Author's Notes:
In between holidays and vacation I just didn't have as much time to get this done on my regular schedule, sorry!
Lawful evil and lawful evil, every time I write Umbridge I'm more and more tempted to write a bffs spinoff where she and the Emperor actually get along without pretense.
Anyway, we are bullying children in this chapter, shaking them around like Miis, and y'all are gonna have to pretend that the amount of gratuitous mentions of the Emperor's hands doesn't mean anything on the author's side. I'm certainly not sitting here, clutching a book to my chest and sighing dreamily whilst he does all sorts of devious things with them. That's Kronnis.
Beta read by Circade.
Banners of scarlet and pins of emerald. Gryffindor uniforms glimmering with proud, gold thread, and those of Slytherin shining silver like the tongue of a cunning serpent. Jeers preceding the start of its classes and malicious magic flashing through its corridors; Hogwarts was a stage for war.
The Emperor's telekinesis was employed with a frequency bordering on imperious overreach, his mind yanking pairs of brawling teenagers apart so that he might dangle their paling faces just below a narrowed gaze of disapproving purple. Feet flailed during these brief moments, the privilege of autonomous movement denied as advice to shape up was issued, lest he drag the miscreants before their respective Heads of House for official punishment.
In the library, hair-thickening jinxes brought Kronnis' research to a halt. He abandoned the restricted section's previously-peaceful refuge to investigate shrieks and shouts, and then found himself escorting Alicia Spinnet and her overgrown eyebrows to the Hospital Wing. Purely out of benevolence, of course. He was most certainly not fleeing the sounds of Madam Pince's tongue-lashing, her tone and tenor stirring memories of Menzoberranzan's Matrons.
The next day saw a surge of green-faced students, hexed with heaving stomachs and slime-filled mouths. Taunts reddened ears, and wands were brandished at the slightest provocation. House points dropped to record lows.
Kronnis didn't know how the professors did it. Discipline wasn't his responsibility, and yet he found himself acting as though he possessed an authority extending far beyond the political power his lies afforded him. Misbehavior was corrected with a sharp glance, and burgeoning fights were suppressed with a stern clearing of his throat. Woe to the students who might inadvertently drag him into their scuffle. His magic was on a hair-trigger, and while Shocking Grasp wasn't likely to kill anyone, it would certainly make them regret getting physical.
The reason for all this nonsense? Sport.
Quidditch this and Quidditch that; Slytherin was playing Gryffindor at the end of the week, and for some reason everyone in the castle thought this the only topic worth discussing.
"-so Gryffindor's only won three cups since 1980, but Slytherin's won five," lectured a well-meaning girl in Ravenclaw colors, with a volume that left Kronnis cringing. He turned his head a fraction of an inch and then twitched a muscle in his mind, sighing in a language only the Emperor understood. It was swiftly reciprocated – his eyes had noticed the same thing Kronnis had, and their irritation was shared. Not a single day in this castle could be peaceful, could it?
There was one upside to the situation, Kronnis supposed; an escape to this incredibly boring and unwelcome lesson on Quidditch statistics had finally presented itself.
"Sure, it doesn't sound like much of a difference," the girl continued, painfully oblivious to the danger her proclamation had attracted or the lack of attention they were paying her. "But if you do the maths you'll see that's nearly a forty percent-"
"Oi!" interrupted another voice, emanating from a boy with a pallor matching the red of his uniform. He was only a few steps away now, having left a huddle of his peers to confront the source of ego-bruising analytics. "Who cares how many cups we've won since 1980! No one playing back then is playing now, and we're the defending champions!"
Exasperated, suddenly ignored, and standing not five feet from an argument that was quickly engulfing more and more students, the Emperor shared his musings with Kronnis. "House pride is a remarkable thing."
"-a lot can change in two years, Paul. You had to replace Wood, and I don't think Weasley's made of the same stuff-"
"As blinding as a church's stained-glass windows, and just as fragile," he replied dryly. Flitwick was taking an awfully long time to react to the altercation happening right outside his classroom doors, and Kronnis was starting to wonder if there were silencing charms cast upon them.
"-don't even remember the last time Ravenclaw won a cup-"
"I see you have no intention of stepping in."
"-those petrifications in our first year nearly closed down the whole school! And last year we hosted the Triwizard Tournament, if you recall-"
"I like the way you dangle them around. You get this glint in your eye." Like the shine of a toothy smile, if illithids could exhibit satisfaction in the same way that humanoids with more expressive mouths did.
"-but you lost to Gryffindor all those other years-"
The Emperor dipped just below the ocean of Kronnis' mind, where memories relevant to their conversation had surfaced. "I see," he rumbled, evidently enjoying the emotions attached to them; appreciation for an exercise of might, and a lust for both power and the man wielding it.
"-it's basic statistics. If Ravenclaw beats Slytherin, we'll win the house cup. Just look at the records, all the way back to 1859-"
"Just for you then," his voice continued, silky and indulgent. One of his hands raised, and the other twitched as though it wanted to curl around Kronnis.
"-didn't you still lose it in 1990? My sister told me-"
"I couldn't ask for a more generous partner," Kronnis projected back, the purr of his voice doing little to hide his amusement. The Emperor would've tasked himself with the quelling of chaos even if he hadn't mentioned this particular attraction.
"-that was because Slytherin and Hufflepuff couldn't catch the snitch for three days! How were we supposed to make up for a four-hundred-point lead, with only one maAAAH-" The girl's bristling defense was abruptly abandoned in favor of a gravity-less thrashing, a twin pair of shrieks heralding the Emperor's intervention. Their house-mates, suddenly far more interested in the corridor's decorative ribs and columns than the argument they'd been fanning with rudely-muttered comments, were quick to abandon them to their fate.
"I think that is quite enough," the Emperor said aloud. With his head tilted just so, his back ram-rod straight, and the purple glow of psionics hovering about curled claws, he silenced the hall with an aura that hinted at contempt and disappointment. "This is a place of learning, not a playground. You ought to be old enough to show some maturity."
"But she-"
"-he started it!"
Kronnis sighed, clutching their borrowed charms textbook closer to his chest and letting a smile escape the confines of disciplined presentation. He watched his partner's fingers twitch, invisible threads inching his prey closer while his hooded glower darkened until threatening enough to halt further protests. It was as though he'd tightened a rope around their necks, his mere presence substituting for the tentacles that were surely itching to throttle the source of his annoyance.
