Hermione
“So I talked to Daphne.”
Even as Draco looked up, she winced, wishing she could take it back and say that again in a tone that wasn’t so brusque. Hermione could tell you all about other people’s emotions, but managing her own? Whole different story.
“And?” Draco said, with entirely justifiable wariness.
“And.” Hermione took a deep breath. “And she said I’m being too hard on you. I don’t… always… I’m not good at, well. Softness.”
“I’d noticed.”
“So I’m sorry,” Hermione rushed out, “for being short with you lately, and I do want to spend time with you outside of the library,” she gestured around them at the stacks of books, “and. Yes. That’s… what I meant to say.”
Draco stared at her for a few seconds with that expressionless Slytherin mask she hated so much. Then the mask cracked and he softened, kicking out the chair opposite him at the secluded study table, an invitation that she took gladly. “I talked to Justin too,” he admitted.
Hermione huffed. “You mean we both went running to our more emotionally intelligent friends for help?”
“I’m not sure I’d describe Daph as emotionally intelligent. Do not tell her I said that.”
“Objective third parties, then.”
“Yes, essentially.”
“And… what did Justin have to say?”
Draco sighed. “That I need to be more considerate of the struggles you face for which I have no context and also should suggest specific activities in advance so you can adjust your mental schedule. I’ve noticed you don’t do very well if someone interrupts you in the middle of a project.”
God, now Hermione felt even worse, knowing he’d gone to a friend for help working around what were essentially her idiosyncrasies, while she was dithering around complaining about him to Daphne and getting chewed out for it. “That’s an excellent idea. I’m… sorry I’m not very spontaneous.”
“No, don’t apologize,” he said. “You may recall that we’ve gone to school together for five years now. I knew going into this what you’re like, Hermione.”
“Thank you.” Abruptly, and much to her own horror, Hermione found herself blinking back tears. “There’s just all this pressure, all the time. ‘Brightest witch of her generation’ and whatnot, and a Muggleborn to boot, and everyone expects brilliance from me every day, in every subject, and… I’ve been so afraid of falling behind, basically from the first minute I got my letter and it occurred to me how far behind I’d be.”
Draco reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Hey, Merlin, no, don’t cry. You’re a fucking prodigy, Hermione, and you work so hard, all the time. All I wanted was for you to relax and enjoy yourself sometimes too.” He smirked, some of the vulnerability leeching away. “It’s for everyone else’s benefit too, really. You can be a bit of a terror when you overwork yourself.”
Hermione kicked him, but she knew he spoke the truth, and smiled helplessly. “You know, I never thought I’d find someone like you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone who… well.” She grimaced. “I know I’m not, well, ugly, but I’ve never thought of myself as especially pretty, either, and I know I can be… abrasive and difficult to be around. My mother warned me about boys who would act like I didn’t have any negative qualities because when someone does that they’re lying. I don’t ever intend to dumb myself down for anyone, but I suppose I grew to expect that the very thing I value most about myself, my mind, would keep me from ever finding a… a partner.”
Draco squeezed her hands. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that. Hermione, I’d… I’d like to formally court you.”
Her heart stuttered. “What?”
“Bugger,” Draco mumbled, “that wasn’t how I… okay.” He cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “I, Draco of the House of Malfoy, ask you, Hermione Granger of the House of Greengrass, consent to court.”
“Oh. I. Yes, yes of course.” Hermione scrambled back through her mental files for the lessons Daphne and Lady Greengrass had drummed into her years before. Courting had seemed like such a distant and unlikely prospect at the time that she’d focused more on other things—greetings, codes of dress, turns of phrase, the quotidien things most likely to make her stand out at something like, for example, Slughorn’s little parties or Nestor Selwyn’s informal meetings. She remembered enough to know that Draco’s reference to their relative House affiliations was significant: he acknowledged her as a ward of the Greengrasses, and between that and the formal courting request, it meant he was acknowledging her status as a witch due every courtesy and respect possible.
Considering her blood status and the current political climate, it was actually quite a statement.
Hermione scrambled to put together the right words. “I, Hermione Granger of the House of Greengrass, accept your suit without reservation. I’m honored, Heir Malfoy.”
“As you should be,” Draco sniffed. Hermione giggled; he grinned back before turning serious again. “Really, though, I’m honored. Particularly after I… behaved so poorly as a child, in general and to you specifically.”
“Water under the bridge,” Hermione said dismissively. “You’ve proven yourself willing and able to change. I can only hope to be so adaptive myself.”
“It is a Slytherin trait. House of water,” Draco said. “Change, that is. I actually, well. I thought you would appreciate if this was… just between us, first, but perhaps I could ask to court you again, publicly? So there’s no doubt in the rumour mill and… elsewhere.”
Not only making a statement but intentionally spreading it, then. Hermione nodded. She couldn’t help the burst of warmth that spread through her at how seriously he was taking this. “Certainly. Where, ah, do you think…”
“It doesn’t have to be complicated. Perhaps in the entrance hall before dinner? That way everyone can tell each other about it over the meal for maximum impact and minimum distortion of the details.”
Hermione would probably never quite match his political acumen, but she couldn’t deny she found it attractive, as she did competence in general. “I’ll follow your lead, then.”
“Oh, Merlin, that’s a first.”
Hermione kicked him again. Then she leaned across the table, grabbed him by the tie, and reeled him in for a kiss that left them both breathless.
Pansy
The first printing of The Soothsayer had been such a resounding success that Pansy had increased the volume by thirty percent for the second, and so far, judging by the amount of letters that had poured into their anonymous owl post box for forwarding, she probably could’ve pushed for half again as many copies without going too far.
Of course, scarcity created an artificial sense of value, so it was probably for the best that they undershoot demand instead of overshoot.
