Author's Notes: Conversations with old men part two, though I suppose that describes just about every chapter. Here's something more specific: we're completing quest lines, hiring employees, and... tanking companion approval?

I'd love to share all sorts of personal details, but this is the internet so I will not. Nevertheless, sometime in the summer I'll have to take a couple month's break, as I have wedding planning to do and important work-related duties that unfortunately fall in the same timeframe. Not yet though! So you'll only have to wait another month for the continuation of this chapter!

The following days were filled with a rapid exchange of letters. While the Emperor's hands busied themselves with the drafting of an employment contract, Kronnis received Slughorn's owls with mounting frustration, each of his elegantly-worded invitations rebuffed by the latest in a long string of conflicting excuses.

Slughorn, who claimed to possess a paralyzingly-intense agoraphobia, was on an out-of-country vacation, busy tending his neighbor's rambunctious flock of hippogriffs, and deathly sick with Dragon Pox, all at the same time. Each missive added another ailment or activity to this list, and it wasn't until Kronnis stopped mentioning a conference behind the safety of Hogwarts' wards that progress was made.

The next letter he received was on the subject of a tentative demand. A walking back of previously evasive arguments and a compromise, of sorts. Just as they were possessed by a desire to unlock the secrets hidden away in the wizard's brain, Slughorn was equally desperate to involve himself in the burgeoning affairs of Baldur's Gate. He just hadn't wanted to do so anywhere in the general vicinity of Dumbledore, who'd been limited by his humanity and only able to access those very same secrets by way of rebuffed verbalized request.

Kronnis' letters, of course, were neglectful in mentioning this meeting's true purpose; that he and the Emperor had set out to succeed where Dumbledore had failed. He only expressed a desire to speak face-to-face with Magical Britain's most experienced potioneer, writing his words with deference and praise. And they'd been letting witches and wizards apparate them around for months now, so it was with nary a hint of concern that he agreed to Slughorn's demand – to accompany the wizard to a private venue of his choice.

Foolish, perhaps, for someone as politically important as they claimed themselves to be, but the age-old advice of resisting any move to a secondary location didn't really apply when one could read surface thoughts for hints of intention and blast minds stupid if someone thought themselves clever enough to pull a fast one.

When Kronnis wrote back it was with a list of possibilities. Outside of Hogwarts, his teleportation repertoire included the Ministry, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley, and it was the last of these that Slughorn favored, deeming it either public or private enough to ease whatever concerns he'd let trouble his mind.

They found him in the shadow of Honeydukes; an old, portly man who eyed the distant towers of Hogwarts with a watery eye, and who'd wedged several packages of chocolate under an arm. The lapels of his winter robe were velvet, its trim a washed-out tan, and its buttons were shiny and gold, though the bottom-most appeared missing. The grin with which he greeted them was bright, jovial, and full of hunger, and Slughorn didn't waste much time after shaking first Kronnis' and then the Emperor's hand, whisking them out of December's cold embrace and into a dwelling strange in both decoration and construction.

Comprised of neither the brickwork of Hogwarts, the ancient tapestries of Grimmauld, nor the colorful designs of Diagon's shops, its walls were exceedingly plain, smooth, and homogenously neutral. Pictures of smiling humans did decorate them, each carrying an over-wide smile, but they weren't dressed in robes, and none moved.

The entire floor was carpeted, and the sofas were overstuffed. A coffee table held a collection of literature; a magazine entitled 'TV Guide', a thick hardcover claiming to divulge the truth of some Apollo mission, and a newspaper that looked to have been printed a week ago, its headlines discussing the fiftieth anniversary of an important-sounding war, and a queen's involvement in presumably-related proceedings.

There was a strange, blocky box on the other side of the room, its casing recessed in the front to reveal a vaguely curved and darkly-reflective surface. One half of the room's tall, glass cabinets displayed a collection of fine china, and the other housed a sizable assembly of smooth, porcelain figures – babies with wings, Kronnis realized when he squinted. An altar, prominently displaying the household's faith, or a curated accretion of artfully-sculpted knickknacks? Either way, it was creepy.

The house might've been lovely, if one had no taste. It also wasn't Slughorn's, who had by all accounts abandoned his actual place of residence, but Kronnis wasn't supposed to know that. "How cozy," he said, as the wizard deposited his groceries on a free corner of the coffee table. "Your home is different from what we've grown used to in Hogwarts."

Slughorn turned to survey the room they'd arrived in, as though seeing it for the very first time. "Ah, yes – thank you," he said awkwardly. "This sort of thing is quite popular with muggles right now, I hear. They simply love their carpets and their, er, their figurines."

The Emperor zeroed in on the only shred of evidence indicating the house to currently be occupied by a wizard. "Are these your past students?" he asked, taking a step towards an out-of-place shrine hidden in the corner; a collection of photographs that, when compared to the perfectly-spaced portraits of the walls, were anything but mundane.

Dressed in the fashions of Diagon Alley and meandering about in their frames, their occupants shared drinks with table mates, shifted positions to stand in the very best lighting, and wore expressions both pompous and vaguely uncomfortable. Some were group shots of Hogwarts students, with Slughorn himself standing at their centers, shoulder to shoulder with a handful of faces that Kronnis found amusingly recognizable. Snape had always carried himself with a scowl, it seemed, and no amount of sophistication in the world could've saved Lucius from the awkward dangle of overlong teenage limbs.

Curiously enough, the face of Tom Riddle was nowhere to be seen.

