Unprecedented Competition

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29296878.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Character: Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy,
Pansy Parkinson, Sirius Black, Voldemort (Harry Potter), Durmstrang
Students, Beauxbatons Students
Additional Tags: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Pureblood Culture (Harry
Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions (Harry
Potter), Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Pagan Festivals, Religion,
Smart Harry, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Heir of Slytherin Harry Potter,
Harry Potter is the Heir to the House of Black, Harry Potter Has a Pet
Snake, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Triwizard Tournament,
Background Character Death
Series: Part 6 of Perfectly Normal
Stats: Published: 2021-02-08 Updated: 2021-03-25 Chapters: 14/40 Words:
129094

Unprecedented Competition
by BrilliantLady

Summary

The Triwizard Tournament has come to Hogwarts (much to the disgust of Quidditch
players), but Harry agrees with Draco that only an idiot would want to get mixed up in
something that dangerous. With not one but two Lord Voldemorts out there wreaking havoc
– one of whom keeps trying to befriend Harry – he has enough trouble on his plate already.

Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 New Blood
Chapter Summary

Students are Sorted, and Harry gets in trouble in record time.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Thursday 1st September 1994

Harry drummed his fingers in irritation on the long wooden table in the Great Hall as the students
all listened to the Sorting Hat’s new song.

“‘Power-hungry Slytherin loved those of great ambition.’ It’s a bit biased, don’t you think?” he
grumbled. “The Sorting Hat made it sound like a bad thing to go to Slytherin, but there’s nothing
wrong with being ambitious. Salazar wasn’t a bad man you know, he only wanted power to protect
people. He cared a lot about the students – it’s just that he disagreed with the other Founders about
the best way to go about keeping them safe. Some might say he made some bad choices, but he
was acting out of the best possible motives.”

“You’re a bit defensive of Slytherin for someone who’s actually a Gryffindor, Potter,” teased
Thomas, from across the table.

“I know why, too! Me mam read Lockhart’s new book,” Finnegan said. “Secret’s out, Potter, not
that it was much of a secret before. Everyone knows you’re the Heir of Slytherin, now! But don’t
worry mate, we know you’re a good bloke and we won’t give you a hard time about it.”

“Much,” added Thomas, with a wink.

“Ackerley, Stewart!” Professor McGonagall called out in the background, and the first trembling,
rain-soaked student walked up to be Sorted.

“No-one’s going to believe me anymore about me not being the Heir now, are they?” Harry said,
slumping in his chair with a sigh.

“Ravenclaw!” shouted the Hat, eliciting loud applause.

Hermione patted Harry reassuringly on the shoulder. “Probably not, no. But we don’t mind,
honestly. Smith’s related to Hufflepuff, and he doesn’t have any special badger powers! It’s just
family. Besides, I still think half of the students at Hogwarts are probably related to one of the
Founders – it’s such an insular and small community it’s inevitable. You were just lucky in getting
to be a Parselmouth – probably just the luck of the draw in getting good genes, or something. Some
Houses have talents running in their families; that’s a known fact.”

“Baddock, Malcolm!”

“Slytherin!”

The twin Weasleys hissed loudly in disapproval at the first Slytherin to be Sorted. Harry tutted
disapprovingly at them (which they didn’t even notice, being seated much further down the table)
and gave Baddock a pointedly polite clap. On the other side of the Hall the Slytherin table cheered
enthusiastically for their first new member.

“Yeah, lucky, that’s me,” huffed Harry. “Still, I do like being able to talk to Storm. And it was
handy in the Chamber of Secrets. I might not have saved… been able to help save people without
that.” Reminded of his pet, he fished Storm out of the satchel at his feet.

“Are we there yet?” Storm asked sleepily, then wound his way up Harry’s arm to his shoulders.
“Oh, yess, I sssee we are. Warm me.” He burrowed into the neckline of Harry’s robe to coil around
his bare neck, seeking out Harry’s body warmth on the cold, stormy night. With the enchantments
on the ceiling of the Great Hall displaying the weather outside as if the roof was made of glass it
seemed less cosy inside than usual despite them all being quite dry (thanks to the judicious
application of a few spells cast on each other earlier). The rain pounded down on the roof with a
fierce though muted drumming, and the cloudy night sky was lit up by occasional dramatic flashes
of lightning which were followed by menacing rumbles of thunder.

“Branstone, Eleanor!”

“Hufflepuff!”

The young girl who’d just been sorted trotted eagerly over to the welcoming Hufflepuff table. Half
the students there had as usual chosen to affix House-proud yellow or black ribbons or yellow
canary feathers to their pointed black hats, and many of the girls wore yellow hair ribbons.
Branstone’s long, loose brown hair was drenched despite the meagre protection of her hat, dripping
onto her soggy black work robes and the floor. Harry saw some older students – prefects no doubt
since Diggory was among them – making sure she and the next first-year Hufflepuff who scurried
over both had their robes and hair all magically dried out before they settled down at the table.

“Creevey, Dennis!”

Colin’s brother was the tiniest first-year yet, Harry thought. The mousey-haired boy was soaking
wet and wrapped up in Hagrid’s enormous moleskin overcoat which dragged on the ground as he
walked up to the Hat, looking incredibly excited.

“Gryffindor!”

The newest Gryffindor scurried over to his brother to a chorus of cheers, stumbling slightly as he
got caught up in Hagrid’s coat, calling in shrill excitement as he approached about how he’d fallen
in the lake and had gotten pushed back into his boat by something that his brother eagerly
explained must have been the giant squid.

“Dobbs, Emma!”

“Do you know who got the Head Girl position this year?” Harry asked in general enquiry of
everyone around him, ignoring the Sorting for a while now that Colin’s brother had been done. “I
heard from Peregrine that he didn’t get Head Boy – it went to a Ravenclaw, Marcus Turner.”

“No idea,” Neville said, shaking his head.

“Lavender might know,” volunteered Hermione. “She has a cousin of some degree who’s starting
seventh year who was hoping to get the spot. Do you want me to ask her?”

“If you don’t mind. I’m just curious.”

Hermione passed a note down the table to Brown, who got out a quill to scribble a reply, then
passed it back, waving cheerily to them.

“Lavender’s cousin didn’t get it – Tamsin Applebee’s the Head Girl,” Hermione read out. “She’s a
Chaser on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and Lavender says she’s a sweet girl. Though it must be
admitted that she says that about a lot of people.”

“Is she the team Captain?” asked Neville.

“No, that’s still Diggory as far as I know,” Harry said.

They all applauded absent-mindedly as “McDonald, Natalie” joined the Gryffindor table. She was
greeted by Ron as she sat down, who was curious to ask whether or not she was related to “that
bloke who owns all those restaurants”.

“Prewett, Mafalda!”

“Oh, it’s Mafalda’s turn!” Harry said, perking up with interest.

“Slytherin!”

Hermione sighed in disappointment. “Oh, that’s a shame. Not that there’s anything wrong with
Slytherin, Harry, don’t make that face at me. I mean it’s a shame that she won’t get to be with her
family. Where is Ginny, anyway?”

Mafalda seemed a little anxious about her Sorting too, glancing wistfully over at the boisterous
Gryffindor table, but she seemed heartened by seeing the Weasley twin’s histrionic sobs at their
loss of her to another House, and Harry’s smiling applause at her Sorting. She trotted off to the
Slytherin table, which seemed to welcome her heartily (relative to their restrained standards of
courtesy).

She was followed to Slytherin by Graham Pritchard, and then there were just a few more students
left to Sort before the feast began, ending with Zabini, Maria (who went to Ravenclaw).

Hermione was thoroughly distracted during dinner, chatting worriedly with Nearly Headless Nick
about a disruption in the kitchen by Peeves that had terrified the house-elves. She picked at the
food on her golden plate and ignored Ron’s attempts to lure her to eat by playfully wafting desserts
under her nose.

Dumbledore’s announcements started with the usual warnings. “The Forbidden Forest, as always,
is out-of-bounds. As is Hogsmeade to all first and second-year students. I am pleased to announce,
however, that your recreational opportunities have been officially expanded. For last year’s ‘club
room’ will now be made a permanent fixture of Hogwarts!”

That news got a happy round of cheers across the Great Hall.

“Professor Slughorn has kindly volunteered to be the supervising teacher for the club room –
leaders of pre-existing clubs should see him tomorrow, before or after the day’s classes, to discuss
meeting scheduling.”

Slughorn waved jovially to the crowd from the staff table, before folding his hands contentedly
over his corpulent belly that strained the gold buttons on his maroon silk waistcoat after the
evening’s feasting.

“Any new clubs and study groups will need to work around reserved times,” continued
Dumbledore. “Please consult the new noticeboard just inside the club room door from Saturday
onwards for details. The room itself has been enlarged, with an archway added through to an
adjoining previously empty classroom, and many furnishings have been added including some
desks and sofas.”

That announcement went down smoothly, however, the Headmaster’s shift to the sad news that the
inter-house Quidditch Cup would be cancelled was unexpected and a tremendous shock to all the
Gryffindor Quidditch team members whose jaws gaped – they looked too appalled to even speak.

Dumbledore had just started to announce the new event that would be on that year instead –
presumably the Triwizard Tournament that Draco had told Harry and his friends about – when he
was interrupted mid-sentence by the dramatic arrival of their new Defence Against the Dark Arts
teacher, Professor Moody. The scarred new professor clomped his way to the staff table with a
backdrop of booming thunder, while flashes of lightning streaked across the enchanted ceiling of
the Great Hall and the majority of the hall watched his silent procession in wary silence.

“I suspect this will not be your year for breaking your run of having Defence teachers attack you,
Harry,” whispered Neville, eyes wide with fear at the man’s intimidating visage.

“That’s Alastor Moody,” Harry whispered back. “I’ve met him already. Sirius said he used to be an
Auror, but he’s retired now. Fingers crossed he breaks the pattern, surely being an Auror will help
me there. But... well… I’m not sure this will be my year either. He’s an odd bloke.”

After a very unimpressive patter of token applause for their unnerving new teacher, Dumbledore
explained how Hogwarts would be hosting the Triwizard Tournament, with students from
Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arriving in October. He promised that no champion would find
themselves in mortal danger, unlike in past Tournaments which had been discontinued due to the
rising death toll.

“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed.

Harry shuddered. “Normal schools don’t need to reassure you that no-one will die during an inter-
school sports competition. Hogwarts is crazy sometimes.”

“A thousand Galleons! I’m going for it!” vowed Ron excitedly, on her other side.

“Are you going to enter, Harry?” Neville asked, looking thoughtful.

“Did you not hear the bit about the death toll?” Hermione asked incredulously. She was in a
minority for being wary about the competition, however, and the Gryffindor table, at least, was
abuzz with excited whispers.

Harry felt a little relieved to hear there would be an age limit imposed, with no students under
seventeen allowed to enter, but Ron was appalled. “No Quidditch! And no Tournament either?!
This is unbelievable. I was supposed to be Keeper this year! Now I can’t even enter the stupid
Tournament! I need that money… we need that money!”

Further down the table, his twin brothers could be glimpsed fuming even more angrily, having only
missed the age cut-off by a handful of months.

“…I hope you will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is
selected,” Dumbledore concluded. “Now, I know it is late, so before you all head off to bed we
shall conclude with two short songs performed by our ‘Frog Choir’, led by Professor Flitwick in
their maiden performance. First, we have an adaption of Celestina Warbeck’s ‘Toil and Trouble’,
which will be followed by the school song. If you are interested in joining the school choir, please
meet at ten on Saturday morning in the club room for auditions. Let us give them a welcoming
round of applause as they gather!”

The students clapped politely as a scattering of students left all four House tables to make their way
down the aisles to gather in front of the teachers’ table. There were mostly Ravenclaws and
Hufflepuffs in the choir, but a few students joined them from the other two Houses.

They choir did a great job and looked thrilled at the enthusiastic applause at the end of their a
cappella songs, and their audience (with a few rare exceptions like the Weasley twins) were just as
excited to have the school song be set to an actual melody at last.

“Oh, that was so much better than last year,” Hermione said approvingly, as she clapped. “I never
understood why Dumbledore thought letting everyone pick their own tune was a good idea. I guess
he thought it was funny, but it wasn’t. It was just a chaotic din.”

“Definitely,” agreed Harry, rising from the table as everyone started heading up towards their
dorms in a slow shuffling queue down the aisles and into the hallways. “I still remember the
horrible shock that was first year’s school song. It was nice to see all the Houses singing together
too, wasn’t it? Did you know Daphne was in the choir? I didn’t know!”

“It was a surprise to me too,” Hermione said.

“I knew,” said Neville. “She mentioned the practices once – she said it is a good opportunity to
build relationships across the House boundaries. Also, she likes singing.”

One of the Weasley twins came up to them while they chatted, pushing through the tide going the
other way. “Say Potter, have you seen Ginny? Did you talk to her, or did you hear what upset her? I
heard she left the table in tears.”

“Oh! Sorry, no, nothing to do with me. I haven’t seen her since the train, actually.”

The ginger-haired twin huffed in frustration.

“Do you want me to check on her?” asked Hermione. “Since you can’t get into the girls’ dorm?”

“If you don’t mind. Tell her I was asking after her – Fred, that is – and let her know that if she is
upset about me planning to try and get in the Triwizard Tournament even though I won’t be old
enough, well… Tell her that the money’s good and that I would of course be very careful not to get
hurt. Or… if it’s something else that has upset her – like if someone gave her a hard time about dad
– will you find out for us? Things have been hard, lately, and I think she is feeling the strain,” he
said, looking pensive.

“I’ll tell her,” Hermione promised, and he shook her hand in thanks before heading back to his
friends.

“Poor thing,” she added, once he was out of earshot. “She must be scared she’ll lose her brother. I
don’t think she needs to worry – Dumbledore won’t let anyone underage enter the competition, he
made that quite clear.”

“Theoretically he keeps the twins out of the Forbidden Forest,” Harry pointed out.

“Ah. Good point,” Hermione conceded, with a nod.

The crowd of students thinned out as the Houses split off, and the Gryffindors headed towards
Gryffindor Tower.

Colin Creevey dragged his brother Dennis over to where Harry and his friends were walking and
gave a little bow of greeting. “Hello again, Harry!” he said excitedly. “Isn’t it great that Dennis got
into Gryffindor?!”

Harry tipped his pointed hat in greeting, giving a short nod as he did so. “It is indeed. Welcome to
Gryffindor, Creevey,” he said politely to Dennis.

“Hello! It’s fabulous to be here!” the youngest Creevey said, grinning toothily, and copying his
brother’s bow, which earnt him another nod from Harry. “Say, Colin, isn’t he going to bow back?”

“Oh no, he outranks us, remember? Being the Heir of one of the old Noble families!” explained
Colin.

“I’m actually now also the Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, as well,” added
Harry.

“-And Slytherin!” added Finnegan, from behind them.

Harry shrugged. “Yes, I suppose. So really the bow should be a bit lower, technically.”

“Like this?” Colin asked, putting his right hand across his chest as he tried a deeper bow.

“Is this new? When did that happen, you being Heir of the Black family?” asked Hermione, turning
to Harry. “Is there a new family connection you’ve uncovered in your family tree? Greg won’t tell
me what’s in mine – he keeps saying I have to wait for my birthday.”

“Yes, that bow is better,” Harry said to the Creeveys, before answering Hermione. “It was during
the holidays – Sirius made me his Heir, due to the connection through my paternal grandmother.
He didn’t want it to be Draco who’s the other best candidate, as he’s not keen on the Malfoys.”

Hermione nodded approvingly.

“The Black family portraits love Harry,” volunteered Neville, with a teasing smile for Harry.

Dennis tried a deeper bow like his brother had, and as Harry was correcting him on the importance
of keeping a straight back while doing so. He also lectured about how bowing deeply was really
only important when first meeting someone who was very traditional, or at a dance or formal
occasion, and shallower bows or covert nods of the head or tipping one’s hat would usually suffice
at other times. Professor McGonagall suddenly hove into view. She looked furious.

“What in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing, Mr. Potter?! Mr. Creevey!”

“Oh, ah, just a quick etiquette lesson,” Harry said, with an apologetic nod. “Was I holding people
up? I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

She seemed relatively content with Colin’s chastened brief and instant apology, but she did not
look at all happy with Harry’s response – her mouth got even thinner, and her eyes narrower. “You
are teaching the Creeveys to bow to you, Potter. That is not acceptable behaviour here at Hogwarts
– you are not the superior to Muggle-borns or anyone else because of your blood status! Ten points
from Gryffindor, and it would be more if our House had earnt more but that is all we have
accumulated to lose thus far!”

“Sorry, professor. I was just teaching them about the different kinds of bows, professor. Just the
etiquette, for formal occasions. I’m not being a blood purist or anything!” Harry said defensively.

“That is precisely what you were being. A word in private, I think,” she said, pointing imperiously
towards a nearby classroom door. Harry slunk inside obediently, shoulders hunched in response to
the weighty stares of all his classmates as they watched him being dressed down by their Head of
House.

“I am deeply disappointed in you, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, the instant the door had closed
behind them. “To think that I should have to give this lecture to you! To some of my first-year
pure-bloods, perhaps, but you are in fourth year now, and should know better!”

“I’m not a blood purist, honestly I’m not. Hermione and all the other Muggle-borns are just as good
as I am, I know that,” Harry reassured her earnestly. “I only follow the etiquette, and I usually keep
it quiet, sorry. I don’t promote the beliefs.”

McGonagall shook her head, her mouth in a thin angry line. “No, you are acting exactly like a
blood purist, Potter, and you are not just tolerating but actively promoting those beliefs. Every time
you do something like scurry to greet someone from an ‘Ancient’ family first when you enter a
room because they rank above you in precedence, and every time you demand or expect that a
Muggle-born should bow more deeply to you because the Potters are considered a ‘Noble’ family,
you reinforce those prejudices. You tell the world with your obsolescent greetings that you think
you are better – or more lowly – than someone else just because of who your family is. That you
deserve respect because of the family you were born into – as if that is some great accomplishment
of yours worthy of esteem, and not simply a matter of luck.

“Is that the kind of lesson you really want the Creeveys to learn? That they should grovel before
pure-bloods, and know their place? Is that being truly welcoming of newcomers to our world?”

Harry’s face crumpled in regret at the thought the Creeveys might have taken his lesson that way.
“I’m sorry, professor! I was just trying to help them fit in. Learn the customs, so they’d know what
to expect and could be polite to people. I wasn’t trying to be insulting!”

Professor McGonagall’s face softened as she laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder. “Mr.
Potter, I am sure you meant well, but what you just taught them is that Muggle-borns are lesser.
That their rank is below that of the old pure-blood families. I won’t tolerate that kind of bigotry at
Hogwarts. Not all customs are worth preserving purely for the sake of ‘tradition’. Who convinced
you such a thing was a necessary?”

“Pansy told me it was important years ago,” he confessed, “and it seemed like a good idea. To be
courteous to everyone and try and fit in. She wasn’t the only one, but I guess she brought it up first.
Please don’t get her in trouble, though. It was years ago, and she didn’t mean any harm, and she did
tell me I shouldn’t do it at Hogwarts. I just forgot.”

“Why would you give her opinion so much weight, when plenty of your other friends like
Longbottom and Weasley don’t follow all those bigoted old-fashioned traditions?”

“Well, she’s family. Of course I should listen to her,” Harry explained. It was obvious, really, but
his professor didn’t seem to find it so.

“That’s not a good enough reason at all, Mr. Potter. Other students look up to you, and you must
learn to set a good example! I’m afraid to say you and the elder Mr. Creevey will both be serving
detention with me on Saturday. Two hours of writing lines – ‘I am no better, and no worse, than
anyone else at Hogwarts just because of who my family is. We are all witches and wizards here,
and of equal rank. We may all mix with whomsoever we choose. I will not promulgate the
doctrines of blood purity.’ I hope it will remind you of what your parents fought and died for,” she
finished in stern rebuke.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, cowed and slightly ashamed.

“We are not tolerant here at Hogwarts of prejudice on the basis of rank, Mr. Potter. All students are
to be regarded as equal, regardless of family status, blood heritage, or respective level of magical
talents. If I hear one more word of you boasting about being the Heir of Slytherin and demanding
special treatment because of that, that will be just the start – you will be in detention for months,”
she added, wagging her finger at him warningly.

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no ma’am, I won’t.”

She swept off with a swirl of robes to rejoin her place escorting the first-year Gryffindors up to
their dorm, and presumably to talk with the Creeveys as well.

Harry was freed to slink out of the classroom and back to his shocked friends, ashamed and
thoughtful. He hadn’t questioned the rules of etiquette, he’d just learnt them, trying to make Pansy
and all his new friends happy that he was striving to fit in. He still didn’t really see a big problem
with bowing in general, but he did get the painful point that it was sometimes very tied in with
beliefs about blood purity.

-000-

Early the next morning Harry was pounced upon by Hermione and Lavender Brown the instant he
emerged with Neville into the Common Room.

“At last! We’ve been waiting for you to leave your dorm,” Hermione said to him with relief, which
Harry thought was a bit unfair as it was still hours before Friday’s classes would start. He
wondered if she was going to tell him off about his bowing lesson last night and subsequent
detention, but thankfully another matter had her thoroughly distracted for the time being.

“Eloise needs your help,” Brown confided in a whisper. “She’s hexed her nose off.”

“What? How? What do you mean?” Harry said, very confused. “Where is she?”

“She had some awful pimples, and she tried to get rid of them this morning by hexing them off! No
nose. It has fallen off – like she Splinched it.”

“Oh Merlin! Is it bleeding? Has she still got her nose?”

“No, it’s not bleeding, and yes, Midgen’s got her nose,” Hermione answered. “Separate from the
rest of her, but she has it.”

“She refuses to come down or to see Madam Pomfrey, she is just so embarrassed,” Brown
explained. “She wants to know if you can help her, without anyone seeing.”

Harry blinked, and said slowly, “I don’t know, that sounds tricky, and while I’ve heard of the
spells to reverse Splinching, I’ve never practised them. I think she should go to the Hospital
Wing.”

“She is really mortified to think that anyone might see her like this, though. She has been crying –
she is a mess. Are you sure you won’t help?” wheedled Brown.

“I wrote down the spell Midgen used,” Hermione said, “and the wand movements.”
She passed over a slip of parchment to Harry. “I thought it might help.”

Harry looked at it and frowned. “Well, this was a terrible spell she chose, no wonder it went wrong.
This is a spot-remover spell for cleaning and restoring marble. I actually read about it recently in a
book on enchanted statuary and old stonework. It gets rid of blemishes, but I suspect it’s only
intended for statues and balustrades. I doubt you should use it on your face. I’m not even going to
try reversing that – too much could go wrong.” He’d been planning to use the spell in his ongoing
efforts to clean up the Chamber of Secrets and thought it might help clean Ambrosius’ mosaic
(though he was worried it might be too powerful a spell for the tiny glass-like tiles), or at least
some of the tougher statues.

“Oh. That’s fair enough,” Hermione said.

“Poor Eloise,” sighed Lavender. “I suppose she will have to just hide her face on the way to the
Hospital Wing.”

“Sorry,” Harry apologised. “Tell her to use Boil Cure Potion next time – it’s much safer and more
effective. I don’t have any in stock, but if she can help out with the ingredients, I’d be happy to
brew some when I have time if she’s not a confident Potioneer. She should remember it’s topical –
you don’t drink it.”

“Undiluted Bubotuber pus is an excellent remedy for spots as well,” piped up Neville. “It has to be
applied while it is fresh, though.”

The girls hustled off to break the bad news to Midgen, who emerged with her pointed hat pulled
low over her face, surrounded by an escort of all her female dormmates as she was hurried off to
see Madam Pomfrey.

-000-

The Weasley twins sat with Harry and his friends at breakfast, to gather gossip about their sister
and share what they’d learnt about how Susan Bones had managed to return to Hogwarts despite
being infected with lycanthropy.

Hermione reported in with her news first. “Ginny’s not upset about the Tournament – the
Headmaster promised it would be safe and for good or ill she has faith in that, and wishes you luck,
Fred.”

He nodded, but his freckled face still looked grave rather than resuming its typical cheerful
expression they were all more accustomed to seeing. “So, what is it then? Is she worried about dad,
or Bill?”

“No – it’s not family stuff at all, though no doubt that’s not helping her stress levels,” Hermione
said. “She ran off from the feast because some kids were giving her a hard time about the Battles
with the Basilisk book. They didn’t believe her about the spirit in the book being You-Know-Who,
not Grindelwald’s son, and they were teasing her about being so stupid as to keep writing in a
cursed book without telling anyone. Especially given she should know better since spotting things
like that is literally her father’s job… or was. You know, Lockhart’s book isn’t very kind to her –
pointing out how dangerous it is for students not to learn about the Dark Arts, and how at risk even
young pure-bloods can be if left untaught of the world’s dangers – gullible and foolish in their
ignorance. It really had a bit of a different style to his other books, don’t you think, Harry?”

Harry twitched guiltily. “Oh, ah, yes. A bit.” He hadn’t thought about the effect Lockhart’s –
Voldemort’s – editorial changes might have had on Ginny. “He changed quite a few things in his
later drafts. Some at the last minute. I had nothing to do with those, by the way. I think he didn’t
want to risk offending… You-Know-Who. By telling secrets or being insulting to him.”

“I haven’t read the book yet,” said Fred Weasley. “His others were such rubbish that I didn’t
bother.”

“Me either,” agreed his twin. “They were fun, but useless. It sounds like he changed a lot of details
from what really happened, though. We should probably find out what.”

Hermione agreed that Lockhart had made changes but defended her hero on the grounds of
“dramatic necessity” and “common sense”. She offered to lend her copy of the book to them since
she’d read it twice already, and they gratefully accepted (Harry’s gifted copy to their mother
having already been dispatched via owl late the previous night). They also weaselled out of her a
couple of names of Ginny’s tormentors, with a concession that they wouldn’t do anything that
would harm them.

After that was all sorted out, George Weasley asked, “So, did you want to hear about Susan
Bones?”

They were all eager to hear the gossip, and he launched into the story, aided intermittently by his
brother.

“She’s not a Hogwarts student any longer – werewolves aren’t allowed to come to Hogwarts.
Professor Lupin only managed it because he hid what he was while he was a student. Frankly it’s
impressive that no-one got in serious trouble for that.”

“He’s a good man, by the way,” added his twin. “Don’t believe what the Daily Prophet says about
him.”

“We don’t,” promised Hermione.

“So, technically Bones is now a Durmstrang student, and is officially part of the contingent come
to try their luck in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“She just happens to have arrived a couple of months early,” said Fred Weasley, smirking a little.

“It’s a loophole – Durmstrang allows magically talented young werewolves and vampires to
enrol–”

“If their blood is ‘pure’ enough,” his brother interrupted, with a roll of his eyes.

“Under British law she still gets to use her wand until her lycanthropy is proven at the first full
moon, which takes her halfway through September. After that it’s only a few more weeks until the
Durmstrang Headmaster arrives with the visiting students. So, she’ll only need to be without her
wand for a couple of weeks until she falls under their Headmaster’s jurisdiction and can wield it
again. It’s a good joke, isn’t it! Nice to see old Dumbledore getting one past the Ministry like that.”

“I am very happy for her, but what about the problem that she is too young to have a chance of
competing?” worried Neville.

“Technically, the other schools can bring whomever they like, it is simply that it’s not sensible to
bring students too young to enter. Karkaroff – that’s their Headmaster – agreed to Dumbledore’s
plan, which must have taken some smooth talking,” George Weasley said, sounding impressed.

“What about next year?” Harry asked.

“Bones is hoping her Aunt Amelia and Dumbledore will have changed some laws by then. May a
lucky star shine on that plan. However… she said it can’t happen too fast,” said Fred Weasley.

“We can’t give in to terrorist attacks,” agreed his brother.

“Our dad said if the Ministry starts instantly changing laws in favour of werewolf rights, Fenrir and
his ilk will think their strategy works – that if they infect enough people they’ll get everything they
want. That it will lead to more attacks, not less.”

“It makes sense,” agreed Hermione, “but it’s horrible.”

“I agree, and Bones sort of does too. Though, she’s obviously pretty broken up about losing her
cives class citizenship and wand rights, and maybe having to move overseas next year.”

“How is she physically?” asked Harry. “I know your dad isn’t even out of St. Mungo’s yet.”

“She was not nearly as hurt as dad or Bill – Auror Shacklebolt saved her from that fate, may he rest
in peace. She got treated by Healer Obasi, who specialises in creature-induced injuries. She only
had a few fine scratches on her back. Shallow, but enough to infect her, unfortunately. It is pretty
much guaranteed she will be a werewolf, but you never know.”

Gryffindor prefects dropped off their timetables, and Hermione eagerly looked hers over right
away, checking out the column for Friday first, to see what they’d be starting with that morning.

“History of Magic, DADA, and Charms before lunch,” she said, sounding excited. “Double
Potions in the afternoon. Arithmancy on Monday – that’s not too long to wait!”

“Is there anything you are not looking forward to?” Neville asked, sounding amused.

Hermione bit her lip with her large front teeth as she pondered his question. “Astronomy,” she
decided eventually. “Midnight on Tuesdays. It’s just too late at night – it messes up my sleep and
makes keeping to a proper study schedule harder. I don’t think I want to take it at NEWT level. Or
History of Magic, for that matter.”

“Anything with the Hufflepuffs, where we can catch up with Bones?” asked Neville, serving
himself some extra sausages.

“Herbology on Monday and Wednesday mornings,” Hermione pronounced, after a quick skim of
the timetable. “My Arithmancy class is with the Hufflepuffs, but she didn’t pick that elective.”

“Well, I’d better get going,” Harry said, arranging his cutlery in neat parallel lines on his plate –
the sign that the house-elves could whisk his plate away whenever they were ready. “I have to
check in with some people about Potter Watch before seeing Professor Slughorn – the junior group
will need a new leader now Percy’s graduated.”

“Ooh! Can I join in with the senior group too this year, Harry?” Hermione pleaded.

“Sure, I guess. Maybe I should make them less based on year, and more on ability. What do you
think?”

“That sounds great!” Hermione said, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “You could set exams to
progress to the next group early! Have you worked out a curriculum for this year, yet?”

Harry chatted with her for a while about his nascent plans for new spells to cover from some of the
books he’d been reading over the holidays, before she dashed off to talk to Professor Slughorn
about reserving the club room for her monthly H.E.L.P. Society meetings. Harry wanted to make
sure he had his group leaders lined up before talking to their Potions professor and decided to start
by quickly checking in with Angelina Johnson. He knew the dark-skinned sixth-year a little from
his brief foray into Quidditch as she’d been a Gryffindor Chaser for years now, but he knew her
better these days as one of the senior group Potter Watch members.

He awkwardly explained to Johnson how she was actually his back-up choice to lead the junior
Potter Watch group. “I was hoping you might agree to help out if Diggory doesn’t want to lead the
group,” he said nervously. “I don’t know if he’ll want to… all things considered. You heard about
that, right? He lost his dad in the attack at the World Cup. Anyway, I just think it would be polite
to ask him first.”

“Yes, I read it in the paper. It’s alright if you keep me as a back-up. I would be honoured to help
out with your club if you decide you need me,” Johnson promised. “Poor Diggory, losing his father
like that.”

Johnson bowed her head for a moment, looking sad, before she continued. “If he wants the job of
leading the junior group, it is all his, and if he wants me to help out as co-leader, or if he would
rather I took over the job on my own instead, that would be alright too. Whatever he prefers is fine
by me – I don’t mind either way. Oh, and I could also help you as an extra tutor for the middle
group, if you don’t need me for the juniors.”

“Thank you,” murmured Harry, with relief. “That’s a great idea!”

That went well, he thought happily. Even better than I’d hoped.

He headed off to the Slytherin table next. Hopefully Peregrine Derrick would be on board to tutor
again, even though it was his NEWT year. He said brief hellos to all his Slytherin friends on his
way past them to find Peregrine. Millicent looked very grumpy that morning as she glared at her
plate of bacon and toast like it had personally offended her somehow but perked up and looked
thoughtful at Harry’s casual cheery greetings to them all as he breezed past.

With only a short consultation required to settle things, Harry quickly confirmed that Peregrine was
more than happy to keep leading the senior group meetings twice a month. He then headed towards
the Hufflepuff table. On his way past the younger Slytherins at the end of the table, Harry spotted
Mafalda Prewett and stopped to greet her.

“Good morning, Mafalda,” he said politely. “Congratulations on getting Sorted into Slytherin, I am
sure you’ll make your new House proud.”

“Thank you, Harold!” she said, beaming happily. As he left, Harry noticed out of the corner of his
eye that she was subtly besieged by other tiny first-year Slytherins after that, all leaning in to
gossip quietly with her.

Harry didn’t see Bones at the Hufflepuff table, and Macmillan whispered to him conspiratorially
that she’d left breakfast early with her friends – she’d found everyone’s stares too hard to bear.

Diggory was still there, however, slowly finishing off a bowl of porridge. Diggory’s friends glared
warningly at Harry as he approached – one of them, a brown-haired tall boy, pushed away from the
table to intercept him in the aisle.

“He doesn’t want to talk about it,” the burly senior warned in a deep voice, blocking Harry’s way
forward.
 “Umm…” Harry started hesitantly. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. I totally understand he
wouldn’t want to talk about… the attack at the World Cup. I wasn’t going to ask him about it, I
promise.”

“Thank you. I will pass your message on to him later,” the Hufflepuff said, softening slightly as the
warning glare left his eyes.

“Also, could you ask him if he’d like to be the group leader for the junior Potter Watch group this
year? He doesn’t have to – Johnson from Gryffindor says she’s happy to do it if he’s not interested,
or they can work together. Whatever he wants. I just thought… maybe he would like to stay busy.
He’s great with young kids – being a prefect – and good at all his spells. I don’t know,” Harry said,
scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. “Maybe it was a dumb idea. Please let him know
he really doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.”

“It’s a kind thought. I will let him know, and I will have someone get a message back to you if he
still isn’t ready to talk to anyone,” the boy promised.

Harry caught Diggory’s eye for a moment as he departed and nodded to him in brief wordless
sympathy. Diggory smiled wanly back at him, then turned back to his porridge.

While he kept his face calm, Harry castigated himself silently. He’d thought it would be a good
idea to invite Diggory to help out in the defence group, but maybe it had actually been a dreadful
plan, and not at all well thought through. He should have talked it over with someone else first and
gotten a second opinion. The badgers were rallying around their friend Diggory to ward off
unwanted enquiries and shallow offerings of sympathy – if the socially savvy house good at
friendship didn’t want Diggory bothered, it must be inappropriate. At least in this particular case.
Harry didn’t want to be a bother, however, he feared that despite his good intentions that was
exactly what he’d been.

Chapter End Notes

Hello again everyone! I hope you’re excited to see the series back again. :) A special
thank you to those reviewers who left me encouraging messages urging me to continue
with this series during the long quiet time since “Extraordinary Summer” finished
posting.
The League of Extraordinary British Betas – I’ve consulted this group on FB a lot for
the fic, tweaking little things here and there to be more accurately British (I’m
Australian so I have to check spelling, vocab, and facts for both US *and* UK
fandoms). Thanks, everyone! Many other spot checkers have assisted polish bits of
this work, and many readers’ comments have inspired me; thanks will be left on the
relevant chapters.
Any remaining errors are my own responsibility (and readers are welcome to politely
point out typos, grammatical errors, or perceived inconsistencies with canon or
previous fics in this series). My usual wonderful beta is alas very busy and is unable to
currently assist me – she works in the healthcare industry so I 100% support her in not
spending her very limited free time working on fic editing right now.
 Unforgiveable Things
Chapter Summary

Harry and his friends learn about the Unforgiveable Curses. They also discuss
something even more unforgiveable – the cancellation of the 1994-95 Hogwarts
Quidditch season.

Friday 2nd September 1994

History of Magic was just as dull as ever and was used as an opportunity for a few panicked
Gryffindor students like Ron to furtively finish off their last-minute holiday essays for Charms.

“Writing two feet on ‘What is your favourite charm and why?’ should have been the easiest thing
in the world,” Hermione scoffed as they left the classroom.

“Except maybe for the length,” teased Harry. “How many feet did you write?”

“…Three,” she admitted, which made Neville laugh.

“My first draft was four feet long!” she added defensively. “I cut a lot!”

They hurried to Defence Against the Dark Arts, and followed Hermione to seats in the front row,
getting out their books.

“I still can’t believe our teacher picked the same book that we used in first year,” grumbled Harry.
“I hope we learn some new spells.”

“Shh! He’s coming!” said Neville nervously, and the whole class waited quietly as Professor
Moody’s distinctive clunking footsteps came down the corridor and he entered the room.

For different reasons, both Harry and Ron were eager to put their books away when Moody
growled out an order for the class to do so. After the roll was called, Moody launched into a review
of what they’d covered in previous classes.

“Now, this year you’ll be learning about curses. Illegal Dark curses. According to the Ministry of
Magic, I am supposed to teach you counter-curses and leave it at that. In their estimable opinion
you have no need to know the curses themselves until NEWT level, and they think you are not old
enough to cope with that knowledge yet. But Professor Dumbledore thinks otherwise. He has a
high opinion of your nerves and reckons you can cope. He and I think the sooner you know what
you are up against, the better,” Moody said.

Moody glanced around the room in an unnerving fashion as his magical eye swivelled around the
room to catch any hint of movement, like Brown showing Patil her Charms homework under the
desk, which earned the girls a swift rebuke.

“You cannot defend yourself against a curse you have never seen, that you know nothing about.
You need to be ready,” insisted Moody, as he resumed his lecture. “A wizard about to curse you
will not warn you politely about what he is casting at you. You have scant seconds to react with the
right shield or counter-curse, and if you take too long to think or you guess wrong, well, you might
end up as pretty as me!”

He pointed to his glassy right eye as he finished the last sentence with a grin, and then tapped his
nose where a chunk was missing from it, and then pointed to a few of the larger and uglier scars
criss-crossing his face.

Lavender Brown wasn’t the only person in the room who shuddered at the thought of ending up
like that. Harry felt a bit ill himself, remembering poor Arthur Weasley who might indeed look a
lot like Moody now, with a missing eye and all. At least he still had both his legs, even though
they’d been badly clawed and bitten.

Moody lectured them on the Unforgiveable Curses: the Imperius, the Cruciatus, and last of all, the
Killing Curse. The demonstrations of their effects on engorged spiders horrified everyone, to a
greater or lesser extent.

Harry stared at the dead spider on the floor, remembering the memories induced by the Boggart-
Dementor last year. His mother running up the stairs with him to the nursery. Carving a rune on his
forehead. Pleading with Voldemort for Harry’s life, as he offered to spare her. The flash of green
light and the horrifying thud as her body hit the ground.

Neville gently nudged Harry’s side with a covert elbow. “You okay?” he whispered. “That one
must have been as hard for you as the Cruciatus was for me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” reassured Harry, forcing a smile as fake as Neville’s own was.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” roared Moody, which caused most of the class to jump. Harry and
Neville, however, had been more distracted due to their whispered conversation and had missed
what their teacher had been lecturing about, so were even more startled than the rest of the
students. Harry automatically ducked down and covered his head with his hands, while Neville let
out a frightened “Eep!” and almost tipped over backwards in his chair as he recoiled in instinctual
fear.

Moody gave a ghastly grin to them both – perhaps he meant it to look reassuring, it was hard to tell
– then resumed his lecture on the Unforgiveable Curses as the class took notes.

As Moody covered the history and casting method of the Killing Curse in more detail, Harry
frowned and put his hand up. It startled Neville out of his brooding and quiet note-taking. Usually
it was only Hermione who dared to interrupt a teacher in the middle of their monologue with
questions.

“Yes, boy?”

“It’s Potter, sir,” Harry said, sounding at least outwardly courteous. He hated it when people called
him ‘boy’. “You keep saying that there’s no counter-curse for the Killing Curse, and that’s
certainly true, but I wondered if you are going to cover the other kinds of defences against it soon.”

There was a murmur of impressed interest and curiosity from his classmates on hearing his
question.

“An expert on the topic, are you?”

“Certainly not as much as you are sir, as a retired Auror. However, I have read every book or story
about the Killing Curse I could get my hands on. So, I know that while what you said about there
being no magical counter or shield is technically correct, there are still several ways to defend
against it.”

“Not counting being Harry Potter,” Moody said, with an odd gruff laugh.

“Yes, not counting that,” he agreed, looking rather embarrassed and glancing away as he thought
about his mother’s runic circle hidden under his cot, and the scar on his face.

“Name a half dozen methods that would let a wizard survive when someone casts the Killing Curse
at you, and you’ll earn yourself twenty points for Sly… I’m sorry, for Gryffindor,” their teacher
said with a toothy grin, making a couple of students in the class snicker.

“Dodging out of the way.”

“One. Easy answer. Give me something better,” Professor Moody demanded.

“Blocking it by hiding behind a physical object, like a thick stone wall or fence. I’ve read about
two Aurors who used that to survive multiple Killing Curses being cast at them in the last war. You
were one of them, in fact.”

“Good. Two.”

“A conjured or transfigured physical barrier – like summoning up an earthen wall. Or a conjured

living barrier, like a snake or a flock of birds.”

Hermione, Harry noticed, was frantically taking notes as he spoke, which was quite flattering.

“Three and four. Keep going, now it’s getting interesting!” Moody said.

Blocking with another person was another method, but Harry didn’t want to say that one out loud.
It would sound bad. It was true that some Death Eaters had resorted to summoning their enemies
into the way of an Auror’s Killing Curse to kill them off through ‘friendly fire’ in the last war, but
Harry didn’t want to talk about that strategy. He thought of something else to volunteer instead.

“Lack of intent – the Killing Curse requires the desire to kill on the part of the caster.”

“That isn’t something you can control. Well… except with the Imperius Curse, perhaps. So, I will
grant you that point on a technicality. Just one more, Potter.”

“Apparition. The Killing Curse is a targeted ray. If you can get away in time, you’re safe.”

Moody shook his head. “Not many people can Disapparate quickly and well under stress. Certainly
not at your age, without training. Very dubious, that one.”

“But it’s theoretically possible,” countered Harry. “I didn’t say any of them would be easy. Well,
except maybe lack of killing intent. If you’re lucky and you can talk your way into getting your
enemy hesitating about killing you.

“But, if you don’t think it counts, well… disarming your opponent with Expelliarmus is another
method that will work if you’re fast enough to interrupt the incantation. You’d probably need to
cast that non-verbally to be quick enough, though.”

“Twenty points for Gryffindor!” yelled Moody, grinning as half the class flinched again in their
seats at the sudden noise. “Now there’s a lad who’s not going to be caught napping without a plan.
No-one’s going to catch him and give him a matching scar!”

Moody spun quickly and pointed his wand at Harry, who reflexively tumbled out of his chair and
ducked down behind a desk in panic.

“Protego!” Harry yelled. A shimmering golden shield of force appeared in front of him where he
cowered on the floor, waiting for the spells to start.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” yelled Moody again with glee.

He laughed rather maniacally for a moment before cutting it off with an embarrassed cough.
“Thought I was going to kill you, did you boy? Good lad. Trust no-one! Take another ten points for
Sl… Gryffindor. Your Shield Charm wouldn’t have helped you if I had been casting the Killing
Curse, mind you. It would go straight through, as I think you well know. The desk and chair legs
might have helped a little. Work on those reflexes, Potter!”

Harry picked himself up off the floor warily and dropped his Shield charm, eyeing his Professor
worriedly. Watching his face for shifts of expression, watching his hands for sudden movement.

“Mental,” breathed Ron in unadulterated awe, watching Moody. “Totally mental.”

Neville – still in his seat – had his wand out and pointed at their teacher. Trembling, but pointed in
unspoken threat.

Moody’s false eye had rolled slightly in its socket to look at Neville, while his normal eye kept
gazing straight at Harry. “Ten points to Gryffindor for Longbottom, who is the only one in this
class of brave lions who was ready to fight, and who is still waiting to be sure the fight is actually
over before lowering his wand. Old duelling etiquette that is, and damn good common sense to
boot. Alright lad, it’s finished, you can relax now.” Moody’s scarred face looked rather frightening
as he grinned again. He lazily swished his wand in a salute against his chest before lowering it and
putting it away at last, which Neville took as his cue to do likewise. Neville cautiously helped
Harry up, watching Moody warily.

“It’s not over until he puts his wand away,” murmured Neville as he sat down. Harry wasn’t sure
Neville was actually addressing to him as he spoke – there was a lost, faraway look in his eyes, like
he was thinking of something or someone else.

Neville blinked and brightened up as he added happily, “I got ten points! I was rather brave, wasn’t
I, Harry? I shall write and tell Gran all about it.”

Hermione earnt Gryffindor five extra points too, as she finally judged it was socially acceptable to
thrust her hand up into the air to eagerly volunteer her own suggestion of the Silencing Charm as
being another potential defence against the Killing Curse, or indeed any of the Unforgiveables,
which the well-read knew were notoriously difficult to cast silently.

The rest of the lesson went more quickly, as Professor Moody started lecturing about the
weaknesses of Shield Charms against the three Unforgiveables, and soon enough they were free
from his frankly unnerving and unpredictable gaze. It made Harry tense that he couldn’t really tell
who or what their teacher was watching and focusing on at any given moment.

He didn’t linger to ask questions about it though. Professor Moody assigned them homework – a
mere foot explaining their argument for which of the three Unforgiveable Curses was the worst,
and a summary of its effects. Then Harry and Neville hurried out of class as quickly as they could.

“Thanks, Nev,” Harry said quietly after they’d left the classroom, walking rather solemnly next to
each other. Hermione was walking with Ron, chatting about the thrilling lesson. Harry hadn’t
found it half so enjoyable as those two had. Neville still seemed in a bit of a daze, but at Harry’s
comment he blinked, and shook himself as he turned to focus on Harry.

“It was my honoured duty to come to the aid of my ally,” Neville said formally. He then relaxed as
he continued, “With any luck that will be your fated attack by a Defence teacher all over and done
with for the year, though I would not want to count on it. I must say I am rather glad I didn’t drop
my wand this time – I have been practicing my draw. I regret I did not cast a spell, but as he is our
teacher that was perhaps for the best in any case.”

“Probably so. We should keep watching him. That was scary!”

Neville nodded. “Because you never know, with an old wizard like him. You never know what
they will do. To test you. To see what you’re capable of.” That distant look was in Neville’s eyes
again, and Harry had the suspicion he was thinking of his not-so-beloved Great-Uncle Algie.

“We’ll watch him,” Harry vowed. “Together.”

-000-

Slughorn was delighted to see Harry on Saturday morning and happy to reserve the club room for
the second and fourth Sunday mornings of the month for Harry’s Potter Watch club meetings.

He seemed inclined to settle in for a leisurely chat, and after extracting Harry’s promise to come to
his occasional evening Slug Club meetings, he started talking about the other groups that had
reserved spots.

“The Frog Choir is leading things off with fortnightly meetings on Saturdays, and your friend
Granger’s monthly H.E.L.P. Society meetings start tomorrow, of course. The Gobstones Club
leader has seen me already and reserved a new extra time slot for a formal monthly inter-House
tournament. Good idea, eh? I did love a game myself when I was young, so I am sponsoring them
with some prizes of chocolate for the first three places.”

Harry shifted anxiously from foot to foot. “I’m sure that will be very popular, sir. Well, I really
must be going, sorry.”

“Oh yes! I heard about your detention at breakfast,” Slughorn said, with a sympathetic look.
“Never mind, Potter. Just be a bit more discreet in the future!”

“You don’t think it… means someone is a blood purist? If they’re bowing? Or you do think it
means that, but you approve?” Harry asked rashly.

Slughorn smiled at him. “Etiquette is the grease that keeps the world turning smoothly, and
everyone demands those little gestures in their own way – your Head of House included. Otherwise
she would be happy to be called ‘Minerva’ by her students and would forgo the titles of ‘Professor’
and ‘ma’am’. Some people just have different expectations of what courtesy demands of us.

“Are you a blood purist, Potter? Do you think marriages between those of pure-blood and Muggle-
born status should be permitted or not? Should Muggle-borns and sympathetic Muggles be allowed
to mix in our society? Are those with purer blood better wizards and witches than those with the
touch of earth from their Muggle ancestry?”

“No, I’m not – that is, I don’t think I am. I think people should marry whomever they love, and
everyone should be welcome in society. I… I don’t know if those with purer blood are better at
magic,” Harry admitted hesitantly. “I mean, I don’t think they are, but I’ve never read any
scientific test on the matter. I have heard they live longer and are more inclined to have special
talents. But even if that might be true there’s obviously exceptions, and I wouldn’t want to make
any assumptions one way or the other without researching it, to be honest. I certainly wouldn’t
assume a Muggle-born is going to be naturally worse at magic. Even if there is a trend, it means
nothing on an individual level. Look at Hermione! She’s great at magic.”

“What about old Cantankerous Nott’s study comparing the NEWT results of Muggle-born and
pure-blood students in an appendix of his book?” Slughorn challenged. “Some cite that as the very
proof you are after.”

Harry shook his head. “He had a strong political agenda with his pure-blood directory, so all his
results are suspect. We know he left out some pure-blood families he should have included while
he ignored some mixed marriages for families he liked… or whose Galleons he liked, perhaps. I
think he cherry-picked his data on NEWT results, because he didn’t give a reason as to why he left
out the results for 1908 to 1910. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

Slughorn chuckled. “Well said, and it’s not so odd if you know that those three years had some
truly exceptional Muggle-born students graduating from Hogwarts. Well, Potter, for what it is
worth I would say you are not a blood-purist, you’re just a polite young lad. Myself, I judge people
on their merits – family is not the only thing that matters, you know. With a little bit of help a
Muggle-born student or someone from an unranked family can go just as far as a pure-blood Heir.
Off with you now. No tattling on me to McGonagall, now! Remember, courtesy and discretion.”
He tapped the side of his nose as a reminder to be more secretive.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry still wasn’t completely sure about the rights and wrongs of the etiquette of bowing, but his
professor’s endorsement of his beliefs as not being blood-purist in nature was heartening.

When he entered the Transfiguration classroom for his two-hour detention, he found Colin already
writing away, and three tiny first-year students just settling down at desks – two boys in casual
robes, and one girl with a green hair ribbon.

“Potter, you sit next to Creevey. Baddock, Pritchard, you two over there. Runcorn, you take the
desk behind the Slytherin boys. All of you start copying the lines off the board, and no talking,”
McGonagall said sternly.

Harry settled in with a swift quiet mutter of “Sorry” to Colin and began copying out McGonagall’s
lines: ‘I am no better, and no worse, than anyone else at Hogwarts just because of who my family
is. We are all witches and wizards here, and of equal rank. We may all mix with whomsoever we
choose. I will not promulgate the doctrines of blood purity.’

Half an hour into their long and painful scratching out of lines with their quills, their detention was
interrupted as Professor Sprout came in with a rebellious-looking first-year in tow. She was an
average-looking short girl with her long brown hair worn loose – tucked back behind her large
pierced ears studded with little silver crescent moons – and she was wearing plain black school
work robes even though it was the weekend (when most students favoured more casual attire).

“Another one for detention, Minerva,” Professor Sprout said, with a disappointed look down at her
student, who crossed her arms and scowled, avoiding her gaze. “Eleanor Branstone, first-year – one
of my Hufflepuffs. She will need to do lines on religion – she was caught setting up an altar in her
dorm room.”

“Oh my goodness, really? A Muggle-born?! Take a seat then Branstone, on your own or next to
Runcorn.”
Branstone complied grudgingly with a noisy scrape of the chair legs on the stone floor as she sat
crossly, ignoring her Head of House’s parting injunctions to behave.

Professor McGonagall wrote up another paragraph of lines on the board: ‘Magic is just a force and
should not be offered worship; I will offer it no sacrifices. Nor shall I practice Dark magic of any
kind, for I wish to remain a student at Hogwarts. I will not evangelise pagan superstitions.’

Harry and Colin exchanged a quick guilty look as they glanced over the new lines Branstone would
have to copy. The three Slytherins were also distracted from their lines, taking covert peeks at the
newest addition to their detention.

The brown-haired Hufflepuff girl wasn’t quick to get started at her work, and just sat there at the
desk glaring at the teacher’s back with beady eyes. When McGonagall turned around, the girl said
accusingly, “You told me and my mum that everyone at Hogwarts was a witch or a wizard. Why
can’t I be free to practise my religion? I’m proud of being a witch! You promised that the days of
witches being persecuted were over. I thought the Statute of Secrecy meant Hogwarts was a haven
for Wiccans, but Professor Sprout said I couldn’t have an altar and she even made me take my
pentacle necklace off!”

“That is enough,” McGonagall said severely, stalking over to put a pile of blank parchment down
in front of her. “We are free from persecution to practice magic as I told you when I visited your
family, but that liberty does not extend to Dark magic, which is illegal. Five points from
Hufflepuff, and if you do not wish to be spending the next month in detention you will get started
on your lines immediately!”

Branstone got a quill and ink out of her bag and started writing, looking angry and miserable about
it.

They were all finally released an hour and a half later, hands cramped and spotted with ink blots.
One by one they went up to McGonagall’s desk and handed over their long parchments filled with
lines to her and offered up their apologetic promises – sincere or otherwise – to act better in the
future.

Out in the corridor one of the Slytherin boys, Baddock, dashed off to catch up to Branstone who
was hurrying away at a quick, furious pace.

Millicent was waiting outside the Transfiguration classroom door and pounced on Harry as soon as
he emerged. “Harry, I need to talk to you. In private,” she said, in a low voice.

“Uh, sure. Just wait a second, I need to say something to Creevey first.”

Harry turned to the young Gryffindor as he emerged and said, “Creevey, I just want you to know
that I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

The mousey-haired boy smiled cheerfully at him in instant forgiveness. “Oh, it’s fine! You were
just trying to be polite and stuff – so was I. It was my fault too, trying to teach it all to Dennis right
there in a corridor.”

“I don’t know if it’s really fine or not, but in any case, I really wanted to explain properly to you
that I honestly don’t think Muggle-born students are any better or worse than any other wizards or
witches. And I don’t look down on you or think I’m better than you because of who my ancestors
are, or what family you’re from. So, I wanted to say sorry if you thought that, because I certainly
didn’t mean anything like that…”
Harry trailed awkwardly to a stop, then held out his ink-spotted hand to shake – Creevey shook it
eagerly.

“No offence taken at all, Potter. I knew you didn’t think that because you’ve always been really
nice to me, not like some of the Sly... some people,” he finished awkwardly, with a sidelong glance
at Millicent who was hovering impatiently nearby.

“I hope no-one’s giving you trouble?” Harry checked.

“No, no, it’s fine now.”

Creevey waved a cheerful goodbye as he left, then Millicent promptly dragged Harry by the hand
into an empty classroom, just the two of them. She closed the door behind them, dimming the
noise of the chattering students heading down the stone corridors off to lunch.

“Shouldn’t we have a chaperone if we’re meeting alone?” Harry asked nervously, as she stared at
him intently. “Where are the other girls?”

Millicent bowed low from the waist to Harry, a supplicant abasing themselves before their patron.
“Harold James Potter, Heir of the Houses of Slytherin, Black, and Potter, I come to thee in secret in
search of thine aid.”

“Millicent, really, that’s not necessary, stand up – we’re friends! Is this some gossip about my
detention? I don’t really demand that people should bow to me, you know. You don’t need to be
all formal, honestly. Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

She straightened up, and Harry was taken aback by the look on her face. Not grief, or fear, but
fierce determination. “I need your help, Harry. The Headmaster has cancelled the Quidditch
season.”

“Uh, yes,” agreed Harry.

They stared at each other silently for a moment. “I’m really sorry?” Harry added hesitantly. “It
must be very disappointing; I know you love Quidditch.”

“So… I need your help. I want you to convince the Headmaster to bring back Quidditch,” Millicent
explained slowly. “You have his ear. You have connections across the Houses, and even in the
Ministry, and with Quidditch teams too. You sat in the Top Box at the Quidditch World Cup, for
Merlin’s sake! I believe you can do this for me, for all of us, and of course I will be in your debt if
you do.”

“Well, I don’t know if I can… the Triwizard Cup sounds like a big deal, and I doubt the
Headmaster cancelled Quidditch just because he felt like it. I know it’s a shame, but there’s always
next year!” he said encouragingly.

Millicent shook her head. “No, this year. I need to get on the Slytherin team this year. Derrick will
have graduated by next year. You don’t understand – I spent practically all the favours I have been
saving for the past three years! I used my blackmail secrets I have been hoarding. I sold
information – even on you. I claimed all the favours people owe me for services rendered and
secrets kept.”

“You sold information on me?” Harry checked nervously. “What information?”

“Nothing damaging,” promised Millicent. “Confirmation for a couple of people about you being a
Parselmouth and the Heir of Slytherin – how I saw you commanding snake statues in the Chamber
of Secrets, similar to the scene in Lockhart’s book. Also… I told Draco about you being a
Metamorphmagus.”

“What?! Why would you do that?”

“Well, because of various deals I have a guaranteed spot on the team if Derrick gets the Captaincy,
but if Montague gets it I will only get a preferential try-out. So, I traded the information for a major
favour from him – Draco will order Crabbe to not run against me if Montague’s made Captain, and
the Malfoys will offer some favour to the Crabbe family of course in compensation. That will
practically ensure I get the spot.”

Harry sighed unhappily, giving her a frustrated look.

“I really am sorry, but I could not sit on that information forever with no return on my secrecy, and
I wasn’t sworn to secrecy,” Millicent said nervously. “It’s not like I announced it to the Daily
Prophet or Witch Weekly. I did not tell anyone about us cheating in History of Magic, or ruin your
lies about Lockhart or his book, or anything harmful to your reputation! Only good things!”

“If I’d wanted Draco or anyone to know about me being a partial Metamorphmagus, I would have
told them!”

“Well yes, obviously. That is why you kept it secret, and that is why it was worth such a big
favour,” said Millicent. “If you want to tell other people about that yourself, you may want to do so
quickly as I only got a promise from him to wait a week before he will be free to discreetly tell
anyone else.”

Harry groaned, and buried his face in his hands.

“Look, Harry, I am sorry, but I need this. Quidditch is my chance. To do something – to be

someone. I am not a good student – the only O I get is for History of Magic and we both know that
is nothing to boast about. I am failing Potions, and I only get Acceptables for Charms and
Transfiguration, and that is with plenty of studying. I am trying, but I am just not much of a witch,
and I am no good at essays. I am no beauty either – I am muscular and overweight, and no-one is
ever going to compare my face to Helen of Troy’s. I shall graduate Hogwarts with no
Apprenticeship lined up, no fiancé who wants me except maybe some old or ugly wizard who
cares more about blood purity than matching temperaments or good looks, and no job my parents
will consider letting me work at because there’s nothing I’m good at that’s not beneath the family
dignity. Except Quidditch. It is my one hope and I will not let my chance be ruined because of
some idiotic international competition that cannot possibly take up the whole school year!”

She was yelling for the last sentence of her ranted explanation, chest heaving and plump chin
wobbling as she clearly tried not to cry.

“Please, Harry,” she sniffled miserably. “Help me.”

Harry reached out tentatively to pat her on the shoulder. “Okay. It’s okay. I’ll see what I can do.
I’m sure you’re not the only person who’s upset by this. The Weasley twins are just as angry about
it, and Ron is a miserable scowling thundercloud about his lost chance, too, especially since he’s
too young to enter the Tournament. I’ll get help – we’ll work together, and we’ll bring Quidditch
back this year.”

Harry thought she might hug him and braced himself for it, but Millicent bowed low again and
murmured formally that she was indebted to her patron for his assistance. Harry automatically gave
her a short unthinking bow of acknowledgement and left the room with a determined stride, the
beginnings of a plan glimmering in his mind. He would need help for this, but luckily, he knew just
the people for the job, starting with Professor Slughorn.

-000-

With only an hour left before dinner time the club room was packed, and everyone was glad that
Slughorn had overseen its expansion to double its size compared to last year. Harry had plenty of
friends eager to help spread word of his upcoming emergency meeting at top speed, and the
Weasley twins had been the most determined self-proclaimed ‘priority owls’ anyone could hope
for. Working together, they’d managed to gather together everyone from all four Quidditch teams
including the reserve players. Harry had also attracted a good handful of extra people who’d heard
about the ‘Save Quidditch’ meeting either from gossip or from reading the hastily pinned
announcement on the club room’s message board. So, the room was also packed with Quidditch
team hopefuls too, as well as keen fans outraged at the year’s cancellation of matches they’d been
anticipating watching.

Standing nervously at the front of the room in front of a blackboard, Harry cast his eye over the
crowded room with people packed everywhere on sofas and wooden chairs, with a few students
lining the walls and sitting on rugs on the ground, and took a deep breath to ground himself.

“Hello everyone, welcome to the first meeting of the ‘Save Quidditch’ group,” Harry started.
“Thanks for coming, and thanks also to Madam Hooch who’s joined us this evening as our group’s
teacher-supervisor and who I’m pleased to say is of course very much in favour of our goal!”

Madam Hooch, seated comfortably in a plush lavender armchair, smiled and waved as the students
gave her and Harry an enthusiastic round of applause.

Harry waited for the room to quiet down again before continuing. “I’m sure the senior years are
very excited about the possibility of entering the Triwizard Tournament, but that’s only going to be
an option for just one senior student from Hogwarts, and all the junior students aren’t even eligible.

“Hermione Granger has done some quick research into past Tournaments – thanks Hermione – and
typically they’ve consisted of between three to five challenges lasting no more than two days in
length each, usually set months apart. To uh… allow for the competitors to heal up before the next
challenge,” Harry said, with a wince. Hermione’s report based on her hasty research had been gory
to hear – so many past competitors had died or been crippled.

“The Tournaments where the challenges were very close together were often the more disastrous
ones, so her research suggests that for safety’s sake they’ll be at least two months apart. So, three to
five events set months apart, which should take up no more than ten days in total, should allow
plenty of time for us to have Hogwarts Quidditch matches, don’t you think?!”

There was a chorus of cheers and applause for that.

“So, first things first! I’m just a fan who’s trying to get things started and organised, so it’s now our
four Quidditch captains who’ll be taking the lead for the group. It’s my honour to introduce our
potential Quidditch captains for the year! Roger Davies, sixth-year, is continuing as the captain and
Chaser for Ravenclaw-” Harry started, pausing for some House-proud cheering for the handsome
brown-haired captain as he came up to the front of the room.

“Cedric Diggory, sixth-year, will be continuing as captain and Seeker for Hufflepuff,” Harry
continued, and Diggory was patted on the back and had his hand shook a lot as he joined them at
the front. Harry had been a little wary about approaching him directly after his last failure and had
cautiously gotten Ernie Macmillan to act as a go-between and talk to him. While not up to much
general socializing, Diggory had reportedly been eager to help with their quest to reinstate
Quidditch, as his father had been a big Quidditch fan and Diggory felt that continuing to play
would be honouring his memory.

“Professor Slughorn sends his regards to all and best wishes for our endeavours to reinstate
Quidditch, and has nominated Slytherin seventh-year Peregrine Derrick, Beater, as the new captain
should we be successful!”

The Slytherins all looked cheerful and approving of their housemate’s appointment, even
Montague, who must surely be hiding his disappointment at the news that he’d missed out on the
plum role.

“Last but by no means least, Gryffindor needs a new captain to replace Oliver Wood, who I’m sure
will do our House proud in his job as the new reserve Keeper for Puddlemere United! Professor
McGonagall has been consulted – thank you to Fred and George Weasley for that – and our new
Gryffindor captain is Angelina Johnson, Chaser and sixth-year! Over to you four, now!” Harry led
a final round of applause for the team captains, then with a relieved sigh took a seat at the front,
squashed into Johnson’s old spot in between Katie Bell and Fred Weasley.

Johnson gave a short speech to everyone when she reached the front. “Thanks for the support
everyone! Hopefully we can actually get Quidditch back again really soon and make this our first
and last group meeting! If we can’t, we’re still planning to run some unofficial pick-up games – we
won’t lose our Quidditch no matter what! So, whether our official efforts succeed or fail, if you’re
interested in signing up for try-outs come and see me at the end of the meeting – I have sign-up
sheets for all the four Houses. We’ve each picked a morning for try-outs from Tuesday through
Friday next week, to keep things simple and fast in case we can only squeeze some games in over
the next two months before the international students arrive. I’ll be working with Madam Hooch
on match scheduling that could work around the Triwizard Tournament, so come and see me later
if you have any thoughts on that.”

Peregrine spoke up next. “My role is going to be coordinating efforts to garner support from the
wider Quidditch community. For those of us in sixth and seventh year in particular, cancelling the
year’s matches is a very hard blow to our potential careers after Hogwarts as scouts will not be able
to see us play. All students young and old will also lose a valuable year’s worth of practice with a
consequent loss of skill, and Quidditch supporters will lose a lot of entertainment. I already have
pledges from Professor Slughorn and Megan Jones to get a letter of support for reinstating
Quidditch at Hogwarts from members of the Holyhead Harpies, which will be sent to the
Headmaster. Also, Harry Potter will be writing to the manager of the Appleby Arrows, and the
Weasley family are going to get in touch with Oliver Wood whom as you just heard has joined
Puddlemere United.

“In addition, Professor Slughorn, Luna Lovegood, and Alice Tolipan stand ready to talk to their
contacts in the media, if it comes to that. If you have any valuable contacts with Quidditch teams,
the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or the press, please come and consult with me about
the best approach to take.”

Diggory was next and kept his talk very short. “I am in charge of our petition to the Headmaster.
We want as many people to sign it as possible from all four Houses, and the teachers, too. I am
sure if the Headmaster sees an overwhelming and united show of support for Quidditch, he will
change his mind about the ban. I need helpers from each House, ready to work together to canvass
Hogwarts for signatures.”

The Ravenclaw captain, Roger Davies, was the last captain to speak. “I have spoken briefly with
the Headmaster this afternoon to ascertain his reasons behind the ban on Quidditch this year. His
concerns are focused on splitting the school’s attention from supporting our Triwizard champion,
whomever they may be, the possible use of the Quidditch pitch for one or more Triwizard
Tournament tasks, and the anticipated additional workload that will be imposed on several teachers
due to the Tournament. Lastly, and most significantly, there will also be a strain on the Hogwarts
budget this year due to the need to accommodate extra guests, as well as expenses for the
Tournament tasks.

“Did you know that Quidditch games aren’t free? They come with some costs, including broom
and equipment maintenance and replacement, yearly fees for checking of enchantments on the
Quidditch stands, the Bludgers, and the Snitch by a representative from the Ministry, and Madam
Hooch’s salary for her work as our referee and match coordinator. As such, I will be in charge of
planning and organizing fundraising activities, as well as leading a discussion group looking at
alternate venues for matches if necessary. Come and see me if you have ideas about any of that, or
any other aspects we might have forgotten about!

“Also, Draco Malfoy – the Slytherin Seeker – will be talking to his father, the chairman of the
Hogwarts Board of Directors, about funding allocation. If you know one of the other eleven board
members, please join our group.”

“One last thing before we all split into planning groups,” Johnson added, after Davies had finished
his speech. “A round of applause for Potter, who worked like a house-elf all day talking to
everyone and planning everything, and who got us all moving! Stand up, Potter!”

Harry stood up embarrassedly as people cheered for him and looked around for Millicent. He
spotted her against one wall with Greg and Vincent and gave her an enquiring look and a gesture to
join him, but she shook her head in determined refusal. So, he just smiled his best Lockhart-smile,
gave everyone a wave, and sat down again. As the Quidditch captains moved to different corners
of the room and people crowded around them to sign up for try-outs and eagerly volunteer their
assistance, Harry thought that while he wasn’t as shy as Millicent was, he still understood a little of
how she felt. He’d been happy to hand over the spot in the limelight and the organisation of the
group to someone else too. What mattered was that it was happening, not who got credit for it. Or
perhaps she was getting quiet credit in Slytherin circles, and that was all that was important to her.
Peregrine had spontaneously come and found him like he’d already known Harry was working to
get Quidditch reinstated.

It was nice to see the Houses all mixing together and working for a common cause. Over in the
Ravenclaw corner with Davies, Vincent Crabbe was loudly explaining his thoughts on how they’d
all forgotten about how Viktor Krum went to Durmstrang and might be one of the exchange
students. If that was the case, Krum would miss practising Quidditch all year – the Bulgarian team
might be happy to help with some funding if their star player came on exchange to Hogwarts.
Draco joined in with noises of approval and made supportive suggestions about how someone –
implicitly not himself – should research that. Draco also recommended that they should also find
out if the other schools had Quidditch teams and would like to have some friendly matches with the
Hogwarts teams. An eager Ravenclaw volunteered to research the latter topic, then they scurried
over to Johnson’s table to raise that with her as a possible scheduling issue.

Draco started discussing selling ‘Save Quidditch’ supporter badges as a fundraising endeavour, and
eager Hufflepuffs volunteered to help him make them, while Ravenclaws and Gryffindors began
bickering good-naturedly over the best design and slogan. The Hogwarts squid was a preferred
logo option, for some reason Harry didn’t manage to overhear in the hubbub of dozens of cheerful
voices. Harry hoped the rare inter-House goodwill and co-operation would last. He wandered over
to Derrick’s table, ready to do what he could to help too. Hopefully he could get some tips on the
best way to phrase his letter to the Appleby Arrow’s manager.
 Slavery and Subjugation
Chapter Summary

House-elves, slavery, and the Imperius Curse.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Sunday 4th September 1994

Harry was glad they’d only had one day of classes so far, with minimal homework, because his
entire weekend was getting filled up with meetings. Sunday morning was the year’s first H.E.L.P.
Society meeting, and after yearly membership fees were collected the more active members were
eager to report to the group on their holiday research and plans they’d made for further pushes to
improve house-elf welfare.

Hermione started things off by congratulating everyone and talking about the ‘cultural renaissance’
of improved treatment for house-elves in wizarding society, including supplying them with a new
toga once a year and dedicated sleeping areas. She also spoke with passionate triumph about the
Society’s success in directly providing house-elves with togas, tea-towels, socks, and shoes when
they were too shy to approach their masters directly, and when the families were financially
struggling.

“We have a long way to go before house-elves have the full rights as citizens that they deserve, but
in the meantime we’ve made great improvements in their welfare. The Office for House-Elf
Relocation has written a letter to the H.E.L.P. Society thanking us for referring seven house-elves
to them last year – I am pleased to say that five Hogwarts house-elves and two house-elves from
private homes have found new, caring families to live with,” she said, brandishing the letter
proudly. “We have three new house-elves at Hogwarts this year – two babies were born over
summer, and we also have an adult female house-elf who was dismissed from her position and is in
some distress as a result and sought me out looking for assistance. Winky is refusing to be
allocated to a new family at this stage, which is quite unusual, so we’ll be doing everything we can
to support her while she considers her options. Could I have a volunteer to help me make her the
traditional robe worn by free house-elves? Ginny? Thank you.”

Luna gave a talk about her efforts to look for the nigh-extinct nixies or ‘water-elves’ with her father
over the holiday, which sadly had been unsuccessful as they were rare in Europe and doubly so in
Britain. “However, we did find some old stories about them,” she said brightly, “which confirmed
that they’re bonded to a very particular stream or river and can’t be moved to a new one unless they
can swim to it while they’re young. They are also very vulnerable to pollution and require their
river to be in a magically saturated area to thrive. As Muggle settlements have encroached on their
rivers, or wizards and witches have moved away and forgotten about the shy creatures bonded to
the streams on their land, the nixies have gone into decline. Fenodyree – also known as field-elves
– are similar in that they can’t be relocated from the land they’re bonded to, though their
appearance suggests they’re more related to the Roman fauns rather than to house-elves.”

“Thank you for your research, Luna,” Hermione said, and led a polite patter of applause.
Anthony Goldstein was eager to speak next and spoke about his holiday research of old historical
documents. “We have been assuming – as does most of society – that house-elves are bonded to a
property. However, we also know that they can have mixed allegiances to both their old and new
family if a property is resold and can ‘wither’ in cases of valid inheritance disputes, even if their
residence is uninterrupted. I have found old journal entries and anecdotes of a few cases where a
House was feuding with another and claimed a property after a duel, or where bribes and influence
overturned a valid will. Despite society recognising the claim of a new owner of a residence, the
house-elves responded only to the Head of House that they’d originally bonded to, or to their Heir.

“While geographical property bonds are primary ones, I think we should also remember to focus
on the bond to the property owners more than we have been. There hasn’t been any scientific
investigation of the limits of what house-elves can do, if ordered to by their owners. I think there
might be loopholes we could work with, there. There might be the potential for improving house-
elf freedoms, if they’re ordered to act more freely, without technically being released.”

“Is that a magical curse, or just tradition, though?” someone asked doubtfully. “Are the house-
elves forced to obey the rightful owners of a property, or are they choosing to do so?”

Harry piped up and added, “I agree with Anthony, and I think it’s a curse. When I bonded Dobby to
a property, I felt the magic working – like a tingle on my skin, and at the end of the vows it was
like the magic slid off me and sank into the ground. There’s definitely magic involved during the
bonding process, affecting the wizard or witch as well as the house-elf and I think the property
itself.

“Dobby has been doing well overcoming some conditioning or cursed impulse towards self-
punishment with encouragement. Or… orders. I guess they’re orders, but I try not to phrase things
like that.”

Hemione smiled encouragingly. “Dobby’s been doing very well. In discussions with the
Longbottom house-elves we found Dobby responded well to being told by other house-elves that
different Houses had different traditions, and that it’s important to respect and follow your House’s
ways, and to obey your Master. Now obviously that’s not an ideal mindset, but it’s helped him
break free of the mental shackles compelling self-punishment.”

“I met a different house-elf over the holidays who hasn’t been properly bonded,” Harry added. “He
is able to rebel, to a certain extent, without feeling the apparent need to punish himself over it.
However, he seems to be suffering from ‘withering’ as he has reduced magical abilities and can’t
leave his house. I’d be interested in hearing from anyone as to whether it’s common for elderly
house-elves to be unable to leave their family’s properties.”

There was a general murmur of concern about that, but Hermione was silent and just looked
angrily thin-lipped. Harry had written to her about Kreacher over the holidays, and Hemione had
been appalled to hear that Kreacher had been reduced to trying to attach to a family portrait for
years, in lieu of a proper human master, and vowed she was going to write Sirius a very stern letter
about it. She conceded that Sirius wasn’t at fault for the years he’d been in prison and unable to
help Kreacher but remained livid that he wasn’t doing anything to fix it now he had the chance.

“I have been thinking the whole issue of house-elf enslavement might be an ancient bloodline
curse,” suggested Tracey. “However, as the Ministry’s banned blood magic, books on that topic are
illegal and thus very hard to find. For a book to even mention bloodline curses is rare.”

Harry thought curiously about the ‘bin’ of Dark books that Bill Weasley was going through for
him, curse-breaking those that needed it, and looking for the Egyptian curse that Sirius had been
hit with in hopes of finding a counter-curse. Perhaps there might be something in there on bloodline
curses that would be useful.

“Interesting! Any suggestions on how we can try to legally research that possibility?” Hermione
asked. A couple of older students volunteered to check the Restricted Section on the group’s
behalf, while Tracey said she would ask Professor Moody about the topic.

Harry volunteered that he’d come across the term briefly in a discussion of ailments that vampires
could suffer from. “Ingesting cursed blood can be harmful to them, which is why sensible
vampires never feed on known werewolves, as it’s thought – at least in the scroll I read – that
lycanthropy is a blood-based curse. Certainly it causes vampires some distress to ingest werewolf
blood, including stomach cramps and vomiting, and werewolves will shy away from attacking
vampires. It’s part of why werewolves and vampires usually get along – they don’t instinctually
see each other as prey.

“Hypothetically, it would be interesting to find out how vampires react to ingesting house-elf
blood.” There was a mixed response to that suggestion – some in favour of a hopefully definitive
test for a bloodline curse, while others were distressed by the idea of encouraging a vampire to feed
on a house-elf, even a volunteer.

“We can’t have true volunteers when they’re cursed to obey,” Hermione argued. “They are not
properly able to consent to experimentation, so we should not abuse that.”

Then Anthony interjected with an entirely new suggestion that ignited a new line of eager
discussion. “I can’t do it myself, mind you – I’m sort of religiously obligated not to consult with
the dead for answers,” Anthony said apologetically. “However, other people might like to consider
talking to the school’s older ghosts and portraits about old lore about house-elves, field-elves,
water-elves, and bloodline curses in general.”

As the group eagerly divvied up the responsibility of talking to various ghosts and portraits – none
of whom predated the tenth century when Hogwarts was founded – Harry sat quietly with his jaw
agape in shock. He’d never thought about asking him before, but surely the enchanted mosaic of
Ambrosius Aurelianus – Merlin – would know something about the history of house-elves.

-000-

“Hello Ambrosius, it has been a couple of months since I last visited, and it’s now the fourth of
September in the year nineteen ninety-four,” Harry said in Latin, as the mosaic wizard woke and
stretched. He’d been teaching him snippets of modern English here and there, but conversations
were much easier for both of them in Latin.

“Welcome back, Harry. Another year of school begun! I hope you had a pleasant time over your
holidays.”

The two chatted for a while about the nicer parts of what Harry had been up to over the summer,
like his book signing tours and visiting friends and Sirius.

“There was also some… trouble, over the holidays. Attacks. Stuff with Tom,” Harry said
hesitantly. “But can we talk about it next time? I would like to talk about it, just… not now. It’s
messy, and it would take longer to chat about that I have free time for, right now.” Harry thought
Ambrosius would be a safe confidant, but really wanted to focus on asking his questions about
house-elves, after they’d finished catching up. Talking about the burgeoning war and his truce with
the Dark Lord would be very distracting. He felt upset just thinking about it all.

“That’s quite alright,” Ambrosius said soothingly. “I am intrigued, but I can wait. We can discuss
something else. So, have you heard about your result on your Latin test, yet? I hope it went well.
How are your plans for your studies shaping up for the year, without the advantage of a Time-
Turner?”

“I got an A for all my subjects: Latin, Maths, and French. That’s top marks, like an ‘Outstanding’,”
Harry explained proudly. “Studies without a Time-Turner are going to be harder this year of
course, but there’s not too much left to do for English and Biology since I did a lot of the work last
year and some more over the holidays. Sirius says he has set up a laboratory – like a potions room
– in a house he’s rented near Hogwarts, to help with my Chemistry studies. I should be fine with
Human Biology because it’s just so interesting. I’ll be starting Business Studies this year, but I
won’t take the test for it until next year – there’s a lot to learn, and along with Biology it’s one of
the two subjects I’ll be helping Dudley with.

“So, there’s four subjects I’m planning to take the IGCSE exams for in June: English, Biology,
Chemistry, and Human Biology. If I can get those four done this year then I can concentrate more
on my magical studies in my OWL year.”

“What do you have in mind for next year? I agree that keeping your load of additional work light
next year seems wise.”

“Next year is for my Business Studies IGCSE, and two A-level subjects – the equivalent of
NEWTs. Latin and French,” Harry said, with a grin. “There will be some work to learn texts, and
cultural information and that sort of thing. But given I’ve already learnt the languages magically
I’m hoping I’ll breeze through the actual tests just like I did this year.

“Then, I’ve got four more A-levels planned for sixth year: Biology, Chemistry, Maths and
Statistics, and English Literature. Hopefully I’ll be ready for the exams at the end of sixth year,
and then I’ll be all finished with my Muggle studies a year early and can concentrate on my
NEWTs with nothing extra to study that year. If not, well… there’s still that year to catch up in. Or
even after Hogwarts if I must, but I’d rather be able to go straight into medical studies at university.
That’s the goal.”

“Not being a Healer?”

“I’m thinking I’ll do that after becoming a proper doctor. Get a grounding in modern medical
science, so I can better judge how sensible the wizarding world’s Healing practices are. I already
know lots of it is out of date, but I’d like to know more. I think being a doctor first will make me a
better Healer and help me revolutionize magical Healing practice.”

“A grand goal, worthy of someone both cunning and ambitious who feels a yearning or an
obligation to lead their people,” teased Ambrosius, which made Harry laugh. “It sounds like you
will be very busy for the next few years, however. Can you afford to maintain your club
memberships?”

“I’m not sure… maybe not all three Potter Watch meetings. The H.E.L.P. Society is going great – I
don’t want to quit that. In fact, we just had a meeting this morning, and I realised you might be a
great source of information about house-elves. My friends and I in the H.E.L.P. Society have been
researching house-elves a lot – we want to free them from serving wizards if we can or improve
their treatment if we can’t. We’re pretty sure they’re magically enslaved, but we don’t know
exactly how, or how to counter it. Can you tell me something about the history of house-elves?”

“Ah, the little brownies, as I think you like to call them these days?”

“Just ‘house-elves’, now. Luna says that ‘brownies’ and ‘hobs’ were fashionable names a few
centuries ago, but only Muggles use those names now.”

