Black Luminary

by YakAge

The war against the Dark Lord was the last straw. The oppressed, fed up with oligarchy, corruption, and injustice, sharpened their knives, rallying behind those who promised change. They won. Today, Magical Britain is a changed country – for the better. Hail and praise to our saviours! Finally, all is well. But listen! Can't you hear the grindstone turning still ...?

68. ML: Ace, Two Pair, Air

Chapter 22: Ace, Two Pair, Air or The Calm Before The Storm

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Hermione, her hair coiled like a nest of snakes, impatiently paced up and down their Occlumency study room. 'Are you sure?! Are you quite, quite sure?'

Tracey grimaced. 'I think so, yes.' When Hermione's expression darkened further, she added, 'Look, the Ministry's seals are magical; there's a simple charm to test if they're the real deal.'

'And these are? You didn't do the charm wrong, did you?'

Tracey gave a small smile. 'I'm afraid not, honey.'

'But it doesn't make sense! Why would I not remember agreeing?! You aren't an expert – you yourself admitted it!' said Hermione, clinging to this last shred of hope.

'Right,' said Tracey. 'The only people who are would be, well –' Her voice trailed off wretchedly.

'Aurors,' spat Hermione furiously. 'AURORS! I've had a bellyful of this! Aurors, Harry, my teachers, Memory Charms … Harry! I've had a bellyful of all of this! Why does it feel like everyone's just doing as they please with me?!'

Hermione gave a short cry of frustration, stamping her feet. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. 'Concentrate, Hermione. Concentrate!'

Tracey watched her with an anxious little smile – as if Hermione were an irate bomb in possession of its own detonator.

'Are there any other people who could dissect the seals entirely? Besides Aurors?' asked Hermione.

'Unspeakables maybe?' said Tracey. 'Maybe some senior Ministry officials? I expect some of those ancient geezers sitting on the Wizengamot might. And any legal expert, I guess.'

'Is there even a remote chance they'd help me if I asked nicely?'

'Er, no. The Auror Office would be compelled to investigate, but if one of your teachers really is an Auror then …'

Hermione sighed heavily, falling back into an empty chair and gazing at the floor. 'It won't do any good, I know. It's often the same with Muggle police.'

'I suppose,' began Tracey slowly, as if reluctant to suggest it, 'I suppose Harry's grandfather could –'

'No.'

'I know, I know! But – listen to me for one second – Arcturus Black is a very influential and powerful wiz–'

'NO!' A few moments of silence followed Hermione's outburst. 'Sorry, I– Sorry, Tracey. I didn't mean to yell, but it's all so frustrating! What am I supposed to do? Tell me – just what am I supposed to do here?!'

Tracey looked rather alarmed. 'What are you asking me for?'

Hermione closed her eyes, propping her head with both hands in a way that suggested it weighed heavily on her. 'I like Daphne – really! She's … straight-forward. But she's so dependent on Harry – she'd do anything for him – but right now, I don't feel like playing rag doll for Harry's benefit. Leo might try to help, but I'm pretty sure if there was a conflict of interest, he'd stick with Harry and his sister. Not, er, not to mention what Amadina might do to me if she somehow gets it into her head that I'm trying to turn her brother against Harry or some such nonsense.' She paused for a second. 'Oh, and Draco's totally out of the question, of course. I'm never sure if he's making fun of me, taking advantage of me, or putting me down – but I feel like it's usually at least one of those.'

'He's like that to everyone though. I think Draco actually does like you, Hermione.' She appeared to consider this. 'You know, in his twisted way.'

Hermione shook her head, ignoring this. 'But you, Tracey, you're the only one who – well – who is simple.' Seeing Tracey's look, she added hastily, 'I don't mean it as an insult, really! You're the only one who has never done anything for themselves while pretending it's for me, who never pretended to be someone they aren't. You're … honest! And that's what I need right now. Honest! Your sharp tongue doesn't hurt either.' Hermione smiled. 'Look, I'm not asking you to choose someone over anyone. I just want honest advice – please!'

Tracey's face went stiff as she looked at Hermione with an expression that was impossible to read.

'I'm sorry,' whispered Tracey under her breath, her voice wavering, leaving Hermione momentarily puzzled. But then Tracey continued as if she hadn't said anything, her expression clear once again. 'You shouldn't have to go through this. This is super messed up.' Reluctantly, she appeared to steel herself. 'You should get a solicitor, Hermione. A solicitor might also help you with the seals. And help with everything else.'

'But if this is all legal –'

'They can help even if whatever's been going on has been entirely above-ground – which I doubt,' she added after a second of thought. 'Secondly, you should let Harry have – let me finish! – you should let Harry take a look at the note. There is a medical spell, I think, with which to confirm the identity of a person by hair or skin flakes or something.'

Hermione bit her lip, glancing at her letter – the letter in her handwriting, she mentally corrected herself. If it was okay for the entirety of Wizarding Britain to treat her like a wager in a game of … whatever this was supposed to be, then maybe it was high time Hermione turned the game on its head.

Glancing at a stack of parchment from their Occlumency lessons, she muttered, 'Say, Tracey. Do you mind letting me handle this? I've been too passive in all this. Might as well play the cards I've been dealt!'

Tracey looked at her with wide eyes. 'Playing's fine – fine! Just … try not to overplay your hand. These aren't the types of games where the winner shakes the loser's hand, and off they go to the boozer to have a toast.'

'Yes,' mumbled Hermione, scowling darkly. 'Yes, I figured that much already, thank you all the same.'

She scratched her head, staring at the letter in her hand. Maybe Harry could help. And maybe Hermione could take the opportunity to be really – REALLY – sure. Games, yes. Everyone had been playing games with Hermione and running circles around her.

Hermione snorted angrily as her wand shot a few angry sparks in her tight grip. Tracey took a few careful steps back.

'Inviting me to a second breakfast, indeed,' mumbled Hermione furiously under her breath as she sent stacks of smeared parchment flying, scouring for blank pages. 'If you have any concerns regarding other possible violations,' she recited angrily, haphazardly scrunching a few pages of her Occlumency meditation exercises and tossing them over her shoulder. 'Merlin's pants, who do they think they are?! I've never been so ANGRY! Right. This will do.'

She carelessly put a few sheets of new parchment on the desk in front of her next to the letter in her handwriting. Then, she tipped first the letter and then a blank sheet.

'Geminio!'

Critically, she inspected the erstwhile blank parchment. As far as she could tell, it was a perfect copy of the first letter. Tracey watched her silently with a blank look.

'Tracey?!' Hermione snapped.

'Er, yes?' squeaked Tracey, trying to huddle behind another desk.

'Copy the letter in my handwriting!'

'What?! How could I do that? I'm no crook!'

'I'm telling you to do it. It's just writing.'

'Yeah,' said Tracey desperately. 'But it won't be any good. You need to put in honest work to be any good at being a forger!'

'Just do it! Doesn't matter if it's bad. Try your best, that's all I'm asking.'

'I … sure, Hermione,' said Tracey hastily. She didn't appear to be in a mood to argue with Hermione, whose wand was still shooting angry red sparks and had – in fact – just lit a discarded pile of parchment on fire.

While Tracey scribbled away with a look of desperate compliance, Hermione copied the letter once more by hand herself. Harry sure was convinced of his smarts, wasn't he? He should be able to figure this one out. And if not – well, he'd be all the more suspect for failing to be helpful.

Remembering her involuntary breakfast, Hermione punctured the last dot so sharply that the parchment ripped. Harrumphing loudly, she turned towards Tracey. 'Done?'

'Give me a sec!'

Hermione tapped her fingers impatiently on her arm as she watched Tracey write the last few sentences. Tracey did have a very calm hand, and the effort was more than respectable. Even though she finished within ten minutes, Hermione thought most of the letters could have been hers.

Coldly, still tapping her fingers, she raised one eyebrow at Tracey, nodding at the forgery.

Tracey grinned guiltily. 'Please don't ask. Good enough?'

'I should think so. Take all the copies and follow me. Come on!'

'Where are we going?' asked Tracey, jogging to keep up with Hermione's angry stride.

'To Harry, of course. Let's see Mr Smart-Robes figure this one out.'

Tracey groaned but didn't say anything as they rushed through the castle. It was lunchtime and only the occasional overeager stragglers returning from the library crossed their paths. Most of them hastily made way to not get trampled underneath Hermione's march of righteous indignation.

They found Harry exactly where Hermione had left him: in the old classroom she had awoken in only a few hours ago. Amadina was still there too, which Hermione had expected. Leo and Daphne she had not expected. They were all sitting in a circle, discussing a parchment in Harry's hand.

Daphne gave a start as Hermione banged the door behind her. 'Hermione! Everything okay?'

'Fabulous,' muttered Hermione. 'Simply fabulous, Daphne. You got a second, Harry?'

Harry raised a questioning eyebrow – first at Hermione and then, when Hermione remained stoically uncooperative, at Tracey. 'Of course.' He pocketed the parchment. 'Just a letter from my godfather. Okay – shoot!'

He didn't ask what he could help with, Hermione noticed, narrowing her eyes. 'I'm facing a little quandary, you understand, and I would so welcome your far-famed expertise. If you could indulge this silly little Muggle-born friend of yours, I'd be ever so grateful.'

Faced with the acidic tone of her voice, Harry's second eyebrow rose. 'And how may I be of assistance?'

Ignoring Daphne's gobsmacked look and the expression of acute anger on Amadina's face, she stormed over to him and slammed the original letter and all three copies in front of him on the desk.

'And this is …?'

'This is the moment to put your money where your mouth is,' she said.

'Who do you think you're talking t–' snarled Amadina, but Harry held up a hand, looking more puzzled than affronted.

For a second, he held Hermione's gaze. Then, with a sort of facial shrug, he turned towards the letters. He read them all – carefully. He didn't skip any words either, Hermione could tell. Most people had to force themselves to really see the letters and the words and not accept the conjectures of their brain. You had to learn to read word by word, character by character. Teachers did it – and so did Harry.

He carefully studied all the parchments. Tracey's parchment was dismissed first. His eyes also rested for a second on the punctured dot on Hermione's copy, and she could've sworn there was the flicker of a smirk, but then he dismissed it without any comment.

Amadina, Daphne, and Leo were watching – the latter two curious and the former seething.

'Tough luck,' thought Hermione grimly.

She watched as Harry inspected the magical forgery and the original more closely. He waved his wand a few times, gave both parchments a little sniff, inspected them from both sides, and – to Hermione's amazement – licked his finger and tried to smear the ink. He did the same with the other sheets. He even gave his thumb a careful lick afterwards.

Barely three minutes into his examination, he looked up. 'Done.'

'Well?' demanded Hermione, watching him carefully.

Harry shrugged again. 'This one was written by Tracey,' said Harry, pointing at the first parchment. 'She tried to copy your handwriting, well done by the way, but she's not used to your tightly-wound script. She also struggled to copy some of the remnants of the cursive script you no doubt learned back in Muggle school.'

Hermione brutally crushed that part of herself that was already feeling impressed. 'And the others?'