"The best of the best!" Slughorn exclaimed as he walked over, his eyes fond as he regarded the photographs and then sly when he glanced up to see if he'd captured the Emperor's attention. "I told you I had connections, didn't I?" he said importantly, before pointing out a stout boy in Hufflepuff colors. "That's Eldred Worple. Fantastic writer – prose that brings tears to my eyes! Recently published a work that's half memoir, half magizoology text, and I daresay its pages might teach even old Newt Scamander a thing or two about vampires."

His finger next landed on another boy. "Didn't surprise me at all when Dirk Cresswell was promoted to Head of the Goblin Liaison Office – gifted, that one, and he still sends me updates on those goblins, whenever anything exciting happens. And Gwenog Jones over there is captain of the Holyhead Harpies!" Slughorn looked up from a picture of a woman astride a broom. "Do either of you care for Quidditch? They've got a game coming up, and she sent me my ticket last week, but I haven't much opportunity to go myself. Would hate for it to go to waste."

The Emperor, having promptly busied himself with the slow unravelling of Slughorn's Occlumency shields, wasn't at all interested in Quidditch, or the wizard's self-important babbling. The responsibility of conversation fell to Kronnis. "What day would that be?" he asked, with no intention of attending.

"The nineteenth of December."

He frowned, scrunched his eyebrows together in thought, and then let disappointment enter his tone, voicing an excuse made up on the spot. "That's unfortunate. We've a festivity to attend, back home."

"Ah. Shame." Slughorn shrugged, and then looked back at his collection, his eyes searching for other connections he could use to network his way into the influence of Baldur's Gate. "I saw that article Rita Skeeter wrote, you know."

"Did you?" Kronnis replied, now fighting back a genuine frown.

Slughorn's wry smile was directed his way. "Incredibly insightful, that woman. Her propensity for slander, though…" the wizard trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm good friends with the Daily Prophet's editor," he then said with incredible nonchalance. "We could send him an owl – have all that cleared up."

Kronnis shook his own head. "The public is fickle, and I've always found them to possess a short memory. Retractions only remind of previously published information." They also stank of bribery and denial, not that he'd say as much in front of a man who was obviously quite familiar with both. "They'll forget Skeeter's lies soon enough. Anyhow, we came here to speak with an expert on potions, not a newspaper editor."

"Right, right." Nodding, Slughorn guided them to the overstuffed couches, sinking deeply into a faded, rose-colored armchair with an indulgent groan, and unboxing a container of chocolate truffles. He spoke again once comfortable, treat in hand. "Well, ask away then."

"We have a list compiled," the Emperor began, handing hours of Kronnis' hard labor over the coffee table and then preparing a separate parchment to take notes on. A visual relegation of responsibility, one that belied the importance of his mind's unseen work. "Remedies and tonics that we have found no equivalency for in either our market or yours. The proper study and exchange of magical knowledge is likely to span the next decade, but Baldur's Gate is of the opinion that the trade of goods should be initiated a good deal sooner."

"That's where your expertise comes in," Kronnis added, his posture as inviting as could be, compared to his partner's calculated arrangement of crossed legs and standoffish preoccupation with feathered quill. While an illithid trawled seas of memory in search of Slughorn's most prized secrets, a drow's alchemical experience would helm their conversation, its rudder guided by a lifetime of adventure and a childhood steeped in the vilest poisons Menzoberranzan taught one to brew. "Building international partnerships is difficult enough, even with a proper education on the products you'd like to trade in."

Slughorn's mouth twitched, and it was third-hand, through the tentacles the Emperor had dug into the man's mind, that Kronnis could feel his delight. "My expertise, you say?" he crowed, buzzing with excitement as he pulled a pair of glasses out of a pocket, squinting through their lenses at the proffered document's letters. "Let's see then… Feather Fall, Darkvision – Poison Resistance! Preventative measures always do outshine a reactionary approach, I say. And, oh – you don't have Pepper-Up? Couldn't imagine life without it."

"Then I'm sure you can understand why we'd be interested in importing it. A cure for the common cold would have its place in every household."

"I suppose…" Slughorn's eyes wandered over the top of the paper. "Aren't cave environments good for the health, though? Something about the consistent temperature? Or was it the humidity?"

"I've never heard of such a thing," Kronnis quickly denied, with a confidence he hoped enough to dispel any doubts. Illnesses weren't exactly his area of expertise. "You're right about the temperatures, but not everywhere is ventilated well enough to avoid stale air. I expect that sicknesses come and go with just about the same frequency as they would any city on the surface."

"Curious," Slughorn mused, sounding less like he cared and more as though he were incredibly fond of his own voice. "There was a doctor over in the Americas who tried to use a cave as a hospital, I'd heard. Muggles and their science, eh?" he said, robustly laughing at his own joke before sliding his eyes back down the paper. "Hmm. This looks just as sensible. I'm not sure how you lot usually deal with cave-ins, but Blood-Replenishing potions and Skele-Gro ought to save some limbs!"

"Yes, we've already brought some samples over." Not for injuries related to falling rocks, an uncommon hazard in Baldur's Gate, but for the steadily-increasing number of broomstick-related mishaps, one that correlated directly to their continued import. "Focus group testing and such," Kronnis lied.

Slughorn grunted, nodded, and then continued down the list, not at all shy about sharing his wealth of knowledge. Idly, he spouted information that ranged from the useful analysis of a potion's effects, to facts that drifted completely off-topic.

Popularized during the witch burnings of the fifteenth century, he explained, Burn Heal Paste was quick to whip up, and a staple of wizarding medicine cabinets. It soothed scorched skin, repaired charred muscle, and uncrisped fat, but couldn't do a thing against damage inflicted by curses. It also tasted like the creases of a giant's toes, which many an unfortunate soul only discovered once they'd applied it to the tips of their heat-touched tongues.

