6 Hours Later,
7:00 pm, 2nd November 2011
The Dark Lord's Palace,
Cambridge
If one were to ask for an impression of Bellatrix Lestrange, they would receive more or less the same response, no matter whom they questioned: insane, dangerous, and beautiful. The details of each individual answer may vary; but, in the end, it would boil down to those three points. Insane. Dangerous. Beautiful.
In particular, the insanity of Bellatrix Lestrange was such a known quantity, so firmly established as incontrovertible fact, that her name had become synonymous with it. Just as the name of Henry VIII had become inextricably linked with gluttonous despotism, or Queen Victoria with stern humourlessness.
As a result, it was only natural that the legendary insanity of Bellatrix Lestrange was just that. Legend.
Was Bellatrix sadistic? Inarguably. Almost fanatically devoted to her ideals? Without question. But insane? No. Never that.
If anything, it was the sanity of Bellatrix Lestrange that should have become a legend. Few others could boast of having spent twenty years in Azkaban with so little deterioration in their mental state. The Bellatrix Lestrange who entered cell 731 in 1981 was much the same as the one who exited in 2001, mentally at least. Through all that time, as well as her following decade of service as the Dark Lord's most faithful servant, the sanity of Bellatrix Lestrange never wavered.
Until now.
Why do you follow the Dark Lord? The voice in her head asked, the worrying matter of its existence only compounded by the sacrilegious nature of the inquiry.
Bellatrix only barely managed to keep her response from hissing out between her clenched teeth, He is the champion of Pureblood ideals, the only man truly worthy of leading the Wizarding World to its proper glorious place above the muggle filth!
But why do you follow him? The voice insisted, doing nothing to assuage her growing fears about her mental stability. No one else, not even the Dark Lord, knew to make this distinction. Or even suspected there could be a distinction to make.
He is the only man truly capable of mastering me and restoring the House of Black. She confessed for the first time in over thirty years. It felt strangely liberating, even if it was only to herself.
Is he?
This time, Bellatrix could not contain herself.
"How dare you question the Dark Lord!?" She snarled, inadvertently traumatising a passing group of low-ranking Death Eaters - one of whom had just inquired as to whether they were still serving Pumpkin Pasties in the Dining Hall. The Dark Lord's strength is undeniable, not even that fool Dumbledore would question it!
But is he capable of mastering you?
Bellatrix scoffed at the mere thought, Of course, he is the only man to ever resist me. His will is too strong for me to use his base desires to influence him.
Perhaps. For the first time since she'd first heard it, the voice sounded sceptical instead of matter-of-fact.
Despite herself, Bellatrix paused: a trickle of curiosity-laden doubt pooling in the back of her mind.
Perhaps nothing, what other possible explanation could there be? She had intended the question to be rhetorical, a firm dismissal of the voice's doubts, but neither she nor the voice were convinced.
Perhaps it is not his strength of will that prevents you from manipulating his base desires. Perhaps he simply has no base desires to manipulate. She wanted to reject the suggestion out of hand. If that were true, if the Dark Lord did not possess the feelings she had been attempting to inspire in him… Desperately, she searched her memory, surely the Dark Lord had at least admired her form, if - no, because - his will was too strong for her to manipulate, he would feel no threat from the pleasure of looking.
She found nothing. Not once had the Dark Lord ever looked at her with desire, his eyes had never even glanced at her body. Never had they paused on the swell of her breasts, or traced the curve of her arse.
It's possible my body is not to the Dark Lord's taste? She offered, but her own traitorous thoughts contradicted the suggestion before the voice even had a chance. Even Rabastan looked at me, and his interests never strayed to anyone over the age of twelve. Apart from the Dark Lord, the only man who's never looked at me is Flint, and that's because he's so strongly homosexual he couldn't get hard if Cissy and I were naked and giving his cock a tongue bath.
The Dark Lord has never looked at any men either. The voice pointed out before she could make the suggestion. You would have seen if he had.
I am the Dark Lord's most faithful! I have been loyal for over thirty years! I will not be swayed by an imaginary voice! Bellatrix focused on trying to silence the voice, pushing it from her thoughts, even as a last traitorous thought formed in her mind, Even if it were true, there is no one else who could master me, I have no other option.
