Author's Note:

Kronnis has to go talk to Yaxley again. And then the Minister. But its ok because then he gets to go to talk to friends and fly off into the sunset with them!

I had a fantastic time using my college education for its intended purpose in this chapter – throwing in oddly specific terms that make people seem like they know what they're talking about.

I also frequently write sentences with words that should be real words, but for some reason aren't. The dictionary needs to start hiring me to add things like derelictly to its pages.

Content warning for doing drugs. Again.


The results of their shopping trip slash reconnaissance mission were passed on to Snape, who in turn passed them on to Dumbledore. Nothing of groundbreaking import had been gathered, their new intelligence limited to the official orders Voldemort had given Lucius and some vague whispers that were currently making their way around Death Eater circles – a rumor that their lord had sent some exceptionally unlucky followers off to the Ural Mountains to recruit a colony of giants.

Finding a nice, quiet corner of the library to scour atlases for the location of this mountain range, Kronnis eventually discovered it somewhere in the far east of Europe – or perhaps that was where Asia started? The distinction between the two regions was confusing, and he didn't have space in his head to memorize the shape of this plane's continents. What mattered was that it was very far away.

Gathering forces abroad, responding late to Lucius' owls, and not setting a single toe inside the Ministry to steal the prophecy that Dumbledore was so keen to keep out of enemy hands – Snape had updated them on how that particular situation was progressing – it was beginning to become evident that Voldemort might not even be in the country. He could also just be doing a lot of traveling to and from the British Isles, keeping himself flexible rather than holing up in a static base of operations.

This was all conjecture, as the man liked to leave his Death Eaters in the dark, keeping presumably dastardly plans close to his chest. Under lock and key behind a mind they'd never even glimpsed, and likely wouldn't be able to break into without a tremendous mental battle. Pulverizing his body with several castings of Chain Lightning would be easier, Kronnis thought.

Anyway – he'd gotten off track again – what this meant is that they still had no way to lead the Ministry to the truth of Voldemort's revival. Instead of using today's meeting with the heads of the DMLE to galvanize Aurors into doing their work for them, Kronnis and the Emperor sat in Amelia Bones' office, discussing the improper use of magic with her Division Heads.

"Underage wizards and witches aren't permitted to cast spells outside of Hogwarts," Phoebe Fawcett explained, her legs crossed and her hands nursing a cup of tea. Sitting to her left, Rufus Scrimgeour's mane of hair bobbed as he nodded along, and Yaxley looked exceptionally bored by the topic of conversation. "The Trace will alert my office of any such offense, and we then have a disciplinary team investigate to determine whether anyone was hurt, or if the spell was witnessed by muggles."

"Does that happen often?" Kronnis asked, flipping through the thick criminal lawbook that had been generously provided for him and his partner, his eyes skimming this particular law's proper legal structure as she broke it down to its bare essentials.

Fawcett laughed. "Oh, dozens of times each summer. Most of the alerts are just children doing silly things like repairing broken dishes, or muggleborns showing off for their parents. We usually just give warnings. I think it's been over a decade since I've last had to snap a wand."

The Emperor tilted his head. "And if the magic was used in self-defense?"

"Clause seven permits the use of magic in life-threatening situations."

So it did. Kronnis hummed as he read the relevant passage, his partner's awareness following along with the text. Curious that the Ministry's prosecution had pretended this clause irrelevant during Harry's trial, dismissing his claims of self-defense as ludicrous until Dumbledore presented enough evidence to force their hand.

"Is this clause superseded by any others?"

"No." Setting her cup down on her saucer, Fawcett's eyes met the Emperor's challenging gaze. "We take the safety of our children very seriously."

"I did not mean to imply otherwise," the illithid said, his tone offering no apology for any perceived slight. "Enforcement of the Statute of Secrecy appears paramount in nearly all Ministry departments. Living in seclusion, Baldur's Gate has never needed to administer a similar restriction on the use of magic. I find myself curious on how the priorities of safety and secrecy are balanced in the wider context of the law."

Amelia Bones repositioned herself behind her desk, bringing clasped hands to rest on its surface as she leaned forward to address them. "While breaches of the Statute of Secrecy are very serious offenses, the support of our Obliviator Headquarters allows us to minimize the consequences of irresponsible spellcasting. Every magical life is valuable, and a muggle's recollection of supernatural events can be reversed. Death cannot."

Kronnis nodded in understanding. "Yes – that's why that Harry Potter boy wasn't punished for his use of underage magic this summer, right? When he had to cast that anti-dementor spell to save himself?" Crickets would have chirped, had they not been in a sterile and magically-maintained building. The other half of the room shifted uncomfortably. "We were at the hearing," he quickly added, fighting a smile as he poked away at controversial topics.

Three sets of eyes turned from him to warily glance at Yaxley, who straightened and ignored the significant looks that his colleagues had leveraged upon him. "That's what he claimed," Yaxley said sourly, "but anyone can bring in a squib as a witness."

Dark amusement met Kronnis when he delved into his connection with the Emperor, widening it enough to beg an investigation into this social rift.

The explanation was simple, offered in a fascinated whisper as his partner's mind sifted through all the laws and regulations that the Death Eater had trampled and mangled in his wake. "Yaxley tried to rig the trial."

Kronnis fingers twitched between the pages of his book. "Really?" he asked in disbelief.

The Emperor didn't have time to explain the situation with long-winded words. Instead, he simply pushed condensed information through their connection.