Kronnis learned that Aging Potion could easily be brewed in large batches, and that it was sold by weight rather than dose, since the imbiber's original body mass was the main factor behind the strength of its effect. Overdoses weren't fatal, so it was largely unregulated, but falling down a flight of stairs might break every bone in the unfortunate drinker's newly-frail body, should they find themselves much older than anticipated.

Touching next on the solution for such a mishap, Slughorn revealed the reason for Skele-Gro's perplexingly exorbitant price – each cauldronful was brewed using the arm bone of a primate, an ingredient that couldn't be substituted with the bone of any other, more commonly-found creature.

He then leaned in as though to share a secret, explaining a gristly workaround – if by chance it was the radius, ulna, or humerus that needed fixing, one could simply extract the bone in question and use it to brew the potion that the patient would then drink. Compared to the healing of a fracture, it was far more painful to regrow bone that didn't still exist, but some found it preferable to paying the high costs usually associated with the sourcing of non-native animal parts.

"Calming Draughts, Draughts of Peace, bah!" Slughorn shook his head with regret as he neared the bottom of their list. "The money I could've made, if I'd charged Hogwarts per batch I prepared for the Hospital Wing. Never do anything for free, I say."

Triumph flashed through the Emperor's mind as Slughorn griped; the wizard's memories of Hogwarts tumbling into his carefully searching tentacles. Claws slowed their absent notation of sums, figures, and advice. "Was that one of your duties as Hogwarts' potions master?" he asked, as though he'd never heard Snape complain about the same. A push in Kronnis' head urged him to keep the dialogue on track, hoping to jostle recollection of Tom Riddle free from wherever Occlumency shields had buried it.

"Yes, and I didn't get paid nearly enough for it!" Slughorn proclaimed. "Up 'til midnight, I was, making sure that the Hospital Wing had enough Pepper-Up to make it through winter without a school-wide outbreak of the sniffles."

"And you were head of Slytherin too, weren't you?" Kronnis pointedly asked.

"That's right! Head of House and still saddled with an office smaller than Merrythought's!"

White eyebrows rose with faked sympathy. "Receiving guests must've been difficult."

"Hmpf. I had about half the space of this living room." A wide, flourishing gesture punctuated this, matching the huff of Slughorn's tone. "Needed an expansion charm if I wanted to fit more than seven people 'round a table – and I quite often did! Used to host these lovely dinners, see? No teacher should have favorites, I know, but we're all human, aren't we?" Slughorn said with a sly grin that quickly faltered, his eyes flicking between two unearthly shades of purple.

"Back in Baldur's Gate we might say mortal, instead," Kronnis helpfully informed him, sparing them an awkward apology. "But you're right. I'll confess to having a favorite parent, and a favorite sibling. Just not within earshot." Not if he wanted to keep all his blood where it belonged.

Slughorn laughed before clearing his throat. "Yes, well – my dinners. I invited the most talented and promising students to the social club I ran. A place to make introductions and connections, and a reward for good work ethic, one might say," he added, a palatable excuse that twisted the truth of the matter. "It's a shame neither of you attended Hogwarts. You'd have fit right in."

That wasn't quite the praise he probably thought it was. Sure, Slughorn's words were flattering, but he didn't truly covet Kronnis' talent, nor the Emperor's. These were indistinct, anyway; wisps of unsubstantiated rumor. No one knew how powerful the mages of Baldur's Gate were.

No, Slughorn's words; his true ambitions, wishes, and desires, were more than transparent, if one looked closely at his mind. And while Kronnis wasn't doing so personally, his brain had a vague awareness of the neural pathways the Emperor had carefully wrestled into obedience. Of the grey matter sifted in search of glinting gold, and the emotional feedback he'd filtered through an immense illithid consciousness.

Slughorn's invitations weren't at all exclusive to individuals who displayed promise and laudable skill, but were also extended to the rich, the famous, and the well-connected. To anyone he thought he might gain benefit from befriending, and to names who held power. Who turned heads and who would matter, in the grand scheme of things.

So Kronnis knew that it was their perceived wealth of influence that Slughorn was interested in, rather than any talent they wielded at their fingertips. Their clout and sway, as opposed the proficiencies in herbology and transfiguration that he might look for in his students.

Perhaps he thought the Emperor a pillar of Baldurian community, a figurehead commanding the respect his bloodline supposedly afforded him, or had presumed Kronnis next in line for a position in the Council of Four.

Playing at politics in Baldur's Gate, Kronnis had heard emptier compliments. "I would've liked that, I think," he replied. "And I would've enjoyed your classes too, if they're anything like this conference you were gracious enough to host."

Slughorn grinned. "I always found a bit of practical work to go a long way. A challenge and a prize, even, to motivate a class into giving it their best effort. This though," he said, selecting another truffle and gesturing between the three of them, "is a bit more like those dinners I'd just mentioned."

"And all your dinners consisted of sweets, did they?" Kronnis asked as Slughorn chewed, swallowed, and chuckled, his own grey fingers delving into the box to fish out a chocolate.

While the wizard then rambled about lavish parties and crystallized pineapples, he checked in with his partner, finding that the Emperor's intangible tentacles had been halted by a dusty set of tie-back curtains, their tips prodding for weaknesses in a rope knotted five times over, barring access to a section of memory suspiciously hidden away. Carelessly brushing through this, the fabric of Slughorn's mind, would pull at strings of consciousness and disturb Occlumency shields previously handled with great caution.

Words were neither spoken nor thought. Close and within convenient reach, Kronnis' mind was slid into with watery grace, and his mouth moved as though of its own accord, voicing a question that the Emperor deemed suitably lubricational. "Did you have any favorite students? Ones that stood above the rest?"