He really was quite good at this whole discipline thing, leveraging calm words and a scolding tongue to elicit an embarrassment that would haunt memories and remind his targets to mind their conduct. Some of Hogwarts' professors should take notes, Kronnis thought. Snape's technique tended more towards a personal beratement that lowered self-esteem, and Umbridge's fake smiles and torturous detentions were more efficient at fostering resentment, rather than a change of behavior.
Though lacking the patience for children – the constant dramas of Kronnis' companions had been an ordeal, he'd once complained – the Emperor was well-composed in his dealings with them. Elegant and eloquent. Sharp-eyed and sharp-minded. Stern and- hang on. "Did you just say that Slytherin and Hufflepuff played a three-day long game?" Kronnis blurted out, interrupting his partner's latest admonishing tangent.
"Uh," the girl stuttered, glancing between him and the Emperor, who had abandoned telekinesis to scowl in his direction. "Y-yeah? It was bad weather. They couldn't find the Snitch."
"What, there's no… standard time that a match ends at? Regardless of whether or not the Snitch has been caught?"
The Gryffindor – Paul, Kronnis vaguely remembered – exchanged a look with the still-nameless girl, his feet not-so-subtly shuffling him away from the illithid whose looming figure now appeared safely focused elsewhere. "Not really."
Kronnis felt faint. "Oh."
"Yeah," the girl offered lamely. "It… it kinda just keeps going."
"Huh."
An awkward silence descended. Grappling with the realization that he might have to spend days watching a sporting event, Kronnis barely noticed the retreat of his partner's victims. There were much more important matters to consider, like whether Hogwarts served meals during games, or what the bathroom situation looked like. The castle itself was littered with them, a set per floor to accommodate a student population hundreds strong, but Kronnis didn't recall seeing any during his visit to the Quidditch pitch.
And, actually, forget about all that – what happened if the game lasted through the evening? They wouldn't be expected to sleep out in the cold while it raged on… right?
"Did you not know?" the Emperor asked, his words muffled by Kronnis' bubble of worries.
"No," he replied. Gods, they'd already promised to sit with Minerva and Snape, too, hoping to avoid accusations of favoritism. Backing out of that now would be rude, and, claiming to be public representatives, they couldn't not go. "What an absurd rule! How was I to guess!"
"It was explained during our meeting with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Were you not paying attention?"
Kronnis jerked his head up, meeting an accusing pair of purple eyes. "I tried, but that was the most boring meeting I've ever been in!"
"Evidently," the Emperor remarked, sounding more than a bit miffed. "And I couldn't help but notice the way your focus drifted earlier, whilst I, at your request, orchestrated a resolution to that conflict."
"I was paying very close attention to that. Just… with my eyes, not my ears."
"Your eyes," the Emperor echoed slowly. "Of course. And what did your eyes see?"
"That you have very pretty hands. Very… imposing. And purposeful."
One of the limbs in question was raised, its nails turned and inspected. The Emperor feigned nonchalance. "What else?"
Kronnis huffed, and then followed the patter of two dozen footsteps when the door to Flitwick's classroom opened. "Listen, if you want to fish for compliments, you can do it later. We have more important problems right now – what are we going to do if the game doesn't end before night?"
"You worry too much. Most games only last a few hours, and if the sun begins to set I will simply push Harry's mind in the Snitch's direction."
"You'll cheat, you mean." Kronnis somehow doubted that this plan had been agreed upon or even discussed with Harry, but he supposed that the Emperor should be able to manage it without arousing the boy's suspicion.
"Hmph. I prefer the term, 'helping'."
"Miss… Parkinson, was it?" Kronnis asked, turning a crown-shaped badge over in his hand and arching an eyebrow to convey exactly how unimpressed he was with the trick that the girl before him was trying to pull. A nod confirmed his guess, and her unconcerned giggle indicated that his suspicions were correct – her cunning plan was only backed up by the smallest dregs of insight. "Do you really think it would be appropriate for me to wear this?"
"It's just encouragement!" she insisted. "Weasley's new, you see. Slytherin made these to show that we support him, even if he's on the other team. We're hoping that the more people he sees wearing these, the more it'll boost his confidence."
"Makes for a fairer game," a member of her entourage added, his face not quite as memorable as Parkinson's but still vaguely recognizable as the only Slytherin who'd claimed an ability to see Hagrid's thestrals. "He's been looking ever so insecure lately."
"Right. So this has nothing to do with how your friend over there," Kronnis' hand pointed inside the Great Hall, where another group of green-robed students had wandered within earshot of the Gryffindor table, "is currently making a mockery of Weasley's abilities as a Keeper?"
Turning, the trio who'd ambushed him on his way to lunch were treated to the sight of Draco Malfoy's exaggerated fumbling of an old-looking Quaffle, the ball thrown to bounce off a head of red hair once he'd made enough of a scene. "Watch it, Weasel!" he then shouted, his voice faintly heard over the clinking of a hundred forks and the scuff of hungrily-travelling feet. "Wouldn't want our king to break his crown before the game!"
Parkinson turned back around. "I don't know who that is," she lied, batting her eyelashes and rounding her eyes to appear as innocent as a babe.
Sighing, Kronnis took a moment to pray to Eilistraee, asking for patience. This badge, its text spelling out the words 'Weasley Is Our King', wasn't worth the time it would take to wave down a professor for official intervention – they'd been prominently displayed for some days now, and no effort had been made to curtail their proliferation.
He could throw some weight around, sure, pretend that Baldur's Gate would be appalled by this behavior, but he'd prefer to use that power for matters a bit more important than schoolyard taunts. And what else was he to do, really? Slip this badge into his pocket with the intent to bin it when he found the time? Within eyesight of the Gryffindor table? How incredibly helpful, when a quarter of the student population was gleefully participating in their manufacture and spread. He knew a lost battle when he saw one.
His connection with the Emperor was getting stronger, anyhow – the illithid was likely on the last staircase down, after stopping by their rooms to drop off textbooks and research notes. Best to get this conversation over with so they could head in for lunch. "Tell you what," Kronnis said, holding the badge out. "You take this back, don't ever try something like this again, and I won't tell your Head of House about your plan to involve a foreign representative in your bullying campaign. Sound fair?"
"That's not what we were doing!" her other friend protested, a blonde-haired girl who wasn't nearly as convincing as she seemed to think herself.