Yaxley, as it turned out, had a sickening amount of power over the administration of legal proceedings, and was not the kind of man to hesitate in exploiting it. He'd rushed to help along what he must have seen as a completely random stroke of luck – a chance to expel his master's enemy from the protections of Hogwarts.

Well, the Minister had tried to expel him first, rather unsuccessfully commandeering Dumbledore's powers as headmaster to wash his hands of the boy mere minutes after the incident. A wag of the finger and a reminder that the Minister couldn't just make unilateral decisions on Hogwarts' behalf had kept Harry safely enrolled for a time, but where Dumbledore held power over Hogwarts, Fudge held power over the Ministry.

Kronnis could just imagine the schadenfreude that must have graced Voldemort's followers when they heard about Fudge's backup plan of forcing Harry into a court hearing. Puppeteering Ministry affairs, Yaxley had quietly allowed a completely superfluous emergency session of the Wizengamot to be assembled. He'd stamped all the required forms with a seditious duty, against decades of precedents and all the advice and puzzlement of his boss and fellow division heads. At least the rest of the DMLE had enough sense to recognize the trial for the farce it had been.

The really funny part was that no one seemed to know that it was Umbridge who had started all of this, sending Dementors after Harry in the hopes of silencing him forever. Fudge and Yaxley both still thought that they'd tried to manipulate mere happenstance.

"Under clause seven," Fawcett's voice was steady as she diplomatically ignored interdepartmental drama to turn back to Kronnis, "Mr. Potter was cleared of all charges."

Scrimgeour eyed the Death Eater for a bit longer, suspicion concealed by a stiff upper lip. "The disappearance of two dementors on the day of the incident is still being investigated," he offered, as though they might be concerned that something was being swept under the rug.

They were, but they already knew more about this investigation than Scrimgeour would ever uncover in his wildest dreams. The culprit and the circumstances. The mens rea and actus reus. The time, the place, the who, what, when, where, and why. In the Emperor's morbid curiosity, not a stone in Umbridge's mind had been left unturned.

His case against her would've been ironclad, given the chance to drag her crimes into the light and preside over her trail. Four separate charges of attempted murder, two for endangering the life of a minor – Harry's muggle cousin didn't count – abuse of power, conspiracy, unlawful use of dark creatures, the list went on. If the Emperor wasn't already up to his tentacles in work or getting his rocks off by manipulating her, his gavel could've sentenced Umbridge within the harshest interpretation of the law.

"What threshold of proof does the Wizengamot deem sufficient enough to rule on?" The Emperor asked, staring into Yaxley's eyes as though waiting for a trusted expert's opinion.

"It depends on the case," was the answer, voiced after a smugly superior smile had wormed its way onto the wizard's face. "We like to think ourselves infallible, but a great deal of injustices were carried out at the end of the last war, and some of our predecessors made hasty decisions – discarding due process to punish those they considered guilty."

This was quite the sob story, likely spun in an effort to cast doubt onto the imprisonment of Voldemort's faithful, now that their dark lord again had need of them. Kronnis, however, knew of at least one man for whom this fate of wrongful imprisonment rang true. He wouldn't be surprised if there were others.

Tilting his head, the Emperor only barely exaggerated his concern. "You are saying that the DMLE did not properly attend to its judicial responsibilities?"

"Things were moving very fast back then, but I'm afraid Lord Yaxley is correct," Amelia Bones interrupted, admitting to past failure in a refreshing show of transparency. "The late Mr. Crouch was Department Head," Kronnis was suddenly less impressed by her absolvement of responsibility and convenient use of a scapegoat, "and he determined that months of investigation would be a waste of his already thinly-spread resources, especially in cases where guilt had been confessed. No matter how well-intentioned our actions might've been, I suspect that some details were overlooked in the chaos – perhaps even in the convicts' favors. Surely, some of them might have deserved the kiss."

"I would have assumed your criminal trials rather simple to administer, given the availability of Veritaserum and Pensieves."

She shook her head. "Both of those are difficult to access. Pensieves are rare family heirlooms that most wizards have never seen in person, and Veritaserum is incredibly expensive. By the end of the war, the Ministry didn't have the funds to use it in every trial."

"Hmm. That is disappointing, I had hoped to acquire these for the courts of Baldur's Gate," the Emperor lied, not exactly keen to lower the value of his own interrogation abilities – Duke Ravengard might one day decide that keeping a mind flayer around was more expensive than it was worth.

These words were also a cue, a line of questioning that allowed Kronnis to make some seemingly unplanned inquiries of his own. He stopped thumbing the law book's pages to address Yaxley. "But evidence presented through them would be admissible in the Wizengamot?"

"Yes," Yaxley answered, "if the owner of a Pensieve allowed its use, or if the DMLE decided Veritaserum necessary to clear up a case – our current stocks are much better maintained than they were during the war."

"How about court dates, could just anyone bring up issues that might need to be taken to trial?"

Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes. "What would you need a court date for?"

"Oh, I don't need one," Kronnis reassured him. "Back in Baldur's Gate you can accuse someone of a misdemeanor and have the courts settle the dispute, or bring evidence of a criminal matter to the Fist so they can investigate. I was just wondering how your citizens can raise concerns within the legal system, and how the process might differ between situations."

"If they're reporting a crime, it'd be the Aurors who'd investigate and lay charges. We'd perform the arrest too, but it's the Wizengamot Administration Services," Scrimgeour nodded in Yaxley's direction, "who'd set up the trial."

"And people always get trials now, right?" Kronnis asked, his eyes innocently concerned and his mouth a baited trap.

Yaxley smiled generously. "I personally ensure that every criminal matter goes to trial."