"Many!" Faces were summoned, too fast for Kronnis to follow as the unexpected hitchhike and swift uncoupling of their minds left him reeling, feeling more than a little used and rudely discarded. Judging by his partner's recognition, by the subtle shifting of an invasive reach that Kronnis almost wished was back in his own brain, Tom Riddle's had been among them.

"You must've heard of Lily Potter, yes?" Slughorn asked, while Kronnis' annoyance ebbed as though pulled through an unstoppered drain. "Fantastically talented in potions, and a smile that brought light to the room! She and Severus Snape were the best students I'd had in years. What a wonderful time, teaching those two." Eyes glistening, he trailed off and then looked away, staring into the distance in that way the elderly often did. "Shame. A shame, really. She had such a bright future ahead of her."

Silence reigned, a sudden cold snap of melancholy chilling the room. The Emperor's subtle movements in Slughorn's head stilled, the knots protecting the wizard's memories tightening around claws that had been attempting to slide them apart. Clearing his throat, Kronnis took a risk. "Forgive my ignorance," he began. "She was murdered by Vo- by You-Know-Who, right?"

"Yes," Slughorn replied, regret strangling his voice.

"You must be glad that he's gone."

Jaw working wordlessly, the wizard across from him looked deeply troubled. "Yes," he repeated softly, eyes glancing fearfully towards the windows. "Gone."

One knot remained. Voices leaked through a gap in the curtain, whispering of concealed souls and immortality. Another push ought to do it. Another gust in the sail, straining mast and hull to bring them to their destination. "Surely You-Know-Who must've also shown talent, as a schoolboy. Do you recall-"

"No!" Slughorn insisted with great force, denying accusations that had yet to be levied. "I never taught him anything."

Kronnis smiled placatingly. The burning triumph he felt through his connection with the Emperor told a dramatically different story – a guilty conversation yanked from Slughorn's mind just as it had sharpened with a bristling barrier. Psionic praise tasted remarkably like the sweetest vanilla, washing away the remaining dregs of his annoyance. "My apologies, I only wanted to ask if you knew his real name," he deflected. "It hasn't come up any of the histories we've read."

A hand was waved dismissively as Slughorn sat back in his seat, nearly a century of age showing in the distressed wrinkles of his face. "Hundreds of students passed through Hogwarts during my tenure. I couldn't possibly remember each one."

His lie was incredibly transparent, stinking of obfuscation and a refusal to acknowledge the truth. It was also pointless – they'd gotten what they'd wanted, and Kronnis thought smugly that his initial assumptions of lichdom hadn't been too far off. Horcruxes – objects in which one could conceal a piece of their soul, hiding it to live on in the event of bodily death – sounded remarkably like phylacteries of a different flavor.

Before he had a chance to say anything, though, Slughorn suddenly regrew a backbone, his glassy eyes meeting ones of sharp lilac. "Some words of advice, my boy – we here, in Wizarding Britain, do not like to speak of You-Know-Who. Asking about him invites fear into the heart. The atrocities committed in his name are best left to written text, and there is plenty enough of that to sate your curiosity."

Kronnis was quick to offer another apology, swallowing his urge to call this man a coward with all the practice of someone well used to ignoring the posturing of politicians. "You're right, it was insensitive of me to ask."

"Water under the bridge." Slughorn waved his hand again, as though wishing to banish wariness and apprehension. "Enough about me. Enough about- about him. Tell me more about the potions you wished to introduce to Baldur's Gate. Let me see how else I can be of service."

"I had been thinking," the Emperor quickly replied, his telepathy jarring after long minutes of silence, and the subtle shift of his body weighted with more gravity than it should've been. His voice carried like that of a carriage salesman. "The assistance of a seasoned potioneer would be appreciated in launching these products with the utmost efficiency."

Slughorn's eyes darted over to the corner, where his collection of photographs resided. "Well, you've come to the right place. I've taught just about every potioneer in Britain." He thought for a second. "Have you asked Severus Snape, yet?"

"He declined," Kronnis sighed.

"Ah, married to his job, is he?" Slughorn chuckled. "How about Ethelyn Macduff? She invented a potion to cure ingrown toenails."

"I'm not sure that's quite who we're looking for."

"Harmonious Jigger, maybe? Her grandfather was a rather famous potioneer, and I can say with confidence that talent runs through her veins."

"I had actually thought to offer you the job," the Emperor announced.

Turning back around, Slughorn stared between veil and hood. "I beg your pardon?"

"A full-time appointment as brewer, consultant, and procurement specialist. Exclusive goods demand an exclusive price, so the position would be appropriately compensated."

"Procurement specialist?"

"We have encountered a bit of a problem with our business strategy," the Emperor admitted, neatly folding his notes as he spoke. "Most of your ingredients are unfamiliar to us and marketed at drastically different price ranges, depending on the apothecary. I expect that with your decades of experience, you might have direct connections to the producers of these goods. Wholesalers, perhaps?"

Slughorn puffed out his chest. "You're certainly right about the market. Some of those apothecaries will charge as much as two galleons for a jugful of mallowsweet, just because they tried growing it themselves! Most things can actually be mail-ordered, if you know where to get them from – but wouldn't paying me to get them for you end up costing more, once everything's said and done? You said the position came with a high salary?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly fishing for information.

"We have also considered the cost efficiency of purchasing potions directly from British suppliers," the Emperor continued, a hand extended to accept the bundle of papers Kronnis had just retrieved from his jacket pocket. "But as demand increases, so would their price. Hiring an experienced potioneer would minimize any potential fluctuation in cost and ensure a standardized quality. And your advice today has already proven itself invaluable." The papers were unfolded, uncreased, and offered to Slughorn. "You passed our interview with flying colors."