'You wrote this one,' he said, proffering the second parchment. 'You use an eagle quill for your homework – in contrast to Tracey's cheaper goose quill. The shafts of eagle feathers and other raptors have no major grooves or marking, and they facilitate a very even script.

'These, however,' he indicated the original and the magical copy, 'were written with what I presume to be crow quills. They're much finer – see the turns and fine scratches here? Students hardly ever use them; they're more common for artistry and people with very practised handwriting.'

'Never heard of crow quills,' said Amadina. 'Don't those Ministry wankers all use swan?'

'A popular option if you want to show off,' said Harry with a small nod. 'But for extremely meticulous work, an experienced writer or artist would always prefer crow. But the quill isn't the only difference. There's the ink, too,' Harry went on, pointing at the letter he'd smeared. 'This is common Thorn Crust Ink like most students use, often infused with any number of pigmentations for colour. This, by contrast,' he pointed at the original and the magical copy, 'appears to be Iron Gall Ink. You don't see it often outside of offices – it doesn't smear, you see, and often keeps for centuries and centuries – though it can damage paper and even parchment due to its slightly acidic nature.'

'Geez, Harry,' said Amadina, whose snarl had turned into a look of growing concern. 'You need to get out more.'

'These two,' continued Harry as if there hadn't been an interruption, indicating the original and the magical copy again, 'are – for all intents and purposes identical. I assume a Geminio Charm has been used to duplicate one original. I could not find any irregularity with the strokes – none whatsoever.'

'So which one is real?' demanded Hermione, who had kept track of the original beforehand. She wouldn't have been able to distinguish them otherwise.

'Er, Hermione?' said Daphne slowly. 'If it's been copied, you can't tell which –'

'Which one is real?!' demanded Hermione yet more insistently.

Harry calmly looked back at her with those astonishingly green eyes of his.

'How would he know?!' demanded Amadina irately. 'You're being stupid again, Granger! Mind telling us what this is all about?!'

But Hermione ignored her, holding Harry's calm gaze. After a full seven seconds, he lifted his finger and – astonishingly – pointed at the real parchment.

'Wait, what in the –'

'How do you know?' demanded Hermione, and she couldn't help the trace of wonderment that had crept into her voice. It had to have been a guess – right? The whole point of the charm was to make an indistinguishable copy. You couldn't just look at it and tell which one was real. And yet that was exactly what Harry had just done, wasn't it?

'How?!' she asked again, her brow furrowed.

He shrugged, and she could see that little smile of his again. 'Call it intuition.'

'Intuition, my bum!' said Hermione as she stared as hard as she could at the magical copy and the original. Against her will, she could feel the tension and anger leave her body, leaving an exhausted and thoroughly confounded girl behind that felt like she was in over her head.

'Well?' she demanded with one last attempt at snappiness.

'Well what?' said Harry.

'You know what I'm talking about, don't you?'

'You mean, do I think that you composed the original?'

'Yes.'

He turned to look at the original again. 'Hard to say. If – as this letter would imply – your teachers are involved with the Ministry, it wouldn't be unimaginable that you borrowed their quill and ink to write yourself a short letter. I'm afraid I can't tell you much more. If this is a forgery, it is professionally done. Some people exclusively study handwriting, but I'm a layman at best.'

'Could you actually fake someone's handwriting so completely?' asked Daphne.

'Don't be stupid, of course you can,' said Amadina. She picked a quill and some parchment from the desk. Harry and the others watched her scribble a few lines.

'There,' she said after a moment, pushing the parchment forward for all of them to read. 'It's easier with consistent or irregular hands. If you think about it, it's also kind of daft that we've all been learning the same old script from the same old book for centuries.'

And right there on the table, in a very good imitation of Daphne's even penmanship, the words read, 'I, Daphne Greengrass, hereby agree to purchase twenty-five Cleansweep 1950s at the fair price of 750 Galleons each.'

The signature, too, didn't look half bad.

'Hey!' whined Daphne, swiping the parchment and scrunching it up with an accusatory look at Amadina. 'That's daylight robbery!'

They all – Harry included – looked at Amadina in amazement.

Amadina Lestrange jammed her hands into her pockets. 'Calligraphy is dull. I know we got away with wiggling out of them lessons back when I was at yours all the time, Harry, but Mother isn't quite so … accommodating at home; let's call this calligraphy's dark side.'

'Wait just a second,' said Hermione, horrified. 'Your parents teach you how to forge documents?'

'No?' said Amadina in the voice of false patience used to address a small child. 'They teach us a neat script that's supposed to look sophisticated.' She grinned. 'Or should I say: they teach us all the same neat script? I just took the lesson to another level to pass the time. Mother's signature has come in handy a number of times already, and no mistake!'

Leo groaned, hiding his face. 'Please don't ever let her find out.'

Amadina blew a strand of her dark, curly hair out of her eyes. 'I don't intend to.'

Hermione looked from Amadina's scrunched-up forgery to the 'original' of her letter, feeling thoroughly lost. This entire exercise had been both extremely illuminating while – ironically – raising many more questions. 'I thought there was a spell – an easy answer.'

'Magical identification?' said Harry, nodding to himself. 'Did that already. Rudimentary. Well, let me put it this way, I could find no trace of anyone other than you and Tracey handling these letters.'

'This kind of stuff can be tampered with,' interjected Amy again. In response to Leo's increasingly panicky expression, she grinned toothily. 'Even our family's solicitor gobbled it all up, Polyjuice and all.'

'She's so going to freak out,' whispered Leo, shifting nervously. 'She's going to go absolutely mad.'

'She'll never figure it out if you don't blab!'

Tracey patted Leo on the shoulder. 'Good luck with that!'

Harry grinned. 'The seals, by the way, look legitimate to me, Hermione. Unless you get this looked at by a specialist, I don't think there's going to be a definite answer. From what I can tell, they definitely could be legitimate – or a very convincing fraud.'

'F… fudge!' exclaimed Hermione, slumping into a chair. 'I guess I do need a lawyer now, don't I?'

Harry smiled kindly. 'As it happens, I have one in mind already.'

'And he'll help me?' asked Hermione sceptically. 'A Muggle-born who is potentially up against an entire Ministry department?'

'I rather think so.'

'Why?'

'Oh, I have my ways,' said Harry with an enigmatic little smile. 'I can be very persuasive.'

Memory Lane

'Do you really think this is going to fly?' asked Rendall Prewett, scratching his neck absent-mindedly. It was raw and red by now, and clear evidence of his discomfort had been clawed in by his nails.

Lazarus gave a little shrug.

'Well,' said Mrs Monboglott, leaning back in her green leather chair with a sigh. 'For a time, it should.'

'For a time?' repeated Prewett incredulously.

'Yes, for a time. The handwriting turned out well. Astonishingly well. I'm tempted to say criminally well.'

Lazarus smirked lazily, giving a mock bow.

'The seals are authentic,' continued Monboglott without acknowledgement. 'So are the signatures. Paper, biological evidence, ink – these should all be clear. Anything else?'

'I don't think so,' said Lazarus ruminatively. 'We just have to keep our story clear. I had to use my best quill because I only got like one hour for practise and couldn't get her sweeping motions quite right without it.' He grabbed a random – and decidedly official-looking – report off Monboglott's desk, ignored her admonishing glare, and drew twenty g's in a row on top of what looked like a report card. 'There, see? She does this … tug when she finishes the bow. It's not easy to make it look fluid and right. Messed up here, see? Anyway, I think we're golden unless they get an actual expert on graphology. And the only people who deal with that professionally are scholars, maybe fifteen people tops in all of Britain – and most of those work for the DMLE on occasion. You know, as consultants. Can't imagine anyone advising Hermione to ask them. So even if some clever bloke is asking all the right questions, I don't think there's going to be a big tell either way. Just remember what I told you earlier. We –'

'Yes, yes.' Monboglott waved his concern idly away. 'I know. You gave her the quill during our meeting, and let her use my ink. Do you expect her to ask?'

'Bollocks,' snorted Prewett rather condescendingly. 'You did great, both of you! Perfect! Like a little schoolgirl, Muggle-born to boot, could ever tell!'

But neither Lazarus nor Monboglott shared this contempt.

'I think she might be sceptical,' said Monboglott, furrowing her brow.

'Yeah,' agreed Lazarus. 'She might be.'

Prewett snorted again.

'I'm serious, Rendall. She is a very bright girl. The more I get to know her, the less pleased I am that we ever agreed to this at all. Disregarding all ethical questions, it would be a tragedy to lose such a talented girl to the cause over your little personal vendetta. She, of all people, should be with us – not against us!'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Prewett, ignoring the little barb. 'She's bookish and quite pleasant in class, I give you that. But do you honestly think she'd turn down a job offer after school over something like this?! Only you can offer her this kind of job straight out of school. A golden opportunity!'

'I can see her turning it down,' said Lazarus, sighing as he leant back in his chair and put his boots on Monboglott's desk. 'She's got a stubborn streak.'

'That she does,' said Monboglott with a little smile. 'Unfortunately, if our little … plot ever were to be revealed, she would inevitably be pushed even further towards the Blacks.'

'Well,' said Prewett, tapping the desk in a forcefully energetic manner before he stood up. 'That won't happen if we get evidence of what we're looking for, right? That's the goal! If we get even a shred of evidence that the Blacks are still involved in magical side branches –'

'And can prove they enforce them by the sort of ritualistic blood magic that hasn't been seen or witnessed in Britain for nearly five-hundred years,' muttered Monboglott, not buying into Prewett's enthusiasm.

'–they're finished! We can kick the old monster from the Wizengamot, ruin what's left of their standing, and push for charges!'

Lazarus gave an uncertain little chuckle. 'I would love to see the hearing.' After a second, he added, 'From very far away preferably.'

'I'm serious! We can do it!'

Monboglott and Lazarus shared a brief look of scepticism that – this time – did not go unnoticed.

'We can do it!' insisted Prewett, nodding at them. 'With the both of you, I know we can.'

Monboglott gave another big sigh. 'Let's hope so. Even with Frank turning a blind eye, we're already out on a limb here. If Crouch gets even so much as a whiff –'

'He won't!' said Prewett with a reassuring smile, shaking both of their hands. He walked towards the office door, all smiles and comfort. 'I guarantee he won't.'

'Let's hope so,' said Lazarus. 'I'm not looking forward to any more bad news.'

Just then, a dishevelled-looking young man almost fell into the office. He caught himself just in time not to walk all over Prewett, looking apologetic. 'I'm so sorry, sir.' Straightening his robes and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses with alacrity, he turned with wide, pleading eyes towards Mrs Monboglott and Mr Lazarus.

'Yes?' asked Mrs Monboglott kindly.

'Ma'am! I thought someone should tell you since you were involved in his capture. I-only-just heard, and-when-I-asked-if-anyone-had-already –'

'Breathe, lad!' interrupted Lazarus.

'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir!' The young clerk took two long, calming breaths and coughed politely. 'They released him ten minutes ago.'

'Whom?' asked Monboglott.

'Thorfinn Rowle!'