Nabbing Skeeter had certainly been a bit of a coup for the fledgling publication. Pansy smirked looking over her front-page article that tore several prominent members of the Order of the Phoenix to itty bitty pieces. Arthur Weasley was just the tip of the favor-trading iceberg there. Andromeda Tonks, Emmeline Vance, Amos Diggory, and several others had found their various backroom deals described in salacious and frankly overblown detail in a way that the Prophet would never tolerate. Well, not in the old days, when no one in the Ministry had wanted the corruption at its roots being exposed no matter their political position. Nowadays the Prophet might be more willing to slander Light-aligned bureaucrats but that was neither here nor there. The Soothsayer had done it first and no one was liable to forget that.
The rest of it had been fleshed out with a rambling article from Luna about blood magic and various runic languages that Pansy could only half follow but contributed nicely to their long-term agenda of destigmatizing certain ‘Dark’ magics that had real benefit, like harvest sacrifices and Samhain rites. Then there was Everett and Justin’s coauthored exposé on Wizengamot financial records that were technically publicly available but effectively inaccessible to anyone who didn’t work in the Wizengamot’s administration apparatus, i.e. Everett, and incomprehensible to anyone who didn’t have a head for finance, i.e. Justin. And Pansy was rather proud of her own contribution, too, a blatantly tabloid-esque article on Daedalus Diggle’s life and scandals, which Blaise had helped her research. Pansy didn’t know where he got half his information but she wasn’t going to pry when it was so bloody useful.
“The Death Eaters are probably throwing a party,” Harry remarked, sliding into a chair opposite hers in the Knights Room.
Pansy lowered her copy of the paper and smirked at him. “We can poke in that direction in the next episode, if you like. There’s just so much dirt on Dumbledore’s crew. It’s sort of thrilling to pick at people with such holier-than-thou attitudes; Death Eaters are pretty openly terrible, which is less interesting.”
Harry laughed and Pansy’s insides did somersaults. “Only you would complain the violent vigilante group isn’t interesting enough.”
“Well, they’re plenty interesting, but they don’t pretend not to be violent vigilantes. Meanwhile the Order…”
“I know what you mean.” Harry slid down further in his chair. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned how much I appreciate your work on this. It’s… I would never have had the time this year.”
“Merlin knows you’re doing enough,” Pansy said tartly. “Is… something wrong?”
“No… well. Not explicitly, not yet, anyway.”
She waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. “Well, that was an incredibly descriptive and helpful response, thank you.”
Harry flipped her off. “It’s Theo and Draco. Barty warned me, over the summer, about my friends potentially becoming a weakness.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a threat?” Pansy said with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes. I know what he looks like when he’s being threatening, and that wasn’t it.”
Which meant that the Dark Lord’s son in all but name had, however obliquely, alerted an outsider to his surrogate father and liege lord’s plans. Many would consider that an outright betrayal. Pansy nodded slowly. “You’ve already been working around the two of them.”
“Theo understands, but… I.” Harry pressed his fingers to his temples.
“He’s been your confidant for so long,” Pansy said.
“He was my first real friend,” Harry said, his voice so quiet it was nearly lost in the crackle and pop of the brazier Pansy had lit for warmth when she settled down to peruse the new-printed Soothsayer. “You were my second, hence…” He waved vaguely.
“We’ll come out all right,” Pansy said. “If anyone can do a midair tap-dance around Dumbledore and the Dark Lord at the same time, it’s you.” She twirled her hair around one finger with an arch look. “And really, with me on your side, how could you possibly fail?”
Harry’s pensive expression melted into a genuine smile—not particularly warm, but affectionate nonetheless. “It’s certainly a relief not to have to look over your shoulder at the Soothsayer every week.”
Translation: he’d never say it outright, but he trusted her to handle major projects without his involvement. Which, from Harry, spoke volumes. “If there’s anything I can do well, it’s gossip,” she said, and then grimaced internally, because that came out sounding just a hair bitter. Not enough for most people, even most Slytherins, to notice, but Harry wasn’t most Slytherins and he’d known her since they were eleven.
“Don’t underestimate gossip. The Soothsayer is already changing public opinion and might be the factor that wins the war of information,” Harry said, with as much of an approximation of gentleness as he was capable of. “And it’s all yours.”
Pansy smiled and thanked him and whisked her moment of insecurity away and stabbed a stiletto through the ache in her heart. Harry was a friend, her best friend, and she was fucking grateful to have that, and whatever else she felt wasn’t important. They had bigger problems than matters of the heart.
Harry
At least forty people had shown up for the Slytherin quidditch team tryouts, which was twenty-five too many. Harry made a face. “Could I confound them and send them away?”
“Absolutely not,” Celesta said with a sniff. “If that was acceptable public behavior I’d have done it already. This is just embarrassing.”
Harry followed her eyes specifically to a pair of girls in Hufflepuff ties giggling and falling over their borrowed school brooms while they tossed a quaffle back and forth only a few feet above the ground. “Hermione said this happened for Gryffindor, too. I don’t understand it. I’m not the child of prophecy, or whatever.”
“It’s the bad boy thing,” Ginny said. “Witches think it’s hot.”
“You had best watch it, or I’ll have the beater candidates target you specifically,” Harry threatened.
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Bring it, Black. They can’t beat Fred and George.”
That was entirely fair, so Harry didn’t contest it, instead striding away from the senior players and waving his wand to produce a shrieking whistle. The team hopefuls fell silent and turned to face him. Well, mostly silent. There were still some whispers and giggles emanating from the group.
“Form up in groups of ten,” Harry said, “and do a lap around the pitch.”
The results made him want to hex himself. Some of them couldn’t even get all the way around the pitch without wobbling. It worked, though, insofar as it culled the ones who were just there for fun, and after sending them and anyone not a Slytherin off the pitch, Harry was left with a much more reasonable number of people. “All right, chasers in the air, with me!”