"Interview," Slughorn muttered to himself in disbelief, readjusting his reading glasses and looking between the Emperor and the official contract he was now holding. "I'm not-" he glanced around again, casting a fearful gaze at doors and windows, as though Voldemort might be waiting just outside, his nose-less face pressed against the glass. "I'm not sure if I can help you. There are… extenuating circumstances. And, you know, I just don't think the timing is right-"

The Emperor let him ramble, instead considering Slughorn's swirling fears and involving Kronnis in a brief, wordless discussion of risk and reward.

They shared a room with a wizard who, until all of five minutes ago, had been the only man alive with knowledge of Voldemort's interest in Horcruxes – potentially, the source of his rebirth and apparent immortality. A secret to silence and a loose end to tie up, Slughorn was a chapter of Voldemort's life, one to be closed once caught by the monster he hid himself from. He'd taught Tom Riddle how to cheat death, receiving in return the lifelong curse of guilt and fear.

He was a target, certainly, but the green flash of the killing curse was but one fate looming over Slughorn's head – Voldemort was far from unintelligent, and only solved most of his problems through murder. His erstwhile potions master and the connections he'd fostered with just about every industry in the country were valuable, an attractive boon to someone looking to win a war. Imperio or willing subjugation, Slughorn had options, were his past to catch up with him.

It was a risk, the Emperor urged again, but Kronnis thought they might give him another. They owed the man, didn't they? And with Snape having removed himself from their pool of candidates, who else were they to hire in Slughorn's place? Certainly not Ethelyn Macduff and her toenail potion.

They'd just need to leak their involvement to Voldemort, before he became too overzealous with his own recruitment. Better to shift the target to themselves, than to compete for the same resources.

"Baldur's Gate is not blind," the Emperor gently interrupted, stilling Slughorn's nervous babbling. "We intend to remain independent, and are prepared to defend our assets with the full might of our city, should a conflict of interest arise."

Slughorn went pale before turning a splotchy red, the papers in his hands crinkling as fingers curled. "You- you know? Then earlier-"

"I am sorry for earlier," Kronnis offered, an apology regurgitated thrice and now a courtesy tasting like bile in his mouth. "But you were right about how difficult it is to get people to talk about him, to gather information on the truth of things. We're trying to prepare our city to face the rest of the magical world, and rumors of a Dark Lord's return are hardly something we can ignore."

Sharp eyes flickered over their faces. "I hope you're aware that you keep dangerous company. Malfoy might've claimed to be under the Imperius, but… Well. Some people know better than to believe him."

"We're aware," Kronnis replied. "Malfoy is… useful."

"Right." Slughorn sighed, long sufferingly. "Never you mind about my problems then – you're saying Baldur's Gate would protect me if I worked for this…" he paused and looked down at the contract, "this Knights of the Shield organization?"

"You would be invaluable and irreplaceable," the Emperor assured him.

"Hmm. Can't say I don't like the sound of that," the wizard muttered, nodding and allowing a satisfied smile to reach his face.

The contract was raised before his reading glasses to be properly read, Slughorn's lips whispering terms of employment as his fingers flipped pages. Eyes rounded with appreciation when he reached the salary printed at its bottom – a good deal more than what a Hogwarts professor made each year. "Could I suggest a twenty percent raise?" he asked after clearing his throat.

The Emperor tilted his head, and Kronnis knew that under layers of dark fabric, tentacles had twitched with amusement. "You could, but any changes to the salary would have to wait until a trend in profit is realized. Consider this one probationary."

"Fair enough," Slughorn grumbled. "Your quill," he then said, pointing at the discarded implement. "Might I borrow it?"

"Of course."

Nib pressed to paper, it was the work of two seconds to sign a name, an act that would extend a solid arm of the Emperor's influence to new markets.

"A fine deal!" Slughorn exclaimed, once hands had been shaken and congratulatory smiles of teeth and warmly-squinted eyes exchanged. "I suppose you'll want to hear from me often, then?"

"Whenever you have news," Kronnis replied, heading off the wizard's desire to involve himself in more than the business they'd just hired him into. "I think the Skele-Gro would be the good place to start. We've been paying an arm and a leg for mouthfuls of the stuff."

A smirk played over Slughorn's expression. "Well, you'll still be paying an arm, but I've some contacts in Madagascar who might help us lower those costs."

"Pepper-Up and Blemish Remover too," The Emperor added importantly, before launching into an increasingly elaborate set of instructions that would chain them to Slughorn's borrowed home for another half hour. "Send any invoices our way, and if you could put out some feelers regarding those Potions of Fire Resistance – dragon sanctuaries might be interested…"

"Horcruxes?" Dumbledore interjected later that evening, interrupting the Emperor's report with aghast exclamation.

"Yes. Tom Riddle asked Slughorn about Horcruxes," the illithid diligently repeated, "and whether the soul could be split as many as seven times."

"And Horace told him?"

"Only the barest bones," Kronnis said from the headmaster's conjured seating; upholstery that had twisted into existence at the wave of a wand to allow him and his partner the same level of comfort as Dumbledore himself, in the throne-like chair behind his desk. "That Horcruxes are objects in which a person has concealed a piece of their soul. That they'll prevent death, even if the body is destroyed, and that they're created through murder," he summarized, his mind replaying the memory they'd stolen and his thoughts absently batting away newly-recurring concern for the state of his own spirit. "Slughorn wasn't very helpful when Tom asked if it would be possible to make more than one, though. I think that's when he realized he'd said too much."

"Riddle already seemed to know a great deal about their creation," the Emperor added when Dumbledore remained silent, his elbows propped on the surface of his desk and his hands pensively entwined above them.