The voice was faint as it uttered a final word, Perhaps. Then it faded away, and her mind was focused once more.
Alone, but for the seeds of doubt the voice had so skilfully planted.
Pushing the doubts to the back of her mind, Bellatrix glanced around. She had been haunted by the prickling sensation of being watched ever since facing the monstrosities in Lambstead. The feeling had done nothing to quiet her concerns regarding her sanity when she began to hear the voice.
Rather than give in to the baseless paranoia and check behind her, Bellatrix resumed prowling through the almost empty halls of the Dark Lord's palace. She had set off with a purpose, before the voice in her head had begun trying to make her question the foundations of her beliefs, she was searching for Greengrass. Although the interruption of the creatures had prevented her from killing either her blood-traitor cousin or her half-blood niece, the girl's information had been correct, and their survival no fault of hers.
Bellatrix had promised the girl that, if her information proved correct, the results would be very pleasurable for her and she was a woman of her word, as befitted the Lady of a line as ancient and noble as the House of Black. She also needed to test the girl to ensure she was worthy of the promotion Bellatrix intended to give her and capable of replacing Montague as one of her lieutenants.
Glancing through an open door to her left, Bellatrix paused. The door opened into a small room, of the sort given to those Death Eaters who were permanently stationed in the Dark Lord's palace, but of too low rank to merit more opulent accommodations. A girl was sitting at a small desk tucked against one wall, peering intently into a mirror as she muttered to herself, presumably fussing with cosmetic charms of some sort.
At first, Bellatrix had thought the girl was Greengrass — the two were remarkably similar facially and had the same general build. This girl, however, was brunette, instead of blonde, and her curves were less generous than the Greengrass she was searching for. Bellatrix distantly recalled the Greengrasses having two daughters, so this must be the second one. She'd never cared to learn her name, just as she'd never troubled herself to learn Daphne's before she had distinguished herself at Lambstead.
Deciding to see if this Greengrass knew where to find the other one, Bellatrix stepped into the room.
"You are a Greengrass, yes?" She inquired silkily.
The girl started violently, her knees banging against the underside of the desk and jolting the mirror she had been using. The mirror rocked backwards, catching the light and seeming to show a momentary flash of whitish gold. Instantly, her hands shot out to steady the expensive-looking device, her wand accidentally tapping against the glass as her hands wrapped around the intricately engraved frame. The mirror secured, the girl turned, her already pale face growing ashen as she saw who had spoken.
"L-Lady Lestrange!" She stammered, looking as if she were moments away from hysterics.
If this is Greengrass' sister, it's distressingly apparent which of them is the more worthy representative of their House. Honestly, she seems about to faint at the mere sight of me. Bellatrix did little to try and hide her disdain as she spoke, "You are a Greengrass, yes or no?"
"Y-yes, Lady Lestrange." The girl responded, her face regaining some of its colour, "I am Astoria Greengrass." She inclined her head respectfully as she introduced herself.
"Your sister is Daphne?" Bellatrix's bluntness was rude, but neither the girl nor her family were important enough for her to care.
"Yes, Lady Lestrange." Astoria seemed to have calmed down significantly, but confusion had crept into her voice.
"Do you know where she is? I need to speak with her." In an instant, the colour left Astoria's face once more, causing Bellatrix to roll her eyes impatiently, "I'm not planning on torturing her, foolish girl! My previous lieutenant was killed on our last mission and I intend to promote Daphne to replace him." The Greengrass girl would be taking Montague's command, which still left her the problem of replacing Warren - the fool hadn't even managed to make it through the Ministry Order's initial ambush.
Astoria did not look entirely comforted by the news her sister was going to be taking a position that had killed its previous tenant, but she answered the question nonetheless. "I believe she is patrolling the southern gardens, Milady."
Bellatrix turned and left the room without deigning to thank Astoria for her assistance, allowing herself to enjoy the audible sigh of relief the girl released now that her fear was no longer an inconvenience.
The grounds of the Dark Lord's palace were a thing of sinister beauty.
The rich soil, nourished on the blood and bones of the weak and unworthy, played host to a verdant profusion of plants. Luminous blooms from the depths of the Amazon vied with creeping vines from the heart of Africa, each ready to ensnare any foolish enough to venture too close.
After all, it wouldn't be enough for the home of the Dark Lord simply to be beautiful.
