Author's Notes:
We go to several different places, talk to several different people. Some, we bully a little bit. Some, we fantasize about murdering. One, we eat.
Content warning for drug use in the third section.
Beta read by Circade.
Reminder that the next one is also going to be posted in 3 weeks instead of 2, as I'm going on vacation.
It was nearing the end of September when Sirius' flaming head popped up in the Gryffindor common room's fireplace, apparently unconcerned with the fact that this wasn't the proper venue for a private conversation, and scaring Harry half to death. He'd been staring glumly into the fire as his friends argued about whether they should go to bed or finish an essay, and didn't much appreciate the sudden burst of sparks as glowing coals reformed into the grinning features of his godfather.
"I'm answering your letter!" Sirius said brightly, when asked why he was taking the risk of using Hogwarts' floo system to contact them. Honestly, Harry had almost forgotten that he'd even written Sirius a letter, distracted as he'd been by Umbridge's detentions and Angelina Johnson's constant scheduling of Quidditch tryouts and practices.
"That's all well and good, but what if Umbridge finds out?" Hermione insisted, voice lowered to a hiss even though every other Gryffindor had long since abandoned the common room.
Sirius scoffed, embers flying from his mouth. "What's she going to do, batter down the doors of Grimmauld Place?"
"No, but she can take it out on Harry," Hermione continued, "You've no idea what she's been up to-"
Harry interrupted her before she could tell Sirius about Umbridge's blood quill. "It's fine, I can handle another detention."
Oblivious to the tension between Hermione and Harry, Sirius continued right on. "I've heard from Remus that she's a right nasty piece of work. Drafted legislation against werewolves and merfolk, and I thought I heard something about centaurs as well…" he trailed off, trying to remember the details of whatever other rumors he'd heard.
His face grim, Harry recalled perfectly well how she'd disparaged previous Defense professors. "She called Lupin a dangerous half-breed."
"She won't even let us use spells in class!" Ron leaned forward, adding his own complaints. "Just has us read that stupid textbook."
"Ah, that'll be Fudge's influence." Sirius shook his head in the fire. "Word is that he thinks Dumbledore's building an army to take over the Ministry."
"An army?" Harry nearly shouted his response. Did the Minister seriously think that Dumbledore was going to send Hogwarts students to fight trained aurors? "That's what he's concerned about? What about the actual army that Voldemort is probably building as we speak!"
"He's paranoid, and blind to everything but the threat he's built up in his head." What little of Sirius' features Harry could make out were dour. "You-Know-Who still hasn't shown his face – if he had, I'd let you know immediately."
Hermione shifted in her seat. "So we're not learning magic because Fudge thinks we're going to use it against him." A round of annoyed agreement met her words. "We talked about this before," she ventured slowly, "and I've put some more thought into it. We should start a Defense club."
There was a pause before Ron snorted, breaking the silence. "Umbridge would shut it down immediately."
"Hermione, we talked about teaching ourselves Defense, not starting a club," Harry added. He didn't know where this idea had come from.
She looked affronted. "Of course I don't mean an official club, it'll be a secret!"
"A secret club," Harry echoed. "And who's going to teach it?"
"I was thinking you might."
Harry blinked. "Me?"
Ron nodded, as though it made perfect sense. "You've got the most experience of all of us. You killed a basilisk, fought off a hundred dementors – and you won the Triwizard Tournament!"
"That doesn't mean I can teach! And- and that was all luck, I didn't even know what I was doing half the time!"
Hermione's eyes glimmered. "But you still did it. You pulled it all off."
"But it was all- it was all luck," Harry protested weakly. What was he even supposed to teach, how to ride a broom to avoid a dragon? How to speak parseltongue to find a basilisk hiding in the school? How to… how to sit by and watch Voldemort kill your friend?
He'd barely kept up during the mock duel that Voldemort had forced him into – clearly a show put on for his followers. It was pure chance that their wands ended up having a strange interaction, allowing his escape.
Who could he even trust not to betray their Defense club to Umbridge? Kronnis and the Emperor had warned him that she'd already tried to have him killed once. If she found out… he didn't even want to think about it.
There was a beat of silence. Sirius' voice eventually startled him out of his thoughts. "I don't think it's a bad idea."
Harry turned to face him, expression demanding an explanation.
"Are you going to let Umbridge tell you what to do? Are you going to sit around until Voldemort comes after you? By then it'll be too late to learn to defend yourself," his godfather concluded, his words grave.
"What if she tries to get me expelled again?" Harry asked in a soft voice.
Sirius grinned. "What's a little risk? Worst case, you can come live with me, and I'll teach you Defense."
He sounded a little too eager about it, but it was nice to feel wanted. "I'll… I'll think about it," Harry promised.
Hermione smiled. "Thanks Harry."
"Don't thank me yet," he frowned, before turning back to Sirius. "Listen, I had something else to ask – what enchantments did you use on the map?"
"The map?" Sirius looked confused. "You'll have to be more specific – it took us years to finish that thing."
"The ones that show people's names. I found something strange, and was wondering if there's a problem."
"I didn't work on that part, not sure how much help I'll be," Sirius apologized. "It was James that added those charms to the map."
Harry's heart fluttered. "My dad did that?"
"Yeah," A warm smile graced Sirius' face, burnt wood crumbling away to reveal brightly glowing teeth. "I think the intent was to have the map key into what every individual personally considered their name to be. Though, originally, we used a charm that would just pick out whatever name was given to a person at birth – similar to the one Hogwarts uses to determine who gets their letters. Remus realized that it wouldn't update if people changed their names, like if they get married or something, so James had to throw the other one on top."
"By 'throw on top'," Hermione started, bringing their attentions to her, "Do you mean that the map was enchanted with the second charm before the first was removed?"
"Oh." Sirius blinked. "Yeah, I guess we never did remove the first one."
She clearly disapproved. "That's irresponsible, you had no idea what sort of effect conflicting charms might have. Professor Vector always says that proper calculations need to be made when you enchant things."
"Does it matter?" Ron asked, "I mean, the map hasn't blown up or anything. It's always worked just fine, right?"
"I suppose it doesn't matter now," Hermione admitted. "It'll be hard to tell if the new one managed to overwrite the old one, or… maybe they merged together?" Muttering about numerology, her attention drifted away to whatever Arithmancy had taught her.
This was beginning to sound complicated. Was the map being weird because the charms were showing the Emperor's previous name – perhaps his name given at birth – and also the one he had adopted? Or did he identify with both names?
Sirius interrupted them, a concerned frown on his face. "What's wrong with it anyway?"
"The Emperor has two different names," Harry said. "One on top of the other." Seeing the bewilderment on Sirius' face, he stood as his godfather opened his mouth to ask for further clarification. "Hang on, I'll grab it."
His short trip to the dorms ended up taking several minutes, reassuring Neville that they were only doing homework in the common room. When he rushed back down the stairs, Hermione was explaining how he'd met up with Kronnis and the Emperor several weeks ago.