"Mhmm. And he had that ring," Kronnis pointed out. "He was wearing it – the one with the dark stone. The one you thought he might've stolen from Morfin."

This news elicited a reaction. "So he did take it…" Dumbledore muttered with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head. "Horcruxes – what a foul distortion of one's soul. I'd hoped not, but-"

"You'd hoped not?" Kronnis quickly interrupted, an eyebrow raised in askance.

Dumbledore nodded and then heaved himself from his chair, striding over to examine the office's bookshelves. "We had a book on them, in the restricted section," he said, half mumbling in thought. "I of course removed it when I became headmaster, but the damage was done, I suppose. Tom Riddle had graduated long before then."

The disbelief in the Emperor's head was almost as strong as Kronnis' own. "You mean to say that you had a book on Horcruxes, all this time?"

Flicking his wand, Dumbledore summoned a tome bound with black leather. "Horcruxes and other vile magics, yes."

"And you didn't think to, to…" Kronnis trailed off, angrily thinking of all the evenings he'd wasted researching the Dark Arts. All the books they'd carted to and from the restricted section, their authors ranging from Alderton to Warmsley. He hid furiously sparking hands under the edge of Dumbledore's desk. "To let us know that we were wasting our time in Hogwarts' library?"

"I had other suspects," the headmaster said when he turned back around. "Horcruxes aren't exactly common."

It took tremendous effort for Kronnis to silence his wandering thoughts, only to realize that his partner had been of the same bloody mind. Regardless, they bit spiteful tongues. Dumbledore wasn't a smart enemy to make. "Well, what does the book say about them?"

A whole lot, as it turned out. Allowed to flip through its age-weathered pages, Kronnis read Secrets of the Darkest Art with morbid curiosity.

Scrawling letters spoke of immortality, necromancy, and the murder necessary to fragment one's soul; remorseless and deliberate. The author suggested precautions and preparations, instructions on how to render a container suitable enough to house something more precious than gold. One passage boasted how Horcruxes were proof of mastery over death, and then in the very same breath warned of the horrors awaiting a Horcrux's creator upon their body's expiration.

Wraithhood; intangible, untouchable, and diminished. The soul lived on, in a sense, but what worth did life have in this form? Kronnis pitied the ghosts of Hogwarts, tied to the melancholy of their passing. This existence seemed an order of magnitude worse.

The author hadn't gone into detail on how this wraith might then remake a new body for itself – a strange oversight, stemming perhaps from personal inexperience – but Voldemort had done a good enough job of figuring that out on his own. It also only mentioned true regret as a way of reversing the process, a method to reabsorb the sliver of soul one had cast away. No further ink had been wasted on the topic of their disposal.

"A purposeful omission," the Emperor surmised from Kronnis' shoulder, having leaned over to follow along. "Those who wish to live forever have no use for such knowledge."

Kronnis was more than capable of reading between the lines. "It says here that they're only impervious to most spells and methods of physical destruction," he replied, again thinking how it was a shame he couldn't cast Disintegrate, and tapping the relevant passage with a finger. "They'll reform from anything that doesn't damage them past the point of no repair, so I think we should give dissolving them a try, though I don't think Acid Splash is going to cut it. It's possible we might be able to find a copper dragon willing to spit on them."

The Emperor's fingers curled, in much the same way Kronnis assumed his tentacles would, were they not hidden from sight. "I would rather avoid metallic dragons if at all possible."

"I could go alone," he quickly offered. "And a black dragon's breath would work just as well, really. I only thought coppers would be easier to approach, given their temperament, but there's a black one in the Farsea Marches of Cormyr, and I heard some rumors about High Moor-"

"I don't think any of that would be necessary," Dumbledore interrupted, and Kronnis turned his head to where the headmaster was sat, his blue eyes sparkling with the light of an idea and his hand pulling something from the drawer of his desk – another piece of information previously kept hidden. Promptly set down before them was a black, leather-bound book, remarkably similar to the one held in Kronnis' hands, except that its cover had no title, its pages were stained by seeping splotches of ink, and it had a gaping hole in its center, looking as though it had at one point been impaled.

"Tom Riddle kept a diary in his teenage years," Dumbledore then continued. "You might recall what we told you about the events of 1992, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened?"

"Of course," Kronnis replied. Such a tale of monster, magic, and mystery was hard to forget.

"That strange apparition, that memory of Tom Riddle contained in these pages – in hindsight, I think it's likely to have been a Horcrux."

The Emperor reached a hand over, carefully poking through papers that had been warped by moisture. "I see it has been destroyed. There's no mind – no soul, attached to this."

Dumbledore nodded. "Basilisk venom kills in under a minute, and can only be cured by the tears of a phoenix. When Harry stabbed the diary with a fang-"

"It died," Kronnis finished for him, amused despite himself. "Funny thing, that. Poisoning a book."

"That seems a gross oversimplification," the Emperor muttered beside him. "One cannot poison a book – basilisk venom is simply so corrosive that the Horcrux was unable to repair itself, without the cure."

"Yes yes, I know. I've read up on basilisks, and I'm pretty sure you just tried to lecture me with my own knowledge," Kronnis told his partner, who didn't appear apologetic in the slightest. "Anyway, Dumbledore; I'm not sure if basilisks and their deadly eyes are any safer to approach than a dragon, but if you've got one just lying around like you had this book," he shook Secrets of the Darkest Art, "and that one," he added, pointing at the diary, "then I suppose it would at least save us the time of travelling all the way to Cormyr."

"Hogwarts only has a dead one, down in the Chamber, but we needn't travel even that far." Dumbledore raised his arm, gesturing across the room at the straight-edged blade he'd pointed out during their last visit. "The Sword of Gryffindor, being goblin-made, takes in that which makes it stronger. It imbued itself with Basilisk venom when Harry killed one with it."