There was a pregnant silence that was eventually broken by Lazarus' outcry. 'What?! But we set the bond to –'

'Fifty thousand Galleons,' wailed the luckless youth desperately. 'Yes, sir. I know, sir! That's why I ran here, sir!'

'But … who?!'

'Er, a messenger, sir. Said he was here on behalf of his family.'

'Thorfinn Rowle's family?!' repeated Lazarus disbelievingly. 'The Rowles?! Are you sure? Fifty thousand Galleons?! Real Galleons?! Goblin Gold and not – for the sake of the argument – yellow bricks?! Fifty thousand Galleons?!'

'Er, that's what they said. I saw them levitating the sacks.'

'Did they hold him? Is that person still here? Oh, please tell me they didn't just let them both go?! They did at least take his name, right? Confirm his identity? Right? TELL ME!'

'Well,' said the young man with a touch of defiance. 'Standard procedure clearly states that they only need to –'

'Oh, Merlin!' Lazarus jumped, grabbed his long mantle, and was halfway through the door, muttering curses before he yelled, 'Gotta fix this! Catch you later, Rendall. You, too.'

Rendall Prewett and Mrs Monboglott continued to stare at the fidgeting portent of doom, who appeared increasingly uncomfortable under their stare.

'Well, they are the regulations,' he muttered sheepishly.

Rolling his eyes, Rendall Prewett shrugged and followed after the Auror, shaking his head.

'They're there for a reason!' mumbled the young man even more sullenly.

'It's all right,' said Mrs Monboglott with an exasperated smile. 'I'm sure nobody's blaming you.'

'It's just, they all think I'm ridiculous for following all the rules to the letter – even though Minister Crouch himself has commended me for my unblinking adherence.'

His feeble chest swelled a bit at the memory.

'Yes,' murmured Mrs Monboglott weakly. 'I'm certain the Minister liked that very much.'

Memory Lane

It had been an awkward and silent journey for Ophala Greengrass and Amaryllis Davis from the mansion to the Davis lodgings. Amaryllis' husband wasn't there, and he wouldn't be for quite some time. Ophala had always liked the place. Its blinking electronic devices, the distinct Muggle furniture, the strange magazines, all the weird trophies, and the arcane Muggle objects Amaryllis' husband collected and subsequently put on display were a nice contrast to the stifling atmosphere of classical pure-blood homes like the one she'd grown up in.

It was a cosy sort of home with lots of blankets, pictures of their family, fresh flowers (black hellebores), and interesting home decor that remained completely mystic to Ophala – like some wooden masks with weirdly symmetric expressions that looked like they'd been carved by hand and quite crudely at that. Ophala even liked the rather off-colour curtains that had to be hand-made.

Amaryllis had, with gentle insistence, directed her towards the couch while she'd busied herself in the kitchen fetching two glasses and some wine. The conversation had started right after that. But even though Ophala had been on edge the entire time, the first few sentences went completely over her head.

'How long?' she demanded, clenching her glass of Chardonnay.

This didn't make any sense. She had to have misheard. It just didn't make any sense at all.

Amaryllis took another sip from her glass. Ophala had the distinct impression her old school friend was doing her best not to look abashed or avoid eye contact. Her old school friend. Amaryllis! She'd known her forever – even before school, now that she thought about it. This was insanity, this just had to be some kind of misunderstanding. She absolutely couldn't have said –

'About three hundred-twenty years.'

The words shattered perception.

'Three… three hundred …?'

Amaryllis looked at her with a mixture of pity and concern. 'Yes. Three hundred twenty.' Her hand jerked a little as if she had deliberated taking Ophala's. 'I'm terribly sorry you had to find out like this.'

Ophala just stared at her.

It felt to her as if reality had been stripped naked and publicly shamed; what remained of yesterday's innocent glamour was only the ugly harlot of truth.

'I'm sorry,' repeated Amaryllis more urgently. 'Really! I … I'm sorry.'

'Were you ever really my friend?' breathed Ophala. 'Were you my maid of honour because you were told to be? Did you rush to St Mungo's when Regulus couldn't make it because you had to?'

'Of course not!' insisted the woman, whom she had believed she knew better than anyone. And this time, Amaryllis did take her hand and grasped it tightly.

Ophala just stared at it like a scientist following an experiment.

'I was your friend – always. I am your friend!'

Ophala's gaze was drawn to her wine.

'I promise!' insisted Amaryllis, now definitely a touch desperate. 'Please!'

But Ophala could say nothing. She didn't know what she had expected but not this. She'd been afraid that Amaryllis would want to talk about her mother; the entire ordeal was still giving her nightmares, and she didn't want to think about it more than necessary. She had never considered herself particularly simple-hearted or, despite what her mother might have believed, innocent – even as a child. She hadn't felt like a stupid little girl in a very, very long time. But now she felt the still oddly familiar shame of a child that, to the rambunctious howling of the adults, was asking in complete and honest wonderment how many eggs a human lay per month.

'Ophala! Please just … talk to me.'

'I …' Ophala Greengrass cleared her throat. 'I … I need something stronger to drink.'

Amaryllis gave a nervous laugh. 'I think we got a bottle of peppermint schnapps leftover from –'

'Something stronger!' said Ophala firmly.

'Er. John's still got that bottle of absinthe he got for Tracey's birth.'

Ophala thought about this for a second and nodded. 'Okay.'

'I don't believe we've still got the matching cutlery though, nor any sugar that –'

'Amaryllis, I don't care. Get me a glass of water, and I'll make do.' She downed the glass of Chardonnay in one go. 'There. Empty glass.'

Amaryllis Davis winced. Her friend only called her by her full name when she was furious. She got up, busying herself with this cabinet and that drawer. 'I know it's here somewhere. He's always bragging to his co-workers about his oh-so-perfect hidden stash, but I stumble upon it at least twice a year when cleaning. Hmm … where did I see it last time?'

Ophala tuned out Amaryllis' absent-minded ramblings as the latter looked behind various dressers, opened chests at random, and – once – even glanced underneath a carpet.

'Aha! Found it. Invisible in his cricket display. Classic!'

A shudder suddenly ran down Ophala's spine. 'John,' she said.

'What about him?'

'Does he … know?'

'What? About the stash? No, obviously I–'

'No, I mean about your p–I mean that you're not… How everything the both of…' Ophala faltered. She found it increasingly difficult not to sound too accusatory. Eventually, she settled on, 'About the Blacks.'

There was sudden silence to the frantic chaos behind her, and Ophala was deeply concerned now – for some reason – that she couldn't see Amaryllis' expression. Or what she was holding.

Her mind running wild, she shuddered. Merlin, this was Amaryllis. Amaryllis! She had to get a grip!

Her supposed childhood friend didn't answer right away. Instead, her footsteps made a detour to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of water. Without a word, she put them down and filled both of their wine glasses with a generous measure of absinthe.

There was something mechanical to her movements as Amaryllis chugged her shot.

'No,' she said eventually, her voice hollow. 'No, he doesn't know anything.'

'Nothing?' whispered Ophala, horrified.

'Nothing,' replied Amaryllis. It was mildly terrifying to see her speak so calmly, a dull glint in her eyes. 'He doesn't know a thing. Never suspected, nor will he ever. To him, I'm a half-blood of modest lineage with no special ties to my magical relatives. Even though he would be too polite to ever admit this, I rather suspect that these days he thinks my job is the only really interesting thing I've got going for me. I'm a boring housewife who is slowly growing old, one with a slightly peculiar job. That is what I am to him.'

She said this plainly, without the slightest inflexion to her voice. Then, when the silence stretched like rubber again, she wordlessly refilled their glasses.

They stared at their glasses. They emptied their glasses.

'I thought you and John, well …' Ophala's words trailed off painfully.

'Oh, it's nothing unpleasant. I cook; he kills all the bugs and paints the wall whenever needed. We visit the opera, play golf, entertain his co-workers.' She poured them both another measure. 'Sex once a week. Sunday morning usually. After that a lavish breakfast.'

Ophala grimaced. After a second of reluctance, she said softly, 'I thought you loved him.'

Amaryllis took another sip from her glass. 'I did. I married John because I loved him. It's just … hard to be, to remain in–' She frowned, setting down her glass harder than necessary. 'I help John plan his office parties. I play host for John's family reunion. If John's mates come over, I'm the dutiful, clumsy housewife. But I can't take him to my family. I can't tell him anything about my life at all.'

'But he knew your parents, I know he did! They were there at your wedding, I remember!'

'I'm not talking about my parents,' said Amaryllis Davis calmly, and this little sentence hit Ophala with the force of a landslide. 'I can't even tell John anything about my work. My work! He thinks I'm the secretary for some dusty old warlock sorting paper planes. Ophala, last week, he asked if he could show me a few helpful tricks one of his DMLE mates had taught him. He was so proud. He wanted to teach me a couple of tricks with the Disarming Charm. The Disarming Charm, Ophala – Expelliarmus!

'And you know what?' said Amaryllis, her voice hoarse, distant. 'I let him. I let him show off. I let him show me his childish tricks. I let him teach me as if I hadn't been trained to kill – by the Department and … others. Right now – at work – I'm investigating the psychotic murders my own daughter's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher committed at my own workplace, tampering with evidence to keep my little girl and Harry out of trouble. I pit the Ministry's most knowledgeable department against the most elite, professional Aurors in the entire world – when I'm not doing my actual job of solving mysteries and researching forbidden knowledge, mind you.'

Her eyes were riveted to her glass, swirling its contents. 'And my husband tried to teach me Expelliarmus.' Her voice was airy, thin – as if she couldn't believe her own words. 'He was so proud.'

As Ophala desperately grasped for things to say, silence descended once again. Wordlessly, Amaryllis – who in Ophala's opinion still looked not a day older than 27 – poured them another serving to alleviate the frustration a woman her age had no right harbouring.

'Don't get me wrong,' said Amaryllis suddenly. 'I don't regret a thing. John's a good man. A good father. And he gave me Tracey. For that alone, I'll suffer his ghastly mother and her terrible curtains gladly for another hundred years.

'He thinks he's the strong man of the family, and I won't disturb that notion. I believe it gives him strength that we rely on his support at home. And so I'll rely on him. I'll be sure to bring home less money than him no matter what my posting. I'll dutifully squeal for help whenever another chafer comes zooming through our window. And I'll continue to make a lavish breakfast every Sunday at noon.'

With the hint of a smile that almost looked like the Amaryllis she knew, she added, 'Truthfully, that last bit isn't at all displeasing.'

Taking her glass, she leaned back into the folds of their couch. 'He's been a good father to Tracey. He's been a good husband, too. And so I'll be a good wife.' She took another sip. 'I can't be the wife he thinks he has – this I had to come to terms with. Not that good wife. But I can be a good wife. I think.'

They inspected their glasses once more.

'It's funny,' said Ophala eventually. 'I always thought you were the lucky one.'

'What?' said Amaryllis, looking utterly perplexed.

'Yes, I thought you had it easy. No pure-blood parents. No pure-blood customs. No pure-blood expectations. You looked so free to me back then.'