They all took off, Ginny and Celesta among the group as Harry had instructed them. He wanted to run a merit-based team and also to assess how the candidates meshed with people who’d been playing already. Both Ginny and Celesta outflew everyone else, which wasn’t surprising, but in the end he picked Aria Cross and Sonia Strickland as their alternates.
All four chasers, the main players and the younger alternates, went back up to play two-versus-two scrimmage, Celesta and Aria versus Ginny and Sonia, while Harry watched keeper tryouts from the sidelines. He beamed inwardly as Graham saved goal after goal on his well-loved broom wearing keeper’s gloves Harry had bought him. Liam Eirian, from Veronica and Graham’s year, did well enough for Harry to pick him as an alternate, but no one else really compared, and Harry could happily offer Graham the position without favoring him even a little bit.
The seeker trials were mostly pro forma—Draco was actually very good at the position, and loved both the drama of it and being the center of attention. Harry was mostly looking for an alternate and went with Eirian again. The fourth year seemed to have a sharp eye for both quaffles and snitches despite being quite a bit stockier than the usual seeker’s build, even more so than Jules.
Noah Bole returned as a beater, joined on the starting line-up by Millicent Bulstrode, who proved in possession of a mean arm and even meaner aim. She was the only one of the beater candidates to land any bludgers on or near Ginny which pretty much earned her the spot on its own. Stephan Flint, Marcus’ much younger cousin, and Jordan Harper were suitable alternates, and it was with much relief that Harry dismissed everyone aside from his team and gathered them in the meeting room beneath the stadium for a conversation about strategy and schedules.
At last he got through the whole speech and was able to send them off. Harry waited until everyone had left to scrub his hands over his face and heave a sigh.
“You did well.”
Harry twitched. “How the fuck did I not see you?”
“Guess I’m getting sneakier,” Draco said with a tiny, smug smile. “Also you were distracted and I used a charm.”
“Barty would kill me.”
“Fortunately for you I’ve no intention of telling him.”
“Did you need something?” Harry said, because he had no energy left for pleasantries and Draco, being a Viper, didn’t warrant quite so careful a moderation of Harry’s image.
“There’s a… situation,” Draco said carefully, “that may impact you and the Vipers indirectly, insofar as people have identified myself and Hermione as close associates of yours.”
“Okay?”
“I asked her consent to court,” Draco said. “I intend to ask again, publicly, just so there is no doubt among our set that my intentions are honorable and that she is as high in my esteem as any pureblood heiress might be.”
Harry sat up straight. “Consent as Draco and Hermione, or consent as Draco of Malfoy and Hermione Granger of Greengrass?”
“The latter.”
“You understand the political statement that will make,” Harry said slowly.
“I do. I spoke with Mother about it.” Draco appeared to struggle with himself briefly. “She said… some things I wouldn’t have been receptive to, just a few years ago, but… I really can’t be Hermione’s friend and think blood purity rhetoric has any basis in fact. And Mother pointed out that if I… treated her with anything less than the utmost respect and dignity, it might… endanger her position with House Greengrass and in high society, considering… everything.”
“Well, if you’re certain, and she agrees, it’s no affair of mine,” said Harry. “Of course, if you cock it up and it tars her reputation, I’ll hold you down while she and Daphne take it out of your hide.”
Draco paled.
<>
Selwyn’s announcement, during breakfast on Monday in the third week of term, had sent the school rumor mill into overdrive. There was the enormous suspicion that came from having endured one Inquisitor who actively tortured students, and of course the knee-jerk dislike from a certain set of anyone with a last name like Selwyn, but Harry noted an immediate uptick in rumors about Selwyn’s planned reforms to the school that were just distorted enough to have plausibly come from outside the student meetings but just accurate enough to be positive.
In Transfiguration, he overheard some Hufflepuffs excitedly guessing what kinds of balls the school was going to host. A knot of mixed-House fourth years in a courtyard could be heard arguing furiously about whether or not Binns was going to get exorcised. Flitwick set the NEWT Charms class to work layering three simple spells into one object, and the noisy, cheerful atmosphere of the class lent itself quite nicely to speculation among a couple nearby Ravenclaws as to whether they were going to replace McGonagall with a new Head of Gryffindor.
Pansy, next to Harry, smirked.
Harry leaned over and murmured, “Turning your wand to the problem?”
“I don’t know what you could possibly mean,” she said primly, adding a motion-detection charm to the bell in front of her, which was already hovering on its own.
“So you weren’t the one who single-handedly turned around the general opinion on Selwyn within three days?”
Pansy grinned at him. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“You’re listening to too many of Justin’s spy stories,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “And you layered the spell wrong. It’s fucking with the hover charm.”
“Bollocks,” Pansy muttered, grabbing the bell just in time to keep it from jetting off straight up towards the ceiling. She undid all her charm work with an irritated slash of her wand while Harry, with a smirk, pictured elegant, well-bred, high-fashion Pansy saying bollocks at some formal event like the Yule Ball.
Selwyn was spotted around the school a number of times in that first week, speaking with students in public and sitting in on a few classes, with an ever-present scroll and a rotating variety of quills charmed for different purposes. He asked polite questions, rarely offered opinions, and never disrupted classes, to the point that a few people even said they’d forgotten he was there until their professor dismissed the class and everyone turned around to find him dutifully taking notes in the back of the room. The only class of Harry’s he observed was an Ancient Runes lecture in which all the students were far too busy writing at a frantic pace to keep up with Babbling to even care about the inquisitor’s presence. Selwyn and Babbling exchanged a few cordial words at the end of class, and Harry saw Selwyn stop a few people in the corridor to ask them about their experiences with her as a professor, but he gave every appearance of acting in good faith.
The fly in the ointment was Jules’ continued and inexplicable Potions excellence, which Harry bore with ill grace. Hermione continued having precisely zero luck on the subject, though Parvati had reportedly become a bit shifty when denying any knowledge of it, and Padma had told Harry over cauldrons of skele-gro that she thought Parvati had found out and chosen to keep it a secret.