"I wasn't born yesterday." Far from it, Kronnis was entirely too old to be dealing with this nonsense. He wiggled the badge. "Now, I have a meal to get to, so this is your last chance-"
His brain tingled a warning at the same time that the Weave did. Someone, somewhere, was casting a spell. At him.
It was with practiced reflex that he defaulted to Counterspell, rather than the psionic dominance he'd been granted only five years ago. Hands glowing a red-white, Kronnis reacted immediately, turning on his heel to face an older Gryffindor girl and twisting at the energy in the air.
It took a moment longer than it should have for his spell to eat the trail of her own. Fractions of perception, but enough for him to recognize the incompatibility between their magics. Like using water to rinse oil-stained fabric. Whatever she'd cast was sticky, and Kronnis' clothes, previously a tastefully embroidered and house-neutral purple, briefly turned a garish shade of red before Counterspell was able to dissolve the effect. She was then left reeling by the Weave's disruption of her magic.
His mind awash with sparks of wild power, Kronnis would've commended her foolhardy bravery and her plan to… well, her fragment of a hot-headed plan to retaliate in the face of Slytherin's spreading ridicule. Really, now that he was in her head – Alicia Spinnet's friend, huh? – he realized that it had been more of an impulsive thought. A gut reaction to seeing those thrice-damned badges in the hands of someone not wearing green and silver. It was still the most exciting thing to happen to him all week, though, and he could barely keep the grin off his face.
Try again, he wanted to tell her, carelessly tossing the badge behind him and ignoring the fleshy-sounding thud and muttered expression of pain that followed. He still had about a dozen charges of Counterspell to burn through, and no other student would be quick to try something similar.
The Great Hall had already changed the tune of its clamor; whispers replacing the chewing of food and shoes scraping on stone for a better look at what might've caused the lightshow at the hall's entrance. As if to enhance the spectacle, the Emperor himself had finally turned the corner, his nosy mind pulling out of Kronnis' to drag his assailant into range of an illithid's glare.
A knight in shining armour, just a few moments too late. Regardless, Kronnis appreciated the sentiment.
"An explanation, if you please," his partner furiously demanded. "And an apology."
"He- the badge! Slytherin's been ridiculing our players all week! I thought-"
"You thought? Somehow, I find that difficult to believe."
"I-"
"It was just a color-changing charm," Kronnis interrupted. Faintly behind him, he heard the hurried clack of a familiar pair of shoes. "I think Minerva's up in her office, let's just-"
"Dear me!" Umbridge gasped out – literally. Kronnis was pretty sure he'd heard the squeal of children as she'd barreled through them in her near-sprint over. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm-"
"A disgrace!" she shrieked, obviously more concerned with the breaking of rules than she was with his well-being. "That a student of Hogwarts would commit such a reprehensible crime! Assault on a foreign official, why I never! The Ministry won't stand for this."
"Neither will Baldur's Gate," the Emperor said, punctuating his words with a telekinetic jerk, akin to a dog shaking its toy.
"I'm sorry!" the girl cried immediately, her words ignored by tyrannic fixation and her eyes wide with a terror that Kronnis knew to be exacerbated by a claw in her mind, its tip pricking neurotransmitters and synaptic junctions.
He didn't particularly care for an apology – he'd obviously won their brief 'duel', and there was triumph to be had in the domination. A soothing of his brain's desire. It was nice to hear though, he supposed.
"I'll take her off your hands," Umbridge quickly offered.
"Oh?"
"Yes, I have just the thing in my office to set this straight, a task that'll be sure to write a precedent strong enough to deter any other trouble makers and their plots!"
Her blood-quill, obviously. Something the entire school whispered about fearfully. The Emperor was actually considering this, formulating a response that hinted at a disapproval of the student body's recent lack of regard for peace and order, but Kronnis spoke up before his partner could allow an even more dangerous precedent to be set.
"I think she just missed, actually," he lied. "Are you insane?" he then demanded of the Emperor, mentally listing several reasons as to why such a unilateral granting of authority would be a terrible idea. They were supposed to prevent Umbridge from clawing power into her grubby little hands, not deliver it wrapped with a bow. "I was standing with a group of Slytherins who trying to spread some badges with a simply awful slogan, right over there."
Turning, he intended to point them out, but they'd already made themselves scarce. "Well, they were by the doors. Anyway, I understand they've been using it to intimidate one of Gryffindor's Quidditch players. This is just a rivalry that's gotten a bit too out of hand, and the only spell she cast was a color-changing charm that she'd probably intended to turn their uniforms an ugly red with." Or, more accurately, to force him into colors that supported Gryffindor, a hastily-thought out retaliation for his apparent involvement in Slytherin's bullying. "I was just standing in the wrong spot at the wrong time, right?"
"Right," the girl echoed with relief, seizing his offered lifeline and pulling with all the acting ability she was able to muster. "I didn't mean to hit you!"
Umbridge's frown pulled at the creases of her face. "Accident or not, casting spells in the corridors is forbidden, and targeting anyone with them is still a detention."
"Yes, that's why I was just suggesting that we should bring this to Professor McGonagall," Kronnis said. "This didn't happen in a class, so I think her Head of House would be responsible for arranging a punishment."
"I don't believe I saw Professor McGonagall at the lunch table."
"She must be in her office," the Emperor chimed in, a new intention flashing through his head that Kronnis reluctantly tacked his agreement onto. "We shall escort her up and then return for lunch. And I do apologize that this interrupted your meal, professor."
She waved him off. "Oh, nonsense! You've enlightened me to several failures in Hogwarts' discipline. It's about time someone rectified them."
The High Inquisitor's departure turning their quartet into a trio, the Emperor turned his attention back to the girl. "Walk," he said briskly, setting her feet down upon stone and hovering menacingly just behind her shoulder. Kronnis was glad that they were able to make it down the hall and out of earshot before his partner began a surly lecture, his sharp words eliciting shivers and flinches as they marched.
"-a bit of a mess really, with the European Cup held every three years and the World Cup every four," rambled the voice of a small boy, his shoes hurriedly dogging Kronnis and the Emperor's own. Mud and snow dripped from all six of their soles, collected on their way up from Greenhouse Three and now leaving puddles on the stones of Hogwarts' entrance. The rest of Sprout's class slowly dispersed into the surrounding corridors. "Shame you missed the last one, 'cuz the only local event coming up soon is the British and Irish League, and they've gotten so strict that they'll kick players off the field just for blatching!"