Amaryllis turned to look at her. 'Strange, isn't it? I always thought the same about you.'

After a second of rumination, Ophala asked, 'And they didn't … protest that you married a Muggle-born? I mean, John isn't exactly … Do you remember when he accused me of being –'

'A stuck-up inbred bitch?' Amaryllis laughed. 'Yes, I remember. And so does he. I tend to bring it up on occasion. He's mellowed a lot. But no, the Blacks didn't object. They didn't approve, but they didn't formally object either. In truth, it's useful – though many of them aren't as pragmatic as Arcturus to acknowledge that. People wouldn't ever look for a branch of the Blacks with immediate Muggle-born relatives. Of course, children born this way are taught even stricter than others, to make sure they aren't … tainted by the blemish of their Muggle-born origins. It's all hogwash, but people cling to what they know.' After a second, she added, 'Some Blacks seemed to think I was making the ultimate sacrifice. Cassi, bless her soul, even bequeathed me quite a bit of gold to make up for "having to marry that dreadful type of a man".'

Ophala wasn't sure whether to laugh or cringe. 'Cassi?' she asked instead.

'Irma's sister, Cassiopeia. You remember Irma, right? Walburga's mother?'

'Yes,' said Ophala curtly. 'Vividly.'

'Well, Cassi was a bit of a foster mother for me during my rebellious phase.'

'You mean when you ran from home? Back when you were seventeen?'

'Yeah.' Amaryllis grinned sheepishly. 'I told you I'd been bunking at an aunt's of mine.'

'Yes. But my memory seems to suggest that you failed to mention that you'd been bunking at the great-aunt of my then-boyfriend.'

'The truth is, I couldn't have told you had I wanted to.'

'Had you wanted to,' repeated Ophala acutely.

'Yes.' For a few seconds, Amaryllis remained silent. 'You'll soon see how it is. I didn't want to have your memory modified. And, to be honest, I was thrilled you'd be marrying into the family – even if you wouldn't be aware of that.'

'Did the Blacks ever obliviate some of your friends?'

'Oh, yes,' said Amaryllis quietly. 'Children have big mouths. I wasn't allowed to play with strangers too much, but I remember that – one evening – Uncle Regulus, that is Arcturus' brother, had to obliviate half a playground and quite a few of their parents. He wasn't being kind about it either. I didn't come out of my room and refused to speak to any of them until Lucretia and Cassi coaxed me out.' She took a sip of water, looking reminiscent. 'They could be very kind. Both of them. Lycoris and Alphard, too. But Lucretia particularly.'

'Lucretia?' asked Ophala, feeling both curious and thoroughly alienated that her best friend was apparently a thousand times more familiar with her husband's family.

'Arcturus' daughter. He doesn't speak about her much. She was a bit … different. A gentle soul.'

'But … but didn't she marry Rendall Prewett?'

'She did,' said Amaryllis. 'Look, I'd love to show you a family tree, but we've only got the one in Wales. The family decided that, well, that it would be best if there weren't multiple copies after that little disaster in Bern about a century ago.'

'What happened?!' asked Ophala, engrossed in this strange, new world that had been hidden from her in plain sight.

'A family member lost his sketch of the family tree. Merlin knows why he kept one in his bag. His best friend, who worked at the Confederation's Ministry, found it and got a bit nosy.'

'Oh, my!'

'Yes, it was rather messy. In the end, about seventy people had to be obliviated. And we damn near started a war.'

'A war?! Aren't you exaggerating?'

'No, I'm not. I really am not. We had to get to their records, you know? Blasting our way through their Ministry.'

'I never heard of that,' whispered Ophala. 'That sounds dreadful!'

'It was never meant to be an assault, but something went wrong. A few family members died. You should ask Belvina. She was there, you know? She's an avid story-teller. Nowadays, we got the Recondebamus, of course. It's proven useful.'

'Belvina?'

'Belvina Burke by her legal name. She's Arcturus' aunt.'

'How old is she? She must be ancient!'

Amaryllis laughed. 'She calls Dumbledore 'Wee Abe'. Honestly, I have no clue how old she is. About a hundred-forty? Give or take a decade? Her body's a bit feeble, but she's got a tongue like a foul-tempered whore. Don't say I didn't warn you!'

Ophala nearly choked on her drink.

'I'm serious,' said Amaryllis with a grin. 'Belvina is the only one even Druella won't cross.'

With a faint grin of her own, Ophala refilled her glass of water idly with her wand. 'I'm kind of jealous. You know all these people I've never even heard of. And you really speak as if they are your family.'

'They are,' said Amaryllis, her eyebrows contracting a bit in confusion. 'They are my family. And yours! You're family, Ophala! I can surmise you only made the decision you did because you were worried about your daughters. I can't question that logic. But it's not all a downside for you. It doesn't have to be! These people – they'd love to meet you and your daughters! I'm positive they'd welcome you with open arms. Well, those who still live, I mean.' She sighed. 'It's not like back when I grew up anymore. So many people died and didn't leave an heir: Cassi, Alphard – Arcturus' siblings. And the political isolation has also done damage.

'When I was ten, I remember the mansion in Wales being almost full every weekend. People gathering, meeting, just hanging around, relaxing. Fair enough, it was mostly old people by then. The strong generations died out even before my time. I remember Cassi portraying her childhood. Half the Slytherin dorm was sleeping over every summer, and the mansion was brimming with life. To be completely honest, half her dorm-mates were family members but never mind that.

'Nowadays, even Arcturus and Harry rarely visit the mansion. The main branch has been reduced to two people. Just two. It's mind-boggling. I'm glad Harry, at least, has a good relationship with the younger family members. Well, most of them. And there are Bellatrix's children, too. Thank Merlin they're a bit less … intense than their mother. The boy, Leandros, I've always taken a shine to. Obviously, he doesn't really know who I am, but I always thought I wouldn't mind a boy like him marrying into the family.'

'But … they're blood-related,' said Ophala wretchedly. Her mother-in-law's dubious family circumstances had been a warning bell even when she had been freshly in love.

'Not to everyone in the family. Not very closely anyway. I really wish the family would bulk up a bit. It's sad Harry has only a handful of children his age to trust and confide in.'

Ophala, while certainly feeling the heat of the alcohol in her guts, wasn't too drunk to count yet, and no matter how she counted, she never got even into the proximity of five. 'A handful? What do you mean – a handful?!' Then, another gear in her head clicked. She clamped Amaryllis' hand hard between her own. 'Lis!'

'Yes?' Amaryllis asked, taken aback by the urgency in Ophala's voice.

'Tracey! She's … she's a Black, isn't she?!

Amaryllis looked puzzled that this thought had only now occurred to Ophala. 'Of course, she is. She's my daughter.'

'Does she know about … Daphne?'

Amaryllis made a face. 'I'm … not sure. She's a cunning little thing, but I didn't tell her. And she's in a difficult spot. She's a bit tricky to deal with right now, to tell you the truth.'

'You mean exactly like you were at her age?' asserted Ophala sharply.

'Yes. Very much like me back then, I'm afraid. Because of all the trouble that happened around the time Harry came to us, family life like I explained earlier basically didn't happen. Tracey didn't ever really get to be a child among the children of the family. I'm not sure how she would react if she found out her best friend was now – unbeknown to her – also part of the family. She never forgave Arcturus for forcing her to pretend not to know the others. She was, frankly, in a right state when Daphne "introduced" her to Harry that one summer. She kept on crying and raging – sometimes both at the same time.'

'That's a terrible thing to demand of a little girl.' Ophala sighed.

'It is. I think the biggest mistake that was made in the last hundred years was to allow the branches too much space of their own. We're all one family. Of course, there always were some branches that didn't interact with anyone but the Lord and his heir. And this is true even today.'

'What? Even you don't know all your "family members"? I thought you had that family tree in Wales?'

'We do, but it's enchanted to only show the people you're aware of,' said Amaryllis. 'I could make some guesses, but Arcturus is very meticulous – no matter what else he may be. And I can see the benefit, of course. Especially in difficult times. But children should have a chance to experience what it means to be family. That's why I was so happy for you, by the way. I admire your bravery. If I'm completely honest, I envy it, too.'

'Bravery?'

'Yes,' said Amaryllis with a sad little smile. 'You made a strong decision to have both of your daughters in the family. You won't have the same problem we have in our household.' Her gaze wandered over the pictures on the wall showing her little family of three. 'It's better that way.'

And Ophala understood this to be about Amaryllis' husband.

'You made a good decision,' said Amaryllis again.

'Yeah,' said Ophala quietly. 'I hope so.'

Memory Lane

Thorfinn Rowle was still shaking as he surreptitiously snuck a glance through the keyhole again. His heart was hammering. He was listening to the sounds from downstairs, but except for the voices of the same two patrons and the barman from earlier, the pub was entirely deserted. Taking a couple of rattling breaths, Rowle leant against the door, allowing the adrenaline to drain from his body.

He was out.

He didn't know how or why he had been let go, but he was out. He didn't waste any time asking silly questions. Having been interrogated first by members of the DMLE and then by that other Department, he had soon come to realise that the future probably didn't have anything altogether happy for him in store. The only message he had ever received was from his brother, who'd written that the bond had been set at an outlandish sum beyond anything their family could hope to raise. The drunken wreck of his father hadn't even bothered to contact him.

But now he was here – safe at last.

Morgana curse that Pettigrew cur! Having had to interact with his father regularly, he should've known nothing good could ever have come from having that lousy dosser as a client. But, for some reason, the little tramp had managed to get hold of something that could've set them both up for a lifetime.

It had been hard to refuse – and still, he should have. Mingling with gutter trash half-bloods never paid off.

The moment he'd signed his release papers, he'd rushed to the Floo, gone to the Leaky Cauldron, and disapparated not a second later – away from the DMLE, the accursed Last Department, that thrice-damned Pettigrew's troubles, and Britain for good measure.

Now, here in France, he would have a few days to make plans.

France maintained relatively close connections to the British Ministry, so he wouldn't dally. One distant uncle of his lived in Lyon, and he would be able to set him up somewhere far away. Bugger them all.

Until then, this mundane little pub in the middle of Paris, 'La Licorne Fringant', would suffice.

His heart skipped a beat as he heard footsteps on the stairs. They grew louder.

Rowle forced himself to remain calm. It might just be the barman again. He had to keep a clear mind about this. No need to do anything stupid.

His fingers coiled tightly around his wand, his ear pressed against the door, ready to pounce or flee.

'Monsieur? Dere iz an urgent message from Britain–'

CRACK!

Rowle didn't waste another second and disapparated. So they'd found him already – blast it! He didn't even know what they wanted from him, but never again would he suffer solitary confinement like some common wretch.

The spray of the waves and the loud cries of gulls. Peddlers, tourists, and a promenade by the sea – Nice. The proximity to the eastern borders was comfort for his nerves. Travelling to the Confederation was completely out of the question, of course, but Piemonte was close enough. Neither Italian nor Latin were his strong suit, but he still had a couple of Galleons, and where there was money to be had, people would be willing to acquiesce.