“Language does insist on changing! Well, freeing them is a simple business,” Ambrosius started,
which made Harry perk up eagerly. “To manumit them, their owner must ritually treat their house-
elf as an equal and not as a slave. They must thank them for their service like an equal, instead of
taking their work for granted as is their due as the house-elf’s master. Then, their master should
give the house-elf the traditional garb of their people instead of the clothing of slaves, then
pronounce that they are setting the house-elf free.”

Harry slumped in disappointment. That wasn’t anything new, that was just a fancy ritual way of
giving a house-elf clothes. “But that just makes them seek out a new master!”

“Well yes, it is a generational enslavement curse now, bound to their blood. Very powerful and
persistent.”

“We thought it might be a blood curse. What do you mean by ‘now’? It didn’t use to be like that?”
Harry asked interestedly.

“Not always. There were still a few free elves in the forests left in my time, and even a century or
two after, though the curse was spreading fast as the free ones interbred with the slaves. The curse
passes from mother to child, of course.”

“It does?” Harry asked, scribbling furiously as he wrote down the story in his journal. “What else
can you tell me about it?”

“Oh yes – that’s the strongest way to bind magic across generations, not father to child. Now,
house-elves are a Celtic race, originally found in what you know as Great Britain and France,
though I understand they have spread across the continent of Europe since my time. Perhaps
further? Everyone used to know that if you left out an offering of a bowl of cream or some food by
the hearth, an elf might be willing to work for your family in exchange for their sustenance and
shelter in your house. However, they were touchy, mischievous creatures who would turn on you if
they felt offended.

“It is said that a Celtic druid named Ogmius was furious about a rash of attacks on his people by
angry elves. Houses and belongings had been destroyed and many people had been injured, some
even killed. Usually in retaliation for minor crimes such as watching the elves work at night, or a
paucity of offerings, or people not being appreciative enough of their elves’ labours. Some elves
had stronger causes for unrest – they were angered by the use of iron in houses or in the fields and
woods they thought of as their own, or by the land being cleared for lumber or to make way for
fields and houses. They waged war on the humans who contaminated the lands and their own
houses with iron. On other occasions there was no reason at all for their tricks and destruction –
they were happy enough to coexist with humans, and simply were just revelling in chaos, with their
innate love of mischief.

“Ogmius concocted a curse to bind the elves responsible for attacks on his people as permanent
slaves, as both an act of vengeance and a means of controlling the creatures in the future. During
his life and after his death he was worshipped as a god by his people the Gauls – he was the god of
eloquence who could bind men to his will.”

“Do you know more about what he was like? Are there any old writings that mention him, or how
he cast the curse?” Harry asked, still taking notes as fast as he could. “We’d like to know how to
undo it.”

“Ah, this modern distaste for slavery is fascinating,” Ambrosius said, with a smile, “though I must
concede that the Stoics thought similarly. It used to be that you only freed a slave for services
rendered to your family, or if they had saved up enough to buy their freedom. In my day in the
Roman Empire one man in ten was a slave. Romans passionate about justice argued for more
rights for slaves, not the abolition of the institution, for civilised society relied on the labour of
slaves. They advocated for such things as the right of slaves to complain about their masters’ cruel
punishment, and that masters should be punished for killing their slaves just like they would be
punished for any other murder.

“Numbers were much the same here even a millennium later in the time of the Founders. It was
William the Conqueror who limited the practice of selling slaves overseas, and the Normans and
some of the Christians who pushed slowly but successfully for the abolishment of slavery over the
next couple of centuries. Then of course Britain brought slavery back a mere three hundred years
later, when it began conquering Africa in the 1500s. It seems to me that slavery is a more natural
state of affairs, and this moment in time when people are against it is nothing but a brief lull. I
expect it will come back into favour again, with time.”

“That’s a depressing outlook.”

“I prefer ‘realistic’. It is an outlook your ancestor Salazar shared – he feared that one day
mankind’s fear of our kind would be outweighed by our utility as slaves, since we were no longer
worshipped by the masses. Either that, or that one day we would see open warfare between our
peoples, not just sporadic murders. Hogwarts was thus designed to be both a haven of safety and
learning, and a fortress.”

While it was all very fascinating and Harry was writing it all down, he wanted to keep Ambrosius
on track while he was in a loquacious mood. “So, is there anything I might be able to look up about
Ogmius or his curse? Old scrolls or books?”

Ambrosius stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I believe he is mentioned in one of the works of Lucian
of Samosata, though it has been so many years I cannot recall which one. Have you read his
works? They’re in Latin.”

“No, sorry. Do you remember what he said about Ogmius?”

“That’s a shame. Well, he was a very popular writer once upon a time; a mortal Roman author of
the second century. I remember he described Ogmius in one of his books, based on a painting he
saw of the god. Ogmius was an old man, bald and darkly tanned from the sun. He was otherwise
depicted in a similar style to Hercules – clad in a lion skin – part of the symbolism to show that
words hold sway over men like brute strength, or even more so. He said Ogmius had long chains
made of gold and amber through his smiling mouth that pierced his tongue. The multitude of
chains were attached at the other ends to the ears of a group of men that willingly and cheerfully
followed him, trying to get as close to him as they could. He had the power to influence men’s
minds so that they would follow him to the ends of the earth, to bind people to himself and control
their actions.

“The oral lore of our people said that he could also craft curse tablets, which let you bind curses to
someone, such as cursing a woman to barrenness. I understand that the art of crafting them was lost
a century or two before the Founders’ time, so I imagine little is known of them now. Too ‘Dark’
for the modern era. Certainly many men once lived in fear of being beset by curses – Pliny the
Elder once wrote in his Natural Histories that there was no-one who did not fear to be spellbound
by curse tablets. So the art may be lost now but it was once extremely popular.”

“So, the curse on house-elves might have been a generational blood curse crafted with a curse
tablet by Ogmius?”
“Perhaps. If so, it would probably be written in Ogham. It is said that Ogmius emigrated to or
visited Ireland, later in his life. The Irish called him Ogma, or at least they did a few centuries later,
either when he was an old man or had passed away. The Irish viewed him as the honey-tongued,
sunburnt god who invented Ogham, which is why it is my guess that his curse tablets probably
used that script. The majority of tablets were of course usually in Latin, with a few in Greek, but
some crafters – both mortal and divine – chose to write in secret scripts and I think Ogham may be
one of them. The Irish may have more tales of him, though I am not sure how reliable their
accounts are, being more recent in origin.”

“What else can you tell me about curse tablets?”

“While a number of materials were used, curse tablets were usually made of lead, the heaviness
and dullness of them being a good conduit for weighty curses. However, with a knowledge of
magical affinities and the clue from his picture, I expect Ogmius used gold – or perhaps amber –
for a better effect on the minds which needed to be made joyful to be subjugated. Obviously,
sacrifices would have been required to initially bind the first generation of elves, however it was
done. After a few generations, the bloodline curse spread through their populations until few
remained free – those were hunted down and killed whenever they became a threat.”

Harry scribbled down notes frantically as Ambrosius spoke, written in Latin so he didn’t need to
slow down at all and wouldn’t lose any shades of meaning from translating things to English on the
fly.

“How would you free them from this curse? Assuming that the tablet’s been long since lost. Or, if
we could find it, would that make a difference?”

“Certainly finding the tablet would help. Gaul – sorry, France – or Ireland may be the best places
to search. Perhaps it has been kept as a treasure by a nation or a family. Yet, I have never heard of
such a thing, and curse-tablets were usually buried. There may not even be a tablet, it is merely my
best guess. In either case, with or without the tablet you would need a blood sacrifice to free the
elves. I think your desire to free them is a kind-hearted thought but perhaps not a wise one. Still,
the dead must respect the wishes of the living to run their own world. It would not be a light thing,
to free a captive nation, and the price would be a terrible one. Thus I would advise in the strongest
possible terms that you should seek the permission of your nation’s ruler – the Minister, I believe –
before attempting such a task.”

A terrible price, Harry thought warily.

“What kind of blood sacrifice?” he asked slowly. “I guess we’re talking about more than smearing
a house-elf with a few drops of blood and doing a ritual.”

“Indeed. For a single elf, perhaps a single mortal or elven death would do. For the freedom of a
large group of house-elves spread across the continent? Nothing less than a wicker man set up at a
sacred site, on one of the festival days. Imbolc, perhaps, as that is a propitious time for new
beginnings. Or Samhain or Yule, to enhance the power of the sacrificial offerings.”

Ambrosius was watching Harry closely as he spoke, and something in Harry’s blanched, shocked
expression seemed to satisfy him.

“Not an easy business, you see. I’ve never been fond of human sacrifice, ever since I almost
became a victim of the practice when Vortigern wanted his keep built. I imagine almost falling
prey to it yourself, just above our heads in the Chamber, has fostered your distaste for it as well.”

“That, and it being just plain wrong!” Harry said emphatically. “Couldn’t we just sacrifice a lot of
chickens, instead? Or some cows?”

Ambrosius shook his head. “Not magically powerful enough. Do you even know how to channel
the power of a death to a magical purpose?”

“…No.”

“Do you want to learn how?”

“…Not really, no,” Harry said hesitantly. “Not unless it was just a chicken or something… and it
could help free house-elves. I’ve only sacrificed fruit and bread and stuff. I saw a pig killed,
though. We ate it afterwards – it wasn’t wasted.”

“Then the enslavement of the elves isn’t a problem you can solve. Nor is it one I think you should
solve. Elves used to kill those who trespassed in their forest glades, or cursed and toyed with
prisoners for their amusement until they grew bored. It is said that they never truly understood the
pain of others, since they feel so little themselves, being resistant to injury much like the giants.
Nixies – the water-elves – drowned people who ventured too close to their pools and streams when
the whim took them. Fauns went on drunken rampages and literally tore people apart. Of the three
races that all needed to draw strongly on the magic in the earth or the water, the elves were the
most dangerous, as they competed with mankind the most for territory and were the most mobile.”

“Do you think the curse interferes with their ability to draw on ley lines? Sometimes house-elves
‘wither’ if they’re free without a clear owner for too long.”

“Definitely. They have been crippled so they cannot connect to the magic in the earth as their
ancestors of the woods and fields once did. They must instead draw on the magical energies of the
house and family they’re bonded to, and cannot go against their will, including leaving the house
they’re assigned to. They gain strength through servitude, and from being close to their Masters.
Too long alone and unbonded and they wither, both physically and magically.

“I do not know for certain, but I suspect it’s an aspect of the curse designed with safety in mind. A
restriction added in case the canny creatures attempted to seek their freedom through murdering
their masters by some roundabout means – the curse ensured they would die without their master
providing them with a link to the land’s magic. No longer can they draw on the ley lines
themselves – they may only do so indirectly through their master.”

Harry sighed.

“A weighty burden for a young mind to carry. You are not responsible for their fate.”

“But if I can do something… but it’s so terrible. I want them free… but I don’t want anyone to
have to die over it.”

“Well, perhaps there would be another way – the wands you have these days are masterfully
crafted innovations that increase your power wonderfully! However, you would have to be more
learned in the magic of curses, sacrifices and blood to find an alternative. Those skilled in
forbidden arts may not be the most trustworthy people to search out as tutors, however. Be very
cautious where you place your trust, Harry.”

Harry frowned. He could only think of a few people – apart from Merlin – who might know a bit
about such topics. He didn’t want to ask advice from any of them.

“Well, thank you anyway. Is it alright if I share this information with people? For that matter, am I
allowed to mention that you’re down here? Can you be moved? I mean, I don’t want to give away
the fact I’ve been coming down here, but maybe you’d be a lot happier up in the Great Hall, where
everyone can talk to you? I mean, you’re Merlin, everyone would be excited to meet you. No-one
would dream of hurting your mosaic.”

Harry didn’t want to lose his secret hideaway, but he’d been worrying on and off that Ambrosius
felt trapped and bored down in the Chamber of Secrets, with only Harry’s sporadic visits for
company.

“My presence here – when known about – has been kept a family secret for centuries. You may of
course tell people I am here if you wish, but I would advise against revealing it unless you have a
good reason for your announcement, as you may be beleaguered by questions, and your family
sanctuary here lost for good.

“Moving my mosaic is, I believe, beyond your abilities. I used to be located in a more public area,
but Salazar possessively moved me when he quarrelled with the other Founders, since he was the
one to find and relocate my mosaic to Hogwarts in the first place. He was convinced Muggles were
going to invade and try and ransack the castle. There used to be other treasures hidden in his
Chamber of Secrets, did you know? Some – like Godric’s sword – were given to the other
Founders when they insisted on him relinquishing them, while others remained here; they were
removed piecemeal over the centuries by his heirs, like his favourite locket. When he left Hogwarts
he locked things down so only his heirs could enter his Chamber, and it takes an offering of blood
to enter this secret alcove, as you know, so that no impersonators may infiltrate here.”

“Yes, I’ve gotten quite good at a minor healing charm to heal the bites. So, I couldn’t move you?
There’s a curse? Or are the statues the problem?” Harry glanced over to the stone statues of
serpents against the wall. They always watched him carefully, and he was always very careful to
announce if he was going to do a spell.

“Certainly the statues are a barrier to my removal. Should you attempt to remove or damage my
mosaic, the stone snake guardians would strike to kill. I believe there are other curses that also may
come into effect.”

“Like what?”

“I will not say.”

Harry thought about that and nodded. “Fair enough. I guess you feel safer down here?”

“Safe, yes. Though bored. I hope that one day you will have a large family of Parselmouths, so I
have more visitors,” he said with a grin.

Harry shrugged, and looked embarrassed. “Maybe. I was thinking maybe I could make a second
mosaic one day, or get someone to make one for me, so you could visit it? The paintings upstairs
can visit other portraits.”

“That would be delightful, if it could be managed safely!”

“In the meantime, I learnt some cleaning spells over the holidays? Charms to strengthen and clean
old stonework. I practised them upstairs – they all worked fine.”

“You must be completely sure they’re non-damaging to my tiles, or my guardian here won’t be
happy,” Ambrosius warned.

Harry blanched, imagining the consequences of a miscast spell. “Maybe I’ll practice a little more,
first. Just in case.”
Later, up in the privacy of the boys’ dorm that evening, Harry asked a ‘hypothetical’ question of
Neville. “Say I theoretically had information about house-elves, about the curse that’s on them.
But I didn’t want to tell Hermione how I found that information out. Do you think she’d accept
that? Or would she keep bugging me about it until I told her?”

Neville gave him a look, like he was being a bit thick. “Honestly, Harry.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Any ideas?

“About how you could share your ‘hypothetical’ information without being pestered? Not really.
You know what she’s like about anything, and that goes double for house-elves. I do not want to
pressure you, but… is this some document you found in the Chamber of Secrets?” Neville asked in
a whisper.

“Maybe,” Harry admitted cagily. “Not anything I can bring up though, and she can’t go down there
safely. There’s curses and other defences. It’s too dangerous for anyone who’s not a Parselmouth.”

Neville nodded thoughtfully.

“Is this information critical to share?” he asked slowly. “Would it change our approach to helping
house-elves?”

Hermione was not going to support blood sacrifices. “Probably not,” Harry said slowly. “There’s a
way to free house-elves – for good – but it would take the Darkest of magic. Or a lot of knowledge
about Dark magic to find another way around breaking the curse. One that doesn’t involve
sacrifices.”

Neville looked shocked, then his face firmed in resolution. “Do not tell her,” he insisted. “The
temptation might be too much for her. Harry, I know you and she read books from the Restricted
Section when you can get away with it but delving into that topic is dangerous. She might become
a Dark witch, just to free house-elves.”

“No she… wouldn’t,” Harry said weakly, his denial losing strength the more he thought about it.
How she’d secretively brewed Polyjuice Potion – a restricted potion – in second year. How she
complained about censorship and how the Restricted Section should be free for all students, not
just seventh-years.

“Harry.”

“Alright… maybe she would. Just to learn a way around it, though. Not to actually cast Dark
magic.”

“Promise me you won’t tell her! Her very soul could be in danger! You need to be careful too,
Harry!”

Geez. Talk about melodramatic. “Okay, I won’t! It was just a thought. I… I’m trying to be more
open. A bit. This seemed important.” He didn’t want her asking a hundred questions about the
Chamber of Secrets anyway, and it was true, it wouldn’t really change what they did about house-
elves. “I’ll be careful as well, obviously.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Neville said, relaxing in relief. “Is there anything safe that you could share?
Maybe we could think of a way to get some of the same information from somewhere else? Not
the sacrifice part, though.”

Hmm. Probably not the information about curse tablets, if it took a sacrifice to break their magic.
“Uh… the curse passes from mother to child. Blood-based.”

Neville nodded. “Elflings serve their mother’s family,” he said, like it was a known fact. “We can
talk about that. Anything else? Hypothetically?”

“Well, lots of it we’d already guessed about it being a curse, obviously. What else? Right, so the
curse replaces an elf’s natural bond to draw on the magic of the ley lines in the land with a bond to
the family and their home, so they gain power more indirectly. That’s why they wither if they’re
not properly bonded – they can’t draw on magic directly any longer. They used to attack wizards
and well… probably just about anyone. They were regarded as dangerous and mischievous, if
occasionally helpful and valued if given a bowl of cream in exchange for housework help. They
were enslaved millennia ago after they attacked people in France.”

Neville gave Harry a very odd look. “I might not be prone to Hermione’s level of inquisitiveness,
but I am still very curious too. How exactly did you learn all this?”

Harry’s brow furrowed crossly. “I don’t want to say. It’s traditionally a family secret. I feel like I
should respect that.”

“Claiming the mantle of ‘Heir of Slytherin’ officially at last, then?”

Harry shrugged, and sighed. “Yeah. Not much point denying it at this point. Except in public. I still
don’t want people treating me differently.”

“They already do, Harry. Most of the Slytherins would probably bow in reverence if given half a
chance.”

“It’s still stupid,” Harry grumbled. “Zacharias Smith’s descended from Hufflepuff. No-one treats
him differently.”

“They do a little, and I've heard he loves the extra respect, but the House of Hufflepuff is not so…
formal as Slytherin. They also have more descendants – Smith is not the only claimant, just the
loudest who is currently at Hogwarts.” Neville tilted his head curiously at Harry. “Any other
secrets you want to share with me while you are full of this newfound spirit of openness?”

Harry thought about it. Most of his secrets… no, he didn’t really want to share them. Definitely not
the truce with Lord Voldemort. “I’m a Metamorphmagus,” he said, after a little pause for thought.
Since Millicent had told Draco word might spread further, and he’d rather Neville heard it from
him than from the Hogwarts grapevine. “A little bit. I can change my hair and eyes, and my nose a
little, but it takes a lot of concentration and time. I met someone else from the Black family over
the holidays – a young witch named Tonks – she can change her whole body in an instant, easy as
blinking.”

“All right…” Neville said slowly, looking Harry up and down. “What do you really look like,
then? This? Or something else?”

“I… I guess like this?” Harry said hesitantly. He’d rarely thought about it that much before. “My
hair might look… I don’t know. Messier, naturally. It used to be very messy and wouldn’t sit flat. I
guess it might be longer. I haven’t had a haircut in uh… years. Since I was nine, I think. Honestly?
I really don’t know much about how this all works.”

“You should write to your cousin about it. You do not even have to admit your own ability to her,
just ask her about how her talent works, since she is open about it.”

Harry brightened. “I will. Thanks for the advice.”

-000-

After a busy weekend Hogwarts classes started in earnest on the Monday. Herbology with the
Hufflepuffs was a class only Neville truly enjoyed that day as they spent it squeezing out
Bubotuber pus.

Care of Magical Creatures was next, and Professor Hagrid kicked off the year by dividing up the
class to look after Fire Crabs as small group projects, which was an unpopular move with some.
They were pretty creatures that looked a lot like large tortoises with dazzling, heavily jewelled
shells, but their defensive tendency to shoot flames from their rear ends when startled led to more
than a few yelps and burns.

Pansy asked their professor, with saccharine sweetness, to demonstrate the spells that were most
useful for protecting oneself from the flames, which left him flustered.

Professor Hagrid stumblingly ordered, “Jus’ get on with lookin’ after yer Fire Crabs!”

The interaction made the Slytherins snicker and smirk at their teacher, an indulgence which they
seemed to feel was worth the loss of a few points from Slytherin. After class, Draco loudly
complained all the way back to the castle about having a teacher who couldn’t demonstrate simple
spells, provoking an argument amongst the whole class about Squibs, criminals, and wand rights,
and whether you could be a good teacher or not without a wand.

The only thing they all agreed on was that looking after Fire Crabs was a lot better than having to
tend the barely-legal Fire Crab and Manticore hybrid abominations that Hagrid had dubbed ‘Blast-
Ended Skrewts’. That ‘treat’ was reserved for the sixth and seventh-years, according to the senior
students’ disgruntled gossip.

Harry had a free period before lunch and settled in at the library to work on reading some chapters
for Human Biology, since their DADA homework wasn’t due for a few more days. Even though
sometimes he wished he’d picked Arithmancy too, like Hermione had, he was glad of the extra free
time for study and homework. Neville shared his break period while Hermione was off at
Arithmancy. Neville’s Gryffindor Divination class overlapped with Harry’s Ancient Runes class
for the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, so the two of them usually had matching free time to study
quietly together. Ron and a few other Gryffindors Harry wasn’t especially close to also had that
time free but were usually off in the Gryffindor Common Room playing games or roaming about
the grounds rather than studying in the library. All their Slytherin friends were busy with either
Ancient Runes or Divination during that time slot. So, Harry and Neville usually just studied on
their own in the library, with a handful of studious Ravenclaw students from their year employing
their time similarly at another table.

Today, however, that changed, as Luna tentatively entered the library, and beamed happily when
Neville and Harry waved her over to their table.

She set her bag down on the ground and sat down with a sigh of relief. “How lovely to see you
have a free period too! A lot of Ravenclaws from my year are off to Muggle Studies with the
Slytherins, and the others do not really want… That is, we are not close. It is nice to have a free
period and to see you here.”

“Well congratulations on being a third-year with more free time! You are most welcome as always
to join us when you are free,” Neville encouraged. “Right, Harry?”

“Of course,” Harry agreed. “You’re our friend, Luna.”

Luna looked so happy and wobbly-lipped at that pronouncement that Harry feared for a moment
she might start crying. However, to his relief she didn’t start sobbing or say a word, she just busied
herself getting her books out and silently settled down to study next to them.

When the bell tolled for lunch she stuck with the boys like glue all the way to the Great Hall,
enjoying a chat about whether the goat-legged fenodyree were truly a type of elf, or if the term
‘field-elf’ should be discarded in favour of ‘faun’ or ‘satyr’ as a better alternative name.

After lunch, Ancient Runes was Harry’s last class that day. Hermione slid into the seat next to him,
chattering happily about how in Arithmancy class they’d started learning how the Floo system
worked.

“Think about it, Harry – a fireplace with voice recognition! It converts clearly spoken set phrases
into a numerical string, and the whole system takes a lot of Arithmantic calculations to maintain.
That’s why you can’t just throw Floo powder into any old fire and just jump in and expect to get
where you’re going. The Ministry sends Master Arithmancers to your house to set the charms on
your fireplace, or ‘hook you up to the Floo’ as they say. Which really is an immense simplification
of a highly complex system developed over centuries and centred at the Ministry,” she babbled
happily. “It’s similar to the phone system, really. After the initial connection is established
everything seems easy for the user, but elsewhere at a central complex, there’s a lot of work going
on in the background to make things work for everyone.”

When Professor Babbling entered the room, some of the students fretted over a white bandage that
could be glimpsed on her left arm, insufficiently hidden beneath the voluminous sleeves of her
black robe.

“Are you alright?”

“Was it a werewolf? Did you get attacked at the World Cup?”

“Can you still teach us?!”

She held up her hand for silence, and the class quietened with an expectant hush. “Yes, I am on the
mend. No, it was not a werewolf, and I can and will continue teaching. I even have a letter from a
Healer to attest to that, not that the Headmaster insisted on seeing it though it is now his legal right
as my employer. He trusts my word on the matter.

“My wife and I were on holiday in the Aegean Union this summer, in Greece and Turkey.
Unfortunately, I got injured by a griffin while we were hiking on Mount Nysa. As it was an injury
inflicted by a magical creature, it is of course healing slowly.”

Harry noticed that he and Hermione were the only ones in the class who were even slightly startled
by their female teacher’s mention of a wife – currently illegal in Muggle Britain. The rest of the
class, all pure-bloods or half-bloods raised in wizarding society, didn’t even blink at that piece of
information.

“I’m so glad you’re alright!” Brocklehurst said, with a sigh of relief. “Was your wife hurt too?”

“Constance is just fine,” reassured Babbling. “Now, we must get on with the lesson. Last year we
covered the Norse and Anglo-Saxon rune sets, anchoring transfigurations and enchantments. This
year we will expand out to cover warding, and working with bone, crystal, glass, embroidery on
cloth, and various stones and metals as mediums for rune-carving, and we will discuss elemental
and magical affinities. Those of you who discover they have a strong affinity for a particular
medium will have my permission to specialise in that, after some trials of the other options. I
expect Potter, for instance, will get the strongest results from clay, while Goldstein may find he
works best with gold or some precious stones.”

Harry gave Anthony a startled look, but the other boy was just nodding thoughtfully, like he knew
this already. Maybe Anthony had covered the idea in Arithmancy already – Harry had heard from
Hermione last year about how they’d looked a lot at the magic of names.

Babbling continued her rapid-fire summary. “I will also teach you how to engrave runes invisibly,
and how to reveal them.”

The Revealing Charm – Aparecium – makes invisible runes appear, Harry thought smugly. I have
that mastered already. Learning how to make them will be awesome, though.

“After Christmas we will begin studying Ogham – you may wish to start learning and memorising
this rune set over the holidays. The rest of the school year will focus on introductory warding and
runic circles, and throughout the year we will have some practical crafting exercises with all your
rune sets in your double lessons on Mondays, with the exception of this first lesson. Homework
will usually be due on Tuesdays.”

Ogham, thought Harry excitedly. Of course! I can ask Babbling about Ogmius!

There was no leisure to ask her during class time, of course, as everyone frantically scribbled down
tables of notes on all the various species of wood and types of stone and which enchantments they
were best suited to when engraving.

At the end of class Harry hung around to ask Professor Babbling if she could recommend any
books on Ogma, also known as Ogmius, and left with a couple of suggestions.

Hermione had been waiting for him outside the classroom. “Getting a head start on Ogham,
Harry?” she asked.

“I’m curious about a lot of things,” he said with a smile. “If I learn anything really good in my
reading, I’ll share it with you.”

-000-

“Three Unforgiveables. All terrible curses, the vilest known to mankind. All striking directly at the
soul in one fashion or another. I asked you to think and write about which one is the worst,” said
Professor Moody, as they passed their homework up to the front. He surveyed the class with his
eerie wandering gaze as they all looked gravely thoughtful.

“Show of hands. Who argued that the Killing Curse is the worst?” About three quarters of the
students put their hands up, including Ron and Hermione.

“Torture Curse?” Most of the remaining students put their hands up, unsurprisingly including
Neville.

“Last one – who thinks the Imperius Curse is the worst?” Only Harry and Eloise Midgen put their
hands up for that one.

Moody pointed to Ron. “Weasley – why did you pick the Killing Curse?”

“Well… if you’re dead it’s all over, right? There’s no chance to escape or anything. The others still
give you a chance to survive. Dead is dead. Well, except maybe if you’re Harry Potter.”
A few people laughed at that, which embarrassed Harry a little.

“Good answer! Five points.”

Ron puffed up proudly. He didn’t often earn so many points for their House.

Moody’s gaze drifted across the room and lingered on Neville for a moment before moving on.
“Thomas! You picked Crucio – summarise why it’s worse than the others.”

“Because it’s pain so bad you’ll want to die. I’d rather die fast than in horrible agony. You’d have
to be a right bas- Dark wizard or witch to want to torture someone instead of killing them quick and
clean,” explained Thomas. “Plus to cast it they’ve got to want someone to really suffer, not just
want you dead and out of their way. That sounds a lot more evil to me.”

“Another excellent answer, another five points! The last curse wasn’t so popular a pick – Potter,
explain your reasoning.”

“Well, I think if the victim can’t break free from the Imperius Curse then it’s the worst for sure.
Because with that curse you could make someone kill, or torture – even their own friends and
family. Make them do anything you wanted, no matter how horrible. It enslaves the soul and turns
people into puppets. So, I think it’s the worst because you could make innocent people do horrible
things that they’ll regret for the rest of their lives and kill or torture with it.”

Moody grinned at him. “Superb. Best answer yet. Midgen, do you agree with Potter here?”

“Yes, sir. I also agree because it’s not just theory – Dark wizards have done exactly that in some of
the wars. I read up on some Aurors’ stories, and there was this incident in Poland where
Grindelwald cast the Imperius Curse on a half-blood witch who refused to join him, and she went
home and killed her whole family. Then she emptied her vault and gave all her money and her
wand to Grindelwald. He let the spell lapse then, and she tried to strangle him to death with her
bare hands. She died in a barrage of curses from his bodyguards. I think that’s a whole lot worse
than just one person dying or being tortured – she killed her whole family! That’s a lot of suffering
and death from just one spell. Surely you’d rather be tortured or killed yourself than let that
happen?”

“Excellent again! You and Potter take five points each for Gryffindor. There is nothing worse than
the Imperius Curse! You think it’s bad dying? How about being ordered to kill dozens of people
and then throw yourself off a roof? Don’t like the idea of torture from a Dark wizard? How about
being ordered to torture your own family and friends, or your own mother being made to torture
you?”

Neville looked like he was going to be sick. Harry honestly thought his friend was going to spew
over their desks at any moment, and eyed him worriedly.

“If you learn nothing else in my class this year, I want you to learn how to break free of the most
horrible curse in existence. But you’ve only got a month at most to master it before we must move
on to other subjects, so no slacking!” He seemed to be particularly looking at Harry for this bit, and
Harry wondered if it was because someone had told him he was a slacker. He’d gotten great marks
in DADA last year! The Dursleys wouldn’t be able to bad-mouth him like they used to, so who was
gossiping nastily? After a moment’s further thought, he guessed that maybe someone had in fact
said good things about him and his work ethic in Defence class. Perhaps Moody’s challenging look
implied that he was in fact expecting Harry to excel, just like how Flitwick and Slughorn did.

Hermione fretted out loud about the legality of casting the Imperius Curse on students, but Moody
waved away her concerns.

“Dumbledore wants you all to know what it feels like, and be able to fight it off,” he said, staring at
her with his natural eye, while his artificial one rolled around to look at the class. Harry felt like it
kept rolling over to stare at him. “He has concerns and doesn’t want his students turned into
puppets. If, however, any of you want to be easy prey for any Death Eaters who want to play
games with you like a Kneazle with a mouse, then you know where the door is.”

Hermione muttered, “I didn’t say I wanted to leave, I was just wondering.”

Moody cast the spell on them one by one, and students obediently danced, and hopped, and
imitated squirrels. When it was Harry’s turn, he found being under the Imperius a lovely sensation.
His attempts at Occlumency didn’t seem to help much, for he was braced against what he’d
expected would be vicious mind control like talons in his mind, and what he felt instead was a
soothing sensation as all his worries were washed away, leaving him feeling fuzzy-minded and
happy.

Jump onto the desk…

Harry jumped up onto a desk obediently when he heard the command in his mind. For what harm
could that possibly do? It was always best to keep adults happy, as much as possible.

It was jarring to be brought out of the curse. He felt disappointed to have failed miserably at
fighting it off.

He had another couple of tries, however, for while everyone in the class had at least a couple of
goes, Moody seemed determined to test Harry in particular.

Harry strengthened his Occlumency visualisations as much as possible. However, even on the third
try Harry clucked like a chicken after only a moment’s hesitation, flapping his arms for wings.

“How do you fight it, sir?” Harry asked worriedly, once he’d stopped clucking. “I’ve tried being
calm with a clear mind, focusing on an image, and also of course being determined. None of it is
helping.”

“It isn’t an easy task, Potter. Even the best wizards are still vulnerable to it,” Moody said gravely.
“It is all about will, in the end. You have to want to be free more than anything else in the world.
Fight the feeling of comfort that makes following the commands easy, stretch for any loophole you
can find to exert your own will once more. You must hate the caster with every fibre of your being.
You must want to kill, or die, rather than do what they are telling you. It’s not enough to simply not
want to act like a chicken. You have to be so determined that you’d rather die than be a chicken.”

A couple of people snickered, but Harry just nodded thoughtfully. “Can I try again, sir?” He hated
being under the curse but being able to fight it off? That would be incredible if he could manage it.

Moody grinned, which was a rather terrifying expression on his scarred face. “By all means, Potter,
and I think perhaps I have an idea to give you a little more motivation. Imperio!”

Harry braced, trying to remember to think of his professor as a hated enemy, someone who would
command Harry to kill all his friends if Harry gave in to the Imperius Curse’s smothering feeling of
pleasant dreaminess. He held the thought inside his mental shields as best he could, protected
somewhat from the wash of calm even as he felt the floating sensation begin again. Everything was
easy again. All he had to do was obey, and everything would be fine. Moody would be pleased with
him, and Harry would be so happy.
Give me your wand, then stand still so I can kill you…

Moody’s voice echoed in Harry’s relaxed and empty mind.

That sounds dangerous, he thought very vaguely. Enemy?

Harry reached into his robe pocket and drew out his wand. Perhaps it was better to go along with
things. Everyone would be happier. It was safer to be cooperative and obedient.

Give me your wand, then stand still so I can kill you…

The command resonated in Harry’s mind, but a part of him behind his mental walls fought against
it. No, that’s a stupid idea. Defence teachers are always dangerous. Remember, think of him as the
enemy.

“Nnn…” Harry said in a choked-off refusal, as he shakily and slowly held his wand out. Moody
reached out his hand to receive it.

It’s my wand. I won’t be defenceless. Mine! He could kill me!

Moody moved to grab Harry’s wand, and while Harry couldn’t quite muster up the mental
resistance to be able to lower his outstretched arm, he managed to force his feet to take a couple of
stumbling steps backwards, until he hit a desk and fell over in a tangled heap, still clutching his
wand tightly.

The dreamy lassitude fell away as Moody dropped the spell.

“Look at that, you lot! Potter fought it, and damn near beat it!” Moody crowed approvingly.
“Watch his eyes, that’s where you’ll see it. We just needed the right motivation.”

With a few more tries before class ended, Harry partially fought off a command to grovel on the
floor before Moody and beg to be his servant, managing to chokingly cut off his plea halfway
through. He finally managed to shake off a command almost instantly when ordered to close his
eyes and put his hands in the air (he really hated the double feeling of vulnerability).

Neville eagerly begged Harry for tips on fighting the Imperius Curse after class, and he wasn’t the
only one. Later, Draco in particular was adamant on wringing out every ounce of knowledge from
Harry when a large group of Harry’s friends gathered in the library for a study session.

“Moody said my family was known for being weak against the Imperius Curse. He humiliated me
in our class,” Draco complained, in a hushed, ashamed voice. “I need every tip you can share on
beating it.”

“It was not just you,” rumbled Greg. “He was mean to a lot of us. I think he bears a grudge.”

“My father will hear about this!”

“There’s a surprise,” muttered Neville to Harry, who exerted some effort to keep a straight face.

“You were writing to him about Quidditch too, weren’t you?” Harry asked loudly. “How’s that
going?”

“Yes, and he has promised his aid in our cause. Also, my badges are ready, and the first batch is
available for sale!” Draco proclaimed proudly. “I have some Hufflepuffs and a couple of
Ravenclaws working on making more, and there are at least two students from every House who
will be selling them.”

He showed off the badges, which displayed the words ‘Save Quidditch!' in luminous white
calligraphy. When pressed the badges would switch to a new image of the Hogwarts Giant Squid
holding four tiny brooms in some outstretched tentacles, with the word ‘SQuid’ curling above it –
the abbreviation for the movement’s name.

“The senior Ravenclaws are working on tweaking it to display the image and picture in House
colours,” Draco explained, “and to animate the Giant Squid so it waves the brooms around.
However, these should be enough to get us started, and are House-neutral.”

“What if someone buys a plain badge now, but wants a House badge later?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged unconcernedly. “Then we have made twice as much money.”

“The petition is going well,” said Luna. “I think half of Ravenclaw has already signed it, it is so
long!”

“At least three quarters of Gryffindor have signed ours, though there’s some holdouts who side
with the Headmaster and think the sole focus should be on the Triwizard Tournament this year. I
don’t think we’ll get any more signatures,” Harry said. “The Weasley twins have pressured just
about everyone to sign.”

“Speaking of Weasleys,” Daphne said, a teasing smirk on her face, “a little owl told me you and
Ronald had a bit of an altercation in the corridor this morning after breakfast, Draco…”

Draco scowled. “He should stop eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.”

Greg and Vincent murmured their dutiful agreement.

“I heard you were spitting up slugs all the way to the Hospital Wing,” Daphne said sweetly.

“At least I wasn’t dancing in my own vomit while my hair fell out,” Draco said smugly. “I believe I
won that impromptu duel.”

“What started it?” Daphne asked, curiosity dancing in her eyes.

Pansy and Tracey leant forwards eagerly to listen to his answer too. Millicent, meanwhile, was off
somewhere in the library stacks, accompanying Hermione who’d wandered off with Mafalda
Prewett. Mafalda had stopped by their table to say hello to Harry and ask his advice about good
books for reading up on charms “just for fun”, and Hermione had eagerly volunteered to help a
fellow studious soul.

“We were talking about the Daily Prophet’s article on Lockhart from this morning, and the
Weaselette took offence,” Draco explained. “Then Weasley started going about the Quidditch
World Cup and calling my father a Death Eater.”

There was a strained and awkward silence amongst the group, which Luna broke by asking, “Is
he?”

“No! Of course not!” Draco insisted. “He was Imperiused in the last war, and that is all. Weasley
was out of line throwing around accusations with no valid evidence.”

He looks sincere, Harry thought. Hurt, even. But then… Draco is a very good liar.
Chapter End Notes

Curse tablets – Search on defixio or defixiones if you want to learn more about these.
Ogmius – This is the Latin spelling variant. You may have more luck searching on
Ogmios or Ogma if you are curious and want to research him further.
A_Boleyn – Info for you this chapter about why access to Merlin’s mosaic was/is
restricted.
Darkov – Group project time! Darkov wrote about how Harry was lucky Hogwarts
didn’t have group projects (which let’s face it are exhausting and tough), which
immediately made me think I needed to introduce one. ;)
 Revelations
Chapter Summary

Various secrets are shared. Some are welcome news, others not so much.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

September 1994

“Hello again, Ambrosius. It’s still September, the uh… eleventh, I think. Sunday evening.”

“Welcome Harry, it is nice to see you again. Where is Storm this evening?”

“Off having a swim. Apparently, there’s an underwater tunnel to the Black Lake in the pool
upstairs, that he can get through. He’s promised to stay in the shallows and not get himself hurt,”
Harry said, a little worriedly. His mind was dancing with all the possible horrible things that could
happen to Storm, but he didn’t want his pet – and friend – to feel trapped.

“How were your ‘Potter Watch’ meetings today? Second Sunday of the month, isn’t it?”

“Yes. They went… mostly well. Diggory bowed out so Angelina Johnson’s teaching the junior
group. He said he might help out later, as an assistant. She’s starting them off working on the wood
to silver transfiguration, and lecturing about non-magical defences against werewolves like silver,
fire, and wolfsbane. Everyone’s still on edge about the attack over summer, so it was a good thing
to begin with, I think. Oh, and she’s going to do the Jelly-Legs Jinx next.”

“How did your group go? You are still leading your peers, correct?”

“Yes, for now at least. We’re starting with reviewing and practicing the Stunning Spell – Stupefy –
and its counter-charm. Oh, and guess what? Susan Bones from Hufflepuff showed up. She got
infected by a werewolf over summer – I’ll tell you all about that in a minute – and she walked in all
wary of people’s reactions, and the room went all quiet. I mean, I said ‘welcome’, but it was still
all awkward. You know what happened next? Daphne Greengrass walked right up to Bones and
hugged her! They’re not even friends, as far as I know, but Daphne just hugged her just like that,
and she didn’t let go, and Bones started to cry. It was a mess! Then all the Hufflepuffs, and a few
other huggy students like Hermione just piled on and did a ‘Hufflehug’. They were all weeping,
and laughing, and it took ages to get the meeting started. But Bones seemed a lot more happy after
that, so that’s good. Daphne told me later she has an uncle who’s a werewolf, so Daphne’s very in
favour of werewolf rights.”

“It is not too close to the full moon, I hope? Strong emotions can be dangerous for werewolves, at
that time.”

“Another week away,” reassured Harry. “Bones isn’t looking forward to it. It’ll be her first full
moon. Professor Slughorn’s making her the Wolfsbane Potion, though, so that’s something.”

They chatted about modern developments in potions for a while – which Ambrosius said Madam
Hufflepuff would have been fascinated by – before Ambrosius gently asked, “Did you want to talk
about the less pleasant aspects of your summer, now?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, I suppose. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Ambrosius was as safe a confidant as Harry could imagine, hidden away in a secret room within
the Chamber of Secrets. The entry was guarded by a stone snake that demanded a pinprick bite of a
blood test every time Harry entered the room, as identification to prove he was not someone
impersonating the Heir of Slytherin. (Harry had recently come to suspect that the tiny blood
offerings also helped renew the serpent’s enchantments, now he knew a little more about runic
magic.) Even should the Dark Lord infiltrate the castle and the Chamber undetected, the charms on
the mosaic ensured that Ambrosius couldn’t be forced to reveal any secrets he didn’t wish to.
Enchanted snake statues also watched over his image, ready to strike at anyone who physically or
magically tried to damage the precious, ancient mosaic.

Harry’s secrets spilled out of him one by one, and it felt both painful and freeing. It started with just
a few facts about the attacks in Gabon and at the World Cup, until more and more came pouring
out of him, like a boil had been lanced to let out all his fears, guilt, and uncertainties. Harry told
him all about his treaty of neutrality with Lord Voldemort, aka Tom Riddle. He shared his
continuing bewilderment about why the Dark Lord was focusing so much on him, his guilt about
not dealing properly with the diary in the first place and how now Pettigrew had been possessed by
it, leading to deaths and injuries. He talked about his pagan beliefs and guilty sympathy for the
Dark Lord’s isolationist stance and political goals, except for the depth of the man’s anti-Muggle
stance. If it wasn’t for the deaths of his parents and the sheer gory violence of Lord Voldemort and
his followers, he shakily admitted that he might have been even more sympathetic to their goals of
religious freedoms, and rights for werewolves, vampires, and other oppressed creatures. He didn’t
have much love or admiration for the bureaucratically bloated Ministry, either. It wasn’t most of
the Dark’s beliefs he disagreed with, just their violent methods, and he felt like he couldn’t tell
anyone about it.

His most overwhelming concern, however, that he desperately sought advice on, was his fear for
his friends’ lives and wellbeing… and secondarily for himself. For the Dark Lord – or Lords since
there were two of them at the moment – seemed likely to increase his, or their, terrorist attacks.

“It’s not that I really want to have any kind of association with him,” Harry explained guiltily,
wiping a few tears from his reddened eyes, “and I’m sure it will all go wrong sooner or later… but
he said I can ensure my friends’ safety if I maintain a regular correspondence with him, and stay
out of the fighting. Do you think I did the right thing?”

Ambrosius wore a sympathetic look as he stroked his grey beard thoughtfully. “Well, it is hard to
judge without a complete picture of the situation, and I suspect you don’t have all the details either.
That is a heavy burden of secrets and expectations you carry for a young man. A child still by the
current standards of your time, I believe. In my day you would have been considered old enough to
marry and father children, and go to war for your king–”

Harry made a choking noise, and Ambrosius looked at him sympathetically.

“–and your support for his cause would be irrelevant. So long as he was a good king you should
follow him gladly wherever he led. But times change. The kings are gone and a powerless queen
rules now; she may sit on the throne but her court of ministers have seized hold of the reins of the
country, as they have for generations. No doubt the ancient ties binding the king and queen to the
land are long lost. War has changed too. Tom spoke of the Great War and the new war with
Germania, so I know child soldiers are not approved of in these modern days, at least by mortals.
However a child is defined, a child should not have to fight, and I understand you are still judged to
be not of age, not wearing the toga virilis or given your first sword or whatever symbol of manhood
they ritually grant these days in your manhood ceremony.”

“I think your closest male relative gives you a watch,” Harry said faintly, “and if you’re part of a
House you can assume titles. When you’re seventeen. Muggles count you as an adult at eighteen. I
don’t know if there’s a ritual ceremony, I don’t think so. We have birthday parties though.”

“A watch. Tch! No appreciation for liminal ceremonies these days,” Merlin tutted. “Well, I would
support your choice to fight if you wished it, but you do not. And a soldier forced to fight –
especially an untried youth – is as much a liability on the battlefield as an aid. You are a child of
your time and should not be forced into war. So no, I do not think you have done the wrong thing
in accepting the offered truce. However, it is a shameful thing for Tom to have demanded one. It
should be a matter of course that children are left out of wars, not something that needs to be
negotiated and formalised. I think you have made a good choice, given that in many ways all your
options are poor ones.”

“Yeah, they are,” Harry said, with a resigned sigh.

“It is difficult to judge from second-hand accounts, but I would caution you to keep in mind that
Tom making the safety of your friends contingent on a continued correspondence shows that he is
not truly interested in neutrality – one way or another the truce is unlikely to last forever. He clearly
seeks an alliance or friendship, or the matter would have been settled more brusquely.”

“But I don’t want an alliance!”

“Yes, he clearly knows that, which is why he is blackmailing you into an acquaintance with him
with the safety of your friends at stake. Eventually, I think it likely that he will demand more.
There is an opportunity there – if you can discern why your friendship is so important to him, you
may gain the upper hand in your negotiations. He may be speaking of war with you, but I suspect
that threat is, while not entirely hollow, very much not an outcome he desires. Or he would not,
while busily leading a rebellion, take the time to negotiate with and write letters to a single
fourteen-year-old boy who would happily stay out of the war even without a truce.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. Some of that he’d figured out for himself, but he hadn’t thought before
about how the Dark Lord wanting a friendship more than Harry did gave him power too. “I know
there was a prophecy, something involving me and him. Quirrell… sorry, the Dark Lord, said it
was why he attacked me and my family when I was a baby. But he also said he believed now that it
had already been fulfilled when he was vanquished a decade ago.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I… don’t know. I think so. But it could be a lie. Maybe he is still scared that if he attacks me he’ll
be defeated again.”

“What does the prophecy say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ambrosius tutted disapprovingly. “Well, that’s just foolishness. You must find out what it says –
your life may literally depend on it. How could you not seek it out the instant you heard about it?”

“Well, Snape hinted he was under an Unbreakable Vow and couldn’t tell me what it was, and the
Dark Lord’s certainly not going to tell me, and even if he did I couldn’t trust he was telling me the
truth. Who else could I ask?” Harry replied defensively.

“Difficult. Doubly so since you doubt Snape’s loyalties. Yet he appears to have a genuine regard
for your welfare, from all you’ve told me of – and complained about – this past year or two. You
could ask him to list the most renowned Seers of your age – that might be sufficient to work around
his vow. If he knows the prophecy, he most likely knows the Seer who gave it. There must also be
at least one other person who knows of it, the one who bound him to secrecy. Think on who that
might be. Tom seems a likely candidate, but another may have done it too. That person is unlikely
to be a safe person to approach, however, if their need for secrecy is so desperate to resort to
binding a man’s soul.”

“It would either have been the Dark Lord or the Headmaster,” Harry said. “I know from Snape’s
hints that the Headmaster bound him from directly telling anyone Lupin was a werewolf, so
Dumble… the Headmaster probably heard – or perhaps gave – the prophecy.”

“Discover the words and come and recite it to me, and we shall discuss its interpretation.
Interpreting prophecies is always a tricky business, and you should certainly not blunder around
ignorant of a fate hanging over your head. I am not skilled at many of your modern techniques and
charms, but time magic was a specialisation of mine.”

“And prophecies, too?”

“Prophecies are time magic. Divination is peering through the mists of time. Touching objects to
learn their history. Gazing into a sacred pool to see visions of the future. Casting the runes to see if
a chosen path bears good or ill fortune. Drawing out memories of the past into a chalice for others
to see when they drink from it. Physically travelling through time is just the most powerful version
– moving your body through the aether instead of just opening your soul to its flow as one with
Second Sight does.”

Harry nodded. “I didn’t pick Divination as a subject; I just didn’t feel very talented at it. I did once
feel this sense of connection with my parents at Samhain, though. Very faintly.”

“Connecting with spirits who have journeyed on is not quite the same thing, though it is related in
that you must open up your soul. Your skill in learning how to call your protective Genius spirit –
the hippocampus – shows you might have a little talent for that. Do you know if a talent for
divination runs in your family?”

“I don’t know. Lupin told me over summer all about how my dad and his friends learnt how to be
Animagi to keep him company when he transformed into a werewolf. He told me over dinner one
night that dad was a stag. Dad was good at Transfiguration, and my mum was good at Charms and
Ancient Runes. Oh, and I know that the Metamorphmagus talent comes from my paternal
grandmother’s family, the Blacks. It’s a Black family talent, but maybe I told you that already?
Anyway, I got to meet someone else from that line over summer who also has the skill, but she’s
much better at it than I am.”

“You should ask her for tutoring, then.”

“That’s what Neville suggested too. I wrote to her with a few questions, but I haven’t gotten a reply
yet. I like the glamour spell we made up better anyway–”

“You should practice that more, too.”

“–and I think I’ve got a hang of the little bit I can do as a Metamorphmagus.”
“It sounds like shapechanging runs in your father’s line, then. Parselmouth abilities from the
Parkinsons on your mother’s side, perhaps.”

“Maybe. Or from the Blacks, again. Phineas – that’s a portrait of an ancestor – didn’t know of any
Parselmouths in the family, but there’s certainly a lot of snake decorations all over the place at their
old home.”

“Either way, those are earth or water affinity talents, and not very compatible with the airy nature
possessed by those with innate talent at Divination.”

“I thought maybe my affinity was air? I’m a natural at flying on a broomstick.”

Ambrosius shook his head. “No, weather talents or Flying – unaided by a tool – would show an
affinity to air. Using a broomstick well just shows talent at channelling magic.”

“What?”

“The broomstick,” Ambrosius said patiently. “You channel magic into it to make it fly. Like using
a staff or a wand.”

“That’s why they don’t work for Muggles or Squibs?”

“Indeed. For mortals, it is nothing but a dead stick and twigs, suitable only for sweeping floors.
Incidentally, you should apply the same skill you utilise to summon a broomstick to your hand to
practice summoning your wand when disarmed, since you are all so oddly dependent on your
wands these days. As it is so attuned to you, it should be one of the easiest wandless magics to
learn, after broomstick use or potions brewing. Remember, you also connect to potions with your
magic, via the medium of your stirring implement. It is all the same skill. It is something you
should consider practising with your senior ‘Potter Watch’ group.”

“I will, thanks. Did you teach… Tom how to do it? Back when he was young?”

“We didn’t speak often, so no. However, I do recall that during in a long conversation about the
decline of the wizarding race he was very interested to hear of the talent a rare few have for Flying.
I remember it was something he sounded very determined to master – being able to turn into
insubstantial smoke or mist in the face of a threat and fly away along ethereal currents. The ley
lines provide the fastest travel routes. I don’t know if it appealed to him because he thought it a
good defence against the horrors of the ‘world war’ of his age, or whether he thought it would be
an impressive talent to show off to his friends. Perhaps a little of both.”

-000-

Hermione dropped her book-laden bag on the ground with a heavy thump and slumped down into a
library chair with a scowl.

Daphne gave Harry a discreet kick under the table and flicked her eyes meaningfully towards
Hermione. It took him a moment – and another kick – but Harry grasped her unspoken command
eventually.

“Uh…How did your tutoring session with Mafalda go, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Fine,” she huffed.

“Oh, that’s good,” Harry said, wondering how to best find out what the problem was, as Daphne
glared at him. Maybe a Gryffindor approach would suit best – he could just ignore the problem and
focus on cheering her up, or else bluntly demand she tell him what was wrong. Or, since Hermione
had a dash of Ravenclaw in her, perhaps an appeal to logic would be the best? He could ask her to
outline the problem for them, so they could brainstorm possible solutions.

It was times like this that Harry felt his group of friends could really benefit from the addition of a
huggy Hufflepuff who was good at talking to upset people and helping them feel better.

What would a Hufflepuff do? Harry asked himself. They’re good at this stuff.

“Is something wrong?” he asked Hermione. “Do you… want to talk about how you’re feeling?
Umm… because that’s what friends do, and we’re all friends here? Do you need a hug?”

Everyone stared at him, wide-eyed, and he ducked his head in embarrassment. “I just figured it
might help. It works for Hufflepuffs.”

Hermione snorted in amusement and patted him on the forearm. “It’s a very kind offer, Harry, but
no, I don’t need a hug.”

“So, what’s wrong?” Gryffindor method it was. He should have gone with his first instinct.

“It’s silly, really. It’s Prewett… she said… She said Charms theory was a cinch. She said she got
her match transformed into a silver needle on her first try and got ten points for Slytherin from
Professor McGonagall!” Hermione said, sounding aggrieved. “She kept interrupting me when I
was trying to talk, and then she said she didn’t think she’d need my tutoring to catch up with the
pure-bloods after all.”

“Jolly good work there for a first-year!” Daphne said, sounding impressed. “She may be one to
watch after all.”

“Are you… jealous, Hermione?” asked Millicent. “She is only a first-year – certainly no match for
you.”

“A bit, I suppose,” sighed Hermione. “I managed to turn my match a little bit silver and pointy on
my first try, but it took me weeks to do a full transfiguration with the right shape, and the needle’s
eye! Ten points! I only got five. And McGonagall’s our Head of House!”

“Professor McGonagall tries hard to be scrupulously unbiased,” Neville said, quick to rise to her
defence.

“I could arrange for someone to sabotage Prewett in her next class, as a favour,” Millicent offered
in a confidential whisper.

Daphne looked appalled. “Slytherin rule!” she hissed to Millicent, reminding her that they weren’t
allowed to display any infighting in public.

“No!” Hermione cried. “No. Being good at her classes and being a bit too smug about it doesn’t
mean she deserves that. She wasn’t being mean, she was just proud of how well she’s doing. No,
absolutely not.”

“I was merely offering to help,” mumbled Millicent, looking put out.

“Thank you, but no,” Hermione said firmly.

“So that’s what’s bothering you? She’s a magical prodigy?” asked Harry.
“And she skips History of Magic classes,” grumbled Hermione. “Even though you’re not allowed
to do that. She says most of Slytherin does it, so she’s doing it too. How do you even pass your
exams that way?”

Daphne smirked. “We have a roster system in Slytherin. Along with the person on the roster, a few
people choose to go to class to do quiet study or to nap, while many others do their own thing
elsewhere. There is a single designated note taker per class who has to pay attention and make
notes on what Binns says, underlining anything that seems of particular interest which was not
mentioned in the textbook. Notes are duplicated and shared amongst the class. It is a grand and
efficient system that has worked for years.”

“It’s cheating,” Hermione complained, “and it’s against the school rules. You can’t just skip
classes because you don’t like them!”

“Binns isn’t going to do anything about it, though; he doesn’t even notice. Also, Slughorn is just as
happy to look the other way as Snape was.”

“It doesn’t make it right,” grumbled Hermione. “It’s like taking advantage of a teacher with
dementia. It’s not fair. At least Harry shows up for History of Magic, even though he doesn’t pay
attention, and he spends his time studying. I think.”

Millicent smirked knowingly across the table at Harry, who shifted uncomfortably. “I do study,”
he insisted defensively, “I even study History of Magic, sometimes. The interesting bits. Binns is
doing goblin rebellions of the 18th century this year – you can’t expect me to pay attention to that.”

“There are weekly essays! You have to pay attention if you want to do well!”

Harry shrugged. “Only final exams matter, and at that, only in fifth and seventh year.” His weekly
essays were always perfunctory, token efforts.

“They are vital practice, and mandatory!”

“Just avoid Prewett if you do not like her,” Daphne advised Hermione, smoothly deflecting
Hermione from her growing outrage at Harry. “You are not a prefect – you don’t have to talk to a
firstie if you don’t want to, and her family connections are close to worthless since the Prewetts
aren’t acknowledging her. Making contact with us – through Harry – is the best she has managed,
and she is not likely to climb much higher.”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t mind her connections. I promised to join her bible study group.”

Daphne and Pansy exchanged a quick glance. “You need not do that either,” Daphne said
cautiously.

“Oh, I want to. It’s a great idea! It’s just…”

“-She’s very annoying?” finished Daphne, as Hermione trailed off.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, with a guilty flinch.

“Where’s Tracey?” Hermione asked, changing the topic abruptly. “And the boys?”

“She is off with her darling Anthony again,” Daphne replied, “and Draco’s dragged the other boys
along to a badge-making session for the new House-themed badges. Where’s Luna today, Harry?”

“Off talking to Slughorn about reserving the club room for the nineteenth for Hermione’s party,”
Harry replied. “She wants to be a ‘good client’, so I’m trying to give her little things to do now and
then, but I don’t really know what I’m doing. I don’t want to treat her like a servant or anything, so
I’m trying to stick to things I’d be happy to ask any friend to do, if they weren’t busy.”

“You are doing fine, cousin,” Pansy reassured. “Nothing is really official until we are seventeen,
anyway. This is all just… practice, so it is alright if you make mistakes. Which you rarely do, these
days.”

“You don’t need to make a fuss about my birthday,” Hermione said, looking embarrassed.

“We want to,” Neville insisted. “You are our friend.”

“Well, if you insist,” Hermione said, ducking her head to hide the pleased smile spreading across
her face.

-000-

Hermione’s birthday party on Monday afternoon was a casual affair, like she’d insisted upon, with
a simple buffet of leftovers from lunch for people to snack on plus a honey cake, and an open
invitation for any friends interested to come along.

All of their usual group of friends showed up, including Draco, who Hermione greeted with stiff
civility. Attendees from Gryffindor included Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Ron Weasley, and
Colin Creevey, the latter at Harry’s special request as party photographer. Harry had thought
Hermione might like some pictures to send home to her parents, as an extra birthday gift from him
along with the book on French history, and Neville had agreed it was a great idea. From Slytherin,
Theodore also joined their party, as well as the first-year Mafalda Prewett, and Mafalda’s friend
Emma Dobbs whom she’d brought along for company.

Daphne whispered confidentially to Harry that Dobbs was a half-blood with a Muggle father, to
which Harry whispered back irritatedly that he didn’t care what her blood status was, provoking a
shocked look from her.

The last extra guests were a little startling to some of the more hide-bound students – some house-
elves had been invited to attend as guests. Dobby was taking to his role as a guest with eager
enthusiasm. He was circulating around the room with an air of confidence – Harry couldn’t tell
whether it was faked or genuine – chatting with various H.E.L.P. Society members. Several other
Hogwarts house-elves had come along too, including Winky, who seemed positively worshipful of
Hermione, if generally downcast in spirit. She, like most of the other house-elves, couldn’t seem to
help themselves from tidying away dirty plates and offering food to other guests. The only other
house-elves who seemed to have Dobby’s ability to not work, when requested, were Jilly, the
elderly female head house-elf who was in charge of the kitchen, and Letry, who was a middle-aged
male house-elf who had the responsibility for supervising the house-elves who cleaned Gryffindor
tower. He and Hermione seemed very well acquainted, and he was cheerfully chatting with her
about house-elf literacy rates, calmly ignoring some dirty glasses rimmed with drying pumpkin
juice pulp on a nearby side-table.

Harry asked Letry later how he was managing to fight the impulse to tidy. “Dobby said it’s not his
house, so it’s not his responsibility to clean here. But you’re a Hogwarts house-elf, so how are you
coping and looking so relaxed?”

“Letry is responsible for Gryffindor tower,” the little house-elf explained in his squeaky voice.
“This is not that tower. Miss Hermione wants us to join her party, and Letry wants to make her
happy. Miss Hermione is very kind! Letry likes helping with the H.E.L.P. Society too – Miss
Hermione says her mother is explaining how important it is that house-elves has a voice in our
own futures, and not have things decided for us by someone else. So, Miss Hermione is inviting us
to more meetings and things this year. Letry wants Miss Hermione’s family to be happy with her –
and being a good guest is Letry’s birthday gift to her, like Miss Hermione asked for.”

“Thank you for explaining, Letry.”

The little house-elf bowed, then wandered back to hover around Hermione again.

Hermione had a great time opening all her presents. While not an impressive pile when compared
to Dudley’s typical mountain of gifts, it was still a good haul. Brown and Patil had bought
Hermione a jar of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and some hair clips and ribbons in red and gold. Ron
gave her an embroidered bookmark, and Neville got her a little pot plant. Most of the Slytherins
had pooled their resources and collectively bought her some clothing accessories – a new pointed
hat with a lavish display of dyed red and gold owl feathers on one side, a second hat with a purple
ribbon and a pretty brass buckle, and a purple satin reticule to wear at her waist to hold her money
and assorted small belongings.

Pansy and Greg’s joint gift was the most extravagant of the afternoon, however. They proudly
presented her with the result of their commissioned research into her ancestry; a scroll detailing
Hermione’s family tree in beautiful calligraphy, plus an old book. Most of the names were written
in black ink, but Hermione’s name, three of her ancestors, and one long-deceased relative on a side
branch of the family tree were written in a magically shimmering royal purple.

“There, on your mother’s side,” Greg explained happily, pointing at a married couple whose names
were both written in glimmering purple. “Your closest wizarding ancestor is Quobna Ottobah
Cugoano, also known as John Stuart. Born in Fantyn – that’s in Muggle Ghana now – in the
1750’s. He was a wizard, and we know his father was too – a shaman in Ghana who was a
companion to the chief in Fantee. Quobna Cugoano’s wife was Frances Wilson, an English
Muggle-born and Hogwarts graduate with no known wizarding family connections.”

“Once while we were chatting about house-elves, my mother told me we had an ancestor who was
a slave from the Lesser Antilles who became an abolitionist,” Hermione said eagerly, eyes flicking
over the scroll trying to read everything at once. “I didn’t know that he was a wizard!”

“Well, her information helped our researcher immensely,” Pansy said, taking over the explanation.
“Cugoano was enslaved at the age of thirteen – he had a premonition that day of trouble but
unfortunately his young companions taunted him about being a coward and accused him of getting
visions from the devil. So, he went to the woods with them despite his prescient feeling of doom,
and was caught by ruffians, and shipped to the Lesser Antilles before coming to England some
years later. You can read all about it in his book – we got a copy for you! Thoughts and Sentiments
on the Evil and Wicked Traffic of the Slavery and Commerce of the Human Species. Your maternal
grandfather had an old copy, another piece of evidence! This is a duplicate we found for sale.”

Harry thought with guilty amusement that perhaps Hermione had inherited not just her ancestor’s
magic and zealotry about freeing slaves, but also a family hatred for succinctness in writing.

“This… is… amazing!” Hermione gushed. “Thank you both so much!”

“Oh, you are most welcome!” Pansy said, looking pleased.

“Yes, you’re welcome. He was freed shortly after being shipped to England,” Greg added, eager to
tell her everything. “Then he did some work writing books, trying to help stop slavery and start a
school for Africans in England. Then he joined wizarding society later, around 1791, when he got
married to Wilson.”

“They had three children,” murmured Hermione, peering at Cugoano’s family. “A daughter in
purple – presumably a witch – who didn’t marry or have children. Two sons in black ink. And his
father is in purple, too.”

“That line died out,” Greg rumbled. “The two Squib sons went back into the Muggle world, under
the name ‘Stuart’. The eldest was one of your maternal ancestors.”

“Any wizarding relatives on my father’s side, in the Granger family?”

Pansy let out a frustrated huff. “None we could prove and believe me, we tried.”

“We suspect there is a connection to the House of Granger some generations back before they
joined with the House of Dagworth, but we cannot prove it, and they refused to acknowledge you,”
Greg said to Hermione, sounding disappointed. “We suspect a disowned Squib removed from the
family records or swapped for a changeling – about five generations back on Hermione’s father’s
side there is a Granger ancestor with no Muggle records prior to his marriage. It was a dead end for
our researcher. That might mean a Squib. However, it could also mean a lot of other things, even
just bad document-keeping by the Muggles.”

“You cannot claim kinship with the Granger-Dagworth family, but the House of Cugoano was
acknowledged by the Wizengamot in the late 1700’s, so you can assume the Head of House title if
you wish when you are seventeen, given you are the Heir Apparent and there are no other
claimants!” Pansy encouraged eagerly.

Hermione laughed. “Well now, there’s a turn-up for the books. Does this mean I’m a half-blood
now? Do I get any privileges for having a family House? Heirlooms and gold?”

“Well… no,” Greg said reluctantly. “You are still a Muggle-born. You need at least one parent or
grandparent who is magically talented to be a half-blood of any degree. All your magical ancestors
are much too far back. There is no seat on the Wizengamot, and your family vault was closed a
century ago. However, you could commission a signet ring with your House crest if you wished,
and it is still a nice thing to have an acknowledged magical family ancestry. A family is required to
have at least three generations in a row of proven magical blood to be a ‘House’, and since your
most famous ancestor had a shaman for a father and a witch for a daughter, that is technically
sufficient and was enough for him to complete the relevant Ministry paperwork. It is not Ancient,
or Noble, or Sacred, and there are no properties or heirlooms to claim, but it is still a House.”

“I don’t care about any of that, really, but it’s wonderful to have such exciting details of my family
history. Cugoano sounds like an amazing man, and I’m really looking forward to reading his book!
Thank you both again, it is a wonderful gift,” Hermione said, hugging each of them in turn. “You
can’t imagine how much I’ve been dying to hear about your research!”

-000-

As September turned into October and the nights began growing longer and colder, Harry worked
tirelessly at his studies, breezing through some of it, like antidotes in Potions, Summoning Charms
in Charms class, and his assignments for Biology which while tough were completed relatively
easily due to his sheer fascination with the subject and his background studying the topic last year.
Others required dogged persistence, like Astronomy. Mastering Switching Spells in
Transfiguration was a struggle, and Hermione outshone them all.

After a month and a half of looking after Fire Crabs, Professor Hagrid apologetically announced
that they’d have to learn about Kneazles for a couple of weeks, but he promised “somethin’ a little
bit more fun” for November and December, and that they’d “have another go” at Hippogriffs after
Christmas. A few people glanced in Draco’s direction at their professor’s excited but nervous
pronouncement, but Draco bore the news with a stoic expression.

Hagrid seemed genuinely bewildered by the class’ enthusiasm for cuddling and caring for the litter
of adorable lion-tailed, big-eared kittens he brought in, and the students’ willingness to do “borin’
but necessary” training activities such as teaching them to fetch or touch objects on command and
how to lead a blindfolded student from one place to another.

One gangly kitten took great offence to Vincent Crabbe’s attempt to pluck out a few of its
whiskers. (Harry suspected this had been attempted on Draco’s order, but Draco wouldn’t admit to
it.) Vincent ended up with a multitude of tiny bloody scratches all over his face and hands despite
his willingness to try hitting at and hexing a tiny angry ball of fluff, and the rest of the class gained
a newfound respect for the kittens’ ability to turn into a virtual whirlwind of claws and teeth when
they suspected some unkind plan was in the works.

Sirius owled Harry a letter as the first Hogsmeade weekend in mid-October drew close, rambling
enthusiastically about the detached Victorian villa he’d rented in Grantown-on-Spey that he’d
dubbed the ‘Grantown Den’. It was a two-storey stone and brick home on the edge of town on
Woodside Avenue, not far from Anagach Woods, and had a private garden “that wouldn’t hurt a
fly”. Sirius and Remus were apparently commuting back and forth from London via Apparition,
since the ‘tiny’ wood-burning fireplaces were much too small to travel through. They’d moved in
some furniture and generally gotten the place liveable. The two of them had set up a room on the
ground floor for Harry’s chemistry and biology experiments with “a Bunsen burner and a
microscope and all kinds of scientific Muggle stuff”. One of the four bedrooms upstairs had been
set aside for Harry “just in case you need it”, and another one had been optimistically and
courteously allocated for “any house-elves you can coax to visit”. Apparently Kreacher was being
recalcitrant about tending a “Muggle abomination of a house” and refused to leave Grimmauld
Place, even despite the temptation of Harry’s promised visit.

Sirius included in his missive an intriguing list of no less than seven secret passageways from
Hogwarts to Hogsmeade and promised to be available on request to meet Harry in the Shrieking
Shack on any day that wasn’t too close to the full moon. From there, Sirius would Side-Along-
Apparate Harry to the Grantown Den, where Harry could study his Muggle chemistry to his heart’s
content.

Harry thought that the secret tunnels might come in handy. At least they would if he could get
someone to cover for his disappearance from school. They only got seven Hogsmeade weekends a
year; one every month except for September (while they were all settling back into their studies),
April (which had the Easter holidays), and June (a busy time for exams, followed by summer break
starting sometime during that month). Seven weekends were something, and a lot more freedom
than the junior years got, but it still wasn’t a lot. Harry liked having the option to sneak away if
necessary, with adult approval to boot.

Harry’s meet-up with Sirius outside the Shrieking Shack went smoothly and easily. Neville knew
exactly what Harry was up to, since Harry had already accidentally let slip to him about Sirius’
secret Muggle house plan back on his birthday. Hermione was told only that he’d be “studying”
after a short visit to Hogsmeade. She and all of Harry’s friends were long used to his habit of
occasionally going off on his own for some study in solitude, so his plans passed without remark.

For a Muggle house, Harry thought Sirius’ holiday home looked rather wizard-like in its
architecture, being a picturesque construction of old grey stone. They arrived with a lurch in the
back garden, which had high fences surrounding a tidy green lawn with an old wooden swing in a
simple frame, and a scattering of flowering bushes and leafy trees. A small paved patio area had
flowerbeds and bushes enclosing it on three sides, and was set up with a small wooden table and
chairs where Lupin was seated. It took Harry a moment to recognise him, as Lupin had bleached or
charmed his hair blonde and grown a short, matching trimmed beard. Lupin was enjoying finishing
up a late breakfast in the sunlight while reading the paper, obviously the Daily Prophet given how
some of the black-and-white photos were moving.

Lupin looked up and smiled as Sirius arrived with Harry in tow. As Harry leant over and breathed
deep and recovered from the trip, Lupin folded up his paper, snagged the last piece of crispy bacon
off his plate, and wandered over to join them, limping slightly on his left leg.

“Welcome to the Grantown Den!” Sirius said excitedly. “The House of Black is at the service of
the House of Potter. The Den is full of all the Muggle conveniences. Except one of those new-
fangled ‘micra-waves’ – we had one but it broke. Badly. Apparently, those things don’t like iron
any more than wizards do; I tried heating up a can of Muggle food in it and boy was it a mess! I
don’t suppose you know if they’re in any way magical, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m pretty sure they’re not. You can’t use any metal in them, by the way,
not just iron. I know aluminium foil is a problem too, for example. It’s something to do with how
microwaves interact with the metal, but to be honest I don’t know the details. If you ever do get
another one, remember just to stick to ceramic dishes and cups only. No gold-rimmed dishes either
– even noble metals are a risk.”

Reaching into his bag, Harry fished out Storm, who hissed a sleepy inquiry, and was reminded that
he’d begged last night to come along.

“I remember,” Storm hissed groggily. “Put me in the sssun.”

Harry put him down gently on the sun-warmed stone pavers, and Storm slithered into a warm patch
of dappled sunlight near a bush and coiled up sleepily. Sitting on Harry was acceptable, but not
when better sources of heat were available.

“He’s tired, but he wanted to come along in case there was something fun to hunt in the garden,”
Harry explained.

“He won’t hunt the neighbour’s cat, will he?” Lupin checked. “He’s gotten quite big. What is he,
five foot now?”

“Around that – he’s growing fast, and he seems a little more temperamental lately. But no, they’d
be too big for him. His jaw doesn’t dislocate, so he plays it safe when hunting. He could maybe
manage a kitten,” Harry said thoughtfully, looking fondly at his pet. “He’s still officially a juvenile
snakeling. He’ll get a mane of elongated dorsal scales just behind his head when he’s an adult. It
hasn’t happened yet.”

“What are you going to do when he’s fully grown?” Sirius asked. “Was Lovegood’s article right?
Is he really going to be twenty-foot long or even crazily more, big enough to carve out rivers?
Lovegood wrote that he’ll just keep on growing. How is that going to work with your plans to go to
Muggle university? I suppose you could cast a Colour Change Charm to disguise the rainbow
scales, but the size – that would be more of a problem. You could transfigure him smaller,
perhaps? I don’t know a spell for that, though, or how it would affect a magical creature. All the
ones I learnt in school were for changing Muggle animals.”

“It’s not a viable option,” Lupin said, shaking his head. “That’s why Crups have their tails docked
rather than transfigured. The spell duration when enchanting or transfiguring magical creatures is
too unpredictable. Some creatures – like giants, phoenixes, and dragons… and werewolves – are
highly spell resistant and very hard to change at all.”

“I… don’t know what I’m going to do,” Harry admitted, flattening his hair down with his hands in
distracted worry. “I guess I’ll have to find a snake-sitter – he gets on well with Millicent, she might
help out. Or I could visit Storm on weekends… maybe build something on the grounds of Potter
Manor. I might just set up a wizarding tent and commute every day – they all seemed pretty
awesome and just as good as a house. Storm’s nocturnal so he sleeps most of the day away anyway.
The grounds there are enormous enough that Storm could slither around happily when he’s bigger
and hunt… rabbits or deer or something. He’s looking forward to eating kangaroos but of course
we don’t have them here.”

“I thought you would send him back to live on a reserve in Australia when he was grown?” Sirius
asked.

“I’d rather not,” Harry said slowly. “I would miss him. But… if he wanted to go I’d make it
happen for him. As a holiday or permanently if he wanted. Maybe he’d like to find a lady snake
and have a clutch of eggs, one day. He’s happy living with me for now, though. He loves his new
big tank thanks, Sirius.”

“Glad to hear it! Well, your snake growing up is a problem for another day, so let’s get started with
the tour!” Sirius said, and led Harry into the house. “Remember, as you’re underage you can’t use
your wand here, it’ll set off an alarm with the Ministry we’d all rather not have to explain. Just ask
if you need any help.”

The kitchen was full of modern appliances, with a fridge and modern stove. The cupboards were
full of wizarding-style copper saucepans, however. The tiny wood-burning fireplace in the living
room might be big by Muggle standards, but Sirius complained about it grumpily.

“It is much too small to hook up to the Floo, even if I wanted to, and you can’t even fit a proper
cauldron in there,” he apologised. “There was a small sixteenth century castle nearby just out of
town that I wanted to rent instead, but Moony said ‘no’. He thinks I need to budget more, and said
it was ‘an unnecessary extravagance’. It was much nicer though, with six bedrooms, and turrets
and everything. Very private. Not so convenient to town, of course. Here you can nip across the
road to the pub for a pie and chips for lunch, which I must admit is nice. Neither of us are great at
cooking. Moony goes in his disguise – he’s got a pair of glasses he adds when we go out. I tie my
hair back and charm it to light brown – I was on the Muggle news a bit too much last year, and I
don’t want to be recognised either. Not that I would get in too much trouble – the Ministry would
sort it out if the police were called, but I would rather not be spotted here in the first place. Being
here’s supposed to be a secret and I don’t want You-Know-Who or his followers to get wind of it.”

Mindful of the implicit hint about cooking, Harry tried calling for Dobby, who popped in only half
a minute later, and eagerly agreed to make them all some lunch later. He looked a bit intimidated
by the Muggle appliances, however, and started tugging at his ears anxiously and looked ready to
bash his head on the cupboards before Harry grabbed at him and reminded him not to and what
their rules were about asking for help when needed. Lupin volunteered to take him aside, and
Harry left him gently explaining to the fretful house-elf how everything worked.

The lab room was everything Harry had hoped for and more. For chemistry he had a workstation
bench set up with a Bunsen burner and a tripod, and against the wall were shelves full of glass
beakers, flasks, and jars of chemicals. For his biology studies there was a good quality microscope,
a set of scalpels, and a collection of slides. Copies of his correspondence course textbooks and
some blank workbooks lined the bottom shelf, and a white lab coat was folded up on the shelf next
to them, with some plastic protective goggles sitting on top of it. A plain oak desk was set up next
to a sunny window with a view of the street outside, with a poster showing the periodic table was
affixed to the wall next to it. Harry set his bag down on top of the desk and peeked in the drawers,
which proved to be full of stationery – pens, highlighters, and a top of the range calculator.

“Is it alright?” Sirius asked, hovering anxiously. “I double-checked everything this morning, so
there shouldn’t be any nasty surprises. I checked the bedroom upstairs too, twice – even though
you probably won’t need it – it’s all fine as well, if a bit Spartan.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry reassured, and Sirius beamed.

Harry returned to Hogwarts hours later in the afternoon with biology worksheets full of labelled
diagrams of cellular structures, and his first chemistry assignment done with his best notes about
what had happened when he’d mixed up a solution with the formula written neatly underneath.
Storm was draped around Harry’s neck, and had been sternly ordered not to bite Sirius even if he
got a bit squashed as they were covertly Side-Along-Apparated back to Hogsmeade. Harry bore the
trip as stoically as he could. He liked to think he was getting better at it, but maybe it was more that
short trips were less taxing.

“I ate a butterfly and two crawling things,” Storm said conversationally, “but I like fairies better.
I’m ssstill hungry.”

“You’re always hungry these days,” Harry said fondly.

Harry paused to thank and wave goodbye to Sirius, before continuing. “Which reminds me,
Professor Hagrid was very impressed by Flint’ss presentation showing you off last year. He would
like to borrow you for a ssseries of lessons with the sssixth-years next month. He promised he’d
sssupply a range of creatures for you to eat, and the classs will sssupervise you hunting in the lake
so nothing hurtss you. I lent him my booklet ‘For Carers of Rainbow Ssserpentss’ and my book on
magical ssserpentss so he can read up on Wonambi and other sssnakess.”

“That sssounds nice. Afternoons only, though. I want to sssleep in the mornings.”

-000-

As Samhain approached, Pansy had an axe to grind with Harry, who she blamed for something that
he insisted wasn’t his fault at all. They met outside on the grounds, where they could be assured of
privacy by dint of being able to spot anyone approaching.

“There’s all these Muggle-borns joining our celebrations,” she complained. “Creevey’s been
leaking like an old cauldron ever since you invited him to join us, and ‘secretively’ gossiping with
people about a ‘secret society of pagan druids’. Someone had to get him to sign a contract just to
get him to stop blabbing to everyone and anyone.”

“Nothing harmful, I hope?”

“Nothing too bad, he’ll be fine if he stays discreet,” Pansy said, waving a dismissive hand. “Of
course his little brother is keen to join too, which Runcorn is not happy about. She let him in too
even though he’s a Muggle-born, since others were pushing for it and his brother has proved some
familial piety. It just keeps getting worse, though! Do you know Malcolm Baddock from
Slytherin? First-year leader, pure-blood boy with big ears and short brown hair? He’s gone out of
his way to invite Muggle-borns to join us! There’s a Hufflepuff Muggle-born, Branstone, who’s
even worse than Creevey about staying quiet, and he’s invited her to join in the celebrations! And
then he said she could invite some random half-blood Ravenclaw boy whom Branstone says
‘might be interested’! You can’t go inviting people from just any family.”

“Oh yes, Eleanor Branstone. A Wiccan, I believe. I kind of met her in detention. She recently asked
me about Samhain, too – someone told her I was the person to talk to about that, since you
Slytherins keep things in-House for Samhain. She seems very devout for what it’s worth. Don’t
you want more people to join in? You wanted me to.”

“Well yes,” Pansy said, floundering a little, “but that is… you are from the Potter family.”

“With a Muggle-born mother and a Light-aligned father,” Harry said pointedly. “There’s nothing
wrong with recruiting Muggle-borns. I think it’s a good idea.”

“You are my cousin, though,” Pansy said, “and besides, we did not just go telling you everything
the day we met you. I am not saying we shouldn’t let Muggle-borns join in, it is just that these
things should be done carefully over time! Secrecy is vital! Doubly so this year, with the
Headmaster coincidentally filling up Samhain and the day before it with feasts that everyone has to
attend.”

“Yes, it’s tough,” Harry sighed, “with the Welcoming Feast on Sunday and then the Halloween
Feast the evening after which will surely run late with Tournament business. Plus, the Ravenclaws
have Astronomy lessons after that late in the evening, anyway, so they can’t make it. And there’s
Filch and the teachers skulking about everywhere cleaning things and checking on everyone.
Thanks for helping to pass the word that non-Slytherins should just celebrate privately in their own
rooms, this year. The club room was already booked out by Dumbledore and Professor Slughorn
for a ‘Welcome to Hogwarts’ orientation for the foreign students early on Monday morning on
Halloween, too, which I guess is fair enough. There are just no timeslots left though, which is a
shame.”