It, like her master, had to be powerful.
They lost a half dozen initiates a year to the magical flora that infested the expertly manicured grounds of the palace. It culled the weak.
She found Daphne patrolling a sensible distance from a thicket of venomous tentacula, her mask slung around her neck and fingers tapping a silent rhythm out against her wand. As Bellatrix approached, she performed a balletic spin — perfectly en pointe — only to attempt to freeze mid-way and stumble upon catching sight of her superior.
"Lady Lestrange," she greeted, somehow managing to parlay the stumble into an elegant bow with the easy grace only a pureblood lady of the Sacred Twenty-Eight could hope to achieve. "It is an honour."
Bellatrix favoured her with a languid smile. Yes, much better, the other Greengrass really should be trying harder to live up to her sister's example.
"It is," she agreed easily, stepping close and delicately straightening the girl's robes. She heard the sharp intake of breath as her fingers ghosted over the curves of Daphne's clothed breasts and delighted in it. Mostly fear, of course, and surprise, but there was still that hint of excitement.
She lifted a hand, toying with a long lock of curly blonde hair, "You recall what I said to you in Lambstead, yes?"
Daphne swallowed hard, staying very still. Only her eyes moved, locked on Bellatrix's hand as if watching a large and particularly venomous spider.
"Yes, my lady, I remember," she breathed, eyes flicking up to meet her interlocutor's for a moment before lowering demurely once more. "However, I was only doing my duty in service to the Dark Lord. I need no reward."
Bellatrix's smile broadened. She was a smart one.
No matter how enjoyable in the short term, the attention of Bellatrix Lestrange was never conducive to one's continued good health for long.
"A shame," she purred, releasing the girl's hair and cupping her cheek, grasping her chin gently but firmly. "You would have been a very enjoyable little diversion." She tightened her grip, digging her fingernails into Daphne's cheeks like claws, drawing blood.
Daphne's expression tightened and she drew in a short stifled hiss of air, but she remained otherwise stoic as Bellatrix wetted her fingertips in the blood welling from her cheek and drew away.
"Still, the Dark Lord rewards competence and loyalty, as do I." She plucked the mask from around Daphne's neck, holding it flat beneath her dripping fingers and letting the blood anoint it. Leaning in, she pressed her lips against the mouth of the mask, tasting the coppery tang as she whispered an incantation with the soft reverence of a lover.
Pulling back, she watched as the blood sunk into the surface of the mask, causing the design and even the shape of the mask to alter, reacting to the power of Daphne's pure blood and the spell her Lord had created. A delicate web of inky vines grew across the mask's surface, twisting from the mouth to encircle the eye slits, wicked thorns like bold lashes fanning out from them. The mouth slit itself closed, leaving the mask perfectly smooth and flat apart from the eyeholes, and the formerly bone white colour tinted slightly to an icy blue.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Greengrass," Bellatrix crooned, pressing the mask to Daphne's face. "I will have someone show you to Montague's old quarters, can't have my new lieutenant sleeping in the barracks with the rank and file, can we?"
Daphne bowed again, even lower this time. When she straightened, a droplet of blood had dripped from her cheek through the eyehole of her new mask. It trailed down across the smooth blue-white cheek.
"You honour me beyond words, Lady Lestrange," she said, genuine emotion colouring her words.
Most reacted that way when they realised they would now be ordering the suicidal charges, rather than participating in them.
"See that you do not let me down as Montague did," Bellatrix warned, already turning away to stalk back toward the palace proper. "Or you will discover just how fortunate he was that the raveners spared him the full force of my displeasure."
6:00 am, 3rd November 2011
The Department of Mysteries,
London
People were confusing.
That was something Harry had come to realise very quickly after his awakening.
They were loud and complicated, their thoughts tinged with shades of emotion, and there were just so many bloody rules. Every interaction between them was an intricate dance of things said and unsaid, of truths and omissions and outright falsehoods, all for the sake of 'getting along.'
He didn't get it.
And he hated it.
It felt like he should get it, like this odd self-defeating maze of interaction was somehow familiar — movements in a ritual he'd long forgotten. Every time he observed some odd quirk or nuance — some particular peculiarity of how they socialised that evaded his understanding — it infuriated him.
Sometimes, though, sometimes it would click.