The only problem was, Rowle didn't know anyone in Nice. He'd been to the city once in his youth, but that had been thirty years ago. Aimlessly, he wandered about the streets for half an hour. But then – what a stroke of luck – an owl flew right over his head. He saw it vanish between two chimneys, but hadn't there been maybe the faintest promise of a flicker, of a ward protecting some witch or wizard from the Muggles?

With a grim smile, he approached the old wooden door that came into view as he approached. His grin widened as he read the small copper sign next to it: volière. Today, it seemed, was Rowle's lucky day. He could write to his uncle and ask the shopkeeper for a place for their kind to pass the time. He'd be out of France by nightfall.

With a creak, he pushed the door open. Reluctant light fell into the cramped, smelly place that was dominated by hundreds of birds nesting on every available surface save for a small counter behind which an old man sat covered in owl feathers, drowsing.

He sat up straight in a feathery explosion when he heard the jarring sound of the hinges. 'Ah, Monsieur. Toutes mes excuses pour mon manque d'attention. Entrez, je vous en prie.'

'Pardon, Monsieur. L'anglais?' stammered Rowle.

'Ah, certainement, Monsieur. My niece lives in Ireland,' said the shopkeeper, proud beyond measure despite his thick accent Rowle could barely comprehend. 'Welcome to our fair city. How can I be of assistance?'

'An urgent letter. Could I borrow a quill and some paper?'

'Quill?' repeated the man, his brow wrinkled with a dozen deep trenches. 'Ah, c'est une plume, n'est-ce pas? I'm so sorry my British friend, but we haven't been using des plumes for centuries now. But I could offèr mon stylo?'

He held up a worn stylograph.

Rowle barely refrained from gurning. 'Very well. Thank you,' he said icily.

As if he'd been handed a chisel and a slate, he took the stylograph and weighed it in his hand. The shopkeeper didn't notice his apparent distaste. He'd put his head in his hands and gazed through the dusty windows as if he could see some faraway land.

'Ah, Britain. Your ways of doing things are so charmantes.'

Rowle snorted, feeling more than affronted that this shabby old geezer had the nerve to call Britain little more than an international backwater. But he ignored his ramblings about how quaint Britain was, how he adored their adherence to long-obsolete traditions, but how things seemed a bit better for the common people now that the nice folk from the Pillars were in charge. Owls, pigeons, and even parrots came and went, but Rowle just clumsily painted every single character like a five-year-old learning to write.

'It eez strange, non?' said the old shopkeeper when Rowle had almost finished. 'You, Monsieur, turn up today of all days. My first British customer in weeks and weeks.'

'How is that strange?' said Rowle, signing the letter.

'It's just, I've been getting dozens and dozens of lettèrs addressed to a British gentleman called Monsieur Rowle all day. You wouldn't happen to know anyone by zat name, non? I realise, it eez silly of me to ask, but –'

It took a few seconds for the words to trickle down Rowle's consciousness. Then, eyes wide with horror, he disapparated.

CRACK!

Turin.

Too late, Rowle realised that, in his panic, he had failed to grab the letter. He'd forgotten the cursed letter on the counter! The signed letter. It wouldn't be safe to contact his uncle now. How had they found him?! This was insane. A nightmare!

CRACK!

Maribor.

He had to get as far away from anything remotely British as possible. Good luck to those dregs trying to track international apparition!

CRACK!

Zagreb.

His heart gave a painful throb, and he staggered against a traffic sign right next to the national theatre. He coughed, violently, as the taste of blood filled his mouth.

Repeated long-distance apparition was taxing for the body, and Rowle – apparently – had overtaxed his. He wobbled into the first bar he found and, groaning with pain, ordered a glass of water, grateful the youth had either understood English or acted on some other Muggle-ish impetus. The young man, hardly older than twenty, also brought him a pack of ice wrapped in a towel, jabbering at him in fluent gibberish.

Rowle was tired enough to thank the unexpectedly helpful Muggle by waving him away imperiously. His waiter looked scandalised, but he had – of course – no idea that Rowle had even graciously decided not to obliviate him. Repeated obliviation, especially a poor obliviation by an amateur like him, could addle the mind.

He drank his water, the towel slung around his neck, ignoring the cold stares all the waiters, huddled around the young man, now gave him.

When it started growing dark half an hour later, he put the towel on the table, put a couple of Galleons on top of it, and left, veering towards a random direction. How long he walked the streets, he did not know.

It was completely dark when he eventually stopped in front of a strangely elongated palace that must have belonged to some Muggle chieftain named 'Glavni Kolodvor'. The little stands and all the Muggle vehicles were an eyesore – just like their owners of course – but the building, he had to admit, was built in style.

Trudging across the threshold, Rowle realised that the Muggle sovereign had to be a charitable ruler indeed; despite the lateness of the hour, hundreds of commoners were buzzing around like insects.

With a disdainful little huff, he made for one of the darker tunnels in which he would suffer the least amount of Muggles.

Closing his eyes to collect his thoughts after this most ridiculous of days, Thorfinn Rowle suddenly found his face scraping painfully against the rough tunnel wall. Despite Rowle's bulky frame, another hand forcefully pulled his right hand behind his back in one smooth motion until – with a pained outcry – Rowle released his wand.

'Listen, Rowle,' growled an unfamiliar voice he had never heard in perfect British, 'if you think I'm going to follow you around half the continent and politely hand you little letters all day, you've got the wrong man. I will now put one last letter into your pocket. You will read it. What happens afterwards ain't any of my business. But if you don't read it, I'll shove the next one up your fucking arse, got it?!'

'Yesh!' hissed Rowle in a panic, his face shoved so agonisingly hard against the wall that he could hardly move his jaw. 'Yesh!'

'You better! I'm not going to be so lenient next time.'

Then, the unknown assailant stuck a wand painfully against his side for emphasis, making his kidneys sear with pain, before releasing his grip.

Panting, Rowle turned around. A few of the Muggles were running after the dark figure and others were slowly approaching him. He smiled at them, wincing as his kidneys gave another torturing throb. 'Just a mugger. Poor fellow must not have eaten in a day!'

With his best attempt at a grin, he picked up his wand, left the ring of bystanders, made for the exit, and ran.

Cold sweat ran down the nape of his neck, but he only dared stop when it was a matter of stopping or collapsing.

With a wheezing cough, he leant against a dirty wall, catching his wind. Around the corner, a misspelt sign advertised a therapeutic bath, but the vast stone yard in front of it was deserted.

This day was becoming less and less lucky by the minute.

Looking around, he shambled around the corner again, making sure he was alone. Like a schoolboy handling a Howler, he protruded the letter his assailant had shoved roughly into his pocket. Some smarmy bloke had performed a neat little charm on the envelope. Currently, it read:

Mr Thorfinn Rowle

By the dumpsters behind the SPAR Supermarket

Ul. Jurja Žerjavića 2

Zagreb

Croatia

Scoffing, Rowle unfolded the parchment.

'Mr Rowle,

I realise this day must have had many strange turns for you. I wouldn't be at all surprised if some had been for the better – and others for the worse. Please allow me, at this moment in time, to express my sincerest commiserations for any inconvenience you might have suffered.

The fact of the matter is, I require assistance from a man with abilities such as yours. You might rightfully ask yourself, particularly in light of your current whereabouts and general situation: what prize could possibly be worth it for me to abet anyone at this point?

First, let me reassure you that what little aid I require of you will only take a few hours of the precious remainder of your life. For this, I'm willing to pay you the sum of fifty thousand Galleons, which I have graciously bequeathed to trusted associates of our government ahead of time.

Secondly, I shall pay with freedom. Should you find it in your heart to assist a compatriot in his time of need, you shall be free to live your life in any way you see fit. This includes, you may be assured, the freedom not to be harassed by hooded figures in dark alleys around the world.

I expect your confirmatory owl no later than tomorrow.

Cordially yours,'

Thorfinn Rowle wanted to scowl. He wanted to sneer. He wanted to toss this rag of a letter aside and pay it no heed. He wanted to travel on, hide from the world, his family, his responsibilities, and the British authorities for whatever it was they wanted him for.

There was only one thing stopping him.

The little blot underneath the farewell phrase. Just that smudgy little splotch of black ink. Black ink.

Rowle cursed.

If there was one family which he wouldn't put it past to pay fifty thousand Galleons for the bond of a stranger who could in theory make a runner – albeit, Rowle pondered, a potentially very brief runner – it would be the Blacks.

If there was one family which he wouldn't put it past to have him hunted down like a pig, it would also be the Blacks – and this prospect was even less pleasing.

He'd been careful to never deal with the family patriarch in any way – and certainly not to cross him – but it didn't much matter that it was the little brat who had him by the throat. Half-blood upstart or not, he was a Black. And the sad reality of it was that, if anything, he should be glad that it was the boy and not Lord Black who was readying the noose. True, the Blacks didn't have any history he was aware of that suggested they had people vanish without a trace from the face of the earth. But there were always two sides to any truth; in his current position, Rowle reflected that this total lack of evidence could be taken at face value or – and here his personal torment began – as cheerful proof of the Blacks' heinous lack of scruple and dire competence in the matter.

His throat dry, he furtively looked around one last time. It was already past midnight. He had to find an owlery – fast.

Memory Lane

January passed by without taking the icy winter with it. Icicles hung from the open windows that had been frozen in place in some corridors, and small snowbanks had formed in some of the less frequented parts of Hogwarts.

Mr Filch, wrapped in a heavy hand-knitted muffler and sporting a grey bobble hat, his red nose protruding from a mass of scratchy-looking wool, was as foul-tempered as ever, shovelling snow, heating windows with torches to make them move again, and cursing all the students who made his life hell by opening them as soon as he was out of sight. The Weasley twins had also, to great applause, charmed the windows in Filch's office open and, with a neat levitation charm, emptied two steaming buckets of water over the floor, desk, and everything else.

A few days had passed since the last Hogsmead weekend. Harry, busier than ever, rushed through the corridors of Hogwarts, feeling quite smug with himself. Everything was coming together nicely. First, Sirius had agreed to show up in Hogsmeade the weekend after next, and now the other owl he'd been awaiting had arrived – and not a moment too soon. Shoving through the throng of babbling classmates, he approached Hermione, who was currently in conversation with Tracey.

'Oh. Hey, Harry!' said Hermione, looking up from her notes.

'Hello,' said Tracey quietly.

'Good morning, ladies.' Harry didn't even try to keep the complacency out of his voice.

'Feeling good about yourself today?' said Tracey. She looked sour, and Harry could see that his enthusiastic mood didn't improve hers.

'Yes, I am,' replied Harry with an extra toothy smile just to annoy her. Flicking his wand, he ensured a little privacy. He lowered his voice regardless as he continued. 'Congratulations, Hermione.'

'Thank you?' Hermione looked him up and down, baffled. 'What for?'

'I have secured you a contract with a solicitor. It's already signed. You only need to put down your name, and the deal's sealed.'

'What?' said Hermione.

'WHAT?' shouted Tracey. 'How?! And they'll represent Hermione?'

'Yes, of course.'