If not for the fact that Padma ‘accidentally’ mentioned the occlumency tutors hired for herself and her sister, Harry would have considered hunting Parvati down, wresting the knowledge from her mind, and having Draco obliviate her afterwards.
There was absolutely no way Slughorn hadn’t included Jules Potter, the Prophesied Potions Prodigy, in the second meeting of his ‘Slug Club,’ which took quite a bit of the satisfaction out of Harry’s own embossed invitation. He stared rather unhappily at the parchment until Pansy plucked it from his hand with a glare and dumped a piece of toast on his empty breakfast plate.
“Hermione got one,” Draco said, craning his neck to look across the Hall at the Gryffindor table. “And—Justin, too, looks like.”
“At least Sluggy’s branching out,” said Ginny with a scoff from a bit farther down the table.
“He’s an equal-opportunity collector,” agreed Pansy.
Harry looked around, and spotted similarly ostentatious envelopes in front of Seaton, Carmichael, and Mason. The others from the train either weren’t here or were out of his line of sight, but that was a strong indication Slughorn was sticking with his initial assessments plus a few others based on merit, which unlike connections was difficult to judge in advance.
But on the scheduled evening, when Harry, Neville, Ginny, Hermione, and Justin made their way from the Chamber to the dungeons, they found no sign of Jules.
“Come in, come in! Aha, quite a crowd we have here, all friends then?” beamed Slughorn as Harry led the way into his office. “And some new faces! Mr. Finch-Fletchley, I’ve heard such interesting things about you from Septima, Vector that is, and you, Miss Granger, are quite the talk of the faculty! Come in, come in, yes, have a seat—I’m sure you’ve met Mr. Carmichael, yes? the Head Boy?—and, ah, yes, you’re in the same House as Cormac here—!”
“We’ve met,” said Hermione with a plastic smile.
Harry had heard, from Daphne, about Hermione cursing McLaggen to lose his spot as the Gryffindor keeper. Daphne had been laughing so hard she could barely talk coherently as she related the story and in particular Hermione’s muttered ‘I’d rather see Ron than Cormac on the team.’
McLaggen, for his part, seemed to have no idea that he’d lost the place due to Hermione; he smiled, or rather, leered at her, and said, “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Hermione.”
“You as well, Mr. McLaggen.”
There was no mistaking the emphasis Hermione put on his last name, and Slughorn looked between them with canny intelligence before clapping his hands and saying, “Such a pleasure to have so many fine members of each House, all gathered here! A pity Mr. Potter couldn’t be here—I tried to persuade Severus to reschedule his detention, but alas.” Slughorn shook his head ponderously. “Well, it is what it is, I suppose. Come, come, I believe that’s everyone now, let’s have a seat and chat!”
Harry sat next to Neville while trying not to laugh. He’d witnessed Jules goading Snape all week in Defense, to a surprising degree even for Jules and Snape’s well-established animosity, and it suddenly made quite a lot of sense. Snape would no doubt take outright glee from scheduling a detention to conflict with some kind of social event to which Jules was invited.
Honestly, it was almost impressively cunning for a Gryffindor. Would have been if the Gryffindor in question was anyone other than—
“Now, introductions!” Slughorn said, sitting down and smiling around the room at people seated on various ottomans, poufs, and armchairs. “Some of you were kind enough to join me for a spot of conversation on the Express, but we’ve some new faces—this is Melinda Bobbin, you’re a Hufflepuff, my dear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobbin, who was in possession of an utterly unremarkable face and equally unremarkable personality. Her surname sounded familiar but only vaguely.
“And how are you finding your seventh year? Hardest one you’ll face, you know, unless you mean to pursue a Mastery!”
Bobbin smiled. “I’m managing. Hard work will take you far.”
Slughorn pressed on, drawing from her the knowledge that her family owned a string of specialty enchanting workshops and that Bobbin herself meant to get a mastery in the field. Apparently she made up for having the personality of drywall by being actually competent.
Next was Goldstein, who, to Harry’s surprise, had been credited on a paper about smith-magery over the summer. The collection expands, Harry thought, as Slughorn picked Anthony’s brain and ‘casually’ mentioned that he knew Bálhjarta, an Icelandic smith-mage who Harry had never heard of but whose name just about sent Anthony into raptures.
Seaton drew Slughorn’s attention on purpose when it seemed like the interrogation of Anthony was winding down. “If he was kissing arse any harder he’d be tasting pancreas,” Justin whispered in the middle of a rather long-winded exercise in name-dropping from Seaton, which prompted Harry to smirk and Ginny, on Justin’s other side, to let out a laugh she quickly turned into a cough.
Eventually, Katie Bell got sick of Seaton’s voice and jumped in with a quidditch analogy that drew Slughorn’s attention to her like a magnet. Harry wished he could applaud her. Maybe he’d send her an anonymous fruit basket, or something, he mused, listening with half an ear to her earnest discussion of Gryffindor’s tryouts and the team line-up this year. Flowers—she wasn’t from a pureblood family, exactly, but Bell was an old wizarding name, which meant she’d probably know a bit of floriography. On the other hand, working out how to say “Thanks for giving a conversational fuck you to a bloke we both hate even though you don’t like me” in a bouquet might be tricky.
“And we have several members of the Slytherin team here, I believe!” Slughorn said, turning to include Harry and Ginny in the conversation. “Both chasers, I hear!”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said.
“I think it’s a Weasley thing,” Ginny said with a cocky grin. “Every one of us has been on the team at some point now that Ron’s a keeper. Although I guess in fairness Percy was only a reserve chaser.”
“I seem to recall two of your brothers could’ve gone professional some years back! There was some talk from, oh, Lissie Haupmeyer with Puddlemere, I think it was, about recruiting a Weasley as a seeker?”