"I'm glad they're looking out for you," Sirius said with a smile, watching him unfold the map.
The reminder hurt – even his godfather thought he needed extra protection. Harry narrowed his eyes. "You didn't have to ask them to do that."
"Me?" Sirius tried to look innocent.
"Kronnis told me."
It was Sirius' turn to narrow his eyes. He then exhaled a cloud of ashes, sighing. "Well, it's not like I asked him to keep it a secret. Anyway, show me what the map is doing."
Having found the Emperor in what he was certain must be their guest rooms – he'd never confirmed it with them – Harry obliged. "Here," he said, holding the map over the fire.
The embers heaved strangely as Sirius leaned forward. "I've never seen it do that before, what does it say underneath his name? It's hard to read through the fire."
"Balduran, apparently. I asked him. I think his explanation was that it was his name before he became what he is now."
"Became what he is?" Hermione echoed.
Harry turned and saw a perplexed look on her face. "That's what he said. Why?"
"It's just… the phrasing is strange," she said hesitantly. "He's usually very exact with his words."
"I guess…" Harry hadn't thought about it, being more concerned about Umbridge at the time. "What do you think?" He turned back to the fire, where Sirius' face was contorted in a strange expression, looking like he'd been sucking on a lemon.
"I think… this might be a bit personal, yeah? Maybe you should leave it alone," he said carefully, echoing the Emperor's earlier sentiments.
He knew something, clearly. Something Harry wasn't supposed to know.
But that didn't make any sense. Harry had been living at Grimmauld Place when their guests had arrived, just like Sirius. He already knew just about everything about Kronnis and the Emperor – what the illithid looked like under the mask, where they truly came from, and why they were here.
Except, he realized, whatever had been discussed behind closed doors. "Is this an Order thing?" he asked carefully, trying to swallow back old bitterness. "Like how you couldn't tell me what was going on while I was staying at the Dursley's?"
"It's… well. It's private. And don't ask him," Sirius added quickly, the idea somehow concerning, "he won't answer."
If it was so private, why did the Order have to know about it? "Alright," Harry yielded, face stiff and tone sharp. He could tell that he wasn't going to get any more answers out of Sirius. The Emperor had made his stance clear, and God forbid Dumbledore tell him anything. That only really left one other source.
Sirius then suddenly changed the topic. "Anyway, you should consider the Defense club thing – what Fudge doesn't know won't hurt him," he said, laughing.
"I said I'll think about it," Harry muttered.
"Right," the face in the fire nodded. "I should probably leave you to it. You know how to reach me if you have any other questions – even if it's just to ask how I'm doing. Or, if you want, we could meet up at Hogsmeade? I could come as Snuffles-"
Harry cut him off with a scowl. "You know that's too dangerous, if anyone sees…"
Disappointed, Sirius' expression drooped. "Yes, yes, it's a risk. Until next time, then," he said, the fire's embers dispersing to settle into a more natural configuration, no longer resembling a human head.
There was a beat of silence before Ron spoke up. "Anyone else think that was fishy?"
Humming, Harry nodded. "What do you think they're hiding?"
"Honestly," Hermione huffed. "I don't understand why you need to dig into their secrets."
"I'm just curious. You can't tell me that you aren't."
"I am," she admitted, "but that doesn't mean I have to ask everyone about their past."
"Being nosy is what stopped Quirrell in our first year," Ron said with a grin. "And helped us figure out that Slytherin's monster was a Basilisk, and helped us save Sirius."
Hermione looked exasperated. "Yes, I know. But this is completely unrelated to what we're dealing with this year!"
"Lupin being a werewolf ended up being important back in third year," Harry pointed out.
"I doubt this is anything like that," she sniffed. "And, hang on," pulling him back down when he made to stand, she continued, intent on keeping him for another round of discussion. "I want to properly plan out this Defense thing."
The Ministry's atrium was alarmingly bare. Crowds of dark-robed humans no longer congested the floor, and any lingering energy or evidence of habitation was sapped by the imposing black walls – a uniquely elegant design, Kronnis had to admit, but bleak to behold.
On weekends, the entire government seemingly ran on a skeleton crew. A mere handful of employees crossed their path – their minds plundered for the building's layout – as the Emperor led the way to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, footsteps echoing ominously off polished stone.
A young man jolted awake when the door was opened, previously dozing peacefully behind the receptionist's desk. He stammered an apology before composing himself. "Yes, appointment with Mr. Pertinger and Department Head Hawthorne, correct? Just down the hall at the end of the Being Division," he said, his hand gesturing to where the word 'Being' was embossed on a dark oak door in golden letters, situated opposite an identical door labelled 'Beast'. A third one behind the reception appeared to lead to some sort of Spirit Division.
This appointment had been arranged by Fudge, eager to familiarize them with the services offered by his government. To accommodate their constantly changing timetable, he'd, ahem, fudged the schedules of some department heads and senior officials who were apparently prone to working overtime anyway. It wasn't a big deal, really, he'd written in his letter.
The hall leading to Mr. Pertinger's office was long and branched off to several other sub-departments. Kronnis saw a section for House-Elf Relocation Services, an important-looking Goblin Liaison Office, and dusty signage in a corner that pointed down an ill-maintained hallway, supposedly where werewolves could find support. At the end of the main hall was a grand door, Pertinger's name printed on it in large letters.
When the Emperor rose a hand to knock, he was interrupted mid-motion, a faintly irritated and muffled voice yelling at them to come in.
The other side of the door housed a spacious room that was well-organized and bare of personal touches. Lining the walls were boring grey cabinets, and the desk was barely embellished. Behind it sat a wizard, his fingers rapping the end of a fountain pen against the wood under his hands. A nervous tic, perhaps. Or, Kronnis thought as he eyed the furrowed brows on the man's face – clean-shaven and with the close-cropped hair of a someone who did not have the time or inclination to style it – more likely it was a restless activity brought forth by annoyance.
"Please, have a seat." Waving carelessly to the chairs in front of his desk, Pertinger – presumably he was Pertinger, as the man did not introduce himself – picked up and tapped a bundle of papers to align them, preparing for… something. "Hawthorne will be joining us shortly – bit of an issue with a Bundimun infestation – but I can get us started so we don't lose any time."
"Yes, of course," Kronnis said, as though he knew what a Bundimun infestation was. Helpful whispering in his mind enlightened him to the fact that these were creatures that lived between the wooden spaces of buildings, secreting acids that would sooner or later result in a catastrophic collapse of foundations.
Armed with his pen – now held at the ready above carefully arranged sheets – Pertinger began rattling off questions, eyes focused on the paperwork below him. "I believe you made it clear that drow are a mixed race resulting from a combination of humans and… fey? Could you be more specific on that? Are you referring to house-elves, or some other manner of Being, perhaps Erklings or Red Caps?"
