning the headlines. 'Grandfather is awesome!'

'You know that's not what I'm talking about.'

'I know, I know.' Harry sighed, handing her back the paper. 'Listen, it's complicated. I know it looks stupid, but I know what I'm doing. Probably.'

'So you're not denying it? The ceremonial apprenticeship? You know what that means, right? You don't need me reminding you, do you, that she could order you around like a house-elf before marrying you off to the next best Mudblood whore from the slums?'

'I'm not denying it, no,' he said carefully.

Amy had always had the rare and slightly unsettling ability to remain completely motionless for several seconds. As a child, it had freaked him out. Even now, Harry thought it was unnerving how she didn't even seem to be breathing while those grey eyes kept drilling into him, never giving anything away.

After a few moments, she nodded, content with whatever she'd seen. 'Okay. Figured you wouldn't be so ineffably dopey.'

'Well,' said Harry with a grin, 'considering how I didn't agree to become your lackey back when I was seven …'

'Ha! And what a shame that was! You being my minion would've been so brill! You were my faithful sidekick anyway. Considering what everyone's bound to think now, it honestly might've been better that way.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'You've already got Leo and Draco to boss around. Remember, I'm older than you!'

The way she smirked at him somehow refuted such silly notions as age. 'Anyway,' she said, returning to what everyone thought was her only expression. 'I've got something for you.'

'Hmm?'

'You remember your pet Mudblood scouring the entire library for … you-know-what?'

Harry dropped his grin. 'The Last Department? What about it?'

'Well, ain't it curious how she's completely dropped it ever since she came back from her last meeting with her teachers during the holidays? Now, call me Miss Slightly-More-Paranoid-Than-Adequate, but that's a bit queer, isn't it? I mean, she's about the nosiest ego on Earth – I don't buy her quitting just like that.'

Exactly like you, thought Harry. But it would probably have been a terminal mistake to speak his mind in this case.

'Why is everything so frustratingly complicated these days?' he said instead, scratching his head.

Amy shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. What's the big deal? You should've obliviated her anyway. If those teachers of hers did it – all the better! No need to get our hands dirty, and you're even spared Daphne's and Tracey's righteous grumbling.'

'I don't like the idea of those … whoever they are … of hers going around obliviating decent folk. I mean, if they just stuck to Knockturn Alley scum that'd be one thing, but they've long since crossed the line. I'll just add it to my list of stuff I'll get to the bottom to. And when I find out who they are, I'll question them – pointedly – why they thought they could get away with obliviating my family.'

'Aww! If you keep that up, I might actually momentarily entertain the idea that you're older than me, Harry.'

'I am older!'

'You used to follow me around like a star-struck puppy! I was your hero!'

'I grew out of it.'

'At least I'll always have that memory from Yule.'

'Wait what?! I knew you couldn't have been that drunk!'

She grinned mischievously at him, putting one hand on his shoulder. 'Don't worry, I won't snitch. But if you tell anyone else about "Cuddles",' she said, playfully knocking with her knuckles on Harry's skull, 'I'll have you call me Big Sis in public!'

Memory Lane

'That is not what we discussed!' said Arcturus Black with dangerous calm. 'At no point did I suggest you put Selwyn under your spell!'

'No, you didn't,' admitted the shrouded figure in the fire. 'But I also fail to recall the part of the plan that called for Greengrass' escape! Just how did a walking bundle of bones barely able to string two coherent words together manage to slip out of what should have been a locked-up mansion? Someone taking a nap for a few days? Spring cleaning? Bit of a holiday? Good thinking, blocking the Floo, but what was I supposed to do about Selwyn waltzing up to St Mungo's?!'

'Talk to him, convince him, bribe him! I allowed you such liberties because I thought you'd be able to adjust to the situation. You should never even have considered cursing him – much less following through!'

'Well, I did,' she said brusquely. 'And he's been very well-behaved ever since. We should've done this years and years ago! That we allowed this … this amateur who would leave the safety of his wards for a fool's errand to gather so many respectable –'

'Enough!' ordered Arcturus sharply. 'Enough. I told you we have other battles to fight. You know this is but the prelude to the real struggle, yet you saw fit to burden us with Selwyn nevertheless. The curse won't last forever. He'll fight it. Fool as he may be, even Selwyn will begin to resist in the end.'

Druella Rosier puffed a huge cloud of smoke. 'We'll have to adjust, is all. The dead don't talk.'

'No, but neither do they rest easy. Unlike some, we're no family of back alley desperados who murder indiscriminately whenever the next best opportunity presents itself, and I had foolishly hoped you appreciated that subtle distinction!' After another biting silence, Arcturus leant back, closing his eyes. 'And yet your actions leave us little choice – Selwyn has become a burden we're unable to bear. It is most unfortunate that the current political climate won't allow us to absorb what will be left of his influence. I hope you're satisfied now.'

'So you did want to take back what is ours?' said Rosier under her breath. 'Selwyn getting his comeuppance was always the plan?'

'Of course, it was! But not like this, not now! I intended for Selwyn to consolidate his power until such a time that our reputation had recovered to a degree that would have enabled us to retake the helm. Now it'll all be wasted. You're both involved in the events and too new an element in Selwyn's circle to make an auspicious bid for his succession. It will all fall apart. Without a strong leader to rally behind, the conservatives will scatter to the winds, at odds with one another, weak, disunited in their petty squabbles and feuds.'

The woman in the fire fell silent. With a snarl, she plucked the pipe from her mouth and tossed it away. 'You wanted my branch to inherit the conservatives' Wizengamot influence.'