When it did, it was intoxicating: a pleasant warmth that suffused his entire being and made him feel comfortable and confident. Like he belonged.
Every time it happened it was addictive, it left him craving more and made it even more aggravating the next time he didn't get it.
He wasn't used to being bad at things.
He'd learnt enough from observing and interacting with Remus and Sirius to recognise that it was an arrogant sentiment. Arrogance was one of those things you thought but didn't say. At least, that's what Remus thought; but, then, Sirius did the opposite.
Regardless of whether it was arrogant or not — or if he should voice it — it felt right. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been bad at something.
Of course, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been good at something either, but it felt much more familiar than this uncertain struggling.
Meeting Ginny — or, meeting her again as her thought's silently corrected him — was both comforting and infuriating.
On the one hand, her thoughts were much less emotionally tinged than Sirius' and Remus' were. Whenever they interacted with him, their thoughts were always painted in vibrant happy yellows and greens, occasionally underlain with melancholy blues and blacks. Ginny was much more neutral toward him, so her thoughts were more discernible.
On the other, interacting with her revealed just how much Remus and Sirius were coddling him when it came to social interaction - even beyond what was discernable from their thoughts. She had no great connection to him or his parents, no decades of love and longing blinding her to his oddities, and every moment spent with her yielded yet another reminder of just how bad he was at, as she put it: 'being a person.'
Apparently, the way he spoke into her mind was 'creepy,' and something about the way he made eye contact with her was unsettling - although whether that was because he was doing it too much, not enough, or if there was just something in his gaze that made her uncomfortable, he had no idea.
It's weird how still he is, she said - thought, it was accompanied by the reflexive wince he'd come to associate with her remembering that he could read her mind. Shit. I bet he heard that - did he? It's so hard to tell with how… odd his expressions are.
In what way are they odd? He inquired, answering her unasked and getting another mental wince in response. He disregarded it. His ineptitude at interaction was unacceptable, so he would need to learn to be better, and there was no way to do that by remaining ignorant.
Bugger, Ginny swore, he thought to herself, although he was still having trouble discerning when people were thinking to themselves and when they were trying to communicate with him.
I don't mean anything by it, Harry, she thought, definitely to him this time. I'm sorry.
I didn't ask if you meant anything by it, he replied testily, feeling his brow furrow and recognising the expression as one of irritation - Sirius often made the same face when arguing with Remus. He'd noticed people had a tendency to assume he was offended - or meant something other than an actual question - when he addressed things they thought about him.
It was infuriating.
I asked what is odd about my facial expressions, he repeated, hoping that - this time - she would get the point and actually answer his inquiry. Explain to me.
Her shoulders tightened, her brow furrowing to match his, and her jaw set as she looked at him. The colour of her thoughts intensified slightly, shifting to a baleful carmine.
Defiance and aggravation.
They were colours she wore often, at least when conversing with him.
They're just… odd, she replied stiffly, and, however odd, something about his expression must have conveyed just how unsatisfactory he found the answer. Her thoughts coloured to cherry, but she continued without comment. They're muted, compared to a normal person, and you don't make 'em like most people do.
She continued leading him through the labyrinthine corridors of the place she termed 'the Department of Mysteries' a thought of how unsettling she found the maze and swore it shifted on her every time she came discarded in favour of her explanation. He ignored it too.
Most people, we make expressions because we feel them, yeah, she said, a shoulder twitching in a gesture he tentatively identified as a shrug, but also because we know it's- it's not expected, so to speak, but it's what people do, y'know?
He did not know, and his continued frown seemed to tell her so.
She sighed and carried on, You think something's funny, you want to communicate it to the person you're speaking to, so you smile. Even if you didn't actually think it was funny enough for your face to smile on its own, get it? It's a way of telling people how you feel without having to say it directly.
I see, he said slowly: and, funnily enough, he did. Her explanation made sense in a way that none of Remus' coddling or Sirius' casual reassurances that 'he'd pick it all up in no time' ever had. That is of assistance.
Her thoughts shifted hue, a rich green of pleasure skating across them, only to redden back to a testy burgundy as the silence stretched out between them. He cocked his head at her, studying her face as if her carefully neutral expression might reveal what social misstep he had committed this time.