They walked out of the office two hours later, through polished black brick interspersed by labeled oak doors. The DMLE's gigantic sprawl of subdivisions made the trip back to the lifts a long one.

Stepping aside, the Emperor narrowly avoided a group of uniformed wizards as they rushed out from the Auror Headquarters, their wands raised and at the ready. Gigantic stacks of paper floated through the cubicles of the Investigation Department, filing themselves into rows and rows of cabinets. Inside the Department of Intoxicating Substances, a delusional madman raved about how he was floating up through the streets above, somehow, and that 'those blasted muggles' had better not step on his face.

As the lift brought them up one level, Kronnis felt secure in the knowledge that arranging a trial for Sirius wasn't a pipe dream. Whether the trial would be fair was another question. Even more concerning was the consideration that the Minister might just have him executed on the spot, should he show up for one.

Fortunately, this was a problem with several remedies – a quick murder and switcheroo, to start, replacing Fudge with someone who they wouldn't need to subtly micromanage. Even simpler than that would be a big enough bribe, and every politician had blackmail-worthy skeletons in their closet. The Emperor would just need to dig them up.

Or, Sirius could publicly release whatever evidence he might be able to scrounge up for his case, drawing the attention of Wizarding Britain and confusing the matter of his guilt. Fudge would have a hard time mysteriously disappearing him if the entire country was watching, questioning if an infamous criminal was innocent.

Speaking of Fudge, the lift dinged and announced their new location – the floor containing the Minister for Magic's office. The Emperor marched imperiously over plush purple carpets and past mahogany doors. He knocked on the one at the far end, its elaborately-carved design partially obscured by the largest nametag in the building. They were invited in by a man whose beaming smile spoke of keen, political smarm.

A blur of sycophantic greetings droned through the air as Fudge bustled them into his private lounge, its leather sofas a familiar seat. Deviating in behavior from their first visit, he didn't offer any form of social lubricant. Perhaps because he now surely knew better than to place drink or food in front of the Emperor, and thought it rude to indulge when one of his guests couldn't. Personally, Kronnis thought it rude that the offer of a deliciously expensive drink wasn't even made, but he kept his mouth shut for the sake of peace.

Facing brown-nosing and a mouth full of intrusive questions, the Emperor neatly side-stepped unwanted inquiries with the presentation of a gift, supposedly from the Dukes of Baldur's Gate.

Having in fact been purchased under Kronnis' own initiative several weeks ago, the ring that Fudge now twirled in his fingers was a beautifully shining gold band, encrusted with emeralds that brought out the greed in his eyes. It also matched the strangely rounded, lime-colored hat atop his head.

"It's enchanted to let the wearer understand other languages," Kronnis explained. "Both spoken word and written text."

Fudge's shallow appreciation turned into delight. "It does?"

"Slip it on." The ring was pushed onto a sausage-like finger. "Think about activating it – no, think, not say – and you'll feel its magic."

"Oh, goodness! That's a strange tingling in the brain."

It would be so easy to gift him something malicious, Kronnis thought unkindly. A ring that was cursed, for example, or one that slowly poisoned the wearer. As it was, theirs worked exactly as advertised. He said his next words in deep drow. "And if I say this, what does it sound like?"

"Like English," Fudge answered, confused. "But with a weird accent – not that your accent is weird-."

Benevolently, Kronnis ignored hurried, rambling apologies. "That's how you can tell if someone's speaking a different language."

There was a beat of silence. The Minister looked between them, his eyes now narrowed suspiciously. "But… if they're foreign, won't they normally sound like they have an accent anyway?"

"They will, that's the trick of it." Kronnis pointed at his own face, where lips were pulled into a falsely impressed smile. It had been decided that he would demonstrate the use of the ring, as the Emperor's mouth was concealed twofold and incapable of verbal speech. "The movements of their mouths won't match the sounds you hear."

Fudge's eyes rounded. "I see! So you're not speaking English right now?"

"No, I'm speaking deep drow."

"Deep drow? Is that the language of Baldur's Gate?"

"It's a language that developed amongst the drow residents of the city," Kronnis corrected patiently. "Baldur's Gate is home to about a dozen more, but the one universally used by all races is Undercommon."

"Ah – you know, I should've figured from the name. Speaking three languages is quite impressive," Fudge commented, probably trying to smooth over the earlier insult.

"Most people in Baldur's Gate speak at least two or more. I even know a bit of gnomish and dwarvish, but I never had the need to learn them fluently. All this probably helped when it came to studying English, though."

Fudge looked between them. "Yes, your city's quite colorful, isn't it? I always thought multiculturalism something to be celebrated, you know – that's why we reinstated the Triwizard Tournament last year."

Jumping in, the Emperor pointed at Fudge's hand. "This ring should help with the planning of similar events. On its own, it would allow you to understand the communications of any foreign official. You would only need a translator to convey your own responses back."

To the average wizard, this wouldn't be all that useful. A curiosity, used in the reading of exotic books and perhaps taken out on a stroll through a city's ethnic enclaves to understand the shouts of vendors and the gossip of immigrants.

Fudge, however, was an elected official well-versed in the give-and-take of politics, representing Magical Britain as he interacted with his equals around the world in a global game of power. And just like any such game, any venue of social and political manipulation, it paid to be respected and informed.

Walking the halls of the International Confederation of Wizards was like walking into a nest of vipers, each head scheming with ambition and whispering in tongues both foreign and silver. Might the Bulgarian delegation be discussing a plan to filibuster newly-proposed legislation? Were the Brazilians and the Germans discussing a backroom deal, enabling the trade of endangered magical creatures? Was the French Minister for Magic spreading rumors of Fudge's ineptitude?