'That was the plan until the very moment you decided to curse Selwyn! Nothing is easier for us than stretching our roots while the enemy thinks us weak. But your own discontent has ruined that part of my design.'

'Not ruined – delayed. Some of the others, at least, will reform. Carrow, Bulstrode, Shafiq – the smarter ones. We'll just have to start again.'

'You'll have to start again; I will have my hands full with far more important matters. But enough of this, what about the others?' demanded Arcturus. 'What did they see?'

'They saw her, of course.'

'And what is it exactly that they saw?'

'A starving, raving skeleton at death's door.'

'Good,' said Arcturus with a firm voice. 'Now, you will do as I say and no more mistakes! You will journey to the sanatorium for the terminally ill in Prague. The caretaker of the place is a man of discretion and an appreciation for creature comforts. You will, without his knowledge, acquire the pathogen of whatever contagious illness strikes you as the most obscure. I will see to the rest. Until then, Selwyn is not to wander freely or unsupervised. Chain him if necessary. Kill the elf.'

'And the children?'

'Nothing is to be done to the children. Without a respected figurehead, their family will cease to be of concern for the foreseeable future. We are not the Notts! We do not quiver at the shadow of children, and I will not extinguish an ancient line of magical blood because their descendants might pose a problem twenty years from now!'

'And Spleen? Zadie modified his memory. We can't allow such matters to hinge upon someone else's prowess with esoteric spellwork!'

'No, we obviously cannot. I will see to Spleen.'

Druella Rosier nodded, her eyes flickering to something to the right.

'Was there anything else?'

'What about Harry? What the bleeding hell did he think, agreeing to become someone's ceremonial apprentice?!'

'I do not know,' said Arcturus impatiently. 'I suppose I shall have to ask. Now, I believe you have a trip to make. Don't let me keep you.'

The Floo died, rubicund tongues of flame licking along the grate, wood, and soapstone. For a few moments, there was no sound but the crackling of the logs in the hearth.

'Please, I'm sorry! I just … I just –'

'It is done,' said Arcturus brusquely.

'I'm so sorry …'

Arcturus impassively watched the sobbing figure. 'It is not your failure that displeases me so.'

'–rry. I'm sorry. I just … I couldn't –'

'What displeases me is how you insisted that it should be you. I granted your request, and now your mercy has killed another man.'

The figure gave another aching sob, clawing at the Persian carpet. '… I'm sorry …'

Arcturus Black turned his back on the wailing supplicant, pouring himself a brandy. 'Get some rest, Ophala. I'll contact you as soon as there is news.'

Memory Lane

Most people had pretty ridiculous notions about their dream jobs. Even back in school, Mr Cornfoot had always rolled his eyes at how idiotic the others had been: Minister for Magic, revolutionising magical law, professional Quidditch player, Auror – what utter hogwash!

Getting what you wanted was what life was all about, granted, but – in Mr Cornfoot's opinion – people erred on the side of what they truly wanted.

Minister for Magic. Pah! Did people truly want to be bothered by thousands of simpering fools, shaking babies and kissing hands for the camera? Reluctant to ever speak an honest word because the public didn't want to listen whilst despising you for your reticence and always afraid that your political protégé will smilingly stab you in the back when it was opportune?

Or Quidditch player? Drudging away fourteen hours a day, no alcohol and no privacy whatsoever only to be discarded like something mouldy from the back of the larder once you turned forty, desperately clinging to your waning fame with cheesy interviews in third-rate papers and the WWN?

Well, better others than him!

And so Mr Cornfoot had been that guy in school. Decent grades with minimal effort, not unpopular but always hovering on the fringe of the really cool kids. Some of the other pure-bloods in Slytherin had thought of him as a bit of a joke, but he'd laughed right along with them. He didn't begrudge other people their grandiose dreams – he just knew better. They didn't know the joke was on them.

So, while his schoolmates went on to literally break their bones at becoming Quidditch professionals, failed to become Minister, or took a curse for someone as Aurors, he went on to become … Azkaban's Head Gaoler.

It wasn't a glamorous job. It wasn't a fun job. It also wasn't a job promising heaps of gold, scantily clad bikini models, or rocket promotions. Ironically, he wasn't even perpetuating justice. But it was a steady, dull job that allowed him to read for most of his working hours and encompassed the absolute, unshakable certainty of job security.

After all, no matter what crooked, hypocritical scoundrel was currently in charge of the Ministry, he was pretty sure there would always be some poor sods on the other side of the political carousel to be dumped into his pen. That and nobody but he had wanted the job.

And Mr Cornfoot was fine with that.

Or rather, he had been fine with that until recently.

One morning, he'd left his house, tea flask and that morning's Prophet neatly tucked under his arm, only to apparate into his completely demolished office. Not even the peace lily on his desk had been spared! And it had been about to bloom, too.

Worse, he actually had to work for a few days and consequently missed a critically important meeting of his Cribbage club. Life was so iniquitous. Why would anyone want to break out of prison anyway? Mr Cornfoot much preferred Azkaban's honesty. Azkaban, in contrast to 'freedom', at least never pretended to be anything that it wasn't.

All in all, the breakout had been a most unpleasant experience – especially with all the Dementors swooshing about, the screaming and dying and that sort of thing.

Then came the Aurors, and Mr Cornfoot once more thanked his sensibilities that he hadn't pursued such a thankless trade.