Kronnis' hands thumbed through the stack of notes he carried, plucking out an analysis on ditanny's price trends so his partner could nestle it between seasonal planting guides. "Blatching?"
"A purposeful collision," was the explanation. "Falmouth's Seeker had to have their liver regrown a couple seasons back – the tip of the other player's Nimbus ruptured it, or something – and their captain threw an absolute fit! Claimed it was… pre-, premetided?"
A sliver of the Emperor's attention diverted itself. "Premeditated," he corrected, absently mumbling into his floating collection of documents.
"Right – that Puddlemere had premeditated it, since Falmouth didn't have a reserve Seeker to sub in."
Under the boy's previous definition, all instances of blatching would be premeditated, but Kronnis wasn't about to argue Quidditch's nonsensical rules. Somewhere, presumably, there existed a thousand-page rulebook describing the matter with more nuance. "And Hogwarts allows it?"
"Well, technically it's a foul, just not a serious one. Hogwarts is more traditional than most leagues, 's why we're still using a Quaffle without those fancy sticking charms. They take all the skill out of it, don't you think?"
Kronnis considered the practice he'd briefly witnessed. "I suppose, though we've never seen it played either way."
"Right," the boy said again, his chatter then pausing for a blessed second. "You must have an opinion on who's gonna win the game, though."
Ha! As though Kronnis would be stupid enough to alienate an entire house over something as meaningless as Quidditch. "Ravenclaw, perhaps," he blithely replied.
"Wha- Ravenclaw isn't even playing!"
"My bad. Hufflepuff?"
"We aren't playing either! The match is between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and-" The boy broke off, squinting. "You're having me on."
"Sure am. Sorry, but you're the fifth-"
"Sixth."
"-sixth person who's asked, and that's just today. We haven't a clue who's going to win, and even if we did, we wouldn't share our opinion. That's just asking for trouble."
"What do you mean?"
Ah, the naivety of age. "You'll understand when you're older. I'd recommend against betting on the match, but if you simply must then you'd be better off asking your upperclassmen for advice."
"How did you know-"
"About the Weasley twins' underground gambling ring? Please, we're not deaf, and you students are very bad at whispering. I don't think they're trying to rig it, but they're on one of the playing teams," Kronnis stressed. "Do you really think they're giving unbiased odds?"
The boy scuffed his shoes over the stone floor, the sound echoing in a corridor empty of footfalls other than their own. "…That's why I thought to ask you. I reckon that everyone else at Hogwarts leans one way or the other."
Sighing, Kronnis folded the papers in his hands. "Well, my unbiased opinion, if you really want it, is to not get involved. Save your money to spend on sweets at Hogsmeade. Try the cockroach clusters, they're better than most people say." Learn some critical thinking, for the gods' sake.
"I can't go to Hogsmeade yet."
"Then, just… put it under your mattress, alright? And shouldn't you have a lesson to attend? Studying to do?"
"Oh, I was hoping you'd write me a note for Professor Snape, actually. I'm late for his class."
Kronnis stopped walking. "Only staff can write notes to excuse an absence," he said, staring down at the boy's quickly-whitening face. "You'd better run and hope Professor Snape only gives you an afternoon's detention."
This time, his advice was followed without question or backtalk, their brief companion scurrying back the way they'd come. Did random children really think he'd be willing to help them skive class? Kronnis didn't think he'd ever even talked to that boy before.
"Did you yourself not bet fifty galleons on Gryffindor?"
The gall! "I have it on good authority that Gryffindor will be finding the Snitch before dinner," Kronnis mumbled, a handful of long strides closing the distance illithid legs had gained on him.
Low and with endearment, the Emperor hummed. "Your affability is to blame, you know," he then abruptly said, his words more intimately settling into Kronnis' mind. An unasked-for answer to his private musings. "You play your role too well."
"Is that criticism, or am I meant to take it as a compliment?"
"It is merely a fact." A flick of claws shuffled papers together into a single stack, his partner abandoning all pretense of reading. "I remember puzzling over you, whilst in the prism," he continued nostalgically. "Your motivations and personality were frustratingly complex. The more you interacted with others, the more I was left wondering about your charm, and how much of it was fabricated."
Kronnis laughed. "I'll have you know that it's all natural!"
"A natural charisma, yes, but you embraced subterfuge as easily as breathing – better than I did, truth be told. And I have always been glad that it was you leading our fight against the Netherbrain, a bright star that others willingly followed." Their steps echoed softly, the sun filtering through the tracery of Hogwarts' windows to cascade their forms. "I would never have been as successful, just as I would never have been able to reclaim a place in my city without your help."
"Why?" Kronnis asked. "Because I leverage my reputation into bought votes and lucrative trade deals? It might be my voice in the ears of Baldur's Gate, my face in their eyes, but my words are yours," he reminded his partner. "They'd have eaten me alive if it weren't for your knowledge."
A pair of illithid eyes affixed him with an amused glance. "You are being unusually modest."
"Honest compliments humble me," he claimed, loftily. "Would you prefer it if I flippantly dismissed your admiration? Rest assured, Emperor, I treasure it as dearly as a kingdom's crown jewel."
Laughter consumed both their heads. "Regardless," the Emperor said after some time spent drenched in shared emotion. "Being here, in this plane, and watching you again further our ambitions with the very same skills I marveled over when I first met you, has been a delight. While our life in Baldur's Gate is fulfilling, I feel at times that we are needlessly separated."
Kronnis turned the corner, leading the way to the Defense classroom. There was a point to be had in the Emperor's words – they rarely shared their days, illithid tentacles reigning over desk and parchment while he met with patriars, politicians, and anyone else desiring something of the city's savior. It was certainly lonelier than life had been when he'd carried his partner around in his pocket.
"We're never truly separated," he argued with confidence, his thoughts dancing on the edge of an intimately familiar consciousness. "My mind will always call to you, just as yours does to me, and we'll always return to each other." He simply couldn't imagine life any other way.
"Of course," The Emperor's voice whispered, low and followed by a soft echo that Kronnis dismissed as a stirring of emotion. "You are mine, after all."
The icy gust meeting Kronnis atop the Quidditch pitch's spectator stand would've been unbearable, had the impeccably crafted clothing of Twilfitt and Tattings not blocked both wind and temperature. As it was, only his nose stung, a sacrifice he'd have to live with.