All of these secrets and more would be at his fingertips, unfamiliar languages no longer a barrier to private communication or curious eavesdropping. Not to mention the competence this power would grant him when he engaged in multilingual dialogue.

"Worn in a pair," the Emperor continued, "two individuals could speak any language they felt comfortable with and still have a perfectly understandable conversation, completely eliminating the need for a translator. I could organize the commission of another, should you be interested in expanding its capabilities."

"I certainly would be," Fudge declared, immediately seeing the value of flaunting such power before his contemporaries. He then looked down to eye his new ring's golden shine. "Er, how much do these usually cost?"

"There are only a handful of artisans with the skill to produce enchanted rings like these. Factoring in the material and labour costs," meaning the time Kronnis would need to spend haggling a merchant down, "the value of another such ring would be the equivalent of roughly four thousand and six hundred galleons. "

Fudge blanched. "Perhaps Baldur's Gate could subsidize some of the costs?" he suggested weakly, voicing a rationale that trailed off as the Emperor narrowed his eyes. "We have been housing you at no cost…"

Ah, the give-and-take of politics indeed. The word 'we' was really doing a lot of heavy lifting in the Minister's argument, implying that it had been his decision to dust off one of Hogwarts' many unused rooms and organize for the feeding of a single additional mouth.

"I will speak with Duke Ravengard," the Emperor lied. It was with great strength of will that he held back from steamrolling this pitiful attempt at negotiation, the concession almost physically paining him. Kronnis gave him a mental pat on the back, expressing pride in his partner's ability to let others win.

An acceptable price range had already been gathered from the Fudge's mind, and losing a thousand galleons of profit really wasn't the end of the world, so long as he remained obliviously grateful to be swindled. "For now, test this one out. We will send a letter once we hear back from the dukes. You can decide then if you think the price of a second one worth it."

"Thank you. The budget's just in a bit of a state at the moment, my finance team would go on strike if I wrote off another expense," Fudge joked.

Right, the Daily Prophet had to be bribed into churning out a constant stream of smear articles, after all.

As though reading Kronnis' mind, the Minister tried to maintain a casual air as he changed the topic to address his biggest political opponent. "So, how's Dumbledore been doing?"

"He seems rather busy," the Emperor answered dismissively.

"Really?" Fudge leaned in. "Busy with what?"

"Well," Kronnis started, exchanging a feigned look of confusion with the Emperor, "running the school, I imagine. Finding a new professor, rebalancing his own budget, meeting with staff to discuss any problems that've become apparent, that sort of stuff."

"He hasn't been trying to convince everyone that You-Know-Who is back?"

"Oh. People whisper about that," he answered honestly, "and ask, sometimes. He sticks to the same story, but he isn't shouting it from the rooftops, and he hasn't mentioned it to us recently. If we'd heard anything suspicious, we'd have told Umbridge, just like you asked."

Fudge seemed torn between relief and frustration. As though he wanted Dumbledore to commit treason, or something similarly denounceable. "Dolores did say about the same – I thought you might've noticed different behavior, having a unique perspective and all that."

"Baldur's Gate certainly has its fair share of eccentric wizards and witches," the Emperor admitted. "Dumbledore runs Hogwarts well, however. We have no complaints. And I do not believe his strange insistence to be harmful or malicious, but I can understand your concern when it comes to the public's peace of mind."

"I'm glad then," Fudge said, the twist of his lips implying very much the opposite. He looked like he wanted to say more about Dumbledore but suppressed the unprofessional urge to gossip in favor of boasting. "It's important that Hogwarts be run properly. The Ministry should've stepped in earlier – I've heard nothing but positive feedback on our recent changes. No more student organizations to distract from studies, and a new professor to really liven up our history!"

Kronnis figured that was supposed to be another joke. What he found funnier was the fact that Fudge was trying to take credit for Andromeda's popularity, while Umbridge, the professor he'd actually hand-picked to teach, was doing her best to bore students to death.

They had to endure several more self-promoting comments until the Emperor saw fit to remind Fudge that their third meeting was drawing near. Turning surprised eyes to a timepiece on the wall – it was now quarter to two – the Minister hastily apologized for keeping them. "How time flies! I could have an assistant escort you down, if you'd like?"

"It's only a lift away," Kronnis dismissed, standing and shaking Fudge's hand in farewell. "We've been here often enough to know our way around."

This wasn't an exaggeration. A hop, skip, and a jump away, about half of the buttons in the Ministry's lift had already tasted the skin of their fingers, and now Kronnis added the one for the Department of Magical Games and Sports to the list. An explanation of Britain's Official Gobstones Club awaited, an ordeal they were eager to put behind them.

Last week's visit to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had also been a huge waste of time. In similar fashion to the lecture they'd endured from Pertinger, its Department Head had spent some time warning against the use of magic in busy muggle streets – no teleportation, no lightshows of any sort, and absolutely no telekinesis. They couldn't show their faces in muggle London anyway, so Kronnis had thought the warning a little unnecessary.

The department's list of old case files had been the only interesting thing discussed all day, offhandedly brought up as an example of what the Ministry regularly dealt with. From out-of-control color-changing charms and half-transfigured hippogriffs, to dangerous potion fumes and inflated muggles, this department had seen it all.

The week before that, they'd spent an entire day in the Department of International Magical Co-operation. Gabbing with the Department Head and his top subordinates for hours, the Emperor had made several new friends, witches and wizards who nearly frothed at the mouth to share their passion for standardized trade regulations.