Ginny nodded. “That’d be Charlie. He thought about it, but wound up heading off to Romania. Works with dragons now.”
“A suitably Gryffindor career,” Slughorn said with a deep belly laugh. “And you, m’dear? Planning to play professionally? A little birdie told me they might have their eye on some up-and-coming Hogwarts students.”
“I’ve thought about it,” Ginny said, eyes lighting up but otherwise maintaining credible composure. “I’d love to, personally, but I think Mum might have something to say about it.”
Seaton let out a tiny, derisive noise. Ginny twitched, but Harry kicked Justin who kicked her, and she blinked twice before adding smoothly, “Of course, it’s my decision, not hers. I guess it’ll come down to whether any of the teams have an opening when I graduate.”
“I’ll be sure to put in a word for you if I make it through trials,” Bell said with a smile. “Shouldn’t be too hard to go from flying against each other to flying with, right?”
Ginny laughed. “Sure, you lions aren’t that tactically complicated.”
“And you snakes like to overthink it,” Bell retorted amiably.
Slughorn chuckled. “Well, on the same team or opposite, I think you two would make a splendid set of chasers! And you, Mr. Black?” He winked. “Somehow I suspect a Potions apprenticeship might not leave much time to play professional quidditch!”
“Likely not, no,” Harry said with a grin. “I love flying, and I’ll probably join an adult team just for fun, but I’ve no plans to go professional. Actually, sir, now that you mention it, I have some personal work I’d love for you to take a look at—there’s an old laboratory at home I use in the summers, and I’ve been experimenting a bit with some translated potions from the Black family’s library. Some of them haven’t been brewed in centuries and it’s difficult to even determine their effects in advance.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly…” Slughorn peered at him with rather less joviality than before. “Yes, of course, I’d be glad to have a chat with such a dedicated student—have you any of this ‘personal work’ about right now, by chance? You’d be welcome to stay for a chat.”
“I think I have a few things I could show you,” Harry demurred, by which he meant a version of his personal grimoire that had been sanitized of everything blatantly malicious or too rare to have plausibly been dug up from the bowels of the Black estate, prepared in advance and carried around in anticipation of a moment just like this. Anything to prove Jules’ success was a fluke. “I’d be happy to stay a bit later.”
“Wonderful!” Slughorn rounded on Mason, McLaggen, and Carmichael, seventh years all, drawing them into a chat about NEWTs and their post-graduation plans. Harry allowed himself to relax now that the attention had shifted off him.
Across the table, Seaton met his eyes. Oh, he was mad. Harry bestowed a perfectly bland I’m in public smile upon him and watched as Seaton’s cheek twitched minutely. Ha.
“—think Miss Granger might have more opinions on that matter than I do, actually.”
Hermione’s name brought Harry back to the conversation. He noted the way she’d begun fiddling with her teacup, which usually meant her boredom was approaching a hazardous level, and decided to thank Mason later for including her.
“Oh, indeed? You mean to go into law?” Slughorn said, turning expectantly to Hermione.
“It’s certainly appealing, sir. I’ve spoken with one of the partners at Greengrass, Tate, & Morris, and looked into a few of the applications of a law mastery in the magical world. I particularly think the criminal justice system could stand a thorough evaluation.”
Slughorn leaned forward. “That’s a prestigious firm, m’dear, if you could land an internship or apprenticeship there I daresay you’ll go far! Of course, if you’d like to consider other options, I know a good many of London’s solicitors and barristers—got one on retainer myself, though I won’t mention who—” he chuckled conspiratorially— “and I’m always happy to put in a word for a driven student. Particularly one who’s so academically gifted!”
“I don’t know if I’d say gifted, sir,” Hermione said, dimpling at him with a sudden charm offensive that reminded Harry strongly of Astoria Greengrass when she wanted something. “There are certain institutional barriers to success that Muggleborns face, and I’ve been lucky in my friends and professors, who’ve helped me navigate those. And, of course, I work hard.”
“Practically lives in the library during exam season,” Blaise added with a friendly smile. Hermione flicked a grateful look his way.
Slughorn hmmmed thoughtfully. “I do know our world isn’t always particularly transparent for, shall we say, emigrés, but I’m afraid I really have no personal experience on the matter.” Nor of being an outsider in any respect, Harry was sure. “Might that be another area in which you hope to focus your legal attention?”
“I… would be honored by the opportunity,” Hermione said delicately, “but such an endeavor would likely take many years, and I certainly wouldn’t expect to tackle such a thing alone, or without having an established career.”
“Wise words, but if I may impart some rather Slytherin advice—? Ambition,” Slughorn said, wagging a fond finger at her, “never hurts. You mustn’t underestimate your own potential, or you’ll never get as far as you could! Davine Kirkpatrick, surely you know the witch who translated the Tablets of Uruk, yes—why, I remember telling her just the same thing, when she was unsure whether to pursue such an ambitious project!” He spread his hands, as if to say, There you have it, and various students smiled or nodded obligingly.
“Thank you, sir, I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” said Hermione.
“I look forward to your future exploits—I quite think you may take the Ministry by storm,” said Slughorn with a wink. He appeared to realize too late that ‘take the Ministry by storm’ was perhaps not the best phrasing to have used, eyes widening fractionally as an uncomfortable pause settled into place. “And you, Mr. Finch-Fletchley!” he said loudly. “Considering law yourself?”
“Er, no, sir, finance actually,” Justin said, with that easy manner of his that could smooth over even the awkwardest of social gaffes. “I grew up exposed to my parents’ business and I suppose their interests stuck.”
“Very good, very good,” Slughorn began, only to be cut by Seaton, who said dismissively, “Yes, well, I suspect you may find financial affairs among wizards rather different from what you’re used to.”