'And only Hermione?' Tracey dug deeper.

Harry looked at her as if her insinuation had mortally offended him. 'But of course! Only Hermione. I thought that was what she'd asked for? You're free to have a look at the paperwork too if you like.'

'Yes, please,' hissed Tracey. Then, she remembered herself. 'Er, if you don't mind, honey?'

'Please do!' said Hermione.

Harry's grin widened, pretending to be oblivious to Tracey's glare. He answered a few of Hermione's questions regarding the contract until Tracey just couldn't keep it in anymore, brazenly interrupting Hermione.

'–think I need to read up on–'

'And that solicitor is aware that Hermione might be up against Ministry officials?' Tracey demanded.

'He is.' That hadn't been a problem, of course. Rowle wasn't feeling particularly charitable towards the Ministry right now.

'And that Hermione is a Muggle-born?'

'Oh, yes,' said Harry with a little tug at his lips. That reaction of Rowle's had been just as memorable – for slightly different reasons.

Tracey scowled, holding her arms akimbo. 'Are you coercing him?'

'Why – the accusation wounds me! I have never physically coerced anyone in my entire life, Tracey.'

'Yeah, right,' mumbled Tracey.

'In fact, I am paying Hermione's solicitor a generous amount of money for his services.'

'How much?' demanded Tracey.

'Er, Harry?' said Hermione meekly. 'I really appreciate your help, but you know I can't repay you.'

'Don't worry about it,' said Harry, waving magnanimously. 'We all want this dealt with, am I right? Obviously, you need independent legal counsel. I'm hopeful our star solicitor can help you out of that deep pitch of a situation you seem to find yourself in. But all of our situations should become a lot clearer as a result. We'll all benefit! And before you ask,' Harry continued, speaking to Tracey once more, 'I will not be privy to whatever Hermione and her solicitor discuss or agree on.'

'Now that's a likely story,' said Tracey under her breath.

'But there is one little … issue,' said Harry.

'Yes?' said Hermione.

'Due to circumstances, your meetings with your legal counsellor will be held via Floo. But,' he continued before Tracey could interrupt again, 'I'll guarantee you we'll provide the necessary discretion and privacy.'

'Well, that sounds okay?' said Hermione, more asking than stating. 'What do you think, Tracey?'

'Sounds … agreeable,' said Tracey, though she gave off an expression of extreme reluctance. 'But I still want a look at those documents!'

'Excellent, I'll show them to you this afternoon,' said Harry happily. 'I'm glad this is settled. Once you sign, we can set up your first meet–'

The sharp voice of Professor McGonagall cut them off. 'Enter!'

As if a plug had been pulled, the other students flowed inside.

'We'll talk later,' whispered Harry, deactivating the Privacy Charm.

'Sit. Today, we shall be starting on Cross-Species Transfiguration. As I warned you only last lesson, it is among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your OWL examinations next year, so I should warn you to pay careful attention. I will tolerate no tomfoolery,' she said, her eyebrows narrowing warningly as she levitated boxes of guinea fowls to each student. 'Anyone caught mistreating these animals shall serve detention –'

Draco, sitting next to Harry, let out a soft snort. 'Big deal.'

'For which,' continued Professor McGonagall sharply, evidently having overheard him, 'I shall request that Hagrid takes the offender into the Forbidden Forest!'

'I mean it's obvious we should focus on our OWL grades,' said Draco pompously in a remarkable turn of attitude.

Professor McGonagall didn't comment, but her beady eyes returned to Draco throughout the lesson.

'Why fowls to rodents though?' grumbled Draco some time later, eyeing his bird critically. 'I mean, let's ignore their names for a second here. What exactly does this feathery chicken have in common with a hairy little – and completely inaptly named – rat?!'

'Don't ask me,' said Harry, who was inspecting his feathery guinea pig that, despite its mouse-like snout, clucked softly. 'Maybe it's just caprice? Or a bad joke that stuck?'

'Yeah, I can believe that.' Draco frowned deeply as he mimicked drinking pretentiously from a teacup, sitting almost comically straight. 'hWhat ahre you teahching those hrascals agahain, m'dear?' he said, in a decent imitation of Warwick Parkinson's extremely pretentious fake-drawl. 'Hguinea pigs to hfowls? How delightful. Hsimply marvellous!'

Harry snorted. Pansy, who was sitting behind them and had overheard them, muttered, 'Fuck you, Draco.'

'hWhy, I never!' said Harry. 'hWhat shocking language! Simply dreadful.'

'Fuck you, too, Black!'

Harry and Draco laughed so loudly that – unfortunately – their mockery didn't go unnoticed.

'What's this then?' asked Professor McGonagall, her eyes flashing dangerously. 'Mr Black, Mr Malfoy, ten points from Slytherin! Kindly concentrate on your project. And if I don't see any progress from that,' she said, indicating Harry's clucking feather rug, 'I shall be seriously considering aforesaid detention!'

Draco made a face, but Harry just responded politely. 'Sorry, Professor. We'll focus.'

'See that you do!' said Professor McGonagall irritably before she stalked off.

'hSplendid,' drawled Pansy from behind with vindication.

'Yeah, yeah,' said Draco, looking at his fowl for the first time in ten minutes.

Hermione, who was sitting in front of them, turned around, petting her perfectly transfigured guinea pig. 'You're making it difficult to concentrate!'

'But you already finished!' said Draco.

'Yes, but other students are trying to concentrate, too, Draco.'

Harry, at this point, tuned out their back and forth and gave the assignment a real go. Fifteen minutes later and despite Hermione's and Draco's bottomless stream of hissed drivel, his chicken-rodent hybrid had at least stopped clucking. Not much progress but there it was.

'Anyway, I'm still offended you're looking into bringing charges against the teachers I paid a barrel of Galleons for!'

'I don't want to sue anyone!' insisted Hermione hotly. 'All I want to know is the truth! OUCH!'

She had, in her agitation, petted her snoozing guinea pig a touch too carelessly, and it awoke with a start, biting her in the hand before it made for the floor, scurrying towards the door. 'Now you've done it!'

'What?!' said Draco. 'How was you manhandling your beaver my fault?!'

Thankfully, further escalation was prevented when Professor McGonagall arrived, scolding them both – and taking another 10 points from Slytherin.

Hermione, who – in contrast to Draco and Harry – wasn't at all used to losing Slytherin house points, looked scandalised but didn't bring up the subject again for fear of losing even more.

The lesson ended in a remarkably bad mood all around – not counting Pansy Parkinson, who was humming blissfully as she stowed her book. Hermione left without another word, glaring at Draco over her shoulder.

'Now you've set her off,' said Tracey, stuffing her book roughly into her bag and running after her.

'Yes, yes. It's all my fault,' said Draco in a sarcastic voice.

'A fault confessed and so forth,' said Daphne, running after the other two girls.

Draco, scowling as he kicked his chair back under his desk, was about to leave when Harry grabbed his robe. Ignoring Draco's angry look, he waited until Professor McGonagall was outside.

'Draco?'

'What!?' said Draco angrily.

'Those teachers of Hermione's.'

'What about them?!'

'You established the contact,' said Harry slowly, staring unblinkingly into Draco's grey eyes. 'You recommended them. You paid them.'

'Yes, of course, that's my fault, too, isn't it?' snarled Draco glaring at Harry's grip before jerking himself free.

'It's decidedly odd at the very least.'

'Sod off, Harry! They were recommended to my father through the Ministry! The Ministry! I didn't put up an ad in Knockturn Alley, for Merlin's sake! Do you expect me to bribe someone to have a look at their records even though I hired legitimately? Get real! You've got no right to criticise me for this! You didn't even bother to look for anyone who could help her.'

Harry ignored this. Instead, he said, 'Neither did I hire anyone who keeps on obliviating people.'

'Whatever, Harry. Of course, it's my fault. Lay it on me!' Roughly, he pushed past Harry. 'I don't have to take this from you.'

Harry watched him stomp away. Glancing at the chairs Draco had ploughed through, he put down his bag, neatly pushed all the chairs in his row underneath their desks, closed the window, and doused the torches. Shutting the door behind him with a soft click, he headed to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom without delay. Aenor, he knew, was nasty about latecomers.

Unfortunately, the corridors were packed, and people weren't particularly inclined to be helpful to Slytherins in general or Harry in particular, so he had to squeeze, push, and shove his way through. Rushing past a throng of Hufflepuff second-years, he only stopped to turn when he caught a few snippets from a smaller corridor off the beaten track.

'Why are you doing this?!'

'Your family put my uncle in jail, you filthy blood-traitor!'

'When my mother hears about this, she'll–'

'What?' growled another, deeper, and much more menacing voice. 'The Greengrasses are done with. Your family's done with. Your name's worth less than piss.'

Harry hesitated, one foot dangling in the air. He thought he'd heard that first voice before. It had the same whiny quality that Draco had possessed in his early childhood – until Amy's corrective method had lifted his character to somewhat tolerable levels. Threatening to run to one's parents had also been on Draco's lips a lot, now that Harry thought about it.

Against his better judgement, he cautiously sneaked a glance around the corner.

A lean, wiry fifth-year Slytherin with a scrubby mat of dull brown hair had Titos Fawley by the scruff of his neck. It was Jugson.

'I couldn't care less about your family no more,' growled Jugson. 'But I reckon, seeing as I got you here now, I might as well set things straight for the record!'

Jugson drew back his fist. He wasn't obscenely large like Crabbe was in his year or that muscle-bound Quidditch-whacko Wood from Gryffindor, who had thankfully graduated last year. But the distinct lack of any apparent bit of fat and the way Jugson's muscles tensed visibly in his entire upper body were every bit as worrying.

Harry, levelling his wand, sighed. If he was so hell-bent on keeping his word, he ought to stop giving it so casually. Terese really should be very happy that Harry gave a Knut about the promises he made.

Confundo!

Jugson's fist slammed against the wall a few inches next to Fawley's head, who cried out. So did Jugson, tumbling backwards as he sucked on his knuckles, swearing incoherently.

Fawley, overcoming his stupor, took the opportunity and made a runner for it, back towards the other Hufflepuffs. He didn't notice Harry leaning flat against the wall.

Jugson, on the other hand, was currently stumbling from one wall head first into the next, leaving Harry to wonder if he had overdone the Confundus. With a shrug, Harry turned away. The charm should lift in a couple of hours at most.

Too late Harry remembered that Jugson wasn't the only bully on his list of problems for the day. Worse, in the big pond of bullies that was Hogwarts, Jugson was barely even a leopard shark. Not harmless, of course, but altogether neither aggressive nor bold. Others, however…

'Ah, Mr Black. So glad you could join us in the end,' said Aenor with a sweet smile as he came face to face with the metaphorical lionfish of aforementioned pond. The others were still rummaging in their bags, so he couldn't be terribly late, but with her, it was a matter of principle. With Aenor, showing up on time was already considered late.

House Slytherin was – yet again – dead last in house points, so Harry figured another twenty points wouldn't exacerbate the situation anyway. All things considered, Harry thought he'd been fairly lucky.