The Emperor ought to consider himself lucky. Illithids possessed no nose of similar protruding shape, supposedly another evolutionary advantage. He still had eyes though, ones that blinked against cold gales, and claws that it had been nearly impossible to tailor gloves for.
The ones he wore now were one-of-a-kind, forged in the fires of lengthy discussion and sewn with the sturdiest twine this side of the Atlantic. Well, everything Belinda had sewn them at Twilfitt and Tattings was one-of-a-kind, but she'd claimed these gloves to be the most uniquely-personalized article of clothing she'd ever crafted.
Weeks ago, an entire litany of concerns had filled the seamstress' store while she ignored the aimlessly milling figures of Kronnis and the Malfoys to listen to the Emperor's complaints and measure illithid fingers. Sturdy leathers only snapped the tips of three-inch long nails, cotton was too easy to rip, and silk was never warm enough.
Her solution bypassed the problem of the glove's material entirely: handwear with slits at the ends. Their edges were strengthened to prevent wear and tear, and thin enough to allow only nails to slip though. A little bit of cold air still got in whenever fingers shifted and stretched the fabric, but the Emperor proclaimed them as close to perfection as was possible. He looked a bit ridiculous though, climbing a ladder with clawed gloves.
"Ah, there you are," Minerva's voice called over the din of chatting professors. Kronnis searched the benches until he found her smiling face nearly hidden by a wide-brimmed witch's hat with silly little ear flaps. She waved them over once she'd caught his eye. "We saved you seats."
Sharing the bench with her and draped in black robes more voluminous than usual, Snape didn't look particularly happy, but that was just the way his face worked. "Any longer and you would've missed kickoff," he commented.
"Us and about a quarter of the school, huh?" Kronnis remarked as he and the Emperor approached. Down below, perhaps out of Snape's high-nosed field of view, trickles of students were still crossing the white-mottled lawn. He and his partner were far from the last arrivals – it had only taken them so long because they'd had to climb about twelve flights of winding stairs to get to the top of this tower, its seats reserved for staff and guests.
Hogwarts' student population had to make do with a much shorter ring of bleachers, and Kronnis didn't envy them. Even at a lower height, he could see that the wind was strong enough to whip scarves into faces and pinken the tips of ears. If it had been snowing, he was sure that the heads below would've been painted as white as his own, rather than the mix of browns, blacks, reds, and yellows that he saw.
In comparison, the staff stands were luxurious. They had a roof, to start, and one solid wall to protect against inclement weather, which was better than none. But the best part, in his opinion, was the view.
Beyond the valley of Hogwarts, hills and mountains were capped with snow, a relatively new feature that was safeguarded by the frigid temperatures of high altitudes. Frost clung delicately to the cold stone of the castle's exterior – a warning to keep windows securely fastened, lest its icy fingers creep into bedchambers. The players weren't yet on the field, but Kronnis had a good idea of the general height that the game would be played at. High enough that those in the lower bleachers would have to crane their necks to watch the spectacle above.
Settling in between the two professors, he felt assured that his viewing experience would be as comfortable as possible; the climb well worth it.
"We would not be late for the year's first Quidditch match," the Emperor assured their seatmates. "I fear that your more enthusiastic students would have been rendered inconsolable, had we shown a lack of interest."
Minerva's eyes hardened. "Enthusiastic is one word for it," she muttered. "Miss Edwards was quite displeased when informed that she'd be missing today's game to serve detention with Filch," she then said a bit louder, referencing the young woman who'd tried to charm Kronnis' clothes. Abandoned to her Head of House's mercy, it seemed that her stuttering excuses of showing house pride hadn't done a thing to melt Minerva's icy disappointment.
A drawl came from the opposite side. "A week's worth of detentions would've been more fitting. You're too soft on your Gryffindors," Snape added.
"It was only a little prank," Kronnis argued, paying lip service to his previous stance on the matter. "I don't feel like the students should be afraid to interact with us." Though some could stand to learn some boundaries, he thought snidely, to his partner's bubbling amusement.
Though annoyed by the past week's ceaseless unrest, there was one nugget of information Kronnis had to admit a gratitude for – the heads-up that Quidditch lacked a set time limit, lasting until the snitch was caught either minutes, hours, or Eilistraee forbid, days after a match began. Hence the dried meats and fruits currently lining the bottoms of his pockets; snacks, should the Emperor fail to bring the game to a more reasonably-timed close.
Other than that, it had all been meaningless drivel; a plethora of rules, statistics, and superstitions. Kronnis was eager to leave the school's fascination with Quidditch behind, having matters of much greater significance to worry about. Newspapers weren't going to read themselves for hints of Voldemort's activities, and the Restricted Section still held a number of secrets, the mystery of Harry's scar remaining unsolved to this day.
But back on the topic of discussion – unruly children. Umbridge's parting comment about addressing the failures of Hogwarts' discipline hadn't been related to Slytherin's jeers at all, no. These still rang out unchallenged, and even now Kronnis could hear their shouts swell.
True to form, she had instead used the excuse of 'assaults on a foreign dignitary' to expedite the drafting of a new educational decree. While exempt herself due to a technicality of timing, Miss Edwards had ruined it for everyone else, in as much as one can ruin the sanctity of fair punishment. Under the power of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five, Hogwarts' High Inquisitor now held supreme authority over any disciplinary action assigned within the castle's halls – effective for any infractions accrued after eight o'clock this morning.
She hadn't yet had a chance to exercise this power, but Kronnis knew it to be only a matter of time. Would she begin policing the most inane of school rules, such as the one restricting students from having pets other than an owl, cat, or toad, or would she take action against the underground trade in Hogsmeade contraband?
He wasn't holding his breath that she'd be at all reasonable about it.
"Playing pranks is different from conversing," the Emperor said, continuing the discussion with a tone that feigned indifference. Deep down, Kronnis could feel his partner's incredibly unnecessary vindication – as though a color-changing charm had damaged his person enough to warrant retribution! "I have every confidence that Filch will set Edwards straight."
Minerva nodded, though her frown looked like it had taken on a hint of guilt. "His methods might be a bit medieval, but he won't tolerate disrespect."
"All the more reason to have given Edwards a week's detention," Snape drawled. "Knocking some respect into a Gryffindor takes longer than a single afternoon."
"Severus!" Minerva hissed warningly, and Kronnis suddenly wished that he and the Emperor hadn't made a commitment to sit between the two Heads of House to watch their respective teams play against each other.