“We are keeping things quiet in the Snake’s Den as usual for the Slytherin Traditionalists, but even
then it is going to have to be a really short celebration this year,” Pansy complained. “We are used
to having to work around the Headmaster’s machinations, but it is the Muggle-borns who are
causing the most grief this year, I think. Branstone flatly refused to sign anything! She says faith
should not be hidden.”

“Tell Branstone, ‘Never again the burning times’,” advised Harry.

“What does that mean? Is it a book? A quote?”

“It’s a phrase used by Muggle witches. It’s a reminder to avoid witch burnings at all costs, that that
sort of persecution should never be allowed to happen again. You might also want to let her know
that witches and wizards live longer than Muggles, and that for some it’s only a few short
generations ago that people died. Neville says his Gran and his great-uncle have some scary stories
from their own grandparents’ time. Let her know people are still nervous, and just ask her to be
discreet for others’ sake. An appeal to emotion and friendship should work well on a Hufflepuff.”

Pansy sighed. “Muggle witches. I had never even heard of such a thing until recently. Perhaps it’s a
Squib thing. It is all still a big mess, and this increased openness is so risky. Baddock is not being
discreet enough, and Prewett in his year is a devout Christian who complained about how
Hogwarts should have a chapel, and they are fighting constantly about religion. The prefects had to
step in to make sure they keep it restricted to the dorms. Prewett complained to Slughorn, but
thankfully he is on our side. He talked to both of them and it helped calm things a little, but there
are still lines literally being drawn in the first-years’ dorms. They have divided up their rooms.”
“Surely she’s not the first Christian in Slytherin? There’s pure-blood Christians out there, I know
that.”

“Well, no, she is not the first. There are a handful of them, though thankfully not many in our year.
Sophie Roper is – snooty cow. She mostly keeps to herself, and that is fine by us. Zabini is a
‘Cafflick’,” Pansy replied, mangling the pronunciation of the unfamiliar word, “but he isn’t so
annoying about it. He joins in the Samhain celebration in our dorm because he says he would
never hear the end of it from the family ghosts if he didn’t, and he is polite about the other
traditions he doesn’t follow.”

“Should you even be telling me all this? Doesn’t it breach your ‘no public infighting’ rule?”

“Well… technically it does. However, you are the Heir of Slytherin. You are regarded as an
honorary Slytherin by just about everyone,” she said cautiously.

Harry nodded. “I figured it was something like that.”

Pansy tilted her head. “Have you stopped denying it at last?”

Harry sighed. “In private conversations, yes, I’ll admit I’m the Heir of Slytherin. In public… not so
much. I won’t deny it, but I won’t announce it either; I still don’t like the attention. Apart from
Parseltongue granting access to the Chamber of Secrets, I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. Other
people have special magical talents too, or are descended from Founders, like Smith.”

“Well, I suppose the Dark Lord made it a prominent and important thing,” Pansy said cautiously,
as if wary of his reaction. “The Gaunt family were the last family who had known Parselmouths,
but they were not particularly… esteemed for their talent. You know… this probably means you
are related to him, or them.”

“Well, I know you researched my family already and couldn’t find anything connecting me to the
Gaunts. And I didn’t see any Riddles in my family tree, either. If there’s a link it has to be pretty far
back.”

“What riddles? What do you mean, like other possible Squibs? Or people who changed their
names?”

“No, not like a puzzle. Riddle as a surname. You know, Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord.”

“That cannot be his name. He is a pure-blood,” Pansy said, sounding appalled.

“No, he’s a half-blood. Riddle’s not a name in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I haven’t heard it
anywhere else, either. No, the Dark Lord’s name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he grew up in an
orphanage in London, in World War Two.”

“What? When?” Pansy said, looking flummoxed. “How do you know all this? I thought Tom
Riddle – Tim Rydel – was just a spirit trapped in the diary? Something like a portrait? Why do you
think he’s the Dark Lord?! That doesn’t even make sense!”

“He grew up during the war with Grindelwald,” Harry explained, with a resigned sigh. Binns
needed to be sacked. “I’ve talked with a painting or two, a couple of ghosts, a couple of teachers,
that sort of thing. McGonagall and Snape both know who he is, and Dumbledore too. Maybe the
Minister. Lord Voldemort is his Name of Power. He didn’t like his birth name.”

Pansy went quiet for a moment, picking fretfully at bits of grass on the lawn they were sitting on.
“Am I allowed to tell people about this?”
Harry hesitated. “Technically you could, but it would be unwise. The Dark Lord works hard to
keep the details of his background a secret; he wants people to think he’s a pure-blood. They’re
saying in the paper that Lockhart is unlikely to ever fully recover his wits, and a lot of the scarring
is permanent. He’s lucky to be alive. He’s gone home to his family, as they can’t do anything more
for him at St. Mungo’s.”

“Why did you tell me about it, then?” Pansy cried.

“Well, you’re my cousin and my friend, and you asked. I’m trying to keep less secrets from people,
and I believe I can trust you with this information.”

“Please do not tell him you told me about it,” she begged. “I am not going to tell anyone, I promise.
This is dangerous, Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I’m not in contact with the Dark Lord!” he lied.

Harry’s last letter had been sent only last week, requesting safety for Luna. He’d agonised over it –
especially since Neville was his best friend – but Luna’s tears one lunch time had changed his mind
at the last minute. He’d found her hiding amidst the library stacks, curled up into a ball and
sobbing silently, clutching a crumpled letter from her father which begged his daughter to stay safe
and out of trouble. Hopefully Neville’s safety could wait until the end of November, for his third
pick after Hermione and Luna.

He’d buried his anxieties to write a courteous letter, chatting as requested about how his
schoolwork was going. He wasn’t really sure that Lord Voldemort would be fascinated by his
ramblings about how Switching Spells were less useless than most of the spells he’d learnt in
Transfiguration thus far, Harry’s boredom in Charms class doing spells he’d already mastered, and
how much he was enjoying brewing antidotes in Potions (even though he knew many of them
already), but it was what the wizard had asked for. The Dark Lord had complained that Harry’s
previous letter had been too short, verging on discourteous. So, this one was at least longer, if not
particularly fascinating. He’d also succumbed to Storm’s nagging and added a postscript on
Storm’s behalf asking for a tiny magical creature for his snake to snack on.

“You know he is alive then!” Pansy hissed.

“Yes. Though ‘alive’ might be pushing the definition. You know too, clearly. How open a secret is
it?”

“I am not sure. Perhaps a third of Slytherin believe it. We do not discuss it openly.”

“Are they loyal to him, or scared of him?” Harry whispered.

“Would you tell me which you are?” she asked just as quietly, after glancing around to ensure they
couldn’t be overheard.

“Scared, of course,” Harry admitted. “Trying to stay out of it all, and unsure if I’ll be able to.”

“Me too,” whispered Pansy. “I think our world is mostly fine as it is. I do not want a war.” She
reached out and held his hand, squeezing it gently.

They sat together in silence for a while, just holding hands and watching the autumnal trees as a
cool breeze swirled gold and russet leaves everywhere and admiring the ripples on the lake.
Enjoying the moment of companionable peace while they could.
Chapter End Notes

Ottobah Cugoano – He was an abolitionist of the 18th century, born in what is now
Ajumako in Ghana. He was an educated and active abolitionist who pretty much
disappeared from the historical record after the publication of his books – it is believed
he married an Englishwoman, but little is known of him after that. I decided for my fic
that he entered the realm of wizarding Britain at that point and settled down to learn
magic and raise a family.
Emily_Elizabeth_Rose – Thanks for birthday gift suggestion from the girls. They
weren’t game to pressure Hermione into wearing robes and opted for accessories as a
safer bet. :)
AnnaDruvez & Sylvaine – Wiccan student for you.
battybiologist – Prewett’s bible study group for you.
bloodfree – Snack request by Storm for you. He nagged and nagged until Harry caved.
Stargirl1061 – I’ve had a plan for a long while to have a tunnel out to the lake! Here it
is. :)
Zight – I don’t recall what your comment was, but I made a note that you wanted stuff
with Daphne! I hope her developing friendship with Susan Bones is of interest to you.
 Beauxbatons and Durmstrang
Chapter Summary

The Quidditch situation is resolved, and students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang
arrive at Hogwarts.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

October 1994

Halloween was getting closer and so was the Triwizard Tournament, which was all some students
could talk about, even in the middle of Friday morning’s History of Magic class when everyone
should theoretically be paying attention to Professor Binns.

Ron was leaning across the aisle to chat with Neville, while Harry studiously tried to ignore them
while he worked on some of his correspondence studies, and also wrote a letter to Dudley patiently
giving his best biology tips to his bewildered cousin on how to memorise the names for the
different parts of cells, like how the ‘mighty mitochondria’ was the ‘powerhouse of the cell’, and
how the ‘vacuoles’ stored waste like a vacuum cleaner and looked like holes. Dudley would
remember ‘vacuum hole’ a lot more easily than trying to learn ‘vacuole’ all on its own – he had
trouble remembering new vocabulary and always did better with mnemonics that let him build
associations.

“The foreign students are coming tomorrow, and then it’s Halloween the day after. It’s going to be
non-stop feasts and fun all weekend!” Ron gossiped loudly, eyes bright with anticipation. “Are you
going to enter, Neville? I’m going to try – imagine, a thousand Galleons! The twins and Lee Jordan
are going to as well, but I might as well try too, right? Honestly, I put a Knut on Johnson to win –
better her than a snake or Diggory, but it sure would be nice to score the prize for the family!”

“Mr. Weasley!” snapped Binns, making Ron jerk to attention guiltily and Neville sit up ramrod
straight with an apologetic look on his face. “Five points from Gryffindor! Kindly direct your
attention to the blackboard and the giant rampage in Wales, and away from chitter chatter with
your friend who is trying to work!”

Ron settled down, abashed and quiet, but he wasn’t the only student to lose points that class, for
their professor’s oddly sharp-eyed gaze moved on next to Harry.

“Mr. Black. Mr. Black,” Binns repeated sharply, when Harry took a second to look up from his
book before responding.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are you reading in my class, Black? Five points from Slytherin! Put it away, Black.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir!” Harry apologised, assuming a convincing look of repentance as he put his
Muggle textbook away. Finnegan snickered in the background. He still found it hilarious every
single time Harry got points taken off Slytherin. Finnegan had tried to convince Binns that he was
in Slytherin too, but it didn’t seem to stick as well and Binns usually seemed certain that the Irish
student ‘O’Flaherty’ was in Gryffindor.

“Mr. Black, kindly inform the class of the cause of the giant rampage in Wales in the eighteenth
century.”

Next to him, Neville started frantically scratching out a helpful note with his quill, but Harry knew
this. There was a bit about it in their stultifying dull textbook, and much more interesting
information in the book on giants that Anthony had given him for his birthday.

“Encroaching Muggle farmlands led to giants preying on sheep, as the anti-Muggle and anti-giant
wards on the border decayed too quickly after blood wards were banned. The wards eventually
weakened enough that some of the ward trees were noticed and subsequently cut down by Muggle
farmers, not knowing of their importance. The Ministry was more reactive and less proactive back
then, so it was up to the wizarding sanctuary’s landholders to preserve the Statute and maintain the
wards, and they didn’t want to spare the expense for Masters in Ancient Runes to look after their
wards often enough.”

Binns blinked puzzledly at him. “An interesting guess but incorrect, Mr. Black. The cause of the
giants’ rampage was the death of their chief or ‘Gurg’, Crygyn the Mighty. Their chief was killed
by the terrified Muggle Cariadoc Jones in retaliation for the slaughter of their farm’s flock of
sheep.”

“Well that was a trigger event, but it wasn’t the primary cause,” argued Harry. “The underlying
cause was actually the decay of the sanctuary’s wards, and a lack of prey animals within the
sanctuary boundaries. That’s what Scamander argues in his book The Giants of Britain, and it
sounded pretty convincing to me.”

“I have never heard of this so-called historian or his work,” sniffed Binns.

“Well he wrote it after you died; it’s quite a recent publication – only ten years old. He mostly
writes about magical creatures. Scamander says it was a horrific slaughter of an endangered
species, and not much of a ‘massacre’ when only two wizards and four Muggles died, compared to
the genocide of an entire tribe of over sixty giants whose only real crime was hunger.”

Harry lost another ten points from Slytherin (eliciting another muffled snort of laughter from
Finnegan and Ron) for his too-casual dismissal of the deaths of people in favour of giants. Harry
spent the last ten minutes of class obediently reading their class textbook and making actual notes
on Binns’ lecture, with a resigned sigh.

“Did it seem to you like Professor Binns was paying a lot more attention in class today?” Harry
mused out loud to Neville and Hermione as they headed to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

“He seemed quite alert, didn’t he?” said Hermione. “I can’t pretend I’m shocked you weren’t
paying attention in class, as I’m actually more shocked you knew the material well enough to
argue with him about it. Can I borrow your book on giants? I haven’t seen it in the library, and I’m
almost finished with the Ancient Runes book. The information about Ogma was fascinating,
thanks for passing it on!”

“Sure, I’ll dig it out for you. The runes book is from Professor Babbling’s private collection, so it
needs to go back to her as soon as you’re done. Interesting symbology with Ogmius – Ogma –
wasn’t it? With the chains enslaving people who were made to be happy about their servitude?”
Harry asked, in a leading fashion.
“Very much so! I feel like it might provide an interesting lead to thinking about house-elves. I’m
going to look into it some more, including a Latin source text if I can find a copy. Will you help me
with some translations if I can’t find it in English, Harry?”

“Of course! I’d be happy to do my part.”

“Thanks! I think it could really help with our research, learning about ancient enslavement spells!”
she chattered brightly.

Neville gave Harry a nudge and an enquiring look, and Harry answered his unspoken question with
a swift nod.

“Say, what were you actually working on in class today instead of history?” Hermione asked
curiously, oblivious to their subtle byplay.

“A TMA for Biology. I have assignments piling up again, and History is a great quiet study time,”
Harry said, without a trace of shame.

“You should be more careful until after Halloween,” Neville advised. “After that Binns’ power will
wane and he should go back to normal.”

Neville’s two best friends turned and stared at him. A little first-year Ravenclaw ran into Harry’s
back when he stopped suddenly and peeped an anxious apology before scurrying off.

“Um. Ghosts are stronger at Halloween?” Neville said, his lack of confidence turning it into a
question rather than a statement as his friends stared at him. “When there is more of a connection
to… you know… Heaven, or the Summerlands, or stuff. So, his mind is more focused?”

Hermione sighed. “There’s so many things no-one writes down. I’ll add it to my list – I don’t know
as much about ghosts as I’d like. I still can’t believe Mr. Sayre insisted my and Greg’s book needed
cuts when there’s so many more things that need to go in it! Well, it can go in the sequel.”

“Huh,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Well, that makes sense.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Hermione agreed, a faraway look in her eyes. “So Binns and the other ghosts
will be more focused… mentally stronger around Halloween? That’s on Sunday. Will the effect
last until Tuesday? We won’t see him again until then, and there’s actually some questions I’ve
been wanting to ask him for ages – this might be a good time for it.”

“Yes, it should be fine to wait until then. It is strongest on Halloween itself, but umm… I believe
he should still be pretty focused on Tuesday too.”

“It’s the new moon around Tuesday too,” Harry chimed in, “and the dark of the moon is
particularly suited for any magic involving ghosts or the dead, and the full moon can actually be
quite good too. Not the middle phases, though.” Someone had been very persistent in his letters in
instructing Harry about the more arcane applications of Astronomy.

Neville gave Harry an odd look, which made Harry shrug uncomfortably, but Hermione just looked
intrigued.

“Fascinating! I will have to talk to Greg about it all. Anything else about wizarding culture that
I’ve missed lately and I really should have known about?” Hermione asked Neville and Harry, lead
pencil poised to jot down a note as they resumed walking. She used a quill in class but had snuck
some Muggle pencils into Hogwarts for emergency notetaking.
Neville shook his head. “No. Um. Yes, actually, now you mention it. The thing with his name that
Harry does in class? He really shouldn’t do that so often,” Neville suggested quietly.

“Do what? Get points off Slytherin? Come on, it’s awesome,” Harry wheedled. “Personally, I think
it just makes up for years of Professor Snape taking points off Gryffindors for breathing loudly.”

“Thank you, Neville,” Hermione said with a smile. “Impersonating a Slytherin – it’s against the
school rules you know, Harry.”

“Well yes, it is… but no, not that is not the real problem,” Neville said, hefting his heavy shoulder
bag back up as it started to slip down as they dodged around other students in the crowded corridor.
“I mean he should not take on a false name. If you do it too often, it can cause problems. Or be a
real name.”

“What?” Harry said.

“Oh, you mean it could cause him Arithmantic problems,” Hermione said, perking up excitedly at
that titbit of information, which she scribbled down in her notebook as they walked. “Do you know
anything else about that?”

“No? Just that you can get extra names if enough people start using a name, and then it affects
your magic or something. It doesn’t have to be bad, though.”

“Like how you can sometimes need a new wand if you formally change your name?” Hermione
asked eagerly. “Don’t you have to formally renounce your old name as part of a ritual? I thought
you had to marry or take a Name of Power like Professor Sprout did, before a name change
affected your magic.”

Neville shrugged, and scrambled to catch his shoulder bag as it tried to slip down again. “Sorry, I
don’t know anything more than what I already said. You know I’m not doing Arithmancy.”

“So, I could become Antares Black, from the point of view of post owls and spells?” Harry asked.
“But only Professor Binns calls me that, and not very often.”

“No-one else ever?” Neville asked.

“No, well… maybe a couple of others but not often,” Harry said, thinking of how Professor Snape
had caught him out, and how Flint had called him that too. Walburga’s portrait had increasingly
insisted his surname was ‘Black’ by the end of his stay with Sirius. Did the opinion of a portrait
count, magically?

He wondered quietly if being called the Heir of Slytherin was affecting his magic. “Hey Hermione,
would you write me a summary of what happens with your magic with a new name or title, if
you’re researching it? And how easy it is to accidentally magically add an extra name?”

“I’m not doing your research for you!” she said indignantly. “If you’re worried about being called
Black or the Heir of Slytherin, look it up yourself!”

“Sorry, no, of course you don’t have to do my work for me. I just meant if you’re researching the
topic anyway I’d like to hear what you learn,” Harry explained. “However, if you prefer, I can dash
off to the library and nab all the books on Arithmancy and names myself before you can get to
them…”

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione cried in outrage, brown eyes wide in warning.
Neville chuckled quietly as Harry grinned teasingly, and Hermione reached out to slap playfully at
Harry’s arm. Harry dodged away with a laugh.

“Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help, help! I’m being repressed!” he called out,
which made Hermione laugh and call him a “bloody peasant”.

Neville was bewildered and frowned disapprovingly at her, until they’d explained the Muggle
Monty Python reference.

-000-

At dinner on Saturday evening, the Headmaster rose to make some announcements.

“For those of you who haven’t seen the notice in the Entrance Hall, let me remind you that
tomorrow evening the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at Hogwarts.
All students must assemble in front of the castle at six o’clock to greet our guests prior to the
Welcoming Feast, attired tidily in school robes, cloak, and hat,” Dumbledore said.

“I also have some additional exciting news. Thanks to overwhelming and admirable inter-House
support and the diligent fundraising efforts of a number of students, I am pleased to announce that
this year’s Hogwarts Quidditch season has been reinstated!”

As Dumbledore spoke, excited anticipatory whispers grew into a tremendous outpouring of

cheering and clapping. Hufflepuffs were laughing and hugging each other, while the Ravenclaws
were applauding excitedly. At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George Weasley had gotten up and
were dragging the other members of the Quidditch team and their friend Lee Jordan into a victory
dance while gleefully chanting, “We did it!” over and over again. Harry got dragged into it too, as
Ron pulled him up and into the mess of happy people. Glancing over at the Slytherin table Harry
saw a few Quidditch team members like Draco and Peregrine smugly holding court as badge-
wearing members of their House congratulated them. Millicent was clearly overcome by emotion
and was ignoring the hovering people trying to congratulate her too as she sobbed her happy tears
into Pansy’s shoulder and was gently patted on the back by her friend.

“Of course, the season will of necessity be compressed into a shorter time-frame than usual to
allow for the demands of the Triwizard Tournament, but Madam Hooch and some diligent students
have come up with a plan that will suit all parties,” the Headmaster added, after the cheers had died
down.

“Parties? SQUID VICTORY PARTY IN THE CLUB ROOM TONIGHT!” one of the Weasleys
yelled excitedly at top volume, to a roar of Gryffindor approval, and some interested cheering from
other House tables too.

-000-

The Gobstones Club had been perfectly willing to sacrifice their booked time in favour of letting
the SQuid club hold a massive inter-House party on Saturday evening, and Harry wasn’t the only
student who went to breakfast on Sunday morning looking tired and haggard – many were still
recovering from the previous night’s celebrations. Some of the older students had even smuggled in
some Butterbeer and Firewhisky to share covertly, though Harry had abstained from that when it
was slyly offered around.

Despite Harry’s abstention the night before, he was nonetheless significantly grumpier on Sunday
morning than the average student, even those with hangovers. He snarled at Neville when his
friend offered to pass him some eggs. He snapped angrily at Hermione when she started
interrogating him about whether he’d really stuck just to pumpkin juice the night before.

His friends eventually exchanged meaningful looks – which made him scowl even more – and left
him alone to eat in sullen silence.

Ron, however, didn’t at first notice Harry’s black mood when he eventually stumbled down late to
breakfast, robe crumpled like he’d just scooped it off the floor from where he’d dumped it last
night, and his red hair still messily unbrushed. Ron sat down next to Hermione, and started loading
up his plate with bacon, toast, and kippers. Percy’s owl Hermes swooped down with a letter for
Ron, which he opened right away. His face lit up with happiness as he read his letter while
chewing on some toast.

“Hey, Harry!” he said excitedly, a few crumbs escaping his mouth as he spoke.

Disgusting, Harry thought, with a mental sneer.

“What?” Harry said curtly.

“Percy said he’s definitely still got his job! He even gets to be the Acting Head of his Department,
at least until they’ve picked someone new to replace Crouch! He is coming to the Welcoming
Feast tonight, and everything!”

“Of course he’s bloody keeping his job!” snapped Harry. Did Ron think Percy didn’t write to him?
Percy was his friend.

Ron stared at him, eyes wide and goggling in what Harry found a very irritating way.

“What’s with you this morning? It’s great news! Percy’s been worrying about it.”

“Nothing. I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all.”

“What?”

Harry huffed in irritation. “It’s just a Muggle expression, Ron. I woke up angry. You know, how
sometimes you wake up in a bad mood, or a good mood, for no reason.”

“I know the expression, but mate…” Ron replied hesitantly, “you don’t need to bite my head off.”

“It’s no excuse for bad behaviour,” Hermione chimed in primly, “and you shouldn’t take your
mood out on us. It’s just a saying, Harry. People don’t really wake up in a foul temper for no
reason. If it wasn’t ah… the party… did you sleep badly, perhaps? Or have a nightmare?”

Harry froze for a second. It wasn’t normal? No, of course it was, or there wouldn’t be a saying for
it. It was just maybe a bit worse than usual, today.

“I did have a bad dream,” Harry volunteered, after a moment’s thought.

“What was it about?” Neville asked curiously.

Harry tried to dredge up some hazy fragments from his memory. “I don’t remember all of it. I
remember I was somewhere dark and damp, and someone had stolen something precious from me.
It was mine, and they’d stolen it. I had a plan coming up and it was all ruined! They’d taken it and
it was ssspecial to me, and they had no right to destroy what belongss only to me! They even
boasted about it! I was ssso angry with them!”

Harry’s hands clenched in remembered anger as he retold his half-forgotten dream through gritted
teeth. He remembered being incandescently furious in his dream, he’d wanted to kill whomever
had stolen from him. He wanted to make them pay and for some reason he couldn’t. He didn’t
remember why, or what they’d taken. Mostly he just remembered the feelings of helplessness and
of overwhelming fury. He still felt angry.

“Uh, Harry, did you know you were hissing in Parseltongue?” Neville asked. “We missed
everything after ‘they’d taken it’.”

“Oh. Sorry, Neville,” Harry said, taking deep shuddering breaths, determinedly reigning in his
anger so that he wouldn’t snap at his friend. “Just more of the same. They stole something and
boasted about it, and I was angry with them. That’s all I remember. I know it doesn’t sound so bad,
when I say it out loud. But in my dream, it was the worst thing in the world.”

“Have you been reading The Hobbit lately?” Hermione asked thoughtfully.

Harry shook his head. “No.”

The Dursleys had never approved of Harry – or Dudley for that matter – reading any fantasy
books. He’d vaguely heard of the book and knew there were proper elves in it not house-elves
which were more like brownies, but that was all.

Ron gave Harry a sympathetic look. “It’s alright, no hard feelings, then. I know how bad dreams
can mess you up. I had a dream last week that Percy drowned in a giant vat of honey and mum
cried because she couldn’t pull him out. It was too silly to even use for Divination homework, but it
still uh… it still made me cry when I first woke up.” He rubbed at the back of his freckled neck,
looking flushed and embarrassed as he ducked his head.

“How’s your family doing?” Hermione asked, concerned. “How are you coping, Ron?”

“I am going alright,” Ron said, with a grateful smile at her. “Percy is doing great, like I said earlier.
Bill has healed up alright – thanks again, Harry – and has gone off to work for Gringotts in Egypt,
where laws against all kinds of shapeshifters are less strict, thank Merlin. He’s not going to be
home in England much now, I guess. He says they’re sending him to somewhere in Africa, next.
There’s lots of werehyenas in Africa, though not many werewolves. Still, it helps, apparently.
People are used to them there, and some of the witches leading werehyena clans have gotten more
rights for their people.

“Dad’s out of hospital, but he’s lost his job now it’s confirmed he’s a werewolf. That cow
Umbridge has his old job, though there’s been a bit of a shake-up in the Ministry. Dad’s Misuse of
Muggle Artefacts Office, the Hit Wizards, a committee or two, and the Muggle Liaison Office
from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes have all been combined into the one
big new office within the DMLE. It’s the ‘Muggle Management Office’ now.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Hermione said, with a frown. “I don’t like it at all. What I’ve read
in the Daily Prophet about Umbridge isn’t at all promising, either. She’s very bigoted against
werewolves and is clearly a blood purist.”

“Very worrying,” agreed Harry.

“Well, I have to get going,” Ron apologised, making a hasty folded sandwich of his last bits of
toast and bacon. “New Gryffindor Keeper, you know! I have to get to practice.” His chest puffed
up with pride.

“We know,” Hermione said, sounding amused. “Everyone was announced last night at the party.
Congratulations again, Ron! See you at the Welcoming Feast, I guess.”

Ron waved a cheerful goodbye as he scampered off towards the Quidditch Pitch.

Harry was the next to leave. “I’d better get going too. I have meditation practice with Draco, then
private study to do.” Down in the Chamber of Secrets, as he often did. Ambrosius didn’t admit it
out loud, but Harry knew he loved being visited, even if Harry was just quietly sitting nearby doing
his homework or correspondence studies.

Harry and Draco met up outside in the grounds, as planned. Filch was roaming around the castle
snarling at students with muddy shoes or anyone who dared to touch one of the freshly polished
suits of armour. It wasn’t very conducive to private meditation.

“You don’t have Quidditch practice today?” Harry asked Draco, as they went to find a secluded
patch of lawn that wasn’t too damp to settle down on, or rather, one that could be easily made dry
with a judicious spell or two. It was cold but clear – a nice change from the past couple of days of
drizzling rain.

“Slytherin has the pitch after lunch. Gryffindors, then Ravenclaw, then us, and the ‘Puffs have the
evening before the foreign students arrive,” Draco explained. “With only a few weeks until the first
match, everyone is in a tizzy to get in as much practice as possible, and we are all on a tight
schedule.”

“Ready to start Occlumency practice?” Harry asked, after they’d dried off some grass to sit on. The
ground was steaming slightly from the charm, which probably wasn’t great for the lawn, but at
least their robes would be dry.

“Yes. No. Harry, do you know why Granger is still giving me the cold shoulder?” Draco asked, as
he sat down and carefully arranged his robes so they wouldn’t crinkle up. “I offered my apologies
about leaving her out of the ball and the garden party, but she is still barely talking to me, and
keeps making excuses to leave our table at the library whenever I am there.”

Harry sighed. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Obviously, or I would not be asking in such a Gryffindor fashion. Pansy already told me she does
not know why Granger is snubbing me either.”

“You could ask Hermione.”

“I tried. She won’t talk to me,” Draco said, sounding very frustrated. “She is not yet sending me to
Coventry, but it is rather close to that.”

Damn it, Harry thought frustratedly. I hate being caught in the middle of these things.

“You could ask Millicent?”

“Come on, Harry!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you,” Harry said. “It’s not just being snubbed over summer, or you never
using her first name. It’s worse than that. She thinks your father is a Death Eater. She knows about
the Wolfsbane at your tent door at the Quidditch World Cup.”

Draco went very still, and his face was calm. “My father is not a Death Eater.”

“Where was he at the World Cup then?”

“Guarding mother and I inside our tent, of course.”

“Really?” Harry said, scepticism thick in his voice. “Are you sure he wasn’t off with Greg’s dad,
wearing a mask and having ‘fun’ with some Muggles or some Aurors?”

“My father was busy protecting our family,” Draco said stiffly, staring at Harry.

Harry stared back at him. “That part I believe. I believe he wants to keep you and your mum safe.
But what about you, Draco? Where do you stand?”

“Where do you?” Draco snapped back. “What is this, are you a Hufflepuff now? You do not talk
about such matters, Harry! Do you want to confide in me openly and honestly about your attitude
to the Dark Lord? You never have before!”

Draco barely waited for a moment’s hesitant and abashed silence from Harry, before nodding
decisively and adding, “I did not think so. So drop it – do not demand from me what you are
yourself unwilling to offer. We are too young, anyway. It is not our fight yet, and we do not truly
get to decide anything for ourselves. Well, maybe you do a bit, but I do not, at least. So if we both
stay out of it as much as we can, we remain friends and allies - amici. Right?”

There was a note of pleading and insecurity at the end of Draco’s speech, that Harry couldn’t help
but respond to. He didn’t want to lose their friendship either and he honestly didn’t really want to
talk about the Dark Lord either. What was there to say that would do any good? Nothing. “Right.
Friends.”

“Good,” Draco said, sounding very relieved. “Well, let us begin our Occlumency, then. Father sent
me a letter with a guided visualisation to try and use, to better build up mental defences against
Legilimency or the Imperius Curse. A stone wall guarded by dragons.”

It wasn’t the subtlest redirection of a conversation that Draco had ever employed, but Harry was
happy enough to cooperate.

“I don’t think I’m ready to try building active defences yet. I asked Snape about it in a letter, and
he agreed I need to keep working on clearing my mind. So, I’m going to try a couple of the
element-based exercises from Barnett’s Guide to Advanced Occlumency,” Harry said, happy to
move to a less contentious topic. “I’ve usually been using a sky image as my mind-clearing image,
but someone told me I’m more likely to have an earth or water affinity than air, so I thought I’d try
something different today and see if I can find an easier visualisation to hold in my mind.”

The boys closed their eyes and slowed their breathing. Harry let his anxieties and residual anger all
wash away on the imaginary lapping waves of an ocean shore.

-000-

As dusk fell that evening, the entirety of the Hogwarts students and staff assembled ready to greet
the foreign delegations. There had been a lot of speculation about how they’d arrive, and some
impatient lectures from Hermione about how Hogwarts, A History explained that you couldn’t
Apparate on Hogwarts grounds, and only the Headmaster could make Portkeys work within the
ward boundaries. Ron, of all people, had argued successfully with her, pointing out practically that
his oldest brothers had both learnt how to Apparate in class lessons at Hogwarts, so there had to be
a way to do it.

The Beauxbatons students and their principal arrived first, as students tucked their cloaks around
them in the chill air as dusk fell. The tiny first-years were standing at the front of the assembled
Hogwarts students, and were the first to spot the giant object hurtling out of the sky towards them
at breakneck speed.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first-years.

“No it’s not!” Dennis Creevey squeaked excitedly. “It’s a flying house!”

“A flying house? I hope no-one here’s wearing red shoes,” Hermione said, with a grin at Harry.

Her grin slid away disappointedly as Harry looked just as mystified as Neville did. “You haven’t
seen ‘The Wizard of Oz’?”

“McGonagall said we could wear some red to show House pride,” Neville said, uncertainly.
“However, I don’t think anyone has red shoes on?”

“How about ruby slippers?” Dean Thomas asked, with a wink at Hermione, which made her laugh.

“It’s not a house, it’s a giant carriage!” someone called out.

“Look at the size of those pegasi! What are they, Granians?”

“Of course not, look at the golden colouring! They have to be Abraxans!”

There were a dozen palomino pegasi with fiery, red eyes drawing the Beauxbatons carriage, all
were the size of elephants with hooves larger than dinner plates. They landed right in front of the
assembly at breakneck speed with an almighty crash, but the carriage seemed either robust or
enchanted enough to endure the treatment and bounced to a stop without any damage.

A boy in a pale blue robe hopped out of the carriage first, holding the door open for his
Headmistress to alight. She was the largest woman Harry had ever seen in his life – only Hagrid
had her beat for sheer size, and that was in bulk rather than height. Aside from their size the two
couldn’t be more distinct in appearance, however. Hagrid always wore rough linen and leather,
with his hair and beard a giant tangled frizz around his face, while Madame Maxime was the
epitome of grace as she glided forwards to greet Dumbledore. She wore a long black satin robe, her
hair was pulled back in an intricate and tidy chignon at the base of her neck, and opals glittered at
her neck and on her thick fingers.

A dozen Beauxbatons students in their late teens, both boys and girls, stood shivering in their thin
blue silk robes as their Headmistress chatted with Dumbledore about the proper care of their
pegasi, and everyone waited for the Durmstrang students. A couple of them had wrapped up in
scarves for a little extra warmth – Harry wondered why they didn’t have proper cloaks as part of
their school uniform. Didn’t it get cold in the Pyrenees in winter? Perhaps the school – whose
precise location was a mystery to the British, at least – was in a warm valley. In any case, the chill
of late autumn in Scotland was obviously a shock to the students. Perhaps Beauxbatons was
magically heated. Could the Hot-Air Charm be set on a building?

The Beauxbatons students and Madame Maxime all went inside out of the cold, which seemed
wise, while the Hogwarts students politely waited for the arrival of the exchange students from
Durmstrang.

Finnigan was right in his muttered guess – the other school clearly wanted to make a dramatic
entrance as well. It reminded Harry a little of the tents at the Quidditch World Cup – everyone
wanting to show off to each other.

They arrived via what Hermione whispered excitedly whispered must be a large-scale Portkey, in
what Harry was sure had to be a heavily enchanted boat. It rose up out of the Black Lake, from the
middle of a magically-created whirlpool. Their ship looked eerily skeletal, with tattered sails and
dim misty lights at the portholes. It looked more like a ghost ship than something anyone in their
right mind would want to sail in anywhere, and it glided towards the bank without the need for any
wind to fill its damaged sails. It was solid enough, though, and the students disembarked via a
gangplank to the shore without any fuss. Their Headmaster, Professor Karkaroff, was a thin older
man with a white goatee who wore a sleek silver fur cloak, while the eleven students following
him wore rougher cloaks of shaggy, matted brown fur over the top of their deep blood-red robes.

An excited babble of whispers erupted from the Hogwarts students as they followed the
Durmstrang students into the warmth of the Great Hall, particularly amongst those wearing
colourful House ‘SQuid’ badges (which remained popular accessories with the Quidditch ban still
only very recently lifted).

“It’s Krum!”

“He’s here! There, with the thick eyebrows!”

“Hmph! His eyebrows are perfect.”

“Do you think he’ll join in some matches? I heard someone wrote to him!”

“Do you think he’d sign my hat with a lipstick?”

Sadly, the hopes of Quidditch-mad Gryffindors like the Weasleys, Jordan, and Johnson were all
dashed when Krum and the rest of the Durmstrang students settled down at the Slytherin table.
Draco, Vincent, and Greg all looked particularly smug as Krum sat down right next to their group.

“They should have sat here,” moaned Ron jealously. “We could have been eating dinner with
Viktor Krum!”

“The Slytherins set aside room at their House table for guests,” Harry said, with an uncaring shrug
that earned him a brief scowl from the Quidditch fans. “We didn’t. It was a smart idea to welcome
them by making room.”

“Cunning and sneaky, you mean,” Ron grumbled.

At Hermione’s recommendation, Harry helped himself to some bouillabaisse, a seafood stew which
was one of the many foreign dishes that the house-elves had cooked for the most sumptuous feast
Harry had seen yet at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was certainly out to impress that evening. All the students were neat and tidy, and pets –
specifically including potentially terrifying snakes – had been banned from the tables, which were
set with plates and bowls of solid gold. Freshly cleaned House banners adorned the walls behind
the students’ tables, and there was a banner displaying the united Hogwarts crest on the wall
behind the teachers’ table. The Durmstrang students seemed to be admiring the golden plates, and
the twinkle of stars seen through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, but the Beauxbatons
students still seemed to be suffering from the cold temperature and looked disinclined to admire
their surroundings.

The Beauxbatons students had settled down at the Ravenclaw table, which didn’t cause the sighs
of regret that the Durmstrang students’ selection of their host House table had. At least, not until
one of the Beauxbatons witches came over to the Gryffindor table to ask for one of their dishes.

“Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?” she asked, gesturing at the tureen in front of Ron,
her eyes flicking covertly over to Harry who was sitting nearby. She’d unwound her thick blue
scarf as she’d approached, which she’d previously had wrapped around her neck and head almost
like a muffler. Her long silvery-blonde hair and deep blue eyes seemed to have more than a few
people enthralled by her looks as she approached. Harry knew to assign the credit to her Veela
ancestral powers rather than to looks alone, however, and felt sympathy for Ron who was turning
purple and reduced to making a faint gurgling noise, rendered totally unable to speak in the
beautiful girl’s presence.

“Hello again, Miss… er… Delacour, wasn’t it?” Harry was pretty sure that it was the same young
woman who’d accidentally enthralled him at his book signing in Lutèce, but he wasn’t completely
sure. He didn’t want to look closely enough at her face to tell.

“Yes, ‘ello again, Mister Potter. The book of your patron was very interesting.”

“That’s great to hear. We’ve served ourselves some soup already, it was very nice, though I’m
afraid it may be getting a little cold now and may need a warming charm. You’re welcome to take
the tureen if you like,” Harry said politely, thinking hard of an empty and peaceful ocean shore and
trying to avoid looking directly into her eyes for too long. He’d read that helped with Veela allure a
little, just like it did for resisting vampires’ allure and for preventing Legilimency attacks.

He welcomed her to Hogwarts in French. “Vous pouvez vous servir s'il vous plaît, et Bienvenue à
Hogwarts. J'espère que vous appréciez votre séjour ici.”

“Merci, monsieur.”

“Th-th-the cabbage r-rolls are v-very nice too,” Neville volunteered with a notable stammer,
blushing as he stared at their visitor. Ron gurgled wordlessly and nodded his agreement as Neville
clumsily pushed the tray of mince-stuffed cabbage rolls swimming in milky gravy towards her,
knocking over a little pot of tartly sweet red berry sauce as he did so. Neville looked mortified as he
tried to mop up the spilled jam with a linen napkin. His efforts mostly just helped the red stain
spread across the formerly pristine white tablecloth.

“Zat is not French cuisine. I sink maybe it is from ze Kalmar Union,” Delacour said with a haughty
sniff, looking down her nose at Neville. “Something for ze Durmstrang students.”

“You’re so right; the soup was much better,” Ron said breathlessly, finding his voice at last.
However, Harry knew that in fact Ron hadn’t tried either dish, having stuck to more ordinary fare
like steak-and-kidney pudding.

Hermione let out a harrumph and cast a cleaning charm on the tablecloth to get rid of the berry
stains. “Boys,” she muttered in irritation, as the girl went back to the Ravenclaw table with the
tureen of bouillabaisse.

Ron started waxing lyrical to Finnegan and Neville and anyone who would listen about how
beautiful the girl was, and how gorgeous Veela were in general (once the origin of her beautiful
allure was pointed out to him).

Neville mumbled an apology to Hermione and his thanks for her help and started dishing himself
out a generous serving of various desserts, avoiding looking at or talking to anyone.

Wanting to try something new even though his beloved treacle tart was on the table too, Harry
nabbed himself a couple of chocolate-drizzled profiteroles, and a glass filled with a layered dessert
of granola, cherry compote, and whipped cream. Eating dairy was still a novelty for him and filled
him with quiet rebellious delight.
“She’s a Veela, or rather, a part-Veela. So she can’t help the reactions she causes,” Harry said, in
half-apology to Hermione on Fleur’s behalf.

“You were fine. Did you know her?” Hermione asked. “You knew her name.”

“Yeah, but only a little. I met her and her family briefly at a book signing in Lutèce. She has a
wizard father.”

“Oh, Lutetia? Your trip to magical Paris?”

“Yup! So that helped – I knew to avoid eye contact and try my best Occlumency. Though it wasn’t
really enough at the Quidditch World Cup, with so many of them. Anyway, I’ve been reading up
on Veela – I bought a book on them in France. Apparently, they’re the harpies from Muggle
Ancient Greek legends, though you should note that in wizarding culture it’s a social faux pas to
call them that. ‘Harpy’ is used specifically for their fire-throwing bird-like form, and over time has
become quite the insult, so they generally prefer ‘Veela’ now. It’s short for ‘Samovila’, which is
the Bulgarian term for them. They call them just ‘Vila’ in Yugoslavia, so I think that’s where we
Brits got our term from.”

“Did you know, Harry, that Yugoslavia broke up into separate states a couple of years ago?”

“Did it? Sorry, I don’t know a lot about Muggle politics anymore. As for wizarding history and
geography… well, you know. Binn’s not exactly teaching us anything modern, or any geography
apart from British, and not much of that. I only know bits and pieces of how wizards divide up the
world.”

Harry got stuck into his dessert while Hermione served herself some blancmange.

“Why do you think a Veela is going to Beauxbatons?” Hermione mused. “I would have guessed
she would go to Durmstrang, if Krum is there. Veela are Bulgarian too, after all.”

“Her family seems French, though, so there might be a language barrier. Or perhaps the
Durmstrang Institute doesn’t admit students who are part goblin or Veela, like Beauxbatons does.
They let vampires and werewolves into Durmstrang, but I don’t know about other races?”

“Do you think there’s a Veela enclave in France?”

“Oh! Yes, I bet there is, I know they spread out, but I don’t know how far. Maybe they like the
warmer weather in France? Veela don’t like the cold, and Durmstrang is somewhere in
Scandinavia, which has to be colder than France surely, even if Beauxbatons is in the Pyrenees.
There’s still a large population in Bulgaria, though. I read that Veela there don’t even like to move
around much in winter – they practically hibernate all winter in an all-Veela village in Bulgaria
called Zmajkovo.”

Hermione looked at Harry and smiled slowly. “You know, my parents used to despair that I’d ever
make friends, with the way my nose was always stuck in a book. But you’re almost as bad as me,
aren’t you? You know I’m going to need to borrow that one too.”

“It’s not really a bad thing to read though, is it?”

“I don’t think so, obviously. So, what else do you know about Veela? Are they really all women?
How does that even work?”

“Parthenogenesis while in their bird-like harpy form,” Harry said. “Not that the author called it
that, but obviously it is, since the daughters that they hatch from eggs are identical in every way to
their mothers. In their human form Veela can uh… they’re compatible with wizards or Muggles.
But usually the children don’t inherit the ability to change shape, in such cases. They keep some of
their mother’s allure, but that’s about it. I suspect it becomes like a recessive trait.”

They chatted for a while longer about Veela, and how it was rumoured that their supernatural
abilities weren’t as strong as they used to be centuries ago when they spent almost all their whole
lives in their bird forms, until Neville drew their attention to the fact that the speeches were about
to start. Harry was pleased to see Percy Weasley sitting up there. Percy was introduced as the
‘Acting Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation’, which had him blushing
brightly as he got him some House-proud cheers from the Gryffindors and a smattering of applause
from other students.

Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, got a much louder round of
applause, famous and popular former Beater that he was.

The whole hall went completely silent as the Goblet of Fire was brought out, and everyone gazed
at the cup as he held it up. It was a large, roughly hewn wooden cup, and would have been entirely
unremarkable, had it not been full to the brim with dancing, blue-white flames. Harry wondered
how old it was, and what the enchantments on it were. Ancient ones, no doubt, perhaps similar to
those on the Sorting Hat. The Tournament had been going on for centuries – they hadn’t even held
a Triwizard Tournament for the past two hundred years, according to Hermione.

Every ear was pricked attentively as Dumbledore explained about the Tournament. “The
Tournament will consist of four tasks demanding magical skill, daring, and deduction. The
Triwizard champion will be the entrant with the highest points total after the fourth task, and will
win a thousand Galleons for themselves, and their school will have the honour of hosting the next
Triwizard Cup in four years’ time. Small prizes will be awarded to second and third place
champions.

“Tomorrow on Halloween one champion from each school will be impartially chosen by the
Goblet of Fire from names submitted over the next day as the ones most worthy of representing
their schools. This is a contest strictly for our older students who are both highly capable and
willing to enter a binding magical contract. I will be placing an Age Line ward around the Goblet
to prevent our younger students under seventeen from yielding to temptation.”

“A few drops of Ageing Potion should take care of that, hey George,” Fred Weasley said, with a
determined glint in his eye. “Once your name’s in, you’re in, if it’s a ‘binding magical contract’
like the Headmaster said. Do you want a vial too, after we brew some, Harry? You’re entering too,
right?”

“Hey! What about me?! I’m your brother!” Ron objected stridently.

“I doubt anyone under seventeen will stand a chance,” said Hermione. “None of us are NEWT
level, and one or two spells at that level won’t be enough if it comes to a duel.”

“Speak for yourself,” George Weasley said shortly.

“We owe Harry for years of help,” his twin said to Ron. “You we owe nothing, and in fact we
promised mum we’d keep you out of trouble, ickle brother.” He ruffled Ron’s hair, and Ron
scowled back at him.

Harry’s mind danced briefly with visions of the whole school cheering for him, before he shook his
head. “No,” he said slowly. “I mean, it might be nice to win, but it would be pretty dangerous.
Good luck to you two if you enter it, but… be careful, alright?”
“Careful as a fox in a henhouse,” promised the twins in chorus, each with a wink, as the
Gryffindors all pushed away from the table and headed for their dorms.

Ron and some of the other Gryffindors were eager to catch another glimpse of Krum, and the press
of bodies heading towards the Slytherin tables pulled the less fan-struck students along with them.

They caught up to the Durmstrang students at the door and got to overhear Karkaroff offering some
mulled wine to Krum but refusing it to Poliakoff, another of the Durmstrang boys. The Durmstrang
Headmaster froze in place when he caught sight of Harry, eyes locked onto his face, and his
famous scar. Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought the man looked almost frightened. Some of the
Durmstrang students were staring at him too. Poliakoff, the boy who’d missed out on wine, nudged
a red-robed girl next to him and was whispering and pointing openly at Harry’s forehead. Harry
flattened his fringe down over his forehead and tucked his pointed hat down more securely.

“Yeah, that’s the famous Harry Potter,” growled a voice behind them.

Professor Karkaroff spun around, colour draining from his face as he stared at Mad-Eye Moody in
fury and fear.

“You!”

“Me,” said Moody grimly. “Unless you have something important to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you
might want to move along. You are blocking the doorway.”

“I shall be watching you, Karkaroff!” Moody warned, as the wizard hurriedly led his students away
without another word. He glared at Karkaroff’s back, a look of intense dislike on his mutilated
face. Harry wondered what that was all about.

-000-

Lots of people were up early on Monday, eager to have a look at the Goblet of Fire before classes
began. It had been placed in the centre of the hall atop the old wooden stool that normally bore the
Sorting Hat. A thin golden line of tiny glowing runes had been magically imprinted on the floor,
forming a circle ten feet around the stool and goblet. The Hall itself had been redecorated for
Halloween, with convincingly realistic animated bats flitting around the ceiling and displays of
carved pumpkins everywhere.

Draco waved to Harry as he saw him enter with Neville, calling them over to where he stood with
Daphne, Greg, and Vincent, watching the flickering flames of the Goblet and the crowd of other
students.

Hermione wasn’t with them as she hadn’t met Harry and Neville on time in the Common Room
that morning to go down to breakfast – the two friends guessed she’d stayed up late reading again,
as she often did whenever she had a new book to devour. Mornings were a trial to a late-night
bookworm.

“Our Chaser Warrington put his name in at dawn since he’s just had his birthday and is old
enough,” Daphne gossiped excitedly, “and Derrick put his name in just a few minutes ago.”

Harry glanced around and saw Derrick sitting over at the Slytherin table, enjoying his breakfast.
Harry caught his friend’s eye and gave him a wave and a cheerful thumbs up as he mouthed “good
luck”, which got Harry a brilliant grin in return, lighting up Derrick’s plain features with happiness.

“All the Durmstrang students put their names in earlier, which makes sense, otherwise why would
they all bother to come?” Draco asked rhetorically.
“I think Krum will win,” Vincent said confidently.

“Being good at Quidditch might not be enough to win,” argued Daphne.

“It shows Krum is magically strong, to be such a good flier,” Neville replied, startling Vincent with
his unexpected show of support. “He must be good at classes too, or he would not have bothered to
come with the Durmstrang students. He has a successful Quidditch career, so it cannot be the
money that draws him. He must truly think he can win.”

“They’re saying Diggory is the best chance for Hufflepuff, and Turner from Ravenclaw. Our Head
Boy has to be in with a chance, after all!” Daphne babbled.

“I would agree on Turner, but I think McManus from Hufflepuff,” argued Draco, “the reserve
Beater. I know his name is in, and he’s rumoured to be doing excellently at non-verbal casting.
Who would you bet on from Gryffindor, Harry?”

“Johnson said she’s going for it, so I think she has the best chance. DADA is one of her best
subjects, and gossip says she’s doing well in Care of Magical Creatures too. Hermione says there’s
usually a lot of dangerous magical creature challenges in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan are trying for it, though they’re a bit too young,” Neville
volunteered, gesturing to where the trio had strutted over to the circle.

“They will never make it to the centre,” Draco said confidently.

“They brewed some Ageing Potion overnight,” Harry said. “They’ll make it.” They’d covertly
offered some to him, just in case his prior refusal had been due to their offer being made in public,
but he’d turned them down again.

“They won’t.”

The twins looked like they’d made it for a second, both leaping over the glowing circle, but just as
one yelled in triumph there was a sizzling sound and they were magically thrown back ten feet and
landed on the cold stone floor with a painful thud. They also sprouted long white beards, which got
a lot of laughs from the surrounding students.

“Told you so. The same thing happened to Fawcett from Ravenclaw just ten minutes ago,” Draco
said cheerfully. “Her beard did not end up as long as theirs, though.”

“Summers from Hufflepuff got caught too,” added Daphne. “He is only in fifth year, so I doubt he
would have had a chance at winning anyway.”

“Excuse me, I’d better go check on the Weasley twins,” Harry said, bustling away. Lee Jordan was
escorting his limping friends up towards the hospital wing, howling with laughter in a distinctly
unsympathetic manner.

“Got anything for bruises, Harry?” one twin asked, wincing as he walked.

“Or injured pride?” added the other.

“Sorry, my Healer bag’s up in my dorm room,” Harry apologised. “Nothing broken, I hope?”

“The beards are tremendous,” Jordan laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You would have earned yourself one too, if you hadn’t been lagging
behind,” the more injured twin grumbled.

“We are fine, but do you have anything for wounded pride? Hey, tell me how amazing our attempt
was, and how we almost had it,” whined the other twin.

“You were amazing, you almost had it,” Harry reassured. “I’m sure you’ll manage to get your
names in. What are you going to try next?”

“Next?”

“That’s it, that’s all we had.” The two walked along with hangdog expressions.

“Maybe they’ll hold it again next year, now it’s restarted?” Jordan offered. “We’ll get it another
year.”

Harry tutted in disbelief. “Pranksters like you giving up? I’ve seen your growing list of inventions
in your ads you hand out in the common room – you’re making up an inventory of novel potions
the wizarding world has never seen. They’re amazing! And I’m saying that even though a few too
many students have been brought to me with bloody noses that won’t stop running. Madam
Pomfrey says to send all your test subjects or people with bad reactions directly to her in the future,
by the way. If you really want this, don’t give up! There’s a dozen ways you could try to get past
the Age Line. You’ve only tried one.”

The trio stumbled to a halt. Fred and George exchanged a look and turned as one to Harry and said
in pleading tones, “Teach us, o son of Prongs!”

“Sirius told you about their uh, prankster names, huh?” Harry asked, with amusement.

“He’s our patron!”

“He’s going to fund us starting a joke store when we graduate and has invested in our mail-order
business until then.”

“He’s the master of merriment, the jester of japes!”

“A white sheep among the black, a king among men. And you, the son of the great and ignoble
Prongs!”

“Slayer of serpents and Healer of the hurt! Hero to the… something else beginning with h!”

“Out of lines?” the other twin asked sympathetically.

“I blanked. All I had was ‘hairy’.”

“You should have gone with ‘helpless’.”

Jordan snickered at the duo.

“So, Prongs Junior, what are your best tips for getting past the Age Line?” the injured twin asked
more seriously, bruises temporarily forgotten as he leant in close, eager for Harry’s answer.

“Wellll… you should stop thinking so much like Gryffindors, for starters. You don’t need to march
straight up and cross the Age Line. The goal is to get the paper slip in the Goblet, that’s all. You
could get someone to put your name in for you–” Harry started.

“No-one would go for that and miss their own chance!”

“Surely not everyone in seventh year wants to go in the Tournament. I wouldn’t if I was a seventh-
year – the Tournament’s not as important as NEWTs. Also, you could try sending an owl. Errol’s
pretty old – is he over seventeen?”

“I think he might be!” one of the twins said excitedly.

“Thanks, Potter! What else have you got?” Jordan asked eagerly.

“Scrunch the paper up and throw it in, it’s only ten feet. If it doesn’t work, just summon the paper
ball back and try again. Or make a paper aeroplane,” Harry suggested.

“Fred! What about that charm to animate a message bird!” George added eagerly. “The one they
use on paperwork at the Ministry! That might do it, especially if it’s fast enough! The Age Line
took a few seconds to react, after all.”

Harry nodded. “Sounds good! Also, runic wards are often a ring, rather than a dome. If you need to
put the paper in the cup yourself, you could try getting up high – maybe levitating each other – and
then lowering yourself across and down. Oh, and you could try making a runic amulet to get you
past the wards, oh… but that would take a lot of study of the ring’s wards and I don’t think you’ll
have the time.”

“I doubt we will, and besides, we took Arithmancy and Divination, not Ancient Runes,” said Fred.

“It is a pity we’re not Animagi, the wards might not recognise us like that,” mused George, as they
all resumed their progress towards the hospital wing. “A plan for another day, perhaps. How about
human transfiguration? What if you’re not human when you cross the Age Line? Oh! A Canary
Cream might do the trick!”

They brainstormed ideas in excited whispers all the way up to the hospital wing. “‘Think
Slytherin’, hmm… Let’s see if we can get a pass to go late to our first class!” Jordan suggested.
“That will give us more time to try things unobserved in the hall while everyone is in the
classrooms!”

Madam Pomfrey sighed as soon as she saw Harry walk through her door. “What have those
rapscallions dosed people with this time?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, young Poppy,” a twin said, striding forward from behind Harry. “You
should respect your elders!” He stroked his luxuriously long white beard to emphasize his point,
which evoked an unwilling snort of laughter from Madam Pomfrey.

“Ah, so you are the victims today, rather than the culprits. Well, I have had three others through
this morning thanks to the Headmaster’s little joke. ‘Twill be easy enough to counter.”

“They have some bruises too, Madam Pomfrey, at the very least. They landed hard on the stone
floor when the ward flung them out,” Harry volunteered. “Say, while I’m here anyway, did you
find that book you mentioned with good pain relief charms?”

Madam Pomfrey charmed away the twins’ beards with a practised twirl of her wand and a muttered
charm and directed them to sit on some beds. They seemed happy to wait for further attention and
went into a huddle with Jordan to plot their next approach to reach the Goblet of Fire, while
Madam Pomfrey led Harry to her office.

“Here you go lad, I borrowed it from a friend at St. Mungo’s, so mind you bring it back safely,”
Madam Pomfrey said, passing Harry a thick, leather-bound tome marked with a blue-tasselled silk
bookmark. “I have marked the page for you. However, you must remember that such charms are
for the most grievous of circumstances. Stunning Charms – while your patient is lying down of
course – are a better first choice, or a Sleeping Draught if the patient has a weak heart. The charms
in this book act to numb an area so no pain is felt at all, which means your patient may ignore their
wound and injure themselves further by trying to do too much. Pain is the body’s message to rest
and heal and should not be ignored.”

“But surely no-one would try to walk on a broken leg, or anything?” Harry objected.

“Always assume your patients are idiots,” Madam Pomfrey said, with a resigned snort and a weary
shake of her head, “and you will rarely be disappointed. That goes double if Quidditch is involved
in any way.”

Harry nodded obediently.

“Now, mild pain relief potions such as Stomach Soother Potions and Headache Relievers are
alright so long as there’s no serious underlying cause, and they’re not used in conjunction with
anything else, or for too long. Remember, Potter, that diagnosing illnesses and combining potions
are jobs best left to Healers or mediwitches and wizards. It is far too easy to cause a dangerous
imbalance of the humours that can injure your patient.”

“I can combine a charm with a potion, without worrying about possible side-effects, though?”
Harry asked, trailing after her with his borrowed book, as she returned to the overly innocent-
looking Weasleys. She cast a couple of charms on them before sending them on their way, with a
tiny jar of Bruise Balm for them to apply themselves as needed. Persuaded by their pleas, also gave
them a pass to arrive late to their first class.

“You can combine charms and Healing potions so long as it is not a charm that affects the
humours, like Tarantallegra,” Madam Pomfrey said, as if there hadn’t been a long pause between
Harry’s question and her answer.

“The Dancing Feet Charm? Isn’t that just a joke or duelling spell?”

“Not originally. It was originally crafted to cure spider and scorpion bites – it increases the level of
sanguine humour in the patient and separates the venom from the blood by heating it up. You
should note that it is forbidden to use that particular spell on Muggles or Squibs, as it acts as a
contagious curse when cast on them and causes the dancing disease Paracelsus called
‘choreomania’ to spread to any other nearby Muggles.”

“Did that happen a lot?”

“It used to. The charm was used for centuries on the old stone Circles and was also a very popular
property ward. However, it was banned from use in wards or on Muggles in the seventeenth
century, with the wave of reforms protecting Muggles brought in during King Charles’ reign.

“Off to breakfast with you now, young man. I do appreciate your enthusiasm, but I usually only
work with seventh-years who want to earn a reference for a Healing Apprenticeship. I do
understand your love for Healing, and I know people are coming to you for aid but please, send
them to me. That is my job.”

Harry shuffled his feet embarrassedly. “Sometimes people need help right away, or no-one’s
around. Like at the Quidditch World Cup. I do send people to you at Hogwarts, when I can.
Honestly, I do! I sent Midgen to you, and that girl with the broken arm, didn’t I? And the first-
years with nose bleeds?”
 Poppy’s kind blue eyes softened as he spoke. “Yes, you are doing fine, Potter. It is just a reminder.
I understand why you are anxious, which is why I am helping find you advanced Healing charms.
Just remember that they are for emergencies, that is all. I do not want you numbing a friend’s
broken leg so they can keep playing Chaser in the middle of a match, no matter how much they
plead, or dulling the pain of an Acromantula bite someone gained when sneaking off into the
Forbidden Forest. The former could see them worsen an injury, and the latter could be fatal.”

Harry nodded. “I guess sometimes people are coming to me when they don’t want to get in trouble.
I promise I’ll be responsible.”

“Good. Off you go now! Happy Halloween!”

“Happy Halloween!” Harry echoed obediently, as he left. Hopefully it would be this year, with
nothing more dangerous in the offing than another feast and the selection of the Triwizard
champions.

Chapter End Notes

French translations (with thanks to Stefan Bathory):

- Please help yourself, and welcome to Hogwarts. I hope you enjoy your stay here.
- Thank you, sir.
Tricsha Wren and Untrust Us – thanks for helping with new dishes at the feast.
Cabbage rolls – Neville’s recommended dish was Kåldolmar, a Swedish dish popular
across Scandinavia. Lightly-spiced mince is wrapped in cabbage leaves before baking,
and served with a milky gravy, mashed potatoes, and some lingonberry jam.
Layered dessert – Harry and Neville tried Granola Med Kirsebærkompott, a
Norwegian dessert.
OpalHonors and 191811110 – A snippet with Madam Pomfrey for you.
Wizarding Europe - I've gotten creative with country borders, because wizards don't
always care what changes the Muggles make over the centuries. Map is up on my
Story Images page.
 The Champions Are Chosen
Chapter Summary

Halloween and the choosing of the Triwizard champions.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

31st October 1994

The Triwizard Tournament was almost all anyone could talk about on Halloween, and eventually
even Harry and Hermione succumbed to the inevitable and gave up their attempt at having a quiet
study session in the library in favour of chatting with their friends. They only had an hour or so of
free time before the Halloween Feast was due to begin, so Harry figured it wasn’t too much of a
loss and packed his books away. Hermione left hers out, however, and Harry suspected that she
was using “I have to study” as an excuse to avoid talking to anyone she didn’t want to socialise
with. She seemed quite willing to be interrupted in her note-taking by Harry, Neville, Greg, Luna,
or Millicent.

Anthony and Tracey were the only others in their group with books still out, but the couple were
using them as cover to pass notes back and forth to each other that they were both grinning
secretively over.

“We have only got four entrants for the Triwizard Tournament from Slytherin, that I know of,”
Daphne said. “There may be some entrants aren’t announcing that they put their names in,
however. The safe money is on Derrick or Warrington.”

“Is that a lot of entrants? It does not sound like a lot,” said Luna. “Ravenclaw even has a couple of
younger students entering too, though I am bemused as to how they managed it.”

The newly clean-shaven Weasley twins had given Harry an exited thumbs up at lunch time, from
where they were sitting with a huddled group of Gryffindor sixth-years. Harry was pretty sure that
a few Ravenclaws weren’t the only ones who’d found a way around the Age Line’s restrictions.

“Gryffindor has a lot more students entering,” said Neville. “At least half of the seventh-years, and
a few of the older sixth-years. Should the Slytherins not be more ambitious and want to win?”

Draco made a scoffing noise. “The prize money is pitiful for the risk entailed, and as for the
alleged fame? The most famous Hogwarts Triwizard Tournament champion is probably Agnes
Brown, who got bitten by a Malaclaw during one of the tasks. Her subsequent exceptional run of
misfortune ended with her being eaten alive by a tribe of Erklings in the third task after she broke
her wand. It is the last known Erkling death – they were supposed to be practically extinct.”

Harry paled. “That’s horrible. Hogwarts should really just host an inter-school cricket tournament
instead.”

“Cricket is a Muggle sport that is a bit like competing teams of landbound Beaters who take turns
trying to score the most points by hitting an ordinary ball and running back and forth,” Greg
abruptly told Draco, who looked confused. “They have to protect their goal which is some sticks
poked in the ground. It is very popular with Muggles in England and some of the colonies.”

“Hmph. Sounds odd and interminably dull. Quidditch would be better-” Draco said. He cut himself
off as he glanced in Hermione’s direction, even though she didn’t appear to be paying attention to
their conversation.

“Well anyway, there is a reason the Tournament has not been held for two hundred years. Too
many deaths. If you ask me, you would have to be an idiot or desperately poor to go in it, but
please do not tell Derrick I said that,” Draco said. “He cannot help his family’s situation.”

As the group headed down to the Great Hall, they were joined by Theodore Nott, who slid into
place to walk just behind Harry, next to Luna. Occasionally studying or walking together through
the halls was one of the negotiated conditions of their show of friendship. Harry still didn’t know
what Theodore should do in return for such concessions and was just holding a major favour in
reserve for the time being.

They bumped into Ron, Finnegan, and Thomas in the corridors on the way to the feast, and Ron’s
face was beaming with excitement.

“Hey! Guess what? I got my name in the Goblet of Fire! It changed from blue flames and spat out
proper red sparks and everything! I am in!”

“Really, how did you manage that? Neville asked, amazed.

“A little owl told me how my brot… some other underage students got their names in,” Ron said,
with an overly obvious wink in Harry’s direction. “So, I used one of their rumoured tips! Imagine –
a thousand Galleons!”

Harry knew he hadn’t told Ron how to enter, but it seemed confirmed that the twins’ attempts to
put their names in the Goblet had been both successful and gossiped about.

“You can’t just go breaking the rules like that,” tutted Hermione. “The Headmaster set an Age Line
for a reason! It’s too dangerous, and you are too young.”

“That’s just a dumb new rule, now,” Finnegan said, in defence of his friend. “It used t’ be open t’
any age!”

Draco smirked at Harry, then turned to Ron and said with a straight face, “I think you would be a
perfect Triwizard champion, Weasley, you are just the right type to enter! You might be the next
champion to win unexpected fame for Hogwarts!”

Ron narrowed his eyes suspiciously, suspecting a hidden insult but unable to spot it.

“Thanks, I guess, if that wasn’t sarcastic,” he muttered. “Wish me luck, then?” He gave Draco a
challenging look.

Draco smiled brightly. “Good luck, Weasley. I hope you get in and end up even more famous than
the renowned Triwizard champion Agnes Brown.”

Harry grinned despite himself as the Slytherins and Anthony muffled their snickers, and Ron
smiled tentatively at the highly unexpected display of carefully straight-faced support.

“Thank you!” he said politely.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered. “Foolishness all around.”

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” Draco said happily, as Ron left.

Ron wandered off to the feast trailed by Hermione who was trying to talk him into somehow
withdrawing his entry, with a total lack of success on her part and increasing irritation on his.

-000-

The Halloween feast was just as much of a treat as ever, but it was lingered over than usual as most
of the students were waiting impatiently to hear who would be selected as champions. A lot of
people were craning their necks – or even standing on chairs – to see if Dumbledore and the other
officials at the top table had finished eating yet. Karkaroff and Percy Weasley had eaten their
dinners with brisk efficiency, but Madame Maxime and Ludo Bagman were still working their way
through full plates, and Dumbledore was lingering over the remnants of his meal while he chatted
brightly with everyone.

There were also two new visitors at the head table that Harry didn’t recognise. Gossip from some
of the older students who’d done their OWLs identified the wrinkled white-haired witch in a purple
robe as Professor Griselda Marchbanks, who always oversaw the Charms and Transfiguration
exams, and a few others too as needed. She was rumoured to be tough but fair, tolerating no
nonsense or excuses, and used an enchanted gold ear trumpet during exams to hear students’
incantations as she was going deaf. The other visitor wasn’t recognised by any of the nearby
Gryffindors. He was an old white-haired wizard in a blue suit with a waistcoat and he was chatting
amicably with Professor Hagrid.

Finally, when it was almost time for the names to be picked by the Goblet of Fire, Dumbledore
rose at last and the students hushed as he explained how the champions should come up into the
chamber behind the staff table after their names were called.

He also introduced the new guests at the table. “Mr. Bagman and Mr. Weasley have worked
diligently to select some experienced and impartial judges for the Triwizard Tournament. Mr.
Bagman is the first of our three judges. He is the Head of the Department of Magical Games and
Sports, and his experience as a Beater for the English National team and Wimbourne Wasps and
almost twenty years of being a guest match referee for various Quidditch matches, the National
Gobstones Tournament, and duelling tournaments should stand him in good stead as a Triwizard
judge.”

There was polite applause as Bagman stood up and waved, before Dumbledore resumed.
“Professor Griselda Marchbanks, Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, is our
second Triwizard judge. She has six Masteries in various subjects and has been scrupulously and
impartially assessing Hogwarts’ students’ magical skills for over a century now.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as he added, “You can be sure she is good at her job because she gave
me an ‘Outstanding’ on my Transfiguration and Charms NEWT exams many years ago!”

Marchbanks stood and nodded her head in recognition of the polite applause. “Thank you,
everyone. Remember to study hard this year, if you are preparing for your OWL and NEWT
exams!” she said loudly.

“The third judge is someone whose name you may recognise if you are studying Care of Magical
Creatures due to his renowned expertise in the field for decades. Please give a warm welcome to
the world-travelling famous Magizoologist and author, Mr. Newt Scamander!”
The man ducked his head shyly as the hall applauded for him and waved awkwardly from where
he was sitting.

“Our younger students may look forward to potentially competing against some students from
more schools than just Beauxbatons and Durmstrang in four years’ time, as Mr. Weasley has
nascent plans to expand the Triwizard Tournament and guide it into becoming a true global
Tournament with a number of additional schools competing next time.”

The younger students were excited by that news, while many of the fourth and fifth-year students
sighed that they were just the right age to miss out on all the fun of both Tournaments.

Percy, Harry noticed, looked particularly smug and proud. Harry remembered that in Percy’s last
brief letter he’d mentioned that he was working very hard to prove how capable he was as Acting
Head of his department in hopes of retaining the position on a permanent basis.

“Quiet now, please! It is time to see who will be selected by the Goblet of Fire to be this year’s
champions.”

Dumbledore waved his wand and extinguished all the lights in the Hall apart from the dim
flickering candles inside the carved pumpkins, and the brilliant blue-white flames coming from the
Goblet of Fire.

They all waited with bated breath as the Goblet’s flames turned suddenly red, just like it did when
a name was dropped in. Sparks began to fly from the goblet and a tongue of flame shot into the air,
and a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it – the whole room gasped.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” Dumbledore read, after catching it, “will be Viktor Krum.”

The Hall erupted in cheers and calls of support, and Krum slouched past the staff table and entered
the chamber behind it.

The flames flickered back to blue, then returned to red as the Goblet shot out a second piece of
parchment, propelled by flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour!”

Despite not having Krum’s international fame, she also got a rowdy chorus of cheers and noisy
applause from the Hogwarts students, especially the male ones. Two of her fellow Beauxbatons
students, however, had burst into tears, while some others looked deeply disappointed as they
clapped politely but unenthusiastically.

Under the cover of the applause and chatter about the selection for Beauxbatons, the Weasley
twins took a few last-minute bets from excited Gryffindors on who the Hogwarts champion would
be.

“A Sickle on Johnson!”

“Done. Thanks, Bell,” a twin said, writing down her name and bet on a parchment sheet with a
scratchy quill.

“A Galleon on myself, Cormac McLaggen,” a blond fifth-year said proudly.

“You got it! Got your name in, hey? Good luck!”

“Two Sickles on Diggory!”

“I won’t take that bet, he didn’t put his name in,” a twin whispered apologetically. “I heard his
poor mum begged him not to enter, saying it was too dangerous.”

“Oh. Well, two Sickles on Derrick, then.”

The whispered bets died down, and the expectant silence was so thick you could almost touch it, as
they waited for the announcement of the Hogwarts champion.

The Goblet flamed once more, and from the tip of a tongue of flame Dumbledore pulled the third
piece of parchment.

“The champion for Hogwarts is-” he started, then suddenly stopped speaking as he stared at the
slip in his hands, while everyone in the room stared at him, as if trying to collectively will him to
hurry up.

“-Harold Potter.”

There was a moment of startled silence, then a tremendous roar of triumph erupted from the
Gryffindor table. A swell of cheers and applause came from the other tables too, especially from
the Slytherins who sounded almost as excited as the Gryffindors at Harry’s unexpected selection as
the Hogwarts champion.

“Harry? You put your name in?” Neville asked, yelling over the din.

“No! I didn’t! I wanted a quiet, normal year!”

“I wish it had been me,” Ron said wistfully. “Oh well. Well done, Harry! Levitation Charm to get
it in, right? That’s what I did.”

“I didn’t enter my name!” Harry insisted.

“Didn’t you? Well we did!” a Weasley twin called excitedly. “We put your name in for you, Potter,
since we thought you might not have time left to do it without being spotted!”

Johnson gently punched the Weasley twin on the arm for that. “Hey, what about me?”

“Come on, Angelina, no call for violence, you wouldn’t want me punching you now? I didn’t
actually think he would beat you to the spot!” the twin pleaded, rubbing his arm and pouting.
Neither of them seemed truly upset, so Harry didn’t worry too much about their byplay.

“Oh dear!” Hermione said, chewing her lip worriedly. “Well… good luck, Harry!”

Bracing with hunched shoulders against a gauntlet of back-slapping and handshakes, Harry walked
down the Hall in the gap between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, with people congratulating
him on both sides.

Colin Creevey was one of the excited hand-shakers, and piped in an excited whisper, “I overheard
some of the Weasley twins’ tips, and I bribed a Slytherin senior to put your name in!”

His face lit up even more as he added, “Hey! I’m going to win so much money on the betting
pool!”

His Slytherin friends congratulated him as he passed too, though Draco seemed less enthusiastic
about it than the others.

Theodore gave him a knowing nod and raised eyebrows, but Harry had no idea how to interpret
that – it could mean anything. Maybe he was trying to say a simple, “Congratulations, Harold!”, or
maybe it was, “Good job cheating to get in, you’re a true Heir of Slytherin!” with a distinct
possibility of, “I put your name in the Goblet for you to repay that favour I owed you! You’re most
welcome!” There was no way to know without asking him, and he didn’t have the leisure to do so
right now.

After what felt like an age, Harry finally reached Dumbledore.

“Well… through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He wasn’t smiling.

As Harry closed the heavy wooden door behind him and entered the small antechamber lined with
paintings of witches and wizards, he heard the muffled sounds of a raucous burst of laughter and
cheering from back in the Great Hall. He hoped people weren’t joking and laughing behind his
back at him being chosen.

“You?” Fleur Delacour said, turning from where she stood next to a roaring fireplace. “You are ze
‘Ogwarts champion? You must be brave but your are just a little boy!”

“I guess so. A couple of people put my name in for me – I didn’t do it myself. I don’t mind pulling
out if they want to try again to redraw an older champion,” Harry said, with an uncomfortable
shrug.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then tossed back her silvery hair with a smile. “Well, I sink
you should stay in. You fought ze Basilisk very bravely.”

Harry looked away from her, blushing against his will. He looked at Viktor Krum’s surly face
instead, whose thick eyebrows contracted as he pondered the matter.

“You just want a two-school race,” Krum rumbled accusingly to Delacour. “He is too yunk for dis
competition. He should be replacet by en older student.” His thick Bulgarian accent put an abrupt
trill on his r’s and a throaty hiss on his h’s, but overall his grammar was good and Harry found it
wasn’t too hard to understand him.

“I’m right here, you know,” Harry said, a little irritated, “and I already said I’m fine if they want
to do a redraw. I didn’t enter myself – someone put my name in for me without telling me. Two
people at least, maybe more.”

“Sorry,” Krum said shortly, looking uncomfortable. “I dit not mean any offence.”

“I don’t sink zey can replace you-” Fleur said, cutting herself off as a procession of teachers
entered the room.

The Headmasters and Headmistress of the three schools came in first, followed closely by the three
Triwizard Tournament judges, Percy Weasley, and Professor McGonagall.

Percy looked almost smug at Harry’s selection, giving him an approving nod and a wide smile, but
his restrained response was overshadowed by Bagman’s, who looked thrilled to bits. Bagman was
the first to push forward to shake Harry’s hand, while the other two champions were congratulated
by their respective heads of their schools.

“Extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary!” Bagman said eagerly.

Dumbledore shook Harry’s hand next, and said calmly, “Congratulations, Mr. Potter. May I ask,
did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, or ask someone to do so for you?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. Though I do suspect a couple of people may have put my name in on my behalf,
without my asking them to.”

“I don’t know whether to congratulate you or take twenty points from Gryffindor,” McGonagall
said with a rueful shake of her head, but the broad smile on her face suggested she was favouring
the former option.

“The papers had your name in your own handwriting,” Dumbledore said gravely.

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t do it, I said that already. But… I did autograph a lot of books this
summer, and a handful of photos. It wouldn’t have been hard for someone to get a hold of my
signature.”

“Your age line does not appear to ‘ave been very successful for ze defence,” Madame Maxime
said. “Ze boy’s name even came out of ze Goblet two times. Someone was very determined to see
you as ‘Ogwarts’ champion, Monsieur Potter.”

Twice? Harry thought puzzledly.

“Professor Moody, as our head of security for the Tournament, is examining the Goblet now to see
how that happened,” Dumbledore explained, sounding a little embarrassed. “He suspects the
interference of an adult wizard is responsible for the second drawing, which should not have been
possible.”

“I’m sorry, Professors. I really didn’t enter myself as I had no wish to compete. As I’m too young
for the competition I’d be genuinely happy to withdraw in favour of an older Hogwarts student
who might have more chance of winning,” Harry said, crossing his fingers behind his back in the
hope that he’d be able to pull out of the competition.

“You would truly prefer to withdraw, then?” Dumbledore asked, eyebrows raised.

“I sink it would be good,” Madame Maxime said approvingly. “Monsieur Potter is too young and
would not have a chance against Mademoiselle Delacour! ‘E can be badly ‘urt in ze challenges.”

McGonagall harrumphed in disagreement. “I would not rule him out so easily! Potter is quite
precociously talented in many of his subjects, and a very brave lad! If he didn’t have a decided
chance at winning, he would not have been selected by the Goblet. The enchantments are ancient
but reliable.”

Harry hunched up his shoulders. He didn’t really believe that was true. It was probably just his
usual bad luck, and because his name had been entered more than once the odds had been higher
that he’d be picked. “Yes, sir, if it’s possible. I was hoping for a quiet year. Sorry.” As much as it
was possible to have a quiet year, anyway, with two versions of Lord Voldemort and a handful of
Death Eaters and killer werewolves out there on the loose.

“Interesting,” Karkaroff said, with a native British accent. He watched Harry carefully, with
narrowed eyes. “Fascinating, even.”

“The Goblet of Fire uses a form of Divination to pick the candidates from their schools most likely
to succeed, you know!” Bagman added excitedly. McGonagall smiled and winced, pleased by his
support but no doubt irritated by the reference to Divination, which she wasn’t in favour of. “Potter
must simply be destined to be the best candidate from Hogwarts.”

“His name should still not have come out twice, however,” Percy said. “Something odd is going
on, but I am sure Professor Moody will get to the bottom of it. You are right of course sir, that
Harry will no doubt have an excellent chance in the Tournament.”

Harry gave him a little smile in thanks for his support.

Professor Moody clomped into the room and immediately went over to Dumbledore for a
whispered conference.

“Mr. Bagman, Mr. Weasley, is there any way to choose a new champion for Hogwarts?”
Dumbledore asked, a moment later.

“I don’t believe so. Weasley, you’ve had your nose in that rulebook for months, what do you
think?” Bagman asked, turning to his young colleague.

Percy shook his head slowly. “I cannot see any easy way out of it. The drawing of a champion’s
name forms a binding magical contract. The Goblet of Fire’s enchantments are very old and
complex magic, an interweaving of charms, runes, and Arithmancy that has the Department of
Mysteries very impressed. The consequences of withdrawing are unclear but likely to be dire. In
addition to which the Goblet has now gone out and will not be able to be relit for at least another
two or three years; it needs lengthy ritual exposure to moonlight to regain its power. Even should
Ha… Mr. Potter manage to withdraw safely Hogwarts would be left without a champion.”

Harry looked around the room at the expectant faces. Karkaroff and Maxime looked like they
might be fine with that plan, but clearly all the other adults would be disappointed.

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll do my best then,” Harry promised.

Bagman looked very excited at Harry’s capitulation, and rubbed his hands together excitedly.
“Well then! Let us get started!”

At Dumbledore’s nod Percy cleared his throat, and announced, “The first task will take place on
November the twenty-fourth, in front of the assembled students and a panel of the three Triwizard
judges.

“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept direct help of any kind from their teachers or
any sources outside their schools to complete the tasks in the Tournament. The champions will face
the first challenge armed only with their wands. A clue will be given about the nature of each of
the upcoming four tasks, but only one clue at a time.”

“Mr. Scamander, the clue for the first task, if you would be so kind!” Bagman said.

Mr. Scamander tugged at his blue frock coat to straighten it, then stepped forward and said softly,
“Good luck to all three of you.”

Scamander handed each champion a gilt-edged rectangle of parchment with the clue allegedly
written down on it. It was completely blank. That was an easy puzzle to solve, however.

“Aparecium,” Harry murmured softly, tapping the parchment with his wand to reveal invisible
writing. The other two champions were doing similarly, Krum slightly ahead of Delacour who
copied the other two.