You're welcome, she thought at him, upper lip twitching back in the faintest hint of a sneer as she shoved her way through a heavy wooden door and hesitated for a moment - her gait hitching - before continuing. Apparently, there was normally a checkpoint there where she had to be searched. Her thoughts made it clear she suspected his presence was the reason for its absence today.
I did not say thank you, he observed, following after her and tucking her theory away for later consideration.
I know, she shot back, a little waspishly.
Then why say: 'you're welcome?'
She drew up short, taking a deep breath that calmed the steadily reddening timbre of her thoughts back to a more neutral blush.
It's called sarcasm, Harry, she explained, taking another breath. You say something you don't mean in a way that makes it clear you actually mean the opposite, and are judging the other person for needing you to spell it out for them.
But that's just stupid, Harry protested, reaching up and scratching at a sudden prickly heat on the back of his neck - another of the strangely unfamiliar reactions his body had to feelings of aggravation. Why would you make it so needlessly complicated when you could just say what you really meant without the extra steps?
Ginny sighed and raised a hand to her forehead, rubbing at a dull throbbing he could feel beginning to build behind her temples.
I don't know, Harry, she said eventually, lowering her hand and resuming their journey through the department. You'd have to ask someone else, sociology - or psychology, or whatever this is - isn't my area. Maybe you can ask Hermione about it when we see her. Rays of orange shone through her thoughts for a moment at the name, reds and yellows meeting and mingling like a flash of sunrise across the horizon of her mind.
It was a curious effect; one that repeated whenever she thought of the other woman - her wife, Harry had surmised. It was so different from how Sirius and Remus thought of each other, and of him, but there was still an unquestionable similarity. It teased his mind, enticing him to delve in and unravel the mystery.
Before he could - not that he would have, even Sirius had been firm in insisting that he shouldn't simply pry his way into the depths of people's minds to satisfy his curiosity - Ginny pushed another door open and the sun blazed through her thoughts like-
A flicker entered his mind, a brilliant disk shining down onto a crystalline city square, every surface reflecting and intensifying that radiant orb in the sky above until it was almost blinding.
Every surface that wasn't drenched in purplish-blue ichor, at least.
Harry? Is he alright? Ginny's hand on his shoulder and the bluish-purple concern colouring her thoughts jolted him, the flicker fading as fast as it had come. He tried to hold onto it, but that only seemed to make it more ephemeral, retreating back into the deepest recesses of his mind.
What? He asked, feeling strangely unmoored by the sudden appearance and disappearance of the vision. I'm fine, I just- I thought I saw something.
This place has that effect, Ginny informed him comfortingly, squeezing his shoulder and pulling gently to guide him into the room with her. He followed, spotting Hermione on the other side of the large, high-ceilinged chamber and recognising the source of the sunlight in Ginny's mind. It was dimming slightly now, becoming more of a background shade than the primary hue of her mind.
"Hermione, I've brought you the new transfer," she called out, making those unintelligible noises he'd come to recognise as the way normal people communicated.
Her thoughts coloured a rich scarlet, Fuck, she looks so damn sexy when she's concentrating like that. Especially in those jeans, yum. Thank Merlin she convinced Dumbledore it was stupid to insist on people wearing robes to work here: hiding that arse was an even bigger crime than us not getting to finish this morning.
Harry cocked his head curiously, following the line of Ginny's gaze to Hermione's rear.
It was… round, he supposed? He didn't have much of a metric for judging such things, but he found a part of himself appreciated the supple curves of the thing and the way the blue fabric of her jeans conformed to it.
He broke off when he noticed the colour of Ginny's thoughts darkening to an angry crimson, more vibrant than he'd yet seen from her.
Is he- Oi, Harry, are you looking at my wife's arse!? She demanded - although, clearly, she could see that that's what he was doing, so he wasn't sure why. Probably something similar to sarcasm, he supposed.
Yes, he replied, keeping it simple, so were you.
I- that's not- I'm allowed, she spluttered, a pinkish tinge appearing in both her thoughts and her freckled cheeks. She's my wife!
Does that mean I'm not allowed to look at her? He didn't recall Remus mentioning anything about that in his brief explanation of marriage.
Not at her butt, prat! An urge to punch him in the shoulder flitted through her mind, but a shadow of Dumbledore squashed it. That's inappropriate!