The Aurors shouted at his underlings for a bit, rescued those inmates that Fortuna had kicked in the nadgers and buried underneath the rubble, and generally posed as Merlin's chosen heroes of justice with fancy spells and billowing capes – right until the Ministry folk had arrived, at which point the Aurors got shouted at by their bosses.

By Yule, Mr Cornfoot was pleased to see most of his whimsical little sheep had returned to their cotes, with the lamentable exception of those foolish lambs that got slaughtered a few days early on the train station. But – on the bright side of things – his wife had got him a new peace lily for his equally new shiny teak desk, and he'd even got a few tickets for that Tornadoes game for his little princess at home.

Truly, the world was right back on track.

If only those troublemakers would stop stirring up, well, trouble.

'We have everything perfectly under control, Mr,' Mr Cornfoot's eyes flickered to the badge on the man's coat as he stirred his tea, 'Lazarus.' In the background, Mr Cornfoot's goldfish Patronus gasped for breath in what he thought was a fairly cute imitation of his underlings.

'Have you? So the Dementors didn't abandon post last night, killing three inmates?'

Mr Cornfoot waved a hand. 'But they're back at their posts now.'

'Great! I'm sure the wife of Mr Jenkins will be relieved to hear that.'

'Mr Jenkins?'

The Auror threw a file on his desk. 'One of the victims. He was scheduled to be released next week.'

Mr Cornfoot frowned. The man had filthy fingers. Hopefully, they wouldn't leave fingerprints on the teak sealer. Mr Cornfoot adored that fine yellow-golden hue.

'Cornfoot?'

'What? Oh, yes, dreadful. Was there anything else?'

'I found,' the man rummaged in his coat, producing a small notebook, 'the lock on one cell broken.'

'But the little lamb is still in its pen?'

The Auror's fist twitched angrily, but Mr Cornfoot smiled peacefully, leaning back. The big oaf and his ridiculous mask was keeping him from his traditional Saturday morning crossword, but at least he got some entertainment out of it.

'Yes, your lamb,' growled the man, 'didn't leave.'

'See, Mr Lazarus? We have everything perfectly under control. Even if there was a minor … technical problem, our facilities operate on the highest possible stan–'

'Because he's dead.'

Mr Cornfoot hesitated, taking another sip with extra care to slurp as loudly and obscenely as possible. 'Maybe he died of natural causes? We're a gaol, Mr Lazarus, not a spa. As long as he didn't escape, we performed within the outlined parameters of our mandate. If you're concerned with a particular detainee's health, I'll be happy to defer the case to St Mungo's, provided you move through the appropriate channels, naturally.'

'If I hear that even one confessed, insane, half-dead nonce died in here because you couldn't be arsed to do your job, I'll turn this entire place upside down, Cornfoot.'

Mr Cornfoot took another slurping sip. His cup was almost empty by now, but he did it mostly for the drama and to annoy the Auror anyway. 'I'll keep that in mind.'

'I want your healer's report on the prisoner's death.'

Cornfoot sighed. 'I assume you already have the name of the poor lamb?'

'Pettigrew.'

'I see. Naturally, I'm obliged by law to comply with official investigations. I'll happily hand it over as soon as time allows.'

The Auror grunted, flicking his fine, lustrous black hair behind his mask as he stared from Mr Cornfoot to the filing cabinet right at his side. After several moments of silence and complete stillness on the part of Azkaban's Head Gaoler, Lazarus bellowed, 'Well? What of it? The file!'

'Oh, I'm so sorry. But we're terribly busy right now.' Mr Cornfoot stood up, taking care not to tarnish that lovable sheen of his desk, procured a small green children's watering can with a big red smiley face on it, and proceeded to serenely water his peace lily. 'Terribly busy.'

The Auror growled. 'What about the wards!'

'What about them?' retorted Mr Cornfoot, giving a bud he had high hopes for an adoring pat.

'One of the ward anchors was destroyed! Half the wards are on the blink!'

'Oh, we can't have that!' Mr Cornfoot turned around, still holding the happy watering can. 'I'll bring it to the committee's attention right after lunch. They'll have this solved in about,' he pointedly consulted his watch, 'yes, about three months, I would say.'

The Auror cursed and whirled around. 'Go to hell, Cornfoot.'

Mr Cornfoot gave a lopsided little smile and wiped a bit of dew from one leaf of his peace lily. 'Got there early,' he muttered to himself.

Hell, in Mr Cornfoot's opinion, wasn't all it was cooked up to be. Some people said hell was other people, and others clung to more traditional beliefs of torture, devils, eternal damnation, and that sort of nonsense. In Mr Cornfoot's opinion, it didn't matter what hell was. 'Hell,' he thought as he carefully placed the watering can next to the filing cabinet, 'like any other place, is what you make of it.'

Memory Lane

'Perhaps he's covering for someone?' asked Mrs Monboglott, smiling gratefully as the landlady brought a tray with a complete English breakfast to their private parlour. 'Thank you, Rosmerta.'

'You're welcome, Alice, dear.'

'I don't think so. He's just a crooked desk jockey taking delight in small evils, the bastard!' Mr Lazarus leant back in his seat, putting both of his muscled arms over the backrests of the adjacent chairs. 'He's never been the political sort.'

'So what do you say are the chances someone broke in again?'

Lazarus bobbed his head thoughtfully. 'Fifty-fifty. But honestly, there isn't much except –'

'The wardstone. Could you tell what kind of spell did it? Or how they found it so easily?'