Glittering gold calligraphy appeared on the page which read: ‘Brought forth in anger, I have no
legs and yet I dance. Food I demand, but I never drink. The unborn need me, but you must shun
me.’

The adults chatted amicably for a while about gathering for a nightcap, while the students got
officially acquainted.

“Uh, Harry – Harold – Potter,” Harry said, introducing himself a little awkwardly, in the face of a
Quidditch celebrity and an almost literally stunning, beautiful young woman. “You flew
excellently at the World Cup, Krum.”

“Tenk you. I em Viktor Krum, et your service, but you knowink det already, I guess,” the older
boy said gruffly, but not unkindly. In his thick Bulgarian accent his surname sounded a lot like
‘Kroom’.

“You are de ‘Boy Which Lift’, correct? I tink you must be sometink special, to be your school’s
chempion et such a young age. Is it true you are a Parselmout?”

Krum didn’t get Harry’s title quite right, but Harry could figure out what he was trying to say and
didn’t want to embarrass the other boy by commenting on that particular error.

“Uh, yes. I don’t really think I’m anything that special, though. Well, being a Parselmouth is quite
a rare talent, I guess. Storm – my snake – wanted to come to dinner, but Professor McGonagall
didn’t want him at the special feasts in case he scared our visitors.”

“I em not scaret of pet snakes,” Krum said, with a casual shrug. “How about you, Miss…?”

“–Fleur Delacour. No, I am not scared eizer,” she said, with a determinedly raised chin. “I ‘ave
finished reading your book, Potter – ze one Lockhart wrote about your adventure with ‘im in ze
Chamber of Secrets. Could I visit ze legendary Chamber while I am ‘ere, perhaps?”

Harry glanced away from her haunting blue eyes and fluttering lashes. “I’m afraid not – the
Headmaster has the entrance warded to keep everyone out. It’s still quite a dangerous location with
animated guard statues.”

“Well, I shall ask ‘im about it, zen,” Delacour said, not seeming put off by his refusal. “Perhaps an
exception can be made.”

Harry doubted it but saw no need to argue the matter; Dumbledore could do that.

The adults went off for drinks not long after that, while the students were sent off to bed. Well,
almost to bed. Harry was waylaid by an excitable herd of Gryffindors the moment he set foot inside
the Common Room, and the blast of noise almost knocked him backwards. There was joyous
screaming, applause, and piercing whistles for their champion.

Everyone wanted to congratulate him, stuff him full of food and drinks, and hear about the first
clue for the Tournament. Colin Creevey and Fred and George Weasley were all excitedly claiming
credit for entering Harry into the Tournament, which at least had the redeeming value of
convincing most people of Harry’s statement that he hadn’t in fact entered himself, though he did
admit to sharing tips on how to get past the Age Line with the Weasleys. No-one seemed to have
an idea about how his name had come out of the Goblet twice, but everyone thought it was a good
trick, and so hilarious that even grumpy old Moody looked like he might laugh for a moment there,
before he’d gone all serious and hobbled over to talk to Dumbledore. Students down the end of the
table had overheard his paranoid discussion of suspicious Dark magic influencing the Goblet of
Fire, and Moody’s insistence that his help would be needed to provide more security on every
aspect of the Tournament.

No-one wanted to let Harry head off early to bed to study or open his mail or sleep, and he couldn’t
admit to wanting to sneak off to make Samhain offerings to his parents’ spirits – he’d have to try
 and do something hasty at midnight. So he succumbed to the inevitable and tried to relax and enjoy
the attention and the far-too-frequent hearty backslaps and handshakes. It was nice to feel so…
accepted. Everyone seemed so happy and proud of him, and gradually under the warmth of their
approving and excited smiles Harry came to feel that despite the danger the Tournament would
undoubtedly involve it might all be worth it.

Neville looked proud but worried at Harry’s selection, and Hermione insisted that she was going to
help Harry study everything. Harry feared that she might take that promise a little too literally, but
politely thanked her for now. He would need every edge he could get, being up against the best
students the other two schools could offer.

“Speech! Speech!” cried the celebrating crowd of Gryffindors in the Common Room. Someone –
Harry didn’t see who – hoisted him up to stand on top of a coffee table for the room to see.

Harry cleared this throat nervously, and when the room quietened down he did his best. “I’m not
the smartest or the strongest student at Hogwarts,” said Harry. “There’s a lot of people who might
have been better entrants than me, so I’m not really sure why the Goblet chose me.”

“Well, if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor!” yelled Johnson, to a chorus of laughter and
cheers.

“Better than that snake, Warrington!” agreed Jordan.

“As I’ve said already, I didn’t enter my name, but other people did it for me.”

“You’re welcome!”

“I honestly didn’t want or expect this, but I’ll try not to let you all down!” promised Harry. “I think
there’s only one way I will possibly have a hope of winning this for Hogwarts, and I think it might
be the very reason my name came out of the Goblet-”

The crowd was hushed and hanging on his every word, as Harry finished nervously, “-And that’s
my friends. I have a great bunch of friends, from many Houses, and many years. Teachers can’t
help entrants with the tasks, but there’s no rule against getting help from your classmates. If
everyone helps me with research and training, I think maybe I can win this. So what do you say,
will you all help me and make this a win not just for me, but for all of Hogwarts?!”

The whoops and cheers were deafening, as the crowd went wild. Harry was hoisted up onto the
Weasley twins’ shoulders and paraded around the room like a conquering hero.

“We’re with you, Potter!”

“Durmstrang and Beauxbatons don’t stand a chance!”

“I’ll help you, Harry!”

“Gryffindor’s behind you!”

“I think I’ve got half the riddle puzzled out already!” Hermione volunteered eagerly, then laughed
in surprise when Patil and Brown pounced on her with excited hugs and squeals of premature
congratulations.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry this chapter is a little later going up today; my daughter is home sick.
“Quod erat demonstrandum” (or Q.E.D.) – Latin for “I rest my case.” More literally,
“Which has just been shown.” Draco believes Ron has entirely proved his point about
how only poor and foolish people would want to enter the Triwizard Tournament.
Stefan Bathory – Thanks for your help with my French accent this fic.
Bulgarian accent & thanks to Nhaz – You may note I have written with a different
style of Bulgarian accent for Krum than that written by JKR. This is a deliberate
stylistic choice to reflect the genuine accent more accurately, rather than shooting for
something vaguely Russian or eastern European. While he was unavailable to review
my draft, Nhaz (a Bulgarian HP fan) was a great help in consulting with me about
formulating some rules for a better written accent, as well as helping brainstorm
country borders for magical Europe. You can find his excellent and informative essay
on the problems with Krum’s accent here. Any errors remain my own responsibility,
but I do hope I’ve managed to portray the Bulgarian accent with more accuracy than in
canon.
 Consequences
Chapter Summary

News comes of another Death Eater attack, and Hermione has a revelatory discussion
with Professor Binns.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

November 1st 1994

Harry woke up late the day after his selection as Hogwarts’ champion, and yawned his way
through reading the correspondence he’d neglected the night before in favour of celebrating with
his fellow Gryffindors and doing a midnight ritual for his parents’ spirits.

There was a letter from Bill Weasley, which alternately raised and crushed his hopes about a
possible cure for Sirius’ damaged arm. Weasley had found the curse used on Sirius in a Dark book
from the culled Black library books. He’d checked in with Sirius – without saying where he’d
found the curse – and the incantation was a highly probable match. Unfortunately, the book didn’t
list a cure. However, he could at least confirm that the spell was not progressive, and if not
instantly fatal there should be no further ill effects. He promised that as he was in Egypt he’d
consult with more local wizarding Healers and Curse Breakers when he got a chance to see if there
was an unwritten cure, but so far he hadn’t had any luck. As he’d made a copy of the relevant page
he’d enclosed the book to return to Harry, with the curse bookmarked. He also warned Harry to
keep it hidden in case he got in trouble with the teachers for reading up on dangerous curses.

When Harry had paid the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages a pile of Galleons to
magically learn French and Latin in July last year, he’d also learnt Ancient Egyptian, to help him
breeze through fifth-year Ancient Runes. It would come in handy now for reading through the
book himself. He eagerly read through the bookmarked curse, but it looked just as unhelpful as Bill
had said. It was a curse traditionally used by priests to instantly mummify bodies, and alternatively
was sometimes inscribed on sarcophagi or inside tombs to strike down tomb-raiders. There was no
counter-curse listed; none was needed or wanted by the long-lost casters.

Tonks had written to Harry as well, with a few rambling anecdotes about how her
Metamorphmagus powers worked. Some tips were kind of obvious; theoretically helpful but
unexciting suggestions about the importance of concentration, visualisation and willpower in
getting the right results. He’d read all about that in Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to
Do with them Now You've Wised Up, and knew it was mostly a matter of acceptance and practice.
Other information was new and interesting, like how she had trouble with her centre of balance and
estimating her reach due to regularly changing her height and gender; she tended to be a bit clumsy
as a result. She also chatted about how one time she’d stayed in an altered form for over a year
while at Hogwarts due to feeling self-conscious about her looks, and when she finally “relaxed”
back into her natural form her nails were inch-long talons and her hair had grown half a foot.

Harry looked down at his hands in bemusement. Fingernails grew? They needed regular trimming?
He kind of knew they grew because if he nibbled or damaged them they’d repair themselves
overnight. But… it seemed like that wasn’t what they’d normally do. If he ‘relaxed’ would his
nails be talons too, and his hair be a long, messy tangle? Was his face even his real face? He
thought it was. He’d returned to it after using his Metamorphmagus powers before… but it hadn’t
felt relaxing to shift back, it had been a conscious effort.

He wrote a swift letter back to Tonks asking how she relaxed back into her normal form, and also
asked how she returned back to a form she was impersonating if she took a break. He’d drop his
replies off with the school owls on the way to breakfast. Egypt might be pushing it a bit for a
school owl, however, so he wouldn’t reply to Bill today – he’d pay for intercontinental delivery at
the Hogsmeade Post Office later. There was a nice clerk there who always gave him ten per cent
off, being a bit of a Boy Who Lived fan; hopefully he’d be working when Harry next stopped by.

Ovid Mortalem, one of the fans he’d met on his book-signing tour, had sent a brief letter wishing
Harry a peaceful and joyous Samhain and asking how he was doing. He was writing to Harry
increasingly regularly, trying to strike up a friendly correspondence, it seemed. Trying a bit too
hard, Harry thought. He dashed off a polite reply wishing him a happy Samhain and letting him
know about being chosen as a Tournament champion. That would hopefully satisfy his pushy fan
for now.

Peregrine’s sister Flavia had sent another drawing of Storm, this one with a rainbow in the sky
above him, and a sprinkling of rain from a blobby cloud falling on stick figure Quidditch players.
Harry lifted Storm out of his tank and prodded him awake to admire it as he magically affixed it to
the wall above his bed.

“She is a good artist,” Storm hissed sleepily. “Tell her she is a favourite, and a good hatchling.”

Harry dutifully printed out Storm’s message and attached a plain white “Save Quidditch” badge for
Flavia. He carefully wrote – in easy-to-read print – a chatty letter about how Quidditch would be
on after all at Hogwarts, and how he’d been chosen as a champion even though he hadn’t entered
but would be trying his best, and how he hoped she was studying all her lessons at home as best
she could.

The next piece of mail of particular interest was a very small wrapped wooden box with an
attached letter. He sighed in resignation. Another letter from Lord Voldemort.

To My Gryffindor Knight, Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin,

Thank you for your last missive which was a significant improvement on your previous
correspondence.

I am sorry to hear that Charms is currently tiresome for you, and Potions repetitive. I too found
school tiresome at times when the spells being taught were beneath my abilities. With the
exception of the start of my first year, when I struggled to master basic magic and concepts that
young pure-bloods had already been taught at their mothers’ knees, I always found mastery of
spells came swiftly. My advice is to speak flattering words to your teachers about how due to your
love for their subject you are already familiar with the work being covered. Few teachers will
resist a sincere request from a diligent student to be assigned more difficult work. If you are still
concerned about standing out then ask if you may be permitted to discreetly demonstrate the
required spell to a high level of proficiency in class and then after then be free to spend the
remainder of the lesson reading ahead or completing homework. With such an arrangement your
less observant peers will remain unaware of your skills, and your evenings may be free for your
own research and practice. You are an intelligent and talented young wizard, and to be held back
by a wish to not stand out from your peers is a wretched waste of your abilities.
Harry didn’t know whether he wanted to roll his eyes at the Dark Lord nagging and encouraging
him in his schoolwork again, or to guiltily preen under his praise. His advice seemed generally
sound.

Nagini sends her greetings in reply to Storm and wishes him good hunting. We have enclosed a
treat as requested, a magical frog of a species originating from Storm’s native land. Nagini asks
that you inform Storm that he can’t have her rabbits or gnomes because they are hers to hunt.

With my sincere wishes for success in your studies, young Heir,

Lord Voldemort

Harry snorted with laughter as he relayed Nagini’s message to Storm, who was worried rather than
amused.

“She eatss creatures that big? Then, she must be larger than I. But I am ssstill the best sssnake, am
I not, Harold?”

“You are the best sssnake in the whole world, Ssstorm,” Harry reassured. “Certainly better than
Nagini.”

“You won’t let her eat me?” Storm asked, coiling up Harry’s arm to drape around his neck.

“Never!”

Storm quietly reflected on this for a moment. “Alright. I would like my sssnack now.”

“That’ss it? You’re not worried anymore?”

“No, I’m not. You will protect me, as you would from Custoss. We look after each other. Sssnack,
please!”

Harry prised open the tiny box to reveal a small blue-skinned frog in hibernation or an enchanted
slumber, nestled in the middle of a ball of damp loose wool used as packing material.

“Sssmell-tastess good! Mine!” Storm hissed happily, as Harry dangled it by a leg for his pet to
swallow whole. It began twitching slightly as it slowly woke once removed from the box but was
too drowsy to escape his hungry snake’s lunge.

The last letter was from Snape and continued his and Harry’s discussion of antidotes and
improvements on the recipes in the textbook. His letter included some fascinating notes about
modern variant recipes for the cure-all antidote potion Mithridate – later renamed Theriac. He
rambled for ages about improvements on Galen’s most famous formula (which their textbook used,
and Snape seemed scornful of).

…As Pliny correctly argued, fifty-four ingredients is excessive and unnecessary. Careful selection
of ingredients with Arithmantic calculations of the best quantities and stirring methods can reduce
the list to thirteen or eleven ingredients, of which either dried salamander, or dragon flesh or fresh
dragon’s blood, is an essential component if you wish the potion to be powerful enough to cure the
Black Plague for Squibs, or to counter the most potent poisons. Medieval witches included three
drops of dragon’s blood at the fifth stage of brewing Theriac, not the fourth, Potter, and of course
only an idiot would forget to stir widdershins.

I know you are, regretfully, not doing Arithmancy, so as a rule of thumb remember that highly
magical ingredients should not be added at an even-numbered step in your brewing as that reduces
their potency. You are correct that stirring can usually be in either direction; it depends on what
properties you are trying to enhance for your potion.

It was Snape’s longest letter yet, as he included a couple of recipe variations and some bossy notes
about how you must include ‘poppy tears’ in any good panacea, and how only Cretan carrot seeds
would do for a proper Theriac, not just any carrot seeds. Harry wished Snape had taught like that in
school, instead of just putting instructions on the board (which didn’t always match the recipe in
their textbooks and didn’t explain why Snape thought his variation was better) and yelling at
anyone who got their potion wrong.

At the end of the third page Snape had squashed in a few notes on Occlumency like an apologetic
afterthought, agreeing with Harry that since he’d responded well to water (and to a lesser extent to
earth) in his elemental affinity tests in Ancient Runes, that a river or ocean shore or another water-
based visualisation was likely to work well for clearing his mind of wandering thoughts.

Harry was enjoying the practical exercises in Ancient Runes, and magically inscribing invisible
runes on seashells and glass was proving a lot easier than working with wood, marble, or obsidian.
Clay worked well for him too, but the other materials were newer and thus more fun to experiment
with. Everyone in the class now got homework projects tweaked to be customised to their preferred
materials, which delighted everyone. Harry was working on making a mirror’s glass unbreakable,
using chained runes of Haglaz and Odal, which was a standard combination for that purpose.
Haglaz, the rune of hail, represented a damaging force that could also melt away into nothingness,
while Odal, the rune for inherited property, was highly protective when used on possessions. The
most difficult part for him wasn’t planning the runes, it was channelling his magic with sufficient
precision to inscribe tiny glowing runes (without any wobbly lines) that would fade properly into
invisibility without damaging the glass.

Harry worked hard on replying to all his correspondence, and while Harry was finishing up his
short but polite reply to Lord Voldemort promising to consider his advice, Neville’s voice called
through Harry’s closed bedcurtains. “Harry? Are you awake? Make haste, we are late for
breakfast.”

Harry looked at his dad’s fob watch and cursed softly – it was later than he’d thought. “Thanks!
I’m up! I’ve been doing my mail. I’ll see you down there, I have to swing by the Owlery first!”

He hurriedly changed out of his pyjamas, tossed on a black school robe, and cast a quick charm to
remove the wrinkles. He unwound Storm and put him back in his tank to nap the day away and
hurried through the Gryffindor common room towards the Owlery, dashing straight past people
eager to greet and chat with him.

By the time he made it down to breakfast the tables were crowded, and there wasn’t a spot to sit
next to Hermione, who was seated next to Ron and Thomas and was busy reading the Daily
Prophet and distractedly finishing off a cup of tea. Harry instead squeezed in next to where Neville
was sitting with Brown and Patil.

“Good morning! Any more ideas about the first task?” Patil asked eagerly.

“Not since last night,” Harry said, with a shake of his head. “I think Hermione’s right and I’m sure
it’ll be something to do with fire, though. We’re going to head to the library at lunch and after class
and see what we can puzzle out with a bit of research. Pass the toast?”

“Ugh, research,” Brown said, wrinkling her nose as she handed over the toast rack. “Good luck,
though!”
“Hey Brown, I was wondering… do you uh… do you know any good spells for hair and nails…
like haircuts and nail trimming and stuff?” Harry asked shyly.

“Oh! Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I just wanted to… look better,” Harry mumbled. “And you always look so… tidy. So I
thought you might know some. Since you helped Hermione make her hair less frizzy and more
curly.”

Neville winced, but Lavender Brown looked rather pleased by Harry’s awkward praise and patted
her red headband (topped with tiny feathers and a gold fabric flower) that held her long, wavy
brown hair in place.

“Her main problem was simply that she was brushing it too much and too furiously. Wavy or curly
hair needs a gentler hand, and Parvati and I also introduced her to some excellent hair care
products, though she says she’s too busy to use them every day.

“I think it is an excellent plan to pay more attention to your appearance now you are Hogwarts’
Triwizard champion. Not that you look bad at the moment, Potter,” she added reassuringly.

He shrugged and muttered his thanks.

“Also, you should consider growing your hair longer, as you will be seventeen in a few years and
the Head of your House.”

“I’ll think about it,” he promised. He hated to think what Uncle Vernon would say if Harry showed
up at Privet Drive with long hair in a ponytail. Mrs. Weasley’s tutting disapproval of her eldest
son’s long hair would be nothing compared to what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were likely to
do or say should their son or nephew show up with long hair and an earring.

“I could copy you out some of my favourite spells from Witch Weekly, if you like?” Brown offered.

“I’ll help!” Patil volunteered.

“That would be great!” he said with relief.

“You are most welcome,” Brown said, echoed a moment later by Patil.

Harry started on his toast and jam but had barely eaten half a slice when he was interrupted by
Patil.

“Umm, my condolences on your family loss, Potter,” she said, with a soft expression in her dark
eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, surprised. “Really, I mean it. Most people don’t remember that it was at
Halloween that I lost my parents. Everyone’s too busy celebrating.”

Patil and Brown exchanged an awkward look.

“Oh. I uh… Sorry,” Patil stammered. “My condolences again… I did not mean them, though of
course I am sorry about that too. I did not mean direct relatives. Gossip says you are the Heir of the
Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… Have you not yet read the paper this morning? I’m
sorry. Uh… no-one has written or spoken to you?”

Harry’s face blanched, and Neville glared angrily at Patil.

“I need a paper,” Harry said, and pushed away from the table to where Hermione was sitting. As he
left, he overheard Neville hissing an angry rebuke to the girls about how Harry only received his
mail in the evenings.

Hermione looked up from chatting with Ron as she saw Harry approach, and her sympathetic look
had perhaps the opposite effect to what she intended for it only made him more anxious.

“Who… was it Sirius?” Harry asked, as she wordlessly passed him the paper.

There was an animated picture of a house’s damaged roof with the Dark Mark floating in the sky
above it. The main headline read, “NIGHT OF HORROR! DEADLY ATTACK ON
HALLOWEEN!”

“No, not him,” Hermione said, and Harry let out a shuddering breath in relief.

Harry read the article quickly, as Hermione got up from her seat and pushed him gently to sit down
in her spot.

The Tonks family had been attacked. While Hogwarts had been busy choosing Triwizard
champions and celebrating with a feast, masked Death Eaters had set out to kill and terrorize
people.

His new acquaintance Nymphadora Tonks was fine. However, her parents weren’t so lucky. Her
father Edward had been killed, and her mother Andromeda had been tortured and was in a ‘serious
condition’ in St. Mungo’s.

The article had a quote from Tonks about the attack.

“When I came home I knew instantly something was wrong. My mother was screaming and I could
hear men inside yelling at her. I sent off a Patronus message for help, but I knew my mother might
be killed before backup arrived, so I had to go in.”

Her dark eyes were full of pain and welled up with tears at the memory of returning home to hear
the sounds of her mother being tortured, gentle readers. Yet this brave new Auror barely out of her
Apprenticeship was not broken by a scene that would devastate even the most stalwart and lion-
hearted witches and wizards. And she had a plan so cunning that it makes one wonder that she was
Sorted into Hufflepuff rather than Slytherin.

“I knew I couldn’t take them all, even with surprise on my side. So, I had to hope that I could scare
them off. I’m a Metamorphmagus, as I guess everyone knows now. When I went in, I changed my
appearance to look like Dumbledore – the only wizard You-Know-Who ever truly feared. I entered
firing off spells as fast as I could – I Stunned two before they knew I was there, and a couple of the
other masked Death Eaters instantly Disapparated away with their unconscious allies, like the
cowards they are.”

Auror Tonks insisted that You-Know-Who himself was there, his face in shadows, and that she
scared him off with her show of force and bravado, leaving him only time to cast the Dark Mark
and vow vengeance before departing with the last of his followers. I think we can forgive this
overwrought young woman for mistaking Dark Lord Pettigrew for You-Know-Who, for we all
know that Pettigrew is claiming his deceased former Lord’s title of Dark Lord for himself. Never
fear, for this brave young woman who drove off Death Eaters and saved her mother’s life will have
time off from her duties to recuperate and recover her serenity of mind.

Minister Fudge took time out from his busy day to share these words of praise:
“Our brave Auror will be in consideration for an Order of Merlin for her courageous defence of
her family. I would, however, like to remind the public that confronting these few dangerous
criminals is a job best left to professionals such as Auror Tonks. If any members of the public sight
an Azkaban escapee in Death Eater regalia, they should avoid confrontation and should contact
the DMLE immediately.”

Harry was still rereading the article when the low resonant tones of Hogwarts’ bell rang out
through the Great Hall to let students know it was time for class.

“You can keep it and read it again later,” Hermione said gently, as students shuffled off to class
around them, and Neville moved up to join them. “Are you alright to go to Ancient Runes? You’re
cousins of some sort with the Tonks family, right?”

“Yes, uh… same degree as Narcissa and Draco, so I’d be um… second cousins with Andromeda,
and second cousin once removed to Nymphadora,” Harry explained. “Nothing officially
acknowledged, but that’s the family relationship.”

“Oh no, I sent her a letter this morning,” Harry moaned, as a memory struck him like a brick to the
head. “Just asking questions about being a Metamorphmagus. Now I’m going to look like an idiot
who doesn’t have any feelings at all, sending her a letter like that at a time like this!”

“I can help you write a formal letter of condolence at lunch time, if you like,” Neville offered.

Hermione nodded. “Good idea – send a second letter. You can borrow Diana to send it off. She’s
very fast. You don’t even need to ask, actually, she’s happy to take extra letters any time.”

-000-

Harry struggled to concentrate all through Ancient Runes, wondering what Voldemort was up to
and how the Tonks family was coping, but was consoled by Hermione’s whispered reassurance
that she’d share a copy of her notes with him later if he just wanted to focus on listening to
Professor Babbling. He was looking forward to the less demanding History of Magic class they
had next and was planning to use that time to covertly work on his draft letter to Tonks.

However, he’d forgotten that Hermione had plans for that class, and almost as soon as they’d all
seated themselves at the old slanted wooden desks and set their inkwells in their holes in the desk
tops Hermione’s hand was up and waving at their Professor.

“Do you know that you’ve passed on, Professor Binns? That you’re a ghost?” Hermione asked
loudly. A couple of students gasped.

Professor Binns slowly turned around from the board. “What was that, Miss Grant?”

“I said, you do know you’re dead, sir?” Hermione asked bluntly, albeit with genuine concern
lacing her voice. The class was dead silent, waiting for his answer.

“Well, yes, I do rather notice that when I float through the walls,” Professor Binns said dryly, and
Weasley and Finnegan laughed.

“Why do you stay here? Is it fear of going to the Other World, the Summerlands? Or heaven? I’ve
never heard anyone talk about your ties to family, or dramatic stories of revenge or betrayal. My
research says that ghosts have either a particularly shocking death, or a strong motivation to stay on
earth. I’ve been wondering what your motivation is to stay. No-one seems to know.”

The whole class looked riveted and hanging on every word – a rare change for History of Magic
that hadn’t been seen since they’d questioned their teacher a couple of years ago about the
Chamber of Secrets.

“I’m not staying long, Miss Grant,” Professor Binns reassured Hermione, with a soft smile. “Just
until Dippet brings on a new History of Magic teacher. I’m sure it will be any week now. The poor
man is so busy, but he promised to sort it out soon. I simply cannot leave my NEWT students in the
lurch – I haven’t even covered the goblin rebellions yet! Until he says I can go I shall wait to enter
those pearly gates. We ghosts have to obey the Head of our House you know, and at Hogwarts
that’s the Headmaster.”

As he shifted as if to turn back to the blackboard Hermione stuck her hand up in the air before
immediately saying, “But Professor Dumbledore is the Headmaster now.”

“Of course he is,” said Professor Binns, not seeming at all confused to be corrected. “Fine young
man, Dumbledore. He makes a good Headmaster. Now, enough chatter. We were discussing…”

“But you’ve been a ghost for decades! Dumbledore is old now, and those students you’re worrying
about graduated years ago!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, young lady. Now, we were discussing the giant rampage in…”

“Don’t you want to move on? They will have to find a new teacher if you do! Your students will be
fine!”

“Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Grant! If you do not settle down and act like a lady I shall be
forced to give you a detention, and if that is not enough I may speak to Headmaster Dippet and
have an owl sent home to your parents detailing your disruptive behaviour!”

Hermione stopped trying to talk him around, cowed by his threat. She also looked extremely upset,
and began letting out hiccoughing sobs, with tears started running down her face. Brown leant over
to pat Hermione’s back in gentle circles and talk soothingly to her.

While Hermione had a cry and pulled herself back together, Harry took careful notes of everything
Binns said that class despite their teacher’s soporific droning. Hermione had done it for him in
Ancient Runes, after all. They could do a notes swap later.

Their class was full of chatter as they headed off to Charms.

Ron shook his head in wonderment. “I didn’t know he was trapped here…”

“Poor Granger! Did you see her face?” Midgen whispered.

“So that’s why he’s still around!”

“How do you get a ghost to leave if they don’t want to?”

“Good job, Granger. Maybe we’ll get someone new if he moves on,” Thomas said approvingly.

Brown still had a sympathetic arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “I have an ancestor – Agnes
Sampson – who haunts Holyrood Palace. She says she will not leave until King James is dead –
she wants vengeance for being tortured and burnt as a witch. Our family has never managed to
convince her he died centuries ago. Sometimes she understands he is dead, and curses his
descendants instead, but then she forgets again. She made a vow and cursed him as she was dying,
you see. Most ghosts are very stubborn and set in their ways – you did your best.”
“But what can we do?” Hermione sniffled. “We have to help him!”

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Maybe the Headmaster could order him to move on?” Harry suggested.

“They do listen to their Head of House, sometimes,” Brown agreed. “The Sampson name died out
as her descendants married into more prestigious families, so that has posed a bit of a problem for
poor Agnes.”

“I blame old Headmaster Dippet,” Neville said, jaw jutting out angrily. “He should have found a
replacement for Professor Binns decades ago.”

“He was very old by the end of his tenure – centuries. Perhaps he forgot?” suggested Harry. “Like
old people do, sometimes?”

“Dumbledore probably doesn’t even know why Binns is still here,” Ron said thoughtfully.

“If he doesn’t know, I’ll make sure he learns,” Hermione vowed.

“I think you should. After all, with great power comes great responsibility,” Thomas said, and
Hermione gave him a wan smile for his attempt to cheer her up.

-000-

At lunch in the library Harry’s friends split into a couple of groups. Hermione had temporarily
shelved her concerns about Professor Binns and grabbed a large table for them all, which attracted
a large group of friends and bystanders eager to talk about the Triwizard Tournament. She and
Harry were both convinced that the answer to the first riddle was something to do with fire, since
fire both danced and ate in a figurative sense but wouldn’t ‘drink’ water. Anthony and Luna were
among those eager to help puzzle out the remainder of the riddle, and their table was rapidly piling
up with teetering stacks of books fetched by them and other keen Ravenclaw assistants and a
handful of students from the junior years in other houses, including both the Creeveys, Mafalda
Prewett, and the pagan Hufflepuff Eleanor Branstone. It was a busy, chatter-filled table.

Harry meanwhile had foregone his plans to research spells and creatures associated with the
element of fire in favour of sequestering himself more privately at a tiny library study desk to write
condolence letters, aided by Neville, Pansy, and Draco.

Draco started out by offering Harry his condolences, but not for any family losses. “I am so sorry
that you were selected as a Triwizard Tournament champion, Harry. My condolences. It is such a
shame that busybodies entered you without your consent. Naturally, I stand ready to support you in
making it through the challenges ahead as safely as possible.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” said Harry, with just as much sincerity as he’d responded to those
offering congratulations, perhaps even more so.

“Keep the riff-raff off myself and Harry while he writes his letters,” Draco ordered Greg and
Vincent, and the duo stood with arms folded like burly sentinels against anyone who tried to
approach or bother anyone at the smaller table. With them keeping away random well-wishers,
Pansy acted almost like a second line of defence – intercepting any friends who approached with
what they thought were valid reasons to interrupt and talk with Draco or Harry, and only letting a
few through to actually speak to them.

Mafalda Prewett was one of the few who successfully made it through their collective social
blockade, with an instruction from Pansy to keep it brief.

“I just wanted to say I will keep an eye on Krum for you, Harold,” Mafalda promised, in a covert
whisper. “If he puzzles out the riddle, I will let you know.”

“I think we’ll get it ourselves, but thank you,” Harry whispered back politely.

After sharing his best tips, Neville was quietly writing his own letters to the Tonks family, while
Draco and Pansy kept coaching Harry through what to write to them, and to Sirius. When Neville
hesitantly asked if Draco was going to write to them too, Draco seemed very torn as to what he
should do.

“Perhaps. Family should write, at such a time. However, they were cast out of the Black family,”
Draco fretted. “The Malfoys don’t acknowledge our relationship.”

“Did old Arcturus Black make it formal, though?” Pansy asked. “If not, you are still obligated to
send your condolences. You should wear mourning for a month, for an uncle. Avoid bright
colours, at the very least.”

“That hardly seems necessary; I never even met him.”

“I don’t think it was formal,” Harry said. “Sirius said his mother just blasted a lot of people off the
family tree tapestry but didn’t really have a right to do so.”

“Mother never speaks to Mrs. Tonks, though; I’m sure she won’t write to her, and father certainly
won’t. She is a family pariah for marrying a Muggle-born, so I doubt we will visit her in hospital or
go to her husband’s funeral. Perhaps I should limit myself to a short letter to Cousin Sirius – his
relationship is acknowledged, and father says I should make an effort to present myself well to
him.”

“Even if Arcturus did cast her out, Sirius thinks of Andromeda and her daughter as family, and he’s
the Head of the Black family now,” Harry argued, crossing out a line on his draft letter and starting
again. “He probably reinstated them, if you can do that. Besides, you don’t have to do the same
things as your parents. You could just write a generic condolence letter if a family letter is
inappropriate.”

Neville had a very stiff, drawn expression as he said, “I think you should write to them. It is the
right thing to do. Family feuds have no place at a time of grief – families should come together.”

“Black would surely think all the better of you for going against your parents in this, in fact,” Pansy
said quietly.

Draco gave her a swift, searching glance. “Yes… he would, wouldn’t he?”

Neville’s lips thinned as he watched Draco start writing his own letters with a satisfied air. It was
clearly the result Neville was after, but not stemming from the right motivation.

“You should not write to them unless you mean what you are saying,” Neville said, with an angry
bite to his words, unable to stay silent for long. “Do you not truly care at all? Miss Tonks’ father
was killed, and her mother was tortured.”

Draco furrowed his brow and gave Neville a defensive, cross look. “I can express regret for my
uncle’s death and my aunt’s injuries whilst staying neutral in House squabbles and out of the
politics around the incident. As I am not yet seventeen I have that luxury should I wish to position
myself thus.”
“Politics. Is that what you call it? It was murder, Malfoy! Where was your–”

“Perhaps you should take a walk, Neville!” Pansy hissed.

“I think I shall,” Neville said, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. “My apologies, Harry. I
know you are writing your letters for the right reason.”

“Neville…” Harry started uncertainly, but Neville waved him off.

“’Tis alright. Come and join us when you are done.” Neville pushed past Greg and stalked off to
Hermione’s research table in a righteous huff.

Harry glared at Draco and Pansy. “Can’t you see he’s thinking about his own parents too? The…
You-Know-Who and his followers killed and tortured Tonks’ parents. Her mother might even be in
Mrs. Longbottom’s old hospital bed right this moment, never to recover. Can’t you two show some
sympathy or at least fake it more convincingly?!” He cast a quick spell to dry the ink on his
parchment and packed up his half-finished letters.

Pansy winced. “Oh dear, I am so terribly sorry. I wasn’t thinking about the Longbottoms.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have upset Longbottom, but how am I supposed to sound genuinely grieved
about someone I have never met, whom my parents practically forbid me from even speaking of?
Did you ever meet Edward Tonks?” Draco said accusingly.

“No, I’ve met his wife and daughter, though,” Harry said, looking down at his draft letters. They
were full of a mix of genuinely sympathetic phrases and the sort of polite lies that society deemed
appropriate at such a time. How he was sure Edward was a wonderful wizard and father, and how
he would surely be greatly missed. He had no idea what kind of man he’d been, or who would miss
him apart from his immediate family. “I can still be sympathetic to his family’s loss, though, as you
should be. Imagine if your father was killed, or your mother was tortured, and people… weren’t
kind or sympathetic about it.”

Draco’s face went very still and pale.

“Yes, I can imagine it. Far too well,” Draco murmured, as Harry stalked away from their table in
search of Neville, drawing him aside for a quiet word. Draco crumpled up his draft into a ball of
parchment and started a fresh letter.

-000-

Late that evening, just before curfew, Harry sent out one final letter with a school owl. His mind
had been looping all day ever since he’d been talking over the attack on the Tonks family with
Neville, stuck on thoughts of what had happened to them.

Neville had cried, once they were in private. Sobbing over and over, “Why did they do it, Harry? I
don’t understand!”

Harry didn’t understand either. He had only bewildered sympathy and uninformed speculation to
offer. He’d shared a whispered confidence about Miss Tonks fighting against You-Know-Who, but
that didn’t seem enough of an explanation – for it had been her parents who’d been targeted. He’d
offered awkward hugs and a promise to pass on any information about Mrs. Tonks’ recovery that
Sirius was willing to share.

He’d thought hard about who to ask, who to write to. He thought about writing to the Dark Lord
directly but winced at the thought. He didn’t want manipulative justifications or lies from Lord
Voldemort, nor did he want someone like Dumbledore offering sympathy and empty platitudes.

He’d written to Snape, in the end. He was well-positioned to know the truth behind the conflict, on
both sides. He’d seemed open to talking honestly about the war before – perhaps he would do so
again.

He’d left larger than usual margins on his letter waffling about potions theory and defence-oriented
charms, as a bit of a hint. Snape, being a Master of potions and a professional spy, might also detect
the faint scent of lemon on the parchment that invisible ink left when it was still quite fresh, and
would hopefully remember Harry’s habit of scribbling invisible notes in the margins of his Potions
textbook. Hopefully Snape would be better at spotting Harry’s hidden message than Harry had
been in a similar circumstance, when he’d tragically failed to spot Lockhart’s plea for help. He still
felt guilty about that and had scrutinised his letters more carefully ever since.

If Snape did miss Harry’s addendum – no big deal. It was curiosity, not life and death. In the
letter’s copious margins, Harry had invisibly added some cramped extra sentences, in tiny writing.

Master Snape,

I wanted to ask you some private questions as an impartial source. Why did Lord Voldemort and
his followers attack Mr. and Mrs. Tonks? Neville and I don’t understand.

If it was a terror attack, it seems too private. If it was for information, why not use Veritaserum? If
it was strategic, why not attack the daughter who’s an Auror? Her parents don’t even have
Ministry jobs. I just don’t even understand why he and the Death Eaters kill witches and wizards in
the first place when there are so few of us, really. Why are they so violent? Doesn’t Lord
Voldemort see how Hogwarts is half-empty after two wars, with half the classrooms and dorm
rooms closed up? How does that advance his goals? Does using too much Dark magic really make
someone want to kill and torture people? Is he mad, do you think?

I honestly can’t understand why Lord Voldemort or his followers would torture a pure-blood
woman who wasn’t working against him in any way that I know of. Was he mad at Mrs. Tonks for
helping Sirius at his trial? Why kill Mr. Tonks – he wasn’t even involved in that? I can get why he
ordered the werewolf attacks. It was horrible, and I hate it more than I can say, but I at least
understand the politics of it. But I don’t get this random murder and torture. Aren’t there better,
sneakier ways to achieve his goals? He’s not a fool, or he and his escaped followers would’ve been
caught by now. Why risk capture just to openly attack the Tonks family?

If you can’t say I would totally understand, but if you can share your honest thoughts it would be
greatly appreciated. I would really rather you didn’t but if you need to share the rest of the
contents of this letter with someone, I would understand. It’s just questions. I’m not trying to get
involved in the war here, I want to stay out of it, I’m just trying to understand what’s going on.

Additionally, I would appreciate it if you could provide a list of some prominent skilled Seers
residing in Great Britain whom I could consult about their insight into a personal matter, if it
would not inconvenience you. I hear differing reports from my fellow students about Professor
Trelawney’s abilities (some say she’s a charlatan, some say she’s amazing) and I don’t know her
at all, so I don’t know if she’s any good or if she would be discreet or would gossip about me and
my questions to a reporter.

Yours sincerely,

Harold Potter, Heir Etc.

 P.S. If you’ve heard about the Tournament, it’s true, I’m in it but I really didn’t enter myself.
However, I know three students who’ve admitted putting my name in for me, and I’m suspicious of
a fourth student who’s staying mum on the topic. I didn’t actually want to be in this at all and I’m
already hating how it’s interfering with my studies and is probably going to be really dangerous.
Just about everyone’s congratulating me and assuming I’m thrilled to be in it apart from a few
close friends.

Harry didn’t honestly mind if Snape showed his letter to Lord Voldemort or to Dumbledore, which
was why he’d carefully omitted any reference to Miss Tonks being in the Order of the Phoenix, and
had avoided outright saying if Snape was a spy, and who for. Snape had to report in something
occasionally. Maybe it would help him to gossip about Harry. Even if either of the two leaders saw
the invisible writing it wouldn’t be the end of the world (though he expected Lord Voldemort
wouldn’t be in a good mood about Harry’s questions about him). Lord Voldemort had already
discussed the prophecy with Harry, though not the details. If Dumbledore found out Harry was
asking questions, maybe he’d even be inclined to talk about it openly with Harry later on, if Snape
led his and Dumbledore’s discussion in the right direction. Snape could be sneakily manipulative
when he wanted to be. Harry was confident Snape would spot his roundabout enquiry about whom
Harry could consult to learn more about the prophecy about him, since Snape was clearly under an
Unbreakable Vow (or something similar) not to discuss it.

Hopefully he’d have some answers soon.

Chapter End Notes

Dusty_Old_Books – Storm and Nagini chatting, in a way! :)

 Weighing In
Chapter Summary

The Triwizard Tournament begins with the Weighing of the Wands. Slughorn hosts a
soiree. Harry slips up with one or two of his secrets.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

November 1994

In the fortnight following Halloween, Harry found that having the almost universal approval of
teachers and his fellow students quickly became more wearing and less fun than he’d expected, as
his free time and privacy disappeared under an onslaught of students all keen to befriend and
support him. After the first week, Draco’s badge production team switched from making SQuid
badges to pushing out a new range of badges for sale, which read ‘Support Harold Potter!’ in bright
red luminous lettering on a yellow background. When you pushed the button it switched to
alternate text which read ‘Rule Britannia!’ in glowing green on a blue background. Draco proudly
explained that he’d picked the colours to appeal to members of all the Houses as a show of unity,
and the second phrase was selected to be “both patriotic and friendly to Muggle-borns”. Harry
didn’t have the heart to do anything but praise him, since Draco was trying so hard.

The push from friends and acquaintances for Harry to research and train up for the first task was
cutting badly into his homework time, though all the help was still appreciated. Hermione seemed
to positively revel in the opportunity to boss around a team of assistants eager to suss out clues to
the details of the first challenge. So far, Harry, Hermione and their team of book-loving assistants
had narrowed the challenge’s likely focus down to a few main possibilities: Fire Salamanders,
various species of dragons, Fire Seed Bushes, and djinn.

Some seniors also whispered dark warnings about the hybrid abominations of Fire Crabs and
Manticores that they’d been learning about in ‘Fear of Magical Creatures’ (as Professor Hagrid’s
class was universally known by senior students).

“Hagrid must have gotten an exemption on the ban on experimental breeding of magical creatures
somehow,” Peregrine warned Harry, after telling him all about the vicious baby monsters. “Using
his ‘Blast-Ended Skrewts’ for the Tournament could be seen as a valid justification if the plan is
that the creatures will all be slain during the competition. I am not sure the riddle’s line about ‘the
unborn need me’ applies, however. We do not know if fire was involved in their birth or hatching
in any way, however, it is a possibility we should not discount with undue haste. I shall ask
Professor Hagrid more about them. No doubt he shall be delighted to talk all about the nasty little
creatures with a touch of liquid encouragement and judicious flattery.”

Fire Salamanders were born only in magical fires and, more rarely, in volcanos. The latter wouldn’t
be feasible for a challenge, but the former certainly would be. A fire that had birthed a salamander
would keep on producing more salamanders until it was extinguished. Cedric Diggory was leading
a mix of students from various Houses that he dubbed ‘Team Salamander’ in their research efforts,
learning about how to encourage the birth of salamanders, and how to safely deal with them
afterwards.
Dragons were a popular pick for people to research, and Draco swiftly established himself as the
king of that group, boasting proudly about how he knew “everything there is to know about
dragons”, with some justification. He pontificated about how the clue had to refer to dragons,
whose eggs needed the mother’s flaming breath to ensure the development of the unhatched
young. He magnanimously and loudly let a lot of first-year students, Gryffindors, and assorted
Muggle-borns who thought dragons were cool or ‘ace’ join his ‘Dragonologist’ table, with a
pointed glance over at Hermione as he welcomed them. Harry wasn’t sure she noticed, however, as
she was busy glaring at some Durmstrang students lurking amongst the library shelves whom she
seemed to suspect of spying on the Hogwarts study groups.

Neville already knew quite a lot about Fire Seed Bushes, having researched them before, and was
rewriting up some notes on how to deal with them, especially in regard to harvesting their fiery
seeds without getting harmed, or pushing past their incandescently hot branches without injury. He
was disappointed to hear Hermione’s rebuke reminding him that potions and equipment wouldn’t
be allowed under the rules for the first task – only wands – and had to scrap a number of his best
suggestions. The Weasley twins were helping him brainstorm creative charms that could be
applied instead of the more usual fire-retardant potions and dragonhide gloves that Herbologists
typically used when dealing with the bushes.

The Hogwarts library didn’t have much information on djinn, as they were found primarily in the
Middle East and the library’s collection focused predominantly on European magical traditions and
creatures. However, there were some brief references to them that explained their origins as being
powerful ancient beings brought into existence by being shaped from fire. They could apparently
be magically contained in enchanted vessels with a seal embossed with their true name and the
correct magical sigil, but none of the library books gave any details about how you’d actually go
about doing that. Anthony was keen to research that topic further and had attracted a small cluster
of Ravenclaws eager to research the exotic beings.

Hermione and Harry teamed up with various students including Greg, Luna, and the Ravenclaw
Head Boy Marcus Turner to work on the least focused but potentially most useful line of research –
fire spells in general, and spells that dealt with protecting oneself from fire. Fiendfyre was a
particular concern, but experimenting with casting or defending against it was judged too
dangerous and they stuck to the theory only (which is all Turner had learnt despite being a seventh-
year).

Every day Hermione had a new collated list of spells for Harry to try, suggested by the various
study groups or her own research, and she wasn’t the only one trying to cajole Harry into endless
spellcasting practice and Tournament study sessions at the expense of his free time and homework.
Harry was rapidly regretting his speech calling for people to support him in the Tournament.

“Can I kill your brothers for entering me into this, Ron?” Harry pleaded pitifully one afternoon
after Hermione dropped off yet another list, this one with ice and water creation spells, while Draco
simultaneously delivered a five-foot essay on the Antipodean Opaleye with a level of unnecessary
detail that put Hermione’s essays to shame.

“Nah, my mum never lets me knock them off, no matter how annoying they are, so I reckon you
aren’t allowed to either,” Ron said, leaning back in his library chair while he leisurely read up on
the Swedish Short-Snout dragon.

Branstone bustled up to Harry, her long brown hair tied up in a ponytail with a House-proud bright
yellow and black ribbon, which showed off her silver crescent moon earrings (which had slipped
past McGonagall’s radar as not being overtly pagan enough to ban). “Potter, did you know that
dragon’s blood is regarded as Dark magic when it’s applied to runes or during item creation, but is
legal and acceptable when used in potions and salves? Perhaps they’ll ask you to get a blood
sample and brew a potion!”

Warrington, a stocky, tall sixth-year Slytherin who was lounging nearby, shook his head in
disagreement. “Leeching blood from a dragon is no easy task, but brewing potions is not dramatic
enough for a challenge. They have historically focused on duels and magical creatures. Potter, have
you mastered silent casting yet?”

“No.”

“You had best hurry up, then. Marchbanks is strict on that in the NEWT exams, and she is one of
the judges. In addition to which, it will be a great advantage to you in duelling. I can do it a little,
and so can Krum. You need to be able to as well, even though you are only a fourth-year.”

Harry sighed and slowly started reading through Hermione’s latest list, and obediently accepted a
book about silent spellcasting that Warrington fetched for him to borrow from the library.

Ron snickered softly as he watched how Harry barely managed to read a couple of lines of notes
before he was interrupted again. Millicent came over to tell Harry all about how to cast the Arrow-
shooting Spell beloved of Appleby Arrows supporters, which fired arrows from the caster’s wand
and which she thought might be useful for dealing with magical creatures resistant to spells from a
nice safe distance.

“Conjuring arrows is banned at Quidditch matches these days, but the spell is not banned for
general use,” she reported eagerly.

“The money would be nice, but I’m starting to think better you than me, mate,” Ron said, shaking
his head. “I knew there would be danger, but I never thought there would be so much studying.”

-000-

Professor Slughorn could never resist an opportunity to mingle with the crème de la crème of
wizarding society, or those who may fall into that category in the future… perhaps with a little bit
of judicious help from himself. As such, the two-dozen visiting foreign students, all cherry-picked
as the best and the brightest their schools could offer, were an irresistible temptation to network
with.

With an excuse for a party of ‘fostering inter-school relations and celebrating the selection of the
Triwizard champions’, Harry was invited to Slughorn’s soiree in the club room, even though he
was two or three years younger than all the other invitees. There were only a tiny handful of people
there Harry was familiar with, but it was enough that he didn’t feel too lost and intimidated in a
room full of much older students. Slughorn had invited all the exchange students plus his sixth and
seventh-year Slug Club members who were from a mix of all the Houses.

Fred and George Weasley seemed to be particular pets of Slughorn’s, and Slughorn proudly
introduced them around the room as, “The most ambitious and talented young Potioneers I have
taught in decades, who have already secured a wealthy patron who is investing in their products
with a guaranteed storefront on graduation.”

Harry was glad Sirius was helping them out, even though the twins said it was causing a bit of
tension between Sirius and their mother, who didn’t think a joke shop was a promising career.

“Slughorn’s a great patron, though,” Fred Weasley said enthusiastically. “He’s talking with her
about it on our behalf, trying to get her to come around. He’s already convinced dad.”
His twin nodded. “He has also been chasing up someone who owes us some money. Good man.
He says they’ve had some productive talks and things are looking good for repayment.”

“Well, you must excuse us, Harry, but this is a superb time to try and foster some international
interest in our products. Sluggy hinted that one of the French boys – Yvon Maizière the brown-
haired boy over there at the buffet table next to the dark-skinned girl in the blue headscarf – is a
pure-blood from old money, whose family invests a lot in new businesses.”

“Sure, go ahead and schmooze, I’ll be fine.”

There were only a few people there, however, that Harry knew better than from a passing
acquaintance in Potter Watch, and most of them seemed so busy now that he hesitated to interrupt
them.

Diggory was there and had joined Hogwarts’ Head Boy Marcus Turner in the crowd of boys vying
for Delacour’s attention. Harry would’ve sworn that Diggory was dating Chang. Perhaps he was,
but the part-Veela’s charms might be too irresistible. At least Diggory seemed to be making less of
a fool of himself than some other boys were.

Though his potions were nothing to boast about Peregrine was at the party too, thanks to his
Quidditch prowess, growing connections, and a judicious gift of crystallised pineapple. He seemed
caught up in a discussion with Krum and some other Quidditch enthusiasts about the various
English Quidditch teams and their chances this year, and the possibility of organising a three-way
interschool tournament with a few matches (odds of that seemed low, however, as it didn’t sound
like enough of the exchange students played Quidditch to form a viable team). Diggory eventually
got lured into a discussion of alternatives, as a fellow captain.

Slughorn noticed Harry standing on his own looking a bit awkward after the Weasleys left his side,
and smoothly guided him over to meet a couple of quiet girls who sitting on some sofas in a
secluded corner, avoiding the crowd.

“Harold Potter, our Hogwarts champion, may I introduce you to some of our guests from
Durmstrang? This is Astrid Rosen from Sweden, in the Kalmar Union, and Idunn Torsdóttir, from
Iceland, also of course in the Kalmar Union.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, bowing automatically, before straightening up nervously
with a glance at Slughorn.

Slughorn chuckled. “McGonagall’s not here to tell you off tonight, Potter, and Durmstrang and
Beauxbatons are both sticklers for etiquette, though they shall all be trying to adhere to local
customs while they are visiting.”

“Indeed,” Rosen said, holding out a hand for Harry to peck. “Hogwarts has been… very different.
Durmstrang of course upholds many Old traditions, and Beauxbatons has a foundations subject of
Deportment all students must take for the first three years, which covers etiquette and dancing and
the like.” Rosen was a plump blonde girl with a round face, and her long hair was tied up in a
complex knotted bun with some hair flowing out from it like a ponytail. Her accent seemed
flawless to Harry, who thought she sounded like a BBC television announcer, though a bit more
nervous.

“That sounds… interesting,” Harry replied thoughtfully to the blonde girl as he sat down with
them. Slughorn wandered away, content to have done his duty as a host of fostering mingling and
keeping his guests happy. “Hogwarts teaches Muggle Studies, but there isn’t any course teaching
etiquette or other wizarding traditions. Well, unless you count Flying, which we have in first year?
Does Durmstrang have a Deportment class?”

“No,” Rosen said, “but we have Citizenship for two years as one of our Foundation subjects. It
teaches various Wizarding traditions, broomstick flying, law, and basic information about the
government.”

“What kind of traditions? Etiquette?”

Rosen glanced awkwardly at Torsdóttir, a lean girl with a friendly smile. Her straight light-brown
hair was bound up in a similar knotted-ponytail style to her friend’s. Her arms had a muscular look
to them that Harry associated with Quidditch Beaters. He wondered if she played that position for
Durmstrang.

Torsdóttir whispered to her, also without a notable accent, “Some Slytherin students assured me
that Potter shares our faith in the Old Ways.”

“Oh!” Rosen said, sounding very relieved. “Well, the class covers etiquette, yes, but also magical
theory, a bit of introductory Latin, and religious instruction. It is encouraged at Durmstrang, not
suppressed like it is here in Britain.”

Harry shifted in his seat. It was a bit worrying that people were gossiping about his faith to
strangers behind his back, but he guessed there wasn’t much he could do about that. “The class
teaches ritual magic?”

“Not exactly, though there is a little of that as part of discussion of religious celebrations,” Rosen
explained. “Ritual Magic is a completely different class, actually. Its area of study overlaps with
what Hogwarts separates out into Arithmancy, Divination, and Astronomy. Though you can take
Arithmancy as an elective subject in its own right from third year onwards. I have signed up for
both Arithmancy and Astronomy while I am here at Hogwarts. It is a delightful opportunity to
specialise in Astronomy, which is not offered at Durmstrang, and I am sure it will help improve my
Potions studies, too. Professor Slughorn recommended it – he seems a most estimable teacher.”

Torsdóttir let out a soft snort and smiled. “Congratulations. You spoke for almost five minutes
without mentioning potions.”

Rosen shrank back into her chair, her air of confidence lost. “I… like potions. I apologise if I bored
you, Potter.”

“Sorry, Rosen,” Torsdóttir said, with a genuinely apologetic look in her eyes. “I was just teasing
you.”

Rosen shrugged uncomfortably.

“I’m not at all bored by talking about potions,” Harry volunteered. “I enjoy Potions too. My
godfather was a bit bewildered that I spent some of my free time in the holidays doing some
brewing.”

The two of them chatted about the brewing he’d done, and Rosen overcame her discomfort and
clearly was in her conversational comfort zone talking about what was her favourite subject,
despite the apparently lacklustre Potions class at Durmstrang where their over-cautious teacher
didn’t let them brew any potions with any element of risk until their senior years, and even then
made her class repeat brewing potions multiple times until they perfected them.

“It is not bad as such,” Rosen said, sighing, “but it is so slow and those who are ready to progress
must still repeat dull potions over and over again. Professor Slughorn has covered so many potions
already! And he gives his best students permission to brew personal projects unsupervised outside
of class hours!” Her eyes gleamed with excitement.

“You should talk to the Weasley twins some time,” Harry suggested. “Fred and George Weasley –
they look identical and have bright red hair, you can’t miss them. They’re in sixth year, but I think
Slughorn might be right in boasting that they’re our best Potioneers at Hogwarts.” He waved
vaguely in their direction across the room, which was really all that was needed. They stood out a
mile off, both due to their appearance and their gregarious nature – all loud boasts and laughter as
they entertained a small crowd with a display of their latest creation, a Canary Cream which when
eaten temporary transformed the recipient into a bird.

“Dear Merlin, look at that!” Rosen said. “Full human transfiguration! Was that from a biscuit? Not
even a draught?”

“Yup, and they invented them, too. Only seven Sickles each, while they’re still testing their
prototypes. Sometimes there’s a few feathers that don’t come off, but Madam Pomfrey can fix you
up easily if that happens.”

“Go and talk to them,” Torsdóttir encouraged, giving Rosen an encouraging nudge with an elbow.

“Without an introduction?” Rosen fretted, twisting her hands into anxious knots.

“You can introduce her, I’m sure,” Torsdóttir said, turning to Harry. “In return, I would be happy to
introduce you to Ericksen. He’d be happy to talk to you about your unguent for vampires that you
mentioned brewing, as he is a great proponent of vampire rights. He’s been looking forward to
meeting you, actually.”

“Uh, sure. I would be happy to introduce you, Rosen. Astrid, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Pure-blood, of course, if you are including blood status in your introduction. I
understand it’s not usually the done thing at Hogwarts.”

“Not counting the link to the Muggle van Rosen family,” Torsdóttir teased.

Rosen shrugged uncomfortably. “That was so many generations ago you know it does not count.
Besides, they were nobility, not just common riff raff.”

“You are ashamed of having Muggle ancestors?” Harry asked, a little stiffly.

Rosen sighed. “Not proud, but not ashamed, either. More embarrassed that everyone always tells
the story of how my many-times great-grandfather cast spells to make everyone think the castle
he’d inherited had burnt down just because he didn’t want to be visited by his annoying Muggle
relatives who were trying to pressure him into marrying some noblewoman he didn’t fancy.”

Torsdóttir grinned and nodded. “We shared a dormitory until sixth year when we got our own
private rooms, and whenever Astrid got too caught up in studying or just didn’t want to talk to
anyone, Mayer would always say, ‘Don’t disturb her, or she’ll burn down the dormitory. She’s a
Rosen, you know!’ Everyone knew the story from first year. The Rosen family is infamous for
that.”

“Mayer?”

“Johanna Mayer – a friend of mine from the Holy Roman Empire. She’s one of us four girls from
Durmstrang. We’re sadly outnumbered by the boys – there’s seven of them. Ridiculous, given how
women are usually magically stronger,” Torsdóttir said, with a dismissive snort, “but that’s
Karkaroff for you. Sexist pig.”

“What’s with the names? Like Kalmar Union? Holy Roman Empire?” Harry asked.

“I’ll tell you after you go introduce Rosen to those twins before she loses her nerve.”

“Idunn!” Rosen whined.

“It’s true, though. She gets nervous about meeting new people. It’s why I’ve been over here
keeping her company. She’s almost as bad as Krum.”

“Viktor Krum?” Harry said, glancing around the room and seeing the dour Quidditch star still
surrounded by an eager, attentive crowd. “He looks fine.”

Torsdóttir shrugged. “He’ll do his duty and talk to people, but he hates it. Given the opportunity he
would rather hide in a corner with a book.”

“I always end up saying something stupid and boring people,” Rosen mumbled. “Maybe I could
talk to them later.”

“Go!” Torsdóttir insisted, with a laugh, and Rosen got up obediently.

Harry led Rosen over to the twins, politely tucking her hand into the crook of his arm like he was
her escort for the party. “Don’t worry, they’re quite nice, if a bit inclined to tease. Just ask them
about their potions, and they’ll do all the talking for you.”

The introductions went smoothly, if less formally than Rosen perhaps would’ve liked, and Harry
left her listening raptly to their excited sales pitch about their prank potions business.

As Harry stepped away from the group Torsdóttir rejoined him and led him towards a tall fit young
man with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and the wispy beginnings of a moustache and
beard. He was busy flirting with one of the Beauxbatons girls, who was giggling and toying with
her hair. Harry suddenly felt very young in comparison.

“I don’t want to interrupt…” Harry said awkwardly, backing off a little.

“Hmm, yes. Maybe in a minute,” Torsdóttir said, with a light laugh. “Ericksen wouldn’t thank me
for interrupting him right now.”

“So, uh… are there really only three magical schools in all of Europe?” Harry asked.

“Only three that count. There’s also a large school in Russia of course, and some children from
eastern Europe go there. There are also a few smaller, less prestigious schools scattered around -
day schools for locals, mostly. I’ve heard there’s one in Rome that’s not too bad if you can stomach
all the religion, but they say it only covers half the subjects that Durmstrang does.

“A lot of families home-school, too, but my family obviously is well-off enough to cover the fees,
and the mandatory language acquisition. There’s only a small population of witches and wizards in
Iceland, so we all tend to go to Durmstrang – it’s that or home-schooling.”

“You speak English really well,” Harry said. “I guess your native language is uh, Icelandic? What
language do they teach in at Durmstrang?” She spoke just like a Londoner, in fact, and without the
overly formal grammar and scattering of archaic words that characterised a lot of British wizards’
speech. He would've sworn she was born and raised in Peckham, if he didn't know better.
“Well, you have to be at least bilingual to attend as teachers instruct in either German or
Norwegian; the seiðrsdialekt of Norsk, to be precise, so I took some potions for both of those. They
weren’t cheap, especially the latter, obviously! I also know Old West Norse which is very handy
for Ritual Magic and Ancient Runes, as well as reading old sagas. My mother paid for an English
potion for the trip over here, of course, which makes five languages in total including Icelandic.”

“I paid for some potions to be fluent in French, Latin, and Ancient Egyptian,” Harry volunteered. “I
studied a little Spanish ages ago, but I’m very rusty and can’t really do much more in that than say
hello and count up to ten.”

Torsdóttir nodded in obvious approval. “Latin and Ancient Egyptian?! Nice! That must have cost
you a lot of Galleons. Good to see you don’t have any qualms about the language potions being
unethical.”

“What?” Harry asked, a bit bewildered.

“Like Krum, and a lot of the Beauxbatons students. Terrible accents, don’t you think? They all fuss
about ‘natural’ learning being the only right way to do things.” She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Terrible waste of time, if you ask me. I learnt Old West Norse the hard way and though it’s similar
to Icelandic it was still a lot of work – I think potions are much better if you can afford them.”

“Well, not everyone can,” Harry said diplomatically.

“Krum certainly could, if he wanted to. Say, you asked earlier about the Kalmar Union?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Well, I’d rather make it quick – I don’t want to spend all night at a party in a corner giving a
geography lesson. No offence. I was just staying with Rosen so she wasn’t all on her own.”

Harry nodded understandingly. “None taken. The short version is fine. We don’t learn magical
geography at Hogwarts – or at least, I haven’t learnt it yet – so even the basics would be helpful.”

“Right. So, the short version is that the magical population of Scandinavia isolated itself in the
fourteenth century and decided pretty quickly to ignore how the Muggles were constantly changing
their countries’ borders and names. So we stuck with Kalmarunionen – the Kalmar Union – as a
good name to show solidarity. A show of unified strength to preserve our borders against the
witches and wizards in the Holy Roman Empire to the south, and Russia to the east which was
quite expansionist at that time. We formed an alliance of witches and wizards in Iceland,
Greenland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and parts of Finland and Estonia, with a governing council
and regional administrators.”

“That’s a couple of centuries before the International Statute of Secrecy,” Harry mused. “Of
course, that statute was formalising something that had been the status quo for quite a while, really,
wasn’t it?”

“True. We were already heading towards an isolationist stance, but it was the Black Death that
really pushed things along, I think. For example, Norway lost two-thirds of its Muggle population,
and almost all of its Christian priests. There was an especially big push to isolate ourselves from
the disease-ridden Muggles, even though we didn’t catch their plague. So there were a lot of land
grabs, and a resurgence of the old faith on the mainland.”

“They’re not disease-ridden,” Harry said irritably, “and it wasn’t right to steal their lands.”

“They get sick more than we do. They have weak constitutions,” Torsdóttir said, frowning.
“We catch many of the same illnesses they do, and there’s only a handful of illnesses that don’t
overlap. Muggles can’t catch dragon pox or spattergroit, for instance.”

“We would be even healthier than them if people didn’t keep breeding with them and polluting the
purity of our blood-”

“You’re a blood purist?!” Harry hissed angrily. “Having magical talent doesn’t make us better, just
different!”

“You’re not a blood purist?! How can the Heir of Slytherin – a Parselmouth – not be a blood
purist?” she quietly hissed back. “I’m not going to judge you for your ancestry – you can’t help
what your ancestors did – but surely you can’t support mixing with Muggles any more than is
strictly necessary?”

“My heritage doesn’t have to make me a bigot! Look at Grindelwald, look at Voldemort – my own
damn parents murdered – look at all the people they killed and the suffering they brought, and ask
me again why I don’t like talk of blood purism!”

Harry glowered at her.

Her lips thinned and she gave him a curt nod.

“Alright. Your parents. I grant you that. Those Lords’ methods were… excessive. Damaging to our
own people. But the overarching goal of preserving our ways and putting ourselves in a stronger
position to deal with Muggles-”

“Well sure, but it is no excuse at all for mass murder,” Harry whispered back.

“It doesn’t excuse everything, but it’s understandable! They kill us too! Every time they’ve found
us, they’ve slaughtered us! The Statute’s there for a reason!”

“That hasn’t happened for centuries!”

“Yes it has! It’s happening even now, or they’re trying, at least! Why do you think every
government has people to deal with dangerous Muggles! Laws to stop every idiot witch and wizard
from showing off magic to them? They are a threat and anyone who’s not a total troll-brain knows
that!”

“There’s a difference between Obliviating someone – like the Ministry does – and advocating
bloody mass murder! There’s like six billion people in the world! We have to live together, even if
you don’t like it!”

“We have to live separately!” she cried, looking flabbergasted.

“Look, I agree on that-”

“Good!” she said, sounding relieved.

“-but I can’t and won’t support murder as part of that!”

“You already do!”

Harry’s face blanched. What does she know? Has someone talked about my truce with Lord
Voldemort? Who?

“What?” he said. “No, I don’t!”

Lie with confidence, Draco always said. Getting caught in admissions was Harry’s weak point and
he knew it, but he was working on it. Deny, and be consistent in your denials even when
challenged.

“Two words,” Torsdóttir said, with soft intensity. “Hit. Wizards. They’re part of your own
government. If you support your own Ministry you’re already accepting that sometimes Muggle
threats need to be dealt with. Permanently. When someone kidnaps or kills one of our people or
creatures, or threatens to expose us.”

“They… they’re just specialist Aurors,” Harry said uncertainly. “They’re just more highly trained.
To deal with dangerous criminals. They don’t kill-”

“You tell yourself whatever you need to, to sleep at night,” she interrupted, leaning in close as she
whispered intensely. “You know Muggles are a threat. Think about it. What they’d do to us. What
they’ve already done, over and over! If they knew-”

A tall blond wizard pushed his way in between them, muscling in to grab and shake Harry’s hand,
‘incidentally’ turning Harry away from Torsdóttir as he clapped his other hand on Harry’s right
shoulder. It was the young man with the wispy beard that Torsdóttir had been planning to introduce
Harry to.

“Mr. Potter, I do so hope you don’t mind me interrupting your conversation to introduce myself!”
the young wizard said, in an overly cheerful tone. “Do excuse us, Miss Torsdóttir – I believe
Bahnsen and Mayer were looking for you.”

His very serious stare at her seemed at odds with his cheerful voice. Both Torsdóttir and Harry
could figure out the unspoken message there.

“Yes, do excuse me,” Torsdóttir said stiffly. “Perhaps we can resume our conversation later, with
calmer spirits. I am sure we still have some common ground.” She gave a short bow and stalked
off.

Harry turned to his saviour with a sigh of relief, bowing politely. “Thank you, uh…”

“Bjørn Ericksen, of the Sacred House of Ericksen, as you say in Britain, right? Pure-blood, but not
from a ‘Noble’ family, and we don’t trace our line back to the Romans. We’re proudly Norwegian
for many, many centuries! It is berserker blood we claim for our family. My name means bear, you
know! It’s a very old family name.” He had a pronounced Scandinavian accent but spoke English
very fluently.

Harry’s face fell. “So, you’re a blood purist too.”

“Don’t mind Torsdóttir,” the man said, shaking his head. “She’s usually a very friendly soul, and
she’d never harm anyone outside of a formal duel of magic or staves. Did she insult your family?”

“Not exactly. Well, a bit. She just… she said lots of stuff about blood purity.”

“Well, I don’t mind that you’re a half-blood,” Ericksen said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
“You are a Parselmouth! That is very special! You should transfer to Durmstrang, like my aunt
wrote to you. Do you remember her letter? I think they don’t appreciate your talents properly here.
I heard you could not even bring your snake to the party tonight in case people were frightened –
such a shame!” He tutted in disapproval.

“I like it here, and I’m not a blood purist,” Harry said defensively. “Even Salazar wasn’t exactly
one either, you know. Not completely. He just wanted to protect the students from Muggle attacks.
He didn’t mind some Muggle-born students so long as their families weren’t going to panic or
gossip and pose a risk to Hogwarts – that’s what he was worried about. Not the students
themselves.” Harry clenched his fists.

“Hey, easy now,” Ericksen said, softly but sternly. “I am not your enemy unless you choose to
make me into one. I was trying to help you, interrupting Torsdóttir. It looked rather… heated. In a
bad way. Would you rather I left you alone, now?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, hunching as he apologised. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… she seemed so friendly,
and we still ending up arguing. I guess I just wanted to know… if we’d end up fighting too.”

“Do you think all vampires, giants, trolls, and hags should be killed? Werewolves killed or chained
up with silver?”

“No! None of that!”

“Good. Should people all be forced to follow one religion?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Do you think we should allow Muggles to know all about magic, for nothing could possibly go
wrong because we are all good people deep down and no-one would hurt each other once the truth
is out?”

“…No. I don’t think it would go at all well.”

Ericksen clapped him on the shoulder again, making Harry stagger and hunch up from the
unexpected blow.

“Then that is good enough for me! You have an open heart to Dark creatures, but you are no fool.
We shall be friends, and you may call me Bjørn if you wish.” He smiled charmingly at Harry,
momentarily reminding Harry a little of Lockhart.

“Oh. Uh, I appreciate the offer, but let me think about that, I don’t know you very well yet.
Perhaps at a future date when we’re better acquainted.”

Ericksen beamed happily at him. “Fair enough, Potter. Let us get acquainted then. Now, tell me all
about being a Parselmouth! It is such a rare Dark talent! You are truly blessed by Magic.”

Harry sighed. This was going to be a long night. He looked wistfully over at the cheerful group of
Beauxbatons students and settled in for another talk about why-I’m-not-Dark. Eventually to his
relief they shifted to a less touchy topic and had a pleasant enough talk about vampires (who were
permitted to attend Durmstrang if they were young and needed to study).

With a promise to Ericksen to introduce Storm to him as soon as he could, Harry was then free to
mingle elsewhere and chatted in French with a couple of the Beauxbatons students including a
dark-skinned young witch whose French-speaking family lived in Senegal. However, despite his
best intentions he only got to chat to the other two Triwizard champions very briefly (since they
were so busy mingling) before the party grew too late and Slughorn jovially sent them on their
ways with promises of more Slug Club parties to come.

-000-

On a Friday afternoon in mid-November, Professor Slughorn obligingly let Harry leave Potions
early to attend the Weighing of the Wands ceremony for the Triwizard Tournament.
Rita Skeeter had tried to drag Harry away from the other champions prior to the ceremony, but a
frosty, “Excuse me, madam!” as she tried to grab his arm had put a quick stop to that, and her
injured feelings were soon soothed by Harry’s promise of an interview after the ceremony had
finished.

After the champions’ wands had been demonstrated to Mr. Ollivander’s satisfaction as not being in
any way defective (which could have proved highly dangerous in a life-threatening tournament),
the judges and other officials lingered to chat with each other and the school principals. Skeeter
had a perfunctory handful of questions for the foreign champions, after which she, Harry, and her
Daily Prophet photographer went to an adjoining classroom for a more in-depth interview.

Rita spread out her magenta robes as she sat decorously on one of the old wooden chairs and
extracted an acid-green quill from her scaly handbag. She sucked on the tip of the quill for a
moment, before setting it to float above the parchment laid on an adjacent desk. In bright green ink
it scratched out what seemed like Skeeter’s thoughts and opinions rather than what she was actually
saying or hearing.

“Shall we get started?” Skeeter asked eagerly, pushing up her jewelled spectacles with a manicured
crimson-nailed hand as she leant forwards.

“How does the quill work?” Harry asked, watching with fascination as it wrote down his words as
well as a description of him as being a ‘handsome young man in silver-rimmed spectacles, with his
tidy fringe concealing the disfiguring mark of his tragic loss’. It didn’t appear too fussed about
perfect accuracy for its quotations, as it amended Harry’s recent question to refer to itself as a
‘marvellous enchanted emerald quill’.

“My Quick-Quotes Quill is perfectly legal,” Skeeter said defensively. “It is attuned and activated
by saliva, not blood.”

Skeeter swiftly moved the conversation along with a few quick starting questions about how Harry
felt about the Tournament (very nervous but determined to do his best) and why he’d entered (he
didn’t but some friends had entered his name for him, and he’d try to live up to their faith in him).

“Now, Mr. Potter, can you tell me if you remember your parents at all? How do you think they’d
feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament?”

Interesting question. “Well, I can’t be sure of course, because I barely remember them. But, from
what people have told me my dad was a risk-taker, and a very brave man. I think he would have
been proud and excited. I think my mum would have worried a lot more, maybe nagging me to
study hard to help me get through the tasks. Muggle schools don’t have the dangerous sports and
competitions that the wizarding world does, so I think it would have been scarier for her, being
Muggle-raised. The level of risk that’s regarded as acceptable here is pretty daunting for
newcomers.”

Skeeter smiled encouragingly at him, and Harry caught a glimpse of a couple of gold teeth as she
did so.

“Ah, your parents were quite the forbidden romance, weren’t they? The pure-blood heir who won
the reluctant heart of the feisty Muggle-born!” Rita said, pressing a palm to her chest as she let out
a melodramatic sigh. Her acid-green quill kept busily scratching out notes for her in the
background. “What young witch have you set your pining heart on, Mr. Potter?”

Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “No-one, Miss Skeeter. And uh, just so you know, technically,
my mother was a half-blood.”
The reporter gasped excitedly. “Really?!”

“Uh, yes. My maternal grandmother, Heather Evans nee Parkinson, was a pure-blood Squib,
though I don’t believe she ever told her children about her background. Grandma Heather had two
magically talented parents, so I believe that makes my mum a half-blood since she had magical
grandparents. You can confirm it with the Parkinson family if you like,” Harry added helpfully, as
Skeeter hung on his every word with bated breath. “Our family relationship is formally
acknowledged and there’s a properly researched family tree.”

Harry glanced over at Skeeter’s notes and caught a glimpse of her quill jotting down phrases like
‘lonely young Heir’, ‘scandalous family secret’, and ‘shocking revelation’.

Hmm. I’d probably better encourage her more to talk with the Parkinsons to help her get a more
well-rounded take on things, or she’ll drag them over the coals.

“Before you leave Hogwarts you might like to talk to my cousin, Pansy Parkinson, in Slytherin.
She’s a good friend of mine as well as one of my closest relatives in the wizarding world,” Harry
volunteered. “The Sacred House of Parkinson has been very kind and welcoming to me, including
gifting me with Storm, my pet rainbow serpent.”

Leaning over for another peek at her notes, he spotted ‘welcomed into the bosom of this proud
Slytherin family’ and nodded approvingly. Much better.

-000-

On Sunday morning before the Potter Watch meetings were due to start, Hermione’s attention at
breakfast was as usual divided between her toast and her copy of the Daily Prophet.

“It seems you’re seen as quite the eligible young bachelor, Harry. Skeeter’s article got the front
page, and she’s gone to some effort to point out you’re the Heir to ‘at least two wealthy Houses’,
and that your children – of which she seems to assume you would have many – would be counted
as pure-blood if you married the ‘right sort’ of witch. There’s a five-generation family tree on page
two, with your ‘closest relatives’ the Black, Parkinson, and Malfoy families on it. Oh, and a teaser
of ‘more shocking revelations’ to come. They left off your aunt and her family entirely, which is
pretty typical for the tone of the paper lately,” Hermione added, tutting disapprovingly. “It’s
increasingly anti-Muggle with her as their main feature writer instead of Smudgely.”

Harry sighed. “Well, I did my best. You should have seen her draft notes! It could have been so
much worse. I guess I’d better brace for more mail. Can I borrow your owl this evening?”

“Like I told you, any time. Are you looking forward to Potter Watch? It’s the Incarcerous charm
and silent spellcasting today!” Hermione said excitedly.

“I guess. Turner – you remember him, our Head Boy from Ravenclaw – volunteered to take over
teaching the Middle group so I can focus just on being a student in the Senior group, and spend
more time preparing for the first task. But I guess I’m going to miss working with my friends.”

“You’ve still got me in the Senior group,” Hermione comforted. She’d tested out of the Middle
group since she knew most of the spells they’d be covering, but despite that she actually still went
to all of the meetings – even the Junior group ones – when she wasn’t too busy panicking about an
assignment due on Monday. She said it was all good practice.

“And Draco’s there too,” Harry added, “but I think I’m going to miss everyone else.”

“You need not quit the Middle group just because Turner thinks you should,” Neville encouraged.
“It is entirely up to you. You will still see me and all your other friends at other times, however, so
you should not fret about that.”

“Thanks, Neville. Well, I don’t exactly want to, but I think it’s a wise decision. My study time is so
miniscule right now, I need every spare hour I can get. I really wish I had a Time-Turner this year
too,” he said, with a wistful sigh.

His Slytherin friends had completely different takes on the Potter Watch situation, and they
weren’t united in their opinions. Pansy had fretted about Harry giving up control of the group (even
on a temporary basis), and the potential loss of status from not being in charge. Draco on the other
hand had argued in favour of Turner’s offer to take over, saying that delegation was part of being a
patron and that Harry giving the impression that Hogwarts’ Head Boy was at his beck and call only
enhanced his reputation. That it would allow Harry to focus on the Tournament he thought was just
a bonus. The others mostly just thought that leading a group was a lot of work for very little
benefit, and that it should be Harry’s call as to whether it was worth it.

“Say, did you hear that some of the exchange students wanted to join our Senior group?” Harry
said. “Peregrine turned them down though, with some polite excuse. Some of them are making up
their own Duelling club, instead. What he’s actually worried about is that they might spy on how
my spellcasting is going. That it might give the other schools’ champions an edge in the
Tournament.”

His friends looked thoughtful.

“It could be a legitimate risk, or it could be typical Slytherin paranoia and over-thinking things,”
Neville said. “It feels rather ungracious of us not to properly welcome our guests to Hogwarts,
however.”

“I think it’s a good call, on the whole,” Hermione mused. “They might try to spy on us. I ran into
Krum again in the library while I was busy studying on my own in a quiet corner. I think he was
trying to hide from some fans! He asked what I was reading and tried to start up a conversation
about new charms I’d been learning. But I just wanted to read my book so I told him I wasn’t going
to discuss anything remotely related to the Tournament and to come back when he had something
intelligent to say about the issue of house-elf enslavement or the origins of the various magical
humanoid races. He looked shocked and just slunk off.”

Harry found Potter Watch rather trying that day. He had the knack of the Incarcerous Spell well
enough – it just needed more practice. However, silent spellcasting was another story and Harry
found it impossible to get even the slightest response from the simplest charms. Still, only a very
few sixth and seventh-years could do it at all, so he tried to keep that in mind and not to feel too
down about his utter lack of success. Everyone watching him (and a few people badgering him to
try harder) didn’t help his equanimity about his failure, though.

It was in a very distracted state of mind that Harry collected Storm and some books from his dorm
room and snuck off to the boys’ bathroom on the Fourth Floor near the library, ignoring passers-by
calling out friendly greetings and affirming their belief he’d win the Tournament for Hogwarts.
Harry wasn’t in the mood to chat – he was headed straight for the secret entrance to the Chamber
of Secrets. Surely Ambrosius – Merlin – would have a few good tips about silent spellcasting. He
also wanted to have a bit of privacy to look through his book on Ancient Egyptian curses again, so
see if there was anything in there that might help Sirius.

Harry locked himself in one of the toilet cubicles, and hissed at a tiny carved snake to open the
secret entrance. The back wall of the cubicle – which looked like solid stone blocks – sank into the
ground without so much as a whisper of sound. A very sensible enchantment, Harry thought, to
prevent anyone overhearing anything unusual. Harry squeezed past the toilet into the space
revealed behind it and headed down the spiral staircase. Carved snakes hissed their welcomes to
him as he passed them.

“Greeetings Ssscion!”

“Welcome back, young master!”

Harry put Storm down in the main Chamber when they reached it. It was looking much nicer after
his work with restorative spells. He’d cleaned up the decorative pool last year, and the water was,
if not crystal clean, at least no worse than the Black Lake. Storm was having fun exploring a little
underwater tunnel out to the lake, which was how the occasional fish strayed in now that Harry had
cleared out some bits of rubble that had been blocking things.

The stonework walls were now clean thanks to some masonry-specific cleaning charms Harry had
researched over the summer, and the enchanted blocks that glowed with a soft radiance were even
brighter after their cleaning (and a judicious top-up of magic and a smear of saliva in lieu of blood
had helped too), making the whole room less gloomy. The stone serpents that spiralled around the
many pillars in the room had appreciated having their delicate carved scales clearly revealed from
beneath the former layers of grime and dust, and had been even more thrilled to see Harry cast
some cleaning and strengthening charms on Salazar’s imposing statue.