"Excuse me?" Kronnis' eyebrows rose in disbelief.
Impatience quickened the wizard's words. "Fey. What manner of Fey are you descended from?"
"Its… unknown. Our records post-descent are sporadic and didn't place much weight behind this aspect of genealogy."
The fountain pen filled in various lines, crossing out others. "Is there a wide variation in physical characteristics, or would you consider yourself an average example of a drow?"
This line of questioning was baffling, and not what Fudge had promised. "Average, I'd say. Are you sure this is necessary?"
Pertinger sighed. "You are half-breeds, are you not?"
Oh, not this nonsense again. Kronnis plastered a smile onto his face as he spat out his next words. "No, drow have been their own race for mi- centuries."
The first paper was ripped up, and a shuffling brought a different one forward. "Well, if you're not human or a half-breed, you must be a magical creature. It stands to reason that since you're able to communicate and appear to have the intelligence necessary to understand and abide by the laws of the magical community, that you then must be a Being. Are you following?"
Kronnis nodded, mouth pinched shut and fingers clenched on his knees.
Filling out some sections of the new page, Pertinger continued. "As the head of the Being Division, I must decide whether to open a new office for the denizens of Baldur's Gate. Disqualifiers include extreme aggressiveness or an appetite for human flesh – which would shift you into the Beast category. Alternatively, you could opt to voluntarily be classified as a Beast – centaurs and merfolk have done so in the past."
If Pertinger could feel the intent brewing in Kronnis' mind he'd surely kick them out of his office to speak with his counterpart in the Beast Division.
"I will also be needing a more precise explanation on illithids," Pertinger said, turning to the Emperor, whose appetite for human flesh definitely should've landed them in the Beast Division. "Are you aware of any close cousins or species above ground that you might be related to?"
This was a question that they had prepared an answer for, one that would never satisfy the curiosity of the masses. "No. I had actually hoped to solve several mysteries regarding the origins of my people by researching the denizens of the surface. Any information on this topic has unfortunately been rather difficult to come by." No such information existed of course, and the Emperor certainly wasn't wasting his time looking for it. If asked again, the answer would remain the same, the knowledge lost to time. A tragedy, really.
More lines were struck through with an irritated pen stroke, this time on a different set of papers. "Could you manage a detailed description of your physical characteristics for our records? Either verbal, or, if you would be so kind as to remove your…" Pertinger trailed off and gestured vaguely and distastefully to the Emperor's upper half, "then I could write the description myself, which would be quicker."
The Emperor did not respond, the perpetual whirling of illithid thought screeching to a halt at the casual request for him to strip in this man's office. The gall.
Kronnis was seconds away from lunging over the desk to tear through muscle and tendon. To feel the nerve-tingling flow of electricity run through his fingertips as he wrung Pertinger's neck and cooked flesh until it crumbled and turned to ash, allowing him to present his trophy to the higher being the wizard had so casually insulted. The opening of a door behind him forced a blink of his eyes, sharply interrupting his fantasy.
"Oh, Pertinger, I didn't know you'd already started." A grey-haired woman walked into the room, tearing their eyes away from a man who was blissfully unaware of how close he'd just come to a horrible death. "Clara Hawthorne, head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," she introduced herself, her warm handshake a drastic contrast from Pertinger's manners.
An additional chair was summoned with an impressive use of magic, and she sat at the end of the desk, bridging the gap between the Emperor and Pertinger. "My apologies, the after-hours crew had some difficulties with an emergency call regarding a Bundimun infestation and–" Hawthorne broke off, spotting the half-filled out paperwork on the desk. "Pertinger, I don't think we'll be needing that," she said with a dismissive chuckle, the sound just as strained and fake as the smile that had reformed on Kronnis' face. The Emperor's was still dangerously blank, sunken eyes fixed on the head of the wizard in front of him.
Kronnis nudged his partner's mind while Pertinger tried to defend the need to properly classify every member of society. "You have my blessing to get him sacked."
"Too obvious. We cannot appear to be meddling with Ministry personnel – doing so might invite the suspicion that we are here to spy."
The half-filled out paperwork was discarded. Apparently, the line of questioning they'd just suffered through had not been sanctioned by Department Head Hawthorne. Pertinger was just a tad overzealous in performing his job. Hawthorne looked distinctly uncomfortable as she began the meeting in earnest, distracted by the realization that her subordinate had just spent the better half of the past ten minutes insulting Fudge's very important guests.
"My department is divided into three divisions," she explained, handing out some very convenient pamphlets, "each responsible for one of the three classifications of magical creatures – Beings, Beasts, or Spirits. We liaise with creatures that can be reasoned with and step in when the average witch or wizard encounters a problem that they aren't equipped to handle."
Pertinger had already clarified some details regarding the Being Division – just about the only productive input he'd given so far – so she skipped straight to the creatures of the Spirit Division.
Phantoms, ghosts, and apparitions. Banshees and boggarts. Gytrashs and caiporas. Anything spectral in nature that wasn't technically alive fell into this category. A taskforce for the management of dementors worked in conjunction with the Aurors guarding Azkaban. Specialized negotiators, disguised as ghost hunters, exorcists, and mediums, were sent around the country to deal with spirits that had made themselves at home in the muggle world. Hogwarts had the highest concentration of ghosts anywhere in Britain, Kronnis learned. An impressive population of thirty-four, as per the latest Spiritly Demographics Census.
Personally, he might pick somewhere more exciting to haunt, like the deep depths of the Lowerdark – supposedly the end point of every pit that littered the outskirts of Menzoberranzan. These were particularly favored by parents and caregivers, serving to inspire countless stories of monsters and beasts who would love nothing more than to tear young drow limb from limb or eat them alive, sometimes both at the same time. These stories were also threats, and unruly children often found themselves dragged to one's edge and told in no-nonsense terms to either start behaving or start falling.
He'd learned early enough that this threat was a farce, and knew better than to picture a savage demise at the hands of fantastically horrifying monsters. Not that these beasts didn't exist – they certainly did, and they'd certainly eat any bodies that ended up on the bottoms of the pits – but it was the fall that killed.
It started with terrified screaming, usually. Followed seconds later by a sharp crack and a sharper screech. Then another brutal thunk further down. The echoes that reverberated back to bystanders above very quickly wettened, painful howling becoming a gurgle as impacts with outcroppings of rock battered and shattered bodies all the way down, death being a mercy after the first mile or two. If one was lucky enough to end up in a larger pit with smooth, water-worn walls, they could expect their demise to come as a very sudden splat at the end of a long and uninterrupted fall, their physical suffering lasting only a split second.
The point here was that if he suddenly found himself an impervious spirit with nothing better to do, that he'd then go seek out the few places he'd dared not step foot in while he'd still had a life to lose. He could even go tour Oryndoll! Wouldn't that be a sight to see – a proper illithid colony, with creeds and… well, he didn't really know what else normal colonies had. Would their walls be carved of elegant stone, or crafted from repulsive flesh as Moonrise had been?