Kronnis hummed, thinking all this awfully convenient, and turned back around to look Dumbledore in the eye. "Is there anything else in your office we might like to know about?" he dryly asked.

The headmaster didn't immediately respond. His gaze instead darted about with consideration, first to a lumpy piece of leather that looked like it might be a hat and then to his array of bookshelves, before finally stopping on the flame-colored bird preening itself beside his desk. "A great deal, but nothing truly relevant – not unless you're careless with Gryffindor's Sword. Were you interested in a tour?"

"No," the Emperor quickly said, answering for the both of them and overriding the response Kronnis had truly wanted to give. A list was compiled in his mind and then swiftly verbalized. "As for Horcruxes, we have the locket and the diadem. The diary has already been destroyed, and you think he used Hufflepuff's Cup and his family ring for another two. That makes five, though Riddle asked Slughorn about splitting his soul in seven. You knew him best – would he have stuck to this plan?"

Dumbledore ran a hand over his beard in thought. "Seven is a magical number," he mused.

"But is that important, really?" Kronnis pressed. "Secrets of the Darkest Art never mentioned anything about creating more than one, and I suppose that's why he asked Slughorn, but by all accounts, one is enough to anchor him. I can't think of any other reason he might've had to keep creating them, besides a need to ensure as may fail-safes as possible." He paused here, grimacing as he suggested the possibility of a hopeless endeavor. "…And if that's the case, what's to stop him from making hundreds?"

"Hundreds…" Dumbledore echoed, looking sickened by the idea. "No, a soul that fragmented would never have survived, even as a wraith, and arithmancy has documented time and time again the influence numerology has in magic. Tom was right to exercise caution before meddling with the darkest of magics. He's ambitious, but he isn't a fool."

"We will have to assume seven, then," the Emperor said, though Kronnis had no doubt he'd try to wrench confirmation of this from Voldemort's head as soon as he had the chance. "Six Horcruxes, and the sliver remaining in his own body. Do you know where he might have hidden the others?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore admitted with a frown. "I hadn't the faintest idea that the diadem was even here in Hogwarts, all these years."

A sullen silence quickly descended; energetic discussion paused as a roadblock was realized. "His house, maybe?" Kronnis suggested when it didn't look like anyone else had any better ideas. "If he even had a house."

Dumbledore only shook his head. "That, I don't know either."

"Assailing his place of residence would be folly, anyway," the Emperor added. "One might as well besiege the walls of Hogwarts."

"Assailing?" Kronnis asked, turning to face his partner. "I never said anything about that."

The eyes that looked back at him were as dry as a desert, and droll in a way unbefitting their current topic of conversation. "You thought it."

"I considered it. Briefly, and for all of two seconds-"

"Eight, by my count."

"-and then I figured we might actually be in a decent enough position to be invited over for tea, if we play our cards right."

"Tea? With Voldemort?"

"Why not? You might not remember because you were busy suppressing the Absolute's influence, but this isn't really all that different from when the rest of us pretended to be True Souls, back at Moonrise. Ketheric's guards let us walk through just about any door we wanted!" Outlining his plan, Kronnis' hands began gesturing at the diary, nearing it with every step mentioned. "We say we want to join up, talk shop, steal the Horcruxes-" kill him, "-and get out before Voldemort realizes anything. I've come up with worse ideas."

"Like when you took that submersible to the Iron Throne and almost got us all killed, just to save Ulder Ravengard?" the Emperor drawled, now fully turned in his chair and completely disregarding the benefits reaped from that particular adventure. "It amazes me each time you manage to salvage near-disaster, truly, but how are we to know that Voldemort even keeps his remaining Horcruxes nearby?"

"Oh, come off it. If we had any solid leads we would've already discussed them." Kronnis jabbed a finger at his partner's chest, grinning as he felt innumerable extensions of thought retract from the framework he'd constructed in his mind. "Stop critiquing my plans for the fun of it and put some effort into brainstorming."

The Emperor sat up a bit straighter, enthusiasm surging to meet this challenge. He aimed his own long finger at the diary, picked apart and analyzed a four-dimensional puzzle, and then reconstructed it through word. "This was entrusted to Lucius, was it not? And the locket was at Grimmauld Place, where generations of dark wizards and witches have lived and died. I think it not too far out of the realm of possibility that one of Sirius' relatives was given the locket for safekeeping." An ego reared its head, bristling with tentacles and dripping with a glowing surety. "Twice is only coincidence, but you were right – we have no solid lead, and must make do with what we have. I therefore propose Voldemort likely to have hidden the rest of his Horcruxes with his followers, a theory easier to verify than his base of operations would be to infiltrate."

It was difficult to argue against that, a confidence as delicious as the heady rush of magic. The grin on Kronnis' face grew. "So you're saying we might have a series of houses to break into, not just one?"

"Ah, twisting my words is fun, is it?" the Emperor chided, good-naturedly and with a fondness that warmed his voice. Leaning over his armrest, he encroached on Kronnis' personal space in a loom that was only superficial. "We will not be breaking into any houses unless absolutely necessary, lest we run afoul of the Ministry, Voldemort, and public opinion."

A throat was cleared before Kronnis could respond, reminding them of the room's other occupant. "Not to interrupt," Dumbledore said, looking greatly amused, "but I rather agree with the Emperor in that we should refrain from drastic action. We also ought to explore the possibility that Voldemort might've hidden his Horcruxes in places meaningful to him, like he did the diadem."

Kronnis frowned for a whole slew of reasons, the least of which being the sudden absence of flirtatious presence in his head. "You really think he's that sentimental?"