'No, if it really was sabotage, they pretty much covered all of their tracks. This was the best I could do without Frank calling for an audit. Frankly, considering how neither the wards or the wardens picked up on anything suspicious at all, I'd usually put it down to one of those strange phenomena that happen around the place – especially with those blasted Dementors acting up and everything. The place is cursed after all; one of the new wardstones buried in twenty feet of solid rock blowing up shouldn't worry me, only …'

Mrs Monboglott nodded, taking a sip of tea. 'Pettigrew.'

'Yes.'

The woman sighed, consulting her watch. 'How bad would it be if someone got to him?'

'Well, he didn't know anything crucial. But this operation, if you want to call it that, would be done and over with.'

'And it would stir up trouble with the Minister. I haven't exactly broken the letter of the law, but …'

'Yeah, I know.' Mr Lazarus grimaced. 'Crouch and Bones would fly into a frenzy. Anyway, I know what you're thinking. I didn't get to see the file yet, but my first findings didn't point to potions or curses. Nothing too suspicious going on with the vitals either.'

'So – what are the chances they managed to smuggle a loyal Legilimens in there undetected?'

Mr Lazarus waved a dismissive hand. 'Even an uncommonly gifted Legilimens would need months, years to sift through a lifetime of memories. It shouldn't affect our schedule.'

Memory Lane

Harry, lying fully clothed on his bed, was lazily fingering one of the crystal phials containing Pettigrew's memories, holding it above his head, gazing at the nebulous maelstrom within.

With a little grunt, he flipped over on his stomach, holding the inconspicuous flask inches from his eyes. He had this … gut feeling. He couldn't put a finger on it, but whenever he thought about all the trials and tribulations he'd recently felt subjected to, he could feel this sense of foreboding growing.

The feeling of having two persons' worth of memories crammed into just one head had been hell, but he needed to do something.

On a hunch, he uncorked the phial and gave it a sniff. It smelled like … wood polish. Like horses, cheap parchment, and freshly made hay. It also reminded Harry of … yes … hotpot. Or lentil soup? Cabbage? Inexpensive, everyday sort of meals. But warm – comforting.

Closing his eyes to better concentrate, he took another, longer sniff.

There was also … a hint, just a trace of … bird feathers there at the edge. And was there, perhaps, the barest, slightest whiff of exhaust fumes?

He corked the phial again. With a thoughtful expression, he hung it on the far left side of the little rack and selected another phial.

Memory Lane

'And it's not like masters of the mind arts grow on trees,' Mr Lazarus went on. 'Especially those capable and ruthless enough to break into a state prison.'

'Which makes our job all the easier, of course. It shouldn't be too hard to narrow it down.'

'Funny you should say that,' said Mr Lazarus with a roguish smirk. 'The file on British Legilimens turned up just like that on my desk this morning.'

'Aren't you getting a bit too daring …?'

'Nah, I had one of the greenhorns get it for me: Tonks. Trying her best to get a second chance with the ICW. She's a good kid.'

'Very well,' said the woman reluctantly. 'Still, I don't like our chances if we don't get it done in the next two months. Too many loose cards at the bottom. We need to hurry up or –' She faltered, her eyes widening. 'Put it away,' she hissed urgently.

'What's the matter?' asked the man, hastily stuffing his mask into his heavy cloak.

'She's here.'

Memory Lane

Harry had long since stopped idly lolling about on top of his bed. With a look of great concentration, he unsealed the third bottle from the rack he had placed right next to where he sat cross-legged on the covers of his bed.

Dampness. The musty smell of old, weathered stone. Algae. Clothing that hadn't been washed in a while. Excrements.

He wrinkled his nose and sealed the flask again, sorting it to the far right that he'd come to think of as the end of Pettigrew's line. With a small smile, he selected the next phial. This wasn't so bad. He was getting there, slow and steady.

Memory Lane

'So, naturally,' continued Hermione happily, 'the castle's in a huge uproar. Everyone's talking about Harry and Professor Rose. Again.'

'Some things never change,' said Mr Lazarus, snatching a slice of fried bacon from Mrs Monboglott's plate.

'After reading that article I had so many questions, I mean I had never heard of ceremonial apprenticeships before! So I went to –'

'The library,' finished Mr Lazarus with a teasing smirk, reaching for the bacon again. This time, Mrs Monboglott threateningly raised her fork to guard the last bit of her breakfast.

'Well,' said Hermione lamely. 'Yes, I did.'

'So what do you think of it?'

'It all seems very … old-fashioned and pure-blood-ish.' With a thoughtful expression, Hermione added, 'I guess that at least makes perfect sense if it's something Harry did.'

'So you haven't asked him about it yet?' asked Mrs Monboglott, neatly putting down her serviette.

'No, not yet. Anyway, I guess I can understand how people might want to draw up contracts as a form of reassurance for their research, but what kind of research could a sixteen-year-old, even Harry, possibly assist with that would make Harry waive so many of his rights as a free person? And why would Professor Rose want to be shackled down being responsible for Harry?'

'You think that's out of character?' asked Mrs Monboglott. 'Isn't taking responsibility for a student what teachers do all the time?'

Hermione faltered, eyeing both of her teachers. 'I … I think Professor Rose is doing an extremely good job at teaching Defence …'

'But?'

'Well … she doesn't act like a teaching sort of person, I guess. She doesn't strike me as someone much interested in taking care of others. And I mean, she's still really young, isn't she? Hogwarts doesn't exactly promote starting a family. And then there's also … I don't know …'

'You can speak freely, Hermione.' Mrs Monboglott smiled kindly at her. 'We're all friends here, and I promise you we are quite capable of keeping a secret or two.'

Hermione nervously smiled back. 'I suppose she can be a bit irresponsible sometimes.'