This was all purely, completely, and utterly hypothetical, Kronnis assured the increasingly unnerved mind of the Emperor, who hadn't appreciated any of these trains of thought and was vehemently against ever visiting another illithid colony. It wasn't like he was planning on dying just so he could explore dangerous places as a ghost! That was a little too permanent, and he was pretty sure that becoming a ghost was exclusively a wizarding thing, anyway.
Outside of their minds, Hawthorne had moved on the Beast Division. It lay claim to the vast majority of magical creatures, and was correspondingly the largest of the three. They had a Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, a Pest Advisory Board, a Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, and more, the list taking up an entire page of the pamphlet. Licenses had to be issued for the ownership of certain creatures, and inspections were performed on those who owned high-risk species close to muggle settlements.
In fact, half of the entire purpose of Hawthorne's department was to take swift action, should the activities of magical creatures threaten to break the Statute of Secrecy. An important responsibility that was reflected in its size – staffing nearly as many wizards and witches as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which was the biggest in the Ministry.
There also existed a fourth branch, unrelated to the Being, Beast, or Spirit Divisions. The Office of Misinformation was responsible for extreme cases of 'magical-muggle collisions' where a simple explanation of 'You thought you saw a centaur on the side of the road, but really it was just a deformed horse! …and weird swamp gas fumes' just wouldn't cut it. Cooperation with the muggle Prime Minister provided official explanations for accidental dragon sightings and giant massacres. And if that didn't work, gratuitous use of memory charms would be authorized.
"-as you can imagine," Hawthorne concluded with a chuckle, "managing the population of every magical creature in the British Isles is more than a full-time job."
"Baldur's Gate will be expected to create a similar task force, then?" the Emperor asked, guessing at the underlying politics of this meeting. "The entrance to the Underdark has always been carefully sealed off, but anticipated exchanges of goods and people will create opportunities for the mismanagement of magical creatures."
Hawthorne nodded. "Minister Fudge asked me to guide you through the process once you're ready."
"We will bring this to the dukes for immediate consideration, but it will almost certainly be another year, perhaps even two, before the legislation to even open our borders reaches their table." Falsely sincere, the Emperor kicked another issue down the road, never to be addressed again.
Pertinger chimed in with some additional wisdom. "You should warn your population against mingling with muggles. I've handled countless cases of house-elves wandering around in muggle London – usually when some wizard sends them off to pick up groceries – and it's a nightmare each time." The look of exasperation on his face was quite real. "Without some sort of illusion, you'll never appear human enough to avoid scrutiny."
"We'll be sure to pass that along," Kronnis said diplomatically, echoing the Emperor's previous tone.
Discussion then shifted back to magical creatures, Hawthorne curiously asking about the livestock and pets of the Underdark. They'd brushed the topic off during discussions with Lucius, but she was an expert, and expected an answer. Giving Kronnis time to do some quick thinking on creatures that would be easy to source from drow settlements, should a request ever be made, the Emperor headed a scientific debate on selective breeding practices that led to the first creature to pop into their heads – deep rothé.
These were a magical subspecies of musk-oxen, the Emperor claimed, brought underground to serve as the primary source of animal labor and an occasional delicacy. Kronnis then brought up cavvekans, dog-like creatures that deep gnomes often kept as pets, though he himself had always found their faces unsettling. These now roamed the city to keep it pest-free; a working animal, of sorts.
Next, spitting crawlers filled a niche similar to cats or kneazles – a valued familiar often associated with wizards. These creatures had scales instead of fur, though, and were armed with the deadly ability to spit an acid strong enough to dissolve metal.
They voiced a hypothesis invented on the spot; were the Underdark's sword spiders possibly distant cousins of Acromantula? The subject then turned to other cave-dwelling arthropods – blind crickets the size of a dinner plate, giant centipedes with a venom so potent that they commonly preyed on the previously mentioned cavvekans, and a veritable feast of colorless crustaceans and amphipods that entomiculturists farmed in the shallow pools lining the Chionthar.
The Emperor had to tack that last part on, as Kronnis had gotten lost in his memories and nearly implied these to be trade goods, originating from settlements with more substantial bodies of water.
Back in Menzoberranzan, endless barrels of many-legged invertebrates made their way into the city each year, preserved for the long and dangerous journeys through the Underdark and sold in the bazaar next to slaves and poisons. Vendors peddled anything from pickled phantom prawns to salt-encrusted glimmerfin side-swimmers, exchanging plates for handfuls of copper.
Noble Houses could afford to indulge in creatures still breathing, to be eaten at their freshest – live. In the Teken'rret estates, cooks harvested roe from the undersides of alabaster crabs, serving the animal itself for dinner and then preparing their spawn with sawgill caps and strips of rubbery bloodworm for a chewy and tender dessert. The pop of eggs between teeth was a dearly missed pleasure.
Rudely interrupting another of Kronnis' fantasies, Hawthorne provided insight into the classification of magical creatures. Intriguingly, Acromantula were actually considered extremely deadly, holding the same quintuple 'X' rating as dragons and basilisks. The giant spiders that had nearly bested him – Lolth's revenge for his abandonment of her people, no doubt – were apparently intelligent enough to speak!
This did, however, raise some questions – wasn't it just a few years ago that the Ministry almost shut Hogwarts down, when a basilisk petrified some students? And yet no one seemed to care about the Acromantula colony right next door? Maybe he should ask for a paycheck, since he was 'managing dangerous populations' in Hawthorne's stead.
He thought better of it after a second, afraid that the convenient source of entertainment might be stolen from him if he drew attention to the issue. The conversation had passed, anyway, and the meeting was wrapping up.
Five pamphlets rested in Kronnis' pockets when they finally left, and if he hadn't been eagerly waiting for Grubbly-Plank to teach the fourth-years about the gigantic tentacled monster he thought he'd seen in the Black Lake, he would have suggested skipping ahead another year or two.
The next day, they met a duo of witches by the Hogwarts wards. Nervous body language had raised suspicions, and a probe of their minds revealed some… less than legal intentions. The Emperor was just barely impressed enough by the boldness of their endeavor to play along for a bit and listen to their pitch, resulting in their current position – crowded into a small brick basement on the outskirts of some place called Bristol.
"This is Dragontail," Laurel said, unpacking a tin of crushed herbs. Her name was fake – the two witches were sisters, and had taken the sensible precaution of lying about identifying information. "It lasts about an hour. Starts off slow but then hits hard enough that the user tends to collapse – we make sure that every package comes with instructions to relax on a sofa." Her finger tapped the relevant directions on the tin of magical hallucinogens. "People usually describe it as an out of body experience, floating away until they suddenly shoot up into the sky and soar above the landscape. Like a dragon," she finished with a sly smile.
"And you think it a good idea to sell this to people living in an underground city?" the Emperor demanded, voice heavy with skepticism.