Transport safety had been one of the first topics brought up, various packing materials from straw to some muggle invention called bubble wrap suggested to keep goods secure and undamaged. One witch, her words steeped with experience, explained that potion bottles should always be inspected for hairline fractures and corking errors. Even the bursting of a single phial had the potential to render an entire shipment worthless, the cross-contamination of magical effects a safety hazard that no one wanted to risk. In fact, the issue was so prevalent that most Ministries encouraged the use of specially-reinforced glass, waiving certain tariffs or offering preferential trade agreements to any country that enforced this practice.

Magical creatures needed to be accompanied by intricate paperwork when they were brought across borders. Export documents to identify the animal were mandatory, as well as a zoosanitary certificate, signed by an accredited magizoologist following an inspection. The sample documents they were shown had boxes that could be checked to describe the health of the animal, ranging from 'flourishing' and 'well-tended' to 'of weary condition' and 'not recommended for export'. There was even a section where the magizoologist could detail every single parasite found on and in the creature's body, with a warning on the bottom that any evidence of Spindle Mites had to be immediately reported to the local governing institution. The creature would then need to be surrendered for a lengthy quarantine before its owner could again take possession.

Correspondence from these officials now arrived regularly, discussing the minutiae of obscure regulations as their offices scrambled to put together trade agreements for Baldur's Gate to review. Kronnis would've complained – several thick envelopes had fallen from exhausted beaks to splatter his breakfast – but he held his tongue in the face of the Emperor's passion. Elevating the Knights of the Shield from a regional power to an interplanar one was a task that the illithid had eagerly assigned himself, a realization of simmering ambition and an extension of ever-reaching control.

To see his partner this excited, Kronnis was willing to put up with a ruined meal or two. And things were starting to look very promising indeed, now that they had samples to distribute in their home city.


"We've got a new job for you Wyll," Kronnis declared, tossing several extendable bags onto the large table that dominated the Emperor's basement office. His partner had disappeared shortly after their arrival, off to help manage the prison's population of criminals and lend a tentacle to assist Duke Ravengard with matters that might benefit from an illithid's touch.

His friend raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "You know I'm only human, right? This," he pointed at the newest stack of ledgers, prepared for pickup and now sharing a table with fist-sized leather bags, "is already something I'm a bit underqualified for."

"Please, do you think the Emperor ever received a formal education on that stuff? He was a sailor, not some learned noble."

Wyll shrugged, amusedly eyeing the way Kronnis slipped fingers, a hand, and then an entire forearm impossibly deep into the last bag remaining in his possession. "I was starting to think that mind flayers just had it beamed into their heads upon birth, or something. Is that why you're attending a boarding school right now?"

Kronnis held back a laugh. "No, and we're not technically students. We're just shadowing classes." Wyll muttered something about how there wasn't much of a difference. "Anyway, you know your sums, and the Emperor thinks you're doing fantastic work," he listed, only lying a little bit. The Emperor had never verbally expressed any such sentiment, but a lack of complaints about the quality of Wyll's work was glowing praise, in some form. "So I think you're more than qualified to manage our affairs."

"Right," Wyll sighed. "And what exactly is this job supposed to be?"

"I need you to sell those bags over there," he said, nodding at the table while his hand finally pulled the long handle of a Nimbus 2001 out of the leather sack's mouth. It joined the bags, set down with care before Kronnis reached back in for more. "And these brooms."

"…You want me to sell broomsticks?"

"They're magical broomsticks."

"That's a relief." Picking it up, Wyll inspected its perfectly sleek backside. "With bristles like these," he said in a dry tone, "I don't think this would've been well-suited for cleaning."

Kronnis struggled to find another handle, boxes and packages jostling in interdimensional space as his fingers blindly groped around. "They're for flying. And the bags are basically Bags of Holding-"

"I'd guessed that."

"-so it should be easy enough to find buyers for them."

"I could probably get market price for them, but how much to do want to sell the brooms for? And how many do you have?" Wyll asked as a new one was placed atop the table, replacing the broom he still held in his hands.

"A couple hundred gold each would be nice. I have…" Kronnis did some quick math. Three had been stashed away in the Emperor's bag, a gift of versatile equipment that Duke Ravengard and his Flaming Fists would surely appreciate and make good use of. Another three were to be handed out to politicians that they often worked with, favors to regrease hands. And two… "Six left over, but two are for you and Karlach."

Wyll raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure-" The next one to be pulled out was dumped into his arms, forcing him to stop and readjust his grip on the pair.

"Is that not what people do when they come back from a trip? Bring their dearest friends souvenirs?" Kronnis joked.

"Usually souvenirs aren't worth a couple hundred gold," Wyll shot back.

They weren't, but divulging the truth of their purchase price might raise concerns of cheap and shoddy craftsmanship. Blissful ignorance was kinder. "And if I said that I needed someone to practice with," he tried instead, grinning, "would that make you feel better about accepting them?"

"That depends on how honest you're being right now."

A noise left Kronnis' throat, half badly-faked offense and half laughter. "I'm dead serious. I haven't had a chance to try them out yet."

Wyll set one of his brooms back onto the table. "I assume these are meant to be sat on?" he asked, more closely examining the other one.

"Yes, just in front of here," Kronnis confirmed, pointing to where the handle disappeared into a neatly wrapped bundle of twigs. "Do you want to see if Karlach has time to join us? I have a couple of deliveries to make first, and I figure we can meet back here in a few hours."

His friend flashed white teeth in an eager smile. "Oh, I'm sure she'd love to come try this out."