For a while.

'So,' said Aenor, sitting down daintily on top of her desk, folding her legs. She was wearing a, by her standard, modest light blue dress paired with open sandals that were more fitting for a stroll on the beach in summer than Scotland in the middle of a snowstorm. 'As promised, seeing how we got past all those nasty Dark Creatures, we'll be proceeding to curses and other very naughty magic right now. This block will keep us busy right until we start revision for your OWLs next year, so keep in mind that falling behind now might result in a very hard handicap for almost an entire year. Since your performance, as the first class to be tutored exclusively by yours truly until the OWLs, will reflect on me, I will not take kindly to anyone making us look bad.

'Now – Dark Magic. Jinxes, Hexes, Curses. Whichever you prefer. Your Ministry's definition of those is as arbitrary as it is useless. But – seeing as we've got all these made-up labels thrown at us – we might as well make something off them.

'As with any magic, I believe in a practical approach when it comes to Dark Magic, so we'll be having a few duels every other lesson from now on. Of course, it would be neither appropriate nor sporting to ask you to face a fully qualified witch in a fight.'

'Dang,' growled Tracey.

'But – luckily – my apprentice is here today to be my proxy. A big round of applause for Harry Black!'

'You've got to be kidding me,' said Harry, frowning as he reluctantly stepped up to the front when Aenor beckoned.

'Oh, oh,' said Daphne.

The Hufflepuffs, on the other hand, were booing loudly. Some were jeering.

'That's the spirit,' said Aenor brightly, egging them on. 'A bit of competitiveness goes a long way.'

'Is Black really your apprentice, Professor?' asked Ernie Macmillan.

'Oh, yes,' said Aenor, patting Harry on the head like a good dog. 'Absolutely. Isn't that right, Harry?'

'Yes,' said Harry in a cold voice, glaring at Macmillan.

'So, these are the rules. I'm familiar with Harry's skills in Charms – as I'm sure are most of you. Since Dark Magic is basically charm work, Harry has – in theory – a huge edge. That being said, my little apprentice is – from what I heard – averaging between A and E at best in Transfiguration. Something to keep in mind maybe.'

'Thanks again,' grumbled Harry, reflecting that – far from only being weak at Transfiguration – he was, in Amy's words, 'Mudblood-level' in real Dark Curses, too. And since Curses tended to overpower non-combat Charms, he was at a real disadvantage. Well, as soon as someone found out, that is.

'Harry will retaliate with the same level of force you strike with. He's allowed to answer Jinxes with Jinxes only, but if you're bold enough to use a Curse, he – in turn – is allowed to curse you as well. Now, who here is unfamiliar with the rules of the International Duelling Association?'

A few Hufflepuffs raised their hands – and Tracey. Harry rolled his eyes at her. Tracey had been taught by several witches and wizards from their family, and there was absolutely no possibility whatsoever she wouldn't be versed in duelling. And even disregarding the Blacks, it was clear to everyone that her mother would have taught her the basics. Harry suspected she was just being lazy. Tracey saw him looking and stuck out her tongue.

'All right,' said Aenor. 'You lot only watch today. Homework for you: three parchments on the IDA and duelling rules – particularly those of the junior championships.'

There was a groan, none of which louder than Tracey's. Aenor smiled. 'It's for your own safety. Now, duelling is serious business, and most of you have had a very late start. But by Morgana, when I'm through with you next year, you will all have the ability to compete in the First Circle.'

'What's that circle?' asked Finch-Fletchley. 'And what do you mean, the ability to compete in it? Professor?'

'Good question. Any takers? Granger!'

'Yes, Professor, the annual tournaments of the International Duelling Association are held in so-called circles,' said Hermione at once, gushing like a fountain. 'At its core, it's a quadruple-elimination type tournament, where the brackets have progressively less restriction on rules the further down you go. The ICW implemented these procedures to protect the less accomplished in the first one or two rounds from ability mismatches. In the first bracket, no spell may be used directly on the opponent, for instance, highly favouring Transfiguration or indirect attacks. After the second round – or circle – all restrictions but those falling under the age group are lifted. In our case, since we're in the sub-twenty age group, that would only leave Mind Magic, Memory Magic, and any magic encompassing the risk of debilitation or loss of life strictly prohibited.

'Spells are categorised by their innate danger but certain uses of spells can be differently ranked. The Freezing Charm Immobulus, for example, is ranked under category A by its innate danger – the least dangerous of them all. However, if used to specifically freeze the movement of organs, it falls under category L – which is prohibited under any circumstance.'

'Well done,' said Aenor. 'Three points to Slytherin. The first two circles are, in effect, preliminaries – but it's still an achievement of some significance to win a round or two. It would certainly look good on your résumé.'

'B-but, Professor,' said Hermione, her esprit ebbing away. 'You don't mean that, do you? I've read about the IDA. Children are being trained from the age of five just to enter our bracket. How can we stand a chance?! There are wizards and witches from every country in the world participating.'

'Are there really kids training just to enter in our age bracket?' asked Finch-Fletchley.

'Yes,' said Aenor with a knowing little smile. 'The sub-twenty age group is, arguably, the most competitive tournament – even more so than the main event. While it doesn't hold the same prestige as the latter, the fact is that not many individuals have the necessary means to train for decades just to have a shot at the main tournament. But training a child for five to ten years is, by comparison, easily accomplished. It is for that reason that the junior competition has a very respectable following.'

'People tend to bet ridiculous amounts of money there,' said Harry with a long sigh.

'There is that, too,' said Aenor with a huge grin, patting Harry's head once more.

'Professor!' demanded Finch-Fletchley again, ramming his hand in the air. 'And you think we have a chance after just one year of training?'

Aenor stood up straight. 'Of winning? Not really. But I wouldn't be surprised if a handful of you could do decently. But if you're asking if I can train you up so you can beat some spoiled little brat who looks down on you – yes! I told you in one of my first lessons: the art of war is not taking the disadvantageous fights. Vice versa, if your opponent is convinced that you're no threat, you're halfway there already.'

'Are you for real, Professor?' asked Draco, his eyes greedy with the prospect of glory.

Aenor cocked her head, grinning. 'How about this. I'll pick three of you. Those three who score best in their Defence OWLs next year – but at the very least a straight Outstanding or better. I'll take those three and officially nominate them for the tournament.'

'And you're really, really, really serious, Professor?' asked Hannah Abbott, eyes wide. For the first time in Harry's memory, she looked at Aenor exactly like that idiot Macmillan always did – as if she was the most wonderful thing she'd ever laid eyes on.

'I am.'

Abbott gave a tiny little twitch. Then, she sat up almost as straight as Hermione.

All the others around the class, especially the pure-bloods, were just as wide-eyed and eager. Some still seemed to be holding their breath.

'I see I finally have your attention,' mused Aenor with a chuckle. 'We wasted some time on our first lesson, but we should have enough time for two duels. Volunteers?'

At once, every single student who hadn't admitted to not knowing the rules lifted their hands. Some were waving with them, some were snapping their fingers obnoxiously. Others were leaning forward as if to physically show their readiness.

'Excellent,' said Aenor, nodding. 'First up: Greengrass.'

Harry clenched his fist. 'Can I give up?' he asked from the corner of his mouth.

'Don't want to hurt your girlfriend?' said Aenor with a sly grin.

'No,' said Harry, eyeing Daphne as she stormed towards the front of the class, her wand at the ready, clearly ready to give it her all. 'Because I might lose.'

'You're not serious, are you?' said Aenor, lowering her voice as well.

'I am. She's like a boozed-up berserker in a fight. You'd better put that barrier up.'

Aenor looked at him, clearly unsure whether to believe him or not. But she performed the familiar routine Harry had learned himself in his second year to bring forth a nigh-impenetrable barrier between herself, Harry, Daphne on the one side and the rest of the class on the other.

'Everyone else, you may leave your seats to watch. Don't cross over,' she waved her wand one last time to put down a white line one foot in front of the barrier, 'that line.'

There was a great noise as the class jumped over their chairs and desks to get the best spots in the middle.

'Remember,' said Aenor, nodding at Daphne, 'that Harry is allowed to respond only with the same level of force you yourself apply.'

Daphne smiled politely, winking at Harry.

Damn!

'On the count of three. One – two – three!'

Daphne's wand shot forward, aiming directly behind Harry. 'Expulso!'

Harry had just enough time to realise his heart had missed a beat. He jumped to the side, shielding himself from the blast behind him, spun around, ducked underneath a few nasty yellow streaks of light Daphne had shot blindly into the cloud of dust, tripped over some broken wood, rolled to the side, ignored the two heavy thuds where his body had been a second before, and lifted his wand again. 'Protego Maxima!'

He gritted his teeth as – with another dull thud – two more curses slammed into the Shield Charm but held fast. When the cloud of dust cleared, he stood up, already out of breath but still concentrating on the spell.

Daphne, wand arm outstretched, was frowning at his Shield Charm, sending increasingly volatile bits of magic at it.

'Give up?' asked Harry.

'Are you joking, Harry?' said Daphne, grinning widely. She picked up the leg of an otherwise pulverised chair. 'This is fun! I remember how Bones and Abbott lost against that bit of cheating right here in our first year. You remember, too?'

'Yeah,' said Harry, watching her spin the wooden stake in the air.

'I thought about it then. They should've tried this!'

And then – gently, as if playing with a toddler – she threw the leg towards Harry. The slowest and dumbest-looking projectile in the history of magical warfare spun idly and calmly, describing a lazy arc across the classroom. It was ridiculously slow. It wouldn't even hit him. But – as Harry remembered with a twinge of panic – objects without much inertia could pass Shield Charms quite easily.

The bit of wood fell right through his protective charm.

'Got you,' cooed Daphne as the stake was halfway through the Shield Charm – and still very much a valid target from outside. 'Confring–'

'Silencio!' shouted Harry, finishing just before her. He ignored his shattering shield and gave his wand another twirl. Daphne, who was taken aback by Harry abandoning his defensive position, didn't react in time. 'Expelliarmus!'

In the very same slow, lazy arc that the erstwhile leg of the chair had travelled, Daphne's wand sailed through the air.

Harry caught it deftly, lifting the Silencing Charm on Daphne with his other hand.

'Winner: Harry Black!'

There were cheers from across the barriers (and a few boos from Abbott and Bones).

'I thought I had you,' said Daphne, looking petulant as they bowed.

'You would've had me – if you hadn't felt the urge to boast,' said Harry with exasperation.

Daphne grinned sheepishly. 'There's always next time!'

'Well done,' said Aenor. 'A promising start if I may say s –' She stopped. Her eyes were drawn to the pile of pulverised splinters and brass that – once – had been a much-cherished desk.

'Oh,' said Daphne, looking around Harry in the direction of what remained of Aenor's favourite piece of furniture. 'Yeah, sorry about that.'

'Well,' said Aenor through gritted teeth and with a very forced smile. 'I suppose one could argue that one is on me. Any questions for Greengrass or Black?'

'Yes, Professor!' Hermione was madly waving her hand. 'Er, Daphne, what were those spells you used?'