Laurel faltered. "That's not literal! Your body doesn't actually move, it's just a vision. And this isn't our only product," she said as her sister, introduced as Jettie, rummaged around in the boxes pressed into a corner of the room before bringing forth a different package. Opening the box revealed a set of thin vials, filled with a yellow-green liquid.
"Cat's Gloom is a stimulant," Jettie began as she carefully held one up to the flickering lightbulb illuminating the room. "A few drops in the eye sharpens vision and reflexes far beyond natural human limits."
Tempting. Kronnis had guzzled his fair share of performance-enhancing potions in the past. "And the side effects?" he asked.
"The skin around the eyes becomes mildly irritated and itchy."
Humming noncommittally, he waited for one of them to bring up their next 'pharmaceutical'.
Laurel and Jettie's initial letter had claimed an interest in expanding their business of herbal preparations and magical remedies. This had sounded like a promising alternative to Nott's medical firm, and the letter had even contained a proper cost analysis of the business's current income and research expenses – something most other offers finding their way into the Emperor's claws had lacked.
This whole excursion was actually rather fun. The sisters had been gracious enough to quickly clear up the truth of their operation, very nervously explaining that their business was producing illegal substances – but the Ministry didn't care enough to actually enforce these laws, really! They were too busy running a misinformation campaign against the headmaster of Hogwarts and the boy-who-lived, Jettie had muttered with an eye roll. The fact that the Ministry was also very busy sucking up to their new political allies was apparently not enough of a deterrent for the witches, and they'd decided to try their luck with Baldur's Gate regardless, perhaps hoping for a friendlier market.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as the saying went, and Kronnis respected initiative. The Emperor had made a play for his hand, after all, winning it with refreshing honesty and an intimate melding of minds – and look at where they were now, negotiating drug deals in a skeevy basement! Hmmm… maybe not the best comparison.
Anyway, it didn't look like the sisters had actually expected to make it this far into the meeting. Stumbling her way through a presentation of goods, Laurel seemed ready to apparate out at a moment's notice, and Jettie's mind was edged with a sickening apprehension, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Emperor's intimidatingly curt responses and perfect poker face – Kronnis should invest in a mask for his next political negotiation – were purposely unsettling.
Four different powders, syrups, herbs, and tablets later, he finally put a stop to it, his words bait for the information he hoped to fish out. "What makes you think that we would even entertain this partnership?"
Laurel shifted uncomfortably. "We- ah, we got a tip from an acquaintance that you might be willing to at least hear us out."
Oh? Now, while she was thinking about it, sharp fingers pressed into her mind and – got it. Mundungus Fletcher? That shifty criminal. He'd been smart about it, at least, only mentioning that the delegates of Baldur's Gate would be looking into a wide variety of trade goods, advising the sisters to try their luck.
The Emperor had mentioned this to the Order, but Kronnis had honestly thought the detail forgotten by now. The looming threat of a second war had been priority number one in the meeting they'd attended, extraplanar assistance secondary, and then reimbursement for said assistance somewhere closer to fourth or fifth in line, behind the protections Dumbledore was organizing to keep some prophecy out of Voldemort's hands.
No tangible compensation had actually been demanded, Kronnis only requesting an education in the magic wizards used – know thy enemy, and all that – and the Emperor mentioning a vested interest in jumpstarting commerce and trade between both worlds. These desires were more complicated than a straightforward payment of gold, but not something the Order would need to directly supply or sacrifice. Dumbledore had immediately suggested Kronnis and the Emperor stay at Hogwarts, after all, where they could simply attend lessons that would continue on with or without their presences. No skin off his back.
Most of the Order members had stared blankly as the Emperor explained his desire, monologuing about import logistics and invigorating the economy, but it seemed that Mundungus had taken all this to heart and plotted a way to personally benefit – demanding a cut of the sisters' profit if they managed to score a deal.
Kronnis could tell that the Emperor wanted to decline on principle, irritated that Mundungus had tried to manipulate him into a business arrangement and unwilling to allow anyone else even a sliver of control in this transaction. Cold, hard logic won out in the end – why toss out a perfectly good enterprise?
Private conversation filled Kronnis' head as he pretended to contemplate the tablets still held in Laurel's hand, while a long and unnatural silence further frayed the peace of the air and the nerves of their potential business partners.
"Nine-Fingers will hesitate," the Emperor started. "Not being allowed control of the source would loosen her hold on the market."
Scoffing, Kronnis replied. "You say that like it's a bad thing. Haven't you been trying to weaken her position?"
"I have, but through subtler means." His mind ran through plots as he said this, searching for anything that might conflict. There were a lot of secretive meetings with Ravengard, advising on changes in guard patrols and pulling strings so construction projects just so happened to fall dangerously close to smuggling routes.
"I can't peddle it myself, showing up as a competitor would have her seeing red and a dagger in my back. What if I just present it as a gift? We supply it, she sells it and gets a big fat cut. It should be cheap to import, anyway. And if she doesn't want to cooperate, we'll threaten to take our business elsewhere. Gale keeps saying that Waterdeep is nice this time of year." And close enough that its black market competed with that of Baldur's Gate.
The Emperor's agreement approved this plan, but one dilemma remained. "We will need a guarantee that these products actually work as advertised."
"Well, I'm not testing it."
A mental caress and foreboding glee washed away his concerns. "I have just the idea."
Slight movement of the Emperor's head drew two pairs of eyes to meet his, the sisters' attention captured for a statement that would break the silence. "I am afraid that at this stage we cannot, in good conscience, agree to any sort of business arrangement."
Jettie looked stricken, as though she'd started to truly believe that things were going her way. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." She looked at Laurel, whose fingers were curling around a wand. "We'll, uh- you won't report us to the aurors, right?"
Large hands rose in the air. The gesture was one of peaceful mediation, but the sharp nails of a predator glinted in the flickering light. "That is not what I meant. We require proof of their safety and effects."
"Oh, you want to sample something?" Jettie misunderstood, relief obvious as she eagerly nudged Laurel to where the other examples had been stowed away.
The Emperor laughed, his enjoyment of the sport he'd made of this dialogue clear in his mind. "You expect us to try these ourselves? No, you will sample them." He nodded to where Laurel now stood before a collection of vials, packages, and plastic containers.
Exchanging looks, the sisters appeared to have their own brief conversation. "Alright," Laurel agreed, shrugging and reaching for a previously mentioned powder that had been described as a potent mental stimulant, something that wouldn't severely hinder decision-making and reaction time.
A claw interrupted her movements, pointing instead at the tin of herbs that would leave her deliriously consigned to one of the ratty old chairs in the corner of the basement. "Not that one. Dragontail." Said with relish, the Emperor's command was infused with an authority that offered no room for argument.