Excellent. While Kronnis fished out a couple more brooms, Wyll departed to fetch his lover.


Walking out of the Elfsong, through streets and down stone steps, Kronnis took the long way to the Guild's derelictly-kept corner of beach-side buildings. The doormen never looked too bright, and insisted on playing a password-based power-game each time he came to visit, as though his face wasn't enough reason to let him through.

Using the sewers might've been an easier and shorter trip, but coming from the same direction too many times might give Nine-Fingers ideas about where he and the Emperor rested their heads. Gratitude for saving the city only went so far when one spent the following years consolidating an alarming amount of economic power. It was entirely possible that she might eventually deem them too much of a threat.

For now though, they still had a tentative alliance. Trusting each other in as much as one could extend trust in such immoral and illicit circles. Nine-Fingers would sometimes ask them to eliminate political problems, and Kronnis often used her network to source goods of questionable origin and legality. Politely ignored was the fact that the Emperor occasionally pushed her agents out of windows – metaphorically, of course. Purchasing 'abandoned' warehouses and storefronts simply had the unfortunate side effect of scattering Guild assets like rats. She had her men spy on Kronnis whenever they saw his face in public, so it was tit for tat, really.

But he digressed. Today, Kronnis was here to make them both richer. He walked the Guildhall's wooden scaffolding, passing faces both familiar and not. Someone on the other side of the pit was practicing a tune, the sounds of their flute reedy and halting. A half-dried puddle of questionable origins and a vile smell crossed his path, emanating from where an unconscious halfling lay passed out, clutching a bottle of whisky. The bar entertained a few more drunkards, their sloshing mugs soon gesturing him over as they belted out greetings. He told them he might come share a drink on the way out.

As always, Nine-Fingers knew that he was coming – someone was stationed in the Guildhall's shadows to alert her of important guests. She received him into her office with an expectant greeting and then watched with interest as he pulled twenty-three plastic packages of powders, herbs, and concoctions from his bag, each with a label and description. They formed quite the sizable pyramid on her desk.

"I'll pay you your cut after they're sold," she told him once he'd finished, changing the terms of their deal.

Kronnis gave her an unimpressed look. "Am I supposed to go back to the supplier empty-handed?"

"A pretty boy like you? Struggling for money?" The concerned tone that she feigned was undermined by a mocking grin. She leaned over the desk. "I heard that Sharess' Caress is hiring. I might even come visit."

"Oh, so the rumors are true?" he retorted, glancing curiously over his shoulder to where a half-opened divider hid a more private section of the room. "You've no one willing to warm your bed?"

Nine-Fingers laughed. "A dog with some bark! I'm surprised you're not being walked on a leash right now."

Kronnis had other appointments to keep, ones more important than being insulted by criminals who thought themselves clever when they called him a thrall. He bared his teeth in something that might pass as a smile. "I bite too, when I don't get my way. Let's not make this unpleasant for both of us."

The topmost package was picked up and inspected in concession. "'Cat's Gloom'? Not very creative. Mind if I rename some of these?"

"You can call them whatever you like, as long as I get paid."

"I'm not seeing a lot of incentive to fork over any gold just yet. What are you going to do if I decide that I don't care to be involved anymore, take it all back to wherever you fetched it from?"

She had a point. Laurel and Jettie had already received a hefty sack of galleons for this batch, and he didn't have the time to sell these drugs himself. The thought of bowing to her manipulations, however, kindled an irrationally insulted blaze of anger in his brain. He restated the original terms of their deal in a harsh tone. "Half now, half when I make the next delivery."

Humming, Nine-Fingers turned the package over in her hands. "How about this – nothing now, and you test this out for me?"

"Very funny," Kronnis said. He wasn't laughing.

"I'm kidding. Half now, and test you it out?"

He crossed his arms. "I'm starting to feel like you don't trust me or my goods."

"I don't see why I should." She exchanged the container of Cat's Gloom for different one, passing a skeptical eye over the brownish mixture of ground plants contained within. "For all I know, this could be exotic dirt."

"That's a depressant," Kronnis pointed out, "and I have obligations that I need to be sober for."

Nine-Fingers read its label. "So it is," she said, more to herself than to him. The container was set down, replaced by a third. A moment was spared to read its label. "I think this one'll be fine – I'll even do it with you if you're scared."

It was snatched out of her hands, his own eyes passing over the text. Chrono enhanced one's perception, reaction speed, alertness, mental sharpness – Jettie's list of buzzwords went on and on. There were certainly worse things he could be subjecting himself to. Kronnis popped the lid open and offered the grey powder to Nine-Fingers. "Ladies first."

She raised an eyebrow. "I've never been a lady."

Shrugging, he pulled the container back. A single finger was brought to his mouth, licked, and then dipped into the powder before returning to push his lips out of the way, rubbing half a dose of the drug along his upper gums. They started tingling almost immediately.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Nine-Fingers commented lightly, following his example. "Run on home and tell your Emperor that you've been a good boy today – he might give you a treat."

Kronnis' hand twitched. Ignoring the urge to pull on the weave, he instead twisted a muscle in his mind, pushing psionic power to vibrate the air. When he spoke, his tongue buzzed strangely. "I hope your brain hasn't been addled. You're forgetting something."

A frown briefly flickered over Nine-Fingers' face before it was subsumed into her previous mask of unbothered geniality. She didn't like that – the reminder that he could blast her thoughts silly if he so chose. Her hands opened a drawer of her desk. "You could've worked for me, you know, instead of a monster. Or you could've been your own man."