Justin’s bearing became even more stubbornly affable. “You’re totally right, Seaton, was it? I’ve noticed loads of differences. Wizards enjoy a post-scarcity economy in some ways, thanks to magic, but in others it’s actually quite illogical, and of course the overall financial ecosystem in magical Britain is quite a bit less convoluted than that of the Muggles. There’s just more of them, you see.”
“How fascinating,” said Slughorn, who appeared to be regretting putting Seaton and Justin in the same room. “‘Post-scarcity’ is a bit self-explanatory, but if you might expand on the particulars?”
“Oh, sure, it’s nothing too technical. It just means we wizards,” Justin smiled at Seaton, “don’t tend to suffer from a lack of physical materials. It’s easy to fix broken things with a reparo and tasks Muggles need complex machines for we can do with a bit of wood and some layered charms. Much less demand for people to make new things all the time. Food’s the exception, obviously, you can’t just conjure or transfigure biotic matter, but production of raw material goods is a much smaller portion of the magical economy than the Muggle.”
“Do you think a background in Muggle economics could be a benefit for financiers in our world?” Mason said thoughtfully.
Justin shrugged. “I can certainly see why an outside eye might lead to new ideas. Whether those ideas would pan out I can’t say for sure. Yet, anyway.”
“And I think we can all agree that you’re admirably well-informed for a wizard not yet out of Hogwarts!” Slughorn said with a slightly forced laugh. He looked at his wristwatch and did a subtle but noticeable double-take. “Oh, dear me, look at the time. I’d best let you lot go before it gets too late! Katie, I’ll drop an owl to Rohan, with the Tornadoes—old friend of mine, wonderful chap—and Anthony, if you write up that proposal, I’d be happy to get some eyes on it, see if anyone with a forge is interested in a collaboration! Here, take some of these biscuits, I certainly oughtn’t eat them all—go on, yes, Ginevra, have a few—yes, goodnight, Cormac! Give my best to your uncle!”
Harry hung back, digging about in his bag for the grimoire he’d prepared to show Slughorn. It was ready in his hand when Slughorn shooed the last stragglers out of his office. “Here you are, sir—apologies for the mess, I’m not always the neatest when I’m in a rush, and I hadn’t thought to make a clean version.” Really, he’d just reproduced the annotations, notes, mysterious potions stains, and other assorted marginalia that found its way into his experimental papers.
“Not to worry, not to worry,” Slughorn said absently, taking the grimoire with some eagerness, eyes already flicking over the first page. “Ground rue stems? How odd—ah, but the oil of poppy, yes, that would…” He flipped ahead, skimming several more pages at random points throughout the journal, and then looked up at Harry with a new level of calculation visible in his eyes. “This is truly fascinating work. Have you done all this on your own?”
“Much of it, but my good friend Theo Nott has helped, especially with the translations. He’s better than I am with ancient languages,” Harry admitted with a self-effacing smile.
“Indeed? Well… would you mind, m’boy, if I hung onto this for a week or two? You needn’t worry about proprietary ideas, now, I just want to be sure to give this the attention it deserves; there’s rather more here than one could look over in an evening, ha!”
“Yes, of course, you’re welcome to it,” said Harry, who’d charmed it heavily against copying and who actually did trust Slughorn not to steal people’s intellectual property. All it would take was one rumor of such and Slughorn would lose all his credibility among anyone doing any kind of research. He’d never have gotten where he was without taking care to avoid that.
Not to mention, he wasn’t known as a Potions Master who’d revolutionized the field with creative experiments.
“My, my, you and Jules, the both of you seem to have inherited your mother’s gift!” Slughorn shook his head, still bent over the notebook, as he turned away. “Two candles in a cauldron, you are. Oh, dear, I’d forgotten the time, do you need a pass?”
Harry accepted, of course, not that he was very worried about violating curfew; half the prefects would just wave him on, and the other half were easily avoidable. Having gotten a handwriting and signature sample out of Slughorn was satisfying, but even that couldn’t make up for Slughorn’s last comment, which had struck quite a blow to Harry’s mood for the evening.
<>
It was entirely too soon to be introducing any new Vipers candidates to the Chamber. The group lounging about after their dueling practice, then, contained no new faces. Last year’s graduates had been replaced by Graham, Veronica, Malcolm, Dylan, third years, and Rio, second, who’d spent half an hour or so doing dueling practice with Romilda and Vasily before settling down to work on homework. Harry listened to their laughter echoing off the Chamber’s vaulted ceiling from his usual spot in the mouth of the ugly Salazar statue and thought about what the Vipers meant. What he wanted them to mean in the future.
“You’re brooding.”
“Is it that obvious?” Harry looked up at Theo with a smirk.
Theo sat down next to him, legs dangling side-by-side off the edge of the statue entrance, twenty feet above the Chamber floor and the scattered clots of chairs and tables into which the Vipers had dispersed to relax after dueling practice. “Maybe not from down there. Knut for your thoughts?”
“What will this look like, after we graduate?” Harry said, gesturing below them. Iris had gathered the girls from Ginny’s year into a circle and appeared to be teaching them a spell. Hermione, Draco, and Daphne were arguing heatedly about something at a table nearby. The seventh years minus Iris had their textbooks doing a waltz on a tabletop, presumably to practice synchronized charms, and the rest of the Vipers were here and there in ones and twos, studying or reading or playing games. “Two years, and we’ll be gone. I have no idea if the Chamber will still open without an Heir here to do it. But I don’t think they’ll all just be content to give up.”
“It means a lot to some of the younger set,” Theo agreed. “There are other places in the castle to meet. It might be a smaller group… the question is whether you want it to continue.”
Harry took his time feeling out an answer. “I… right now the group is politically motivated, although that’s not an explicit qualifier for entry like,” he rolled his eyes, “Dumbledore’s Army. I’ve plans that are to the benefit of all of us, obviously, but they’re political too, in line with my… opinions, and… position. I’m starting to think that in our wake the Vipers might become a… secret club of some sort. Like Slughorn’s little group except, you know, not sleazy.”