Downstairs through another secret passage (Salazar sure did love those), Harry added a loaf of
bread and a sealed pot of raw honey to his single ‘fridge’ shelf low on the bookcase he’d added last
year to Salazar Slytherin’s old study, where he kept a few emergency snacks. Honey would keep
for years if needed – centuries, even. Bill Weasley had gossiped in a letter about how explorers had
even found honey in Egyptian tombs that was still edible despite being three thousand years old.
The bread should hopefully keep for a couple of weeks, thanks to the charms he was about to set
up.

Harry spent some time carving a set of Younger Futhark runes on the bottom shelf so he wouldn’t
need to reapply the cooling charms so often: Bjarkan for freshness, Ur in murkstave to inhibit
mould growth, and Is for the preserving and cooling power of ice. They were all chained to Ar as
the base rune, which represented bountiful, healthy crops and would ensure the spells focused on
the food placed on the shelf. He’d found the rune set in a library book, Practical Household Magic,
one of Hogwarts’ more recent texts. It was basically instructions on how to make your own
magical equivalent of a very simple fridge.

He cut a little nick with a sharp potions knife on one of his fingers and smeared some blood onto
the runes and sealed them with a touch of magic from his wand as he cast a Cooling Charm to link
into the rune set. The blood, he was interested to note, disappeared as the spell was cast and the
runes sank into invisibility. When he used the Revealing Charm the invisible runes glittered more
brightly than any of those he’d previously created with saliva or with magic alone. Ever since
Snape had insisted over summer that blood would empower runes more strongly than the other
options, he’d been a little curious to find out the truth of the matter for himself, and certainly no-
one would be spying on him down in Salazar’s old quarters in the Chamber of Secrets. It looked
like it was true. He nodded in satisfaction at the results of his test. He didn’t want to go mucking
about with blood magic willy-nilly (especially since the Ministry had long since banned it), but it
was good to scientifically conclude that it could be effective. The book instructions had called for
saliva but substituting in blood had yielded the good results as he’d expected.

“Greetings, young Heir! It is good to sssee you again!” the tiny snake carving hissed from
Salazar’s scroll-storage shelf. It was practically empty – Harry didn’t really have anything to store
in there. Last year he’d kept some of his homework scrolls in there, but this year his visits were too
infrequent to warrant leaving any half-finished homework behind. He did still have a few spare
rolls of blank parchment in the shelving, plus some extra ink and quills on the desk and a pile of
blankets and pillows in the bedchamber, but not much else was stored down here right now.

“Your casting went well, I sssee,” it continued, with an approving note to its sibilant hisses. “Let me
taste your blood and you may passs within.”

Harry let the little snake bite him as usual, in what passed a millennium ago as an unbeatable
identification check, and after a quick Episkey headed inside to chat to Merlin.

He tapped politely at the edge of the mosaic to wake up its inhabitant. “Greetings Ambrosius, it is
the afternoon of Sunday the thirteenth of November, nineteen ninety-four.”

“Ah, hello again!” Ambrosius said, waking up and giving his back a stretch. “It has been almost a
couple of weeks since I saw you last, then. You have been busy preparing for the Triwizard
Tournament, I suppose?”

“Exhaustingly so, and I have so many people wanting to help me out that it’s been hard to get a
moment to myself. Sorry I haven’t been able to visit much lately.”

“It’s quite alright,” Ambrosius promised.

They chatted for a while about Harry’s studies and his swarms of research helpers for the
Tournament.

“I don’t suppose you have some good tips for mastering silent spellcasting?” Harry asked
optimistically.

“I usually said my incantations aloud,” Ambrosius admitted. “Speech is one of the components that
adds power to one’s magic; it is a powerful tool for focusing and channelling your intention. Yet, it
is not essential, and if others can cast spells silently with their wands alone, there is no logical
reason you cannot do the same. I can only advise you to remember that you must always focus.
Waving your wand and hoping is not the same thing as mastering your magic. You said that your
delightfully-named friend Peregrine started you with Wingardium Leviosa?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to make things float?”

“Well, of course. I wanted to succeed. It was pretty embarrassing that I couldn’t make a feather
even twitch.”

Ambrosius shook his head. “Not enough. You must focus more on the goal of the spell itself, and
less on your feelings about the spell or your companions.”

“Oh! Like resisting the Imperius Curse!” Harry said eagerly. He explained how he’d progressed in
throwing off the forbidden curse.

“Precisely!” Ambrosius agreed. “Well done. Yes, apply that same determination to other areas of
your spellcasting, and you should see great improvements. Perhaps try the exercise I suggested
where you attempt to summon your wand to your hand, too.”

“That’s wandless magic, not silent magic.”

“It is an application of the same principle, however.”

“I’ll try it, then. When I get a moment in private. Which I haven’t had for weeks,” Harry grumbled.

They also talked about the sad attack on the Tonks family, which Ambrosius agreed was
unconscionable.

“I heard back from Miss Tonks with some more tips about being a Metamorphmagus – she wrote
to me just before the attack,” Harry said. “She said when she turns back to her natural form it feels
relaxing – which it never does for me – and if she’s been shapeshifted for a long time her hair and
nails have grown.”

“Yes, returning to your natural form should always be freeing. There should be no tension left.”

Harry frowned. “I’m… I’m thinking that maybe I’m not ever in my natural form. Because uh… my
nails and hair don’t actually change. Unless I nibble my nails and then they grow back overnight. I
haven’t actually had my hair cut in years. I think the last one was about when I was nine years
old.”

“Hmm! Your hair should certainly be longer, then. Do you want to try relaxing into your natural
form? With enough focus on your goal it should be simple enough – it should come easily to you.”

“Well… yes. But… I’m a bit scared. Like, what if I look really different? Or I can’t change back? I
learnt some hair-trimming and nail-cutting charms from Brown, since I figured I’m likely to look
kind of crazily unkempt.”

At Ambrosius’ puzzled look Harry explained, “She’s a girl in Gryffindor, one of Hermione’s
friends. She’s one of those girly-girls who like to look pretty with headbands and nail polish and
stuff. She’s from a wizarding family so she knows heaps of cosmetic charms.”

“A ‘pure-blood’ as you say these days?”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m trying not to introduce people with their blood status.
Professor McGonagall said… well, she pointed out that things like that are a bad habit. I don’t
want to act like a bigot or accidentally offend any Muggle-borns, so I’ve been trying to pay more
attention to that stuff. It’s hard though, and I keep slipping up.”

“I did tire of being whispered about as being a cambion, back in my day. That was from the mort…
Muggles, however. Most wizards and witches merely admired my skill, once it was proven. Power
is more important than family.

“So, are you ready to try shifting?”

Harry sighed. “I suppose so. That was one of the things I wanted to do down here, where no-one
will see me. I even brought a recent photo of myself… just in case I need to study it. And a mirror I
made in Ancient Runes.”

Taking off his shoes and socks in case of catastrophic toenail growth, Harry sat stiffly on the chair
as he concentrated. First, he spent a minute shifting his hair to something curly, and then he
focused on the feeling of letting the shift go and relaxing back into his usual form… and then
relaxing more. Letting go of all his own expectations of what he was supposed to look like, and of
his care about maintaining his appearance to meet the demands and expectations of others.
Breathing in and out, and letting his body relax into bonelessness.

There was a tingling feeling on his scalp, and Harry tried not to startle as he felt a scratching
sensation on his hands as they twitched – his fingernails were definitely growing. He let it all go,
focusing his mind on the peaceful waves of a deserted ocean shore and relaxing everything.

“That should do it, I think,” Ambrosius said in a satisfied tone, and Harry’s eyes snapped open.

“Do I… do I look different?” Harry pleaded.

“Not in essentials, I think,” Ambrosius said thoughtfully, and Harry huffed in relief. “You will
need to tidy up of course, but you look otherwise much unchanged.”

Harry looked down at his hands, where his nails were so crazily long they’d curled into
surprisingly heavy twisted weights on his hands. “A manicure first, I think, so I can actually hold
things properly.”

The first of Lavender Brown’s charms that Harry tried was a variant of the Severing Charm – the
base charm of which Harry was very proficient at – and it worked a treat. Harry’s fingernails and
toenails were magically snipped to a tidy length. He even tried out a couple of extra charms – one
to file the edges of your nails smooth, and another to lightly buff the surface of the nails to a gentle
shine.

“Aren’t you going to look in your mirror?’ Ambrosius asked expectantly.

“In a minute,” Harry said, not wanting to admit he was stalling.

He patted behind his head and found a long mass of hair which reached down to his waist in a mess
of tangles. He pulled a hank over his shoulder and sighed with relief. Still black.

He cast a de-tangling charm on the clump of hair he’d drawn forward, and it took a few tries to get
right, but it worked eventually to fix the worst knots so he could brush it properly until his hair fell
into long, straight lines. He did the rest of his head, then gritted his teeth and got out a mirror.

He sighed with relief. He was still himself. Same eyes, same nose, same scar… everything. His
dark hair was long and straight with only a slight wave to it – and not at all the uncontrollable short
mess he remembered from his childhood – but other than that everything seemed the same. He
pulled his hair forward with one hand and cast a hair-trimming charm to even up the ends. It didn’t
go too well, and he lost a little length trying it a couple of times until he’d mastered it. He decided
not to experiment with any of the more intricate hair-dressing charms, lest he accidentally cut off
an ear or make a dog’s breakfast of his hair. It wouldn’t do any harm to leave it fairly long for
now.

“Anything different, do you think?” Ambrosius asked.

Harry took stock, poking at his face and pulling faces in the mirror, then patting himself down and
looking at his arms and legs.

“Apart from the obvious hair length? I think my teeth are whiter,” he mused, “but it’s hard to tell
for sure? I don’t look at my teeth that closely.”

Pulling up his sleeves he noticed a shiny smooth patch of scar tissue on his right forearm that he’d
never seen before. “Oh. I remember… I think I know what this is from. When I was six… maybe
seven? I burnt breakfast, and Aunt Petunia hit me with the frying pan – right here. It burnt my arm,
and it got black and blistered and it hurt so much. I think I might have wished it away overnight
because the next morning I felt fine. I guess I didn’t so much heal it as hide it away. Well, maybe
hide it and heal it.”
He checked his body for other scars or differences, but there was nothing else obviously different.

“Do you think my skin’s a little paler? I think I might’ve lost some of my tan.”

Rummaging in his satchel, Harry got out his photo of himself for comparison. Yup, his skin was a
little lighter. He glanced over at Ambrosius to get his opinion and saw the wizard standing with his
hands clasped behind his back, and a stony expression on his face.

“What?” Harry asked nervously, checking the mirror again. Good, he still looked fine. He checked
his teeth, too – also fine.

“Your aunt… beats you with hot metal pans? Until your skin chars?”

Oh. Harry tried to remember if he’d ever talked about the Dursleys with Ambrosius. Obviously not
that much.

“Just the once,” he reassured. “And not for years – we get along much better now. And it was only
hot just that one time – I think she forgot it was hot because she honestly looked so shocked.”

“It was not hot the other times she swung at you?” Ambrosius asked carefully.

“No, of course not! She didn’t actually want to hurt me, I don’t think she meant to. It was just a
warning – I should’ve ducked away like I usually did. Then I wouldn’t have gotten burnt.”

Ambrosius’ face still looked worryingly fierce.

“It doesn’t happen anymore,” Harry reassured. “I know it’s not right, now I’m older. She doesn’t
even fake-attack me now, I swear. We get along… well, it’s fine.”

“And your uncle and cousin?”

“Fine. It’s fine,” Harry insisted, wincing as a memory welled up again of Snape talking about how
everything was always ‘fine’ with his family too.

“Dudley and I get along great and Uncle Vernon… well, it’s not great, but we’re alright so long as
everything’s normal. They don’t hurt me. We got along fi… very peacefully during summer.
Dudley even came to a picnic at the Weasleys’ house – he’s alright with magic.”

Maybe the diet Petunia had put them all on over summer hadn’t been great, but he’d packed his
own food so that had been bearable, right? And despite his uncle’s threats Storm had been safe in
the end even though Harry couldn’t keep him at Privet Drive. The incident with thinking his guard
Fletcher was an invisible Death Eater, however, and his family wanting Harry to go off to face him
alone… even Harry had to admit it wasn’t great. Alright, not everything was fine. He knew that,
even though he hated to think about it. It wasn’t fine, and it had never been fine. But it was better,
it was bearable, and that was enough, wasn’t it?

“No family is perfect, and I only have to see them a few weeks a year, anyway.”

Ambrosius stared at Harry’s troubled, strained face, and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“This is why your family never trained you in magic. This is why you never speak of them, except
of your cousin and his continuing demands to help him with his studies despite your own burdens.
They are petty, spiteful mortals who dislike magic and mistreat you.”

Harry closed his eyes as he took a slow, deep breath and let it out again, letting his troubled
emotions wash away with an image of cerulean waves lapping at a sandy beach shore. “Yeah.
That’s basically it, I guess. Though, it’s much better than it was when I was a child… things
weren’t great then. I’ve got my own room, clothes… I have all the basics now. They do alright.
They might not be the best carers, and they shouldn’t… they’ve done some things wrong, even
recently. They weren’t right in what they’ve done, and I’ll certainly do things differently if I ever
have kids one day. But they try.”

“Do they love and care for you like you were their own son, as one should for a fosterling?”
Ambrosius asked gently.

Helpless tears welled up in Harry’s eyes, and his throat felt like it was seizing up, like his emotions
were choking him.

“No, but I think they do the best they know how,” Harry said weakly. “It was like asking a family
of dogs to raise a duck. It was – is – hard for them, raising someone who isn’t normal. They don’t
like magic, you see, and wizards haven’t usually been kind to them, so it’s understandable they’re
scared of it. Once I learnt how to be more normal and could suppress my accidental magic, things
got better. I’ve figured out how to get along with them.”

“They shouldn’t have hurt you like that,” Ambrosius said gravely. “Not for any reason. It is not
like you were guilty of murder or treason! A burnt breakfast, of all things!”

“I know, really I do,” Harry said, scrubbing at his teary face with a sleeve. “It wasn’t fair. Or
right.”

“Wanting you to suppress your magic… they should have encouraged it! Been awed by it! You
need to find a new family to care for you,” Ambrosius pronounced sternly.

“…Maybe I do. Sirius has offered to adopt me,” Harry said, with a sniffle. “I’m thinking about it.
He’s not perfect either, but he’s trying really hard to act like a good guardian, which I think counts
for a lot, right? Because I think he might actually care about me and want me to be happy, and
that’s… really nice. I’m not sure, though.”

They talked for a while about Harry’s concerns about the blood wards on Privet Drive and
Ambrosius wheedled out a few more details about Harry’s life with the Dursleys and got angry
again when he heard about Harry’s cupboard. Ambrosius demandingly pushed for details of Sirius
and Lupin’s behaviour over the summer while Harry had stayed with them, and also insisted on
discussing other potential adoptive parents, like Pansy’s family and the Malfoys. They even talked
briefly about Snape, whom Ambrosius thought showed a good level of care for Harry, but
Ambrosius conceded he should probably be ruled out due to his explicitly expressed disinterest in
caring for children and dubious connections to Lord Voldemort. Sirius certainly seemed to be the
prime contender for the spot of a new guardian for Harry in Ambrosius’ eyes due to his explicit
offer of a home, willingness to formally adopt him, and his nomination of Harry as his Heir.

“Take the time to consider your options,” Ambrosius advised. “You have some months yet before
the next summer.”

Feeling emotionally exhausted Harry determinedly put a stop to the discussion of his personal life
after that, and they spent most of the remainder of the visit discussing the curse that had withered
Sirius’ wand arm to a mummy-like state. Harry read out Latin translations of descriptions and
incantations of various Ancient Egyptian curses in the book he’d brought with him. Harry also
carefully told Ambrosius the incantations in Ancient Egyptian, with his wand set aside for safety’s
sake, when the old wizard expressed curiosity about a few of them.
“Any ideas on a cure?” Harry asked optimistically, after over an hour had gone by and his voice
was getting croaky from non-stop reading aloud.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Ambrosius said, “but I shall give the matter serious thought.”

“Thank you.”

Before Harry left, Ambrosius did some last-minute follow-up nagging. “Any progress on
researching the prophecy made about you?”

“Yes and no. I’ve asked around about our Divination teacher, and opinions are mixed as to her
skill. Hermione’s been particularly severe and says she never gets any predictions right and is a
fraud. I’ve written to Professor Snape and asked him to recommend some Seers – I should
hopefully hear back from him soon as it’s been a while since I wrote to him.”

Harry said his farewells and exited the Chamber, collecting Storm on his way out. Storm hissed
happily about catching a fish in the lake and nagged to be taken to dinner that evening.

“If the young Clever-men from far away already know about me, I shall not ssscare them,” Storm
insisted logically. “In any case, if they do fear me they can just hide, and you may let them know I
shall not hunt them down or dry-ssstrike at them even though they are in my territory. I want to
meet my new admirerss you told me about.”

Leaving the Chamber of Secrets via the boys’ bathroom, Harry flushed the unused toilet – just in
case anyone else was in the bathroom to see him emerging from the cubicle – and exited the
bathroom after washing his hands. Outside in the hallway he passed Draco, who was sitting on the
cold flagstones reading a book.

Draco glanced up with a pleased smile as he saw Harry emerge, and rose to his feet immediately,
tucking his book away in his bag. “There you are, I have been waiting for you.”

“Oh, were we supposed to meet up?” Harry asked carefully.

“No, I simply wanted to talk to you. I’ve been waiting–”

Draco cut himself off abruptly as someone walked past, then resumed speaking after the boy had
moved on, but more quietly.

“–waiting right here for over three hours.”

“Really?” Harry said, with studied casualness. “You must have missed me then, wrapped up in
your book. I’ve been in the library for ages. This was my second trip to the bathroom this
afternoon. You should’ve looked for me in the library.”

Draco looked impressed. “Oh, splendid! You are getting better at this, and a good expression too,
well done. That excuse would suffice for someone who knows you less well than I. Or who was
less secure in the reliability of their observations of everyone’s comings and goings. I haven’t
moved an inch for hours, however, so I know I didn’t miss you going back and forth.”

“Alright… you caught me. I actually fell asleep on the toilet,” Harry said, affecting an embarrassed
expression. “Don’t tell anyone! I was up past midnight studying. It’s taking its toll!”

“Good, always keep denying!” Draco said with patronising approval, patting Harry on the
shoulder. Storm raised his head to look curiously at Draco, then sank back onto Harry’s shoulder
sleepily. “Now, what will you do since I very clearly do not believe your secondary excuse either?”
 Harry sighed. “Well bribery and Obliviation are out, so as a friend I will have to hope you will
leave well enough alone and understand that I don’t want to admit to anything. I’m hoping you’ll
understand it would be to your advantage and mine to keep your mouth shut about a hypothetical
secret I don’t want you to spread. Even to your father, or our friends. I want your word on that.”

Draco nodded. “You have my word as a Malfoy, my tongue is tied,” he promised, gesturing in the
air with his empty hand towards his mouth like he was waving his wand in the motion used for the
Silencing Charm. “I shall share this secret with no-one. I just wanted to know for sure where you
were.”

Harry rolled his eyes at him and gave a wry smile. “You already guessed where I was. Hours ago.”

Draco grinned back at him and puffed his chest out proudly. “Yes. Yes, I did. It is only fair there is
an entrance suited for boys as well as girls.”

“Don’t trade this secret away, Draco,” Harry warned, “not to anyone. Not to your dad, or your
mum… not even to any portraits. Neville’s the only other one who knows about it. I need this way
in, I don’t want the Headmaster warding this one too. I will be so mad if you gossip about this to
anyone else. Seriously.”

“I swear I shall not, Heir,” Draco swore, bowing to Harry, “on the Malfoy family honour.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mumbled. “Thanks, but c’mon, cut that out before someone sees you.”

Chapter End Notes

iafaS – Thanks for encouraging me to ponder Binns’ situation.

Arvi and GalacticHalfling, Trichsa, Iron_Dragon_Maiden, icebluecyanide, and Ashild
– Thanks for your character and name suggestions for Mayer, Rosen, Maizière,
Ericksen, and Torsdóttir respectively.
Magical Europe - I have a sufficiently complicated headcanon for this that I drew a
map. See also other images for the fic here:
http://members.optusnet.com.au/~pelari/potter.htm
 Getting a Clue!
Chapter Summary

Storm makes some new friends, Harry juggles his schooling and correspondence
commitments, and he gains a new clue about the first task.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

November 1994

On Wednesday, Harry caught Professor McGonagall at the start of their class before lunch and got
her permission to bring Storm to dinners in the Great Hall again, with wheedling assurances that
the foreign students wanted to meet Storm, and that Harry would make sure he wouldn’t threaten
anyone in any way.

After a determined and flawless demonstration of proficiency, he also got her permission to skip
the lesson on transfiguring guinea fowls into guinea pigs (a relatively easy cross-species switch
due to the Arithmantically similar names). Instead of repetitively practising what he secretly
considered a completely useless spell, he got permission to work on the Vanishing Spell, a fifth-
year Transfiguration spell several senior students had recommended as being potentially useful for
the Tournament.

Hermione’s hand shot up eagerly. “Can I test out too, Professor? I could partner with Harry!”

No other interested students apart from Hermione passed McGonagall’s impromptu test and
managed to produce guinea pigs without at least a couple of feathers remaining amidst their fur.
So, it was just Hermione and Harry in a corner working on vanishing loose feathers, as their
professor wasn’t game yet to let them try vanishing even simple animals like snails.

“It gets too messy,” their teacher explained, “if you only vanish part of an animal with Evanesco.
You do have to go to lunch afterwards, after all, and you would not want your appetites ruined.”

Harry was certain his appetite was robust enough to withstand the sight of half a snail but out loud
agreed amicably and with profuse thanks for her consideration.

McGonagall smiled benevolently at him. “We all know you are anxious about getting ahead for
the Tournament, Potter. Flitwick says he has given you a pass for his class to work on any charms
you need to focus on. So it would ill behove me to deny you the same opportunity in my class. So
long as you keep up to date with class work and stay focused on Transfiguration, that is.”

Professor Flitwick had been eager to see Harry – his top Charms student – push forward even more
with his studies. He spoke enthusiastically (if squeakily) about looking forward to seeing him ‘live
up to his true potential’ in the Tournament and reminisced about how Harry had cast a fantastic
Incendio in first year against the rampaging troll.

Having finished their studies of the Summoning and Banishing Charms (which many students had
mastered the year before in Potter Watch), the Gryffindor Charms class was now forging ahead
and working on mastering the Scouring Charm. However, Harry – and he alone – was granted
permission to attempt to cast Summoning and Wand-Lighting Charms either non-verbally or
wandlessly. Progress was slow, and Harry got a bit dispirited when despite his most focused and
determined efforts he couldn’t manage more than making his wand roll over when trying to
summon it wandlessly but with the incantation (progress which Flitwick was nonetheless exuberant
about) and couldn’t cast non-verbal spells at all. Harry also practiced the Flame-Freezing Charm a
lot on a candle (especially when he needed a break from persistently failing at non-verbal casting),
as evidence suggested it may be very handy for the first task so it was a priority spell to master.

Not all his teachers were so flexible, however. Pruning Flutterby bushes seemed unlikely to help
him in the Tournament, and Professor Moody was following in Professor Sprout’s footsteps and
was also sticking with his planned curriculum. However, Moody did after a little wheedling from
Harry agree to write Harry some library passes for Defence books from the Restricted Section.
Neville and Hermione stuck around to help keep a wary eye on their surely-cursed teacher when
Harry met with him after class and agreed that their teacher’s smile when he’d agreed to Harry’s
request had been ‘creepy’.

In Care of Magical Creatures Harry was – just like everyone else – working on learning about
Winged Horses – the Abraxans that had come from France in particular. The Slytherin students still
needled their teacher occasionally, ‘sweetly’ asking if he would demonstrate the Hoof-Cleaning
Charm they’d read about. Hagrid continued to be flustered about it, and Harry joined Hermione
when she lingered one afternoon to encourage their teacher to get his conviction for opening the
Chamber of Secrets overturned, and his wand rights restored.

However, Hagrid shook his large shaggy head sadly. “It’s not that easy. It’s not ‘cause I went to
Azkaban that I lost me wand. It’s ‘cause I was expelled an’ never finished school.”

“Oh. Well… you could take on an Apprentice?” Hermione suggested. “Someone to study the
practical stuff with you, and to demonstrate the charms in class? Or, you could self-study to get the
minimum number of OWLs? The other teachers would surely help you.”

“Reckon I can’t take an Apprentice when I’m not a Master,” rumbled Hagrid. “But I’ll have a think
about doin’ somethin’ about me OWLs. Thanks fer thinkin’ about it, I appreciate yer help.”

He shook her hand gingerly in thanks, his massive paw of a hand engulfing her comparatively tiny
one.

Harry took Storm down to dinner with him for the first time in weeks, which greatly pleased his pet
who insisted it had been “forever”.

The Gryffindors greeted his snake’s return with their accustomed equanimity borne of a couple of
years’ exposure to him at dinners and in the Common Room, but some other students were more
startled or delighted. Millicent was quick to pop over to the Gryffindor table to coo a greeting and
praise for Harry to translate, accompanied by Pansy. Pansy was back to being notably loud and
proud of being Harry’s cousin, which Harry didn’t mind but which seemed to be irritating
Hermione. After Millicent and Pansy’s visit broke the ice some of the exchange students decided it
would be fine for them to visit too.

A handful of Durmstrang students came over first. The big, blond boy Ericksen led the way, and
just managed to get out a cheerful greeting before the others joined them.

Ericksen was swiftly followed by a male student with light-brown hair, plus Krum, and the two
female students from Durmstrang that Harry hadn’t met yet.
Ericksen did the honours of introducing the newcomers, albeit with only some of the usual
formality that Harry was used to from pure-bloods. The words were formal but abbreviated, and
the bows left out entirely. “Mr. Harold Potter, of the Houses of Slytherin, Black, and Potter, may I
introduce you to Mr. Bahnsen,” he said, gesturing at the new boy, “Miss Mayer, and Miss
Caldaras. Mr. Krum you already know, of course.”

Bahnsen nodded briefly as he was introduced, but the Krum and the two girls stood stiff and still
like someone had warned them not to bow or curtsey in public, but they weren’t sure what to
replace the courtesy with. Mayer was a skinny, pale girl with her dark-brown hair in a plait, while
Caldaras was a brown-skinned girl who let her long, jet-black hair flow free around her shoulders.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Harry said politely. “I would be curious to know where you’re all from.
Also, I’d like to introduce you to Storm, he is a rainbow serpent or ‘Wonambi’ who was born in
Australia, whom I’m guessing you might like to meet. Bow, Ssstorm.”

Storm bobbed his head obediently in greeting at Harry’s hissed command.

Mayer said in perfect English, “I’m from Germany, from the Harz mountains – a wizarding village
near the Brocken, to be precise. Is your snake safe to hold? Is he venomous? He’s very beautiful.”

“He’s safe to hold so long as you don’t squeeze or scare him. He’s a constrictor – not venomous –
though he does have sharp teeth. You can pass him around, if you like.”

Harry held Storm out to Ericksen first, since he’d gotten to the table fastest, and was already
reaching out with eager hands to pat at Storm’s tail. “Behave Ssstorm, these are new admirers for
you to impresss.”

“Good. Tell them I accept giftss of tasty creatures. Not too big.”

Harry smiled, and translated Storm’s soft hisses, adding, “He didn’t explain it, but he means
nothing wider than around three inches – he can’t unhinge his jaw and might choke. He also
prefers eating magical creatures or their eggs, if you ever want to bribe him into being friends. But
he only eats a couple of times a week unless he’s being greedy. He won’t really be hungry for
anything bigger than a bug for another day or two.”

“I am from se island of Föhr,” Bahnsen said, with a strong German accent. “It is a small island in se
Nort Sea wery close to se German coast. My father runs a senctuary for Otterbanches, and my
mother has a fishink bisness. I am et Durmstrank on a scholarschip, like Krum.”

“Otterbanches?” Hermione asked curiously.

“A rare megical creature wis green skin end blinkink red eyes. They used to live in se hills, but
Muggles have forgotten to respect them, especially since we started hidink them due to se
International Statute of Secrezee. Farmink has driven them from seir traditional homelands.”

Harry semi-formally introduced Hermione and Neville to their visitors.

“I hope I cen come to your next H.E.L.P. meetink?” Krum asked Hermione, shaking her hand. “I
em very interestet in megical creatures, includink de welfare of house-elfs.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh! Well… yes, then you would be most welcome.”

Storm was carefully passed around the visitors who all seemed comfortable with him, though some
were more eager and fearless than others. The wariest Durmstrang students were watching the
interactions from way over at the safety of the Slytherin table.
“Caldaras and I are the top students in ‘Magical Creatures’ at Durmstrang,” Ericksen boasted. “A
five-foot snake is nothing compared to a field trip to see Jötunn.”

“Ericksen was the best last year, but I did better on my OWLs,” Caldaras said. “I am Elena
Caldaras, from Transylvania. My family currently lives in a wizarding-only village in Hoia Baciu
forest near Cluj. So tell me, what powers do rainbow serpents possess?”

“Storm can summon lightning, and swim through the earth. Well, he swims in water, too – he’s
semi-aquatic and a great swimmer; I don’t know if you’d count that as a power, however. Oh, and
he can conjure up mist and rain. Just a very tiny, localised raincloud, or a moderately harmful
electrical strike.”

“Swim through the earth? Can he go straight through solid rock like Draugar? Can he turn into
mist?” Ericksen asked curiously.

“Eww. He’s not undead! He’s a sweetheart, yes, who’s the prettiest snake in the world? It’s you!
You are just like a rainbow, yes you are! Don’t mind the silly wizard,” Mayer cooed.

Harry hissed some translations for Storm, who was most gratified at the babble of praise.

“Storm thinks you are very smart, Mayer. He wants you all to know that as he’s still quite young,
he will be stronger with his powers when he is grown, and able to kill and eat even dangerous
animals like bunyips or drop bears.”

And humans, Harry added mentally. Storm had also boasted that his lightning would be fatal when
he was grown, instead of just leaving scars like it had on Sirius (something Storm was still a bit
disappointed by, even though he didn’t mind Sirius on a personal level).

“Five-foot-long and he’s still a baby?” Ericksen said, letting out a low whistle.

“He is getting close to two years old, but he’s still got his baby scales around his neck,” Harry said,
pointing out the band of pearly scales with a faint rainbow shimmer. “He’ll grow a mane of long
dorsal scales there when he’s an adult; almost like hair. He’s been getting darker brown across his
body every time he sheds though – still with his rainbows of course – rather than the light grey-
brown of a hatchling. He’s like a child or teenager snake, now. Wonambi – rainbow serpents – can
grow much bigger and are very long-lived. They grow quickly for their first year or so, then
continue to grow their whole lives at a variable rate which some Clever-men – native Australian
wizards – speculate is dependent on how magical their environment and diet is.”

“Fascinating!” Caldaras said.

“I agree! So… you’re from Transylvania? Isn’t that part of Romania?” Harry asked Caldaras.

Caldaras shook her head, with a tired and slightly irritated look. “No, unfortunately that is only for
the Muggles. There was a secession led by vampire lords a long time ago. Romanian wizards and
witches are still furious about it, mind you. Officially we don’t recognise Transylvania as its own
independent magical nation, but it is what it is so I introduce myself as being from Transylvania.
For now.”

Harry tried to remember if he’d ever seen the girl out and about during the daytime. He’d never
paid that much attention to what the Durmstrang students did during the day – he only knew that
they had some lessons shared with Hogwarts students, and some on their own. “Ssstorm, does thiss
girl sssmell-taste like a vampire? All cold and sssnake-like?”

“No,” Storm replied. “She sssmell-tastess like you and the other humans, and a bit like flowers. I
like her. She thinkss I am beautiful.”

“So, do vampires really–” Hermione started to ask.

“I don’t answer questions about vampires,” Caldaras interrupted, sounding increasingly irritated as
she crossed her arms.

Ron, sitting nearby, suddenly paled, freckles standing out more sharply. “Are you a va–”

“No I am not a vampire, and no you may not check my teeth to be sure!” Caldaras said loudly.
“While I am covering all the usual stupid questions: yes I am Roma and I am proud of that, no I
will not tell you your fortune, and no you may not call me a gypsy or a ţigani or anything else
insulting. Yes, I’m pure-blood and an Orthodox Christian, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about
tradition – I care about my peoples’ traditions a lot. Clear?!”

There was a chorus of apologies from the Gryffindors, even from some of those who hadn’t even
spoken to her. And a few muttering people who were at least keeping their less charitable thoughts
quiet.

“Sorry! That’s perfectly clear! And good for you!” Hermione said, in approving tones that won her
a small smile from Caldaras. “I promise I won’t bother you again. You’re welcome to come along
to our Bible Study group if you like.”

“I may do that, thank you.”

Harry nodded. “I’m sorry too, I apologise if I offended you.”

“Sorry,” Ron mumbled. “I guess it was a dumb question.”

“Caldaras…” Ericksen said, giving her a rebuking look.

She sniffed. “Yes, yes, I know. I am just tired of answering the same bigoted questions over and
over. I am going to make up calling cards to hand out with all the answers on them.”

The Durmstrang students headed back to the Slytherin table after that rather awkward end to their
visit. Harry noticed that Cho Chang stopped Caldaras as she passed close by her spot at the
Ravenclaw table, to shake her hand and chat to her.

The French students’ visit was marked by Ron and Neville’s babbling attempts to impress
Delacour (totally ignored), an unaccented complaint from a French boy named Laurent Durand
who’d been jealous Harry got to keep a snake at Hogwarts and he’d had to leave his pet bat at
home in Lutèce, and a couple of startled shrieks from the girls when Storm tried to ‘kiss’
someone’s hand with his snout and a girl panicked and thought Storm was going to bite her. Harry
rattled off a quick apologetic explanation in French but was perhaps a little too late as they’d
already attracted attention from the staff table.

“Mr Potter!” McGonagall said, striding over with a stern look. “Did we not discuss that you and
your pet must be on your most exemplary behaviour if you wish to bring him to meals?”

“He was kissing her hand, not biting it,” Harry pleaded. “I explained it to them, it’s all alright now,
isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is fine, isn’t it Dubois?” Delacour said, encouraging the startled – but totally unbitten –
student to back her up. “Potter ‘as explained zat it was just a trick ‘e taught ‘is snake. Zere is no
‘arm done, and ‘is snake is very good educated.”
“Yes, I was frightened, but ‘is snake did not try to bite me,” Dubois agreed.

With several witnesses earnestly averring no harm was done, Storm was allowed to remain at the
table and McGonagall left in the end without taking points from Gryffindor, to their House’s relief.

-000-

Harry’s burden of correspondence didn’t stop just because he needed more time to study. In fact, it
was overwhelmingly worse ever since the news about him being selected as a Hogwarts champion
had come out in the Daily Prophet. When he’d complained to his friends about it Pansy had been
the biggest practical help. She’d written to her family, and her parents had sent him a gift set of
enchanted Triplicate Quills. If you laid out multiple sheets of parchment next to each other and set
out three inkpots in matching positions, what you wrote with one quill would be precisely
duplicated by two others hovering in the air and scratching out words on their own. It was much
better than the Gemino duplication charm, because that only made temporary copies of an object,
which would disappear after a while and was thus no good for answering fan mail.

A lot of fans got identical replies with only the name at the start being different, or maybe an extra
line or two added at the end. A handful of letters required more specialised attention, such as
replying to those who were upset with Harry for being chosen as the Hogwarts champion over
other older possible competitors and called him a glory-hog. There weren’t a lot of those,
thankfully, and of course Harry’s owl ward caught any Howlers before they reached him.

Tonks had written back thanking him for his letter of condolence and letting him know that her
mother was out of hospital now and recovering well.

Percy had written again, including a careful warning that he couldn’t discuss any details of the
Triwizard Tournament tasks. However, he did gossip about the topic in general, sharing that he had
been sworn to secrecy about the Tournament – on his honour, not by magic – and had thus had to
talk about duller side projects like cauldron bottoms all summer. Percy vented about how
frustrating it had been when his brothers teased him.

Their friendship was growing slowly but steadily with a trickle of letters back and forth, which
Harry liked. Harry sometimes got the impression from Percy’s work-focused but increasingly
rambling letters that Percy didn’t have a lot of friends to confide in about his troubles and triumphs.

Apparently, Mr. Crouch had been originally slated to be one of five Tournament judges including
the Heads of each of the schools, but after Crouch’s untimely death Percy had been judged
insufficiently experienced and unbiased to be permitted to act as a judge in his place.

…It certainly seemed initially to be quite the social blow to be so dismissed, however, it afforded
an opportunity for me to push through some changes for the Tournament which – with some
support – were wildly successful and have advanced my reputation as a ‘go getter’ in the Ministry.

For if I was to be considered too biased due to my being a recent Hogwarts graduate, how much
more biased would the schools’ Headmasters and Headmistress prove to be? Ludo Bagman is the
only remaining original planned judge, while Mr. Scamander and Professor Marchbanks were
added at my instigation as being impartially fair and highly knowledgeable judges. They were both
eager to assist and have also been instrumental in bringing about some changes to the Triwizard
tasks that everyone agrees should result in a superior Tournament. It has been quite the
professional coup for me and has pleased almost everyone!

Those who dislike Professor Dumbledore were happy to see him ‘snubbed’ by being cut as a
potentially biased judge, while those who favour him were delighted to hear that I’d consulted with
him about the new judges and gained his whole-hearted support for my initiative. Some sensible
individuals of course simply generally supported my logic of selecting the most impartial judges
possible.

Thank you for asking after my father; he has recovered as much as is possible and is doing well. I
have passed along your recommendation for Muggle ‘physiotherapy’. He sends his best wishes to
you for luck in the Tournament and he and mother urge you to be careful and stay safe. Currently
father is working on some house repairs he’d been meaning to get around to for some time, and I
am assisting him some evenings. William, Charles and I are supporting our family with a portion
of our incomes, and our mother has plans to look around for a job or other source of income now
she has an ‘empty nest’ with no children living at home all year except for myself. She claims she
has wanted to return to the workforce for some time, and no-one contradicts her… at least not in
front of father.

I am saving up as much money as I can to help pay for my siblings’ Hogwarts fees, however, it is
difficult. Even the highest Ministry jobs do not pay as much as you might imagine, as there is an
unwritten expectation that such positions should be held by independently wealthy individuals who
take on their roles out of a heartfelt wish to work for the betterment of society and will thus be
theoretically immune to the lure of bribes. Admittedly an imperfect system but the Ministry as a
whole functions well.”

Next was a letter from Dudley complaining about how Harry hadn’t sent through any tips helping
him with a Business Studies assignment, and begrudgingly thanking Harry for his study notes for
Biology, which he eventually admitted had helped a lot. Dudley also relayed that his parents
wanted to know Harry’s plans for Christmas as they were planning to go overseas, then gossiped
about how his mum was researching their family tree.

I think she’s worried there’s more wizards in the family that she never knew about, not that she’s
admitting it. She just insists there certainly aren’t and I shouldn’t worry about it.

Harry wrote back explaining about how he’d been super busy studying for the Triwizard
Tournament.

It’s like a super-dangerous interschool competition that has killer magical animals and magical
duelling instead of just playing cricket matches like any sensible school.

He also wrote defensively about how friends had entered him without telling him, and now he had
to represent his school even though he was technically underage for the competition.

He included a careful description of Rita Skeeter and asked if Dudley had heard if she’d been
spotted nosing around asking questions of Aunt Petunia about their family tree. She seemed like
the type, and she’d promised ‘more shocking revelations to come’ in her last article, after all.

In regard to Christmas Harry said he’d make alternate arrangements for that holiday and should
have somewhere to stay.

Snape had finally written back, and Harry rushed through reading the long letter on potions theory
discussing proper stirring procedure and how all potions required at least one magical component,
the detailed questions and discussion about how his studies were going, and Snape’s closing best
wishes for the Tournament (which included a gory and dispiriting anecdote about someone dying
messily in a previous Tournament).

It was interesting enough, but not as interesting as the invisible writing revealed in the broad, empty
margins of the letter with the Revealing Charm. Snape’s revealed writing spilled over onto the
blank backs of the parchment sheets, which was an obvious and easier place to write in that Harry
wished he’d thought of himself.

Well done, clever boy. This is superior to Lockhart’s method, which others are now watching for. If
possible kindly pre-write your correspondence a week before sending it, so that the aroma of
lemons and acidic herbs has time to fade. Discreetly destroy this letter after reading it as a matter
of gravest and most urgent importance, for there are opinions and information below that may
endanger myself if revealed to any. I hope I can trust in your honour to do so.

That sounded promising for getting some honest answers. He’d definitely destroy the letter as he’d
been asked.

You asked why Lord Voldemort attacked the Tonks family. In short, it was for information, about a
presumed-deceased member of the Black family: Regulus Black. A select number of Death Eaters
have been made aware that Black stole a Slytherin family heirloom from their Lord many years
ago – a locket with a stylised letter S on it. A crime only recently discovered, to his great
displeasure. The locket is presumed destroyed, by parties on all sides, but should you ever stumble
across such an item, keep it hidden and safe. For judging by the Dark Lord’s towering rage it is of
immense importance to him and would prove a bargaining chip of incalculable worth. Dumbledore
also knows of this item – for the Tonks family were asked about it over and over again, and their
house ransacked in a fruitless and pointless search for it – and he suspects it may be another item
similar to one you have already encountered.

Harry guessed that Snape was hinting here that Dumbledore thought the locket might be another
item with a malignant spirit impression like the cursed diary.

He believes the Dark Lord is the type of man who would make a back-up plan in case the first
failed but will share no more of his thoughts and remains irritatingly inscrutable when pressed and
will not confide in me about the matter.

You queried as to why other methods like truth potions or Legilimency weren’t employed. They
were. The problem is that such methods are not infallible. A skilled mind successfully hiding a
secret and a mind truly innocent look much alike.

The general order to kill Sirius Black if at all possible has been commuted to an order to
apprehend him for questioning first, but he remains elusive. Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa
Malfoy – once of the House of Black – were also questioned under duress about the stolen item but
were unable to give Lord Voldemort the answers he demanded, so he consequently sought
elsewhere for the information, to the relief of themselves and their husbands. Neither dare
complain to anyone about their treatment.

Oh dear! That probably meant Narcissa had been questioned, even tortured, though it hadn’t made
the news. Probably Bellatrix Lestrange too, but Harry didn’t care about her. She’d helped torture
Neville’s parents into insanity; she had it coming. He guessed that the change in orders would help
Sirius, so that was a good thing. Sort of.

Young Mr. Malfoy is unaware of his recent family difficulties, and his mother wishes to shield her
son and have matters remain that way, so I would remind you again that all information shared
here is to be kept in the strictest confidence. She does not wish to involve the authorities either, for
she does not want to draw any attention to her family. The Malfoys feel that accusations of willing
collaboration would be more likely than unbiased offers of assistance.

Awkward, but fair. Draco seemed stressed enough already without knowing about something like
that. Harry wondered if the Malfoy family was willingly collaborating with the Dark Lord or if the
Imperius Curse was involved, and if Cousin Narcissa being tortured would change their allegiances
one way or the other.

“Is the Dark Lord mad?” A dangerous question and I would remind you again to destroy this letter
after reading it. Leaving aside any discussion of whether one agrees with his goals or not, I would
say that he is somewhat mentally unbalanced at present. Overuse of the Imperius Curse has left
him intolerant of failure and anything resembling insubordination. You are correct that Dark
Magic affects your state of mind if over-used. This is also the case for any spells with a heavy
emotional component or that forge any kind of mental link between caster and subject. Regular use
of Legilimency, for example, can influence one into wanting to covertly gather more and more
information.

Harry figured that Snape knew that from personal experience. While it might be seen as a necessity
for survival for a double-agent spy to be well-informed, Harry thought that Dumbledore had no
such excuse for using Legilimency when it suited him, or for getting the Hogwarts portraits to spy
for him.

Similarly, the Patronus spell, which forges a link between yourself and a spiritual guardian, can
become tempting to rely on and leaves one unjustifiably cheerful and inclined to be over-protective
of others. What a wizard says and does bears more weight for us than for Muggles for whom ‘I
give my word’ is naught but a hollow phrase.

Your next questions addressed why the Dark Lord was not using more covert means to achieve his
goals. He is doing precisely that. There have been several major successes that are not reported
on, which is precisely what the Dark Lord wishes. Enemies have been removed or suborned,
information gathered, followers recruited and trained, people placed in positions of influence,
auguries consulted, and alliances forged. He currently believes firmly in the dictum that ‘No
enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the enemy until it is ripe for
execution.’

Dumbledore and his followers fight in secret too, though typically without coordination with
Ministry efforts as he feels – with some justification – that the Ministry has been infiltrated by the
opposition. Few battles reach the ear of the Daily Prophet, and even fewer are reported on. Some
alliances have been interfered with, resources cut off, lost individuals have been found, and others
freed from the Imperius Curse. Many so freed chose to flee Britain rather than stay and fight. The
Ministry has at times encountered some Azkaban escapees, but prefers not to publicly report on
their failures to apprehend dangerous criminals.

Do not be one of the fools – which even the Dark Lord’s own ranks include – who expect a mass
attack against the Muggles. He may hate or sneer at them, but he wishes for isolation of the
magical world from the Muggles, and an unmistakable magical attack against Muggles would
draw undesired attention. He will attack Muggles only when it suits his goals and does not
endanger the wizarding world. Sorties, perhaps, but nothing more. He is increasingly well-
positioned to make a serious attempt to take over England in due course, and it would thus be wise
to maintain your current truce of neutrality, to help ensure your survival however events play out.

Yes, I have heard of that truce, as have some others in his inner circle, though it is not widely
known. I have heard rumours you are in ongoing negotiations with the Dark Lord. Be very careful,
for he is openly smug in his certainty that sooner or later you will be fully won to his cause.

Harry knew it! He knew that neutrality wouldn’t be enough for the man. Damn it.
Your youth shelters you for now, but know that such neutrality cannot last forever, and eventually
you will be pressed to without reserve openly declare for one side and stand against the other.

Snape, he guessed, got around that by declaring firmly to both sides that he was their most loyal
and trustworthy follower.

Dumbledore is increasingly uncertain that your sympathies lie with the Light side, having heard
unsettling bits of information from various sources. He likewise seems keen to ensure your
allegiance lies in the right place (i.e. with himself and the status quo of the current Ministry) and I
understand he has some plans in mind to work on that this year with you, so expect attempts at
manipulating your opinions from both sides. I cannot comment on why your allegiance is of
particular importance to these parties.

That would be one of his Unbreakable Vows tripping Snape up again. Probably something to do
with the prophecy. Harry thought Ambrosius was right – he really needed to find out exactly what
it said.

You may be pleased to hear that the Dark Lord has issued a general instruction to his followers to
refrain from attacking magical children, unless given specific orders to the contrary to target a
particular family. The grapevine grants credit for this policy partially to yourself, as it is a
condition known to be part of your truce (with dire consequences for those who break it), though
the specific details of that truce are unknown. I would be interested in hearing the full details and
am willing to advise you impartially on the matter, should you wish counsel held in confidence. I
would call you a fool for entering into such an agreement, yet I understand the urge for survival,
and I laud your achievement of brokering safety for the children of the magical world – or most of
them, at least. Some few chafe under this ruling, yet many followers have families of their own that
they fear for, or have consciences that nag at the thought of killing children, or are more
dispassionately concerned at reducing the magical population of Britain unnecessarily. You are
welcomed by some as a moderating influence on the Dark Lord, even at a distance. Know that
Pettigrew – in his infirmity – is your most determined enemy and barely hides his desire to go
against his Lord and slay you at the least opportunity. Defend yourself by any means necessary
should you encounter him.

Harry wondered if Snape was trying to subtly encourage pre-emptive murder. Pettigrew was a
highly wanted man, with Voldemort’s continued existence not officially acknowledged by the
Ministry. Harry thought he could probably get away with it, if it came to that. He’d be more likely
to get a medal than get sent to Azkaban.

With limited space remaining, I must close by answering your remaining questions. I cannot
recommend a reliable and discreet Seer to help you with your query. I can say only that Professor
Trelawney is in general a charlatan with extremely limited Second Sight but does have a small gift
for issuing rare true prophecies that she does not recall. Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood is rumoured to
have the gift of Second Sight more strongly, but I doubt can help you with your specific needs.
Divinatory talents are also known traditionally to run in the Sacred House of Weasley, though if
any currently possess abilities as Seers they are keeping it to themselves.

You might like to note as a piece of general information that witnesses of what they believe are true
prophecies can submit copies of their memories to the Department of Mysteries for archival and
consideration. A fact that other parties are also interested in. I do not recommend a solo
expedition to the Ministry at this point in time, as it may entail significant risk on your part.

Interesting. Who wanted to stop him viewing a memory of the prophecy about himself? It sounded
like maybe both sides did. Maybe trying to win over Dumbledore would be the best way to learn
what had been said, especially if Trelawney – whom it seemed likely from Snape’s hints was the
prophet in question – didn’t remember the prophecy she’d given.

I shall not dwell on a discussion of the Triwizard Tournament. It is a moronic idea from start to
finish. I am reassured to hear that your entry was not at your own instigation, as I had briefly
thought you mentally deficient to think you could win when only a fourth-year student, despite your
hidden talents. Remember that your goal should be to survive, not to win. Survival no matter the
cost is what your mother would have wanted for you.

Let me close by thanking you for your unusual understanding about my precarious position. Should
you write any letter that you are content for me to share with any interested parties, kindly include
a mention of the current weather.

Yours sincerely,

Master Severus Snape

Harry read over the letter twice more, then burnt it to ash with a whispered charm. Then he got to
work on his various replies. First there was a letter for the Dark Lord politely chatting about the
Tournament and his studies (including an ingratiating mention that he’d followed his advice about
asking for special consideration from his teachers) and asking for safety for Neville. Along with
his other assorted outgoing correspondence was also a letter to Snape without any magically
hidden extra messages. He carefully mentioned the bitingly cold weather, waffled about potions
theory, asked for tips on silent and wandless spellcasting, and slyly expressed his heartfelt wish
that he knew for what ‘weird reason’ Lord Voldemort had attacked him when he was a baby. He
speculated as to whether Dumbledore – being a war hero and all – might know why.

If he does know, I wish he would tell me. I wish someone would. The history books are pretty
useless, and Binns needs to move on to the afterlife since he knows so little about modern history
like the last war.

-000-

The rest of the week passed by in a blur of unrelenting study, and even his theoretically relaxing
and fun Hogsmeade Saturday was spent hiding away in either an empty classroom or the Chamber
of Secrets, working on mastering various spells that might be useful for the Tournament. Sunday,
Harry was resolved, would be spent studying his Muggle subjects. Hermione was off to the Bible
Study group since it was the third Sunday of the month, along with a handful of students from
other Houses and years, plus a couple of exchange students. She politely invited Harry and Neville
to join her, and gracefully accepted Harry’s explanation that he needed that time to catch up on his
correspondence studies for Chemistry and Biology, and that he wasn’t a Christian, anyway.

Neville tentatively agreed to join her, however, as did a number of other students. Harry saw Susan
Bones – who looked exhausted and stressed, perhaps because of the recent full moon – being
supported in her journey by a gaggle of Hufflepuffs including Finch-Fletchley, Abbott, Jones, and
some senior students including Hogwarts’ Head Girl, Tamsin Applebee. Bones was never left to
walk anywhere alone. Harry didn’t know for sure, but he suspected that some people were trying to
bully her about being a werewolf. It was possible she was just wanting support, however, for the
loyal Hufflepuffs were likewise still clumping around Diggory.

With Draco delightedly willing to act as Harry’s alibi if anyone asked where he was, Harry snuck
off to Grantown-on-Spey. He didn’t tell Draco he was meeting Sirius – as his presence in town was
a big secret – and left his friend with a vague explanation that he was going to do ‘Muggle stuff’
and contact his tutors.
Harry did a little bit of shopping in Hogsmeade first, picking up some sweets at Honeyduke’s and
some more bottles of Invisible Ink and some Muggle-style notebooks and pads of lined paper at
Scribbulus Writing Implements. He preferred the small shop to Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop on High
Street because it was run by a Muggle-born who was willing to stock Muggle stationery.

Sirius picked Harry up at the Shrieking Shack and Side-Along-Apparated him back to the
‘Grantown Den’. Lupin wasn’t there this time due to it being “that time of the month”, as Sirius
explained with a wide grin. Sirius hovered until he was sure Harry was happily ensconced in his
study area, then left him to some hours of determined and productive work.

When Harry took a break for lunch they had a chat about the attack on the Tonks family.

“Dreadful business,” Sirius said, with a sigh. “It’s all to do with something Regulus stole from
You-Know-Who and destroyed, back in the last war – a locket, apparently. I always thought he was
loyal to the end and had died on some stupid mission. But it turns out Regulus turned against him
right before he died, and went out trying to thwart his plans. It’s all topsy-turvy now, I don’t know
what to think.”

Harry hadn’t really thought about that part of it. “Oh, I guess that’s a really big… Yeah, that must
really change how you see him.”

Sirius nodded sombrely. “I really regret some things I said to him now, near the end. I called him
names… refused to see him. I wonder now if he was trying to switch sides, and I never gave him
the chance. He was so young… just barely eighteen. We were all so young, not that we felt it at the
time. We thought we were so grown up.”

“He’s definitely dead?”

“Yes. I’ve had a Master from France look over the family tapestry. The enchantments have been
double-checked, they’ve repaired what burnt patches they can, and it’s generally been given some
much-needed maintenance. She was absolutely sure the charms that recorded his death were – and
are – working properly. It’s not set to record deaths of infants under a year old – an old tradition –
and it is a little iffy on whether or not it records marriages and children of people whose lineage
and membership aren’t clearly part of the House of Black, but apart from those exceptions it’s very
thorough.”

“How is Kreacher taking it, the news about Regulus?” Harry wondered what the old house-elf
thought of his beloved former Master turning out to be some kind of traitor to the Dark Lord. (He
also absent-mindedly wondered what the infant mortality rate in the wizarding world was.)

“He seems pretty upset, and kind of lost. It turns out he knows how Regulus died, and it wasn’t a
pretty death so don’t ask me – or him – for the details, alright? He got really upset about it when
we made him talk about it, and frankly I don’t want to think about it either. I don’t blame him for
clamming up.”

“I promise.”

Sirius cleared his throat, before continuing. “Your house-elf, Dobby, seems to be supporting him,
though. Thick as thieves those two are now, though you wouldn’t have thought they’d bond when
they first met, would you? Kreacher’s not loving the makeover of Grimmauld Place, but Dobby
doesn’t have his attachment to how things used to be, so he does the heavy lifting when we change
things up.”

Harry nodded.
“I think you should know that I have offered to host Tonks and Andromeda at Grimmauld Place –
aside from being generally polite to help people in need it’s kind of an Old tradition called
Sanctuary, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it? Anyway, we are making over a couple of bedrooms
for them, just in case. Do you want to keep staying in Regulus’ old room? The other one’s all fixed
up now, but Regulus’ is bigger, and we’ve replaced the wallpaper. It looks really nice now too.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. I like Regulus’ room, thanks. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it. But if
you want to move me, that’s alright too – I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother.”

Harry shrugged. “Say, did you find anything interesting while renovating the house?” he asked,
thinking with guilty distraction of the ‘rubbish’ in the attic.

“Nothing worth mentioning, unless you count some furniture in good nick. Apart from that, there
were a couple of old broomsticks with the charms going a bit wonky but still usable, my mother’s
wedding robes, a box of old toys… that sort of thing.”

Harry nodded in guilty relief. The house-elves must have squirrelled anything dubious away
elsewhere.

“Sirius? Um, I was wondering… if I could stay with you over Christmas? The Dursleys are going
away.” Harry wasn’t really sure if Dudley’s message meant if he was invited to travel to Majorca
with the Dursleys or not but figured it was better to play it safe as they’d never previously wanted
to take him anywhere. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go with them anyway, even if they wanted him
to. The more people like Ambrosius talked with him about it, and the more he thought about it, the
more he thought he’d be better off on his own – or with Sirius – than with the Dursleys. Even if it
was only a week or two here and there.

Sirius lit up with happiness. “Of course! That would be great! Grimmauld Place will be just packed
full of people for Yule, then! You don’t mind if the Tonks family stays with us too, do you?”

“Of course not! They need somewhere safe to stay, and it’s not up to me, anyway. It’s your house.”

“Well, yes. But… I hope it will be your house too, one day,” Sirius said hesitantly, “so your
opinion matters too.”

Harry looked down shyly and mumbled something noncommittal. It launched Sirius into a
recitation of all the things he’d been doing lately as the Potter Regent. He’d renewed the anti-
tourist and anti-Muggle charms on Potter Cottage and the boundary wards of Potter Manor. He’d
also earnt some income for the Potter Family Vault by agisting some pegasi on the manor’s
grounds and seeing to the harvesting of some bark and twigs from a grove of Wiggentrees.

With Sirius eager to prove his usefulness in fulfilling his legal vow to be at the service of the
House of Potter for a year – or perhaps his fitness as a guardian – Harry sacrificed a precious hour
of study time in getting Sirius’ assistance to help him update his will, in advance of the first task.

Sirius was at first reluctant but was won over by Harry’s calm pragmatism about the matter. “I’ve
got a will drafted already,” Harry explained, “but I don’t know if it would stand up to goblins
doing, you know, sneaky stuff to seize my money. Plus, I’m pretty sure I need a witness and to sign
with a blood quill and all that, like you did.”

Following the rules of legitima portio, the family vault and rights to the Potter name went to Sirius,
as the current next in line to the House of Potter. Harry also named him as executor and Regent (if
required in the future), followed by Perseus Parkinson (Pansy’s father) as a close relative who was
good with dealing with the goblins, then Severus Snape.

“Snape?” Sirius whined unhappily.

Harry shrugged. “I think he’d be fair and distribute things properly. And you never know how the
war might go.”

“A snake like him will probably survive either way,” Sirius muttered darkly.

“I’m leaving him my mother’s gold potions cauldron in my will, please don’t make a fuss,” Harry
warned. Sirius mimed a silencing spell with a grumpy look.

As gifts for his friends to receive when they turned seventeen (as advised by Sirius for legal
reasons), Harry left the money in his personal vault and his wand to Neville, his photo album to
Sirius, various family keepsakes, books and jewellery to Pansy, Draco, Luna, and a few other
friends, Storm to Millicent, his father’s pocket watch to Dudley, and a copy of his ‘personal notes
about house-elves’ to Hermione. If Sirius predeceased him, seven Black family heirlooms were to
each go to Narcissa Malfoy and Andromeda Tonks, chosen alternately starting with Cousin
Narcissa, and overseen by the executor.

Sirius seemed to approve most of his plans. “I’m not sure how many heirlooms will be left, but I’m
sure they’ll find something to fight over, and I’ll be dead and not in a position to care anyway,” he
said. “I think we had best note that Bulstrode is to receive Storm immediately, even though the
other gifts should wait until they’re of age. What’s that letter for Granger about, then?” Sirius
asked curiously.

Harry hesitated before explaining cautiously, “Don’t tell anyone, but I found out some snippets of
information about house-elf enslavement – don’t ask me how. But… I don’t want to tell her,
because it involves Dark magic. And I guess I’m worried that if I tell her about it now, she’ll be
tempted to research it a lot and maybe do stuff she shouldn’t. Neville thought I shouldn’t tell her – I
talked it over with him.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “She’s pretty fanatic about house-elves, isn’t she? I didn’t want to say
anything, but I think perhaps you should know that she’s sent me three letters nagging me to
properly assume my role as the Head of House, on the off chance that it would help improve
Kreacher’s health.”

“Um. Well, have you thought about it? I guess I think it might help, too?” Harry ventured
cautiously.

“Perchance it may. However, ‘tis none of her concern and I am under no obligation to justify or
continually explain my actions, and I did not appreciate being told that if I didn’t do it I must be ‘an
abusive, amoral slave-owner’ in her final letter.”

“Ouch!” Harry said, with a wince. “I could ask her to stop writing?”

“No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. The rest of the letters were polite enough, and she’s already
stopped now. Don’t let it affect your friendship,” Sirius urged, in a more relaxed and informal tone.
“I am simply trying to express – rather badly – that I think your decision to hold off on sharing
information with her right now is wise.”

Sirius gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t think I’m not curious about where or how you found out
your mysterious information. However, I’m not going to cast the first hex when I did some things
as a teenager that I wouldn’t want looked at too closely, either. I will stay mum. Just… be careful.
You’re already aware that Dark magic can be tempting, so that’s good. It can be addictive too, did
you know?” he said gravely. “The easy path.”

“Yes, I know. I won’t… that is, I’m not interested…” Harry said awkwardly, and cleared his throat.
“It’s good to know how to counter nasty curses, that’s all. Of various sorts. For being a Healer, and
just… knowing a few things to protect myself. For the Tournament, and in general.” His eyes
lingered on Sirius’ dry, withered arm.

Sirius’ worried face cleared, and he smiled. “Good to hear.”

“So, uh, how have you been?”

“Fine,” Sirius said, with a toothy smile. “Just fine. How about you? Studies all under control now?
Stressed about the Tournament?”

Mm hmm, Harry thought sceptically. That sounds exactly like me, and his smile looks hollow. I
didn’t know him well enough before, but I can see it now.

It wasn’t the same tight, thin-lipped smile that Aunt Petunia wore when she was congratulating a
neighbour who was boasting about their own child’s accomplishments. She and Sirius couldn’t
look more different, in fact. But all the same, there was something eerily similar about their
expressions to Harry’s eye. The falsity of them.

Sirius wasn’t happy. He was just trying to look cheerful because he thought that was the expression
he should be wearing right now. That it was what he thought Harry wanted to see. Harry knew all
about acts, and how tiring they could become. He decided he would summon up his small reserves
of Gryffindor courage and talk to Sirius about it.

“Uh huh. How have you really been doing?” he asked again, more pointedly.

Sirius cleared his throat and glanced away. “Are you sure you want to hear the details?”

Harry nodded gravely. “Yes.”

“Well, uh… I guess… mostly well? Guy Fawkes Night wasn’t fun. Red and green lights in the
sky, and the loud bangs… Fireworks sound a lot like people noisily Apparating, you know?” he
admitted. “I spent half the night trying to guard Remus from non-existent attacks; good thing he’s
so patient with me. Apart from that it’s been fine. Remus and I have split our time between here in
Grantown-on-Spey and Grimmauld Place. We’ve done some work for the Order, too, but I can’t
talk about that. Hunting Pettigrew, and some other secret missions. Guarding ah… somewhere
important. Dangerous work, but we are both okay, with no injuries that couldn’t be easily healed.”

“I understand. And… thank you for sharing.”

Sirius nodded uncomfortably. “So, what else? I’m still getting used to casting with my left arm, but
it’s going well. I have a new wand now. My old wand was a 12” cherry wood wand with a Welsh
Green dragon heartstring core – good for duelling and charms. The new one is an 11” cypress
wand with an Ironbelly heartstring core, a little more bendy than my last, but it’s working really
well. It’s a combination allegedly suited to the brave and the bold, and those willing to confront
darkness. Remus has a cypress wand too, though he has a unicorn hair core.”

They chatted lightly about wandlore for a little while, then Harry spent another couple of hours
studying before heading back to Hogwarts.
Sirius might make a good guardian, he mused to himself. He’s trying so hard. It wasn’t
comfortable, thinking of leaving the Dursleys. However, maybe that way everyone would be
happier… and safer. Himself included. Maybe it was time to start thinking more about what he
wanted, not what the Dursleys or anyone else wanted. So long as his family would still stay safe
with functioning wards, anyway.

-000-

With only two days left before the first task, Harry should have been either studying or sound
asleep. However, late on Tuesday night, well after curfew, he was skulking down the Hogwarts
corridors and out of the castle. He moved at a slow shuffle, because he was wasn’t alone under his
invisibility cloak.

“I do not see why Draco needs to talk to you alone at such a late hour,” Neville whispered very
quietly, once they were out the doors of the castle and into the grounds. “It is most improper.”

“Ew. It’s no different than being alone with you! You can chaperone us, okay? And it’s not like
that, anyway; I have a funny feeling he likes Hermione, though he’s never said anything about it. I
told you already – it’s something to do with the Tournament.”

“You noticed, did you? I think so too, though I sincerely doubt the feeling is mutual,” Neville said.
“I am sure she is not fond of him. You know, it could be a trap. Tonight’s meeting, that is, not
Hermione. Are you sure the message was from him?”

Harry sighed. “Yes. He passed it to me himself, after Potions.”

There was a pause, then Neville whispered, “Will he not be mad I came along, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a little cross? But… I think whatever he’s got in mind is something
dangerous, since he told me to bring my Healer’s bag ‘just in case’. I promised you ages ago I’d
bring you along next time I did something horrifically dangerous, so here we both are. He’ll
understand it’s a debt I had to repay, and if he doesn’t… well, too bad. You’re my friend and I want
you to come along. He’ll live.”

Even in the darkness of night there was just enough moonlight to spot Draco’s pale head, where he
hid behind the Slytherin Quidditch stand.

“Psst! Draco!” Harry whispered, as they approached.

Draco span around in a panic with his wand drawn.

“It’s me, Harry!”

Draco relaxed and lowered his wand. He squinted into the darkness. “Merlin! You gave me a start.
Have you got a charm up? I can’t see you.”

“Invisibility cloak.”

Draco whistled. “Very nice!”

Harry drew the cloak off himself and Neville.

“Surprise!” Neville said, with a nervous grin. “You have a chaperone for your assignation this
evening, Malfoy.”
Draco was indeed startled, and glanced at Neville briefly as he spoke, but Draco’s eyes were more
focused on staring at Harry. For Harry had a second layer of disguise up; he had used his
Metamorphmagus abilities to give himself curly light-brown hair and blue eyes. Draco lit up his
wand with a muttered charm, to get a better look at Harry’s face.

“Harry? Is that you?”

“Yes? Um… I thought Millicent told you? About how I was a Metamorphmagus? A bit? I do hope
you haven’t gossiped about that, by the way. I kept meaning to talk to you about it, but I’ve been
so busy. And I forgot.”

“Well yes, I knew. I haven’t told anyone except my parents.”

Not ideal, but Harry guessed it could’ve been worse. It was his own fault, really, for not talking to
Draco earlier. At least the whole school didn’t know.

“I am just surprised because… well, look at you! Amazing! You look like a completely different
person. Though your bone structure’s the same. It’s mostly the hair, I think. How did you change
your glasses?” Draco peered curiously at the green frames.

“Oh, that’s just a Colour-Change Charm. It’s not part of the power – I can’t change my clothes.”

Harry gave a cheeky bow of introduction, swishing his fancy green winter cloak about with a
flourish as he did so. “Antares Black, at your service. Third-year Slytherin.”

Draco blinked. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, I suppose. Nice to see you Sorted into Slytherin
where you belong this time, Harry. Antares.”

“It is a sensible measure in case he gets caught,” Neville said, with a grin. “Slytherin will lose
points instead of Gryffindor.” He flinched as Draco glared at him, his smile falling away.

“That is not fair,” Draco said crossly.

“Then don’t get us caught,” Neville rebutted. He grabbed Harry’s invisibility cloak and tossed it
over himself, disappearing from sight.

“Why did you bring Longbottom?” Draco whined. “I told you to come alone!”

“Well yes, but he’s my friend and besides, I owed him a favour,” Harry explained.

Draco subsided with a huff, clearly accepting that as sufficient excuse without the need for further
elaboration. He led them off towards the Forbidden Forest.

Neville’s footsteps crunched along behind them, like the ghost of Eurydice they weren’t allowed
to look for but had to trust was still with them by sound and faith alone.

Draco’s eyes darted around looking ahead of them as they walked, watching for any of the many
dangers of the forest.

“So, what’s this all about then?” Harry asked.

He had his wand out too, just in case, and his black Healer’s bag in his left hand. He really hoped
he wouldn’t need either of them. Casting spells was dicey in the Forbidden Forest. Some people
said it was monitored year-round by a rota of teachers, while other students swore Dumbledore
only bothered keeping watch on festival dates and Hogsmeade weekends. No-one had ever gotten
warning letters from the Ministry for casting spells in the Forbidden Forest, so that was something,
at least.

“You will see,” said Draco, puffing up proudly. “I heard a rumour and I investigated last night. It’s
about the Tournament, and I think you should see for yourself. In a minute we’ll reach the
boundary wards. You will feel an urge to turn around, that it is unsafe to proceed and you should
go back to Hogwarts. Strengthen your Occlumency barriers and you can push through it, though.”

“Lead me through?” Neville whispered nervously to Harry. His cloth-covered hand fumbled for
Harry’s in the dark, and Harry gave it a squeeze.

“Of course.”

As they walked forward Harry indeed felt an inexplicable urge to turn back for the castle but
pushed through it with a determinedly clear mind full of ocean waves and dragged Neville along
with him, who was lead-footed and reluctant to follow, muttering about how he was sure the castle
would be safer.

“Not far now,” Draco whispered. “There are some kind of silencing charms or wards up but stay
quiet just in case. Do not venture past the fence – there are runes on the corner posts and I am
unsure what they do but there might be alarm charms tied to them. Besides, it would not be safe.
There are some wizards in tents on the other side and we don’t want them to spot us. Hopefully
everyone – and every thing – will be asleep.”

They walked around a clump of trees, and in the clearing ahead they could suddenly see three
dragons, each to his anxious eyes looked to be the size of a small hill, and thankfully they were all
asleep. The smallest dragon (at a mere twenty feet or so) was a glossy smooth-scaled light green
one with two horns on top of its head, while the largest was a forty-foot dark green one with two
smooth golden circles on its brow where horns would normally be but had been cut short, and a
smaller bony circle on the tip of its snout. The medium sized dragon was curled up in as tight a ball
as the chains around it would allow, making an estimate of its length difficult, and was a rough-
scaled black dragon.

“Dear Merlin,” whimpered Neville.

“I told you it would be dragons,” Draco whispered smugly. “There was no way the first task would
be plants, and salamanders are too small to impress an audience.”

Harry watched them for a while. Dear Merlin, indeed! He had to face a dragon in the first task.
Well, at least he’d studied them, with help from Draco’s dragon-researching team. It would still be
horrifically dangerous, but so long as he wasn’t expected to do something insane like try and kill
one, he hoped he would be alright. He had a couple of ideas to try.

They watched the dragons in silence for a while, and Harry studied them as best he could,
assessing them and looking for weak points. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to have an
obvious missing scale on their bellies, like Hermione had optimistically hoped might be the case if
he had to face a dragon. All three dragons were chained down very thoroughly, with thick leather
straps around their necks and each limb, to which were attached enormous silvery chains leading to
metal pegs in the ground as thick as Harry’s leg.

Harry gave a tug of his hand to Neville, and a jerk of his head to Draco, and they all backed slowly
away from the dragon’s clearing.

“I want to go back to the castle, it’s not safe here,” Neville fretted, as they passed back through the
boundary ward. Harry spotted an out-of-place rune-carved stone propped against a tree, which had
clearly triggered Neville’s anxiety up an extra notch as they crossed the ward.

Back hiding behind the stands at the Quidditch pitch, they talked over what they’d seen.

“Weren’t they amazing?” Draco gushed.

“Gryffindor!” Harry teased. “Professor Hagrid would be proud of you.”

“There is no call to be insulting,” Draco sniffed.

“I think you should keep your fingers crossed for the Welsh Green,” Neville said, with a sigh. “Not
that any of them are safe. Was that a Romanian Longhorn, the big one? I didn’t recognise the black
dragon.”

“Yes, a male Romanian Longhorn, with its beautiful golden horns cut off and the stumps ground
down. Either to harvest them for potions ingredients, or to protect the dragon from poachers,”
Draco said. “Probably a little of both, in addition to which now it will be less likely to kill other
males during mating season. The black one was a gorgeous Hebridean Black. It has purple eyes – I
saw them last night – and an arrow-shaped tail tip. You couldn’t see them since it was asleep, but it
has the characteristically smaller feet and claws of a male.”

“The Common Welsh Green is a male too?” Harry checked.

“I would not swear on it by Merlin, but the keepers – thankfully asleep in their tents this evening –
were yelling ‘Chain him down!’ and so on last night, so I think we can assume it is.”

Draco talked enthusiastically about the differences between the three breeds and agreed with
Neville that the Welsh Green should be the one to hope to face in the Tournament.

He also ranted extensively about the problem of poachers ‘harvesting’ endangered dragons for
parts, including the stony gem dracontias, which was found in their brains. “They should stick to
toads,” he concluded with a huff. “Dragons have been in decline for centuries, thanks to Muggle
knights, poaching wizards, and declining territory. You had better not kill one, Harry. I doubt they
will want you to, anyway.”

“I doubt I even could,” Harry reassured. It’s not like it was easy. “How do poachers even kill them,
anyway? They should just harvest them when they die for those magic stones.”

“It wouldn’t work. The dragon must be drugged and killed with its head cut off, unaware of its
impending death. If it knows death is coming the gem is destroyed so natural death is unwanted by
poachers keen to obtain the gem. They usually kill young dragons, as the easiest targets, though
that is still dangerous as some species are protective of their young. Toadstones are much easier to
obtain, and almost as powerful.”

“Kill a dragon…” muttered Neville. “It seems unlikely. Mayhap you shall need to just get past it or
draw first blood. Or even simply touch it and get away without dying. Definitely hope for the
Welsh Green, in any case.”

“Though if you face the Hebridean Black, you might have an edge if you can distract it with a
transfigured deer. It has a great weakness for venison. You have been reading my notes and have
got a plan for dragons, right, Harry?” Draco asked.

Harry let out a determined huff of breath. “Yes. Yes, I do. A couple of plans, in fact, in case the
first one or two fail.”
Chapter End Notes

Hagrid - His accent is always painful to write. I try hard to match his canonical accent,
with help from excellent guides by Furiosity and SwissMiss. Unfortunately no longer
available, their guides can still be found via the Wayback Machine website.
The idea that infant deaths might not be recorded on family trees is – apart from real
world tendencies – inspired by Wellingtongoose, who has some excellent articles
about the wizarding world on her livejournal.
Dracontias or Draconitis – This information is from the book “A Cabinet of Roman
Curiosities” by J.C. McKeown.
GalacticHalfling – Thanks for your character suggestion ideas for Bahnsen and some
info used for Mayer.
EssayofThoughts – Thanks for your conversation (long ago!) about suitable wands for
Sirius.
Cztelnik – Wards renewed.
Banashee – Thanks for helping fix my German accent this fic.
 The First Task
Chapter Summary

The first task begins, and it’s dragons! But not nesting mothers. That would just be
utterly idiotic, as Mr. Scamander politely but insistently pointed out to everyone when
he was brought onboard as a Triwizard Tournament judge.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Thursday 24th November 1994

The first task was coming up in the blink of an eye. Harry hadn’t been thrilled to find out that he’d
have to face dragons when he’d been secretly hoping for Ashwinders (not that any of his research
helpers had thought the fire-born serpents were a real contender, as they wouldn’t be dramatic
enough). He had only a day and a half left before the first task was to be held on Thursday after
lunchtime, so Harry was eager to scrounge as much free time for last-minute Tournament
preparation as he could. Hogwarts’ teachers were unofficially complicit in supporting his efforts;
some more so than others. Professor Flitwick immediately sent Harry to a vacant adjoining
classroom when he showed up on Wednesday morning, then spent the lesson flitting back and
forth between his actual class and Harry’s room like an uncertain butterfly with too many flowers
to visit, periodically nipping in to give Harry tips and correct his wand motions.

In Herbology Harry tried to covertly read a book on dragons while Neville did his own and Harry’s
pruning. Ron spontaneously leapt into action on Harry’s behalf, loudly telling Professor Sprout
that Harry looked “peaky” and should “go have a cup of tea and a nice lie down”. A chorus of
Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs agreed that Harry looked unwell, and Professor Sprout let Harry off
class entirely with a knowing wink for Harry, and a note for Neville to pass on to Professor
McGonagall permitting Harry to waive his next class too.

Harry scurried off with relief to practice his spellcasting down in the Chamber of Secrets where no
passing stray Durmstrang or Beauxbatons students might overhear him and guess at his strategies.
He only emerged after lunch was over (having snacked on some of his emergency supplies) for
Care of Magical Creatures, during which Professor Hagrid – who clearly knew the first task was
dragons – tried clumsily to check that Harry was ready for the challenge ahead without actually
telling him anything directly but giving very obvious hints.

The evening before the first task Harry’s friends were over-eager to help – too much so for Harry
to feel safe sneaking away again to the Chamber of Secrets, or indeed anywhere on his own. So
Harry instead dispatched people to find him some tutors to help him brush up on some selected
spells, and spent the afternoon and evening in a dusty, empty classroom repetitively drilling in
tricky transfiguration spells and charms under the watchful eyes of his friends Peregrine, Diggory,
Alice Tolipan, and Fred Weasley, who were all whizzes at Transfiguration or Charms classes (Fred
was apparently slightly better at Transfiguration than George, who had the edge on his brother in
Potions). It was a united Hogwarts effort with one tutor diplomatically selected from each House.
Observers were kicked out apart from Harry’s closest friends who were all sworn to secrecy (some
formally on their Houses’ honour) about Harry’s plans on how to tackle the first task. The group
also included Theodore Nott in a calculated public display of friendship, and George Weasley who
simply refused to leave. Neville and Hermione were there to support him of course, along with
Pansy, Draco, Millicent, Tracey, Luna, and Anthony, while Greg and Vincent stood sentinel
outside the door since Harry was nervous enough without people interrupting to watch and judge
his successes and failures. Not that any of his friends were being unpleasant about it, but it was
already weird enough to have people clapping, gasping, and commenting on his spellcasting. After
a flurry of hissed whispers amongst his audience the applause subsided and morphed over the
evening into them instead calling out encouragement, urging him that the spells were easy and he
could do it, that he ‘almost had it that time”. His successes were met with encouraging shouts and
calls from his friends to “do it again, but faster”.

A whisker after curfew Harry flopped into bed, sinking with relief into the feathery softness. He
was utterly exhausted from his day of intensive spellcasting but felt a lot more prepared for the
Tournament.

“Owlss brought thingss for you again,” Storm hissed helpfully, poking his head out of his tank and
resting it on the glass. “Check if there is sssomething for me.”

Harry groaned and obediently ripped open a couple of envelopes. There was some junk mail,
assorted dull letters wishing him luck in the Tournament which he put in a pile to answer later, and
two letters saying variants on the theme that there was no way a scrawny boy like him would beat
Viktor Krum. One of those threatened to ‘ruin’ Harry if he hurt Krum enough to end his Quidditch
career. Harry snorted. Quidditch fans. There was just no arguing with them. Those he tossed into
the bin.

“No sssnackss,” Harry reported, opening the last two letters which were from people whose writing
he recognised.

“Millicent is ssstill giving me a sssnack tomorrow? I’m hungry,” complained Storm.

“Yess, you’re sssitting with her while I fight dragons. She has a magical rat for you if you behave.”

The letter from Dudley was short but his cousin’s attitude was interesting. He wished Harry luck in
the ‘wizard death tornement’ and said that he wanted to come and watch the ‘final’ as it sounded
‘wicked cool’. Harry didn’t even know where to start organising something like that since he didn’t
know where or when it would be, or if Muggles would be able to watch it or not. He dashed off a
quick reply to Dudley promising he’d see what he could do, and another hasty note for Sirius,
asking him to find out if Dudley’s attendance could be arranged or not, without letting his aunt and
uncle know about it. It felt like the kind of problem a regent and potential guardian should take
care of for him.

The final letter of note was from Voldemort, promising Neville’s safety, and confidently wishing
Harry luck in the Tournament in an odd way that seemed to suggest that failure from a fellow
Parselmouth in the face of such a challenge would be totally unacceptable. Harry wasn’t quite sure
whether the letter was expressing faith in his abilities, or a veiled threat not to stuff up. Perhaps it
was a bit of both.

Voldemort also requested in formal tones verging on a demand that Harry’s next letter contain at
least a foot on which Healing charms and rituals had been banned by the Ministry over the
centuries that Harry thought should be made legal. The Dark Lord also ranted in his letter for some
time about the ‘evil scourges’ of polio and dragon pox, and how short-sighted the wizarding world
was about banning vaccinations since many believed it was all blood-based and thus evil, and that
any kind of stabbing people with needles was either Dark magic, voodoo, or ‘intolerably Muggle’.
Judging by his impassioned anecdotes, Lord Voldemort had obviously seen a couple of children
badly afflicted by polio during his youth, and it had left quite the impression on him. Dragon pox
apparently had a particularly high mortality rate amongst infant wizards and witches, ‘literally
decimating’ each new generation.