He was prevented from asking why by the owner of the butt under discussion approaching them, a yellower sunrise than her wife's blazing into being across the rapid ticking of her mind as she responded to Ginny's call.
"Ah, Ginny, you brought him, perfect," Hermione leaned in and hugged Ginny, her thoughts a tangled web of her wife, him, the logistics of equipping him, the experiment she'd been conducting, and the man waiting in the next room.
Hello, Harry, do you know why you're here today? Unlike so many others, including Ginny, Hermione didn't bother with verbalising her question in addition to thinking it. The question itself was still irrelevant, of course, even if he hadn't known, he could read the answer in her mind.
I'm here for you to equip me, he replied, nodding to the table near where she'd been observing her experiment - Project Hephaestus, her mind termed it - upon which the Granger MK 4 and Model 2 she'd prepared for him were already laid out for him to collect.
There was a woman leaning over them, her long straggly blonde hair hanging forward in front of her face and her pale long-fingered hand trailing across the wood and metal of the MK 4s stock. Unlike everyone else, she didn't turn at Ginny's call.
Even the people conducting the experiment stopped to look, the man shooting beams of radiant light lowering his wand, and the tall figure in full, strangely skeletal-looking, black plate armour turning its helmeted head to examine them, the opaque panes of yellowish crystal in the helm catching the light and seeming almost to glow. The pair exchanged looks - perhaps words, he wasn't paying close enough attention to be sure - and then headed over to join the small group assembling by the door.
"We taking a break?" Asked the man with the wand, holding it between finger and thumb and tapping it with his ring finger, making it bounce impatiently. Who's this then? Must be important if he's pulled Hermione away from an experiment in progress, even if it is pretty much pointless. Or maybe she's just happy to see Gin.
"I certainly wouldn't say no," chimed in the armoured figure, reaching up and removing his helmet. Now that he was closer, Harry could see that the crystal really was glowing faintly, although it faded away as the man pulled the helm off and revealed a handsome square-jawed face beneath. "Bloody exhausting wearing this thing."
He held a gauntleted hand out toward Harry, smiling agreeably, "Cedric Diggory, nice to meet you, mate."
Never hurts to make a good impression, the man's thoughts said, so, presumably, his words had been some kind of greeting, and the proffered hand was likewise.
Harry stared down at the outstretched hand in confusion, what was he meant to do with it? No one else had done such a thing upon meeting him: Sirius and Remus both hugged him, and Ginny and Hermione had each offered only verbal greetings - perhaps a nod of the head at most.
He reached out and grasped the hand, for lack of anything else to do, and was just a fraction too slow in reacting when the armoured man shook. It felt oddly formal, but there was something nice about literally getting to grips with someone upon meeting them.
Your impression is fine, he assured the man, ignoring the customary start and rush of panic that people always exhibited the first time he spoke into their mind. The man's reaction was more extreme than most, his grip on Harry's hand becoming almost crushing through his gauntlet as skeins of crimson and sickly cyan coursed through his thoughts.
Release me, Harry ordered, the pressure on his hand becoming increasingly unpleasant as the blue began to be burned from the other man's mind by the spreading red. The grip on his hand released immediately, the gauntleted fingers prising apart and allowing him to extract himself - flexing the ache out of his fingers.
I understand people find it unsettling when I speak with them, but I would appreciate if you did not attempt to crush my hand in response, he said acidly, still massaging the lingering soreness from his hand.
"Sorry about Harry, Ced," Ginny interposed herself, putting a hand on the man's - Cedric, her thoughts called him - arm and pushing it down gently. She did Harry the courtesy of repeating her words in her head, so he could understand what she was saying. "He has an, uh, unique way of communicating. He doesn't mean anything by it."
Not like Cedric to be so jumpy, she thought, possibly an apology for Cedric's behaviour, or maybe just a personal musing.
"Uh, hang on," spoke up the man with the wand, "you mean that voice I just heard in my head was him?" He pointed the wand at Harry demonstratively, "Not the result of too much time with Hermione driving me barmy?"
Neat bit of magic if this bloke can talk directly into our heads, bit of an invasion of privacy though, the man thought, indicating that - whatever he'd said - he'd got the concept that Harry was projecting his thoughts to the group. Remus said it was rude to ignore some people when conversing in a group, he was very concerned with what was rude.