“Take the outsiders, the downtrodden, give them a community, earn their loyalty, help them reach their potential, reap the benefits.” Theo nodded. “You’ve started something here. It’s been noticed.”
A prickle ran up Harry’s spine. “Noticed how?”
“Some of the older Vipers are, well, delicately positioned,” Theo said slowly. He stared straight ahead at nothing, not moving save for his mouth. “Those of us here in school have some protection but not as much as one might hope. Their loyalty to you is strong. Stronger than—other ties.”
“And that’s endangering them?” Harry said tightly.
“Not yet. But it could. Especially if you presented as an opponent, and certain of your close friends were to find themselves in a vulnerable position.”
Theo was not speaking only about the Vipers as a whole. He meant himself. Harry breathed past the ice that threatened to choke his lungs. “I could perhaps tell the Vipers to reconsider their loyalties. For their own safety.”
“No.”
His tone was harsh and Harry looked up sharply. Theo had turned to him fully. “No, alright? I know who I follow and it isn’t that sadistic bastard.”
“Alright.” Harry breathed. “Alright. I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t trust me too much,” Theo said shortly. “It’s a liability to both of us. And be careful with Draco.”
“I have been.”
“It bore repeating.”
Harry nodded. For a few minutes they sat in silence, watching over the Vipers. Pansy let out a peal of laughter from where she sat with Justin, drawing Harry’s eyes to them briefly.
Before he could determine who Justin was pretending not to be staring at, Theo spoke again. “Things will only get more complicated.”
“We’ll be fine,” Harry said, shooting a cocky grin Theo’s way. “All of us working together? There’s no way we can lose.”
“We’re definitely better off than the DA,” Theo said with a snort.
There had been something off about Blaise for weeks now. Since well before the start of the school year, really. Harry preferred not to pry into his friends’ lives without cause, the same respect and privacy they afforded him; but Theo and Pansy and likely Hermione had noticed as well. Harry’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, then, when a letter arrived for Blaise in an envelope of creamy, luxurious paper, a letter Blaise read with a tight and angry expression. He folded the paper inside with jerky motions, excused himself, and left the Great Hall so quickly that anyone could see something had upset him.
Harry tilted his head a bit. Pansy frowned, then nodded a bit. Theo raised his eyebrows; Harry tapped the table twice as he rose, signaling them both to come with him.
Pansy was the one to murmur their excuses to the table, snatch a last apple and toss it at Draco with a wink, call out and wave to Anthony at the next table over, all so their exit wouldn’t draw the attention Blaise’s had. Some people, especially Slytherins, would put two and two together, but there was no sense telegraphing it.
As soon as they stepped out of the Great Hall, Pansy’s cheery mask melted away. “Where could he have gone?”
“Eriss?” Harry said, dropping a hand in his bag. “Come on, lazy scales, time to go to work.”
His familiar grumbled as she climbed out. “Waking me up from a good sleep… for what? Not even a rat?”
“You don’t need any more rats. If you did, you’d get too fat to slither, and then where would you be?”
Eriss let out an unhappy hiss, even though she knew it was true; Kreacher liked her and had kept her well-fed over the summer. Grimmauld Place was probably the most rodent-free neighborhood in all of London. “What, then?”
“Blaise. Can you track him?”
“The one who smells of sun and oil?” Eriss lifted her head and turned it about, tongue flickering, while Theo and Pansy crowded around just in case someone happened to come down the stairs or out of the Hall despite it being the middle of breakfast. “Yes. His scent is strong and recent.”
Harry spelled her unnoticeable and let her down. In a flash she was off. Theo hitched his bag higher on his shoulder. “Fuck, she’s fast.”
“Keep up!” Pansy called, jogging ahead of them. Harry shook his head and grinned at her back, and sped up.
Eriss led them not to the Knights Room but another, even dustier corner of the same floor. Pansy got there first, tested the door, and turned to Theo and Harry. “It’s warded.”
Theo brought down the ward with a spell that only took a few seconds to cast.
“Fuck off,” Blaise said as soon as the door opened.
“You don’t mean that,” Theo retorted. “I know for a fact you can cast wards stronger than that one. You weren’t trying even a little bit.”
Blaise’s back was to them, his hands braced on the sill of a narrow window overlooking the grounds. It faced east enough to catch the morning sun, which spilled in around Blaise and reduced him to a formless silhouette. “Good manners would compel you to respect that a locked door should stay so.”
“Alright, then tell us to go,” Harry said, unmoved. “Tell us you want us to leave and you want to be alone, and we will.”
“But you won’t, will you?” said Pansy. “You may not have hoped that we would follow but you’re gratified that someone did. That someone noticed you were in distress and cared enough to come after you.”
Blaise turned: a ferocious glower sat heavily on features rarely marred by any emotion stronger than disdain. “You presume to know my heart?”
“Yes,” Pansy said coolly. “And I’m not wrong, or else you would have told me so, instead of getting defensive.”
Harry stepped a little farther into the room. “We’re your friends, Blaise. If you don’t want to talk about it then that’s fine, we’ll go.” Blaise was wavering; he saw it. Harry lowered his voice. “You were there for me this summer when I needed you but didn’t want to hear it. Let me return the favor.”
All at once, Blaise sagged, the fight going out of his posture. “Fine, then. Sit down and someone put up a better ward than I did.”
Harry obliged.
For a long moment, no one spoke, perched around the room on mismatched furniture that looked to have been shoved in here and forgotten. Blaise stared at his fingers, which were laced together in his lap so tightly the knuckles turned pale.