Harry huffed and put the letter on the bottom of his pile of correspondence to answer later, before
tucking the whole bundle away in his chest and magically locking it. Great, the Dark Lord was
giving him homework now. Well, he’d worry about Lord Voldemort trying to tempt him into
learning forbidden magic and hating the Ministry and the medical establishment later. Right now
he needed to get some sleep, because tomorrow was going to be trying enough without facing it
while exhausted.

“Harold, I’m cold. And bored.”

Harry sighed, and scooped Storm out of his tank, letting his pet coil up on his warm chest, under
the thick feather duvet. He fell asleep with his hand on Storm’s smooth, cool scales, listening to
hissed speculations about whether dragon eggs would be too big to eat or not.

-000-

Thursday morning went by in a nervous blur, and Harry was only vaguely aware of losing some
points in Transfiguration. He couldn’t focus on anything at all, and spent the class trying to talk
himself out of a panic about his imminent public failure, and half-heartedly casting a couple of
spells while his mind whirled. He wished he could use his invisibility cloak in the task. If only they
were permitted things other than their wands, it would be easier. There were a few potions he
would’ve liked to use, too, like a cauldron full of Sleeping Draught. Still, he had a plan. A couple
of plans. So long as he didn’t need to kill a dragon Harry thought he’d be alright. Maybe he
wouldn’t win… but the goal wasn’t to win, it was to survive. Winning was very secondary, not that
he’d say that aloud to some of his over-eager Gryffindor supporters who seemed to favour the
‘come back with your shield or on it’ approach to danger.

After a lunch which Harry’s anxious stomach kept down only because of Harry’s sheer dogged
determination not to see food wasted, it was suddenly time for the Triwizard Tournament to get
underway, lessons having been cancelled for the afternoon.

Dumbledore led Harry from the Great Hall, and Harry plastered a falsely confident Lockhart-
approved smile on his face to hide his nerves as he waved goodbye to the raucous cheering crowds
of Hogwarts students. Madame Maxime led Fleur Delacour out, while Karkaroff accompanied
Viktor Krum, to less enthusiastic but still noisy applause – both students were also popular with
Hogwarts students, for different reasons.

“Are you ready, Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore asked murmured, with a concerned look. “I cannot offer
any specific advice; however, it would be a great comfort to me to know you felt prepared for the
challenge ahead of you.”

“As ready as I can be, sir,” Harry replied, trying to look confident. “The clue was a big help, and I
don’t know if I can win but I’ll at least do my best to make everyone proud.”

“Do keep in mind that there will be a number of adults ready to intervene should… matters get out
of hand,” Dumbledore said more loudly, addressing the other champions as well. “Our mediwitch
Madam Pomfrey is also standing by in a Healer’s tent we have erected and will be assisting an
experienced Healer from St. Mungo’s should there be any injuries.”

“Sank you, zat is very good,” Madame Maxime said, with a gracious smile.
Delacour didn’t look any more reassured than before, however, and looked rather pale. Krum
looked grumpy, but not at all afraid. Harry envied him his confidence, as his own had withered that
morning in the face of imminent danger, and dread-filled daydreams of all the spectators hating
him after he let them down with a miserable showing in the first task.

As they approached the Quidditch arena Harry saw there was a new wooden fence ringing the
Quidditch stands, over ten feet high and blocking the view of the grassy stadium inside. The
champions were led to a tent outside it, near a giant pair of wooden gates. Given what Harry
expected he and the other champions would soon be facing, it was oddly quiet. Once inside the
tent, even the distant noises of birdsong from the forest and the chatter of those yet to enter
disappeared entirely. Silencing Charms, obviously. Expansion Charms too – the tent was a
wizarding one with a capacious main entry room, and a couple of canvas doors leading off to other
rooms.

The three Tournament judges awaited them inside the tent and rose as they entered; white-haired
Newt Scamander in a brown suit with a gold-embroidered waistcoat, and a greatcoat with bulging
pockets. Professor Marchbanks in the same purple formal robe she’d worn at the Halloween feast
(close up the deep violet velvet looked rather faded), and Ludo Bagman, who was the only judge
who didn’t look as old as Dumbledore. He’d foregone his old Wimbourne Wasp robes this time in
favour of a bright red robe which looked far too tight for him, clearly also dating from a time when
he was younger and fitter. He was holding a shimmering purple bag and looked delighted to see
them all, especially Harry.

The Headmasters and Headmistresses murmured farewells to their charges and exited the tent,
leaving the champions standing in front of the judges.

“Good morning, students!” Professor Marchbanks began, in a loud, demanding tone that expected a
response. She held a golden ear trumpet to her ear to listen to their polite return greetings.

“In one hour the first task will begin,” she explained. “However, so as to allow you a little extra
time to plan your strategy, we will now explain the full details of your task. I hope you have done
your research! However, if you feel unprepared or endangered during the task, you may send up a
shower of red sparks and a team of witches and wizards will move in to deal with any danger and
remove you to safety. Your lives are more important than winning, and there is the possibility of
receiving partial points for an incomplete task. You will also be evacuated if any two of the three
judges deem you too badly injured to continue.”

Harry nodded in understanding and relief, and there were also no objections to the safety measures
from either of the other two champions.

“You will each compete consecutively, with the remaining champions awaiting their turn in this
tent, which has been charmed for silence and warded against all manner of spying spells. This is to
prevent any champion from profiting off the experience of those who proceed him or her.”

Bagman took his turn speaking next, eagerly holding out the purple silk bag. “Inside this bag are
small models of the thing you are about to face! There are different – er – varieties, you see. Your
task is… to rescue the princess! You will gain a golden prize on successfully returning the
kidnapped princess from being imprisoned in a tower and threatened by – well, you’ll soon see –
and returning her safely to her castle.”

“Ladies first,” Bagman said, holding it out to Delacour.

She put a shaking hand into the bag and drew out a perfect model of a dragon – a Hebridean Black.
The little statuette blinked its tiny amethyst eyes at her, and its tail twitched. She looked resigned,
but not surprised, and Harry got the feeling that she wasn’t any more shocked to be facing a dragon
than he was.

Harry took a turn next and drew the dark green Romanian Longhorn. He noted that the model,
which flapped its tiny wings at him as it stood on his palm, still had its signature long golden
horns, unlike its real-life counterpart. It also had a tiny number ‘three’ tied around its neck.

That left the Common Welsh Green for Krum, who looked perfectly satisfied with his pick.

Damn it, I wanted the Welsh Green, Harry thought unhappily. Not that any dragon can be
described as placid, but the Welsh Greens are less aggressive towards humans compared to the
other breeds.

The advantage of the Krum’s dragon breed being easier to manage would at least be slightly
counterbalanced by the fact that Krum would be going first – his dragon’s collar had a number one
on it. That would give Harry and Delacour slightly more time to plan.

Ambrosius had told Harry that the white and red breeds of British dragons – now sadly extinct –
had been more aggressive and territorial than the Common Welsh Green. In addition to killing any
perceived invaders in its territory, the Welsh Red Dragon had had a particularly fearsome shrieking
cry which could stun or kill animals and Muggles by magically evoking sheer terror in their hearts,
and had thus been subject to deliberate extermination. The Saxon White Dragon had been –
unluckily for it – extremely magically potent, and had been hunted to extinction in the quest for
magical components like blood and heartstrings, and its easily-dyed beautiful scaly hide. The
population had reached unsustainable levels and finally died out a few centuries ago.

After giving the competitors a few moments to ponder their choices, Mr. Scamander continued the
explanation of the task ahead of them all.

“Ah, so on to the specifics. You um, have to rescue the princess, as Mr. Bagman said. From a
dragon, obviously. The one you selected. Keep the figurine in your pocket.”

“Not a real person, I em hopink? A… pretent princess of… straw ent clothink?” Krum asked,
rolling his r’s.

“No, no,” Scamander assured him quickly. “Not a real person. However, you will have to protect
them as if they were. You must make your way to the top of the tower, retrieve your princess, and
return her home to her castle on the other side of the arena. So there will be two structures on the
field, and also the dragon you have selected will be there, of course. It will be right in the middle
between the tower and the castle.”

“Zat is good,” Delacour said approvingly.

Harry nervously raised his hand like he was in class.

“Excuse me, but what will get us the most points? Are you expecting us to fight our dragons?”

“Good questions!” Scamander said approvingly. “You will lose significant points if your dragon is
killed or mortally injured, but you will not be penalised for um, minor injuries.” Harry noticed
Scamander winced at that idea, however, and knew that he’d get more points from Scamander if he
somehow left his dragon entirely uninjured. Prewett had eagerly gossiped that her research said that
Scamander had been in Hufflepuff, which seemed to fit the man. Harry had read a few of his books
and knew that Scamander was rather Hagrid-like in his love of magical beasts. While more willing
to defend himself than Professor Hagrid against ‘jus’ a friendly nibble’, he was stalwartly against
unnecessary violence towards magical creatures. Well, Harry didn’t have many dragon-killing
spells in his repertoire anyway, with the Dragon Pox Curse being illegal Dark magic and thus a
foolish choice to cast with an audience watching. He’d restrict the Cutting Curse and Ossio
Dispersimus to limbs only… if either even worked through the dragon’s spell-resistant hide.

“These are all males past ahh… optimal breeding age. However, they are still rare and umm…
wondrous creatures. Your goal is to get your princess past your dragon to safety. Without suffering
injuries to yourself, or any damage to or loss of your princess.”

“What was that?” Professor Marchbanks said, tapping on the side of her ear trumpet. Scamander,
who was a quiet man, repeated himself a little louder for her benefit, with a little less stammering
the second time around.

“Quite right!” she agreed, after he’d finished. “Additionally, you will receive a higher score by
displaying quick thinking and skilful use of spells, in terms of both the type and range used, and
their successful and useful execution. You will also receive a small number of bonus points for
completing your task faster than your fellow contestants, though that is weighted as less important
than the other factors so take your time if you need to. Wait for the bell to ring – no spellcasting
ahead of time or points will be deducted.”

Ravenclaw, Harry reminded himself, and made a mental note to try and use some of the NEWT-
level spells he was better at during his turn. He’d probably need them, anyway.

“And give the crowd a good show!” Bagman added. “Try and avoid being burnt or killed, of
course!” He laughed and winked, but Harry wasn’t terribly amused.

Gryffindor, Harry thought. Or an idiot. Draco would say there’s not much of a difference. He
probably wouldn’t win a lot of points from Bagman with his planned strategies, so he’d have to
hope the other two gave him good scores.

Warrington – one of the senior Slytherins who’d helped Harry with his researching in preparation
for the Tournament – had told him that Marchbanks would likely give more points for silent
spellcasting, but Harry hadn’t managed to get the knack of it at all yet. In fact, he’d made better
progress with wandless casting, which was supposed to be harder (though Ambrosius disagreed,
being used to a style of spellcasting more reliant on chants and rituals and less based on utilising a
powerful focus for channelling spells). Being able to whisper spells, or cast a flickering Wand-
Lighting Charm without a wand in his hand, probably wasn’t going to cut it fighting a dragon,
though. If Harry dropped his wand he knew it’d definitely be easier and faster to simply pick it up
again than to cast a shaky wandless Summoning Charm of dubious reliability.

With no more questions or tips forthcoming, except that they’d see their ‘princess’ in her tower
upon entering the Quidditch stadium, and the news that the stands had apparently been temporarily
enchanted for the crowd’s safety, the judges shooed each champion to a separate room in the tent,
sequestered away from each other to await their call to glory or fiery doom.

-000-

The next hour and a half seemed to simultaneously both drag interminably slowly and be over in
the blink of an eye, and Harry was eventually retrieved from his seclusion by none other than
Charlie Weasley. He was then led through the wooden gates to an amazing roar of excitement from
students, staff, and assorted guests in the four Quidditch stands. The stands looked even more
packed than usual, with what looked like some adult guests squashed in amongst the hundreds of
students, and Harry couldn’t spot any of his friends apart from Luna. She stood out in the front row
of the Ravenclaw stand due to her enormous lion-head hat which let out a tremendous roar as he
entered that could be heard even above the din of cheers.

The leonine roar was echoed by the forty-foot dark olive-green dragon chained up in the middle of
the Quidditch arena, as it stretched its thick neck to the sky and bellowed its anger to the crowd,
who cheered even louder in excitement. It reared up on its hind legs with wings outstretched for
balance, displaying its yellow clawed talons and tossing its hornless head threateningly.

“Ambrosius, if your spirit ever actually listens to people’s calls and helps people, now would be a
great time to watch over me,” Harry muttered, as the dragon flapped up into the air and let out a
small gout of fire in the direction of the Ravenclaw stand. “Merlin, protect me from the dragon.”
He’d try to remember to ask Ambrosius later if he heard people saying his name. If he survived
this.

Charlie Weasley clapped him on the back, making Harry jump and point his wand at him. Charlie
grinned. “You’ll do fine. Remember, red sparks if you need us. Wait in this rope circle on the
ground until the bell sounds – no spellcasting until then.” He walked off to join some other fit-
looking wizards and witches ringing the edge of the arena who were similarly clad in old, scarred
leather tunics and trousers.

Harry stood obediently in his starting spot, let out a deep breath, and tried to calm his mind with
the sights, smells, and sounds of a peaceful ocean shore as he looked around.

The formerly pristine grassy arena was now marred with long swathes of burnt turf and gouged
earth, presumably from the other competitors’ efforts. A few logs and boulders had been placed in
the area and might provide possible cover for someone trying to sneak past the dragon. One of the
logs closer to the dragon was already on fire, however, and was still smouldering. Harry would
avoid that one.

The dragon was secured by a thick leather collar which had a chain leading to a tremendous metal
peg in the ground. On the far side of the rearing dragon was a square, fenced stone enclosure; the
crenelated six foot high walls reminded Harry vaguely of Hogwarts, and the school crest was
emblazoned on the wooden gate at the front, lest there be any doubt about how it was supposed to
represent Hogwarts castle.

The green medical tent was set up at a safe distance behind the mock Hogwarts, and Harry felt a
little reassured to see the now-familiar blazon of a glowing lime-green snake wound around the
Rod of Asclepius.

The judges and Heads of the schools were in the front row of the Hufflepuff stand, which had
perhaps the best view of the action. They were all watching the field with Omnioculars, which
judging by the dozens of pinprick glints of reflected sunlight off glass seemed a popular choice
amongst others in the crowd, too.

Safely away from the dragon and fairly close to Harry was a narrow wooden platform raised up
high on a pole, with a rope ladder leading up to the top. It looked a bit like a tree house, minus the
leafy top. The platform at the top had a crenelated fence, and Harry’s ‘princess’ paced in fear at the
noise from the dragon and the crowd. She also let out a loud bleating “baa”. His ‘princess’ was a
white sheep, with a conical bright pink princess hat with a small trailing veil magically affixed to
the top of her fluffy head.

“It’s a sheep,” Harry said, blinking in surprise. Okay, he could do this. He’d planned for an
inanimate dummy, but he could adapt.

A loud bell rang, and Harry leapt into action to the tremendous cheers of the crowd. He hoped they
wouldn’t be disappointed by his plan, which leant more towards Slytherin tactics than Gryffindor
ones.

“Accio sheep,” he incanted softly, pointing at the rickety tower. The sheep didn’t budge.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” he tried next, and was similarly unsuccessful. The sheep didn’t so much as
twitch in his direction – it was probably warded against that. Or the tower was. Damn. Still, it had
been worth a try. He’d have to climb the ladder to retrieve his princess.

“Zat was good tentatives at ze Summoning Charm and ze Levitation Charm. A similar start to
Monsieur Krum, and just as unsuccessful.” A woman’s loud voice boomed out over the stadium,
and her accent was unmistakeable – Madame Maxime was commentating on his task with a
Sonorus, just like Lee Jordan did for Quidditch matches.

“Celoro,” Harry said confidently, incanting in lightly altered Latin as he twirled his wand and
tapped himself on the head. He’d been practising this charm since second year, and the cold
trickling sensation over his skin told him that it’d worked perfectly.

“A very fine Disillusionment Charm! Zat ASPIC spell is well above ‘is level,” Madame Maxime
said, sounding surprised. “You will ‘ave to watch for le flou… euh… ze blurring to see ‘im now.”

With the dragon thoroughly distracted for the moment by the cheering crowd, Harry was optimistic
that the charm would help him sneak around. It wouldn’t be enough on its own to get him past the
dragon with a sheep, however, for dragons had an excellent sense of smell. However, he had a plan
for that, too.

Harry dashed over to the tower and climbed up the ladder, to some commentary from Madame
Maxime about the rungs of the ladder being seen to shake as he climbed. The fluffy sheep at the
top bleated as he climbed onto its platform and wiggled about slightly but didn’t move an inch.
Harry was pretty sure its hooves were stuck fast with a Sticking Charm. There was a slatted
wooden fence around the border of the platform, with the tops of the wooden boards carved into a
decorative crenelated pattern, however, it wouldn’t be high enough to stop a determined and
panicked sheep from trying to scramble over the edge, potentially plummeting to its doom.

“Aparecium,” Harry cast, looking for invisible runes. Around the rim of the sheep’s pink silk
conical hat, a string of faintly glowing runes shimmered into view. A smaller number appeared on
the corner posts of the platform’s fence – those were obviously for fire resistance, with Sowilō and
Algiz linked together. The runes on the hat were more complex, and Harry didn’t have time for a
full analysis. He spotted the reversed form of Raido which would prevent a safe journey, and lots
of protective runes linked and chained to Fehu for sheep or livestock. He was pretty sure the sheep
was protected from a number of transformative spells. At the very least, successfully casting spells
on it would be more challenging, and take a lot of trial and error.

What he didn’t see was anything protecting the hat itself. He’d have to work quickly before the
sheep panicked.

“Diffindo,” Harry started, trying to carefully cut through the pink ribbon holding the hat snugly on
the sheep’s head. It didn’t work, however, probably due to the protective runes.

“Evanesco,” he incanted, vanishing a portion of the ribbon with precision. “Finite incantatem.”
Together that did the trick – with the ribbon severed and a Sticking Charm undone, the conical silk
hat toppled off the sheep’s head.

Before the sheep could do more than scramble slightly with a clatter of hooves, Harry shot off a
strong Stunning Spell. “Stupefy!”

The sheep was hit squarely by the jet of red light, and fell to the ground with a soft thump, out cold.

“Poor Princess ‘Ogwarts! Ze Severing Charm did not work on ze ribbon, ‘owever, she ‘as lost ‘er
pretty ‘at to a Vanishing Charm and General Counter-Spell, and been knocked out by ze Stunning
Spell!” boomed Madame Maxime. “Zis is no gentleman-prince zat comes to ‘er rescue today.
More like ze thief in ze night!”

Alright, that’s fair, Harry mentally admitted, with a wince. But I’ve got a better chance of keeping
her alive this way.

Harry had planned his next few spells on the presumption that he’d be carting around a dummy, but
so long as he didn’t make an error with the Shrinking Charm (which could be unsafe for living
creatures if cast incorrectly) the spells should still be fine for a sheep.

“Pluma obol, silencio, reducio,” Harry incanted, making the sheep feather-light and silenced (just
in case it woke up while he was sneaking about). He also successfully reduced it to the size of a cat
(much to his relief). He picked up the miniaturised unconscious sheep and held it against his chest
as he cast a Sticking Charm. That would keep Princess Hogwarts safe with him, while leaving his
hands free for spellcasting. He thought it was a great plan… so long as some of the charms didn’t
wear off before the end of the task, anyway. It’d be bad to suddenly have a heavy sheep stuck to
his chest and frantic to get away.

One more spell before he tried to get past the dragon – it wouldn’t do to have it spot a tiny sheep
floating suspiciously in mid-air, so it needed to be disillusioned too. “Celoro.”

He scrambled back down the ladder to the accompaniment of narration of his recent spells, with
the miniaturised sheep stuck to his chest like it was in an invisible baby carrier. The pungent,
musky smell of the wool right under his nose was irritating but not unbearable.

Safe on the ground – for now – Harry looked ahead to the dragon, and the wooden mock-up of
Hogwarts beyond it. The Romanian Longhorn was roaming around to the maximum extent
permitted by the chain around its neck that tethered it to the ground, breathing out occasional gouts
of fire to the delighted shrieks of the crowd. Flames licked at the bases of the Quidditch stands,
thankfully without effect due to enchantments on the stands, backed up by some extra spellcasting
from the dragon handlers. There would be no sneaking around it – Harry would have to pass
through its territory to get Princess Hogwarts to safety. He had a plan, and a back-up plan too, but
just in case both failed he wanted some additional protection from being burnt alive.

He waved his wand around his head, and then cast the same spell on the sheep too, for good
measure. “Incendio reicio!” he said strongly, wanting this charm to be as powerful as possible.

“Zat flash of white light you saw was ze Flame-Freezing Charm!” Madame Maxime narrated over
the top of the cheering crowd, sounding more impressed by his latest spell than some of the others,
which were admittedly pretty basic. “I did not sink it is taught at ‘Ogwarts now, but it was very
useful in ze witch hunts. But will it be enough to protect Monsieur Potter and ‘is princess against ze
dragon?”

Disillusioned, Harry jogged closer to the dragon, hoping to get past it without incident. So far, his
charms were holding up and as he passed the halfway mark his heart hammered wildly as he
dashed past the dragon, at a cautious distance. However, he wasn’t safe yet, for the dragon stopped
its futile roaring at the crowd and its nostrils flared as it scented the air. Its feet thudded to the
ground as it finished its rearing display of wings and missing horns – it went temporarily silent, a
predator on a hunt. Harry couldn’t help but notice how tremendously sharp its golden claws
looked, as they gouged the earth. Its toothy maw looked easily big enough to swallow him in a
single gulp.

Despite Harry looking like more than a shimmer of heat haze in the air, the dragon’s great green
head turned in Harry’s direction. It huffed, and sniffed, and began lumbering towards him.

Don’t panic, Harry told himself frantically. Time for the backup plan. As quietly as possible. He
wished he’d mastered silent spellcasting. He’d just have to whisper.

“Fumos,” he cast quietly, and a great gout of grey smoke spewed out of his wand to encircle him,
leaving a smoke-free hole in the middle where he stood. The dragon wouldn’t be able to see him
now, but more importantly, the ashy smell of the smoke should confuse its sense of smell. The
downside of this plan was of course that he now couldn’t see where the dragon was. Harry had
tried to find spells that hid one’s natural scent, but without success. The cleaning charms he’d
found that were used on people had a tendency to leave behind a scent of soap, lavender, or roses.
Hexing the dragon’s nose would be unlikely to work due to its spell-resistant hide, so scent-
bombing the area with smoke to confuse it was Harry’s best plan.

“Finite.” Harry took care casting the General Counter-Spell on himself, removing his
Disillusionment Charm without disturbing the charms on the sheep. He had to reapply the Flame-
Freezing Charm, however, as that had been stripped off too. “Incendio Reicio!” The crowd cheered
to see Harry reappear, but they didn’t get to see him for too long, as he dashed off blindly into the
cloud of smoke. He hoped Bagman wouldn’t make him down too much for doing the exact
opposite of putting on a ‘good show’.

Hopefully the noise of the crowd would stop the dragon from hearing his murmured spellcasting,
his gasping breaths, or his footsteps. Somehow, Madame Maxime was still able to discern what he
was saying. That must be one good eavesdropping charm!

“Zat is interesting! I wonder why Monsieur Potter ‘as taken down ‘is Disillusionment Charm. Ze
Flame-Freezing Charm ‘as been cast again.”

Harry estimated he still had a quarter of the way to go to reach the mock castle that was his finish
line, when the dragon tired of the smoke obscuring its vision. With tremendous flaps of its bat-like
wings, powerful gusts of wind started dispersing Harry’s smoke.

It could have been worse, Harry thought. I’m just glad it didn’t try to burn the smoke away.

He cast a quick spell on himself that he’d left to the last minute as its duration was still
unimpressive. He hadn’t practised it as much as he should since he’d made it up with Ambrosius’
help but had been drilling in it in private since he’d been picked for the Tournament.

“Transvorto visagus,” he cast, twirling his wand in an upwards spiral from the ground to his head.
He dropped to his hands and knees, and as the smoke cleared the crowd – and the Romanian
Longhorn – could see what he looked like now.

A small olive-green baby dragon with tiny nubs of golden horns was walking awkwardly across
the field. Harry couldn’t make the glamour perfect, but so long as the adult dragon wasn’t too
suspicious about his awkward gait (since underneath the illusion he was actually crawling on
hands and knees) it might be enough. He didn’t need to fool it forever, just long enough to reach
safety.

Romanian Longhorns weren’t the best parents. When their young were old enough to hunt on their
own, the parents would drive their children out of their territory. However, they would never harm
a hatchling or very young Longhorn. It was an instinct that Harry was hoping would protect him
for just a few critical minutes as he frantically crawled to safety.

Please don’t breathe fire, please don’t breathe fire, he thought over and over, as he scrambled over
the ground, trying not to let ‘Princess Hogwarts’ bump the ground.

“Do you know zat spell, Monsieur Dumbledore? ...No? Monsieur Karkaroff? …Well, zat is new to
us all here. Some kind of glamour or illusion charm, I sink, rather zan a transfiguration. ‘E makes a
beautiful leettle dragon, does ‘e not?”

The crowd cheered its approval, and a repetitive chant of “Go little dragon!” started up in the
Hufflepuff stand, and many students quickly added a repetitive clap to the rhythm of the words.
Soon the chant and clapping spread to the rest of the audience.

“GO LITTLE DRAGON!”

The adult Longhorn did breathe fire, but not in Harry’s direction. After some curious huffing and a
low rumbling noise directed at him, it lumbered towards him for a moment, making Harry’s heart
beat frantically as he curled up on the ground trying to look as inoffensive and dragon-like as
possible. His wand was at the ready to cast protective spells against a possible blast of flames,
hidden by his glamour.

The crowd screamed in excitement and second-hand fear as the dragon moved towards Harry – he
was in its range now, so close he could make out the pattern of its scales. It didn’t seem to have the
aggressive body language as it approached him that Harry had read about, however; it didn’t look
ready to pounce, thought the crowd clearly feared it would. Harry feared it too but tried to stay
confident in his conclusions and not panic. Moving would be the worst thing to do right now; he
didn’t want to look like prey if it was perceptive enough to realise he wasn’t really a hatchling.

While Harry didn’t seem to be deemed a threat to it, it was, however, growing irritated by the noise
of the crowd. It turned its back on Harry and spread its wings threateningly as it roared its defiance
to the noisy crowd, breathing a threatening gout of flame into the sky.

It’s working! It’s even trying to protect me! Harry thought with delight and relief. Seizing the
moment of distraction, he shakily scrambled the last couple of hundred metres to safety, heart still
pounding in his chest like a drum.

At last he reached the mock castle where he needed to deposit his ‘princess’. The stone enclosure
looked magically manufactured when seen close-up – the bricks were just a pattern on the surface
of transfigured stone, rather than actual blocks. The wooden gate at the front was locked, but a
quick Unlocking Charm got him in easily enough, and he closed the gate behind him.

Harry cast a quick “Finite” on himself to remove his illusionary appearance, and then wondered
how to safely reverse the charms on his fluffy princess. He lay down on the grass on his side
before casting a General Counter-Spell, which simultaneously enlarged the sheep back to its
regular size and detached the sheep from being stuck to his chest.

“Rennervate!” he incanted as he stood up, waking up his ‘princess’.

A loud bell sounded with a deep clang, and there was a final explosion of cheering, whistles, and
applause. His first task was over, and Harry didn’t think he could feel any happier as he waved up
at the crowd. This was a Patronus-worthy moment to cherish.
-000-

After a quick check-up from Madam Pomfrey, who fussed over Harry and healed the minor
scrapes on his hands and knees, Harry went up to the judges to receive his score. Each judge had
up to thirty points each to allocate, and an additional potential ten points were available depending
on how quickly he’d completed the challenge. As he’d been the second fastest competitor after
Krum, Harry was awarded seven points for speed, starting off his score out of a hundred.

“Marvellous work today, you demonstrated a good range of spells including a new glamour spell
that I would love to learn myself,” Mr. Scamander said, his soft voice enhanced by a Sonorus.
“Importantly, you ah… achieved your objective and in the process did no harm whatsoever to a
frightened, endangered creature. You displayed superior knowledge of dragons and their
behaviour, to your advantage. I award you twenty-five points out of thirty.”

Amidst the cheers, Harry overheard an excited Hufflepuff nearby shouting, “That beats Krum!”

Professor Marchbanks went next. “Mr. Potter, your range of spells was indeed good, and your
Disllusionment Charm was particularly well cast. Your invented charm was superb. Unfortunately,
you did not cast silently, which would have worked to your advantage during your attempt to sneak
past the dragon.

“You should note that some spell selections were ill-advised. In particular the Flame-Freezing
Charm was a risky choice. It would have ameliorated the effects of dragon fire somewhat but
would still have left you badly burnt. Your Summoning Charm, had it been successful, may have
left Princess Hogwarts badly injured, or yourself, as she crashed into you. Your removal of her
enchanted hat was highly strategic but against the spirit of the challenge; your rivals left their
sheep’s hats in place. Nonetheless, it was overall an excellent effort for a young lad, and I award
you seventeen points out of thirty.”

There was less cheering this time, some grumbles of discontent, and a few unsportsmanlike boos.
Harry wanted to explain that he wasn’t going to only rely on the Flame-Freezing Charm if the
dragon breathed on him. He’d practiced overpowering the Freezing Charm – Glacius – and some
variant Shield Charms too, but it was a bit pointless to try and argue when he’d already been given
a score, and it was all hypothetical anyway.

Ludo Bagman rubbed his plump hands together eagerly as he took his turn. “Mr. Potter, I think we
can all be proud of how you did today! The enchanted hats that stymied your competition in
transporting their respective princesses were easily fixed by your cutting of the Gordian knot! I
believe that was an inspired solution, and the challenge was after all to get your princess to safety,
with no mention of her millinery! Excellent spellcasting, no injuries to yourself, your princess, or
even your dragon! I award you… twenty-eight points!”

After an explosion of cheers, and a spot of quick maths, Bagman continued, “That gives Hogwarts’
champion a total of seventy-seven points, putting Hogwarts into second place just a whisker behind
Durmstrang!”

Professor Marchbanks handed Harry what looked like a golden egg, with hinges in the middle.
“Inside this golden egg is your second clue, which will help you prepare for the second of your
four tasks which will take place on the twenty-fourth of February. Open it later, and for now enjoy
celebrating with your friends!”

-000-

Potter Watch had – under Peregrine’s direction – reserved the club room for the remainder of the
afternoon and evening, in optimistic hopes of celebrating Harry’s success in the first task. Making
it through unscathed and in second place was enough to satisfy his fans, and the room was packed
full of jubilant students eager to congratulate Harry and enjoy the spread of cakes, fruit, and
pumpkin juice supplied by excited house-elves (including Dobby, who seemed to have invited
himself along), and a range of enchanted sweets being spruiked by the Weasley twins. In fact, the
room was so full they had to start turning people away at the door.

Harry’s closest friends crowded around him to talk over the first task, allowing a trickle of well-
wishers to stop by to greet Harry.

“How did Krum do in the task? What did he do to win?” Harry asked Hermione loudly, over the
din. He shook someone’s hand absent-mindedly as they congratulated him on his performance in
the first task.

“He tried casting a spell on his sheep to slow its fall – which wore a little historically inaccurate
Viking hat with pointed horns, by the way – and then tried summoning it like you did, but it didn’t
work. Dumbledore said it was a logical approach-”

“He was doing commentary?” Harry asked, giving a Lockhart-grin and a passing thanks to
someone else who wanted to say congratulations.

“Yes, and Karkaroff did the commentary for Delacour’s attempt. So, as I was saying, Krum went
up the ladder fast after his Summoning Charm didn’t work, unstuck his ‘princess’ and put a leash
on her, then leapt off the tower and floated to the ground with a silent spell. Dumbledore was very
polite about Krum’s attempt, all the way through. He said that Arresto Momentum is a life-saving
spell in Quidditch matches used often during practices, and best cast silently like Krum did due to
the length of the incantation.”

“He was quite the show-off!” Pansy grumbled, around a mouth full of chocolate cake. “It was
terrifying, and unnecessary. It impressed Marchbanks, however, and Bagman loved it. He gave
high scores to everyone, actually.”

Hermione jumped back in with her recount as soon as Pansy took another bite of cake. “Krum
transfigured a large number of rocks into sheep, and the Welsh Green chased them while he
sprinted for the enclosure, pulling his sheep along behind him. The dragon went for him at one
point, though, and he cast a Conjunctivitis Curse on it, which made its eyes swell shut. He also cast
a transfiguration on the ground that made spikes of rock spear up from the earth – the dragon hated
that. It was like walking on thumb tacks while completely blind, I guess!”

“Scamander marked Krum down for injuring his dragon,” Draco said, sliding into place next to
Pansy. “Your score was the highest he gave, Harry.”

“Marchbanks gave her highest score to Krum, and Bagman gave high scores to everyone, so his
influence on the results was fairly minimal in the end,” Hermione said.

“Someone said Delacour was injured?” Harry said leadingly. “What was her strategy?”

“Her sheep wore a beret,” Daphne said, with a grin. “She made such a face when she saw it.”

“She focused mostly on mind-affecting spells,” Hermione said. “Calming and Feather-light
Charms on her sheep, and Confundus and a couple of powerful sleeping charms on the dragon. It
worked, but not for as long as she expected, and her Shield Charm didn’t block all of the dragon’s
fire when it breathed on her. So she and her princess got a bit singed, but she still managed to get it
to the enclosure in the end.”
“Hey, does anyone know how Madame Maxime knew what I was casting?”

“I do!” Neville volunteered eagerly. “I asked Professor McGonagall, and she said you’d all been
given a miniature dragon that was enchanted to transmit sound to a speaker in front of the judges.”

“Oh!” Harry said, digging in his school robe pocket. “I forgot about that. Hey Draco, would you
like it, for your collection?”

Draco perked up at hearing the offer and happily took the little animated figurine. It stretched its
neck and shook its golden-horned head, as he accepted it from Harry. “Isn’t it beautiful? Thank you
so much, Harry. I will have to get the Wireless Charm taken off of course, if it has not worn off
already. Lovely, just gorgeous.” He cooed over the craftsmanship of the figurine for a while and
admired the coloration of the dragon.

“Harry, you have to teach me your new glamour spell! Please?” Hermione insisted, tacking on the
courtesy at the end of her demand.

“Sure, I will,” he promised.

“Speaking of Wireless Charms, did you know that the task narration went out on the Wizarding
Wireless?” Pansy asked, ignoring Hermione’s interjection

“No, I-” Harry started, but was interrupted.

Across the room from amidst a cluster of senior students, Angelina Johnson let out a shrill, piercing
whistle, while made the hubbub dim for a moment. “Hey Potter! Let’s hear what the next clue is!
How about you open up the egg?!”

Her suggestion was met with general approval, and a chorus of agreement.

“Second task!”

“Let’s hear it!”

“We’ve got your back, Potter! Hogwarts for the win!”

“Quiet, everyone! Let Potter read it out!” Johnson yelled, and the room hushed as Harry fished the
egg out from his robe and cautiously prised open the hinged lid.

The most terrible cacophony issued forth from the hollow metal egg, as a loud and screechy
wailing filled the room. It sounded like a cross between a scream and a tortured violin.

“Shut it!” bellowed one of the Weasley twins, with his hands over his ears.

“That sounded like a banshee!” Finnegan said. “Maybe you have to fight one of those next!”

“No, it was someone being tortured,” Neville said, his face white.

“That wouldn’t be a task, though,” Hermione said, patting Neville comfortingly on his arm.

“Maybe it’s broken?” Mafalda suggested. “You could give it a shake, and try opening it again?”

Harry thought it was worth a try, but it didn’t change the resulting screech, which sounded the
same as before.

The Revealing Charm showed some runes magically imprinted on the engraved metal. “We’ve got
some runes here, if anyone good at Ancient Runes wants to help me figure them out!” Harry
called.

A cluster of eager assistants pushed forwards to join Harry and Hermione in examining the egg,
including Daphne, Tracey, Theodore, and Anthony. Tamsin Applebee, the Head Girl, turned out to
be a whiz at Ancient Runes, and she and Fawcett from Ravenclaw quickly dominated the
discussion. Hermione switched from babbling excitedly to listening eagerly to the two senior girls’
speculations.

“We have got some Ogham here around the middle; Ór and Nion, representing gold and a fork or
division, if I remember my Ogham kennings correctly,” Applebee said.

“Yes, that’s right!” Fawcett agreed eagerly. “Look, there’s also nGéadal chained to it as well, and
the rune goes across the groove where it opens, so it only activates when the egg is closed.”

“NGéadal… killing?” Applebee said thoughtfully. “So, it stops the noise when it is shut? The
default charm has the sound play constantly, but when the severed rune is repaired, the noise is
killed?”

“Exactly! Now look, under the filigree at the top there’s some Futhark,” Fawcett said. “Hard to
read though. The creator has hidden those on purpose.”

“Hieroglyphs too, they really used everything on this, didn’t they? It’s a wonder the rune systems
aren’t clashing. They must have really taken their time on this egg. Let’s see, there’s a sistrum…
fishing net… and what’s that one on the end?” Applebee mused, pointing to the third and last tiny
Egyptian hieroglyph enclosed in the oval cartouche.

“Scribe equipment,” Harry volunteered, eliciting an impressed murmur from the watching crowd.

Applebee grinned delightedly at him. “Yes! That would be it. So, the hieroglyphs say we’ve got
music that’s been trapped, and recorded.”

“Does that tell us anything new?” Harry asked.

Applebee and Fawcett both shrugged. “Not really,” Fawcett said.

“It tells us the recording is working as intended,” Theodore suggested. “That the egg is supposed to
play a musical noise when opened and stop when shut. So, the clue is in the noise itself.”

“It’s interesting they used the fishing net hieroglyph,” Fawcett mused. “I would have linked the
sistrum with a bird trap, for the airy nature of music and birds. More complementary.”

“Perhaps it clashed with the other runes,” Applebee suggested.

They all talked over the runes a bit more, trying to peek at the hidden Futhark runes without much
success or consensus on which ones they were, as only the bottom stems could be glimpsed poking
out from under the filigree covering. Without being able to see the whole runes, they could only do
things like speculate as to whether a straight line at the bottom meant a rune was Algiz or Laguz,
and rule out runes with distinctive bottom halves like Daguz which they were sure weren’t used.
They did manage to narrow it down to Elder Futhark and identified one rune for certain – Naudiz.

“Need or hardship,” Hermione mused. “‘Constraint gives scant choice…’ I think it’s setting some
requirement… a trigger. But we can’t tell what without knowing what it’s linked to.”

The recording was replayed a few times (a few students not so coincidentally decided they’d had
 enough partying, around that time), until Hermione was certain that the screeching was repeating in
a noticeable pattern.

Eventually after a mix of much feasting, partying, and studying of the egg clue, Applebee was the
one who called a halt to the evening. “Curfew for the junior students! We are only booked until
this time, so everyone get moving before the teachers have to step in or we prefects have to dock
points. Senior students, please set a good example and escort the younger students back home.
Badgers, let’s go!”

The party broke up obediently, and Harry headed back to the Gryffindor dormitories with a crowd
of fellow lions.

On the way there, Midgen pulled Neville aside for a quick chat, and then Neville subsequently
approached Harry.

“Midgen says she has a good idea about deciphering the egg, but she doesn’t want everyone
listening in,” Neville whispered, leaning in close. “So, we should meet her tomorrow morning by
the lake before breakfast.”

Harry perked up. Any lead would be a good one, as he hadn’t found the recorded cacophony of
wails as helpful and straightforward as the clue for the first task had been. “Tell her thanks, and
we’ll see her tomorrow if I can get away from everyone.”

Neville nodded. “I shall play owl and let her know.”

As they went through the hidden entrance to the Gryffindor dorm, a wave of cheers greeted Harry.

“Surprise! Gryffindor after-party!” yelled the Weasley twins in unison.

Harry supressed a tired wince and plastered on another smile. It was nice to be appreciated, after
all.

Chapter End Notes

Whew! I hope you enjoyed my revamp of the first task and found it sufficiently
dramatic. The flapping of butterfly wings has seen a lot of changes. With Percy in
charge of his department, and new judges coming in with their own opinions, some
changes – both large and small – were made to the Tournament and the now four
tasks. Newt Scamander was not happy with the original plan to endanger nesting
mother dragons and their eggs in the Triwizard Tournament, so there was some frantic
redesigning of the first task behind the scenes. Marchbanks wanted a fairer points-
based assessment to determine the winner of each task and the overall Tournament.
Syed – Thank you for your discussion of Voldemort’s interest in Harry’s studies.
ASPIC – These are the French NEWTS. The abbreviation stands for: Accumulation de
Sorcellerie Particulièrement Intensive et Contraignante (Accumulation of Particularly
Intensive and Exhausting Wizarding). ‘Aspic’ in French can mean a type of small
poisonous viper. Thanks again to Stefan Bathory for help with French.
 Clues & Omens
Chapter Summary

Never put off for tomorrow what you can do today. Being a studious sort, Harry
begins early research and preparation for the second task.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

November – December 1994

The sky was still pitch black and the air was bitingly cold with a frosty, crisp wind when Harry and
Neville went out early the next morning to meet Eloise Midgen on the pebbled shore of the Black
Lake. The sun wouldn’t be up until after classes started, as daylight hours in winter in the north of
Scotland were very short indeed. As the duo trudged outside with their boots crunching on the
frost-rimed grass, their path lit by the glowing wands they held aloft, they grumbled together about
why Midgen couldn’t have simply met them in the library, instead.

“I don’t know why she even needed to meet in private,” Harry complained, his breath steaming in
the air. “I mean, I’ll probably just share things with the whole research gang anyway.”

“Perhaps it is information acquired by eavesdropping,” Neville suggested. “Still, that is no reason

to have to meet outside at this hour.” Neville recast his waning warming charm on his plain black
Hogwarts robe, then relit his wand with a muttered Lumos.

To their relief, Midgen was already waiting for them by the lake shore when they arrived, and they
spotted each other quickly since their lit wands cast little halos of light around each of them.

Midgen was quick to get down to business after token pleasantries were out of the way. “So, I
know what the noise the egg recorded is. I mean, I don’t know what it’s saying, but I know what
language it’s in.”

“It’s a language?” Harry asked, startled.

She nodded. “It’s Mermish. I’m almost positive. In the air, it sounds just like that – a horrible
screeching sound. It’s only comprehensible underwater, and from what the rune experts were
saying last night, there’s some water runes on the egg. If you try listening to it when it’s
underwater you might be able to make out what it’s saying.”

“Well, thanks very much for the tip! I don’t speak Mermish, though. So uh, do you know it? Could
you translate?” Harry asked optimistically.

She shrugged uncomfortably. “I only speak it a little. But you won’t need my help, I expect. It’s a
magical language, perhaps a bit like Parseltongue. If you’re underwater with a native Mermish
speaker, what they’re saying is comprehensible to you. Well, to any witch or wizard, that is. At
least some Muggles too, but I don’t know how reliable it is for them – I’ve never looked into it.
Anyway, you only need to learn it if you want to be able to communicate in air or want to read the
written form. Because it’s not actually English, it’s something you magically hear in your own
native language.”

Neville looked a bit confused after her explanation, but Harry thought it all made sense. “It does
sound a lot like Parseltongue then, in a lot of ways. To me it sounds like English, but apparently to
everyone else I’m hissing and saying stuff like ‘Hassah shassa srass!’ or something. But I get the
feeling sometimes when I’m talking to Storm that some words aren’t translating well, like ‘smell-
taste’ which we don’t have a word for in English, but I guess snakes only use the single compound
concept.”

“Yes!” Midgen agreed eagerly. “Mermish has a lot of words for currents and water conditions that
we don’t have, so there’s things like ‘forceful-current’ and ‘oscillating-tidal-current’ when you
hear it underwater. There’s also some odd words when it comes to directions as they’re more three-
dimensional.”

“So… Mermish is its own language, but we’d hear it as English, if we’re underwater? As best
English allows a translation?” Neville asked, checking his understanding.

“That’s right.”

“So, why didn’t you just tell me about this last night?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t want a lot of people asking me difficult questions about how I knew all about it,” Midgen
said, shrugging and looking uncomfortable. “It’s not common knowledge, and Mermish is barely
even mentioned in our Care of Magical Creatures textbook. I don’t know if there’s any books in the
Hogwarts library that talk about Mermish, and even then, it wouldn’t explain how I can recognise
it just by hearing it.”

“I thought you just liked mermaids?” Harry offered. “I study all kinds of things that aren’t in the
curriculum. Hermione does too.”

Neville, however, seemed less inclined to think that was the end of the story, and was staring at
Midgen more thoughtfully, head tilted. “How exactly do you know-” he started but was interrupted
by Eloise tugging off her thick black woollen gloves and thrusting her hands out towards them.

“Look,” she insisted, wiggling her fingers. “My hands. But… keep it secret. I don’t want to be
gossiped about. You owe me for sharing my clue, anyway.”

Harry peered at her hands, lit wand held close, but didn’t see anything unusual about them.

Neville took hold of her left hand and turned it over to peer at her palm. “No thick skin or scales.
Your palms look smooth?” he said thoughtfully, which clued Harry into what he was checking for
– possible merperson ancestry.

Harry took hold of her other hand and looked more closely. Hidden in between the joints of her
fingers and her thumb, there were thin white lines of scar tissue on the sides of each digit. Only a
keen observer would spot them, and even then only if her fingers were splayed out. With her
fingers close together the scarring would be unnoticeable.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, before letting her hand go.

“I have a grandfather who’s a selkie,” Midgen said quietly, putting her gloves back on. “We see
him every spring tide, and he’s taught me a little Mermish.

“I was born with webbing between my fingers. Not enough to actually help me swim. Certainly not
enough heritage to let me shapeshift into a seal, or anything useful. It was just enough to flag to the
world that I’m a mixed breed; worse than a half-blood. So, my parents had it cut away, just like my
mother did when she was young. She has it between her toes, too, and has to hide the rough skin on
her palms as well.”

“I swear on the honour of the Noble House of Longbottom that I will not share information about
your selkie heritage without your permission,” Neville promised gravely.

“I accept your vow. Thank you, I appreciate that a lot,” Midgen said, sounding relieved.

Harry quickly joined in with a similar promise, and his inclusion of ‘the Noble and Most Ancient
House of Slytherin’ to the more expected Houses of Potter and Black got him an odd look from
Midgen and wide eyes from Neville.

Harry turned to address Midgen. “You’re being open and honest about something embarrassing
and potentially socially damaging, just to help me in the Tournament,” he explained. “I felt it
demanded some kind of show of trust in return. Since we’re being all formal adding my extra title
in felt appropriate. Besides, it’s pretty common gossip now, anyway, thanks to Lockhart’s book.
From what I’ve learnt in the Chamber of Secrets, being the Heir is something you can prove
simply by being a Parselmouth and there not being any other claimants, since it’s such a rare trait
in British families. Post owls are finding me that way too, so I guess it’s as official as it can be. I’m
the Heir of Slytherin.”

“I’m shocked,” Midgen said dryly.

Well, perhaps it’s not that much of a secret anymore, Harry thought. Alright, something else then.

“Okay then… I’m a Metamorphmagus,” he admitted quietly. “Not very strongly, but I have the
talent. You’re now one of only four people at school who know, along with Neville, Millicent, and
Draco, so please keep it to yourself.”

“Why would you hide that?” she said, with a quizzical look. “That’s a very respectable talent, and
not linked to any magical creature heritage.”

Harry shrugged and looked away. “I don’t like standing out and being different. Not that I have
much of a choice this year. Stupid goblet. I still wish people hadn’t put my name in.”

“Well, I don’t understand why you’re bothered about it, but I will try to respect your wishes,”
Midgen promised. “Do you not want people gossiping about how you’re a Seer, either? Is it true
that you didn’t do Divination because you don’t want people to realise the full extent of your
power of Second Sight?”

“I’m not a Seer of any kind,” Harry said, blinking in puzzlement. “It’s not one of my talents.”

Oh yes, the rumours last year. He remembered now.

“Then how did you predict the Dementor attack last year? You and your friends trained up for it in
advance.”

“That was just common sense. The Dementors were used to living in a big stone building filled
with food – wizards and witches. Then the Ministry moved them here, to a big stone building filled
with more delicious food – kids overflowing with happy emotions – and told them not to eat
anything. They were like hungry animals placed next to a scrumptious all-you-can-eat buffet and
ordered to sit and starve. It was inevitable it’d go wrong eventually.”

“Common sense, the rarest magical talent of all,” Neville said with an amused grin, and they all
laughed.

-000-

A crowd of eager volunteers was shooed away from the large table Harry and his friends had
settled down at in the library in the afternoon. In fact, they need to repeat the process a couple of
times.

“My cousin has not yet deciphered the Tournament clue, but he has a possible lead and a plan to do
so,” Pansy told another batch of students who’d wandered over to their table. “We shall spread
word when further research or training assistance is required and thank you for your offer of help.
For now, my cousin needs quiet to catch up on his schoolwork.”

“Thanks again,” Harry muttered, as Pansy sat back down next to him with a self-satisfied air.

“It was my pleasure to aid you,” she said, returning to her Charms essay.

While on the surface everything looked amicable at their inter-House study group, the seating at
the long wooden table had required a little shuffling and negotiation. Greg had wanted to sit with
Vincent, and Vincent wanted to sit with Draco. However, Hermione wanted to sit with Greg but
pointedly not next to Draco, and Neville didn’t seem to want to sit with any of the Slytherins today
(but there were so many that was difficult to arrange). Too many people wanted to sit next to
Harry, who just wanted to study quietly and was having difficulty doing so with both the constant
trickle of students stopping by. Plus there was the distraction of Luna, Theodore, Daphne, Tracey,
and Anthony gossiping excitedly (and too loudly) about the rumours of an upcoming Yule Ball that
were buzzing around the school (started by the Slytherins, some of whom had heard it
‘confidentially’ from Slughorn).

Draco was too busy helping Vincent with his Charms essay to want to take the time to shoo away
interlopers, so Pansy (who’d already finished her own essay) was placed next to Harry as his social
guard. Hermione was on his other side, with Millicent and Neville opposite them, both studying
quietly. The noisy chatterers discussing the ball were at one end of the table, joined unusually by
Lavender Brown (not a regular in their social group) who was eager to hear the latest gossip.

Draco, Greg, and Vincent were at the other end of the table, talking quietly. Theoretically. In
practice Harry couldn’t help but listen in. It was more interesting than the chatter at the other end
of the table about who might be asking who to the Yule Ball, and what dress robes everyone had
brought to Hogwarts. He didn’t think he was being alone in being distracted by that more studious
group either – Hermione seemed to be listening in too, despite her affected disinterest.

“I can see what you were trying to say but it is not coming across clearly,” Draco said to Vincent,
drying the freshly inked notes on a sheet of parchment with a quick charm and handing it back to
him. “Try rewriting it and start by explaining what charm you are talking about, and then talk
about its effects. Also, you forgot to finish your sentence in the fourth paragraph; I’ve added in a
suggested conclusion. Spelling corrections are in blue today, I have run out of green ink. I shall get
some more at Hogsmeade in a couple of weeks. Watch your letter formation as always – I have
circled the ones you need to fix in your final version.”

“Thank you. I hate essays,” Vincent grumbled. “I want to get at least an Acceptable on this one, so
my mother will stop calling me lazy.”

“You are not lazy, you just have difficulty with writing,” Draco said sternly. “You work hard at
your reading, over and over until it sticks, if I don’t have time to read to you, and you practice your
spells every day until your enunciation is perfect. That is the opposite of lazy. You are a diligent
student.”

Vincent looked embarrassed. “I guess. Just dumb, I suppose. You do not forget what was at the
start of a page by the time you are at the end of it.”

“Well I do not read as fast as Granger does nor can I cast the range of spells that Harry can,” Draco
said. Harry noticed Hermione’s eyes flick down the table as Draco said her name. “However, that
does not make me dumb. We all have different strengths and you are excellent at your practical
spellcasting once you have drilled in the incantations – better than at least a third of the class, even
– and that is what will matter most for your OWLs and NEWTs. You are not dumb and I do not
want to hear you calling yourself that again, Crabbe!”

Draco’s voice was bossy and stern, almost angry, but despite that Vincent looked incredibly happy
at his friend’s words. He hung his head to hide the traces of tears glimmering in his eyes, but his
irrepressible quivering smile said they were tears of happiness.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, his deep voice a little choked-up.

“You are also good in the physical sphere, and you are an excellent Beater.”

“I did not make the team, though. Just as a Reserve again.”

“Well not this year, of course. However, you are guaranteed Derrick’s spot next year,” Draco
promised. “Which reminds me, I have a gift for you that arrived from father this morning.”

Draco rummaged in his bag and pulled out a thin rectangular box tied with a green and silver
ribbon. Vincent opened it to reveal what looked like a plain white feather quill with an attached
silver tip a bit like a fountain pen.

“What does it do?” he asked.

“It is a Dictation Quill,” Draco said, drawing the words out slowly as if very smugly proud of his
announcement.

Vincent hastily scrubbed the traces of tears out of the corners of his eyes with the back of his robe
sleeve and looked at Draco in amazement.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Top quality! Guaranteed not to fail for at least three years. You will have to attune it
before it will work, of course.”

Vincent packed the quill back in its box with such reverent care that you would think the quill was
more precious than gold.

Mind you, knowing how devalued gold is in wizarding society, it probably is more precious, Harry
thought.

Greg importuned Draco to read over his draft essay next, which Draco did with a sigh. Harry
wondered if Draco would get a chance to work on his own essay at all. At least they were all
quieter now.

Harry wrapped up his own essay and got his wand out to dry the wet ink.

“Are you finished already? Professor Flitwick said three to four feet. You’ve barely reached that,”
Hermione commented, craning her neck to peer at his essay. “Do you want to borrow my ruler to
check?”

Harry shook his head. “No, it’s enough. I’ve covered all the important information, and some extra
things.”

“May I read it? I promise I won’t copy anything.”

“Sure, I guess.”

Hermione read through his essay eagerly. “Why did you talk about the Vanishing Spell when the
essay was on the Scouring Charm? You barely spent a third of the essay on that part, which is the
actual assigned topic. Oh! There’s a few other cleaning charms in here too.”

“They’re all related,” Harry explained. “The point is to show we understand the theory, not to tell
Professor Flitwick a hundred details about the Scouring Charm that he already knows. You could
write about the Vanishing Spell too – you practiced it with me in class, after all.”

“But that was for Transfiguration, it wasn’t even for Charms! It doesn’t belong in a Charms
essay!”

“You got to learn a fifth-year spell in class? That is so unfair,” Draco complained. “Professor
McGonagall is biased in favour of her Gryffindors.”

“Not as bad as Snape was for his Slytherins,” Neville retorted.

Draco hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so. Slughorn seems more even-handed with points.”

Neville smiled. Harry was happy too, that their mild argument hadn’t boiled over into something
bigger.

“Besides, it was just an exception for the Tournament,” Harry explained. “I usually have to stick
with studying the same spells as everyone else, even when I already know them.”

Hermione’s head jerked up then stilled, like a cat that had spotted a mouse, but she didn’t say
anything and silently returned to reading Harry’s essay.

“I’m going to have to edit my essay,” she admitted once she’d finished, sighing as she handed
Harry’s essay back, and pulling out a roll of fresh parchment.

“Try not to make it too much longer,” Pansy warned her. “Remember, he marks down for that.”

“I know, I know… but thanks for the reminder.”

-000-

On the way back to Gryffindor Tower to drop off their bags and collect Storm before dinner,
Hermione talked about Arithmancy and their recent lessons on the importance of prime numbers
until Lavender Brown got bored and ran ahead of their little group of Gryffindors.

“…That’s why wizards come of age at seventeen. Prime numbers are powerful for grounding or
empowering magic. Have you noticed the currency rates are all prime numbers? Seventeen Sickles
to a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. That’s not a coincidence. There are also seven
players per side for Quidditch – another prime number. They’re the purest numbers because
they’re indivisible. Composite numbers aren’t as magically powerful because they’re divisible and
thus breakable – less strong.”

With Brown away from their group, Hermione seized the opportunity to drag Harry aside for a chat
in one of the empty classrooms, trailed (without objection) by Neville.

“Harry, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while,” she started hesitantly, “but I didn’t
want to say anything earlier in case I upset you or distracted you from your preparation for the
Triwizard Tournament. Which was obviously important and needed to be your top priority, given
how dangerous we thought the first task might be.”

“Um, thanks? So, what’s this about, then?” Harry asked.

Hermione took a deep breath, visibly steeling herself. “I think… no, I’m sure, that you could do
better in class than you generally have been. I thought it was just Potions, and I didn’t even realise
for ages that that had been on purpose. But… you’ve been underperforming in class in multiple
subjects for quite some time, haven’t you? I’m not just imagining it, I’m sure I’m not. Every year
you get better, but I don’t think it’s just that. You could be answering more questions in class, but
you never do. I’ve seen you lately, in the Senior Potter Watch group, and in the Tournament.
You’re even doing better in Astronomy, and you’ve never done well in Astronomy – never better
than an Acceptable – and you certainly haven’t had time to study for it lately.”

“That is why he’s doing better,” Neville said, very quietly.

“Is… that okay?” Harry asked. “That my grades are going up?”

“That you’re doing better in classes? That you’re good at magic? Of course it’s okay!” Hermione
said emphatically. “What I just don’t understand is why you haven’t been doing the best you can
all along! Is it… is it because of me?”

Hermione looked at him with worried eyes, biting at her lip. “Because we’ll still be friends even if
you’re better than me at some – or all – of our classes. You know that, don’t you? You came top of
the year for Charms and DADA last year, and we were both alright with that, weren’t we, Neville?
And I tried my hardest to be supportive in Transfiguration, wasn’t I encouraging enough?”

“It’s not you, it’s fine. I mean, I worried about that for a while, I’ll admit, but you were fine last
year, so…” Harry trailed off and shrugged. “But it’s not you. It’s… well it’s complicated.”

“Is it your family? The Dursleys? Did they ah… threaten you with something if you didn’t improve
your grades?” Hermione asked anxiously. “I could get my parents to talk to them, if that would
help? Or we could talk to Professor McGonagall? I’m sure we can find some senior students to
help tutor you in History of Magic and Astronomy if you’re wanting to bring your grades up!”

“Oh no, please don’t!” Harry said. “It’s not that at all, anyway. They don’t care about my grades;
the only time we talked about it they even wanted me to do well. I just… we didn’t even talk about
my results over summer. Any of them – magical or Muggle subjects.”

“What?” Hermione asked, brow furrowed. “Not at all? Why not? Did you write to them earlier?
Why wouldn’t they talk things over with you?”

“They don’t care, Hermione,” Harry said wearily. “They don’t care about my grades. At all. I was
glad just to get a lift to go and sit my IGCSE exams.”

Hermione still looked bewildered. “If they don’t care if you do well or not – which I find hard to
believe – why aren’t you just trying your best at Hogwarts?”
Harry sighed. That was harder to answer, and a bit of a mess. He looked over at Neville for
support.

“It will be fine, Harry. You can tell her,” he encouraged.

“I hope so, and if I don’t, she’ll probably just go running to my teachers like she did with Snape,”
Harry said, a touch of old resentment sneaking into his voice.

“What? You mean back in second year? He was giving you Acceptables for Outstanding quality
potions! It was outrageous – I was sticking up for you!”

“Yes… but you should have talked to me first,” Harry said, chin jutting forwards. “Professor Snape
and I had a deal. I was trying to raise my grade slowly. So people wouldn’t think I was cheating, or
the subject of favouritism, or anything. I didn’t want to stand out.”

“That’s why you went from a D in first year to getting an E in second year, and an O in third year,”
Hermione said slowly. “If you’d tried harder and done your very best, would you have beaten me
to top of the class last year?”

“Do you memorise all my grades?” Harry asked, with astonishment.

Hermione folded her arms. “I have a good memory. I can’t help that any more than you can help
being a Parselmouth.”

“Fair enough. And no, you got top of the class fair and square. I’ve been doing the best I can in
Potions already. In most of my classes, actually.”

“But not all.”

“He cares not for his History of Magic results,” Neville said. “Nor do I, honestly. It is not a very
useful subject, doubly so in Binns’ hands.”

“I have a plan I’m working on about that,” Hermione said, waving a hand vaguely, “but let’s not
get off-topic. Harry, what aren’t you trying your hardest in?”

“You figured it out already. History of Magic and Astronomy, though I’m relaxing on the latter.
People keep nagging me.”

“You get Es sometimes in Transfiguration?” Hermione said, making the statement into a question
with a lilting rise to her voice. “And Ancient Runes?”

Harry shrugged. “Yes, well, I’m still trying. Transfiguration spells are just so stupid, a lot of the
time. I mean seriously, beetles into buttons and guinea fowl into guinea pigs? They’re such useless
spells. Not that I’d dare say that to McGonagall’s face, but it’s true.”

“It’s an application of theory to build on–” Hermione began justifying, before Harry cut her off.

“Yes, I understand all that, but I still don’t enjoy practising them, and I don’t always get the
Arithmancy behind why transforming into similarly named things is important. The theory is dull
and confusing, and my spells aren’t always as strong as they should be. And I love Ancient Runes
but it’s just plain hard and I haven’t read much in advance for that. I have so many things to study
for and I can’t be good at everything. There was barely enough time last year and that was with a
Time-Turner! This year is worse. I’m trying really hard to bring my Ancient Runes grade up,
though.”
Hermione frowned, and looked thoughtful. “Who’s nagging you about your Astronomy grade?
Neville?”

Neville shook his head. “Not me. I have known since our first year that Harry does what he wants
with his grades and that he is not worrying about them until fifth year, for his OWLs.”

Lord Voldemort is nagging me, Harry thought, but certainly couldn’t say. There was someone else
he could mention, though.

“Snape bugs me about it sometimes,” he admitted. “He knows I’ve been planning out my grades.
He tricked,” – blackmailed – “me into doing better in Charms.”

“Back in second year,” Hermione said slowly, “when you went from being an E student to top of
the class.”

She bowed her head and buried her face in her hands. “And it wasn’t because of me?” she asked, in
a muffled voice, face obscured by her hands and her mane of curly brown hair. It was less frizzy
and bushy than it had been in first year, now her dormmates had pushed her into using more hair-
care products and cutting back on her furious brushing, but it was still a thick riot of long curls.

Harry sighed again. “It was worry about what the Dursleys would say if I did well, because they
hate magic so much. Though Dudley at least doesn’t, not anymore. Then it was just not wanting to
stand out and have people talk about me being special, because that’s tiring and uncomfortable. I
also didn’t want to look like a cheat whose grades went up suspiciously fast.

“There was a little bit of worry about what you and Neville might think if I did better than you,”
Harry said, understating his concern from that time, “but I trust now that you won’t mind and we
can still be friends. Besides, Neville’s genuinely better than me at Herbology, and you’re better at
History of Magic and Potions, so I think it’ll all be okay.”

“Brace yourself, I’m going to hug you,” Hermione warned, and moved up slowly to wrap her arms
around Harry, then reached out an arm to drag Neville in to share a group hug.

“You will always be my friends,” Hermione said seriously. “Both of you. Even if you beat me at
everything. I want you to do the best you can, Harry. You’re my first and best friends and I will
never let you go.”

“M-me too,” Neville agreed, with less eloquence but just as much sincerity shining in his eyes.

Harry squeezed them both tightly, hiding the tremble in his hands.

-000-

“Ask him now,” Storm hissed. His body was coiled around Harry’s shoulders, and his head was
curved around to look Harry in the face from inches away. It was making Harry go cross-eyed.

“Dear Merlin, ssstop nagging me! I already sssaid no!” Harry replied crossly, carefully
manoeuvring a spoonful of porridge past Storm and into his mouth. His snake was making eating
breakfast a very difficult task today. At least it was the weekend and Harry could take his time.

“Now, now, now! Before it’s too late! Please, I want to talk to them!”

“No.”

Neville and Hermione snickered quietly to each other as they watched Harry argue with his snake.
They couldn’t understand what the two were hissing to each other, but Harry’s expression said a
lot, and he’d curtly explained to them earlier that Storm had been nagging him all morning like a
particularly wearying toddler.

“What’s the line-up of the Slytherins, Ron?” Neville asked, trying to distract his rather white-faced
friend from thinking too much about his imminent debut as Keeper at the year’s inaugural
Quidditch match. “How does it compare to the Gryffindor team?”

“Please!”

“No!” Harry repeated, more forcefully.

“Uh, well Bulstrode got out of the Reserves and made Beater, so Bole’s out. That may work well
for us, he had a good arm and didn’t care if he fouled. We’ll see how she works with Derrick.
Pucey’s taken Flint’s old spot as the third Chaser, and Montague and Warrington have kept their
spots as Chasers. Pucey’s a sixth-year and was a Reserve last year, so probably a strong opponent,”
Ron said. “I expect he’ll coordinate well with them. Malfoy’s still Seeker, of course.” While he still
sounded nervous Ron looked less panicked the more he talked.

“Greg didn’t get Keeper,” Hermione added, sounding disappointed. “He’s still a Reserve. But he’s
practically guaranteed the spot next year because Bletchley’s going to concentrate on his NEWTs
as he doesn’t want a career in Quidditch. Crabbe’s in the same boat – waiting for an older player to
age out. He’s got his eye on the second Beater spot for next year, when Derrick will have
graduated.”

“Please, Harold! Just a little talk! Clever-men hatchlings need my wisdom!”

“They really don’t. They’ll think I’m being ridiculouss.”

Harry tried to listen in to the discussion of Andrew Kirke’s performance at the tryouts that had led
the former Reserve Seeker for Gryffindor taking Dunbar’s position from her, and something about
Ginny Weasley trying out for a spot, but Storm kept hissing right in his face. It was very
distracting.

“They do. Do. Do. Do! They do need my wisdom. Don’t you care about me? Thiss is important to
me! How would you feel if an Elder wouldn’t let you talk to sssomeone about sssomething
important? I would talk to them on my own if I could, but I cannot. You have to help me.”

“Alright!” Harry shouted, giving in. “Fine! I’ll ask him!”

“Peregrine!” Harry called, jogging up to catch up to the older Slytherin boy before he left the
Slytherin table. “Um. I didn’t want to ask you, but Storm’s insisting–”

“Ask him! Tell him I am very wise!”

“Shush! I’m asking!”

Harry held a weary hand up to his forehead. “Okay, look, I know it’s silly, but Storm wants to give
the Slytherin Quidditch team a pep talk before today’s match. He thinks he’s a strategic expert.
He’s not in the slightest, he barely understands Quidditch at all, but he wants to motivate you to
win and he just won’t take no for an answer.”

The team seemed generally delighted by the notion, embarrassing though Harry thought the idea
was.
“Aww!” Millicent cooed.

“He’s such a good fan!”

“What’s a pep talk?”

“Some kind of encouraging speech, I expect.”

“I have never been given a ‘pep talk’ by a snake before.”

“My sister would never forgive me if I did not agree,” Peregrine said, with a laugh. “Come on then,
join us in the change rooms for a moment before the match. We do not want any eavesdropping
Gryffindors getting the benefit of Storm’s words of wisdom.”

Harry dragged Pansy along too, since she was going to snake-sit. Storm wanted to sit with the
Slytherins for the match, and his usual favourite Millicent was going to be playing Beater today for
the first time. Luna had knitted Storm a tiny snake-sized striped green and silver scarf and a little
matching hat (stuck on with a charm) to help him show what team he barracked for, and he looked
frankly adorable.

The Quidditch team assembled ready to play the first match of the season, and Peregrine gave a
quick “beat them all into the ground and remember our plays” pep talk to his team before turning
the floor over to Harry and Storm.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Well, at least he wasn’t having to do this in the middle of the
Great Hall.

“Storm wants Slytherin to win today and insists on me translating some advice and encouragement
for you, so here goes,” Harry began, then switched to a fairly accurate translation of his pet’s
hisses.

“The House of Snakes is the best House. Snakes are always the best. Your practice-hunt will show
that snakes are better than the other animals, so don’t let the lions win! Remember you are sneaky
predators. Don’t let your prey see you coming! Hide until you are ready to strike, just an innocent
stick floating in the sky not bothering anyone. Don’t let your prey know your intention until it is
too late! Catch and strike the flying things and make the Snake House proud. Be stealthy and bite
hard. Do not bite each other, only dry-strike and bite at the lions. Since you cannot eat them, make
them limp away today knowing it is foolish to challenge snakes because snakes will win.”

There was laughter mixed with the applause for Storm’s pep talk, and with a blush staining his
cheeks despite the positive reception, Harry passed Storm over to Pansy with a sigh of relief.

“That was great,” Draco said. “There was some good advice in there.”

“And it was funny!” Millicent added. “He’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

“Tell Storm I promise to ‘bite’ the lions,” Montague said.

“We’ll all be sneaky, vicious snakes, it’s what we do best. Now, are you going to listen to his
wisdom and barrack for your true House?” Peregrine asked Harry, with a teasing smile.

“C’mon, I was Sorted into Gryffindor,” Harry said, with a hint of a whine. “I can’t sit with
Slytherin. But… I will cheer for my friends, here and there.”

“Glad to hear it!” Millicent said.

“Did they listen?” Storm checked. “Do they understand the plan?”

“They loved your talk. They promised to be sneaky and do their best to win. And be sssneaky and
viciouss and bite the lions.”

“Good,” Storm said, and was carried away to the Slytherin stands, a very satisfied snake among his
fellow fans.

Harry went off to sit in the Gryffindor stands and to cheer for both teams. An uncomfortable
neutrality that earnt him some cries to shut up from angry Gryffindor fans around him. McLaggen
was particularly upset by Harry being a “traitor to Gryffindor” by cheering when Millicent scored
her first good hit with a Bludger, almost knocking the Gryffindor Captain and Chaser Johnson off
her broom, but he wasn’t the only one giving Harry dark looks. Being neutral was tough, and meant
it was impossible to please everyone once tensions rose. Those around him weren’t happy with his
fluctuating support, and those on the other side wished he’d leave his old House and support them
whole-heartedly instead.

Harry sighed. The analogy wasn’t lost on him; it was the war in miniature. The problem was, he
had friends on both sides and didn’t want to see anyone get hurt.

Draco triumphantly caught the Snitch in the end, winning glory for Slytherin (and for one
delighted scaly fan) by a narrow margin. Harry wondered if it was an omen.

-000-

December’s H.E.L.P. Society meeting focused on a discussion of Yule traditions about giving
house-elves the day off, and on encouraging society members to write letters to their relatives
reminding them of old traditions.

“Remember, only gifts of clothes from Heads of Houses can free house-elves, so most people here
can give house-elves clothes without harming them. Just remember to reassure them that they’re
not being cast out, and that the clothes are from you, not your parents or relatives,” Hermione said.

Harry and Neville, as possible exceptions to this rule, had prepared gifts for their elves of plain
swathes of cloth and embroidery supplies. They’d also done a swap – each had bought shoes for
their friend’s house-elves. As such, they didn’t need to join in the sewing circle that the meeting
developed into after the speeches from people reporting on their progress researching and helping
house-elves had concluded. Neville joined in anyway, however, just to be social, sitting down next
to Ron’s sister.

Susan Bones had attended the meeting, and Hermione had pointedly welcomed her so thoroughly
that Bones was looking a bit embarrassed by the attention.

She slunk into a seat and was promptly flanked by Justin Finch-Fletchley (who hovered
protectively and glared at anyone who looked at Bones funny) and Daphne Greengrass, who’d
never before attended a H.E.L.P. Society meeting. It looked to Harry’s eye like she and Bones had
formed a bit of a friendship, as her quiet presence seemed to be welcome.

A few of the international students had come along to the morning’s meeting. From Durmstrang
Viktor Krum and Hark Bahnsen had chosen to attend, and from Beauxbatons there were two girls
to air-kiss the hands of: a skinny, flat-chested blonde girl named Sophie Dubois, and her dark-
skinned pretty friend Aminata Ndiaye, the latter of whom Harry had met very briefly at Slughorn’s
soiree. If he recalled correctly, her family was from Senegal. The girls settled down with the
sewing circle, made up of both male and female Hogwarts students, Dobby (whom Harry had
specially invited, much to his delight), plus two cheerful house-elves in togas monogrammed with
the Hogwarts crest.

In French-accented English the Beauxbatons students taught the Hogwarts students some good
spells to speed things along, like a spell to press a fold of cloth into a hem ready for stitching, and a
handy little charm to untangle a knotted thread. Apparently all Beauxbatons girls had to take
‘Homemaking’ as a core subject for five years to OWL level, but male students were allowed to
drop it after only three years and could thereafter take two years of Duelling if they preferred that
to Homemaking (which most did).

“Madame Maxime sinks it is egalitarian and not sexist,” complained Dubois, “just because ze boys
must do some of ze économie domestique classes too. We in les Femmes Savantes – you would say
ze Learned Ladies – at Beauxbatons, we are trying to change ze classes. But it is not fast to change
sings. So, we study duelling for ourselves at our association meetings.”

Anthony and Harry had a bit of a quiet chat about exactly why at the last meeting Anthony had
suggested that someone else talk to paintings and ghosts about house-elves but wasn’t willing to do
so himself.

“It’s a combination of religious obligation and loopholes,” Anthony explained. “It’s not technically
against Jewish law to be a wizard, though a lot of people say it’s completely forbidden for women
to learn magic. A lot of it has to do with how you translate things though. Really the Torah only
prohibits a list of very particular kinds of magic. Devarim chapter 18 – that’s Deuteronomy to you
– is where it’s really spelt out in detail. So, I don’t dabble in necromancy, or consult spirits of any
kind – the law’s clear that we shouldn’t talk to ghosts or spirits. My parents don’t even want me
learning the Patronus Charm. Basically, anything involving the dead, spirits, or divination is
banned. That’s part of why I didn’t take Divination as a subject.”

“Portraits aren’t really dead though. And it doesn’t take necromancy to talk to ghosts – they’re right
there already,” Harry pointed out.

“Well that’s true, and some Jews will certainly make that argument, but others say it’s better to err
on the side of safety. To avoid giving even the impression to others that you might have summoned
a spirit or be disturbing their rest. It’s not a hardship to avoid them, so that’s my own personal
choice.”

“Are any other Hogwarts subjects a problem for you, apart from Divination?”

“Astronomy’s fine but astrology’s not, because you’re arrogantly guessing at a future that only
HaShem knows, and probably deceiving people. Though there’s still a little wiggle room there I
think – Joseph interpreted prophetic dreams for the Pharaoh, after all, and we know he had a silver
cup for divining. Which presumably he did without consulting spirits. There are a few other
specific banned things like how you mustn’t practice malignant knot-based magic where you hex
someone by tying or weaving a thread, though tying knots in your tzitzit is alright. And uh… you
should not charm snakes.”

“Oh.”

“But you can do what you like!” Anthony hastened to add, looking just as uncomfortable as Harry
felt. “I mean, just because I don’t talk to ghosts or eat pork or shellfish it doesn’t mean everyone
else has to observe all the mitzvot. I don’t mind… that is, you can talk to your pet. I guess it’s just
that it’s potentially dangerous. Aside from the story of Eden – obviously there’s an issue there in
talking to evil serpents instead of obeying HaShem – snakes were feared and deadly threats
centuries ago. Still are, I guess? Yours seems nice, though.”
“What about that whole thing of ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’?” Harry asked, determinedly
ignoring the awkward slur on Parselmouths and Anthony’s consequent babbling apologetic
disclaimer. He also didn’t want to discuss how ‘nice’ Storm was. He liked Storm but had to admit
that his scaly friend could be rather violently minded at times. He could also easily imagine how a
tribe of shepherds in ancient times might have been terrified by someone who could control a
Basilisk, or even ordinary poisonous snakes.

Anthony let out a huff of breath, looking relieved to move on. “Shemot 17? Mistranslations of
mekhashepha, if you ask me. Or if you ask my dad, or my rabbi. It’s an old word we’ve honestly
lost full context for. We know it’s feminine, and singular, and the root of the word involves either
muttering or ‘to cut’, as in cutting herbs. Probably. ‘Poisoner’ I think is usually a better translation,
and that’s what the Greeks went with for some versions of the Christian bible – herbalist or
poisoner. ‘Potioneer’ I think is another option – a witch brewing harmful potions. And there’s
plenty of places in the Torah where herbs are fine, so I don’t think potions in of themselves are
prohibited. I don’t have a problem with Potions so long as we’re not using them to harm people.
There’s always exceptions allowed in the law for things that may save someone’s life, after all.”

He looked very animated as he explained, all excited babble and gesturing hands, like he relished
the opportunity to talk about it.

“So that’s what Jews think about that line that led to so many witch burnings?” Harry asked.

Anthony snorted. “You can blame Christians and the patriarchy for the witch burning mania!
Nothing to do with us.

“Now, I certainly can’t speak for everyone about how to interpret the Torah, only myself. Poliakoff
– a Jewish student from Durmstrang – isn’t against being a wizard either, obviously. Nor is my
family, or a few other Jewish magical families we know. But no, I’d say in general plenty of Jews
are against all forms of witchcraft and wizardry, not just Dark magic. However, there’s a sizeable
minority who’ll make an exception for wizards learning Kabbalah – our own tradition of wizardry.
There’s a relatively newly established yeshiva in Jerusalem that teaches young wizards – but not
witches – however, my family’s gone to Hogwarts for generations so here I am.”

“So, there’s generally not a lot of Jewish wizards learning our style of magic, and almost no
witches?”

“Pretty much. I know it sounds a bit sexist but it’s not as bad as it used to be – once we might all
have been executed for any kind of spellcasting! The prejudice against magic remains, though. It’s
the main reason why Israel doesn’t have a lot of wizards and witches working for their Ministry of
Magic who are trained in the kind of broader European style of magic. I’m thinking about making
Aliyah and going there after I graduate; I might join a specialist magical group in the IDF for a
couple of years and join in the fight against the djinn that people keep sending to Israel. They really
need as many wizards and witches as they can manage to recruit, and those yeshiva boys try and
avoid enlisting as much as they can, maybe out of fear they’ll have to talk to women or something.
Anyway, there’s some great incentives and the Israeli Ministry is actually pretty practical about
what’s the ‘right’ sort of magic when people’s lives are on the line from enemy spellcasters or
magical creatures.”

While they chatted quietly, Colin Creevey and a couple of older eager Quidditch fans had cornered
Krum (and incidentally his companion Bahnsen) and were eagerly trying to talk non-stop to him
about Quidditch.

Hermione set her knitting needles and half-finished tiny beanie aside and bustled over to the overly
loud group. “That’s quite enough, thank you!” she ordered. “If you want to talk about Quidditch
you can leave. We’re here to talk about house-elves and to work on assisting them.”

“You could come and sit with us and do some sewing while we talk?” Creevey suggested to Krum,
with bright eager eyes.

“No tenk you,” he said shortly. “I woult rather talk ebout house-elfs.”

Hermione looked a little startled but gathered herself with a quick shake of her head. “You heard
him, shoo!”

Creevey scurried away obediently to the sewing circle, but others were not so promptly biddable.

“Charming manners,” grumbled one of the older boys, with a dismissive sneer. “Just what you
would expect, really. Come, let us depart.” He and a friend left the meeting, which Hermione
didn’t seem to judge was any great loss. Harry was pretty sure they’d never attended before.

Another couple of students ambled away to another corner of the room to finish their conversation
more quietly, before mingling to join some amateur genealogists (aided admirably by Daphne and
Bones) researching the Crouch family tree. Apparently the new elf at Hogwarts, Winky, had been
coaxed by Hermione into admitting apologetically – but insistently – that she needed to find the
Heir of the House and wouldn’t accept any other position with another family.

“Tenk you, Miss Granger,” Krum said, his scowl lifting. “I em much… tenk you for your help.”

“You are most welcome,” she said primly. “I’m sorry I didn’t interfere earlier. I didn’t realise your
fans were bothering you.”

“I do not always want to be talkink of Quidditch,” Krum said. “I haff more interests. Um. I wrote
dis for you.”

Rummaging in a dark, heavy cloth satchel, he drew out a scroll of parchment and passed it to
Hermione. “It is about de nykr – is what we learnink at Doormstrank,” he explained, pronouncing
the name of his school with a heavy accent. “You woult say de nixies. We haff many near our
school. Water-elfs. Dey luff music end is sad when dey are away from deir rivers end lakes. Dey
cennot stay away from de water for very lonk.”

Hermione looked shocked but intrigued, as she unrolled the parchment scroll and started reading.
“Why, this is excellent, Krum! Do you study Care of Magical Creatures at Durmstrang, then? Oh,
should I call you Krum? Mr. Krum? What’s appropriate?”