He was delivered from awkward conflict by a flash of movement. "Look," he said, pointing as twin lines of red and green figures flew over frost-touched grass to meet where Madam Hooch waited by a wooden trunk. "The game's starting."
An upswell of cheers drowned out whatever Snape muttered next. Down on the field, some words were exchanged, and then the box's lid was opened, releasing streaks of gold, brown, and black to join the players in a dizzyingly fast-paced dance.
Six Chasers darted about, laterally and vertically, and with such speed that it was impossible to untangle the knot they wove. Whirls of color, they passed a ball so quickly that it was gone again by the time he'd managed to figure out who was in possession.
Loud cracks echoed each time a Bludger abruptly changed direction, collisions with stout bats sending them whirring around towers and through recently-vacated air, intent on punishing anyone not quick enough to make way. One passed uncomfortably close to their own seats, seeming to scream a metallic-sounding warning as it barreled on by.
The sport was vicious, more so than Draco had described. A distant player all but tackled another out of the sky, their colors a blur as they then smashed against a spectator stand, ripping its yellow banner in the process. Only seconds later, a different pair clashed over the Quaffle, one of them almost torn from their broom by an awkward-looking grab.
Blatching, surely. Minor fouls that Hogwarts supposedly didn't care enough to regulate. Whether this decision had been made to avoid stopping gameplay every thirty seconds to grant the fouled team possession, or because the game's tradition was so heavily steeped in violence that only the most serious of injuries warranted a penalty, Kronnis couldn't begin to guess.
Turning his eyes upwards, he found a lone red speck high above the field, swooping with a nimbleness that he recognized from the practice session he'd crashed. Harry was distancing himself from the rest of the chaos, intent on locating the Snitch – the only ball that really mattered in this game.
And where was Draco? Ah, zooming by to bludgeon the Quaffle from a Gryffindor Chaser's grasp. That looked suspiciously like an inter-positionary foul, but Madam Hooch was either missing in action or blind.
A goal was scored, helped along by Slytherin's unsportsmanlike conduct, and the taunts from their section of the stands rose to a roar. Twice- no, thrice more did the Quaffle find its way through Ron's hands before Gryffindor managed a goal of their own. Their Chasers were good, passing a brown blur between them almost faster than the eye could see, but to combat the point difference they had to fight an uphill battle against Ron's steadily-decreasing confidence and his accordingly piss-poor performance.
Still, a thirty-point lead wasn't a lot, not when one-hundred and fifty were awarded to the Seeker who caught the Snitch. And, speaking of which – the commentor's voice boomed across the pitch, announcing a dive by Harry, who Draco quickly rushed off to follow.
Kronnis couldn't even see what they were in pursuit of. The vast field gave players an abundance of space to maneuver at high speeds, but made it difficult to identify anything other than the blurs of team colors as brooms darted from one side to the other in seconds.
Fingers stretched to seize what must certainly have been the Snitch, Harry and Draco spiraling lower and lower. Collision with the ground appeared certain, and its surface looked dangerously unforgiving. Just feet above it, they both peeled off. A whistle was blown. The crowds shouted, joy and dismay warring in his ears as Harry's arm was raised in triumph.
"I told you it was not likely to last long," the Emperor murmured in his mind, insufferable in his smugness.
"What an exciting game," Kronnis said aloud, ignoring his partner to congratulate Minerva on her house's victory. It had barely lasted twenty minutes, and he found himself strangely disappointed. There hadn't even been time to indulge in his snacks!
Any further commentary was halted by a sudden outcry from the crowd. When Kronnis next looked down, he saw that Harry was flat on his back in the grass, seemingly having fallen off his broom.
The Emperor filled him in, his tone giving the impression of raised eyebrows and a sudden narrowing of focus. "One of Slytherin's Beaters sent a Bludger at him."
"After the match had been called?" That seemed even less legal than Draco's move.
"Quite a few seconds after," his partner confirmed, leaning forward in his seat as Snape muttered curses beside him.
Remarkably, Madam Hooch was quick to intervene. While she tore into the offending player, the rest of Gryffindor's team descended to congregate around Harry, trailed by a lone Slytherin with a recognizably shining head of platinum hair. Faces reddening and hands gesturing angrily, it was clear that Draco hadn't come to commend Harry's victory. Hostile words were being exchanged, rendered inaudible by the clamor of the crowds and the berating of Slytherin's Beater.
"Could you…" Kronnis began, not given a chance to even finish articulating his request before the Emperor molded a tenuous connection with Harry's mind, his intention anticipated by a brain just as concerned as his own.
While the spectator stands were at just the perfect height to observe gameplay, the pitch's green lawn was quite a bit further still, and Kronnis felt how much the distance strained his partner. Audio was hazy, thought and emotion even more so. Another's vision bloomed across his own, just in time to watch as Harry's hands yanked one of the Weasley twins back from an aggressive lunge.
"Or," Draco was saying, obviously delighted at the reactions he was provoking and sneering as he continued with whatever insults he'd been spouting, "perhaps you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it!"
Anger, red-hot and bitterly biting. Harry released the body struggling in his grasp and let go of all restraint, intent on plunging his own fist into Draco's face.
Like witnessing a carriage crash into a bustling market, Kronnis watched on in horror. Had Umbridge paid Draco off, or was this simply an unfortunate coincidence, that a few ill-timed words would undo all their efforts and land Harry in exactly the sort of trouble they'd been trying to keep him from?
Gods, and with that new Educational Decree she could assign nearly any punishment she wanted. Harry Potter? Getting into a fistfight? The Ministry had tried to have him expelled for less. Over a hundred meters away, in front of the entire student population, Kronnis didn't have a single spell that could resolve this without causing an even bigger scene.
The Emperor's intervention nearly startled him as badly as it did Harry. "Stop!" the illithid's voice thundered, his force in Harry's mind enough to drive the boy to his knees, looking like he'd stumbled in his sprint. "Umbridge will do worse than give you detention!"
Realization and resentment joined frustration in the boy's mind, the last thing Kronnis felt before Harry's emotions burned through the psionic connection. It snapped like a tautly-pulled rubber band, rebounding to lance the Emperor's brain. He flinched as though physically struck.
"Are you alright?" Kronnis asked immediately, willfully blind to the whirling movements of Minerva and Snape's rushed departures.