'How so?'

'Every once in a while, she hints at topics that I don't think are very appropriate to teach at Hogwarts.'

'Like what?'

'Well, only a few weeks ago, she insinuated how magic could affect souls, but from everything I've managed to find in the library, that's all really shady magic.'

Mr Lazarus and Mrs Monboglott exchanged a glance. Mr Lazarus, Hermione was startled to find, had lost his perpetual, lazy grin. Serious for once, he lowered his voice. 'Did she go into any detail? Mention some spell or ritual? Anything?'

'No, nothing. Like I said, it was barely even a hint, and – honestly – I think most probably didn't even pay attention, but I don't think she should've mentioned it at all. That kind of magic is illegal, isn't it?'

'Extremely so,' muttered Mr Lazarus, flicking his wand underneath the table in the Muggle-born's direction. 'But don't worry about it. In fact, I suggest you forget about it altogether.'

'But that's not all there is to it, is it, Hermione?' continued Mrs Monboglott calmly, ignoring the girl's momentarily glazed look of her eyes. 'You don't like her.'

'I …' Hermione hesitated, blinking rapidly. 'I don't like her being around Harry. She feels – I don't know how to put it – out of place. Wrong.' She nervously licked her lips. 'I wish I knew why Harry thought he needed some new, unshakeable foundation with her like that. It's not at all like him.'

Memory Lane

Treacle tart, éclairs, apple pie, steamed pudding, chocolate sponge, and roly-poly. Harry smiled as he let the very familiar scent of Hogwarts' delicious cuisine overwhelm him. He had no clue if he'd be able to differentiate the years in school by smell alone, but luckily he didn't need to; what he was looking for happened long after.

He corked the phial, picked another, gave it a sniff – and nearly gagged, frantically sealing it again. Rum, cheap perfume, and a mix of bodily fluids he immediately and with great strength of willpower censored in the cinema of his mind.

This, Harry thought ruefully as he forced his thoughts on the desserts from earlier, was the definite downside of this method. Still, it was quite convenient all things considered. Truthfully, their Azkaban stunt had been the result of a rather impulsive decision on his part, and looking back, one would be hard-pressed to even call it headstrong. He knew what his grandfather would have called it. Insofar, it was a miracle it had gone as smoothly as it had. It might have taken days to search the fortress, but they'd found Pettigrew within maybe half an hour. Good thing that Aenor had somehow acquired some knowledge about the layout of the vast fortress.

Harry still didn't know how he felt about posing as Aenor's prissy little apprentice in public, but it was quite useful how incredibly powerful and single-minded she was. Acting as her flunky would be grating, especially seeing how immature she could occasionally be in private, but at the very least he'd secured himself a very competent teacher who was not only aware of his rather … unsettling background but was also perfectly willing and capable to help him get his little magic and mind sucking problem under control. It helped that Aenor was fun to be around – if you got over her slight sociopathic and megalomaniac tendencies.

All in all, definitely a win.

Memory Lane

'Thank you so much,' said Hermione Granger, bowing politely.

'Don't worry about it, dear,' said Mrs Monboglott with a kind smile. 'Have fun at school. We'll be seeing you next Hogsmeade weekend. And do remember to read up on agreements and contracts. We'll make a start on courtship and familial duties next time.'

'I will! Thanks again.'

Mr Lazarus waved smilingly as he watched the excitable Muggle-born hurry away. 'Such an honest girl.'

'And bright,' supplied Mrs Monboglott. 'I'm actually at a point where I have to prepare lessons because she keeps breezing through what I'd thought would keep her busy for the entire year.'

'Anyway, I've got a few letters to write,' said Mr Lazarus.

'To Frank?'

'Amongst others. People dabbling in Soul Magic make me nervous. Frank might want to involve the Unspeakables. Most of the knowledge should've been purged, I wonder where this Rose character got it from.'

'Well, she's a foreigner, isn't she? I remember Hermione mentioning it early on.'

'Still,' said Mr Lazarus with a frown. 'It's not like this is stuff they simply tell you in other countries. The girl was right in that regard. This is dark stuff. I don't think she realised just how dark.'

'You don't have to tell me! But – if you'll allow me to suggest one thing – do hurry it up. Things like that have a tendency not to remain secret.'

'Don't worry,' said Mr Lazarus, pocketing his notebook and his wand. 'I'll get Frank, Frank'll get the Unspeakables, and they'll bust her at Hogwarts within the hour. There won't be a warning.'

'Good luck,' said Mrs Monboglott. 'Rendall's been nagging me about getting her investigated for more than a year. I suppose that'll do as a pretext.'

Mr Lazarus groaned. 'That man is milking this "little favour" for all it is worth. If I didn't have personal stakes here, I'd've told him to bugger off a dozen times over already.'

Mrs Monboglott nodded. 'I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but yes. I appreciate your strength of feeling.'

Memory Lane

Deep in the Department of Mysteries, where learned and rather secretive wizards and witches studied the eternal mysteries of magic, people – the public might have been disappointed to find out – were still just people, Unspeakables or not.

'Hey! Hey, where's our stuff about Soul Magic again?' shouted one man with a gravelly voice over his shoulder, an interdepartmental note in his hand.

'Shout a bit louder, won't you?' replied a second, silvery voice. 'Gathering dust somewhere down the third aisle.'

'Thanks, doll!'

There was a frosty silence, but then the conversation went on. 'What's this about anyway, all of a sudden?'

'Oh, upstairs wants to nail some bloke who's been dabbling in the good stuff.'