"Seven Horcruxes; items important to both his legacy, and Hogwarts' founders. I think Voldemort cares a great deal about symbolism," Dumbledore emphasized.

Seven Horcruxes, and only one had been dealt with. Looking again at the diary, Kronnis thought of how close at hand the Sword of Gryffindor was. "We should destroy the ones we have."

The Emperor immediately shook his head. "What if Voldemort has a way to sense their destruction?" he pointed out. "He might take drastic action to protect those that remain."

"What if he manages to steal the locket and the diadem back? Or we lose access to the sword?" Kronnis argued back, gesturing vaguely to the gleaming blade hanging behind them, and then turning to face the headmaster, whose eyes had clouded into pools of sorrow. "You still have them here, right, Dumbledore? What are we waiting for?"

"You are forgetting something," Dumbledore softly replied, and although his voice was but a whisper it seemed to echo through his office, halting the momentum of conversation. "You are forgetting about Harry."

Dread flowed through Kronnis' veins, and then the ice-sharp prickle of guilt, spilling over his body like a late-autumn rain. He had forgotten all about Harry, and the sliver of soul his scar harbored.

To complete the quest they've given themselves, to kill Voldemort, they needed to rid the world of all his Horcruxes. As much as it was a shame to ruin the objects he'd chosen to house his soul, diadems, cups, lockets, and rings were at least easy enough to line up for destruction, and their loss would remain purely material.

…How was one to destroy a Horcrux hosted by a person; the very boy they'd been protecting for months?

The room remained silent. The answer, though detestable, was clear. None of them wanted to give it voice.

"We should tell Harry," the Emperor eventually said. "Let him decide for himself."

Kronnis' tongue felt heavy. "Does he have a choice? So long as he lives, Voldemort has the ability to resurrect himself. It- it might be better to just-"

Words turned to ash in his mouth, and he recoiled as though struck, his partner's emotions a blaze that seared through their connection until it had charred away to nothing. Betrayal was hot in the Emperor's tone, and blinding in his eyes. "A mercy killing?" he hissed bitterly in Kronnis' direction. "That is your solution? You thought to stab Harry with a sword – to absolve him of the sin of existing? Perhaps even as he slept?"

"I- you know that's not-"

"You did not think-"

"I didn't mean-"

"-you did not consider for even a second, that I might oppose this idea?"

Kronnis swallowed, horror catching up with him as the implications of his intent sank deeper and deeper, a suggestion that was impossible to take back. "I'm sorry," he whispered, trying regardless.

"We will tell Harry," the Emperor said again in a commanding tone, ignoring Kronnis to instead address Dumbledore, who looked taken aback by the sudden vitriolic pressure of the room. "He deserves that much."

"…Did you have another solution in mind?" the headmaster ventured, slowly and carefully.

"A friend back home had some ideas. At the time, we did not consider them worth exploration, but he wields magic with more skill than anyone else I know. I will ask if he can continue their pursuance."

A strange wheeze left Kronnis' lips. Amidst the upheaval of his mind, the Emperor's insult struck his core with far more pain than it had any right to. Miles away, Dumbledore smiled, hope sparking in his eyes. "Yes," he said, the words sounding as though they'd been spoken underwater. "Perhaps- perhaps we should explore that further – before we tell him."

Alone, without Kronnis, the pair of them discussed Gale's Soul Cage spell – a barely audible buzz in his ears as guilt swallowed him alive, having grown from its previous trickle to a roaring river of repentant shame. His partner's voice mentioned the necromantic magic involved, and the headmaster replied with hesitance. A prompt for Kronnis to jump in with convincing words didn't come, his head empty and ringing.

His brain fumbled against the hole where an illithid's mind should have rested comfortingly against his own, yearning for that thread of kinship. It felt incomplete, stripped of intimate, psionic song. It threatened to wail like a newborn babe, severed from familiarity and startlingly alone in the world.

It felt like something had been torn from him. A constant companionship suddenly ripped right from the very lining of his grey matter, inducing an incomprehensible loneliness that his mind couldn't make sense of. His partner sat right next to him, on the other side of a continent.

He was too afraid of what he'd find in the Emperor's head to reach past the boundaries of his own skull.

Discussion soon spiraled. With hesitancy, Dumbledore again broached the topic of Harry, as though expecting another explosion of anger. He proposed that the boy wasn't Voldemort's sixth Horcrux, but in fact his accidental seventh – Tom Riddle wouldn't have entrusted his soul to his greatest mistake.

Harry was a freak of nature, then. A blunder and a fluke. Born through happenstance, carrying two minds in his head, and tied through fate to the life of another. Kronnis couldn't bear to look at his partner; at Balduran, who'd survived ceremorphosis to lurk somewhere within the mind of an illithid. He felt sicker by the minute.

As though the room's increasingly uncomfortable atmosphere wasn't heavy enough, spirits sank further with the realization that another Horcrux might be unaccounted for. Dumbledore looked deeply troubled when he muttered something about thinking things over, and their meeting dissolved before Kronnis, who hadn't said a word since his apology, realized what was going on. He stood and rushed after his partner's retreating form, like a dog tailing its owner.

Together and apart, through Hogwarts's tranquil corridors and past its moonlit windows, they walked back to their rooms. One minute they were on the third floor, and the next they stood before a raucous painting; a wizardly feast, jovially enjoyed around a long table.

Kronnis broke free of his daze and spoke their password – fiddlehead, chosen so long ago. He stepped over the threshold, near-silent steps following behind. Another apology was on his lips, the graveness of his thoughtless words considered hundred-fold.

"Emperor, I-"

A faint sound came from behind his back. Magic shifted the air. When Kronnis turned around, the room was empty.

The Emperor was gone.