Hermione rolled her eyes, "No, Ronald, you're as sane as you ever were." The tone of her thoughts made it clear the words were not a compliment when she repeated them for Harry's benefit. "You'll have to think anything you want him to understand, by the way. Spell damage."
"Bloody hell," Ronald said, doing as Hermione suggested and thinking the words too - albeit tentatively. Can you hear this, mate? That's some nasty spell damage, what happened?
No idea, Ronald, Harry responded making the man grimace. I don't really remember anything before yesterday.
"Did you have to get him calling me 'Ronald,' Hermione?" He whined, "It's Ron, Harry, no one calls me 'Ronald' unless they're upset with me."
"Sorry about that, Harry," Cedric said apologetically, his thoughts tinged with genuine remorse. "I don't really like people poking around in my head and I'm a little worn down from wearing this." He gestured at the breastplate of his suit of armour, making Hermione grimace.
"Yes, Project Hephaestus hasn't exactly been the success we were hoping for," she admitted, seeming almost personally offended by the fact.
"You mean it's still a death trap that sucks magic like a two-knut whore down Knockturn Alley," Ron muttered, getting a revolted look and a slap on the shoulder from Ginny.
"Ew, Ron! I don't even want to know why you know how much a whore costs in Knockturn Alley, but I really didn't need that mental image," she complained her face screwing up in a look of acute revulsion.
"Yeah, well, I didn't need to hear about my sister getting caught with her hand down her wife's-" Ron began heatedly, only to be cut off by Hermione.
"Yes, thank you, Ron," she interjected, face ever so slightly pink as she put a hand each on his and Cedric's shoulders and gently pushed them toward the door through which Harry and Ginny had entered. "I think we're done with the experiment for today, why don't the two of you go hit the showers and report back to Amelia for the rest of the day?"
She all but shoved the pair out of the room, closing the door behind them and tapping it with her wand, causing it to flare brightly for a moment. Turning and leaning her back against it, she blew air out between her lips and rolled her eyes.
"I swear, that man lives to infuriate me," she complained to Ginny, walking over and taking the redhead's hand.
It's because he's fancied you since you were in school, and rather than noticing you ended up marrying his sister, Ginny thought, although there was no accompanying sound that would indicate she shared the sentiment with her wife.
"Sorry about that, Harry," Hermione continued, oblivious to her wife's thoughts. "Dumbledore's said he wants as few people as possible to know who you are." She beckoned him over to the blonde woman, who turned to regard him with large - almost luminous - grey eyes. "Harry, this is Luna, she's the finest maker of wands left in all of Europe. Luna, this is Harry Potter."
"Hello, Harry Potter," the woman greeted him, tilting her head to one side and blinking slowly. "Are you a nundu?"
Am I a what? He asked, perplexed. A glance at Hermione and Ginny made it clear they were as mystified as he was. It was nice to not be the only one, for once.
"A nundu," Luna repeated as if that explained everything.
"Why would he be a nundu, Luna?" Ginny asked, with an air of patience that seemed hard-won. Hermione just rolled her eyes and crossed to another door on the side of the chamber, opening it and poking her head through.
"A nundu went missing from the Okovango Magical Reserve recently, it had been there since 1988, and that's when Harry disappeared," Luna shrugged, seeming to think this a perfectly reasonable explanation for why she would think him a nundu, whatever that actually was. "Perhaps he's been in hiding all these years as a magical creature, biding his time while waiting out the Rotfang Conspiracy."
"Or, perhaps," drawled a sneering voice from the direction of the door Hermione had poked her head through. "He's been hiding away like a coward, too scared to poke his head out and stand up to the Dark Lord."
Turning, Harry found a very pale man with even paler white-blonde hair regarding him with cold derision on his handsome - if a little pointed - face.
"Hello, Potter," he spat the word with almost tangible venom, "my name's Draco Malfoy. You could say I'm your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."
End AN: There will be no chapter next week, at least not on here. I'll be posting this month's P a treon piece instead: chapter two of Book of the Depths. We'll be back with chapter nine of Lethal Injection on the first Friday of December.
If you enjoyed my work and want to read more — or just to support me — please consider checking out my P a treon: p a treon . com (slash) MidgardsOrmen.