“I em not studyink it for my NEWTs, but it is interestink. I taked it for my OWLs. Krum is fine, or
Viktor if you want,” he offered, pronouncing his surname like ‘Krroom’. “We are tryink to use de
British customs here, so we not say ‘Mister’ like for Doormstrank. I use Krumov when I em talkink
wit Muggles in Bulgaria. We are not always goot in Bulgaria follow de Statute of Secrecy, like in
de Worlt Wars when we helpink, end many are friends wit some Muggles. Anyway, it is like de
difference between John end Johnson. It soundink old-fashion for Muggles to just say Krum, which
is like just say John. It is alright for wizards, dough; dey know it is goot family name end name of
de famous Khan.”

“That’s very interesting! And thank you. You can call me Hermione, if you like,” she said,
finishing with a brilliant smile, before returning to reading his essay that she was clearly very
absorbed with. “This is very good! Excellent research.”

“Tenk you, Hermione,” he said carefully, with a roll to his r and a little hiss on the h a bit like a cat.
It was close enough that she didn’t worry about correcting his pronunciation. He sat quietly and
watched her read his essay, not looking in the least put out at being essentially ignored.

Bahnsen – who’d been listening in very quietly as the two talked – patted Krum on the shoulder
and grinned at him, before wandering away from the two to talk to Harry and Anthony (who’d
similarly been quietly eavesdropping, if a little more discreetly).

“Have you ever discussed se idea of settink up a Sanctuary for mistreated or elderly house-elfs, or
those who does not haff a decent home?” Bahnsen suggested.

Their discussion of whether house-elves could live in a self-run village on a large estate or whether
they needed a proper house or not went on for some time, drawing in more people as it continued.
Some favoured the idea of semi-independence for house-elves, while others worried it would be
more be more like a feudal set-up with a lord and a village of serfs.

“We could let them keep a good share of the profits from their labour! Orchards, or some kind of
workshop.”

“They could reinvest it into their village,” suggested Harry.

“That’s what lords did with serfs! We don’t want wizarding society becoming more feudal!”

“What about independently-owned land then?” asked Luna.

“I sink that is se best idea,” Bahnsen agreed.

“Owned by who? House-elves? It wouldn’t work!”

“We would nots be wanting paying for our work,” a horrified kitchen elf said.

“But if there’s no recompense for your work then that sounds worryingly like the start of plantation
labour,” Hermione fretted. Krum’s essay all finished, she was drawn over to join in their
increasingly passionate discussion. “Like the satyrs or fenodyree were bound to work – field-elves
toiling in vineyards.”

Krum trailed after her, like a shy sheep. He didn’t seem to have anything in particular to add to such
a noisy and heated conversation but looked interested in listening in to it all.

-000-

That night at dinner Harry picked at his food while reading a copy of an older scroll in the original
Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs that Ambrosius had suggested he read. He’d borrowed it fair and
square from the Restricted Section thanks to a permission slip from Professor Moody, who’d been
happy to help by signing a permission slip despite the dubious title The Egyptian Book of the Dead.
It really wasn’t that bad, honestly. Alright, maybe the giant snake and crocodiles that would eat
you might frighten nervous first-years, but the former in particular held no fear for Harry, and
crocodiles were nothing compared to a dragon.

“A little light reading?” Neville asked, peering curiously at the incomprehensible symbols.

“I thought you were working on the next Tournament clue?” Hermione asked.

“Done. I know what the clue is,” Harry said quietly, after swallowing his mouthful of potato.

He’d recently nipped down to the Chamber of Secrets and submerged the golden egg in the pool
down there. Eventually he’d applied a warming charm to himself and ducked down underwater to
hear the screeching and warbling turn into comprehensible singing. Storm had been delighted to
see Harry swimming with him but was unsuccessful in tempting Harry to go exploring underwater
with him. Harry promised to do so next time. He’d first need to learn a charm that would let him
breathe underwater.

“Well?!” Hermione asked eagerly.

“I’m not saying, sorry. I want a break from researching until after Christmas,” Harry whispered
apologetically. “Sorry. I just… it’s been a lot of pressure and my other studying is suffering for it,
not to mention my free time. I have a lot of reading to do for Business Studies, and a Chemistry
assignment that’s going to be overdue if I don’t get it finished next Hogsmeade weekend. If I keep
the clue secret, no-one will bug me about it.”

“That book isn’t for either of those things, though. Is it related to the clue?” Hermione asked, in a
wheedling tone of voice.

“No. It’s mostly a how-to manual about making your way through the Egyptian afterlife, but
there’s interesting snippets about the nature of souls, and it also has some cool spells, like
controlling snakes, or how to turn into a phoenix. Though I’m not completely convinced they’d all
work; they’re kinda long and weird. There’s one to turn into a snake too, but don’t tell Storm – he
already nags me enough about how I should learn to be an Animagus.”

Harry paused briefly as he rethought his own request. “Never mind, obviously you can’t tell Storm.
Anyway, I just wanted to research souls. For fun. Sort of. It’s medical research, theoretical stuff.
It’s uh… for your parents, Neville, among other things. Thinking about what the soul is and what
it’s made of. I’ve been wondering what Dementors affect exactly, and why people live when their
soul is missing or damaged. Did you know that’s how the Ministry knows the Cruciatus and the
other Unforgiveables affect the soul? None of the Unforgiveables work on people who’ve had their
souls sucked out by Dementors.”

“I didn’t know that!” Neville said.

“I would be surprised if you did. It’s buried in some rather gory old books on curses from the
Restricted Section; Moody gave me a pass to borrow them. I was researching why those three were
banned in 1717; it turns out they did some pretty unpleasant experiments on prisoners back then to
determine what was horrific and should be outright banned and what was just nasty.”

“So, they all definitely affect the soul, and being soulless is another defence against the Killing
Curse! Just… not a useful one,” Hermione summarised.

“That’s right; they won’t feel pain from a Crucio, or die from the Killing Curse, and can’t be
controlled with an Imperio.

“You know, I think it’s fascinating how people in general can be controlled by the Imperius Curse,
but part of their mind underneath is still trying to fight back. What ghosts are, all that sort of thing.
The Ancient Egyptians thought the soul is made up of multiple parts, and that’s really interesting.
Part of your parents’ souls are probably still alright you know Neville; perhaps just bits are
damaged. Maybe. It’s just a theory. I haven’t found any soul-healing spells yet, but I’ll keep
looking when I can.”

“Thank you again, Harry,” Neville said, with a tremulous smile. “I know of course that you do not
have any answers but thank you for not forgetting about them.”

Neville gave a quiet whispered update about the miniscule but noticeable improvements his parents
were making being at home with his Gran, such as his father developing some preferences for
favourite meals, and his mother humming along to some music. His eager whispered recitation was
interrupted by the Headmaster standing to make an announcement; the rumours were true, and
there was to be a Yule Ball in a couple of weeks’ time, from eight in the evening until midnight on
the evening of the twenty-fifth of December. It would be for fourth-years and up, and dress robes –
long ago listed on their latest Hogwarts supply lists – were mandatory.

“As per an old tradition for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore added, “the ball will be
opened by the champions and their partners.”

Harry blanched. Merlin save me, he thought hopelessly, as a multitude of girls eyed him
avariciously. He shrank down where he sat and avoided eye contact with anyone.

“You sssmell-taste like prey,” Storm commented curiously, sleepily lifting his head from Harry’s
shoulders. His tiny tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air.

“I feel like prey right now,” Harry hissed back quietly.

“Fight? Hide?”

“Hide. My plan is to ssstay very ssstill and hope the girls find other prey.”

Harry looked around at the students watching him speculatively. “And possibly a few of the boys,
too,” he added. He really couldn’t tell the difference between someone watching him who was
wondering if he’d make a good date, those curious as to why he was hissing at his snake, and those
pondering if Harry might poach their planned dates or not.

“I am ready to bite or attack with lightning,” Storm promised. “Just sssay the word.”

It was briefly tempting. A warning zap would surely cut down the numbers of pushy would-be
dates.

After the applause and eager chatter had died down (and also some speculative giggling), Professor
Slughorn stood to make an additional speech of his own. “We expect that the younger years will
return home for the holidays; however, I and the rest of the faculty cherish the hope that some of
our senior students – fourth-years and up – shall remain at Hogwarts for the first of the two weeks
of your winter break, concluding with the Yule Ball. This first week will offer the opportunity to
mingle with our exchange students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and I and some of your
other professors have arranged for some additional diversions and entertainments from the end of
classes until Christmas and the Yule Ball.

“Professor McGonagall and I will be offering some dancing lessons, Professor Flitwick will lead
the choir in some carols, and Professor Sprout will be judging a snowman competition should the
weather allow, which Professor Trelawney assures us it will. Professor Trelawney will also co-host
some evening lessons in astrology with Professor Sinistra, and Madam Hooch in collaboration with
Professor Burbage will be overseeing a pickup game of ‘Dodge Quidditch’ open to all! Also, the
Gobstones Club will be holding a special Yule tournament for a small charge, with the resulting
pot of money going to the first three places! There will be feasting, and games, and diverse
amusements and merriment!”

“Bite now?” Storm asked impatiently, as Harry sat quietly.

Harry sighed. “No. I’ll just have to pick sssomeone to dance with so the others will leave me alone.
There’s no way out of it. I think I’ve got a couple of ideas about who I could ask, though.”
 “Clever-men may be sssmart, but you are also confusing,” Storm complained, subsiding sulkily.

Chapter End Notes

Denubis – Thanks for the chat about house-elf labour.

JB Rose – Thanks for your help with information about dyslexia and how to portray it
better.
Renata MM – Thanks for the suggestion of Luna making a tiny hat and scarf for
Storm.
neyma – I’ve added a scene for you with Hermione’s reaction to realising Harry’s been
hiding his academic skills.
LongSelfindulgentReviews – Credit for inspiring the description of the Dementors.
Hellathedeath – An answer for you about why wizards know the Unforgiveables
affect the soul.
sunflower_swan – Thanks for the idea of the ‘Dodge Quidditch’ game! There’s
another reference to this in Chapter 13.
Ainulinde – Thanks for being a cultural spot-checker for Anthony’s scenes.
‘économie domestique’ – Domestic economy aka homemaking classes.
Guest – You asked in a review if Sirius was in the audience for the first task. Yes, he
was, he just had no opportunity to mingle with students afterwards.
7137 – Thanks for the typo corrections.
 The Unexpected Task
Chapter Summary

The Yule Ball is approaching and everyone needs dates!

Chapter Notes

Content warning: mentions of animal sacrifice in this and the subsequent chapter.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

December 1994

“Oh Merlin, another pack of girls,” muttered Harry, pulling a book out of his satchel and
pretending to look engrossed as he walked to Care of Magical Creatures with Neville.

Ron, Thomas, Patil, and Brown were trailing just behind them, and the two girls giggled at him. It
seemed he hadn’t been quiet enough in his instinctive exclamation.

The group of fifth or sixth-year Hufflepuff girls eyed Harry – and Neville – speculatively as they
passed, but to Harry’s relief they didn’t ask him to the ball, or giggle at him like the Gryffindors.
He avoided eye contact and hid in the middle of the group of his classmates, just in case.

“Mental,” said Ron, after they’d passed. “How many girls have asked you out, now?”

“Eight,” Harry admitted with a sigh. “And one bloke, after he’d heard gossip about how many girls
I’d turned down.”

“Ohh, who?” Brown asked eagerly.

“I’m not saying. Someone from another year.” Harry didn’t want to embarrass Marcus Belby (fifth-
year Ravenclaw) if he wasn’t ‘out’, even though wizards didn’t seem to worry about that sort of
thing half as much as Muggles did. He’d seemed pretty nervous so better to play it safe.

Brown pouted. “When are you going to ask someone or accept an invitation, Potter?”

Harry flinched away from her.

“Oh, not me!” she said, with a light laugh. “I’m going with Seamus; he asked me right after the
announcement.” She looked pleased as punch with her catch, primping her long curly hair and
smiling proudly. “I just think you should pick someone.”

It set Harry’s mind at ease. Here was one more girl he wouldn’t have to fear. “Um, I did ask
someone, actually. I asked Hermione but uhh… she said no.”

Brown and Patil giggled, making Harry add hastily, “Just as friends! Honestly!”
Ron looked around and asked, “Where is Hermione, anyway?”

“I know where she is!” Patil said, in a sing-song voice. “She is asking Bulstrode if she’s found out
if someone in Slytherin is going to ask her to the dance or not. She wants to know if they like her
too.”

“That was my idea,” Brown said proudly. “She does not want to ask herself if they will only say
no.”

Probably Greg or Draco, Harry thought quietly to himself. She and Greg always get along well,
and Draco likes her and he’s studious like she is. She might be mad at him right now, but maybe
she wouldn’t be if he publicly acknowledged her and asked her out to prove he’s not a blood purist
like his father. The conspiratorial glances the girls exchanged suggested they might know whom
Hermione was hoping would ask her out, too.

“Slimy Slytherins,” Ron muttered.

“Hey!” Harry objected.

“You’re a Gryffindor!”

“And I’m proud of that, but I’m also the Heir of Slytherin and I’m someone who is friends with a
lot of Slytherins.”

“Whatever, you shouldn’t be proud of that middle bit given who used to be the Heir, you know?
And most of the Slytherins are blood purists, you know that, right?”

“Because you know them all so well due to your extensive socialising with them,” Harry snarked
back, his posture stiff.

“I know all I need to know. More than you are willing to think too hard about.”

“Sooo… who are you going to ask to the ball, Longbottom?” Patil asked loudly, interrupting Harry
and Ron’s bickering.

“I asked Hermione too, but alas she turned me down as well,” Neville admitted, slumping.

“That was brave!” Patil said admiringly. “Your family would be furious at you dating a Muggle-
born.”

“I suppose some of them would be. Uh, thank you,” Neville said. He gave her a considering look
and straightened up, pulling his shoulders back from their slight hunch.

Then he suddenly gave a small bow and blurted out, “Miss Patil, would you perhaps do me the
honour of being my date for the Yule Ball?”

Brown squealed and clasped her hands together with a delighted clap, and Patil giggled at her
friend.

“I would be delighted to accept your invitation, Mr. Longbottom,” Patil said, dropping into a small
curtsey, “and I shall save you the traditional first dance and the supper set, should you wish.”

Neville gave her a shy, relieved smile. “That is very kind of you to offer, Miss Patil, I would
appreciate that.”

“Please, call me Parvati.”

“You are welcome to call me Neville,” he responded in kind.

Dean Thomas nudged Ron. “There’s another one off the market, mate. You’d better hurry up
asking your girl out. She’s not lacking for admirers, I reckon.”

Ron sighed. “I tried already. She and her friends laughed at me in front of everyone. I… I said my
father was the Minister for Magic.”

“Oh, right! Delacour. Damn Veela powers!” Thomas said, outwardly sympathetic but with a barely
hidden amused twitch to his mouth. “Never mind, there’s still plenty of fish in the sea, you don’t
need to catch a siren.”

Just as they arrived at the stables – their lesson location for the day – Hermione jogged up, book-
bag thumping against her thigh in a painful-looking fashion as she ran.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked, panting.

“No, Professor Hagrid isn’t here yet,” Neville said.

Brown went up to Hermione, asking eagerly, “What did Bulstrode say?”

Hermione shook her head with a sigh. “He’s already asked someone else to be his date and she
accepted.”

“Oh, too bad!” Brown said, hugging Hermione around the shoulders. “Who?”

“Millicent herself, actually,” Hermione admitted softly.

Brown gasped. “Man-stealer! Fie on her, the false friend!”

Hermione shook her head. “No, it’s fine, we’re okay. She actually asked Greg–”

“You want to go to the Yule Ball with Gregory Goyle?” Ron interrupted to ask, his jaw dropping.

Hermione sniffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, Weasley, but yes, I do… did.”

“Are you alright?” Neville asked, looking concerned.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Hermione insisted. Harry was pleased to see she wasn’t crying or looking
distraught, so maybe it was even true. Maybe a little down, but nothing dramatic, thank Merlin.

“Millicent had very kindly asked him how he felt about me before she even said yes to Greg. He
just sees me as a friend. He sees Millicent that way too, for that matter. That’s all it is – just friends
going to the ball together.”

“No surprise he picked the pure-blood, then,” muttered Ron.

“You shut your mouth you House-prejudiced git!” Hermione yelled, eyes blazing. “Greg isn’t like
that; he’s interested in Muggle culture unlike some who don’t even know the first thing about
Muggles! And even if he did pick Millicent because she’s pure-blood, he’d only do that to make
his parents happy! I’d like to see you date a Muggle-born, Mr. Ronald Weasley of the Sacred
House of Weasley! Let’s see how your parents would take that, after generation upon generation of
your family only choosing other pure-bloods!”

“Maybe I will!” he snapped back angrily. “They would be fine with me dating you or any other
Muggle-born!”
“Well you can count me out!”

“Like I care!” Ron insisted, his face turning red as a beetroot, right up to the tips of his ears.

Thomas muffled a snort of amusement, and Ron shot a quick glare at him before turning back to
harangue Hermione about how liberal his parents were.

“I bet some of your family’s best friends are Muggles,” Hermione rebutted scornfully. “Go on,
name one!”

Thankfully their argument didn’t have a chance to develop further as everyone settled down as
Professor Hagrid arrived, ready to give another lecture on pegasi.

“Quiet now! Gather round!” their professor boomed. “Now we’ve bin mostly workin’ with those
lovely golden Abraxans from Beauxbatons, but today we’ll be tendin’ summat a bit smaller an’
more gentle, which is the Aethonan breed. Got a couple on loan from the House of Macmillan.”

He patted the mane of a chestnut winged horse, which looked more like an ordinary large horse in
size, rather than elephant-sized like the Abraxans.

“It’s the mos’ popular breed of pegasus in Britain, an’ it’s smaller an’ not as strong as an Abraxan,
an; not as fast as a Granian, but it’s very well-tempered. Good for ridin’.

“Hogwarts has a herd of Thestrals, but unfortunately yeh won’ get to see ‘em until sixth year, since
they’ve got an XXXX ratin’ from the Ministry. Really sorry abou’ that.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Not that you’d see ‘em anyway! They’re invisible ter most people! You can
only see ‘em if yeh’ve seen someone die. Anyone here seen ‘em pullin’ the Hogwarts carriages?”
he asked, his heart clearly drawn to lecturing about the most dangerous pegasus breed despite his
avowed intention of teaching them about Aethonans.

Harry, Neville, and Draco all raised their hands, earning a point each for their houses. Harry gave
the others an enquiring look.

“My grandfather,” Neville said, shortly. “It was peaceful.”

“My grandfather too – Abraxas Malfoy,” Draco explained quietly. “Dragon pox.”

“As with Hippogriffs, the owner o’ a pegasus has ter cast a Disillusionment Charm on it regularly
ter hide it from Muggles, if it’s allowed ter fly free or is being ridden out o’ wizarding areas. Now
you have ter cast it on an Abraxan over its whole body due to its size which looks right funny ter
Muggles, but if yeh’ve got the skill you can cast the charm just on an Aethonan’s wings.”

“Could you demonstrate for us please, Professor Hagrid?” Pansy asked, goading their teacher as
usual.

Hagrid’s brow furrowed as usual. “Perhaps a volunteer? Potter, how abou’ you? Int’rested in
showin’ how it’s done?”

“Sure, Professor,” Harry said, giving it his best shot and making the pegasus’ wings go all fuzzy
and indistinct. Not his best work he thought, but not bad for his first attempt at partial
disillusionment.

He wished his cousin and some of the other Slytherins would stop poking fun at their professor in
practically every class. Hagrid might be more than double their size and in charge of the class, but
it still felt like bullying. He was trying to teach as best he could and was loads better than someone
like Binns or Lockhart. Hermione had told Harry and Neville that Hagrid had taken her advice and
was quietly studying a few subjects by correspondence with Kwikspell. With that, and with the
support and aid of his fellow professors, he had plans to take his OWLs at the end of the year.
Hermione said he was excited by the prospect of getting his wand rights back; something he’d
gotten help applying for. He didn’t need or expect good grades – all he needed to do was pass.

At the end of the class Harry jogged up to walk with the Slytherins from their class: Pansy, Draco,
Greg, and Vincent. Harry and Neville had a free period next class, but the Slytherins all had
Divination, so always had to hurry away quickly after Care of Magical Creatures on Monday
mornings to get to class on time as it was quite a walk for them, with a lot of stairs.

“Pansy! Wait up!”

They all stopped and waited for Harry, and Pansy folded her arms as he approached. “If this is
about Professor Hagrid again you can save your breath, Harry. I do agree that an assistant would
help, though.”

Harry waved his hand vaguely. “Well I do still think you should ease up, but no, I didn’t want to
talk about that right now. You’ve heard all that before.”

Pansy unfolded her arms. “Oh, I do apologise. What did you want, cousin?”

“Uh, I wanted to know if you’d go to the Yule Ball with me.”

Pansy stared at him silently, and Draco groaned.

“Of course not. I am your cousin,” she said slowly.

“Merlin’s blood! You cannot importune a relative to be your date!” Greg said, sounding outraged.

“Just as friends, obviously,” Harry clarified. “Not really as a date. You knew that right, Pansy?”

“Well obviously. My answer is still no. I will save you a dance, though, if you wish. I have the
third free, if you would like to ask me for that.”

“It matters not that you were asking her as but a friend!” Greg insisted, still stuck on his point.
“Your Houses have acknowledged the kinship! A dance or two at a ball is unobjectionable and
proper, but you cannot take her as a partner to a ball, any more than you may escort a sister!” His
face twisted in disgust.

“Even if you weren’t acknowledged relations, she is in any case going to the ball with me,” Draco
added.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry said to them both. He guessed that meant Draco wouldn’t be asking Hermione.
Or that she’d already turned him down. “Do you think I should ask Daphne? Is she going with
anyone?”

“You could invite even Draco more appropriately than Pansy,” Greg rambled, not letting go of the
topic even though the others were moving on. “She is your second cousin on your mother’s side
and your third cousin on your father’s side, and most importantly both you and the Head of House
Parkinson have acknowledged kinship between you and Pansy. Draco is your second cousin once
removed on your father’s side so less closely related, and you have only a formal kinship
acknowledgement with his mother, not with Draco himself.”
“Is that why you never call me ‘cousin’ like Pansy does?” Harry asked Draco, distracted from his
dating conundrum.

“Obviously. Not that I want to date you, of course. Besides, it would be scandalous for you to lose
the bloodlines and magical talents of your multiple Houses. You really must choose a nice pure-
blood witch – or an appropriate half-blood – with a good family line to eventually settle down
with.”

“Daphne would be a good choice,” Greg said.

“I agree,” said Pansy.

“Or Zabini has a younger half-sister you could ask if you do not mind escorting a first-year,” Greg
continued. “She would be a good match for you – she is from an Ancient House, is puissant with
strong magical talent, and there are no Squibs in her family lines, from what Daphne has told us
about her.”

“Oh, come on!” Harry whined. He felt like… like some prize racehorse, with people chatting about
who to pair him with for the best possible offspring.

“I just meant to ask to the ball,” Pansy said soothingly, patting Harry’s arm. “We are not trying to
marry you off, obviously.” Her warning glare to Greg suggested she might be alone in her intention
there.

Greg didn’t seem to catch her hints, however, and rambled on. “Daphne would not expect to keep
her name since you are the Heir to both Noble and Most Ancient Houses. However, Zabini might
want to marry sine manu, but even if you did, you could always put conditions in the marriage
contract to ensure your children inherit your various family names and Houses.”

“I thought the Ministry banned those type of marriages years ago?” Vincent asked distractedly,
turning to his friend.

Greg shook his head. “Not technically. Both of the old style in manu and sine manu marriages are
legal, just not the accompanying ritual where you put blood in the goblet of wine. So it does rather
ruin the ceremony. That ban also applies to adoption rituals, Harry, should you take up Black or
anyone else’s offer to adopt you. Just one adoption of course, as you cannot be adopted by multiple
Houses at one time. Inheriting multiple Houses is different; you cannot have Houses just die off,
obviously! Like the Dagworth-Granger Houses joining together. We would all look the other way
if you wanted to do things properly with the traditional ritual, of course.”

Harry winced and hummed noncommittally.

Draco, who looked irritated, grabbed Greg by the elbow and drew him away from the group. After
a hurried whisper from Draco in Greg’s ear, the two returned.

“I am most grievously regretful if I have caused thee any offence, Harold,” Greg said nervously,
with an apologetic bow. “I spoke only for myself and not for my House, of course. I did not mean
to overwhelm or upset you. You are too young to marry or think about marriage yet. I also know
you are still thinking about Black’s offer and have not made a decision yet.”

He said it all a little stiffly, but Harry thought he meant it. “That’s alright, no offence taken.”

“I simply thought it was important that you understand why you cannot take a cousin to-” Greg
started, then cut himself off abruptly before continuing.
“That is, I am truly sorry if I caused you any disturbance of spirits with my observations,” he
rambled, still seeming upset at his unintentional breach of etiquette. “I was simply surprised by
your invitation to Pansy, which is why I spoke so abruptly. It was all meant in the spirit of uh,
informing you. Because you did not appear aware of the relevant etiquette.”

“Again, it’s quite alright, all is forgiven. I didn’t know the etiquette and it was important to learn,”
Harry said politely. “Just… try to remember not to suggest marriage partners to me again until I’m
at least seventeen, and we shall be fine, okay?”

“I shall remember!” Greg gave a relieved and pleased smile to Harry, then to Draco, who nodded
his approval to his friend and client.

“Daphne is at Ancient Runes,” Pansy said. “You could catch her after class. Look, uh, we really
have to run now, alright?”

“Sure, sorry to take up your time.”

The Slytherins literally dashed off to class, and Harry went off to do some studying.

-000-

“No,” Daphne said.

“What?” said Harry, staring at Daphne in incomprehension. He’d been sure she’d accept.

Tracey stared at her friend, looking similarly astonished. Neville also looked surprised, but stayed
very quiet.

“I thank you for your kind invitation, however, no, I won’t go to the ball with you,” Daphne
clarified. “Because you’re not interested in dating me, are you?”

“…No. I just thought we could go as friends.”

“I thought so. Thus, my answer is no, and I shall be going with someone else,” she said firmly.
“You are clearly not interested in me, so that is the end of the matter.”

“Brava,” muttered Tracey, under her breath. Daphne rolled her eyes at her friend but said nothing.

“But who else can I ask?” Harry asked plaintively. “Hermione already said no, Luna announced
she’s going with Theodore Nott before I could even start to ask, Pansy’s my cousin and going with
Draco anyway, and Tracey’s obviously going with Anthony. I wouldn’t take Ginny Weasley if you
paid me.”

Tracey snorted and scowled unhappily, which made Daphne glance at both of them thoughtfully,
but she didn’t say anything.

He’d stumbled across the youngest Weasley arguing with her cousin Mafalda in a corridor about
which of the two of them had the better chance of being asked to the Yule Ball by Harry. Ginny
Weasley had claimed that she and Harry had a connection since he’d saved her life, and Mafalda
had called her a ‘lovesick puppy’ and goaded that there was a better chance that Harold would ask
her, out of the two of them.

Harry hadn’t known what to say and had just nodded briefly to them both as he walked past.
Mafalda, less startled, had returned his unspoken greeting with an embarrassed but relatively calm
nod of her own. Weasley, however, had been positively frozen in place. She’d looked shocked and
utterly crushed at his cool wordless dismissal. Harry had walked swiftly away, terrified the young
girl would burst into tears at any moment.

“I heard you have had a dozen offers!” Daphne said. “Just pick one.”

“Nine offers,” Neville corrected.

Harry shrugged and looked embarrassed. “I don’t want to go with any of them.” He didn’t know
how to explain properly how the way they’d stood too close and gazed into his eyes when they’d
asked him to the ball was too disturbing. Three girls had giggled, to boot. He didn’t want a date
date. Just someone to dance with, since taking someone was mandatory for champions.

“You may take me,” Tracey said abruptly. She didn’t look happy about her offer, though. She
looked positively grumpy, with a frown on her face and folded arms.

“Uh, that’s kind of you, but I know you’re going with Anthony. Please don’t put yourself out on
my account.”

Who owes me a favour? Harry wondered. Millicent owes me at least two, but she’s going with
Greg. Oh! How about Megan Jones from Hufflepuff? No, she got me that signed poster from the
Harpies to pay me back for helping her cousin at the World Cup. I might just have to take back a
refusal and say ‘yes’ to one of those people who asked me, I suppose. Ugh.

“We broke up,” Tracey said stiffly, interrupting his musings. “His mother doesn’t want him dating
someone who won’t consider converting to Judaism, and he eventually caved.”

Harry blinked.

“I still say he will come around,” Daphne said soothingly. “His father is not so strict, and Anthony
really cares about you.”

“Not enough, and lately it feels like we’ve been arguing a lot. Anyway, he’s leaving Britain at the
end of school. There’s no future there.”

“He will realise what an idiot he has been soon enough. He misses you; anyone can see it. All those
mooning looks.”

Tracey snorted. “Well maybe taking the Hogwarts champion to the Yule Ball will rub his nose in
what he’s missing out on.”

Daphne looked Harry up and down. “Yes,” she said slowly. “It very well might. Alright, that’s
settled then.”

“Is it? Good?” Harry said. He tried to remember the formal words Neville and Patil had rattled off
so smoothly, but his mind was blank in a whirl of confusion. “I’d be honoured to accept, Tracey?
As a friend. Not a real date. You can show me off to Anthony, I suppose, if he’s being a prat.”

Had there been a bow? He gave a small bow. It seemed a decent guess, and she curtsied in return.

“Thank you.”

“If you wish to coordinate, remember he will be wearing saffron yellow robes with accents of gold
and garnet red,” Daphne said to Tracey, who nodded her understanding.

“I could have told her that. How did you know I was planning to wear that?”
Daphne sniffed. “You would be an ungracious fool to wear anything other than the new winter-
weight dress robes the House of Malfoy gifted you with. Perhaps you could have told her, but you
probably would not have thought of it. Also, do not forget you will need to purchase her a corsage,
and pay attention to the language of flowers when you do so. I will be available to consult as
needed, or you could ask Gregory. He is most attentive to such matters.”

“Now, Harry,” Daphne said, linking her arm with his, and starting to steer the small group in an
ambling walk towards the Great Hall. It was lunch time, after all. “I have a small favour to ask you.
Susan Bones needs a date for the Yule Ball, and no-one she is interested in is free. She needs
someone Light-aligned whose affections are unattached, who will not mind that she is a werewolf,
and can be discreet. I do not want her to know that I am attempting to find a partner for her; I want
it to look like they thought of asking her on their own.”

Harry exchanged a thoughtful look with Neville, which made Daphne perk up.

“Neville?” she asked. “Are you free?”

“Oh, no, I do apologise. I am taking Parvati Patil.”

“Oh!”

“I was thinking of Ronald Weasley,” Harry explained. “We were all chatting about who was taking
who right before Care of Magical Creatures. He doesn’t have a date, and given… you know, his
dad… I think he would be alright with her.”

They parted to go to their separate House tables, with Daphne’s thanks.

However, when Harry discreetly asked Ron if he’d be interested in taking Susan to the ball, he
demurred.

“I just went and asked someone and she said yes,” he said, a little regretfully. “Heidi Macavoy,
she’s a third-year Muggle-born. She’s a Chaser on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. She’s the skinny
one with really short brown hair. But Dean swears it doesn’t mean anything if a Muggle-born girl
cuts their hair short?” He looked at Harry anxiously, as if seeking extra reassurance on that point.

Harry shrugged. “It usually just means they like short hair. It doesn’t mean they’re never going to
get married or don’t want to date or anything like that.”

Ron nodded, looking relieved.

“Well, I don’t know who else in Gryffindor to ask,” Harry admitted quietly. “Though there’s this
guy Ericksen from Durmstrang I could talk to, but he’s years older. He’s pro-werewolf rights. Hey,
do you think Thomas would ask her out?”

“No, he is going with a girl from Beauxbatons by the name of Ndiaye,” Ron said admiringly. “Two
years older than him, maybe three! But she still said yes. Maybe she thought he was older than he
really is.”

“Maybe?” Harry agreed uncertainly.

“You could try asking Fred or George, rather than some Durmstrang boy? Neither of them have
dates yet,” Ron suggested, sounding smug.

Harry asked the twins, but Fred Weasley impulsively asked out Angelina Johnson – the dark-
skinned Gryffindor Quidditch Captain – before Harry could even finish telling them what he had
approached them for. George was willing to help out, though.

“Sure, I can ask her out, like it was my own idea all along,” he whispered. “Fred just nabbed the
prettiest girl in Gryffindor–”

“Too right!” his twin interjected.

“–and I was going to ask Rosen – a Durmstrang girl – but Bones is nice enough too. We owe you
so many favours I think I am losing track. This sounds like a very easy way to help repay that debt
a little.”

“Great!” Harry said.

So that was settled, and at dinner time the Hufflepuff table was delighted by George Weasley
magically conjuring up a big bunch of orchids to present to Susan Bones as he asked her out to the
Yule Ball; an invitation which she blushingly accepted.

-000-

After classes ended for the day, Harry darted back to his dorm to gather some books and notes for
the study session he had planned with his friends for the afternoon.

A couple of Weasleys were causing chaos in the Gryffindor Common Room when Harry went
back downstairs, but for a change it wasn’t the Weasley twins trialling their latest creation on a
poorly-paid product tester (which lately seemed to be causing a lot of uncontrollable nose bleeds).

Instead, Ron was in the middle of a shouting match with his sister Ginny.

“...of inter-house friendship!” she finished yelling.

“But not with a slimy Slytherin! Particularly not him! You know what his family’s like!” Ron
warned. “Dark and murderous!”

“He is not to blame for what his mother may or may not have done!” Ginny screeched back, hands
on her hips. “I know what Blaise is like-”

“Zabini! His name’s Zabini!” Ron insisted desperately.

“Not to me, we’re friends! We met in Bible Study class-”

“You are going to that?!”

“Yes! And mum thinks it sounds lovely, so nyah to you! She thinks it’s good I’m socialising more
and making new friends.”

“You’re not going to the ball with him! His family would never allow it, and neither will ours!”

“Am too! I think we are a good match and so does he and his mother, and it is none of your
business, Ronald Bilius Weasley!” she yelled, stalking off upstairs to the girls’ dorm where her
brother couldn’t follow her.

“I’m telling mum!” he yelled at her retreating back, but she ignored him.

Ron scowled, and in the middle of his black mood caught sight of Harry, frozen on the stairs with a
couple of other eavesdropping boys behind him.
“This is your fault!” Ron said.

“How is it my fault?” Harry replied, with a puzzled blink.

“Because you’re friends with all those Slytherins, and Ravenclaws, too! She says if you can build
inter-House friendships everyone else can too! And you didn’t ask her to the ball!”

“…I was never going to do that.”

Ron huffed loudly. “She didn’t know that. She thought you might, and you… you upset her.”

Harry crossed his arms stubbornly. “She can get in line behind a dozen other disappointed people.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, Mr. Popularity,” Ron said, his face twisting in an envious scowl.

“Who your sister is dating is not my fault,” Harry said, slowly and sternly.

Ron sighed out a long slow breath and scrubbed frustratedly at his short ginger hair. “Yeah, sorry
mate. I know it’s not. I just… she’s driving me mad. Zabini! Can you believe it?!”

Harry said something vague and soothing about it being just one dance, and escaped down to join
his friends in the library as soon as he could.

-000-

“What are you working on today?” Neville asked Harry, as their large group of friends chose their
seats in the library and plonked their books down on the thick wooden table, ready for study and
chatter. Anthony Goldstein was noticeably absent, Theodore Nott wasn’t imposing on their group
today, and Hermione was already off in the library stacks hunting for books, but everyone else was
happily getting settled at the table. That included Vincent Crabbe who’d been hanging around
more with Draco and Greg again, seeming a bit lost as his group of friends increasingly spent much
of their free time around Harry and his coterie.

“Is it the clue?” Neville asked.

Harry carefully didn’t look shifty as he said, “No, it’s an assignment for Snape. I’m researching
healing potions banned by the Ministry that probably shouldn’t be illegal.”

He couldn’t admit that it was actually for Lord Voldemort, who’d asked for a foot on what Healing
magic the Ministry had banned that Harry thought should be made legal. Harry had asked Master
Snape’s advice on whether he should go along with that request, and Snape had written that
playing along with a brief reply to such an ‘insignificant and harmless request’ with brief replies
certainly wouldn’t hurt and may even potentially be helpful. He also strongly advised discussing
his Hogwarts classes with the Dark Lord, along with any other ‘insignificant teenage banalities’
that occurred to him. Snape had agreed to cover for him if Harry ever needed to make an excuse
about his written assignments to his friends or temporary guardians like Sirius.

So far Harry had draft notes on four Healing potions using the blood of various magical creatures
or witches or wizards, and one potion which used human hair to diagnose long-term poisoning. The
Ministry had banned all potions using human blood or hair, and Harry didn’t agree it was necessary
in all cases, when such materials could also be donated voluntarily. One of the blood-using potions
sounded very much like a potion to temporarily cure haemophilia, or as the book he read put it,
‘the royal disease which doth cause a man to bleed excessively’.

He’d also found two rituals that he liked, though he could see how they’d be open to abuse. The
first was a ritual that transferred ‘unhealthy miasmas’ from a person to another subject,
theoretically an animal. It sounded fascinatingly like magical transference of germs, leaving the
initial subject weak but uninfected, if inclined to suffer stomach trouble for a while afterwards.
There was also a banned scrying ritual where you put seven drops of the patient’s blood in a silver
basin filled with water to diagnose what was wrong with them. It hadn’t worked in the slightest
when he’d tried it on himself down in the Chamber of Secrets, but he wasn’t sure if that was
because it was a wooden bowl transfigured into silver, or whether because he was pants at the
ritual, or bad at divination in general. Or maybe he just wasn’t sick enough, and there was nothing
to find.

The last thing he’d discovered in his research was a big issue that he didn’t know what to think
about; witches and wizards were totally banned from using magic of any kind to cure the diseases
or injuries of any Muggles, or their animals or crops, under the Statute of Secrecy. Using Muggle-
safe potions and charms to cure Muggles or their animals of illnesses had historically been very
risky, and ‘just this once’ led to more and more times, until one was popularly known for being a
witch… often ending up on trial eventually, with fatal results. Potions could also work poorly –
even dangerously so – on Muggles, which was another reason to restrict their use.

“How does he still give you homework when he is no longer a teacher?” Neville asked, with his
brow wrinkled in confusion.

“I don’t have to answer him, but I kind of do if I want to keep up our correspondence. Which I do,
because he shares good tips for Potions class. Besides, it’s interesting.”

Neville hummed thoughtfully. “You should talk about San Pedro.”

“Uh, is that a place?”

“Is it? I must confess I do not know much about the geography of the New World. San Pedro is a
very interesting South-American cactus, also known as Huachuma. It is uh… used in a potion
called ‘Cimora’ that has various effects including memory restoration, in some cases. It is illegal as
it induces trance states when consumed. Oh, and it is associated with rituals involving animal
sacrifice. Guinea pigs. You don’t actually need to kill a guinea pig to make Cimora, though.”

“Huh. Sounds great! Thanks, Nev. Where can I look up more about it?”

“I have some notes. I will go get them for you!” Neville said eagerly, immediately abandoning his
homework and heading off for their dorm.

Hermione returned from the ‘stacks’ – the maze of library shelves – looking uncharacteristically
flustered.

“What took you so long finding a book?” Millicent asked.

“Nothing,” Hermione said, her tan cheeks looking unusually pink. “Just chatting with someone.”

“Hmm,” Millicent said, looking at her thoughtfully.

“Say, Malfoy, I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.

Harry wasn’t the only one who stopped what he was doing to listen in. The whole table stuttered to
a stop so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Hermione cleared her throat and looked around the group uncomfortably before focusing again on
Draco.
“Yes, Granger?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I think it’s time we buried the hatchet.”

“What?” His look of confusion seemed genuine.

“I mean we should stop ah… arguing. Come to some kind of détente.”

“By all means.”

Hermione cleared her throat again and chewed on her lip nervously. “You see, there’s something
very important I wanted to ask you,” she said, and then hesitated. “Um. Sorry, this is really kind of
embarrassing…”

Daphne clutched at Pansy’s hand and looked very excited, while Millicent’s eyes were goggling.
Pansy looked irritated and was ignoring Daphne to glare at Hermione. Draco looked a bit wide-
eyed himself, and even more embarrassed than Hermione.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d–”

“Please stop. I am going with Pansy,” Draco interrupted awkwardly, looking flustered.

“–talk to your father about something for me,” Hermione finished, wringing her hands together as
she spoke. “What? Obviously I’m not asking you to the Yule Ball, Malfoy. Anyway, I already have
a date.”

“What? Who?! I know it’s not Greg or that useless Weasley. Or Harry.”

Hermione shook her head quickly, curly locks flying about. “It doesn’t matter. Look, I was
wanting to know if you would talk to your father about Professor Binns. I – we – all of Hogwarts
really, could use the support of the Hogwarts Board of Directors about getting a replacement for
him.”

Daphne sighed, soft and disappointed.

“Oh, yes!” Tracey agreed, rapidly switching gears. “He is dreadful isn’t he? I have been sitting in
on some of Madame Maxime’s history classes when the timing matches up with History of Magic
or my free period, and she is so much better. Once she got enough Hogwarts students attending she
even started lecturing in English.”

“Why do all you Slytherins skip classes?!” Hermione asked, before shaking her head. “No, I know.
Binns is not an adequate teacher, you know it and I know it. Look, other Houses and grades are
even increasingly copying you; word is spreading. I know the Creeveys don’t go either, or
Mafalda. And those who do go, like Harry, often spend the whole class studying something else, if
they’re not just napping like half the Gryffindors do.”

“Why didn’t you invite me to go?” Harry whined to Tracey. “You know I like history when it’s
good, and I even speak French!”

“I didn’t want to distract you from preparing for the Tournament,” Tracey said apologetically.
“You’ve been so busy with that, or with catching up on other work. You need your free time and
shouldn’t get distracted with what would effectively be adding another subject. Madame Maxime
expects us to do homework, you know.”

That’s so not fair to leave me in the dark, Harry complained mentally to himself, glowering.
 “Is she kind?” Luna asked.

Tracey nodded. “Strict but fair, and she welcomes anyone who wants to sit in on her classes, even
younger students. I think she’s rather smug about it, actually. She finds it flattering that
Dumbledore’s students are flocking to her classes. She had to move to a bigger room to
accommodate us all.”

Draco seemed to have gathered his composure back, and said, “I promise to talk to my father about
the situation, even though it does mean many of us would lose our free study time. Madame
Maxime’s classes have indeed enlightened many as to what History of Magic classes could be
like.”

“I do not see any necessity to change the status quo,” Millicent said unhappily. “Things are fine
how they are.”

“I was thinking we could have a Social Studies class,” Hermione said eagerly, ignoring her friend’s
quiet objection. “History and Geography, with a dash of wizarding cultural studies thrown in for
first-years. Teach people about the history of the Floo and how to use it, and the structure of the
wizarding government. That sort of thing.”

“Geography would be useful. Muggles divide up the world differently to us,” Greg added. “Their
country boundaries are often completely different. It should not be only people who take Muggle
Studies who learn about that. A wizard could get in a lot of trouble and breach the Statute of
Secrecy, travelling around Europe without a ‘passport’ – a piece of paper Muggles identify
themselves with, instead of presenting their wand. Which Muggles do not have, of course.

“On the other side of things, Muggle-borns blundering into Transylvania without the permission of
the local vampire lords could find themselves in a life-threatening situation. They have not heard
the history of the country – they think it is just a region of Romania.”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “That all has some promising avenues of appeal.”

Greg beamed and held up his palm to Hermione, who gave him an excited high five.

Draco sighed, and looked pained as Greg started rambling excitedly at length about modern
Muggle greetings, and Hermione waffled about her correspondence with Bathilda Bagshot and
Newt Scamander regarding possible candidates who might be interested in becoming their new
history teacher.

“…And if we can get one of those people – or several of them – to express a willingness to take on
the role, your father and the Board can pressure Dumbledore – such a stubborn man – to hire a new
teacher. Then Binns can finally retire and rest in peace,” Hermione concluded.

Chapter End Notes

Stargirl1061 – Ginny and Mafalda fighting over Harry for you (albeit in the
background).
Orchids – In Victorian flower language they mean ‘beautiful woman’.
Goodpie2 – Thanks for your feedback on my scene with Greg reacting to Harry
inviting Pansy to the Yule Ball.
Montanaatheart – Thanks for you and your son’s input regarding Greg’s
characterisation.
B (Guest) – You asked where Snape is: he taught DADA at the end of third year after
Lupin left in March 1994, with Slughorn taking over Potions. He left the school at the
end of that year to take on a new job in potions research. He maintains a
correspondence with Harry.
 A Dark Drop of Blood
Chapter Summary

Draco talks to Harry about his holiday plans and Yule, and the two encounter Moody
on the way to Hogsmeade.

Chapter Notes

Content warning: animal sacrifice.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

December 1994

The crowd of students streaming out of Hogwarts to the final Hogsmeade weekend for the year was
massive, with the Yule Ball barely more than a week away. Draco had stuck to Harry’s side like a
limpet, claiming that he had something important to talk to him about confidentially, and since
Harry needed to extricate himself from the crowd to sneak away to Grantown-on-Spey (via Side-
Along-Apparition from the Shrieking Shack with Sirius), he didn’t really mind being separated
from their other friends.

It took a little while before they could walk and talk with any semblance of privacy, however.

“Good luck in the Tournament!” someone said, giving Harry a cheerful thumbs up.

“Thank you.”

“Have you figured out the second clue, yet? I would be happy to help out our champion!” a couple
of people asked, crowding around them eagerly.

“I have some promising leads and we’ll restart the study groups after the Christmas holidays.”

“Great!”

“Win it for Gryffindor, Potter!” a passing student in a red scarf called out.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Have you… um… Do you think I… I was wondering if you had a date for the Ball?” a young girl
bundled up in a thick wool cloak asked.

“Yes, sorry, I am going with Tracey Davis.”

“Oh,” she replied sadly, and slunk off back to her watching group of friends.

Draco shook his head in disbelief as they crunched through the snow. “Dear Merlin, does it ever
stop?” he asked.
“Not lately,” Harry said, with a sigh. “It’s usually nice… but it’s also rather tiring. I’m getting
better at talking with people though; I haven’t really had a choice.”

Once they were out of Hogwarts’ gates Draco dragged Harry off the main road to Hogsmeade and
into the woods, to take a more roundabout path to the village that would give them more privacy to
chat.

“Admit it, you like the attention from the masses,” Draco insisted.

Harry scrunched up his face as he thought. “Welll… I do like the general approval and support. It’s
much better than in second year when half the school was flinching when they saw me and the rest
were toadying – some out of fear. But I don’t like all the expectations that are coming with the role
of Hogwarts’ champion. I’m aiming to survive, not to win, and I’m worried everyone’s going to be
mad at me. Also, any time I’m not preparing for the competition, everyone seems to be thinking I
should be. Like Tracey and Hermione – not even talking about things with me like History of
Magic because they thought it might distract me. It’s a pain – I still wish people hadn’t put my
name in the goblet. I dunno, it’s too much attention, you know?”

Draco glanced around before saying, “Harder to slink off to the Chamber of Secrets?”

Harry shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. Or even to work on my Muggle subjects without feeling
people are judging me for ‘wasting my time’. But mostly it’s that I think people will turn on me if
I lose.”

Draco snorted. “Only idiots would. You are a fourth-year in a competition for talented seventh-
years. To make a good showing – which you’re doing – is more than enough. Still, Hogwarts does
have its fair share of idiots,” he finished, with a wicked smile, which made Harry laugh.

“So why aren’t you going home for the first week of the holidays?” Harry asked.

They’d all chatted about the topic earlier, and while some – like Harry and Neville – were staying
the full week to enjoy the fun activities Hogwarts staff had planned, others from mostly magical
families were heading home and only popping back for the Yule Ball. Hermione was also staying,
primarily because her parents couldn’t easily Floo or Apparate her back to Hogsmeade quickly. She
didn’t want to spend all Christmas Day travelling to Scotland or being dependent on charity for her
transport. She was becoming increasingly aware of the unwritten costs involved in owing too many
favours and had confidentially fretted to Harry and Neville about what Draco might ask for as
repayment for helping with Binns’ situation.

Draco looked casual as he answered Harry… too casual, Harry thought. “I simply did not feel
inclined to do so. There are many diversions on offer this Yule that may provide amusement.”

“Try again,” Harry said, with a smirk. “That’s a good lie, but you can do better.”

Draco stared at Harry, then snorted a laugh. “Alright, I am trying to get away from my relatives, if
you must know. They visit at Yule and pinch my cheeks and call me silly names.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Look,” Draco continued. “While we are sequestered away from the crowds, I wanted to ask you
something.”

Harry nodded with false gravity. “Good subject change, Draco, shift attention away from your
lies.”
“Prat!” Draco shoved him genially with a shoulder and Harry laughed as he stumbled in the ankle-
deep snow. “Don’t teach your grandmother how to suck eggs. I truly just think I will have more fun
at Hogwarts away from annoying and stressful relatives. You are doing the same, so you have no
grounds to judge!”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

“Right, so the thing is, Harry, that since I am staying over Yule I will be missing out on the winter
solstice celebration. We do not usually celebrate it at Hogwarts of course, since everyone returns
home,” Draco said, shifting a little nervously. “So I have an Old Ways ritual I have to practice, but
I do not know my part. I was hoping you could help me go over it? I have never had to lead
anything for this before and did not have a lot of warning to get advice from father. The seventh-
year Slytherins decided we should do something after the Yule Ball was announced since it’s
keeping so many of us at Hogwarts, and everyone is now scrambling to organise something special
for their year groups.”

“Doesn’t Pansy help you with that sort of thing?”

“Yes, she leads the girls, but Yule is one of the few times we separate by gender. Besides, I do not
wish to have her see me stumble over my practices,” Draco admitted, looking embarrassed.
“And… I have to kill a duck. I mean, it should really be a pig, but it is going to be easier to smuggle
in a duck. I have never killed anything before. I do not want to… you know… get it all wrong. Get
mess everywhere.” Draco flapped his hands anxiously and his face scrunched up with imagined
discomfort.

“You’ve seen your dad do that kind of stuff, though?”

“Yes, but it is so gross,” Draco whined. “And ducks are cuter than pigs. What if it flaps and pecks
at me and struggles about? I wish I did not have to do it, but that is what the senior year leaders
decided on for our year. What do I even do with a dead duck?”

Harry thought about it. “You could vanish it. Evanesco.”

“I don’t know that charm.”

“I’m still working on mastering it myself,” Harry admitted. “Sometimes I only vanish bits and
pieces, but it usually works. Hmm. Well, if you give the dead duck to me even if the spell doesn’t
work I could take it down into the Chamber and feed it to the Basilisk. I’ve been thinking of
smuggling a goat down for Custos to eat – she must get hungry – but I couldn’t think of a way to
smuggle a live goat into Hogwarts. I mean, in general it’d be hard, as the Shrinking Charm can be
unsafe if miscast and only works for a very short time on live animals, but it’d be doubly difficult
with everyone watching me these days.”

“Why a goat?”

Harry shrugged. “It feels like about the right size for her to swallow whole, and sheep feel like
they’d be too fluffy – I don’t know if that’s good for snakes or not. She could probably eat a cow,
but I’ve never asked her if she can dislocate her jaw or not and I wouldn’t want her to choke. A
large pig would be good too, I guess.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Swallow whole? She must be enormous!”

Harry nodded. “She really is.”

Draco shook his head. “Well, that would be useful, if you do not mind smuggling or vanishing a
dead duck for me. You will help me learn my lines and practice the ritual? Father is going to send
me two ducks, under a hibernation charm, so I have a chance to practice.”

“I suppose. I mean, I don’t like the idea either, but I understand you want to get it right. I won’t
have to kill the duck, right?”

“No,” Draco sighed, “honestly I don’t want to either, but someone has to, and father says I am old
enough, though they usually do not start sacrifices at Hogwarts until fifth year. It is usually
chickens, however, that was judged too common for Yule. I just want you to help me learn my
lines.”

“Where are we doing the ritual? At the small menhir like last year?”

“Yes, though as we have to share the location with the third-years we might occasionally alternate
to be at the far side of the lake; people complained about us hogging the site last year. Probably we
shall have the menhir for Imbolc and lakeside for Beltane. We don’t move until next year, then we
get the clearing with the larger menhir for our fifth and sixth-years for joint celebrations. Seventh-
years celebrate at the Circle. It is a ring of standing stones hidden quite deep in the Forbidden
Forest, and thus dangerous to get to. Some students are of age by then and do not have the Trace on
their wands and can thus serve as guards. Rumour says the Headmaster is more watchful for
spellcasting in the forest on festival dates.”

They talked for a while about where to do the practice rituals. Harry considered but decided against
using the Chamber of Secrets, mostly because of his unadmitted reason that he could picture Draco
nagging Harry in the future to let him visit there all the time. It was his special secure hideaway
and Harry didn’t really want to share it.

They both agreed wandering around the Forbidden Forest late at night might be a bad idea, and the
daytime wasn’t much better due to a high chance of being spotted. Eventually they settled on an
empty Hogwarts classroom an hour before curfew ended – Draco said he’d find somewhere
secluded. They planned that Harry would skulk around incognito as ‘Antares Black’ to meet up
with Draco so they could sneak around Hogwarts with less notice paid to their comings and goings.

Then they chatted for a while about the Circle on the grounds of Potter Manor, and Draco seemed
flatteringly impressed by the rituals Harry talked about doing there for Lughnasadh.

Right on the edge of Hogsmeade, they ran into Professor Moody – almost literally. He was slowly
making his way through the snow, with a lumpy black silk bag hanging from his belt. He twitched
his cloak over it when he spotted them, but too late to conceal it.

“Good morning, sir,” Harry said politely, tucking his hands in his trousers’ deep pockets, one of
which held his wand. Just in case. “What takes you to Hogsmeade today?”

Moody hesitated for a moment, his artificial eye rolling around constantly while his regular gaze
rested on Harry, then Draco. A wicked grin dawned on his face as he watched Draco shifting about
nervously.

“I suppose I could tell you, if you can keep it to yourselves,” he said slowly. “I’m off out of
Hogwarts’ Anti-Apparition wards. I have a Dark magical artefact to dispose of today.”

“Oh?” Harry said curiously. “What exactly is it?” The bag at their teacher’s waist looked lumpy
and reasonably full and drew Harry’s eye irresistibly. Something bigger than an orange and smaller
than a loaf of bread, at a guess. Not book-shaped, it was too lumpy for that.
“Can’t say; confidential. It’s just something a student smuggled in a while ago. Have to dispose of
Dark magic artefacts properly – that’s a lesson both of you should learn, eh?”

Harry winced, thinking of the cursed diary that rumour amongst the Order of Phoenix said was
now being regularly written in by Pettigrew. He was presumed possessed by Lord Voldemort, by
whatever impression of his soul he’d managed to imprint on it like one did with a portrait.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled apologetically.

Moody’s wild gaze focused on Draco, who’d remained silent. “You too, Malfoy! Potter’s on the
right side, but your family? Your House had better watch yourselves,” he snapped. “Don’t think I
don’t know about all the Dark artefacts your family caches like squirrels collecting acorns for
winter but with less care for what you hoard. There are a lot of rumours floating about regarding
where your family’s loyalties lie, despite your father’s best attempts at toadying and ingratiating
himself with all comers like a desperate, aging spinster. Your father’s being watched, boy, and so
are you.” Moody was practically growling by the end of his rant, but still smiling in an eerie
fashion.

“Draco’s father was under the Imperius Curse in the last war,” Harry said defensively. He didn’t
really believe that, but there was no reason to mention that right now. “And in any case, Draco is
not his father, and can make his own choices in life. There’s no need to watch him more than
anyone else.”

“No-one whose palm wasn’t greased with gold believed that lie. And what choice is he going to
make, hey?” Moody said, pointing a knobbly finger at Draco. His artificial eye briefly stilled so
that he could level an unnerving stare at Draco. “Where does the Malfoy heir stand?”

Draco blanched, but his chin rose in the air as he set his jaw and said firmly, “I choose to remain
apart from the current troubles, sir. I stand with Harry and choose the same as him – to remain out
of the fighting and to concentrate on my studies. If anyone expects more of either of us, then they
can ask again where we stand when we are of age.”

Moody chuckled, and relaxed, his magical eye spinning around again. “A cowardly, Slytherin kind
of stance but not the worst answer possible, boy. What do you think, Potter? Are you happy with
such lukewarm loyalty to yourself and the Light side?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. I don’t think it’s reasonable to target children in battles – which we kind of
all still are – nor to expect us to join in the fighting.”

“You’ve fought already, though.”

“Only in self-defence. I am ready for trouble, but I will not start it.”

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Moody yelled, his voice loud and crazed but cheerful.

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed, watching the man’s hands. In the generous depths of his trouser pocket,
Harry’s hand clutched his wand tightly.

Bombarda, he thought, watching their teacher closely for any threatening movements. I can start
with that to knock Moody back and damage him at the same time. Or I could start small and
reliable – the Knockback Jinx on Moody’s wooden leg would get him down in the snow nice and
harmlessly and make it hard for him to target either of us.

Thankfully, his battle planning was unneeded as Moody clomped off into the snow a little further
before Disapparating away.
Draco let out a loud huff of breath. “That senile old Auror is always casting aspersions at me, and
other Slytherins,” he complained to Harry, as they resumed their own walk. “He picks on anyone
who has parents of… dubious allegiances. Thank you for coming to my defence, amicus, I
appreciate what you said. You are right; we children cannot be held to blame – nor do we deserve
the credit – for anything our parents did. Well, unless it is something we asked them to do.”

“True.”

Draco kicked at the snow, which splattered across the bottom of his robe. “Do you think Granger
will give me the credit, or my father, if we manage to get Binns replaced?”

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Honestly? I think she’ll give herself the credit for organising
the whole thing. But she’s aware she’ll owe you a favour – and not your father – so that’s
something.”

Draco made a face but nodded his agreement. “I suppose it is a worthwhile endeavour either way.
Madame Maxime’s classes are vastly superior.”

Harry brushed a few snowflakes out of his hair as a light scattering of snow began to fall and pulled
up the hood of his purple cloak. He would take it off later if he needed to blend in with Muggles;
he had a red jumper and black trousers on underneath that would pass muster. Only the new
wizarding-style winter boots would stand out a little.

“I’m still cross no-one invited me along,” Harry complained.

“Tracey said not to.”

“And you listen to Tracey?”

“When she makes a good case I heed her words. She was worried about how you would perform in
the Tournament. We all were. We still are, for that matter. Would you care to share what you have
discerned about the clue for the second task?”

But despite Draco’s pleading and coaxing about how he’d keep anything Harry said confidential,
Harry wouldn’t cave. He wanted his time off without pressure from his friends to study for the
Tournament. Just for a week or two, to enjoy the Christmas holidays and catch up on other tasks.

If he told Draco and everyone else about the clue and his conclusion that the merpeople in the
Black Lake were going to take some prized possession from him with a one hour time limit to
retrieve it, he’d be endlessly bugged to research water spells and merpeople themselves. He’d start
after the holiday.

“Are you going to join in the ‘Dodge Quidditch’ game?” Draco asked, as they crunched through
the snow. “It has proven quite a popular thing to sign up for in Slytherin, despite the Muggle
influence. Very novel!”

Harry shook his head. “Two massive packs of Quidditch players pelting Bludgers back and forth at
each other until there’s only one person left? No thanks. I figured I’d go and wait with Madam
Pomfrey and help treat the inevitable injuries.”

“Spoilsport!” Draco complained good-naturedly. “It is highly unlikely anyone will suffer serious
injuries; broken bones are the worst you should expect.”

Harry snorted and shook his head. With magical healing available wizards’ ideas of what were
acceptable risks were terrifyingly high sometimes. It explained the Triwizard Tournament too.
While Draco went into Hogsmeade proper to browse accessories on sale at Gladrags Wizardwear
Harry peeled off to go to the Shrieking Shack, where Sirius waited impatiently to transport him to
Grantown-on-Spey.

Harry felt very Dudley-like as he spent the morning working on Chemistry and Biology
assignments and doing a little reading for Business Studies so he could write up some summary
study notes for his cousin. Well… he felt somewhat like Dudley. Harry couldn’t picture Dudley
having a five-hour studying binge. However, the way that Sirius and Lupin hovered around,
fetching his snacks and admiring the work he was doing studying cellular structures with a
microscope reminded him a bit of Aunt Petunia whenever she was especially proud of Dudley for
putting in some genuine effort with his school work (which had become more common as the years
had gone on). They also seemed just as delighted with him when he stopped studying at last to take
a break for a late lunch, pressing him to try an enormous slice of steak and mushroom pie which
had rich, buttery pastry.

They all made polite small talk at first; Lupin was working on writing a book about magical
creatures which he hoped to publish under a nom de plume. Sirius had been practising spellcasting
with his new cypress wand and seen a new (but useless) Healer about his withered arm. Harry
when asked said that he’d like new winter gloves for Christmas and couldn’t think of anything
else.

“Nothing bigger? Come on, think! Some rare potions supplies? How about something useful for
school?”

Harry thought for a moment. “Now you mention it, learning another language would be useful, if
it’s not too expensive. That would be more than enough!”

“You got it!” Sirius said, sounding pleased. Lupin didn’t look too impressed by Harry’s idea,
however, but didn’t raise any objections out loud.

Harry then asked after Kreacher and heard that he was doing well and had been muttering less but
also complained about not having enough work to do.

“I suspect he and Dobby have been moonlighting at Hogwarts to be closer to you and have
something to do,” Sirius shared, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Harry blinked, startled. “House-elves do that?”

“They’re not supposed to,” Sirius said. “However, in the absence of orders forbidding them from
following around the Head or Heir of the House, sometimes they will. Hogwarts has a ban on
students bringing their own personal house-elves to school. However, since neither you nor I
directed them to go and they’re just joining in with the general pool of workers, there’s a bit of a
loophole they might be exploiting.”

“Did Kreacher do that for your brother?”

Sirius shook his head. “No, mother kept him busy. Frankly, I think it’s your own elf’s fault. He’s a
bad influence. I most decidedly approve!”

“Dobby?” Harry called. A few seconds later, Dobby popped in.

“Yes, Master Harry?”

“Dobby, have you been working at Hogwarts?”

“Is Dobby not allowed?” he asked, wringing his bony hands.

“It’s alright if you have been,” Harry soothed.

“Then yes, Dobby is working at Hogwarts, doing mending of linens and helping embroider togas,”
Dobby admitted. “There is not much work to do at Potter Cottage, but Dobby is still looks after it
too.”

“Is Kreacher there too?” Harry asked.

Dobby looked nervously at Sirius. “Dobby is not exactly being sure what Kreacher is doing,” he
hedged. It was as good as an admission to the wizards. “Kreacher is not liking to leaves his old
home for long, though. Kreacher is too old to travel to Muggle houses with iron wires everywhere,
but Kreacher is a good house-elf!” he insisted, with a touch of defiance in his voice as he stood up
for his fellow house-elf that seemed to delight rather than annoy Sirius.

“That’s the spirit!” Sirius said encouragingly.

“Can Dobby go if young Master does not need him?” Dobby asked, his bulbous eyes extra wide as
he plead for leave to go.

“Yes, alright, that’s all. Remember that you are welcome to do extra work if you need to, but you
don’t have to,” Harry emphasised. “What you do is already enough.”

Dobby gave a grateful bow and popped away before too many awkward questions were sent his
way.

“Funny little things, aren’t they?” Remus mused. “I always thought they were rather simple
creatures, and rather nasty. Still, I only ever knew Kreacher particularly well from rare visits with
Sirius, and he was taught to dislike werewolves. They’re more complex and human-like than I
thought, yet with a very different approach to life.”

“We’re thinking that house-elves might be under a bloodline curse,” Harry said, and explained the
theories that the H.E.L.P. Society had been tossing around.

“It’s a theory many hold about werewolves,” Lupin said. “Since it’s inheritable and can be
transmitted via blood. One Dark wizard in the twelfth century, Emeric the Evil – rumoured to be a
descendant of Salazar Slytherin, by the way – found that people could be infected by having
werewolf blood dropped in an open wound, without a need for a scratch or bite.”

“I don’t suppose I could look at your blood under a microscope?” Harry asked.

Sirius made a disgusted face. “Urgh.”

Lupin hesitated, then shook his head. “Maybe when you’re older. I’d hate to have an accident
happen that left you infected.”

“I’d be really careful,” Harry promised, but Lupin wouldn’t yield.

Oh well. It wasn’t like he really knew what he’d be looking for, anyway. Unless there was a
completely new cell type in the mix, he probably wouldn’t be able to see any difference.

“So, anything else you wanted to chat about before you get back to work?” Sirius asked, whisking
away Harry’s empty plate. Harry had managed to eat it all so as not to offend, but the last few bites
had left him horribly full.
“Ah, yes, actually. It’s a bit awkward, though.”

Sirius waved a hand expansively. “Just go for it.”

“The Noble House of Potter requests a service of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,”
Harry began formally.

“Sounds serious,” Lupin said, with a bland expression as he interrupted.

Sirius grinned, pulled off one shoe, and threw it at Remus, who dodged to one side with a laugh.
The shoe hit a wall and they both ignored it as it thumped to the ground.

“The Most Annoying and Nobby House of Black is at your service Heir, as sworn,” Sirius intoned,
with mock formality. “What aid can we render to thee and thine?”

Harry took a deep breath. “There is a prophecy. About me. Rumoured to be something about uh,
You-Know-Who, and why he attacked me when I was a baby.”

Sirius and Lupin exchanged a look as he spoke.

“I uh… I understand a copy is kept in the Department of Mysteries, but I’ve been discouraged from
going there–”

“I’d agree with that advice,” Sirius said.

“–and I tried asking Professor Trelawney about it, but she’d never heard of such a prophecy. Then
she got gory and talked about how I was doomed under an ill-favoured star and predicted
something about dying in a gushing fountain of blood, and frankly I got out of there as fast as I
could. Hermione says she’s always like that and McGonagall told her she predicts a student’s death
every year and it’s never happened yet, which was very reassuring.”

“Dumbledore might be willing to talk to him about it…” Lupin started, then trailed off at Sirius’
glare.

“He only tells us what he thinks is necessary,” Sirius snapped. “I grow weary of his platitudes of
caution and patience.”

“It was just a thought,” Lupin said defensively.

“I thought of that too,” Harry said, pleased to have incidental confirmation that the Headmaster
knew the prophecy. “But I figured if he wanted me to know what the prophecy was, he would’ve
told me already. Anyway, that’s my formal request – I want to know what the prophecy says. The
exact words.”

It had been Neville’s idea to ask Sirius to find out for him, when Harry had gossiped with him late
at night before bed. Neville said that as an adult wizard, people would be more likely to tell Sirius
any unpleasant details that they might keep from Harry. Sirius also had the leisure and connections
to pursue such an investigation. Harry thought it would also be a good test of Sirius’ fitness as a
potential guardian; would he help Harry, or brush him off?

“Well Harry, I shall certainly try. I don’t know the words of the prophecy, but I do know it is what
sent your parents and the Longbottoms into hiding, back in the last war. At a guess, it might say
something about a pregnant woman fighting against the Dark Lord, or something about parents and
a baby. I would rather you didn’t worry yourself about the details, but I can certainly appreciate
why you are curious about it. I would be, in your boots. I already have been, actually. Curious, that
is.”

The tension in Harry’s shoulders eased. Sirius was going to help. “Do you know why I’ve been
advised against going to the Ministry? That seemed the simplest path to finding out.”

Sirius nodded. “Death Eaters have been trying to infiltrate – with uncertain results – and get access
to the Department of Mysteries. The DoM is guarded by members of the Order of the Phoenix as
well as Aurors, and there have been some clashes with Death Eaters, on and off. Alleged Azkaban
escapees. It simply isn’t safe. I don’t know what it is they are after down there, but best to keep
away if you do not wish to draw attention from all quarters.”

“Alright. And you’ll find it out for me?”

“Yes, I promise I shall do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask, really,” Harry said. “Thank you.”

-000-

Draco and Harry had two practice runs together for the Yule ritual – the second one being a gory
rehearsal where Draco killed a magically Stunned duck. After the chanting and slaughtering was
done, Draco looked ashen-faced, and his hand holding the bloodied knife was white-knuckled and
trembling.

“How do you handle such a scene with sangfroid?” he snapped at Harry, his voice lapsing into the
odd archaic tones of an upset pure-blood.

“Well, I didn’t have to kill it myself, and that helps a lot. I only had to hold the bowl to catch the
blood.”

Draco nodded his fervent agreement. “It truly is easier to watch than to perform.”

“Also, I’ve been feeding Storm live animals – or chopped up bits – for a couple of years now. Mice
are pretty cute, you know, but Storm likes them alive and wiggling when he eats them so he
usually gets me to wake them up from their enchantment.”

“It’s not all blood sacrifices!” Draco burst out. “It’s a meal! A sacred meal!”

Harry tilted his head. That came out of nowhere. “Who are you trying to convince – me, or
yourself? It’s just a duck, Draco. You were fine when your dad killed that pig last Yule.”

“Cast those cleaning charms on me,” Draco demanded, ignoring Harry’s question and looking
down at his messy white ritual robe. “You said you knew some.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said pointedly, as he obliged his distant cousin. “You so owe me for all
this, you know,” he reminded, as he waved his wand around.

“Hmph. Yes, I know. One medium-sized favour.”

-000-

The journey on the twenty-second of December to the ritual site around an ancient menhir in the
woods was on a forebodingly dark and bone-chillingly cold evening. Harry was more prepared
than a boy scout desperate to earn a new badge, with two bags slung crossways across his body and
a small pouch tied to his belt. One was his leather satchel holding Storm safe and snug from the
weather, and – ignoring Storm’s whiny protest – another half-dozen serpents he’d conjured up
before leaving Hogwarts’ environs, who’d wiggled about into a crowded ball. If any dangerous
creatures tried to eat the sodden caravan of young druids-in-training, they’d have to deal with
Harry ordering a bunch of poisonous vipers to attack. They’d all been briefed to behave in regard to
not attacking each other, lectured about their potential duty, and promised that they’d be given a
snack of a baby mouse from the pouch at his belt – again against Storm’s objections – before being
dismissed back to wherever it was they’d come from once the night was done. Harry was pretty
sure now that the Snake Summons Spell did indeed summon rather than create snakes. Repeated
interviews had determined that they all appeared to be non-magical wild snakes, and with practice
Harry was able to increasingly summon the dangerous snakes he preferred to call.

The second bag was his Healer’s bag Theodore had given him for his birthday, with a long strap
attached in place of the usual short handles to keep his hands free for his wand, just in case. They
all tried hard not to use their wands when out in the Forbidden Forest, as the Headmaster was
rumoured to have made some deal with the Ministry to be alerted to spellcasting by anyone with
the Trace on their wands anywhere in the forest… for safety’s sake, allegedly.

Their travels were lit by the dim light of bluebell flames in glass lanterns. It didn’t feel bright
enough. On the other hand, too much light could draw unwelcome attention from giant spiders,
centaurs, wolves, or a dozen other predatorial threats. It was a lose-lose situation.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry fretted, looking around anxiously shortly after they’d started out.

“He is unwell, and cannot make it this evening,” Pansy said apologetically, passing Harry a
parchment scroll. “Come on, we have to get moving before anyone spots us out there.”

Harry held onto the message as they hurried along into the concealing shelter of the treeline,
curious about what Draco had said.

“Theodore,” he called to the skinny boy a short distance behind him, “will you guard me while I
read this? Keep watch for danger, and make sure I don’t trip over anything?”

Theodore perked up and moved up in the queue expeditiously, bringing a halo of light from his
bluebell-flame lantern with him. “I would be delighted to assist, my friend!”

Harry – nervous about having his hands and eyes occupied but trusting that Theodore was invested
in guarding him diligently, unrolled the scroll. In it, Draco explained that he was unwell with
‘embarrassing digestive distress’ and a fever and did not feel up to attending the evening’s
festivities. He begged formally that Harry take his place as ‘senior druid’ for the night, since he
was familiar with the ritual.

With a curse, Harry stalked up to Pansy with Theodore scurrying along at his shoulder, and asked,
“Did you know Draco asked me to take his place tonight.”

“Yes. Someone has to. He said you knew the chants. Crabbe is carrying the duck, in the crate.”

“But I don’t want to,” Harry whined. He wondered if Draco was skiving off because he didn’t want
to have to kill the duck. “Can’t someone else do it?”

“No,” Pansy insisted. “It has to be you. You are the highest-status wizard. Honestly, it should
always be you, now, but on the other hand, you are unfamiliar with most of the rituals, and it
would be against tradition to have a non-Slytherin in charge.”

She hesitated before adding, “Though of course arguably you are more Slytherin than any of us,
with your heritage. I read the article this morning.”

“I don’t know where Rita got her information. Certainly not from me. She might have made all of it
up,” Harry complained, “and I’m fine if Draco outranks me. He likes being our druid.”

He didn’t really want to get distracted from his main complaint by a discussion of the morning’s
sensationalised article about Harry’s ancestral lineage, however. Harry instead focusing his
oratorial efforts on elaborating on how he didn’t want to be in charge of the evening’s ritual, or to
have to kill a duck. He also muttered implied accusations that Draco might be faking his illness,
before Pansy finally snapped at him in angry nasal tones.

“I do not believe he is faking it, but even if your aspersions are correct, he is still not here and we
need a replacement. You know Latin better than anyone here, for Merlin’s sake, and you practiced
the ritual! I do not care who owes you a favour and could do it on your behalf; we are out of time
and you are the clear choice so you shall just have to put up with it and be the Wassail King, Mr.
Harold James Potter!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” Harry conceded, with a grumpy sigh.

The singing went fine, as Harry chanted praise to the beauty of the long night and the stars
scattered across the firmament, and to the sun and their expectation of its imminent return. He
knew the Latin and had even talked over the song with Ambrosius, who had suggested a couple of
wording changes and shared some tips for focusing magical energy during the sacrifice. His placid
reassurance that killing an animal wasn’t ‘Dark’ to any significant degree had been comforting to
Harry, who wasn’t really worried, but appreciated the extra reinforcement. Ambrosius had agreed
that it wasn’t any worse than being a meat-eater on any other day of the year. He recommended
that the animal was killed in a swift and respectful manner, and importantly that it be done with a
spirit of general respect to magic rather than in an attempt to enhance one’s personal power.

Killing the duck wasn’t nice; he hadn’t expected it to be. At least it was Stunned into insensibility
and didn’t feel the knife at its throat. It went smoothly and the gathered children cheered its death.
If anyone was bothered by the gory scene, they didn’t speak up about it or draw attention to
themselves.

In fact, the only objection came from Storm, whose quiet disgruntled hisses were only
comprehensible to Harry. “The duck should go to Millicent. Remember I told you to give her a
duck? Why don’t you listen to me? She is my favourite. You are wasting it.”

Pansy – serenely unfazed by the blood that sprinkled over her – held the hlautbolli, the sacred bowl
to catch the blood from the upside-down decapitated duck. She then poured a small portion of it
into a smaller dish which she passed to Harry, and a handful of wooden twigs to be hlautteinar or
aspergilla – something to sprinkle the blood around with.

Pansy and Harry – borrowing a lantern from Theodore – lit a bonfire on a pile of wood everyone
had assembled together, to another rousing cheer as the blue flames flickered across the wood and
sparked it into a cheery orange-gold blaze. Then Pansy led the young women off into the circle of
trees ringing the clearing, leading a stumbling chorus singing a couple of different Wassail songs.
She repeated each song at least twice to help people learn them.

“Here we come a-wassailing, among the leaves so green. Here we come a-wand'ring, so fair to be
seen. Love and joy come to you, and to all your wassail, too…”

The girls – just barely visible through the trees as they clearly didn’t wish to venture too far away
from the protection of the group and the comforting orange glow of the bonfire – each took an
aspergillum of their own to sprinkle blood on the nearby trees. Some fairies twittered happily as
they converged to lick hungrily at the blood and nibble at some cautiously proffered raisins, and
from a hollow on one leafless oak tree a lone, shy, stick-like Bowtruckle emerged. Morag
McDougal from Ravenclaw was delighted to be able to hand-feed the carnivorous Bowtruckle
some drops of blood from her aspergillum, which it supped at with its miniscule green tongue from
its tiny mouth.

Harry had asked Storm to go with the girls and guard them, perhaps atop Millicent’s shoulders, but
he’d complained and wanted to stay with Harry, so Harry had the summoned vipers guarding the
borders of the circle instead, while Storm stayed atop Harry’s shoulders where Harry’s body heat
and spells would keep him warm.

In the centre of the clearing, Harry sprinkled each of the boys with a little blood on their head or
hands (as they chose), and then they circled the five-foot-high menhir together in a deasil direction
(sunwise or clockwise, as the Muggles would say) as Harry poured the remainder of the blood
around the base of the menhir. Storm’s hissed bossy commentary ordering ‘more ssstomping’ and
for them to ‘sssing louder’ as they circled was a little distracting, but Harry didn’t let it derail his
chanting in praise of the renewal of magic and the circle of the year.

After the main portion of their ceremony was complete, they moved onto preparing the feast while
the girls continued their wassailing. Greg busied himself with dunking the duck into a cauldron of
boiling water, holding it by the feet, then started plucking the loosened feather and then dressing it
for cooking with an expert air.

“I do this sort of thing all the time at home,” he explained, when Harry praised his competence.
“We do not have a house-elf, and my parents appreciate me helping with the livestock.”

Harry was relieved to leave him to it and moved on to a task he was a lot more confident and
comfortable with – preparing a cauldron of mulled apple cider for everyone to share. He’d brought
his mother’s small golden cauldron along – as discussed and planned with his absent friend earlier
– as a loan for the evening to add a touch of distinction to their festival.

When the group regathered toasts were made to victory and power, good harvest and peace, and
Merlin and magic. People spoke of those they’d lost; sadly many in the group had someone to talk
about losing that year. While casualties at the Quidditch World Cup had been relatively low and
there had only been a few other deaths over the year, the wizarding community was small and
insular, and many people were interrelated to some degree. That went double for pure-bloods.

Ernie Macmillan was related to the deceased Auror Hestia Jones by a slightly complex degree of
cousinship, the late Cuthbert Mockridge – once Head of the Goblin Liaison Office – was the great-
uncle of Lily Moon, and Stephen Cornfoot was sad to have lost his Uncle Amos, Cedric’s father.

“I know it’s not the same as losing your father, I know that. I just feel like people forget that more
people than just Cousin Cedric are mourning his loss. My mum is spending a lot of time with her
sister – Cedric’s mother. They have both been crying a lot. He was a good man, and a good father
and uncle.”

“To Amos Diggory,” Harry said gravely, raising his goblet in a toast, “a good man who will be
sorely missed. May he find peace in the Summerland.”

“Amos Diggory,” murmured the crowd, each drinking another sip of wassail.

The group of students settled down for dinner and gossip after the toasts were concluded, the
formal portion of the evening all done.
Gossip was running hot and people were eager to chat about cross-House issues of interest. There
was a lot of buzz about how the ‘Muggle-born pagan’ first-year Hufflepuff – Eleanor Branstone –
had loudly objected to the Yule tree in Hogwarts’ Great Hall being decorated with a star at the top
and angel ornaments and had consequently gotten another detention.

“I heard she yelled at Professor McGonagall, and said the angels were offending the actual live
fairies on the tree, who felt like they weren’t being appreciated, which seems fair to me,” gossiped
Daphne. “Then she ruined it when she started ranting about Christian oppression and freedom of
worship. That girl really does not know when to stop.”

“I am proud to see a fellow Badger embracing our traditions like one born to it,” Macmillan said
pompously.

“Here, here!” agreed Lily Moon.

“I think we could use more Muggle-borns like her,” Greg said. “Instead of the kind who do not
want to learn anything or respect the Old Ways.”

“More Muggle-borns like your girlfriend?” Morag MacDougal teased.

Greg looked confused.

“They mean Granger,” Daphne clarified. “Not Bulstrode, obviously.”

“She is obviously not my girlfriend. I have not given her flowers nor handkerchiefs nor any other
tokens of affection. She is just a good friend, and possible future client,” Greg explained very
seriously, ignoring MacDougal giggling with Moon.

“Is that why you glare at Weasley so hard when he fetches books for her and looks at her all
googly-eyed?” MacDougal asked teasingly.

“He is beneath her,” Greg explained, a frown crossing his face. “She is special, not an ordinary
Muggle-born, and she now has a proven lineage to a formerly dead House she can be the Head of
when she is of age. She deserves someone better than a Weasley.”

“Someone like you? Are you taking her to the Yule Ball?” Moon asked.