Laurel now hesitated, briefly staring into purple eyes as if hoping to reveal a sick joke being played on her. There was one hidden somewhere in the Emperor's mind, but not for the groups amusement. No, this was an illithid game of manipulation. A power play that he was savoring like a fine vintage, his satisfaction growing with each conflicted emotion that passed through the sisters' heads. There was no solace to be found in the Emperor's face – inscrutable and alien as he loomed a foot above all other occupants of the room.
Long moments passed before she opened the tin, fingers moving as though a wand were held to her head. Bold as the sisters were to have even considered coming to them with this proposal, it seemed that did not extend to disobeying the Emperor.
As much as this was a fun little bit of coercion, it also served a purpose. Did the sisters trust their own product enough to personally use it? The answer looked promising, as Laurel gingerly scraped out a dose to wrap in a paper cylinder.
Exotic scents wafted through the air once they relocated their circle to more comfortable seating. Jettie, watching her sister's hazy eyes with concern, was now the only lucid business partner left to negotiate terms with.
Unwilling to ruin the Emperor's fun, Kronnis let his partner continue the dialogue, reveling in the second-hand power he was able to snap up from the illithid's mind like shredded meat falling from the jaws of a shark.
"How much do you normally sell your products for?" the Emperor began, reclined casually in the largest chair available.
Jettie looked away from her sister. "A couple Galleons? Dragontail is actually one of the cheaper ones. We keep the exact blend a secret but the herbs are easily grown and ground at home. Chrono costs the most because it's got a long distillation process. We usually charge five galleons for twenty grams." That had been the powder Laurel first intended to take.
"We will have to speak with our associates. If they are amenable to the arrangement, we would be willing to pay double – provided that no undisclosed side effects crop up."
Her eyebrows rose in shock, clearly having expected harsher demands. "Double?"
"Yes."
"That… seems a bit generous," she ventured, newly narrowed eyes suspecting some sort of catch.
"I find it better to treat business partners fairly. We both have much to gain from this, and it would be… most unfortunate for our working relationship to fall apart due to petty squabbles over income." The Emperor let his words sink in before continuing with a clearer threat. "You will find my generosity quickly and permanently revoked, however, should any knowledge of our involvement in your business reach a fifth set of ears. Baldur's Gate may not have laws against the recreational use of drugs," it was the act of smuggling them with the intention of evading taxes that the dukes took offense to, "but your Ministry does, and I could easily arrange a meeting between Fudge and yourself."
The light in Laurel's eyes seemed miles away, but even she appeared to have picked up on the Emperor's candor.
Seconds ticked by. Jettie took her time to respond while they sat in leisurely silence, numbers crunched and risks accounted for. The math was in her favor – theirs as well – but it took her a while to be sure of her answer. "These are your terms?"
"Oh, no," the Emperor said with bureaucratic glee, as Kronnis reached into his formal jacket to retrieve a folded bundle of papers. "These are our terms."
The documents – sheets intended to assist in operating cost breakdowns and expenditure calculations – took so long to go over that Laurel was able to make some contributions, returning to earth to ask clever questions about terms of exchange and the effects of market pressure on fees and prices.
It was already far past lunch when Kronnis finally teleported them back to Hogwarts, leaving the sisters with a friendly "you'll be hearing from us".
A parting glimpse into their minds had revealed some entertaining emotions – fear nibbled away at the edges of ecstatic victory, the Emperor's deal imagined as a Faustian contract without escape. Ridiculous, as he hadn't even made the sisters sign any papers – not that such a thing would ever hold up in a court of law, giving the nature of the enterprise.
The price that had been offered was as much friendly generosity between business partners as it was the Emperor simply buying them off. No wizard would be able to compete, should a conflict of interest ever arise. Assuming that Lucius' exchange rate was accurate, they could expect to make back double what they were paying the witches, even with the cut Nine-Fingers would argue for.
There wasn't much to lose, really. And if the sisters decided to talk, well, they had their names and faces. Their real names too, Emilia and Mable Chalks. It shouldn't prove too difficult to hunt them down.
That Monday, Snape's class covered the completion of the half-finished Strengthening Solution they'd previously bottled under Draco's supervision.
Pearl dust, preserved grindylow brains, and rose oil were mashed together with mortar and pestle. Resisting the strange urge to lick his fingers once finished – no doubt one of the horrible mistakes Snape spent most of his time warning students against – Kronnis wrapped the resulting paste in a thin cloth and carefully squeezed it until he'd separated out a thimbleful of liquid.
A few other ingredients were tossed in and mixed under Draco's supervision. By the end of the lesson their group was the first to complete their potion, perfect timing achieved thanks to the presence of an additional two pairs of hands. The finished product was the same teal shade they'd started with, but Kronnis had personally witnessed it turn olive, tan, ultramarine, transparent, and then mauve, before the final ingredient had brought it back to the exact shade the textbook showed in its pages.
When Tuesday rolled around, the Emperor eagerly whisked them back to his beloved city, driven by hunger and concern for his mercantile operations. This time, a neat stack of paper awaited them.
Wyll had left a note on top, apparently taking the day off to cheer Karlach on as she wiped the floor with her competition in the Baldurian Brawl, an annual wrestling tournament. All their documents were color-coded, and the first three pages held a summary of the most important developments they'd missed. Raised by the Marshal of the Flaming Fist, Wyll had clearly learned a thing or two about writing reports.
No new murders had been committed – none worth mentioning, at least. Parliament had ruled in their favour on the Bonecap import tariffs, and Gale had written a reply!
"He says he's excited to hear from us," Kronnis summarized as he read it. "Something about wanting you to come demonstrate illusions for his class sometime… something else concerning resonance stones?" The Emperor muttered a few words about wizards and their insatiable curiosity.
"He agreed with what I wrote him about that thing in Harry's head. 'Advanced necromancy' he writes." They'd already deduced as much themselves. Hang on, this next part was interesting. "Oh, he actually found a really similar spell in Blackstaff's libraries, something that lets you trap a soul in a silver cage. It has to be captured from a dying humanoid though," he said as he read on, "and it's the whole soul, nothing about splitting a soul up into separate parts. It also doesn't last very long and it's meant to exploit the soul in several ways, so actually it sounds completely different – Voldemort would never let people exploit his soul."
Kronnis folded up the letter, pocketing it. He hadn't expected any major breakthroughs, but it was still disappointing that no miracle cure had presented itself. "Well, he said he'd keep looking. And that he wants to come visit sometime, not sure how that's going to work." Gale was a full-time professor now, after all, with all the responsibilities and commitments that came with such a job. And as attractive as the prospect of setting his friend loose on the Hogwarts library in his stead was, Kronnis was loath to explain the sudden addition of a third delegate to their current party of two.
Skimming the reports while Kronnis wrote Gale a response, the Emperor found nothing that needed their immediate personal presence. Appeals to lower interest rates would need to first be analyzed, requests for funding assessed to determine profit margins, and information on the latest drama to stir the patriar population made for light reading.