A steadying arm tried to slip around his partner's frame but it was brushed away, the Emperor's own hands rising to press against his forehead. "I am fine," he claimed, his voice barely coming through over the blinding headache muddling his thoughts, and sounding very much like the king of lies that Kronnis' companions had once unflatteringly called him. But illithids didn't show weakness, Kronnis knew. Not in public, where inferior beings might notice it.
The next thing to be pushed over their connection was an authoritative question that brushed roughly through his thoughts to settle inelegantly into the back of his mind. "What is happening on the pitch?"
Kronnis' body turned, and he realized that the school's cheers had turned into a different sort of raucous excitement. Down on the pitch, the Weasley twins were now pummeling Draco into the wet grass. "An after-show," he reported back, reaching into his pocket to bring a handful of dried fruit to his mouth. "How quaint." If Hogwarts' students had told him that the match might end with a post-game brawl, he might've been a bit more excited about it.
Madam Hooch eventually caught on, swooping down to interrupt the fight with spells that separated the trio. A new round of shouting began – oh, these figs had a delightful texture – before a sharp gesture had the twins and Slytherin's Beater heading up to the castle, the rest of the players following at a sedate pace and with great distance between them. A flash of pink against the grass suddenly reminded Kronnis of a looming problem – Umbridge might not be able to take action against Harry, but the Weasley twins were fair game.
Pulling at the now tightly-shut doors of his partner's mind, he baulked at the devastation found within, the ebb and flow of pain feeling very much like the overextension of a muscle. Somehow, the Emperor's psionically-induced migraine had gotten worse in the past two minutes. Kronnis asked again. "Are you-"
Guilt, bright and festering. "I am fine," the Emperor insisted once more. The edges of his mind clawed their way into Kronnis'. "We need to go. Umbridge-"
Kronnis pulled back. "Can you even stand?"
Affirmative sentiment was pushed his way, and the Emperor's long legs tensed, muscle and tendon working together to bring a swaying body up and away from their wooden bench with a barely-audible telepathic moan. Tellingly, a clawed hand steadied itself on Kronnis' shoulder, and he knew that he would've found himself tucked into bed faster than he could blink, had their roles been reversed. "Let's go," he sighed.
It took them even longer to descend the steps than it had taken to ascend them, their progress slowed as Kronnis guided his ailing partner. An exercise in patience, he was left with plenty of time to dig through his subconsciousness, wondering how in the world the Emperor's earlier assurances of his health had seemed so convincing.
They certainly shouldn't have been – Kronnis was privy to the way neurons and synapses screamed on the other side of their connection, an exhaustion that reminded him of the way his partner had crumpled into the nearest bed once they'd left the Netherbrain's corpse to steam in the Chionthar and traversed the ruins of Baldur's Gate to return to the Elfsong for some well-deserved rest.
He'd been unconscious for half a tenday back then, leaving Kronnis to stew with worry. He wouldn't let that happen again.
Their state drew attention as they waded through crowds of returning students. "Headache," Kronnis answered when questioned, a boring half-truth. "Likely from the altitude." The Emperor would simply have to live with this blemish to his reputation.
Curious children shrugged and moved on, only to be replaced by others. By the time they reached the castle, the Emperor was barely in any state to realize that he was being dragged to their rooms, rather than wherever Umbridge might be.
"You're not going anywhere," Kronnis said once he'd closed their door and slapped a freshly-wet towel into defiantly-clawed hands.
The Emperor glared down at him, tentacles lank and his pallor fighting between a blood-drained mulberry and the pale flush of silver anger. "I must-"
"Must what? Stumble through the corridors like a drunken spider?" Soothing darkness enveloped the room as Kronnis yanked the curtains shut. Plagued by a constant need for control, the Emperor's desire to remain involved in today's drama wasn't surprising.
Kronnis had never minded this tendency – his partner's commentary had been welcome as he and his companions fumbled their way through Baldurian plots and ploys, searching the city's sewers for Bhaalists and its streets for Baneists. And in the following years he'd grown fond of their secretive conversations, a psionic connection allowing him to share political gossip from rooms away, whilst the Emperor complained about the incompetence of merchants and bookkeeps.
Losing this control galled the Emperor, though. A creature of confidence and self-assured strength, he was sometimes a bit full of himself, and possessed a mind more fragile than most would guess. A mind that wasn't currently in any state to wield their web of deception. "I understand that you're devastated to miss a conversation with Umbridge," Kronnis continued, "but I think I'd better go run damage control on my own."
"I could twist her mind and-"
"-and then collapse onto the floor?" Kronnis rolled his eyes and pointed at the towel. "Put that on your head. Cold helps the pain, Shadowheart always said."
An unimpressed purple gaze followed his finger. "I recall that her spells did most of the work."
"Healing isn't my expertise, unfortunately. And I don't think we have any potions that can fix maladies of the brain, but you're welcome to try a couple. Now stop worrying and go lie down. You can trust me to take care of this."
The ajar door of Minerva's classroom was a good hint as to Umbridge's location, and the raised voices drifting out into the corridor all but confirmed Kronnis' hunch. Slowing from a rushed walk, he smoothed his hair and poked his head through the gap, and then wondered absently if he might witness a second fight this day.
Inside, the two witches were standing on either side of a desk, its wooden surface and a few strings of patience the only things separating them. Fred and George looked nearly forgotten in the background, their faces splotched with anger and their eyes bouncing back and forth as their fate was decided.
"-deserve more than that, I should think," the High Inquisitor was in the midst of saying, her words shrill and sadistic. "Detention just doesn't seem to drive the message home anymore."
"They are in my House, Dolores," Minerva snapped in response, spitting out Umbridge's name as though it were a curse.
She didn't seem to notice, simpering on. "You're familiar with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five, correct?"
Taking careful steps into the room while they were distracted, Kronnis scooted along its walls. Only the twins noticed, one elbowing the other.
"I am," Minerva confirmed with a narrowing of her eyes.
"Of course, how silly of me." A giggle cut through Umbridge's words, involuntary and unhinged. She rattled off an explanation anyway. "Then I needn't remind you that as High Inquisitor I can exercise supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges, including the alteration of said punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges?"
Inhaling deeply, Minerva's eyes closed for a long time before she responded. "No."
Kronnis prepared himself to intervene, should Umbridge prescribe expulsion or a nail-pulling session with Filch. Molly would be aghast.
"Then, I think, rather than detention, I'll ban them from ever playing Quidditch again!"