“I am going with Millicent Bulstrode,” he said, unblinking. “She is a suitable partner for the
evening, being of good health and from a fine family background.”

“You romantic sweet-talker, Goyle!” MacDougal said, then subsided into quiescence when Pansy
gave her a warning glare and shake of her head.

“How are the Creeveys working out at the festivals?” Harry asked. “Midgen said she didn’t want to
come tonight since there would be a sacrifice, but she will try and make it to the others.”

“The Creevey are doing fine, from what I have heard,” Daphne said, joining in the subject change.
“They are keen as Seekers when the whistle is blown; there is nothing they are not willing to try
and have both learnt to settle down and not try and take photographs all the time.”

Both Professor Sinistra and a centaur stopped by during the course of the evening to check on their
group, and to share a cup of wassail with the students. Their professor reminded them to not forget
about curfew. Luckily a couple of students – Harry included – carried pocket watches and were
keeping a close eye on the time.
After they’d left, Greg turned to Vincent and said quietly, “Can I ask him now?”

“Yes, the timing is suitable,” his friend murmured.

Greg instantly turned to Harry and asked, “What Skeeter wrote in the Daily Prophet this morning
about your ancestry going back to the Gaunt family and Ilvermorny’s Founder, is it true?”

“Thank goodness!” said Daphne. “I have been dying to ask about that all night, but Pansy made us
swear not to crowd you.”

Glancing over at Pansy with a look of surprise, Harry saw that his cousin looked a little uncertain,
and then puffed up proud as a peacock when Harry directed a grateful smile in her direction. “Well,
thank you, Pansy! People have been hounding me about it all day! It was nice to get a bit of a
break. The favour is noted and appreciated.”

“Do we get favours too?” Daphne asked, gesturing at herself and the others. “We did the actual
work of not badgering you.”

“It was my idea!” Pansy objected.

“Just Pansy,” Harry confirmed.

“So unfair,” Daphne whined.

“So, is it true?” Greg asked persistently. “Is it true that Lily Evans was descended from the Gaunt
family?”

“His mother?” MacDougal asked. “I did not see the article – I don’t have a subscription. I just heard
gossip and assumed it was through his father’s line.”

“Fill the girl in, Goyle,” Theodore said, waving a hand lazily. “I think you have it memorized,
don’t you? I overheard you talking it over with Greengrass.”

“If that is alright with you, Harry?” Greg checked.

“I don’t mind.”

Greg nodded. “Harry – Harold James Potter – is the son of Lily Evans, daughter of Darren Evans
and Heather Parkinson. Darren’s father Robert is of little interest. It is his mother Emily Evans nee
Smith’s line that is the one of note, shifting away from the Muggle male line and into a suspected
Squib lineage.

“Emily Evans owned a beaded headband with a couple of disintegrating feathers in it, which she
left to a daughter in her will, saying that it once rightfully belonged to her grandfather who was
from Quebec, in Canada,” he explained, sounding out the foreign country name oddly. “A relic
from his Pocomtuc tribe from the New World.”

Harry butted in to clarify that. “America, that is. The Pocomtuc were a native American tribe who
were continually driven out of their territory. They originally lived in Massachusetts, but were
decimated by war and disease, and ended up in a number of locations, including Quebec.”

“It was more than one in ten,” Greg objected.

Harry, knowing Latin, got the reference. ‘Decimated’ used to mean a very precise ten per cent of
the population had been killed. “I’m not being that literal, Greg. I just meant a lot of them died.”
“Right. You should have said ‘slaughtered’,” Greg corrected, before resuming the thread of the
tale.

“So, the Founders of Ilvermorny were not Indian, obviously. However, one of their descendants
married an Indian.”

“Native American,” corrected Harry.

“Isolt Sayre had married a Muggle, and so one of her daughters was a Squib; Martha Steward, the
less famous eldest of the Founder’s twin daughters. And she married the Muggle – or Squib –
brother of a Pocomtuc Muggle-born,” Greg concluded.

“So there’s the idea that Potter’s descended from Sayre via a Pocomtuc Squib line through his
grandfather Evans?” MacDougal checked.

“That’s basically it,” Harry confirmed, “Darren Evans had his own long-distant magical lineage,
going back eventually to Isolt Sayre as the nearest magical relative on that side. There’s quite a few
generations so the family tree’s a bit of a tangle. And I’m thinking that him marrying Heather
Parkinson, a Squib, doubled up the magical heritage potential which is why my mum Lily was a
‘Muggle-born’.”

Harry talked around ‘recessive genes’ as he was pretty sure it’d just confuse the pure-bloods.
Probably everyone, in fact. Science, alas, wasn’t taught at all at Hogwarts.

“I’m confused. How does that all link up to the Gaunt family?” asked MacDougal. “All I heard
through the grapevine was that Harry was descended from the Gaunt family – full of Parselmouths
– and the Dark witch Morrigan.”

Greg looked over to Daphne and Harry for help.

“Isolt Sayre’s mother was a Gaunt – one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight Houses,” Daphne said, taking
up the story, “and they claim descent from Salazar Slytherin, but Skeeter didn’t say how. Skeeter
said she was writing more about that tomorrow; ‘The tragic and Dark history of the Houses of
Sayre and Gaunt that will shock you to the core’?”

Harry shrugged. “Skeeter probably knows more about that than I do, I expect. Hermione helped
me look up Morrigan, though. She was an Irish witch who had a crow as her Animagus form and
was called the ‘Phantom Queen’. She was apparently also a great Seer and an amazing warrior
queen and was worshipped by Muggles. How ‘Dark’ she was is open for debate, I think. She
certainly killed a lot of people, but so did a lot of other people in that era. She just used magic to do
it, and also led an army of witches and wizards in some battles against the Fomorians. She didn’t
sacrifice people or torture them for fun, or anything. Nothing really Dark that we found on a quick
check. The Restricted Section might have less censored accounts, however.”

Daphne added, “Isolt’s father was also a pure-blood, William Sayre, and he claimed descent from
Morrigan. It was recorded as a legitimate claim by their House in the thirties in The Pure-Blood
Directory. Along with a claim of the Sacred House of Gaunt’s descent from their famous ancestor,
Salazar Slytherin. I read up everything I could dig up on the Slytherin family in second year, which
wasn’t a lot.”

“What do you think the ‘tragic’ part is going to be?” asked Harry.

“Probably how the Gaunt family has died out?” suggested Daphne. “Unless you count yourself,
Harry, but honestly the heritage is far too thin to make a claim to the House. There was some
drama about the last wizard in the House going to Azkaban, years back. Terrible tragedy, really, to
lose one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Tracey shook her head. “No, I think it will be all about the Founder’s maternal aunt, Gormlaith
Gaunt. She killed Isolt’s parents,” Tracey continued, “kidnapped Isolt, and burnt down their house.
Later on she tried to kill Isolt as well, because she had betrayed the purity of the House by
marrying a Muggle.”

Harry sighed. “There’s something to look forward to. A new reason for people to assume I’m a
Dark elitist wizard… I might snap like Gormlaith. I did like the sound of Isolt, though. She seemed
very open-minded. And hey! If it’s true, then I’m descended from two Founders! Just one from
Hogwarts though.”

“Terry Boot is also related to the Ilvermorny Founders,” Cornfoot interjected. “I don’t think there
is a blood relation to you though, as that line’s via adoption.”

“Isolt Sayre is also a lovely rare example of people not disparaging someone for being a
Parselmouth,” added Tracey. “It is all ridiculous though, the idea of judging you based on a long-
distant ancestor. Gormlaith is just one relative many generations back, not even in your direct line.
People should more reasonably conclude you are exactly like a Muggle.”

“So, the Gaunts trace their ancestry back to Salazar Slytherin?” Vincent double-checked. “I think
there are lots of Dark witches and wizards in their line.”

“Some slandered unfairly,” Theodore insisted. “Besides, I am sure there were many in that line
who just led quiet, boring lives and did not merit a mention in the history books.”

“That’s true,” Harry said. “Normal lives don’t make good stories. I bet you’ve never heard of
Corvinus Gaunt.”

“Who?” Daphne asked.

“That’s my point; he’s not famous for anything. But he was a Parselmouth and an Heir of Slytherin
a couple of hundred years ago. I bet some people would be eager to judge him as evil just for that,
though.”

“So, is that why you were arguing at the Gryffindor table this morning?” Daphne asked curiously.
“Because your friends were angry at the not-very-shocking revelation you are officially related to
Salazar Slytherin? Not that it wasn’t good research,” she added hastily.

“No, I mean yes, it was that later. But it started because people overheard me talking with Neville
and Hermione about a dream I had, and decided it meant something it didn’t. Stupid
eavesdroppers,” he grumbled. “It was all bad timing, so that whole thing snowballed with the news
about the Sayre and Gaunt families and became a big thing that made some people start
speculating I was Dark.”

“You can tell us the dream,” Daphne urged, patting him on the hand comfortingly. “I promise we
won’t get mad at you, will we?”

“Certainly not!” Pansy agreed.

Harry sighed. He could argue with them, but in the end it probably wouldn’t matter. Besides, they
could always gather gossip from one of the half-dozen people who’d decided to butt into his
private conversation that morning.
“I dreamt I was a hat,” he admitted.

“Who wore you?” Pansy asked.

“Did it seem like a prophetic dream?” Millicent interjected.

Harry shook his head in amazement. “How could it be prophetic? I’m not going to turn into a hat.”
He paused. “Well, not without a very impressive transfiguration spell, anyway.”

“What else happened?” someone asked.

“Were you hanging on a hat stand? That symbolises choice,” Cornfoot said.

“I dreamt I was a hat and the Dark Lord wore me, okay?”

Pansy blinked and said nothing, while Daphne’s eyes went wide and shocked.

Vincent shook his head. “That was a weird dream, Potter.”

“I would hate to dream of You-Know-Who,” Macmillan said, with a shudder. “No wonder you
were out of sorts and got embroiled in an argument. Not good table conversation, that. Not the done
thing at all.”

“What do you think it means?” Theodore asked, turning to Pansy.

“Hats represent prestige and respect,” she said thoughtfully.

“Or thought, or power,” added Cornfoot. “Do you remember what kind of hat you were, Potter, and
whether you were put on or taken off?”

Harry shook his head. “I forgot the details pretty quickly. I remember I was a present – as a hat, not
a person – and he was happy and put me on. He had dark hair. That’s pretty much all I remember.
Oh, and someone else there was angry about it.”

He frowned. Were there Death Eaters in his dream? He didn’t remember. A man had complained
angrily in shrill tenor tones, and someone else had laughed wildly, in a high, feminine voice. He’d
woken up in a cold sweat at half-past two in the morning, and when he’d gone back to sleep the
rest of the night had been dreamless. When he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and get ready for
the morning, the details of the dream had almost completely faded.

“You don’t remember the hat style?” Cornfoot asked persistently. “Pointed or top hat? A derby?”

“No, I don’t remember, no clue what my style was. I don’t even know how I saw anything, since I
didn’t feel like I had eyes. Being a hat and all. Not a hood or cloak, no obvious feathers sticking
out or anything? That’s all I know.”

Those studying Divination seemed intrigued by his dream and were eager to quiz him further and
offer up interpretations.

Cornfoot favoured Harry’s hat-self being worn by You-Know-Who as symbolising Harry changing
the Dark Lord’s mind about something in a non-violent fashion, with the angry objector
representing it being a controversial change.

Pansy on the other hand favoured the symbolism of hats representing social prestige and predicted
public arguments over which of the two of them was the true Heir of Slytherin. She was backed up
by Millicent and Tracey, but Harry wasn’t sure whether they really agreed with her take on the
dream or were just being good clients backing up their social patron. Tracey didn’t even study
Divination, which made him suspicious of the sincerity of her support.

Millicent took an entirely new tack and suggested that it didn’t have any prophetic real-world
meaning at all and was just a dream where Harry worked through his issues; the dream was a gift
from Magic purely to help him heal and ponder his life. She thought that since hats could also
represent a need for attention, it could symbolise Harry’s unspoken fear that You-Know-Who
might use Harry in some way to gain attention for a goal of his.

“That’s the problem with Divination,” MacDougal grumbled. “Too many interpretations for
everything. Arithmancy was definitely the right choice.”

“These speculations are obviously all wrong. The Dark Lord is dead,” Vincent insisted, glaring at
the lot of them. “He died a decade ago.”

Cornfoot shook his head. “Believe what you want, if that’s what you do actually even believe.
Which I doubt. Dumbledore says he’s back – I trust him, no matter what the Ministry says. I don’t
believe it’s just the new Lord Pet… Missing Finger behind it all.”

‘Lord Missing Finger’ was becoming a popular euphemism, initially bestowed upon him by
Lovegood in The Quibbler. Harry suspected that Tom – the one possessing Pettigrew – was fuming
about it somewhere. Luna might be safe, but he hoped her father had good wards and an escape
plan.

Vincent scowled, and Macmillan didn’t look pleased either.

“What do you think, Potter? Do you agree with me?” Cornfoot asked.

Harry shrugged. “Well… yes. I believe he is.”

“Why don’t you say something publicly, then?”

“Why don’t you?”

“No-one would believe me, and I’m not famous like you are.”

“So is Dumbledore, and almost no-one believes him. He’s the Chief Mugwump of the ICW,
Hogwarts’ Headmaster, former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the decorated war hero who
defeated Grindelwald. The Ministry and the paper are calling him a senile old man with a
dangerous, crackpot delusion,” concluded Harry.

Cornfoot’s brow furrowed in reflective concern.

“So, with all that in mind, what do you think they’d call me?” Harry added.

“Dangerous young Dark wizard with a terrifying talent?” suggested Theodore.

“Deluded child led astray?” volunteered Millicent.

“So desperate for attention he makes up stories about the Dark Lord everyone knows he killed a
decade ago?” suggested Vincent.

“Probably all of that,” agreed Harry. “Feel free to say whatever you want, Cornfoot. But I don’t
want my name pointlessly dragged through the mud.”

“Some brave Gryffindor you are,” grumbled Cornfoot.

 Harry didn’t bother engaging in a pointless argument, and he saw the Slytherins exchange smirking
glances as he remained silent. He was already an honorary Slytherin in their eyes – focusing on
self-preservation over pointless heroism wasn’t going to lower his image for them. It was a comfort
that they accepted him as he was. Too often in Gryffindor he felt he had to put on an act of being a
brave and noble hero who wasn’t scared of the spotlight.

In hushed whispers that carefully avoided using the Dark Lord’s pseudonym of ‘Lord Voldemort’
and avoided the contentious topic of his possible continued existence, people moved on to discuss
whether Lord Voldemort had ever proven his descent from Salazar Slytherin or not, or just relied
on his talent as a Parselmouth as furnishing sufficient proof, which was pretty much all Harry had
had to offer up until now.

Harry found himself in the awkward position of feeling obliged to defend the Dark Lord, in the
interests of fairness and accuracy. “It was how the snake statues in the Chamber of Secrets
recognised the descendants of Slytherin for generations. Corvinus Gaunt was – apart from You-
Know-Who – one of the more recent people to visit there. That I know of. It’s not like he took a
family tree down. He just presented himself as a Parselmouth, let the snake statues bite him, and
that was enough. It’s such a rare talent in the UK that it’s pretty much certain those few who have
it are descended from Salazar Slytherin. It might be different for someone with people from India
or Australia in their lineage.”

“I heard a rumour that He is – was – related to the Gaunt family somehow,” Daphne said. “Since
you are too, Harry, according to the article… I guess that means you are related to him. Which is
really weird to think about.”

Oh. He hadn’t thought that through. If others had heard that rumour too, it’d explain some of the
nastiness, and the odd looks, from that morning.

“Um, yeah, I guess it does. Still, since he has wizarding ancestors he’s probably related to a lot of
pure-bloods and half-bloods, to some degree.”

Everyone looked uniformly disturbed by that idea, and the evening’s chatter swiftly moved on to a
more light-hearted discussion of the upcoming Yule Ball.

Chapter End Notes

sunflower_swan – Thanks again for the idea of the ‘Dodge Quidditch’ game!
Guest – You had some really excellent guesses in your last review! You’re definitely
on the right track there.
Brodan – Snuck in a reference to Boot for you.
Pictureme – Sulky Storm for you.
 The Yule Ball
Chapter Summary

Christmas morning and the Yule Ball.

Chapter Notes

Content warning: Racist slurs used in a letter from Dudley.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

25 December 1994

The week before Christmas was a delightful time, despite the heavy load of homework that all the
fourth-years had been given. Some Gryffindor students like Ron and Finnegan chose to put off
their work for later in favour of the Gobstones Tournament or mucking about with the Weasley
twins’ Canary Creams and other experimental sweets. Others like Harry, Neville, and Hermione
chose to power through their assignments as quickly as possible so that they could theoretically
relax with clear consciences for the rest of the break. When Hermione and Harry started making
noises about getting a head start on their Ancient Runes reading, Neville coaxed the two into
joining in a snowman-making competition instead, and afterwards they all enjoyed an impromptu
snowball fight.

Pansy and Tracey dragged Harry – under protest – to McGonagall’s dancing lessons. Pansy didn’t
seem to require the classes and was apparently just enjoying being squired about by Draco. Neville
bowed out of the lessons claiming he was already a proficient dancer, but Hermione went along,
declaring herself always open to learning something new, and quietly admitting to her friends that
she didn’t want to embarrass her date by not knowing any of the steps. She was still keeping mum
about who that was, though Harry suspected Brown and Patil knew who her partner was going to
be, judging by some conspiratorial whispering between the girls that stopped whenever the boys
walked by.

With Rita Skeeter doing a series of articles every day about the powerful and Dark witches and
wizards descended from Salazar Slytherin’s line, Harry’s popularity had dimmed somewhat. Harry
made a note – literally in some cases, so he wouldn’t forget – of which fair-weather friends were
suddenly watching him suspiciously for signs of sudden fits of violence or madness. His least-
favourite article speculated about whether Lily Potter may have had some unknown incredible and
implicitly Dark powers resulting from her Slytherin heritage. For something had protected her
infant son from the formerly unstoppable Killing Curse. His friends banded around to distract and
shield him from the insulting and curious questions other students felt at liberty to level at him after
gossip about that article took off.

Students weren’t the only ones worried about Harry’s official public recognition as the Heir of
Slytherin and his descent from an admittedly rather Dark family. On Christmas morning when
everyone in the dorm was rummaging through the piles of presents at the foots of their beds, both
Harry and Neville found they had matching gifts from the Headmaster.

“Dumbledore sent me a bag of lemon sherbets,” Harry commented, rather bemused.

“Me too, he has never given me a gift before,” said Neville. “There’s a card too.”

“I got my invisibility cloak one year. That doesn’t count as a gift though, because it should have
been mine already since it was my dad’s.”

Harry read through the note in the card, which was identical to Neville’s. “Huh. An invitation to
tea in January, to talk about some memories of his of the Gaunt family. That could be…
interesting, I guess. Do you think I should go?”

“I will go with you,” Neville promised.

“Thank you,” Harry said gratefully. The Headmaster didn’t scare him like he used to, but he still
made Harry a little nervous. “Then I shall write back and accept the invitation. Maybe I should
send him a sweet or something as a gift, too. I think I still have some Sugared Butterfly Wings
left.”

“Good plan. Oh! New pruning shears washed with gold!” Neville commented excitedly,
unwrapping another gift. “Thanks, Harry!”

Harry sighed with relief. “You’re welcome. I worried you might have some already.”

Neville hesitated, and then said, “Well… I do, but they are losing their edge so new ones are most
welcome.”

“Oh.”

“Honestly, I truly like them!”

Harry unwrapped his gift from Neville, a set of quills and inkpots, and thanked him politely.

“I was stuck for ideas and did not want to get you something snake-themed like everyone else is
likely to do. You do do a lot of writing! There is a pot of invisible ink in there too.”

“It’s great,” Harry promised.

His own gifts for others he’d purchased earlier that year in France had all been delivered by
cooperative house-elves who popped around in festive red and green outfits, delivering gifts to and
from all the students. They’d dropped off Harry’s gifts of dice games, books on French history,
Sugared Butterfly Wings, a limestone dragon statuette for Draco, and a hat for Daphne. He’d
supplemented his initial stockpile of gifts bought in France with a few extra sweets from
Hogsmeade, and stationery bought from the Muggle-born owned Scribbulus Writing Implements.
He’d gotten Muggle brass-tipped fountain pens for Greg and Millicent, with little instructional
booklets on how to use them.

His own haul of gifts from friends and assorted admirers included the usual collection of sweets,
bookmarks, potions, and clothing accessories (many in green). His favourite random smalls gifts
were some non-green woolly gloves – one pair in red, and another in plain black.

He also received an assortment of new snake statuettes for his collection from various admirers and
self-proclaimed friends, including one from ‘your friend, Ovid’, and another from the Derrick
family, a miniscule creation of rainbow crochet work. It seemed word was spreading that tiny
snake figurines were a good trinket to gift him with. It was kind of fun to have a collection, really,
and Storm approved.

“They are like tiny hatchlings, like the ssstone ones in the sssecret den. I like them. And they do not
eat my food. That is good,” Storm commented approvingly.

The vampire Sanguini had sent him a potions recipe (or ‘receipt’ as he called it) of specific utility
for his kind – it helped soothe rare but troublesome digestive upsets. It looked complicated, and the
antiquated style of language didn’t help matters. Harry made a mental note to consult Snape about
the brewing details. Snape’s own gift was a half dozen empty glass potions vials. The French
Potioneer Catherine Monvoisin had sent him a Christmas card wishing him luck in the Triwizard
Tournament, with a laughing disclaimer that she hoped he did not have quite as much luck as her
countrywoman Fleur, and bemoaning the lack of an international potions brewing tournament.

His two favourite house-elves had sent gifts too; Dobby had sent a hand-knitted bobble hat with
multi-coloured stripes and a pom pom on top, and Kreacher had sent a fruit cake that reeked of
rum.

Dobby also included an adorable accompanying note.

This does not mean Dobby is sets you free. No matter how many clothes I gives you, you must still
be Dobby’s master.

Dobby also shared his and Kreacher’s thanks for the raw supplies to make new togas with, and the
Yule gift baskets of snacks. Dobby was especially delighted by the book Harry had sent him,
Weldon's Practical Needlework.

The Weasley family had collectively gifted Harry with a hand-knitted purple jumper with a ‘H’ on
the front, and a matching scarf, gloves, and warm woollen socks.

Tracey had sent him a second-hand book, entitled A Barefoot Doctor's Manual: A Guide to
Traditional Chinese and Modern Medicine. It covered western medical treatments, acupuncture,
and Chinese herbal medicine, and was written as a guide for those practicing as doctors with
minimal training and without access to modern hospitals.

Draco had – as hinted by Harry – gotten his family to send Harry another blank high-quality
journal bound in red leather. This year’s diary had been embossed with the Black family crest
rather than the Potter one, however, with two lean dogs flanking a shield emblazoned with a dagger
and stars. They’d also sent a box of profiteroles, which ‘Cousin Narcissa’ promised were from the
very best Lutetian bakery and were a personal favourite of hers. He munched on one while opening
the rest of his presents; the custard inside was creamy and sweet and speckled with miniscule black
flecks of vanilla bean, and the pastry was light and airy, topped with a glossy layer of dark
chocolate. He meant to save some for later but except for two eaten by Neville, Harry ended up
devouring the rest of the box himself as ‘just one more’ kept leading to another after another.

Hermione and Greg had sent a shared gift of a copy of their newly published book, An Introduction
to Wizarding Culture for Muggle-borns and Muggles, proudly autographed by the two authors with
their best wishes.

Sirius had sent him a mysterious wooden object that at first had Harry mystified. The
accompanying note in a Christmas card identified it as a Pinnard’s stethoscope with a semi-
permanent listening charm on it – Healers used them instead of the modern Muggle metal
stethoscopes. There was also a promise of ‘one language potion of your choice, as requested’ to be
acquired when Harry joined him for the second week of the Christmas holidays, as his major gift.
I know you said a language would be more than enough of a gift, but I also wanted to get you
something you could unwrap!

Lupin had given Harry the second book in a series entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use
Against the Dark Arts series. Harry guessed he knew what the next three gifts from him were going
to be! It would be nice to have all five of the books in the series.

The Dursleys had sent an unimpressive but practical twenty pounds in a card, and Dudley had sent
a selection of chocolate bars (Harry had sent his cousin sweets too). Dudley had also sent a reply to
Harry’s last letter, where Harry had asked whether anyone had been nosing around the Dursley
family asking about their family tree.

Mum was all a-twitter that ‘Heritage Monthly’ magazine wanted to write about the Evans family as
a ‘prominent and renowned’ Welsh family. She has been digging through old records and photos
with some blonde researcher down at the library. I won’t tell her they’re probably a witch. She’d
go mental. She already got mad when the lady reckoned there was some link to Indians. The cool
redskin kind of Indians, not like Pakis or anything. She said the woman was so rude and wouldn’t
listen to how her father’s family is almost all pale skinned with blue eyes and stuff. Mum and I
both have blue eyes, even though dad has brown mine are blue so that’s maybe recesive genetics,
am I right? Your mum was green, so there must be some other green-eyed people in the tree
somewhere, and there can be brown too, right? Because of recesive genetics! I don’t remember
what our grandparents eyes were like – that assignment was ages ago. Anyway, I thought it was all
cool but mum said it was offensive. There was supposed to be some Indian headband that was in a
will or something that would help prove it all, but it got thrown away ages ago and mum reckons it
was just a tattered old souveneer anyway.

It sounded to Harry like Rita Skeeter had found the Dursleys and interrogated Aunt Petunia under
false pretences.

Theodore’s gift – from himself and his family – had a warning note on the front to open it only in
private (which Harry obeyed). Inside was a pristine white robe in a very traditional and plain style
– something suitable to wear to rituals.

Lord Voldemort had sent him a gift too (of course he had). It was another one he opened in private,
sequestered behind his bed curtains. Harry wondered if it was a faux pas that he wasn’t sending
return gifts. He set his jaw stubbornly; he didn’t care! He wasn’t sending Christmas and birthday
gifts to his parents’ killer! The Dark Lord would have to be happy with his damn truce.

The Dark Lord had sent a book on blood magic – less temptingly intriguing than his previous gift
of a book about magical snakes, but still interesting. And absolutely highly illegal. He decided he’d
hide it in the Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort had also included a chatty letter, giving Harry’s
assignment on banned Healing magic a grade of ‘Exceeds Expectations’, like he was an official
Hogwarts teacher! Well, he admittedly had been once, when he’d possessed Professor Quirrell. It
still all seemed odd to Harry.

He’d been marked down for not including any mention for or against Haruspicy – the divinatory
art of sacrificing an animal and diagnosing a human patient’s illness by examining its entrails. Out
of favour for a couple of centuries, Voldemort said the ritual had been officially banned in the late
forties, cancelling the last remaining exemption to the laws against animal sacrifice.

As a gift to himself Harry planned to spend Christmas day in a glorious indulgence of absolutely no
studying. Apart from having to write a bunch of thank you letters, his time was otherwise frittered
away in frivolous pursuits. He stuffed himself full to bursting on turkey, roast vegetables, and thick
slices of clove-studded ham at the morning’s feast and fed Storm the live white mouse that had
popped out of his impressively loud Christmas cracker.

“What are you reading about, Harry?” Hermione asked, over their indulgent Christmas breakfast.

“Just something for fun; one of my books I picked up in Paris that I haven’t had much of a chance
to read yet. It’s all about plagues in the wizarding world,” Harry said. “It’s really engrossing. Did
you know infants who die before their first birthday traditionally aren’t recorded on their House’s
family tree?”

“I didn’t! How fascinating!” Hermione said, fishing out a notebook and jotting the factoid down
immediately. “I suppose you know there are magical diseases that don’t affect Muggles?”

“Naturally! Isn’t it interesting? I do wonder if it’s a potential avenue for testing for magical ability,
somehow! I’d love to figure out if magical heritage or ability is something you can determine with
a microscope, or some kind of genetic study; if wizards and witches are detectably different to
normal humans and that’s why we have different diseases that affect only us.

“My other theory is that maybe the magical germs feed on the magic of the people they infect, and
thus just aren’t attracted to Muggles. Like how fairies are attracted to magic, and usually leave
Muggles alone. It’s just a guess, of course.”

They chatted for a while about the magical plagues that only affected the magically talented and
spared Muggles, the mundane plagues that the magically talented were resistant or immune to, the
lack of surgery in wizarding medicine leading to more early deaths amongst adults, and the impact
of vaccination – or a lack thereof – on the infant death rate in particular.

“Just what you want to hear about over breakfast on Christmas morning,” complained Ron, picking
up his heavily loaded plate and shuffling away from them to sit further down the table.
“Suppurating boils and dead children.”

Harry spent the rest of the day reading for pleasure rather than for study or for a project (like
finding a cure for Sirius), frolicking in the thick snow with friends, and playing a bunch of games
of Jactus.

A couple of fellow students caught up with him to give him small trinkets as gifts; especially those
he knew from his extracurricular activities such as Potter Watch and the H.E.L.P. Society. He was
prepared for such eventualities with a handful of Chocolate Frogs and some Sugared Butterfly
Wings tucked into his satchel. Most were happy with a fairly swift exchange of tokens and good
wishes, but some wanted to linger. Mafalda Prewett was the most persistent of his well-wishers and
wanted to take Harry aside somewhere private for their exchange of gifts.

Hermione was rolling her eyes at the girl’s antics when Mafalda wasn’t looking, clearly wanting to
get back to working on a snow fort, and Neville looked quietly amused at Harry’s predicament.

“It would not be proper to meet alone without a chaperone,” Harry insisted, taking refuge in
formality with stiff-backed pure-blood propriety.

Mafalda’s eyes went wide and then she snorted through her nose, unable to suppress a chuckle.

“Oh my god, I’m eleven and dating you? Ew. No. I don’t even like you like that, Harold. No
offence. I just said what I did because Ginny was being so totally stupid.”

“Oh!” Harry said, relieved by her un-Slytherin bluntness. “So, what did you want to meet in private
for?”
“Well that’s private,” she said insistently. “If I tell you in front of your friends, it won’t be private
anymore. Are you sure you want them knowing something I think you might not want them
knowing?” Her eyes widened warningly. “You can tell them all about it afterwards if I’m wrong.”

“I can’t see what you could have to say that needs that kind of secrecy,” Hermione sniffed, “but it’s
up to Harry, of course.”

Neville looked shiftier, knowing more of Harry’s secrets than Hermione did. He just shrugged and
nodded to Harry.

Harry led Mafalda away from his friends – but still in sight of them to meet the demands of
etiquette – and they swapped gifts.

“Ice Mice?” he asked, after unwrapping his small gift of sweets and a Christmas card with a
nativity scene. “Thank you. It’s not really a gift that uh… needs a tête-à-tête, though?”

“No. Thanks for the chocolate. Look, I have gossip, juicy gossip you need to hear, and I think you
should owe me a favour for it.”

“Still getting used to the Slytherin need for subtlety in these matters, huh?” Harry asked dryly.

She flushed. “Sorry. Yes. It’s true, though.”

“The thing is, it works on trust, really. Unless there’s an Unbreakable Vow in play, it’s all an
honour-based system,” Harry explained. “Usually rather casual, formalised more in adulthood
especially if you’re in a patron-client relationship. Promises or vows are made more official by
swearing on your House’s honour, or by Merlin, or on the River Styx, though that latter oath has
fallen out of fashion. I don’t think I’ve actually heard anyone use it in real life.”

Harry shook his head to shake thoughts of Ambrosius loose and get back on track. “Anyway, my
point is that you may as well share information and then bicker about what’s owed afterwards, if
you think someone’s being stingy with their proffered recompense.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” she agreed. “Still, no harm in emphasizing how important it is, right?
Because it is!”

“Yeah, that part was alright.”

“So, it’s about your friend Malfoy. He lied to you; he wasn’t sick at all on Yule,” she whispered
dramatically.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, I figured he wasn’t.” It had been pretty obvious, really. There wasn’t much
Madam Pomfrey couldn’t cure within minutes, and Draco had been perfectly fine the next day.
Lying to chicken out of having to sacrifice another duck was the most obvious explanation.

Mafalda slumped. “You knew already? That his father told him to get you to go in his place?”

“What? No!”

“It’s true!” Mafalda said, perking back up. “I saw the draft of his letter back to his father, when he
got distracted for a moment. He wanted to know why his father wanted you to be in charge of the
boys when you probably wouldn’t even want to do it. He was complaining about how he didn’t
want to miss out on leading the first Yule ceremony at Hogwarts in years, and how pretending that
he was scared of killing an animal was going to be humiliating and he wasn’t scared of doing that
at all, no matter what his mother had to say about his delicate stomach.”
“You really read his mail?”

Mafalda waved a careless hand. “It’s alright, he didn’t catch me at it. I just cast a quiet Gemino
Curse and made a copy of it to read in private. Smooth as silk, I swear!”

“You know that curse already? You read people’s mail?! Draco really said that?” Harry’s head was
awhirl. Was it true? It sounded true. What motivation could she have to lie about that – was a
favour worth such a lie?

“He really did. I can’t show you the copy of his letter because it faded away, of course. Hermione
taught it to me so I could copy stuff in the library, then got cross I learnt it so fast. So rude. Like
she can’t do it better than me anyway – her copies last for six hours.”

“I only learnt it in third year.”

“They should teach it in first year,” Mafalda said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s easy. And pure-
bloods come to school knowing a bunch of spells already, I don’t want to be behind.

"And yes, I read people’s mail if an opportunity arises, and I eavesdrop on conversations
sometimes too for blackmail material, but I have to,” Mafalda whined defensively. “And I only do
that to bigots and bullies, I don’t do it to friends; I wouldn’t do it to you, Harold. You don’t know
what it’s like, being a half-blood daughter of a Muggle and a Squib, sorted into Slytherin! The
House of Prewett won’t even acknowledge me. Being Christian doesn’t help either. I wish I’d been
sorted into Ravenclaw, sometimes. Some people in Slytherin are nice, of course, but some are
horrible and some days bullies make everything seem so bad it’s hard to remember the good stuff.”

She looked so downcast that Harry couldn’t help but sympathise. He’d been where she was now. If
the Daily Prophet kept up its damn series of articles on all the Dark witches and wizards he was
related to, he might be there again one day too, or if he failed miserably in the Triwizard
Tournament.

“It’s okay, I understand. And sure, I’ll owe you a small favour for the information. Even though I
don’t like it. Just… don’t take that as encouragement to go reading people’s mail again. Draco’s a
friend.”

“Is he really, though?” she asked.

He had no quick answer for her but eventually said that he was.

His afternoon wasn’t quite as light-hearted and carefree as his morning.

-000-

Eventually it was time for the boys to get ready for the Yule Ball. Most of the girls had
disappeared earlier, for some reason. Probably they needed to fuss more over their hair, Harry
guessed. Tiny boxed corsages were dispatched to their dates, delivered by the Christmas-clad
house-elves. Harry hoped Tracey would like hers; he’d consulted with Greg about the perfect
flowers to communicate the right message.

When Harry emerged from his dorm that evening, he felt very resplendent in his soft woollen dress
robes, and very Gryffindor. Saffron yellow with swirling red embroidery on the sleeves and yoke,
it was complemented by a belt so thick with golden embroidery and tiny garnet beads that you
could barely glimpse the fabric underneath. He’d used a Colour-Change Charm to temporarily
recolour his rectangular silver glasses frames a soft metallic gold, to match his outfit.
While he was dreading having to do the opening dance in front of everyone, he was otherwise
feeling good about the upcoming ball.

Others, however, weren’t so happy about their outfits and the evening to come.

Ron was gazing dismally at his reflection in the mirror in the corner of their dorm room. He looked
positively ghastly; an outfit worthy of the Dursleys’ early practice of dressing Harry in cast-off
clothing only good for rags. Harry would be the first to admit he was no fashion expert, but Daphne
and Pansy had done their best to educate him. Even he could tell that Ron’s long, maroon dress
robes looked very out of date. The colour was faded, and bedraggled scraps of a mouldy-looking
lace frill still clung to the collar and cuffs. It looked like someone had hastily hacked off most of
the lace with a rusty knife, leaving bits behind and a lot of frayed fabric with loose threads. There
was also a scattering of ginger cat hairs on the robe, like Ron had let his pet cat nap on his robe and
hadn’t bothered to have it laundered.

“Merlin, what happened to your robes? Was it your cat?” Ron’s pet Kneazle did have its moments
and had sharpened its claws on the dorm’s furniture more than once.

“What?” Ron said, glancing down. “Oh, the lace? No, that wasn’t Kyle, it was me.”

“Ah,” Harry said, mouth snapping shut in a thin, apologetic line.

Ron winced, and looked away. “They are all I have. But the lace was…” he said, trailing off and
making a face. He gestured at the tattered mouldy remains in wordless explanation. “So, I cut it
off.”

“I do not wish to cause any offence,” Harry started, as diplomatically as he could, “but if you
would like to borrow a spare set of dress robes while you have yours mended, I have some that
might suit?”

Ron smiled briefly, then slumped. “Well, that is very kind of you to offer, but I am a fair bit taller
than you. I do not think your old robes would fit me, Harry.”

“Well, a charm might fix that, but no, I had something else in mind. I have some old dress robes of
my father’s in my trunk, if you want to try them on? I mean, they’re not going to look perfect, and
are rather plain, but the fabric’s good quality?”

Ron let out a relieved huff of breath so strong his head rocked forward as he breathed out. “That.
Sounds. Amazing. Thank you so much! Dean’s my size, but he only had the one set of good robes.”

They had to hurry as Harry couldn’t be late to the Yule Ball or Tracey would no doubt want to
murder him. A set of plain burgundy formal robes was hastily and delightedly selected by Ron,
who swiftly changed and hurried off to meet his date outside the Hufflepuff dorm.

-000-

The Entrance Hall was packed with students waiting for the doors to open for the start of the Yule
Ball, many milling around trying to find their dates.

First of all, Harry dropped Storm off with Millicent; she was his designated snake-sitter for the first
dance of the evening, which McGonagall had insisted had to be snake-free, despite Storm’s
translated pleas to be allowed to join in the dancing. The other dances were at Harry’s discretion,
bearing in mind his professor’s injunction to ‘not cause a scene’.

That task accomplished, Harry pushed through the crowd to reach Tracey, who was dressed in
shimmering floor-length gold lamé formal robes with accents of emerald-green lace. Harry thought
it was all a bit too shiny but then, his own saffron robes were very dressy, with actual garnets sewn
on the belt looped around his waist. The yellow tones in their outfits matched, and Harry thought
they looked rather Christmassy together.

Draco and Pansy were waiting with her; Draco was wearing high-necked black velvet robes, while
Pansy’s were a pale pink that suited her pale skin and dark hair; they would’ve looked lovely if not
for all the unnecessary frills, in Harry’s opinion.

Harry bowed a low, textbook-perfect greeting to Tracey as he greeted her (as drilled by Pansy at
the dancing lessons), and tucked his nominal date’s hand into the crook of his elbow, ready to
escort her in.

Watching students who hadn’t heard the gossip about his selection of partner murmured in interest.
Tracey preened under the attention, while Harry plastered on his best Lockhart-smile and tried not
to look discomposed by the people pointing and talking about him.

“Thank you for the corsage,” Tracey said politely, touching the little cluster of yellow blossoms of
stock paired with a backing of fern fronds. “What does the flora represent? I believe there are a few
meanings?”

“Stock for bonds of friendship, and to say, ‘You’ll always be beautiful to me.’ Fern represents both
magic and shelter. To let you know that I look after my friends, and to be a reminder of the magic
that connects and unifies us all,” Harry explained.

“Lovely!” she said. “Thank you again, Harry.”

As the doors opened Harry and the other two school champions were allowed to squeeze to the
front of the pack, along with their dates. Fleur Delacour looked resplendent in silver-grey satin
robes and was accompanied by Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain whom Harry knew
only slightly from the SQuid meetings at the start of the year. He looked positively dazed by the
sight of his date, and after his initial glance Harry carefully kept his gaze away from her, and his
mind filled with calming ocean waves.

Viktor Krum, walking just behind his Headmaster, Professor Karkaroff, led a procession of
Durmstrang students and their partners. Krum’s unannounced and much-anticipated date was none
other than Hermione. The bulk of her dark-brown curly hair had been tamed back into a sleek knot
at the back of her head leaving only the curls of her fringe behind, and she was clad in formal robes
of a delicate, floaty fabric in a shade of periwinkle-blue that suited her light-brown skin. She
smiled happily – if a little nervously – when she spotted Harry and Tracey, and if her front teeth
were perhaps a little large, it didn’t really detract from her overall lovely appearance. At least,
Krum didn’t seem to think so, beaming down at her like he couldn’t believe his luck to have her on
his arm. Harry instantly thought better of Krum that he was so enraptured by Hermione even with
Delacour within their line of sight.

Krum was wearing what looked like a traditional Bulgarian outfit; a white shirt heavily
embroidered with red flowers, a red and black sleeveless bolero jacket, black trousers, and a very
broad red sash around his waist. A fur-lined cape and a black cap topped off the outfit.

Once everyone had moved into the Hall murmuring gossip about the champions and their dates
gave way to applause (under McGonagall’s direction) as the three couples entered first, heading for
the top of the dance floor, near a large table where the judges and some of the teachers were
already seated. The hall that evening truly deserved the appellation of magical. The walls of the
Great Hall were covered in sparkling silver frost, and the starry ceiling was festooned with
garlands of mistletoe and ivy. The house tables had been replaced with a scattering of smaller ones
around the borders of the room, lit with silver lanterns giving off a pale blue light, with a few
sprigs of holly tied with ribbons decoratively next to each light.

Looking at the large fir tree in a corner, Harry thought that Branstone must have won the battle on
the angel ornaments, for it didn’t appear to have any. However, the glimmering silver star at the
top was still in place. Its primary Christmas decorations of live fairies twinkled and flitted happily
among the green needles, which were decorated with unmelting icicles and presumably enchanted
candles, like the non-drip ones that usually lit Hogwarts’ dark corridors and halls. The scent of pine
permeated the whole hall, a soft, Christmassy smell. Harry thought it was all truly wonderful, and
getting to experience it was worth the cost of having to dance.

As couples found each other and their places, assembling around the ballroom in lines of six
couples, a string quartet with an accompanying harpist and recorder player struck up the first notes
of the opening dance, a minuet. Harry thought it might be the same group of musicians from the
Malfoy’s ball over summer, but with the pianist now playing a wooden recorder instead, with
mellow notes rather than the piercing squeaks he remembered from primary school lessons on
plastic recorders.

Students moved to dance, looking more adult than ever in their lavish finery, and a handful of
teachers (in their own separate dance set) moved in the graceful figures of the minuet, touching
hands and circling around in careful patterns.

Harry handed Tracey over to Draco for the second dance, with a distant air (thinking of Draco’s
letter to his father) and went and found Millicent, reclaiming Storm and politely inviting his friend
to dance the Quadrille with him if she was free.

“I would be most happy to,” she agreed, wearing a surprised smile. “I thought you would only
dance with Tracey and Pansy – and perhaps Luna – and call it a night.”

Harry shook his head. “I am under strict instructions from Pansy and Tracey to dance as much as
possible since I am representing Hogwarts. And, well… after McGonagall’s lessons I can dance a
bit better now. Hopefully I won’t embarrass you.”

He did make a few errors with his footwork, but the Quadrille was – in Harry’s opinion – one of
the better dances as you could often copy what those among the other three couples in the square
were doing. In this case the other couples in the group were older students proficient in the steps,
which both helped his imitation and made him feel self-conscious about his poorer level of skill.
Still, it wasn’t too bad.

He danced a lively polka next with Pansy and seized the opportunity to chat to her afterwards as
they took a moment to get a cup of spiced punch from the refreshments table before the next dance
began.

“So cousin, help me out with a point of etiquette, please,” Harry began, as a couple across the room
caught his eye. “Would it be socially acceptable to warn Theodore to treat Luna well? She looks…
so happy. I just wouldn’t want to see her hurt, you know? If this is social climbing rather than
affection, I would rather he, well, I would rather he didn’t. Date her.”

“I would ask if you were jealous, but I know better,” Pansy said. “For what my opinion is worth I
believe he is genuinely fond of her but how serious in his intentions he is, I cannot judge. You are
not an acknowledged relation of the Lovegoods – any familial link there is very tenuous indeed, so
you cannot negotiate on her behalf or set rules about who she permits to court her. However, as her
patron you could give a gentle reminder to him to act with propriety lest your House take it ill.”
“Okay!” Harry said brightly.

“Do not omit a reference to being her patron,” Pansy warned, “for the sake of eavesdroppers more
than the couple themselves. Those who know you less well than I might think you jealous, rather
than acting as a concerned friend.”

Pansy glanced around the room, before asking with a mischievous smile, “Are you going to warn
Krum to treat Hermione right, too? Anyone else? Does Draco get a warning he must be nice to
me?”

Harry hmphed unhappily. “I can’t warn everyone. That would look silly. I trust you and Hermione
to look after yourselves if need be. I am not so sure about Luna.”

“Do you know how Hermione ended up with Krum?” Pansy asked.

Harry shook his head. “Not a clue. Except… they did talk a bit at the last H.E.L.P. meeting.
Chatting about house-elves and other magical creatures. I think he wrote her an essay?”

A peal of delighted laughter rang out from Pansy in response. “Ah, essays! The very food of love!”

Pansy’s giggles continued even as Draco came over to claim her hand for the French Waltz, the
supper set. He was accompanied by Tracey, Neville and Patil, and Hermione and Krum.

Harry gazed a little coldly at Draco as he had been all evening, which made Pansy giggle more
when she caught it.

“Remember, you cannot warn everyone,” she teased amidst her giggles, not knowing the real cause
for his glower; the gossip Mafalda had relayed to Harry.

“Hello everyone! You know Viktor Krum, of course,” Hermione said, opting for a polite but casual
introduction.

“Goot evenink,” Krum said, after the round of return introductions were made. “I em pleaset to
meet more of Hermione’s friends.”

A spot of small talk about how lovely the Great Hall looked was exchanged before the girls got
down to the important business – gossip gathering.

“So, this has been kept rather quiet,” Pansy said, gesturing to Hermione and Krum. “Are you
officially dating, or just a couple for the ball?”

Hermione looked uncertainly towards Krum, saying, “Maybe? I think we’re dating?”

Krum agreed, adding, “Yes, I em hopink so. We shall see how dis evenink goes first den talk; it is
still beink new for us. I em be happy to keep company wit Hermione some more. It is keepink
quiet not because I em not serious, but because I do not like de attention of gossip end de
reporters.”

While the two Slytherin girls and Patil asked Krum curious probing questions about when and how
he’d started seeing Hermione, and Draco and Neville eavesdropped quietly, Hermione drew Harry
aside for a hasty whispered chat.

“Are you alright with me dating Viktor?” she checked, biting her lip anxiously. “I know he’s the
Durmstrang champion, but really, it’s got nothing to do with the Tournament at all. You can trust
me not to blab about your strategies or say anything to him.
“Did you know I was seeing him? Is that why you didn’t ask me to help you research the next
clue? He asked me to promise not to say anything to anyone before the Yule Ball – he really is
terribly shy and didn’t want to deal with the gossip,” she babbled.

“Oh Merlin, it’s alright, Hermione, take a breath. I just honestly needed a break from studying for
the Tournament, that’s all, and I didn’t know a thing about you and Krum. I know you will be
careful with what you say; I trust you.”

Hermione’s blooming look of relief said everything for her, but that didn’t stop her from babbling
her thanks anyway. “I’m so glad! You wouldn’t believe some people – a couple of people even
hissed that I was a ‘traitor to Hogwarts’, can you believe it?”

“Sadly, I can. People are strange, sometimes. Say, would you have a dance free after supper? I’ve
reserved the Boulanger for Luna, but I have the fifth free, if you want to? You don’t have to – you
can turn me down and I won’t tell, if you’re worried about etiquette.”

“Sorry, my dance card is full. I have the fifth with Dean – Thomas, that is – and the sixth reserved
for Neville. Why don’t you ask Delacour to dance? It would set a good example of inter-school
cooperation to ask, even if she’s not free!” she enthused.

“She scares me.”

“She scares half the school. Be a Gryffindor!”

“Alright, alright,” Harry grumbled. “I’ll ask her after the waltz.”

During his second dance with Tracey, she gave Harry a discreet squeeze of her hand on his
shoulder at one point as they waltzed around the Hall, eyes flicking to one side. Glancing around
Harry noticed they were passing by Anthony Goldstein and some of his friends, standing to the
side of the dancefloor. Anthony was watching the two of them together with great intensity.

“May I tell you again how lovely you look this evening, Tracey?” Harry said, a little louder than
usual. He probably should’ve said something like that earlier, but he’d forgotten. Oops. “Your
robes are truly beautiful. I’m so glad you were free to accompany me to the ball this evening.”

“Thank you! You look very handsome this evening, too,” she replied sweetly. Her loving look
would’ve bothered him if he hadn’t known she was just putting on an act for Anthony’s sake.

The distracting flashes from a couple of cameras suggested others watching had found it a
photogenic moment. Harry maintained his manufactured smile and wondered how the picture
would come out. Wizarding cameras were odd, and if developed properly the resulting animated
photos tended to preserve how people felt at the moment the photo was taken as much as they did
how the subjects looked and acted.

Harry led Tracey off the dancefloor to the top table for dinner, her hand tucked in the crook of his
arm. A trickle of teachers who’d joined in the French Waltz ambled that way too. Professor Hagrid
– reeking of some overly pungent cologne that made Harry’s eyes water – led Madame Maxime to
her seat, pulling it clumsily out for her, and Dumbledore in his typical lurid robes was politely
escorting Professor Sprout off the dance floor after their dance together. Harry thought his
headmaster’s level of eye-watering colour was eclipsed today by the sight of Professor
McGonagall in red tartan dress robes, with thistles adorning her hat, being accompanied by Ludo
Bagman in vivid purple robes with yellow stars.

Harry paused when he caught sight of Delacour and her enraptured partner, Davies. She didn’t
appear to be in a terribly good mood and didn’t appear to be as enamoured of her date as she had
been at the start of the evening.

Harry mentally braced himself and asked, “Miss Delacour, are you free for the fifth? I understand
your dance card might be full, however, I thought I would ask for the pleasure of your company for
a dance.”

“Zat is kind of you to ask, ‘owever, I ‘ave received many offers to dance zis evening, and many
compliments on my beauty. Why should I accept your invitation, Mister Potter?” she asked.

The full force of her attention hit him like a hammer blow, as she flicked her lustrous golden
tresses over her shoulder with one beautifully manicured hand.

“I thought it would be a good… that is… both of us being champions…” Harry started, finding it
hard to keep his train of thought. He felt the urgent need to impress her and prove what a good
partner he’d make for her.

“Because I am rich and powerful and smart, and the Heir to three Houses, and Merlin himself
tutors me in magical theory,” he explained, in a dazed voice.

Titters of laughter echoing around him helped him regain his mental focus as he determinedly
filled his mind with the sight and sound of ocean waves crashing on the shoreline. “Sorry. Forget I
said that. I simply thought dancing a reel together might set a good example of inter-school
fellowship. That’s all. There was no need to do… that to me.” He risked a disapproving glance at
Fleur. “You could’ve just said no.”

With his very quick glance at Fleur, he noted that she wasn’t one of the ones laughing at him,
which was something. She was probably used to enthralled people making fools of themselves in
front of her.

“I am sorry, I cannot ‘elp it, alas. I already try ze best I can, but in some situations ze allure creeps
out despite my efforts,” she apologized. “It is good zat you can focus as much as you can. I accept
your invitation.”

“But I want you to dance with me again,” Davies objected jealously. “You’re my date!”

“I ‘ave danced twice wis you already, zat is enough,” she replied curtly.

“But you’ll dance with me again when the formal dancing ends and the Weird Sisters are
performing?” he pleaded.

“I suppose so,” she agreed, a little grudgingly, as she distractedly made a note on her dance card to
reserve the Scottish Reel for Potter. “Ze formalities will no longer apply zen.”

Professor Slughorn was chatting amiably with Professor Sinistra as the couples reached the table.
Percy seemed eager to greet Harry but cut himself off swiftly to cede the honour to Slughorn first.

“Capital dancing this evening! Capital! I hope you have enjoyed it, and yes, we’ve arranged for the
Weird Sisters to perform until midnight!”

He lowered his voice to continue in vaguely conspiratorial tones, “Dumbledore did favour a more
modern Yule Ball, but I won him over! He is rather partial to a waltz, you know, and once I got
Minerva on my side she soon talked him ‘round.”

“What a good idea, sir, I do love a ball,” Harry lied.

Hermione ignored Harry (and almost everyone else) as she sat down, eager to talk to Newt
Scamander who was seated fortuitously close to where she and Krum had been placed. She waffled
enthusiastically about her and Greg’s newly published book, engaging the shy old man in a
conversation about the wizarding publishing industry. Krum – somewhat to Harry’s surprise –
didn’t look offended by his dinner partner’s neglect and was watching her with a soft expression in
his eyes.

Harry thought that all three champions were perhaps a little alike in being tired out by too much
attention.

“Thank you! We have tried to please those with musical tastes both old and new this evening, with
a mix of classical music for the ball and modern music and dancing afterwards. I don’t mind a
modern song from time to time myself you know,” Slughorn continued, “and the Weird Sisters
have some catchy tunes; I quite like ‘Magic Works’. However, I am more partial to Celestina
Warbeck. The fashions of young wizards these days! I remember Tremlett – one of their guitar
players – from Hogwarts. He would not have dreamt of setting foot in public in deliberately torn
robes back when he was a student! Such an odd fashion he has now, perhaps he introduced it from
the Muggles? He is Muggle-born.”

“I believe some Muggle rock bands wear torn clothes on purpose,” Harry explained politely. “It is
not a widespread fashion and I would not advise emulating it.” He was put under some pressure to
keep a straight face at the mental image of Professor Slughorn trying to blend in with Muggles,
wearing ripped jeans and a voluminous torn t-shirt.

Slughorn exclaimed again over the oddity of Muggle fashion again, before ending with, “Well, I
shall leave you two to find your places for dinner. And I believe young Weasley has some news he
is eager to impart to you, Potter!” He winked jovially at the young man.

Percy had indeed been hovering, politely waiting his turn. He looked rather spiffy in brand-new
navy-blue formal robes. Harry had barely finished introducing Tracey to him when Percy burst out
with his news.

“I’m officially the Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation!” he announced
proudly. “It was just announced a few days ago.”

Harry gave him a congratulatory handshake. “Oh wow, that’s amazing news, Percy! You and your
family must all be thrilled!”

“I’m the youngest Departmental Head since 1742, and she was the daughter of the current
Minister, so it is quite the accomplishment!”

Tracey also shook his hand and congratulated him, putting on her most charming pure-blood
manners, minus the bowing and mentions of titles, since there were so many disapproving teachers
watching.

Percy positively basked in their praise, and his token modest comment about how “there are many
fine people helping me learn my role, for I am still new to the position” seemed more designed to
fish for additional compliments than stemming from any genuine feeling of inadequacy. Harry
hoped his friend’s confidence in himself wasn’t misplaced. His superb results in the NEWT exams
suggested he might indeed be up to the challenge, if he could learn the ropes fast enough.

“Is Clearwater here with you this evening?” Tracey asked Percy, after their praises had trickled to a
halt.
“Ah… no, I’m afraid not,” Percy said, fidgeting with the stiff collar of his robe. “Alas we are no
longer courting.”

Harry remembered hearing about that, but couldn’t remember why they’d broken up, if he’d even
been told. “Was it… about your father? Or the… danger in general?” Harry asked carefully.

“No, not at all,” Percy assured them. “Nothing dramatic. We merely held some differences of
opinion in regard to my career choices. She is a rather modern witch and disapproved of me
formally acknowledging a few witches and wizards as patrons. Frankly, it is rather a necessity to
getting ahead in the Ministry, which was vital for my family’s sake as much as my own.”

“Um, did I cause any…?” Harry started, then trailed off. Was he one of Percy’s patrons, or not?
Was Percy’s social standing higher than his own? He was an adult with a very prestigious job, after
all, while Harry was just a student, and of less ‘pure’ blood, not that that should count for anything
but for many people it did anyway. Harry was, on the other hand, the Heir to multiple Houses,
which Percy decidedly was not. And he was probably richer.

“Oh no! Not you, she likes you well enough, Harry, and we two have no official arrangement of
any kind. Though I like to think of you as a friend and ally of similar standing to myself; an
amicus? We can look out for each other as occasions arise to provide assistance. Not counting any
assistance for the Triwizard Tournament, naturally, where alas I am duty bound to remain strictly
impartial to all competitors.”

Harry nodded. “Sounds good to me, Percy.”

They shook on it to their mutual satisfaction, and Harry and Tracey finally got to sit down and
order their dinners from enchanted menus. Harry guessed that some kind of listening charm relayed
their orders to the kitchen house-elves, so he made sure to thank them when he requested the roast
chicken.

After dinner, Harry waited for Delacour who was lingering over dessert, ready to escort her out to
dance the Scotch Reel. A plan which seemed to meet with general approval from all the adults at
their table, except for Marchbanks and Karkaroff.

Marchbanks simply seemed utterly disinterested in who was dancing with who.

Karkaroff, on the other hand, cared but was judgemental. He grumpily pointed out that Krum and
Delacour had danced together much earlier in the evening, and Krum had danced with many
students not from his own school, compared to Harry’s sole exception.

“Not everything is a competition,” McGonagall pointed out testily.

“Is it not? Some would say that life itself is a competition. In any case I was merely sharing an
observation. Your boy is not doing anything especially remarkable that others have not done before
him, and more gracefully.” He gestured out at the dancefloor, where indeed there was a good deal
of inter-school mixing going on. Harry saw one of the Weasley twins leading the potions-loving
Durmstrang girl, Rosen, onto the dancefloor, while Susan danced with Ericksen.

Thomas was leading out his dark-skinned Beauxbatons date again for another dance, which would
be regarded as scandalously enthusiastic amongst those who fussed about such etiquette. Harry
knew Greg would be having a heart attack over it – it was their third dance, and that was just the
few times Harry had noticed them. It might be even more.

“I believe you have this dance reserved for me, Minerva? I have so been looking forward to it,”
Slughorn interrupted smoothly, leading away McGonagall who gave him a rather pleased smile at
his flattery.

Harry and Fleur were almost ready to make their own escape to the dance floor when Dumbledore
caught Harry for a quick word.

“I do hope I’ll see you after the holidays for tea?” he checked.

“Yes, sir, I would be happy to accept your invitation. Oh, and thank you for the sweets. I’m going
to do all my Christmas thank you notes tomorrow.”

Dumbledore beamed approvingly at him. “Marvellous!”

“What was zat about?” Fleur asked curiously, as they went and found a few other couples to form a
circle with.

“Have you seen the articles in the Daily Prophet?” he asked, and she nodded. “Well, he wants to
share some information about some relatives with me. Some memories of people from the Gaunt
family. Very distant relations, but the only… well, a few of the only people in Britain known to
also be Parselmouths. It should be interesting.”

It made Harry wonder about things, as he carefully avoided mentioning that the Dark Lord was
also a Parselmouth. No need to draw attention to that. How closely was the Dark Lord related to
the Gaunts? Did Dumbledore plan to talk about that, in their meeting?

Tom Marvolo Riddle, Harry mused to himself. He’s a half-blood, that’s known – though not widely
known. What’s the other half of his family? Gaunt? Riddle’s not a wizarding family name. Yes, this
meeting could be very interesting indeed.

Delacour gave Harry a combination of praise and criticism at the end of their dance. “You have ze
good spirit, but your footwork needs a lot of work and you forgot many of ze steps. You should not
invite a lady to dance unless you actually know ze dance.”

“I’m so sorry, I did my best,” Harry apologised.

She smiled. “I know you did. I can, at least, sank you for being ze gentleman while we danced.”

Harry blinked, uncertain as to what exactly he was being thanked for. Presumably his attention to
etiquette. “You are most welcome, I always try to be one. Thank you for the dance.” He escorted
her off the dance floor with careful courtesy and minimal eye contact as she held onto his arm.

The Boulanger with Luna was Harry’s final formal dance of the evening, and Creevey seemed to
have chosen to sit this one out in favour of zipping around everywhere taking photos of everyone,
who were dancing in rings. Harry hadn’t noticed Creevey dancing with anyone all night. Perhaps
the energetic third-year – too young to attend the ball without an older partner – had been engaged
by Professor Slughorn to take photos of the occasion, like he’d arranged from time to time for Slug
Club meetings.

The ‘Weird Sisters’ took the stage over after the formal dancing was completed around ten in the
evening. They looked very different indeed to the previous group, in their artfully ripped black
robes and startling make-up, and carried an eclectic mix of instruments including guitars, a lute,
and bagpipes. They got an enthusiastic welcome of loud cheers and whistles from many students
that dwarfed the polite applause that everyone had granted the classical ensemble.

“Do you want to dance again?” Luna asked him optimistically, as the band struck up ‘Do The
Hippogriff’. A lot of students started doing a weird dance full of strutting and bowing that
reminded Harry vaguely of the ‘Chicken Dance’ he’d learnt in primary school.

“I thought only the wizards were supposed to ask?”

“Technically, but I think that’s a silly rule. Besides, this isn’t old-fashioned dancing so I think we
can do what we like now.”

Thankfully, Harry escaped a second dance as he saw Theodore approaching with the obvious intent
to whisk Luna away into the bobbing throng.

Harry intercepted him and grasped him by the elbow, leading him away from where Luna was
waiting.

“Theodore. As Luna’s patron, before you take my client away for another dance, I would like to
know exactly why you are courting her?” he asked abruptly. There wasn’t really time to beat
around the bush, as they could be interrupted at any moment.

His skinny almost-friend looked startled but not offended, to Harry’s relief. “Why would I not? She
is gentle and kind, with intelligence and an endless curiosity about magic and magical creatures.
She is a loyal friend, and so innocent I want to protect her from the world that has been so cruel to
her already and harmed her sweet soul.”

It was surprisingly sappy.

“Will your parents approve of her? If you’re not going to stand by her, best to say so now. I don’t
want to see her hurt,” Harry said, a warning note in his voice as he glared at Theodore. He knew
Nott senior was a harsh man that his own son was scared of – he didn’t want to see Luna harmed,
or to see Theodore cast Luna aside due to parental disapproval, like Anthony had so recently done
to Tracey. Tracey had spent half the night so far covertly keeping an eye on Anthony while trying
not to look like she was interested in him in the slightest.

“Luna is a pure-blood and related to the Malfoys a few generations back and has decent
connections; that should suffice. In personality she is about as far from father as it is possible to
get, which I see as a good thing but which admittedly might cause clashes. If so, rest assured I shall
guard her from any possible unkindness that may arise.”

Luna wandered up to them both, looking curiously from one to the other.

“Your patron here was just warning me to treat you right. Which I will of course do,” Theodore
promised.

“That is so sweet,” Luna said, her lip wobbling with emotion as she smiled. “Not many people
would worry about that. It is so nice to have friends.”

“Come on, Miss Hippogriff!” Theodore called, tugging on her hand to lead her away into the
dance, and making her laugh.

His duty done and his anxiety quashed for now, Harry looked around for his other friends.
Hermione and Neville were both out on the dancefloor with their partners, Pansy and Daphne were
gossiping and watching Tracey who seemed to be having a no-doubt awkward conversation with
Anthony. Harry was going to stay well away from that unless someone said they needed him to
help.

Harry saw Draco wasn’t dancing either – he was nibbling on a petit four and wearing a maliciously
gleeful expression, standing next to Blaise Zabini observing a spot of drama. Zabini had his arm
around Ginny Weasley’s waist, and a taunting, smug expression on his face as he argued with Ron,
who looked red-faced with anger.

Looking around for a friend to talk to in a less volatile situation, Harry spotted Greg standing to one
side of the dance floor in his moss-green formal robes, watching his friend Vincent dancing with
Millicent. Harry wandered over to greet him, as a safer option to mingle with right now.

“Good evening, Greg.”

“Good evening, Harry. He is too old for her, don’t you think?” Greg said, gazing out at the dancers
without turning to look at Harry. “It isn’t right.”

“Vincent? They’re the same age, aren’t they?” Harry wondered if Vincent had repeated a year. He
was very tall and large, just like Greg. “Is he trying to woo Millicent away from you? I thought you
two were just going as friends, anyway.”

“Not him. They are just dancing, it does not mean anything. Look behind them… I am speaking of
Krum. He is an adult wizard and she is only fifteen. A man like him probably has witches hexing
each other to spend time with him. He will toy with her affections and then discard her,” Greg
grumbled, brow furrowed with anger. “She is too young. How he holds her when they dance is not
strictly proper.”

Oh, he means Hermione. Looking over more carefully he spotted her in a gap in the crowd,
laughing as she danced with Krum, the skirt of her periwinkle robes fluttering as he spun her
around.

“I think he genuinely likes her, for what that’s worth?”

“It is not worth much.”

“I’m sure she’ll hex him silly if he tries something she doesn’t want,” Harry said, trying again to
be comforting.

Greg harrumphed. “He should not be afforded the opportunity to try. She could do better.”

“How, exactly? He’s rich, famous, a skilled wizard, and most importantly is treating her well and
seems to really like her.”

The hesitation Harry got in reply suggested Greg hadn’t really thought about it like that. “Perhaps
Draco? He likes her well enough.”

“Draco won’t even use her first name, and can’t even invite her to a garden party, let alone date
her. You know his parents don’t like the idea of him socialising with Muggle-borns.”

Greg slumped. “Well… I do not know. Someone. Certainly not Weasley. Maybe Millicent? They
get along really well, and her family is not as strict about associating with Muggle-borns as the
Malfoys. Or perhaps Cornfoot? He is smart like she is, and friends with Muggle-borns like Kevin
Entwhistle.”

“I don’t think she likes girls…” Harry said uncertainly.

“Cornfoot, then,” Greg said.

“I think she likes Krum.”

She did in fact appear to be having the time of her life out there, laughing and smiling as Krum
caught her in his arms after she got dizzy ‘spinnin’ ‘round like a crazy elf’ as the song encouraged.

Greg scowled. “As her patron I feel it is incumbent upon me to warn him to pay attention to the
formalities and to not be alone with her without a chaperone. He is in any case probably only
paying his attentions to her because she is a close friend of a rival competitor.”

Harry winced. He’d be a dreadful hypocrite to tell Greg not to try, after his own warning to
Theodore Nott. Still, he had to try to ameliorate a potential disaster.

“Well… you could have asked her to the ball yourself, you know. I don’t think it’s a good idea to
talk to Krum, but if you do talk to him anyway, be careful. Remember Muggle society isn’t so
strict. She might not appreciate your interference and is likely to get upset if you imply Krum’s
only interested in her because of me. Which I don’t think is why he likes her, by the way.”

Greg nodded, but Harry wasn’t sure he was going to listen to his advice. Well, he’d done what he
could. “Think about it for a while first, okay? Don’t do anything rash.”

“I will consider your advice.”

Well, I tried.

Harry grabbed a cup of punch and escaped outside to the rose garden for a breath of fresh air,
turning down two invitations to dance on his way out. He’d done his duty, even Pansy should be
satisfied. He’d danced every formal dance and no-one should expect more of him than that! He did
make a mental note to ask Hermione to dance later, though, especially if she needed to be whisked
away to avoid getting caught in the middle of an unpleasant scene between Greg and Krum.

He gave a wide berth to the fountain where Professor Hagrid appeared to be unsuccessfully
courting Madame Maxime, and the other embarrassing courting couples lingering amongst the
richly scented blooms. Eventually he found a quiet bench to sit down on and rested his aching feet.
The boots which had seemed so stylish and comfortable at the start of the night were starting to
pinch.

Diggory and Chang wandered past and kept going after a token greeting, presumably in search of
some unoccupied secluded corner. Harry then had perhaps fifteen precious quiet minutes which he
spent in quiet hissed conversation with Storm, before Draco found him.

“There you are! Everyone is wondering where you got to!”

Harry sighed. He really didn’t want to talk to Draco, right now.

“It feels like you have been avoiding me all evening,” Draco complained. “Is something wrong?
You know I will treat your cousin with the utmost respect, don’t you? We are friends, after all.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. To accuse Draco about the letter to his father would expose
Mafalda’s spying, which might create a lot of difficulties for the girl who seemed to be struggling
enough already. Alright, she shouldn’t have read someone’s mail or eavesdropped in hopes of
hearing something juicy she could use for blackmail, but Harry could sympathise. He’d
eavesdropped on the Dursleys’ private conversations often enough. It might be rude, but it was also
a matter of survival. He could well imagine the daughter of a Squib and a Muggle wasn’t having
an easy time of it in Slytherin.

“It’s just… stuff,” he said, wincing at his own vagueness. “Yule, mostly.” He looked away from
Draco, staring instead at the rosebushes twinkling with enchanted fairy lights that were attracting
winter moths and beetles, and a few actual fairies. Storm had eaten one fairy (and had been very
smug and vocal about his ambush hunting prowess), and now they were mostly avoiding the
nearby rosebushes in favour of less dangerous locales.

Draco sat down next to him on the long carved stone bench. When he’d first sat down Harry had
been startled to notice it wasn’t the freezing ice block he’d expected but was instead gently warm.
Storm had likewise appreciated the rare charm, and had curled up on the warm stone for a rest to
digest his catch. Draco seemed unsurprised by its temperature, however, no doubt more used to the
liberal use of Warming Charms.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about? I am sorry I was unable to go. Did I
miss something important?”

“‘Unable to go.’ Yeah, right,” snorted Harry. “I don’t believe you were sick at all.”

Draco sighed. “If you must know, I was not. I simply did not want to do the ritual. I apologise for
my squeamishness.”

“Was that your only reason for not going?”

“Yes. What other reason could there possibly be? I like going to all the festivals.”

Harry stared at him. Sometimes he caught him out, but Draco was usually too good a liar for Harry
to tell when he was faking things or not.

“I don’t know.” There must be some reason Lucius Malfoy had wanted Harry to do the sacrifice
instead of his own son. Was it for blackmail material? No-one had taken any photos, but there had
been plenty of witnesses to what was technically a blood sacrifice. Okay, actually a blood sacrifice.
Harry preferred to think of it as a very fancy way to prepare dinner. Anyone stepping forward to
dob on him would be in almost as much trouble as Harry though, since everyone there had
participated in the ritual, sprinkling blood everywhere. Was someone putting pressure on him?

Draco rolled his eyes. “So that’s what you’re upset about? That I faked being ill?”

“And other stuff. Who exactly are the relatives you were trying to avoid this Christmas, Draco? An
aunt and uncle, perhaps?” Harry accused.

“I resent your insinuations,” Draco said stiffly. “My family would never harbour fugitives.”

“Neville would never forgive you if you were.”

“Would you forgive me?” Draco shot back. “Hypothetically?”

Harry hesitated. “I doubt you personally would want to host them. No doubt such a decision would
rest with your parents. Who should really contact the Aurors if they’ve seen the Lestranges. They
tortured Neville’s parents until their souls were shattered and they permanently lost their minds,
Draco. Imagine if it was your parents!”

Draco’s expression crumpled, and Harry knew his shot at Draco’s weak point had hit home once
more, and his guess had probably been correct. Draco had more trouble keeping a straight face
when he got emotional.

“You should consider reporting them!” Harry urged.

“I can’t,” Draco whispered, eyes wide as he leant in close to whisper. “He will punish my father.
Or me. That is what I heard he said would happen if mother... You do it if you think you know
something – people will listen to you. You don’t even acknowledge them as kin; you do it!”

“I can’t do it either! It would brea… it would put people in danger!” Harry whispered furiously.

“So the rumours are true then!” Draco whispered back, eyes wide and eager. “You made a deal
with him, a truce, didn’t you? Or have you pledged to join him?”

Harry scowled. “You can’t tell anyone! And I didn’t join him. I just… I just didn’t want to see my
friends hurt. If I stay out of the fighting – which I’d rather do anyway – I can keep my friends safe.
We shouldn’t even be targets – he shouldn’t target children, but they are being targeted anyway, or
they were. It’s a deal with the devil, I know that. Our truce will probably all go wrong, sooner or
later. But I’d rather it was later. If I pull out now, he could… well, I don’t know. Maybe attack
people in retaliation.”

“If your friends should be safe why is he threatening me?” Draco whined.

Harry winced. “I have to list people to be safe – noncombatants – but one a month is all I get.
You’re ah… I haven’t asked… that is, I thought you would be alright… all things considered.
Pansy only just made it onto the list this month.”

Draco looked offended, then his expression cleared to a thoughtful one. “You could… ask for my
safety next?”

His gaze shifted away, embarrassed. “My parents worry. And it would… give them some peace of
mind. No-one would dare attack me against the Dark Lord’s orders, even if they were angry with
my parents. Well, almost no-one,” he amended. “Pettigrew – you know about what happened with
Pettigrew, don’t you?”

“Yes. Roughly.”

“He is like a fractured wand,” Draco whispered. “No-one knows what he might do next! Everyone
is stepping very carefully around him. Run if you see him, Harry, for he will not hold to any truce
you have. They say he is worse than the real Dark Lord himself, more vicious. Father says…” –
Draco hesitated for a moment before continuing – “Father hints that he has heard his mind is
broken, that he is not all there. He is not the Dark Lord, though he claims to be, but people have to
treat him like he is. No-one knows precisely what the Dark Lord did to him, and people are too
scared to ask.”

“I thought you didn’t talk about stuff like this? That’s what you said.”

“Not to anyone who might report on you. Only to people you can trust. I know I can trust you,
now.”

“But can I trust you?”

Draco sighed. “Mostly. My parents are in danger – do you understand that? I have to protect them.
I would never do anything to deliberately betray you, Harry, that would put you in danger or ruin
your reputation. If I was asked to do that, I would at least warn you; that much I can do. Maybe you
could even help me. Little things, though? I don’t know. Perhaps you should not trust me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”
“I understand doing stupid stuff to keep people safe. It’s what I’m doing, after all. So… we’re okay.
I mean, obviously it’s not great, but I understand.”

Draco let out a shaky, relieved sigh.

Harry wanted to resume urging Draco to turn in the Lestranges but hesitated as he stopped to reflect
on the terms of his truce – he couldn’t directly or indirectly order anyone to capture Lord
Voldemort, but his Death Eaters were only covered against being attacked, not captured. Yes, he
was fine to proceed but… warily. Even if the truce allowed it, discretion was wise here.

“You really should tell someone about the Lestranges, though. Discreetly, of course! Think of
Neville!” Harry said. “You might not be the best of friends, but you are friends. Imagine if
someone who did that to your parents was free in the world. Have you ever seen his parents? They
can’t even talk, Draco. They barely even recognise their own family.”

“The Lestranges are not that well-off either. Their Ministry-approved torture in Azkaban hasn’t
been kind to their minds. So I have heard,” Draco said, tacking a wary disclaimer on the end.

“I do not think they should run free, but I cannot do anything, you do something about it,” Draco
whined. “I might not like them, and my aunt might be kind of… mad… but they are family, and I
do not know much in any case. I would be a frog in a cauldron if people found out I had dobbed on
them! Just tell someone confidentially you suspect the Lestranges have been sighted at Malfoy
Manor. I am sure you can think of someone to pass on such suspicions to.”

Yeah, Harry thought glumly, that’s what I thought about Quirrell and the diary, and that didn’t
work out.

“Who else knows? About you know… your parents and the Lestranges?” Harry asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? I am not going to name names, any more than you’d want
me talking about you to other people.”

Harry nodded. “That’s fair. There’s no-one else who could ah… help? Pass on a little hint?”

After thinking it over for a moment, Draco shook his head. “None I know of who would dare to
endanger themselves so. You will have to speak to someone.”

Not Snape, Harry thought. He’s helpful, but I’m still not sure where his true loyalty lies. Sirius
might be my best bet. He might ask too many questions though.

“Well, I will. I’ll think over my options,” Harry hedged. He had to find some way to help catch the
monsters who’d tortured Neville’s parents. The Aurors clearly needed this lead. For the moment,
though, there was something else he wanted to know.

“Just tell me one thing then – openly and honestly – if you want to stay friends,” he started, and
Draco eyed him very warily, like he was a snake about to strike. “Are there any orders regarding
me that you’re following at the moment?”

Draco nodded slowly. “I am supposed to encourage you to follow the druidic paths, when I can. I
don’t know if that was father’s idea or his, though. I know he wants me to be the Black heir,
though, and not you. He doesn’t like you associating with Black, who is after all out there hunting
Death Eaters every chance he gets.”

“He is? Black, that is?”

“Yes. Frankly I do not think I have a Puffskein’s chance in a dragon’s den at influencing your
association with Black in any way,” Draco continued, “and thankfully I have not actually been
ordered to do anything about it. However, in the interests of building a stronger alliance, I thought
perhaps you should know about it.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry said.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Storm complained, flopping his head onto Harry’s leg. “Tell me why
he keepss sssmell-tasting of fear. Is there danger?”

Harry stroked his pet’s scales. “No immediate threat. We are discussing the Dark Lord.”

Harry and Draco talked for a while about Sirius, and his nomination of Harry as his heir and offer
to adopt him, and Harry’s reciprocal gift of the Potter heirship for Sirius.

“At least now you can report on progress,” Harry said. “That you talked to me about it.”

Harry suddenly sat up straight as inspiration struck. “You could talk to Sirius. About the
Lestranges! If you want to ingratiate yourself with Sirius, there is nothing better that you could do
than to turn on a Death Eater relative; make him see that you’re not just some evil Slytherin Death
Eater in training,” Harry urged, in a wheedling whisper. “Show yourself to be very much the
opposite. He’s just as much a relative as they are, and a better acquaintance to cultivate.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “It would impress him, wouldn’t it? He did respond well to my letter of
condolence about the attack on the Tonks family. Hmmm… Would he be sufficiently discreet
about it all, though?”

“Yes, I think so. He can keep a secret when he needs to, I’ve seen proof of that. You should
probably be dramatic about it though, lives at stake, and all that. He’s a Gryffindor, remember,
he’ll respond better if you sound like someone taking a brave risk.”

“We have not formally offered Sanctuary,” Draco mused quietly, almost to himself. “She would
not lower herself to beg for that, so there is strictly speaking no familial obligation to shelter and
protect either of them… But if she found out…

“Would it cause a problem with you, hypothetically, if Black did make me his Heir?” Draco
checked.

Harry hesitated. “I don’t think it’s likely Sirius will change his mind. But he might add you to the
line of succession? If that’s a thing people do? Sorry, I’m not as familiar with the etiquette and
traditions round all that. Anyway, even if he did make you his Heir, I wouldn’t blame you or get
angry. He can choose who he wants. Besides, the Potter inheritance is enough for me. Oh, and you
can tell your mum that if it ever comes to that, you know, if Sirius dies, that I’ll be passing on
some of the Black heirlooms to her and Andromeda Tonks, at the very least. It’s in my will.”

“Oh! That is most thoughtful of you!”

“I want to go hunting again in the warm garden. I want to catch a tasty bug,” Storm hissed. “I
promise I will not eat more fairiess, sssince you asked me not to.”

Harry couldn’t resist his wheedling. “Alright, then.”

“I’m helping Storm down for a hunt,” he explained to Draco, “and then I’m going to head back
inside and see if Hermione is still speaking to Greg or not, or if Tracey needs me. He’s hungry for
bugs, the greedy guts. I think he’s due for another moult, soon.”
 One beetle and a couple of fairies flew off as Harry spoke, while Storm slithered closer to a
rosebush, but there was still more unsuspecting prey left for his snake to stalk.

Chapter End Notes

hypnoticageregression – Thanks for your gift suggestion of the ‘Barefoot Doctor’

book.
FiberBard – Thanks for your book suggestion for Dobby’s gift.
Magical infant death rates – Some thoughts about this topic were inspired by articles
on Wellingtongoose’s livejournal account. Very interesting articles there if you want
to look them up!
Last chapter had some last-minute edits after posting. There’s alterations to the section
about Harry’s genealogy, as I realised while making up a family tree that I’d made
some errors. You can see an image of Harry’s mother’s family tree, and Voldemort’s,
at my Story Images page for Perfectly Normal. There’s also photos of Hermione,
Viktor, and some corsage flowers up for this chapter too.
Tracey’s corsage – Yellow stock (matthiola): bonds of affection and friendship, and
‘you’ll always be beautiful to me’. Fern: Magic, confidence and shelter.
Hermione’s corsage – Blue gloxinia: love at first sight. Blue gladiolus: ‘give me a
break, I’m really sincere’, flower of gladiators.
Luna’s corsage – White honeysuckle: happiness, devoted affection. Holly: defence,
domestic happiness (also Christmas!).

End Notes

Do not repost this work. If you see my work anywhere else than my own account on AO3
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This story is complete at 40 chapters, and updates with a new chapter every Tuesday and
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