The topmost of these told the story of Lorenzo Eomane, whose trade vessel had mysteriously found itself decked keel to mast in barnacles, and whose accusing rant had fingered one of Umberlee's waveservants as the culprit. When asked for evidence or reasoning for this claim, he'd just turned red, shouting that it wasn't anyone's business, but that he was sure 'those witches' were responsible. The temple itself had no comment to make.
They could collect the stack of reports on their way back to Hogwarts to deal with at a later date, trading them for the instructions and various missives they'd prepared to address the previous ones. Right now, something of much greater import awaited them in their private rooms.
"How much?" the Emperor asked, fingers reaching for a damp hole.
"Two… maybe three?" Kronnis' eager eyes watched their progress.
The fingers hesitated, curling in on themselves. "Is that not a bit excessive?"
That miserly bastard. "You gave me the task of doing the math. A Firebolt will be about five hundred galleons – add in another dozen brooms and you're looking at three to four thousand altogether. Winter coats and wardrobes could be another two thousand, and those are only the expenditures we're certain of! Best to overshoot and estimate ten thousand galleons, just to be sure, and then grab double. Unless you want to come back here every time we need another handful of money?"
"I suppose…" sounding unhappy, the Emperor reluctantly pressed his finger fully into the tiny crevasse concealed behind a portrait of Kronnis, its hidden button activating the mechanism that pulled aside a wooden wall to reveal a heap of glimmering gold. The frame of the painting – an Oskar Fevras original – was then allowed to swing back into place.
"You really should sort this into easier to count piles," Kronnis complained from where he'd settled on his knees, carefully scraping away at the base of the seventh largest estate of Baldur's Gate – a gleaming mound of gold, bearing a suspiciously humanoid-shaped indent. Coins plinked one by one into a large sack. "It would certainly help expedite things," he added, eyeing tentacles that coiled with impatient enthusiasm.
In the deepest recesses of his mind, he dared a comparison. Like cat fed twice daily, the clockwork of a rooster's crow and evening church bells heralding easy meals, the Emperor was spoiled. He knew when it was time to slink off, to imperiously face the Grand Duke and expect a reward for good behavior, payment for services rendered, a city saved, and gristly murders uncommitted. Ulder Ravengard had to manage monsters, lest they manage him.
Elves and orcs. Tieflings and halflings. Prisoners of all shapes and sizes sat behind iron bars, swearing and shouting whenever they saw a hint of life in the dank dungeons beneath Wyrm's Rock. A bi-weekly occurrence for the Emperor. Perhaps bi-monthly for Kronnis, depending on what business needed his attention.
Ulder Ravengard brought them to cell five, affectionately nicknamed 'the only one that sometimes sees sunlight'. It housed a grungy looking half-elf, hair lank and body clothed in prison rags.
"Tylyra Greenhand, found guilty of four thousand and seventy-three counts of theft from Guthmere Manor, sentence rounded down to either life imprisonment, or one thousand and eighteen years," the Grand Duke recited, unlocking the cell door with a ringing clank.
Blue eyes burned with anger from where the half-elf sat in the dark. "You know that's bullshit, they counted every single thing I stole as a separate charge! I should only be in here for three months – at most!"
Ravengard ignored the prisoner's agitated complaints, walking away on stiff legs without another word, as though a cowardly retreat would preserve the steadfast morals he tried to adhere to. He never stayed to watch the results of his ethical concessions.
Hope bloomed under the filth dirtying the half-elf's face, and she scrambled up. "Hey, wait a second, aren't you Kronnis?" she asked, eyes wide. "The Hero of Baldur's Gate? I swear I didn't know that box would have so much shit in it! You've gotta tell 'em!"
"I'll get right on that," Kronnis dismissed, making way for the Emperor – illusioned as a helmeted Fist officer – to step into the cell. He recognized that this was cruel, but she would otherwise spend the rest of her life confined to this cell, a century of torment. Kronnis wasn't about to start a feud with the Guthmere's just to get her released – they'd obviously pulled some strings to make an example of petty thievery.
Honestly, the Emperor was doing the city a favor here. Imagine the tax dollars spent upholding this sentence!
The half-elf's expression twisted into confusion. "Who the fuck-" was uttered before the illusion dropped, leaving a mind flayer in its place. Shrill screaming was quickly silenced, leaving only an abrupt squeal to echo through stone walls.
Glowing purple eyes, somehow familiarly set in an elven face, gazed mindlessly at the open cell door that had imprisoned them for the past weeks, freedom only feet away. This was a mercy, really. A haze of blissful nothingness before permanent oblivion.
Scuffed elbows and knees were commanded to bring the body back to a standing position, pulling it up from where it had fallen backwards. Like the black shadow of death, the darkly-clad figure of the Emperor glided to settle forebodingly behind it.
Kronnis had seen this dozens of times, but each was special. Sometimes, if, out of a strange sense of justice, the Emperor judged an unconscious death too kind for their crimes, he would leave them aware, savoring fear and despair like a fine wine with dinner.
Other times they were choked into silence, a strong tentacle guiding their heads into a mouth of razors. Only mortal and susceptible to predatory instinct, a passionate twist or jerk might then snap vertebrae.
Today, claws curled around shoulders to pin a meal in place and mauve flesh wrapped around dusty skin, leaving only empty eyes open to the world.
What never failed was the dreadful grinding that sounded through the air once a scalp was nestled into its final resting place, a collapsing skull eventually snapping through the Emperor's nerves like an infusion of adrenaline-fueled ecstasy.
Breaking five years of tradition, Kronnis spoke after bone crumbled under the pressure of a biological vice. "What does she taste like?"
An illithid's gaze snapped to him, clouded with hunger and psionic energy. "Even after all these years, you continue to surprise me." The sounds of gristle being torn apart slowed to a leisurely wet slickness. A show, as though to entertain and impress. "Ambition and mortality. Greed strong enough to rot inhibitions. A fear so delicious that parting from it would be a poet's newest tragedy. And the physical taste… well." A knowing look replaced the scrutiny in the Emperor's eyes. "Like the richest cream, thickened by the dense pulse of life into a fatty dessert exotic enough for an aristocrat's table. Surprisingly nutty – for a half-elf."
Kronnis tore his eyes away, staring fixedly at a loose pebble on the floor. The conversation was over, but their connection remained open, sensations of assimilation and indulgence leaking through to his own brain. An itch had been satisfied, and yet neurons writhed ever-stronger with a longing alien to his body.
When he left for their final appointment of the day – wrestling an agreement from Nine-Fingers – it was with distracted thoughts. The mind behind her eyes sang to him, slippery and cunning. She negotiated a larger cut than he'd planned, and had refused to budge at all until he explained that she'd need to Plane Shift to pick the goods up herself – a seventh level spell for non-illithids, one that even the Guild with all of its resources couldn't afford to use on a regular basis, just to cut out a middleman.
Hours later he still found himself wondering if she'd taste of venom and vice.