Aenor walked them through their duel once again, answering questions, pointing out how both could have potentially lost at several points if their opponent had reacted differently – even though the duel had barely lasted twenty seconds. When she had finished, and with a little growl, she also forbade the class to ever use the Confringo or Expulso Curses in class ever again.

'At least,' she continued, 'until I can arrange for us to use another, more spacious room. Oh, before I forget it: five points to Slytherin for Black and Greengrass each for a respectable first duel.'

The Slytherins' cheer easily overshadowed the occasional boo.

'And twenty points from Slytherin for starting the duel without the customary bow,' finished Aenor smoothly.

When Daphne was about to furiously retort, Harry just gently pushed her towards the other side of the class.

'Okay, we got time for one more duel. Harry, you stay up there. Greengrass, you're out. Macmillan, your time to shine!'

'Yes!' shouted Macmillan happily as he skipped towards the front, all the other Hufflepuffs patting him on the back as if he'd already won the match.

Harry just rolled his eyes.

'Get the wanker!' yelled Draco from the back, his enmity towards Hufflepuff evidently stronger than his annoyance with Harry. Harry grinned but didn't reply.

'All right,' said Aenor when the both of them had settled into their stance. 'Bow! Now, on the count of three. One, two, three!'

Macmillan didn't waste any time. Taking a leaf out of Harry's book, he brandished his wand dramatically and yelled, 'Silencio!'

Harry didn't move, and the spell hit him straight to the chest.

'YES!' shouted Macmillan. 'I beat Harry Black! I beat Harry Black!' He laughed to the wild cheers of the Hufflepuffs. Egged on by their cheers, he even performed a little dance routine with his wand. 'I beat the Blacks! I beat the Blacks! Hufflepuffs rule!'

Harry raised an eyebrow. Training his wand on Macmillan's trousers, he thought, 'Wingardium Leviosa!'

With a very sharp yank, Macmillan's trousers were lifted a few inches. A couple of very important inches.

There was a collective groan from the boys in the class and a few of the girls laughed as Macmillan stood on his toes, trying to pull down his trousers, squeaking hysterically.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he squealed. 'I yield! YIELD!'

Rolling his eyes, Harry lifted the Levitation Charm and Macmillan's Silencing Charm with two short non-verbal Finite.

'I didn't know you could give anyone a wedgie like that,' cheered Daphne, clapping and laughing.

'Go Slytherin!' shouted Bulstrode. 'We're the masters of giving wedgies, all right!'

'Winner: Harry Black!'

'That was dirty!' said Susan Bones, helping Macmillan to his feet and glaring at Harry.

'In comparison to what? Levitating Macmillan himself and smashing his thick skull against the ceiling and the walls?' said Harry with a sigh. 'He's fine. Don't fret!'

Macmillan, blushing furiously, muttered, 'It's fine, Susan. Thanks but –'

'You just wait until it's my turn – or Hannah's!'

Harry shrugged, losing his wand in the sleeve of his robe again. 'All right,' he said offhandedly, turning away without looking back at her.

Silently, however, Harry reflected that Bones and Abbott – whom he knew to be taught from an early age like Neville – would likely be better than him in a straight-up fight. Depending on how serious they got, and going by Bones' steaming expression they would probably go all-out, Harry would have to be sneaky or lose for real.

This was all such a bother. With the promise of attending the tournament, everyone was so riled up.

With a weary sigh, Harry sat back down.

'Good fights, Harry,' said Hermione. 'Very, er, inventive use of a Levitation Charm.'

'Thank you, Hermione!'

'You wiped the floor with them, Black!' said Zabini approvingly from behind.

'Also wiped Macmillan's butt crack,' said Tracey with a sly grin. 'Didn't know you like it so dirty!'

'Very droll,' said Harry dryly, resting his head on his palm.

'Of course he likes it dirty,' said Pansy Parkinson, who sat next to Millicent behind them. 'He's together with Greengrass.'

'Fuck off, Parkinson,' snarled Daphne, whirling around angrily.

And so, while Aenor was busy carpeting Macmillan for his wholly misplaced overconfidence, the Slytherins kept busy displaying superior team spirit.

'I thought I'd won,' mumbled Macmillan embarrassedly.

Aenor rolled her eyes dramatically. 'Take a seat, Macmillan. Ten points from Hufflepuff. Yes, nonverbal spells will only be part of the official curriculum past your OWLs, but I wouldn't be surprised if a few others here could cast one or two spells nonverbally. Am I right, Miss Bones?'

Susan Bones nodded curtly. 'My auntie said it's good to have something to fall back on in a clinch.'

'And she's right! That would be Madame Bones from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?'

Susan Bones nodded again.

'Very good. That will be all for today. Class dismissed. Harry, you aren't.'

'Great, what now?' said Harry. 'I was banking on this break to finish our Charms homework.'

'Yeah,' said Draco, 'and I was banking on this break for you to finish my Charms homework!'

'See you later, I guess,' said Daphne, stepping up to give Harry a peck. 'Tracey? Let's go outside! I want to practice Confringo nonverbally.'

'Are you sure that's a great idea, sweetie? Oh, all right. Later, I guess, Harry.'

'Yeah, see you in Charms, Harry!' said Hermione.

Harry nodded, raising a hand.

'Greengrass is a lot more ferocious than I thought,' said Aenor when they were alone. She made her customary round towards her desk but, when faced with the sad pile of sawdust, sighed and conjured up two leather chairs. 'We might need to be a bit careful with that. She'd likely kill a dilettante like Macmillan with attacks like that.'

'Possibly, yeah.'

'Well, I suppose I better see to it that she doesn't. Dumbledore might take offence.' She suspired like a thespian, leaning back as she conjured a small coffee table. With another complicated little twirl of her wand and the ensuing loud puff, the round walnut table was laden with pastries, coffee, and tea. 'On that note, I need you to do something for me.'

'Yes?'

'You need to ask Filius about the Duelling Club.' Gauging his reaction, she added, 'I see you're familiar with his background.'

'Of course, I am. Are you serious about going to the tournament?'

'It'd be a great achievement for me to hold over Dumbledore!'

'Well,' said Harry, carefully summoning a slice of strudel, 'good luck with that.'

'You don't want to participate?'

'Not in the least,' said Harry strongly. 'Er, could you please conjure up a pastry fork? Thanks.' He leant back as well, twirling the little silver cutlery Aenor had conjured around his fingers. 'No, I definitely won't participate. I don't care for bragging. And I don't want the entire world to see what I can do either. Or can't – as it were.'

'Well, that's up to you.'

'Really?' said Harry, positively taken aback.

Aenor just waved her hand as if it was a matter of minor significance. 'I honestly think it might be good for your personal development. It would force you to overcome your limitations, for one.'

'Why, thank you.'

'Don't mention it. But, as I said, it's up to you. Filius' assistance, however, would go a long way to help imbeciles like Macmillan not get slaughtered inadvertently.'

'I can see that.' Ruminatively, Harry took a bite. 'This is quite good!'

'Of course, it is,' said Aenor condescendingly. 'It's Hungarian poppy-seed strudel. I've also got here a more traditional Austrian apple strudel. And some baklava. This is fengli su, very popular in half of Asia. Try it! Cannoli you're probably aware of. Éclairs, of course. This is Stollen, a German holiday bread. Piononos, a rolled sponge cake with cinnamon and cream. Oliebol – bit fatty but delicious. Oh, and Kue Dadar Gulung.'

'What?'

'It's good. Give it a try! Anyway, you'll ask Filius then?'

'Yes, yes, I suppose I might as well.'

'Excellent!' She stood up, daintily holding half a cannoli between two fingers. 'Let's get to business then.' The cannoli vanished almost magically within two bites and Aenor readied her wand. 'I still have a few things I want to clarify about your little gift.'

'What did you have in mind?' asked Harry, feeling his interest rise.

Aenor smiled languidly. 'One of the many advantages you should eventually have over traditional Legilimens is that you – in contrast to everything any single Occlumens has ever been taught – do not rely on eye contact. As such,' she cracked her wand like a whip and five tied-up and gagged garden gnomes appeared at her feet, 'we should try our best to start with something easy – like sound. Since gnomes have very low magical potency, they're a sensible start.' After a second, she added, 'They're also not as much trouble to get rid off. Now, I know it might seem much to ask but –'

'No,' said Harry – much to Aenor's surprise. 'No, actually I've been doing something similar already.'

'You have?' demanded Aenor excitedly. 'Tell me!'

'Pettigrew's memories. I've started sorting the flasks by their smell. If I concentrate, I usually get some hints of his thoughts or sensations. I've started trying to sort them by age like this.'

Aenor looked gobsmacked. 'Brilliant. That's brilliant, Harry!' She grinned manically wide, almost jumping with excitement now. 'I want you to continue that as much as possible! In the meantime, these poor little blighters here will volunteer also.'

'So how are we going to do this?'

'Don't worry, I thought about it.' She conjured a black silken strip and folded it over Harry's armrest. 'Blindfold yourself, and I'll make our little helpers talk. But before I remove these gags, let me make them a bit more cooperative. I really can't stand the inane babbling of these things.'

'Do you have some kind of potion?' asked Harry, fastening the soft fabric behind his ears.

'Don't be silly, Harry. These things aren't human. Imperio!'

Harry shivered as he felt something soft fly past his head. The sounds of the gnomes struggling against their bonds stopped immediately.

'Much better!' said Aenor happily. 'Okay, we'll start easy. Harry, I just want you to concentrate for now. Take their speech in, see if it does anything for you. What's your name, gnome?'

'Fast-Micky Rosebush, ma'am.' said a surprisingly gnarly sort of voice.

'Next. Your name!'

'Tallest-Micky Rosebush, ma'am.'

'Yours?'

'Jonathan, ma'am.'

'Odd one out, aren't you? You there! Lawn ornament! Name?!'

'Fifty-Eight-Seconds-Past-Fast-Micky Micky Rosebush!'

'All right?' said Aenor, sounding a little hesitant. 'And your name?'

'I'm Tallest-Micky Rosebush II, ma'am.'

In the ensuing silence, Harry felt the irresistible need to comment. 'This is going to be a tad more challenging than I'd thought,' he said sarcastically. 'And they all sound the same to me!'

He heard Aenor sit down again, grabbing another pastry. 'You'll get there. We have time. Did you memorise their names?'

'I think so,' said Harry slowly.

'Good, now I'm going to instruct two of them to lie about their names every round.'

Harry groaned.

'No need for that, my dear apprentice. I have a fabulous reward waiting for you to claim!'

'You do?' asked Harry without much hope.

'Oh, yes!'

'Dare I ask what it is?'

Aenor chuckled softly. 'You're going to flip, Harry. It's a really good one!'

'Is it really?' asked Harry.

'Oh, yes. Do you remember how I had to promise Dumbledore that we'd be doing an exclusive interview with him and the Daily Prophet?'

'Yes?' asked Harry slowly, dread rising. 'You've got one scheduled already?'

'I certainly do. And it starts in about one hour.' She laughed wildly. 'You should see your face. Surprise!'