'And you're really going to help them, Rookwood? That's awfully cooperative of you.'

The man identified as Rookwood faltered. 'Good point. Longbottom can go to hell for all I care.' With theatrical impetus, he blasted the note with his wand. 'It's not like they can order us.'

'Who was it they wanted to question?' enquired the second voice.

'Some bloke called Rose.' He snorted. 'Mind, a guy called "Rose" deserves to be nailed by those wankers for his name alone.'

'I suppose there won't be much "nailing" happening then.'

'Why's that?'

'This Rose is a woman, Rookwood. She's the Defence professor at Hogwarts.'

'And how do you know? Oh – right! Your daughter's in Slytherin, isn't she? Anyway, this makes me want to help out even less. Never could stand the way they stifled the place. Think I'm going to call it a day instead. I'm not going to float around the office on a Saturday. You sure about slaving away all weekend?'

'No, I've got a booking for the opera with my husband. I'll just finish writing this letter, and then I'm out of here as well.'

'Serves 'em right. Freaking Aurors. First they ban everything fun, and now they just come to us whenever they're in over their heads? Dunces! But wait – that gives me an idea …'

Memory Lane

Frank Longbottom, Head Auror, glared at the interdepartmental note in his hand.

'Department on weekend. Maybe try during official working hours? In the meantime, we suggest the following light reading. Light – get it?!

Secrets of the Darkest Art, by Owle Bullock. Blacklisted by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Possession now illegal. All known extant copies destroyed.

Magick Moste Evile, by Godelot. Blacklisted by [REDACTED]. Possession now illegal. All known extant copies destroyed.

De Rerum Anima, by Apuleius. Blacklisted by [REDACTED]. Distribution now illegal. We actually have got one of these, but with it being blacklisted and everything, it really wouldn't be proper to hand it over. Go moan to your lovely wife about it.

Negromantia, by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. No known copy survived Leuven's and Dresden's sacking. Hilarious, don't you think?

Conjurationes Adversus Principem Tenebrarum, by unknown author. Partially falls under the European Ban on Blood Magic, ICW. Full of nasty, bad magics. Also church gospels. You wouldn't like it.

Break a leg! Please?

Rookwood'

'Not good then?' asked Williamson apprehensively.

'No,' replied Frank curtly. 'Not good. I suppose we'll have to do this without the Unspeakables' help. Now remember, everyone; we're doing this on tenuous evidence. Be careful not to blow it. As far as we know, the suspect is pure-blood but doesn't hail from Britain. We might be forced to overplay our hand a bit, but it should all work out if she's really a foreigner.'

'What about the news?' asked Proudfoot. 'That apprenticeship whatsit?'

'Won't be an issue if we can get her out of Hogwarts before her patrons can meddle. Speed is what's important here. The students should be at Hogsmeade, which is why we'll set out immediately and do this discreetly. We'll question her and – if at all possible – detain her to further investigate the matter at some later point in time and get our hands on some real evidence. Any more questions? None? Then let's move out!'

Memory Lane

Harry repeatedly thumped on the door of Aenor's office. Eventually, it creaked open just enough to allow Harry a glimpse at a seriously disgruntled witch. Harry fought not to grin. Aenor's usually elaborate braids were undone and her silvery-golden hair was sticking out at odd angles. Her eyes were also drooping heavily, and the dark circles around them stood in stark contrast to her fair skin which was nicely accentuated by her black dressing gown whose thin girdle she held with one hand and her wand with the other. Lowering his gaze, Harry found it hard not to snigger. Aenor wasn't even wearing shoes, and she was visibly rocking on her pedicured feet, uncomfortable from the cold, bare stone.

'I was trying to sleep,' she grumbled moodily, following his gaze. 'I would've thought you might take the opportunity to do the same.'

'Unfortunately, sleep must wait.' Ignoring her glare, he slipped inside and pushed the door shut.

'This better be good …'

'I was trying to sort out my thoughts on last night when I got a letter and …'

Harry had barely begun explaining his appearance so soon after they'd parted when there were three sharp knocks from the other side of the door.

Harry wrinkled his brow. Close call.

'What is it this time?' Aenor glared at the door. 'It's my day off, for Circe's sake!'

'It's probably the Aurors trying to arrest you. Don't worry!' he added hastily, seeing her murderous expression. 'Go back to sleep. I'll take care of it like the devoted little apprentice that I am.'

She continued to stare at him. The intensity of her gaze was honestly quite frightening – if it hadn't been for her shivers from the cold.

Again there were three sharp knocks on the door, more pressing and louder this time.

'Go,' said Harry with a rueful grin. 'This is why I'm here. Do you seriously want to invite the Aurors in looking like that?'

She glared at him. 'I don't want to invite them in at all.'

'Well, you might not have a choice. But there are options, trust me.'

She frowned but still strode past him, sat down on a vaguely Roman-looking divan, conjured a blanket, and – with a grunt – flicked her wand to vanish from view entirely.

Knock, knock, knock.

'Aurors!' came a gruff voice from the other side. 'Open up!'

Harry checked his appearance in the little wall mirror next to the door, straightened his robes, and obediently opened the door.

The man at the door reluctantly lowered his wand, evidently spared the effort of opening the door by force. They'd sent an entire squad, Harry noticed to his mild surprise, and not just any old squad. His gaze met that of Frank Longbottom. Harry wasn't at all happy to see the man on the doorstep, but he rather thought that the feeling was mutual. In the background, someone cursed heartily.

'Well, gentlemen?' said Harry politely.

'Get out of the way, boy,' barked the man in the front, trying to push past Harry.