Oh. Well, that was rather anticlimactic. Harsh, for a simple brawl, and she'd all but neutered Gryffindor's Quidditch team, but Kronnis had been expecting something a little… more. Back when he'd been in school it would've been the lash, or a locking in an isolated room, where meals consisted of slop and the bed was a discarded and threadbare tablecloth.
"I mean, attacking a classmate unprovoked! A lifetime ban should suffice," Umbridge continued, nodding to herself and evidently satisfied by her stroke of genius. "And I'll need to confiscate their brooms to make sure that there's no infringement."
The twins' protests started immediately – somehow, this was a punishment worse than detention.
"A ban!"
"-how is that fair?"
"-can't take our-"
"-you shoulda heard-"
Kronnis used their voices to disguise the sound of his footfalls. "A lifetime?" he then interjected, once he'd reached the edge of their conversational circle. "Is that enforceable once they graduate?"
"Oh," Umbridge huffed, doing a strange little jump as she turned to face him. "No. Its- I mean, it's a ban on playing Quidditch at Hogwarts," she explained, suddenly lacking the nasty tone to her voice. "Dreadful tempers, these two. Violence like that simply doesn't belong here."
"Ah, I see." Kronnis smiled. "I assume that Slytherin boy will be receiving the same, then?"
"Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, incredulous. "Why, the poor boy's in the hospital wing!"
"No, no. The one that hit Potter – that was Harry Potter, wasn't it? – with the, ah, the Bludger?"
She stared. "I… I don't think…"
Knitting eyebrows together, Kronnis put on the most convincing facade of confusion that he could muster. "They broke the same rules, didn't they? Attacking a classmate unprovoked?" Feigning sudden epiphany, his facial features then opened in realization, and he chuckled. "Oh, I'm sorry. The word unprovoked," he said, speaking in perfect English, "does it not mean 'an occurrence without justification'? I might've made a translation error."
"No, that's correct," Minerva chimed in.
"Thank you." He offered her a nod before turning back to Umbridge. "Quidditch is a violent game, I'd thought, like that muggle sport of feetball, but you're right that there are limits, especially at a school." Fred and George gaped at him. "Let's talk to that other boy next. Potter might be a bit addled in the brain, but that's hardly a reason to attack him after the game's ended."
"Right." Umbridge rounded on the twins. "I expect your brooms in my office tomorrow," she told them. "No later than five o'clock."
It took George a second before he mumbled his agreement, Fred following suit soon after. That was enough to satisfy her, as she then turned on her heel and marched out, with Kronnis right behind.
"Snape should still be talking to his student" he said, conversationally and casually. As though it were normal for him to be involving himself in such matters. "I imagine he's getting quite the lecture."
Umbridge flashed an indulgent smile. "And he'll be receiving another one from me."
As it turned out, Snape's idea of punishment was a single evening's detention and an acerbically-worded warning to never, ever get caught making mischief again, phrased in a way that sounded suspiciously like he didn't care about what his student had done, only that he'd been stupid enough to do it within view of the entire school.
Sifting through the boy's dull mind, Kronnis found it amusing, the way horror bloomed from the soils of apathy. The High Inquisitor's sudden dispensing of strict justice was a shock to his system, her raiment appearing in the doorway like that of a vengeful angel, blinding in its saturation.
Snape looked rather annoyed by the loss of one of his own Quidditch players, but Kronnis thought it only fair. Now both teams had positions to fill, and Umbridge could report back to Fudge about how Baldur's Gate had supported her newfound authority.
Leaving the dungeons together, Kronnis gave her some moments to recover before he spoke – the ordeal of punishing Harry's assailant had taken its toll on her mind. "Rather exciting game, and a good show from both sides. I can see the appeal."
"If Mr. Potter hadn't caught the Snitch, it would've surely been Slytherin's victory."
Wasn't catching the Snitch his entire job? Umbridge would've been able to find fault in the most pristine rose. "Their Chasers were doing fantastic," he admitted, trying to steer the topic away from Harry before she made some disparaging remark that he'd have to pretend indifference to.
"They were, weren't they? Gryffindor could learn a thing or two."
"I thought they played well. Slytherin's Keeper was just more experienced, and I keep hearing how Mr. Weasley has big shoes to fill. Give him another match or two and I'm sure he'll perform better."
Umbridge nodded, turning to look at him. "And how's Baldurian Quidditch coming along?"
He tried to keep the confusion from his face. "What?"
"I heard that you were looking to set up a Quidditch team in Baldur's Gate," she explained. "The Minister was wondering if you'd be signing up for the next World Cup."
"Ah." Right, the lie he'd told at Gryffindor's practice. Umbridge was more in tune with Hogwarts' grapevine than he'd thought. "That'll be three years away, no?"
"Two summers from now, actually. Morocco is hosting the next one."
Kronnis put on a show of frowning. "I'm not sure if that's enough time to train up a team," he replied, pretending as though they'd actually given this consideration. "We've only just introduced brooms." And while Wyll's list of preorders was longer than his arm, the citizens of Baldur's Gate were far from being able to fly with any competency. Layla Whitburn had been incredibly relieved when he'd brought her apothecary a freshly-imported batch of Skele-Gro – bone regrowing services were suddenly in high demand.
Baldur's Gate truly was a merchant's paradise, he mused. Introduce the cheapest form of flight this side of the continent, and then sell a second product to fix its dangers!
"That's a shame" Umbridge said, turning to look at him, "but you'll be attending the next match, right? Ravenclaw is playing Hufflepuff, and-" She broke off, a confused look on her face. Like she'd suddenly realized something. "Where's the Emperor?"
"Hmm?" The reminder of his partner's absence was realized with a pang – Kronnis' thoughts on the illithid's home city just now would've been received fondly, no doubt. And had she simply assumed the Emperor's presence synonymous with his own? Whisper-quiet and purposeful in his movements, he would've blended in well with the backdrop, had he nothing to say, but that was still rather rude to have reduced him to Kronnis' shadow. "Oh, sudden-onset headache," he explained, downplaying the true severity of his partner's condition. "Very unfortunate. It's the weather, I think. We're not used to such drops in temperature, nor the altitude."
"I hope he's not sick," she said, face knitting into a concerned furrow. "The flu might be going around already, though it shouldn't have hit this early."
"He'll survive, given enough rest in a dark and quiet room."
This is again a chapter that I had to slice in half because I added too much. We're slowly gravitating towards a Plot in the other half, and then I'm excited for the next few after that!