"We're partners," Kronnis said for the hundredth time, well used to suffering through her words. Trying to find the perfect barbs with which to fracture his relationship with the Emperor was a favoured hobby of hers, a way to chip at their foundations until they were weak enough for her to steal the power that they held over the city. "That comes with a certain level of trust. One that I doubt you could extend to anyone in this… establishment of yours."

"Trusting a mind flayer," she mused, pulling brightly shining coins one by one from the drawer, "how novel."

He waited patiently. Each clink of metal called his attention, and when Nine-Fingers tried to slide some around to count them twice, he leaned over with lightning-wreathed hands to correct her sums.

They played this game of perception a while longer, pitting newly-elevated vigilance against enhanced agility and reflexes. She proved herself far more dextrous than one might expect of someone missing a finger – at the end, he only barely caught the glint of gold in her palm as a stack suddenly lost a coin. Her smiles were as calculating as they were amused, and her increasingly blown-out pupils squinted when she laughed mockingly at his own.

Stuffing the payment into his bag, Kronnis departed with one last veiled threat, concluding their customarily venomous banter. "You know, I almost stepped in piss on the way through. This den of debauchery could use a good cleaning – someone to eliminate the rot."

"Feel free to wash my floors on the way out," Nine-Fingers called after him, her tone filled with more cheer than he knew she felt.

Kronnis snuck behind the bar's drunkards, opting to avoid the halfling's puddle of waste by going the long way round. On the opposite side of the Guildhall, he found that the flute's song was coming from a tall half-elf, seemingly alone until the smallest shift in a shadow alerted him to a darkly-dressed tiefling whose hands fingered the sheaths of daggers. Vibrant blue eyes sized him up as he passed, and his mind slipped behind them with surprising ease.

Contemplation of theft swirled in this pickpocket's mind. To challenge him, to outwit, to conquer, and to boast of besting the Hero of Baldur's Gate. Surely Kronnis wouldn't miss a trinket or two. Or a finger. And if they could get a knife to his throat, oh the stories they'd tell! He waved and turned his back, disappointed when an excuse to fling spells didn't manifest. Nine-Fingers had a better hold over her subjects than he'd hoped.

Outside in the sun, the city environment was overly bright and loud. He found himself drawn to the most minute of movements, and the prickling sensation of his mouth made itself known each time he smiled back at a well-meaning Baldurian. His feet rushed him in and out of Bonecloak's Apothecary, where he picked up fresh bundles of strong-smelling Balsam and Yellow Musk Creeper petals. Derryth had a new paramour, his observant eyes noted, evident in the high collar of her shirt and the too-small coat hung up on a wall behind the counter.

In the Upper City, Layla Whitburn's shop was slightly more organized than when he'd last seen it. Antidotes were carefully labelled on shelves, curing everything from snakebites to foxglove overdoses, and she'd added various elixirs to a display built into the counter.

"I told you I'd be back with samples," Kronnis told her, his hand reaching deep into his bag to retrieve the reagents and the potions he'd thought interesting enough to buy back in Diagon Alley. She was sufficiently intrigued – he could tell by the spark of her mind – and let herself be talked into a bit of a long-term research and experimentation project.

The assistance of an experienced potions master might've helped their timeline, but the Emperor had yet to settle on a suitable alternative for Snape, who'd refused all the riches that would've come with such a position. Regardless, even something as simple as a blemish remover promised a popularity that would draw customers from all over the city, if only they could prove that it worked.

Excusing himself while she marvelled over these products, he rushed through streets to knock on doors.

The Portyr family villa had a lovely selection of late-blooming flowers, ones that he didn't think he recognized from previous years. Or perhaps he'd never cared to notice. At Guthmere Manor, a flash of white movement alerted him just in time to catch a small, yappy dog as it tried to escape the building's threshold, intent on chasing noisy pigeons on the street. Kronnis pressed brooms into excited hands while his tingling tongue explained the basics of their usage – he was sure their new owners could figure the rest out themselves.

Sharp ears then alerted him to would-be muggers, hiding in an alley as they waited for a suitable target. He broke into their minds, carefully at first, and then with crushing force when it became clear that these thieves were unskilled and unassociated with the Guild's protection. His visit to the Hhune estate was delayed as he performed a good deed, the darkness of the hidden backstreet washing over his strained eyes like blessedly cold water.

Back in the basement of the Elfsong, Kronnis found that he was the last to return. Both Wyll and Karlach were seated around the large table in the room's center, and the Emperor was entertaining a round of excited questions from the comfort of his favourite chair, a high-backed piece of art that faced the main entrance.

"So it's a wizarding school? With magic and all that?" Karlach was asking, her hands gesturing abstractly as though to mimic the casting of spells.

"Correct."

"Like Gale's academy?"

The Emperor tilted his head in thought. "Similar enough. They also teach astronomy and ancient languages."

"Ah," Wyll chuckled, "so it's a pretentious wizarding school."

That wasn't too incorrect an assessment, especially when one considered Hogwarts' worldwide prestige and the attitudes of wizarding families who'd attended for generations.

"Correct," the Emperor repeated in a tone that carried obvious amusement. His eyes briefly flickered above the heads of his audience to where Kronnis was descending a short flight of stairs.

Karlach sounded a bit confused when she next spoke. "But you don't really use magic, why are y- oh!" She leaned forward and grinned wickedly, the expression unmistakable even with her face only half-visible. "Is this something you're doing for Kronnis?"