Harry clutched the door frame and barely managed to stand his ground against the physically imposing Dark Wizard catcher. Merlin – they were making it almost too easy. The man backed off, looking as perplexed as a troll being growled at by a suicidally hubristic terrier. Harry calmly brushed his robes, turning towards the man's superior. 'Head Auror Longbottom, I wish to press charges against this man right here for assault, attempted trespass, and – let's see – mandate transgression.'

'Sod off, brat!'

'And one instance of defamation,' finished Harry smoothly.

The Auror in front of him angrily drew himself up to his full height and – faced with Harry's smirk – was just about make it even worse for himself when, sadly, one of his colleagues put a hand over his mouth and dragged him bodily back.

'Er, who's he?' asked an astonished Auror to the left who looked like he couldn't have been out of the academy for more than a few years.

'Harry …'

'Yes, Head Auror Longbottom?'

Frank Longbottom sighed, rubbing his head. 'You don't have to call me that. We've known each other since you were three, Harry.'

'I will keep that in mind, Head Auror Longbottom.'

'Seriously, who is he?' whispered the other Auror again.

'That is Harry James Black,' said a tall black Auror in the back who hadn't said anything so far, his deep, rumbling voice calm and smooth. 'Arcturus Black's heir.'

'Oh, shit! So much for –'

'Shut up!' hissed a woman to the right.

The man struggling against his urgently whispering comrade stopped moving. He paled visibly.

'Harry,' said Frank Longbottom with a grimace, 'Proudfoot here is a bit hot-headed, but are you serious about ruining his career for something like this?'

Harry shrugged, pursing his lips. 'Nobody forced him to insult me. Fine! I'll let it go if he gets on his knees and apologises. For Neville. He, at least, has always been decent to me.'

'You can't honestly expect me to –'

'Proudfoot,' said the black Auror. 'Calm yourself.'

'But, Shacklebolt, I barely touched the kid, and he's just a –'

'Just a teenager capable and evidently willing to get you dishonourably discharged and sentenced for physical assault,' said Auror Shacklebolt serenely. 'That is what he is.'

Auror Proudfoot looked horror-stricken, turning from one face to the next. The other Aurors stared straight ahead, stony-faced. For a man standing among an entire squad of teammates, he appeared remarkably forlorn. Eventually, Proudfoot turned towards Harry with visible reluctance. Harry, without breaking eye contact, imperiously pointed at the stone floor at his feet.

The man turned about one last time, saw Shacklebolt's curt nod, and sagged, slumping to his knees in front of Harry. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled. 'I … I didn't know. Please don't do this. I – I've got family.'

Harry raised a cold eyebrow. 'So do I. Anyway, the problem isn't that you didn't know.'

The man winced, but before he could stammer an explanation, Harry jerked his head. 'Get out of my sight.'

'Yes, Master Black. Thank you. Thank you! Again, my apologies …'

In silence, they watched the Auror shuffle to the back of his colleagues like a beaten dog.

'Harry, we need to have a look inside,' said Frank Longbottom after a suitably awkward silence. 'Serious allegations have been made against one Aenor Rose. These are her quarters, aren't they?'

'Yes, they are.'

'According to our records, Professor Rose is not a British citizen or – indeed – a citizen of any state associated with the ICW as far as we can tell. As such, we are authorised by the law in force to search her seat of residence if she's suspected of committing breaches against public safety or government integrity.'

'Ah. The counterintelligence bill, right?' said Harry, nodding to himself.

'That's right. So if you could just step aside please –'

'I'm afraid that's impossible,' retorted Harry with a sweet smile.

The Head Auror's friendly eyebrows twitched. 'I'm sorry?'

'You see, this is my seat of residence also. And I am, rather prominently, a British citizen. As such, the bill fails to apply here.'

'You live here, Harry?' asked Frank Longbottom disbelievingly.

'Oh, yes. Absolutely.'

'Together with Miss Aenor Rose?'

'Indeed.'

'Since when, Mr Black?' asked Auror Shacklebolt.

'Since this morning.'

'This morning?' repeated another Auror, aghast. 'This morning?!'

'Quite. And for the record, I live at every other residence Miss Aenor Rose called, calls, or might call her home as well.'

'You live with her wherever she happens to be?!' asked a man Harry vaguely recognised as Williamson in a slightly hysterical voice. 'With your Defence Professor?!'

'No, Auror Williamson. But I live wherever my illustrious master deems it fit to reside. I am, after all, but a humble instrument of her will at her every beck and call.'

Harry wasn't sure if he'd imagined the soft snort coming from behind him. He was having so much fun! His family's reputation commonly prevented him from applying his political education, which is why he thought it was quite poetic how all the Ministry regulations the Pillars had shoved down his throat since he could walk were finally paying off right here.

'So you see,' continued Harry with a placid smile, 'I'm afraid I don't have to let you gentlemen inside at all. But I will, of course, listen to any and all concerns you may have about my master. It is, after all, my civic duty to assist our brave lads sworn to defend the innocent.'

Memory Lane

'Geez, that was embarrassing,' moaned Williamson as they shuffled along the cold floors of the Ministry. 'Can we please never, ever talk about that again?!'

'Did a full squad of Aurors seriously get rebuffed by a single sixteen-year-old just now?' asked Woodcroft. 'Like, for realsies? Damn, I'd heard puberty can make kids difficult, but that little bugger was something else.'

'That "little bugger" nearly got me fired!' muttered Proudfoot feverishly. 'I barely touched him!'