It was on Friday afternoon that they heard the news. Not from student gossip or official announcement, but from a grim-faced Professor Sprout after the conclusion of her late afternoon second-year class.
"Did you hear that she sacked Binns?"
"Umbridge?" Kronnis looked up, abandoning his inspection of the tiny green shoots emerging from Sprout's potting tray to instead feign confusion.
She nodded, her mouth pressed into a disapproving line. "Right in the middle of his lesson this morning. The sixth-years told me."
Smug satisfaction, sharp as emeralds, crystallized in the back of Kronnis' mind, growing from a source standing to his left. Still stooped over the potting tray, the Emperor's claws brushed dirt aside to better reveal the fuzz of newborn mugwort. Each plant was further along than it should be, given that they'd only had days to grow from the cutting she'd been gifted.
Ignoring his partner's petty victory, Kronnis continued the conversation. "Seems a bit hasty. Hasn't she only been inspecting lessons for two weeks?"
"Less than that, and it was just this Tuesday that she finally managed the time to inspect one of my own."
The Emperor finally deigned to add his input. "It is my understanding that Binns dismissed the importance of the Ministry during her initial questioning, preferring to continue his lesson on the Werewolf Code of Conduct."
"Be that as it may," Sprout said, "I would have expected her to follow a stricter set of protocols, rather than sacking a staff member after one or two bad inspections."
Kronnis could hardly explain that Umbridge was just unstable enough to abuse the authority and control she'd been granted to further a personal ideology. Or that they themselves had abused their own authority to surreptitiously press a few of her buttons, resulting in the current state of affairs. His tone noncommittal, he responded in a practiced and diplomatic manner. "I suppose, but seeing as we lack experience with your bureaucracy, I find it difficult to comment on this matter."
The red of a tomato sprouted on the professor's face as she suddenly remembered that she was speaking with representatives of a foreign government. "Of course," she floundered for a second, adding a quick comment on how the subject of school drama was surely beneath them.
Taking pity on her and trying to bring them back on topic, Kronnis gestured to the tiny plants she'd asked them to look over. "This mugwort has grown astonishingly fast, have you changed the soil composition?"
"I actually mixed in some dragon dung fertilizer," Sprout explained, now looking much more comfortable. "I have a control batch that hasn't done as well, but I wanted to see if you noticed any oddities with these."
He shrugged. "They look normal enough. I'd like to take another peek in a week or two – they might've grown flowers by then."
"I'll keep you up to date on their progress," she promised, before pulling out the cut ends of dragon egg mushrooms. "How about these? They looked fresh enough that I thought propagating them might work."
Her questions were endless. Each and every sample they'd brought her had been thoroughly poked and prodded into giving up its secrets, and the mysteries that remained were now something Kronnis would either have to clear up with his own knowledge, or research upon their next visit to Baldur's Gate.
Regardless, the long hours they spent discussing her experiments were enjoyable. Sprout was easy to get along with. An inquisitive and hard-working witch, she was clearly loyal to Dumbledore, and knew which way the wind was blowing. The real mystery lay in the question of why she wasn't a member of the Order, but Kronnis supposed that not everyone was willing to risk their lives and careers to fight the most powerful dark wizard of the century.
The world would always need teachers and tradesmen, after all. Not everyone had to become a soldier.
"What if we just lower the interest rate for a bit?" Kronnis suggested, eyeing the pages of calculations in front of his partner, the plate that had previously occupied this space stacked under his own to make room. "We can take the hit to our income, and that gives us time to properly investigate."
Dragon's Drought Distillery was in trouble – a dwarven enterprise in which the Knights of the Shield had invested a whole nine thousand gold. Wyll's reports showed an alarming change in their finances, and the Emperor would need to resolve the problem before the distillery went bankrupt, lest he suffer his biggest loss since the recommencement of his commercial operations. This was a top priority, but one that Kronnis had managed to negotiate a little bit down the list – Sprout had kindly informed them that this was a Hogsmeade weekend, and he was not going to miss a trip to the village.
They were neither student not staff, so they'd almost missed the memo – the information usually disseminated on schedules in the House's common rooms or amongst the professors chaperoning the visit. Kronnis had yet to acquire any wizarding money, but window shopping had always sounded like a fun activity, one that he'd never before been able to drag his partner along for.
"A short-term solution, but I do not see any other option. We will need to reassess market trends and review their tax documents for discrepancies…" the Emperor trailed off, noting down possible avenues of investigation and muttering about poor record keeping.
Having mentioned his only suggestion, Kronnis was now free to enjoy the rest of his breakfast – some lovely little sausages, delicious in a foreign sugary syrup – and relish in the dreary sky above. On this day, his umbrella might see use as something other than a shield from the sun, giving his eyes a sorely needed break.
With any luck, they'd be able to avoid attention and focus on something he sorely missed, time to themselves. The usual gawking of children had lessened, excitement at the weekend's activities being foremost on their minds, and– why was Harry staring at him?
A brief glance at his partner showed that the illithid was still absorbed in his paperwork and would not take kindly to an interruption. Back down at the Gryffindor table, Harry's gaze hadn't changed its intensity, sweeping between their figures as his face slowly reddened.
The tiniest mental probe behind those green eyes almost deafened Kronnis – the bellowing of both his and the Emperor's names so loud in Harry's mind that he almost visibly flinched.
It was difficult to project his own words back. The ease with which the Emperor did so spoke to some innate illithid instinct – a rewiring of the brain and speech center that only happened upon ceremorphosis. "Gods Harry, you don't have to shout so loudly," he admonished. "We don't just casually hear everyone's thoughts; we have to actually be trying to read minds to hear anything. You're going to give yourself an aneurism."
The noise quieted, and a softer "Oh," surfaced. Stilted, in a strange way. Colored by relief and ebbing irritation. Harry was clearly still unused to communicating with anyone through torrents of thought.
"And you've got to stop staring at me like that before people get the wrong idea." He looked a lot like that Slytherin girl who spent her meals molding mashed potatoes into hearts and twirling her hair whenever she caught a glimpse of him in the halls. Kronnis looked down at his plate and nonchalantly stuck another forkful of sausage into his mouth, trying to hint at what a more subtle conversation should look like.
He finally felt the weight of observation leave his body. Harry's next words faded in and out, interrupted by abstract concepts and impulses, and a single-minded focus that now commanded his body to stare straight ahead at his own plate. "You're going to Hogsmeade today, right?"
"We are," Kronnis confirmed, curiosity barely held at bay by the sliver of respect that he held for other people's privacy.
"I have-" Words blurred together for a brief second as thoughts restructured. "Hermione thought of this, actually, and I was wondering if you could do us a bit of a favor."
As Harry pushed an audacious idea to the forefront of his mind, Kronnis fought to keep the smile off his face. "You're sure?"
Burning conviction confirmed the plan.
"Alright, we can do that – but you have to do me a favor in return."