"No." Karlach deflated at his response. "In addition to shouldering the responsibility of defeating a local dark wizard, our presence in England allows us to establish the framework for interplanar trade and-"

"He's lying to you," Kronnis interrupted, now close enough to join the conversation. "The only reason we're travelling abroad is because he caved when I asked if we could explore that new plane."

Wyll's calm greeting was drowned out by the screech of Karlach's chair and the shouting of Kronnis' name. He weathered her lung-squeezing hug with good humor, not even complaining when she pulled the heels of his boots off the floor, or when her voice thundered directly into his ear. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a year!"

"It's been like, four months," he struggled to say.

"Moving to Baldur's Gate, I thought I'd see my friends more often," Karlach carried on, sending the Emperor a mock glare, "but it seems mind flayers just cant help but steal them away on adventures."

Wheezing a laugh, Kronnis tried to give her a friendly pat on the back with arms that she'd pinned to his sides. "They just can't get enough of me."

The Emperor cleared a throat that didn't need clearing, an alien noise that caught the room's attention and allowed Kronnis to escape his overly-warm prison. Following the unspoken rules of hosting guests, the illithid then very politely pretended to include Wyll and Karlach in a conversation that could have been private.

"Kronnis, did the deliveries-" he broke off, and suspicion coloured the squint of his eyes. The Emperor's next words were said with incredulity and observed no social niceties as he rummaged around in Kronnis' head for the memories of his meeting with Nine-Fingers. "Are you intoxicated?"

"Just barely. Nine-Fingers did the same thing to me that you did to Laurel," Kronnis explained privately, while his mouth told the story of the little dog he'd seen while delivering a broom to the Guthmeres, as though his partner's half sentence had been a nebulous prompt to ask how his day had gone.

"You let her get away with that?" the Emperor demanded, sounding insulted on his behalf.

"I would've been stuck negotiating with her all day if I hadn't. The Chrono's already wearing off anyway. Doesn't seem to last longer than an hour or two."

Humming echoed through his mind. "Its exacerbation of sunlight sensitivity is an unfortunate side effect," the Emperor mused, now curiously analysing his experience with scientific regard. "We should inform Jettie. I doubt that it's been made evident from previous experimentation."

"As long as we don't tell Nine-Fingers," Kronnis said, turning his attention back to where Wyll was asking what people had thought of the brooms. "She'll think she got one over on me."

"She did," was the dry remark that the Emperor slipped into his brain before retreating, begrudgingly accepting the compromise as a necessary evil. No doubt he would've preferred to intimidate Nine-Fingers into compliance.

"They loved them," Kronnis said aloud, responding to his friend's question as though he hadn't been holding two conversations at once. "Most people dream of flight, after all."

"Yeah, and I'm one of 'em," Karlach proudly declared before snatching up one of the Nimbus' that still rested on the table. Examining it, her hands twisted its handle this way and that. "So how do you use this bad boy? A button? A fancy magic word? Am I supposed to shove a key in here somewhere?"

That was all the excuse Kronnis needed to pull out his brand new Firebolt for an eagerly awaited test of its abilities.

"Why does it look different?" Wyll immediately asked, eyeing its bristles with skepticism.

His answer of 'its faster' was apparently unconvincing. The Firebolt did admittedly look a bit rattier than the Nimbuses, when one didn't have a keen eye for quality brooms. Not that Kronnis had such an eye, but he'd done his five minutes of research, and every wizarding opinion he'd heard had insisted on the Firebolt's superiority to the sleek-looking brooms held in Wyll and Karlach's hands. He'd show them soon enough – its drastic price tag implied a certain standard of excellence.

The Emperor's infinite wisdom suggested a relocation to the far wall, his clawed hand pointing at the basement door. From here, they'd have the most room to turn. He also muttered something about being glad that they were trying this indoors, where there was little chance of someone drifting high enough that he'd have to personally retrieve them, or breaking their necks if they suddenly fell from a height of multiple stories.

"So you mount it like this," Kronnis said as he swung his leg over the broom, copying what he'd seen in wizarding illustrations. It remained in the air when he put weight on it, and he carefully eased the tips of his boots off the ground, eventually floating unsteadily with nothing to support him. The sensation was familiar, and yet completely foreign.

Karlach looked suitably impressed. "That's wicked!"

He smirked back. "And then if you lean forwards-" the broom accelerated with shocking speed as he did just that, stonework blurring on the edges of his vision and the opposite wall suddenly feet from his face. His awareness of the next few seconds was hazy, and he didn't remember much besides a too-late psionic pull, a full-bodied feeling of pain, and the distinct sense that gravity had done a flip – an impressive trick, for a fundamentally unchangeable force of nature.

There was a hard surface under his back and a wet throbbing in his face. Kronnis thought that his teeth might all still be in his mouth, but his tongue was too swollen and sore from a previously intimate clamping of molars on flesh to properly explore them.

Multiple pairs of boots slapped against stone, their vibrations like a sledgehammer to the back of his head. He groaned up at the some very pretty marble and furiously twitching tentacles, attached to an upside-down mind flayer.

"I think it best if you have someone properly teach you how to use that before you try again," the Emperor said, doing a very bad job of smothering his concern under a thin veneer of disapproval, and his dismayed face was quickly joined by those of Wyll and Karlach.

That was a bit unfair – it had been the Emperor's idea to even get him a broom – but Kronnis still had enough sense to agree with his partner's assessment. When he tried to voice this, however, his words came out as thick-tongued slurring and an embarrassing dribble of blood over his lips.

The sale of those broomsticks might have to wait a little longer.


Kronnis is going to be just fine. After the Emperor passive-aggressively shoves another potion down his throat.