'No, that was entirely your fault,' said Dawlish harshly. 'The Head Auror warned us to be careful.'

'I don't get it,' said Woodcroft, shaking her head. 'Like, I thought the Blacks were ousted. Would he have been able to pull it off?'

'Yes,' said Frank Longbottom, speaking up for the first time in a while. 'And he would've done it, too.'

'You really know him, sir?'

'I do.' Frank hesitated. 'I used to teach him, in fact.'

'You were his teacher, sir?! He was totally talking down to you – to all of us! The sarcasm in his voice was so strong, I feel like I could've paved my garden with it!'

'There is … no love lost between Harry and me. Frankly, you should be grateful Rendall didn't come with us, Proudfoot. Harry doesn't like me, but he despises Rendall. He would've had you fired just to show him up.'

'How?!' asked Woodcroft again. 'I mean, yeah, Proudfoot shoved him a bit, but that's just a technicality, isn't it?'

'Money,' said Shacklebolt calmly. 'You read the Prophet, didn't you? Do you think Madam Bones can hold onto one Auror if Lord Black throws a few hundred thousand Galleons at the Minister?'

'But that's bribery!'

'They're vicious cunts, Woodcroft, not idiots,' said Dawlish. 'Lord Black would've donated enough for St Mungo's to open a new floor, maybe enough for some construction work in the basement of the Ministry. Proudfoot's job would only be discussed in ten words. Minister Crouch is as straight as they come, but no Minister would be able to explain how he turned down a six or seven-digit donation over some trifling matter like one Auror's job.'

'Oi!' called Proudfoot. 'Excuse me, but I happen think my job isn't a trifling matter! Anyway, I barely touched the brat.'

Proudfoot skidded on the floor, barely able to avoid running into his superior, who had suddenly turned around with narrowed eyes. 'You're not wrong Dawlish, but they wouldn't have needed to throw around money in this case. I don't doubt for a single second that Harry knows Auror protocols better than you, Proudfoot. And for that, I'm docking ten days of pay off you and cancelling your holidays for the next six months. You blew it. Now get over it and don't let it happen again!'

Proudfoot lowered his head. 'Yes, sir.'

The Head Auror turned around, continuing his sullen march.

'What did you teach the kid, sir?' asked Woodcroft eventually.

'Family histories and Ministry regulations.'

'Seriously?! You taught him to take the piss out of Aurors?' Woodcroft gave a disbelieving laugh. 'I swear, you couldn't make this shit up!'

'We've got more important things on our hands,' said Frank Longbottom with just a touch of regret.

'Like what?'

'Like the leak we have in the department.'

'You mean the Black kid was lying?'

'Lying? Exaggerating? Overstating? Doesn't matter, his bluff curbed us well enough. But did you see any packed trunks? Any clothes?' demanded Frank. 'Did you see anything at all that might have hinted at Harry moving in with that woman? Harry was smart enough to make his alleged move coincide with what might have been the aftermath of their vows, of course, but the timing – not to mention his presence – was a tad too convenient.'

'Er … no, I didn't see any trunk,' admitted Woodcroft sheepishly. 'Where did the lead on that Rose woman come from anyway?'

Frank's reply was resolute silence.

'Ah. One of those leads,' sighed Woodcroft. 'Great.'

Memory Lane

'Okay, I have to admit,' said Aenor with a wide grin. 'That was the greatest thing I've seen in the last four hours.'

'Hey, can you please not compare this to breaking into Azkaban?' said Harry with fake indignation. 'That's hardly fair!'

'You know, servility kind of suits you. What was that again? A humble instrument of my will at my every beck and call?'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'At your service,' he said with a bow as sarcastic as he could muster. Admittedly, his sarcasm tank had run pretty dry in the past half hour. 'Anyway, you know what that just meant, don't you? One of my stupid little classmates squealed on you. I told you you were getting careless. I bloody told you so!'

She waved a dismissive hand. 'So what? Insinuations, hints, suggestions. Even without your help, I doubt they would've been able to make a case. I'm not stupid, you know. I never explicitly mention any forbidden spellwork in my classes. Not that I don't appreciate you rebuffing them and shutting the door in their faces. Making that baboon grovel at your feet was a nice touch, too! There may be hope for you yet, Harry.'

'It might've been Bones,' continued Harry, choosing to ignore Aenor's quips. 'Abbott's too thick for something like this. Bloody cow! Anyway, do you mind if I have a kip here?'

'Crashing at your teacher's? How kinky!'

Harry just shrugged. 'Hey, I just told those guys in all honesty that we're cohabitating.'

'Cohabitating? You're my dogsbody, Harry. You should be grateful if I let you sleep in the stable.'

Harry shrugged again, throwing himself on the divan. 'Don't be like that. Anyway, I really do need a bit of a nap. Daphne and Tracey are going to tear into me as soon as they get back to Hogwarts.'

'Fine,' said Aenor with a yawn. 'But if I hear you snore, I'll hex your nose shut.'

Harry involuntarily wrinkled aforementioned nose. 'Noted.' Leaning back and drawing the blanket Aenor had conjured over his chest, Harry closed his eyes. The blanket smelled like a single venturous crocus, like the first sign of spring dispelling the arduous season of frost. All on one's lonesome.

'Say,' began Aenor from the door that led to her bedroom, 'who sent you that warning? This really might have been a lot more tedious if you hadn't known beforehand.'

Harry opened his mouth – and hesitated. He closed his mouth again, turning on his right side, away from Aenor.

He could feel her eyes on him. 'Ah,' she said. 'One of those letters.'