“My mother,” he began, and then stopped. “No. My… father… was a nobody.” Harry all but held his breath: Blaise never spoke of his father. “The way Mother tells it, he was a handsome stranger, a graduate of Uagadou, whose name she never bothered to learn. They had some fling when they met in Jakarta. I didn’t know why she kept… me. Only that, growing up, she took care to never once have a child with any of my stepfathers. I think there was a pregnancy, once, and she ended it. She didn’t want children; Matteo raised me more than she did, and Dinah, a healer who lived nearby.” He laughed bitterly. “Turns out she kept me because she wanted someone to carry on the family business, and figured having a kid with a nobody would mean no pesky custody battles.”
“You don’t need to tell us about your ‘family business.’ It’s a private affair; nobody’s pushing—” Harry began.
Blaise shook his head. “I want to tell you. I likely should have already. It’s. Well.”
“Murder for hire,” Pansy said.
“What makes you say that?” Blaise snapped, so defensive Pansy could only have been right.
Pansy shrugged a delicate shoulder. “I hear things. Certain people dying in impossible ways… a toxic bouquet, traces of poisonous lipstick. Turning the trappings of femininity into deadly weapons sounds like your mother’s skill set.”
“The husbands are a red herring,” Blaise said, looking down again. “I was never sure, until… people think that’s all there is to her. They see her at a party and joke about how she’s fishing for husband number whatever and never notice anything else. It’s not just assassinations—information, secrets. If you need to disappear, or make someone else disappear, my mother can do that. If you need blackmail, or if you’re being blackmailed and need to make it go away—my mother can help you.”
“You haven’t only just learned most of this, though,” Harry said cautiously.
Blaise snorted. “No, of course not. She never hid what she is from me. Sometimes she calls me soft. Guess she was hoping I’d have more of her and less of my father, whoever he was. Or maybe they’re both that cold, and getting a son who can’t step into her shoes was just bad luck.”
“That’s bullshit,” Theo snapped. “You’re the farthest thing from weak.”
Pansy shifted her weight. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Blaise, but… you seem bothered by more than the fact of your mother being essentially an expert contract killer.”
“It was necessary context. Last summer…” Blaise cleared his throat. “Two years ago, Mother told me I was to start learning… the business more actively. Poisons. How to… how to charm someone and get close, how to kill without making a sound, how to tease information out of a mark.” That fit: Blaise had always been a dab hand with potions, but last year and especially this year, he’d shown a noticeable jump in skill. “Most of the people she—well, we, I guess—were paid to ‘deal with’ weren’t the type to be missed. Criminals, corrupt officials, you know the sort. Occasionally Mother would get, I don’t know, a random attack of emotion, and help out someone trying to escape this or that abusive situation for free, but mostly her clients are the rich and terrible, and I never knew too many details about her marks.
“But… last summer, there was a… I can’t name names. An official highly placed in the Turkish Ministry had been embezzling funds meant for rehoming low-income wixen displaced by Muggle buildings. Her intern noticed and was trying to take it to the cops. Mother killed him.” Blaise’s hands were twisted together so tight it had to be painful. “It was the first time I… saw… someone, a mark, and thought, fuck, this isn’t… this isn’t right, you know? He was just some guy. Thirty or so. Single. Had a dog, went on some dates. Not exactly Merlin come again, but not a bad person, either, just a bloke trying to hold down a normal job, and my mother killed him for being decent.”
“Were you there?” Pansy said gently.
Blaise managed a tight nod. Harry sent grateful thoughts at the Black ancestors, in case they’d had a hand in keeping Pansy in his life. Merlin knew he would have done a terrible job with this conversation if left to his own devices.
“She—she saw,” Blaise got out. “That I was… hesitant. I didn’t like it. I just kept thinking—the damn dog, alright, it tried to get in front of him, and Mother cursed it.” Harry reflexively reached for Eriss. “And then he started begging—please, if he was going to die, could we at least make sure his dog lived and wasn’t abandoned… And she killed him, and then she wouldn’t let me try to help the dog either. We just. We just left.”
“That sounds awful…” Pansy said.
“I found out, later… Matteo went back for the dog. Got it to a magizoologist, made him promise to give it a good home. Mother punished him. Because he knew I was fucked up about it all. He knew she’d punish him for it, too; he did it anyway, didn’t even try to hide when she asked him. She hasn’t let him near me since. This?” Blaise snatched the letter and held it in a hand that trembled. “Apparently I’m expected to have gotten over my ‘softness’ by Yule.”
“She’s going to make you…” said Theo.
“Yeah. Gotta do it myself this time. Apparently if she hadn’t given birth to me she’d be worried I wasn’t really her son.”
Harry leaned forward and waited until Blaise looked up at him. “How can we help?”
“You can’t,” Blaise said flatly. “I’ve got to do it. Go home and—and kill whoever it is. She’s my mother. My inheritance is hers to give or—or take away. If I don’t comply, she could pull me out of school, use some of the old familial rights in Italy to give her custody of me until twenty-five… it would get ugly.”
“I could do it for you,” Harry said quietly.
“No, you couldn’t. She would know. Hell, she’ll probably make me do it while she watches, just to make sure there’s no more… how did she put it…” Blaise consulted the letter. “Shirking of your duties as my son and Heir.”
“You could run,” Theo offered.
Blaise looked at him. “Would you?”
Theo’s mouth settled into a grim line. It was enough of an answer.
“I’m just hoping she picks someone reprehensible enough that I won’t have to feel too guilty,” Blaise said with a sigh.
“We’ll be here,” Pansy said. “No matter what. And if you change your mind, and you want to run, we’ll help you do that.”
Blaise laughed hollowly. “She would order Matteo to find me and he would have to obey. He doesn’t eat, barely sleeps, and has half again the strength and endurance of the average wizard, not to mention a unique gift for blood magic that our wards would struggle against. I’m not bringing that down on any of you. But… thanks.”
“What are friends for, if not helping plan murders and/or escape them?” Pansy said with a wink and a grin. It seemed to help; Blaise smiled back, even if it was a small smile.
Theo vanished somewhere as soon as the heavy talk with Blaise was over, and Blaise himself retreated to the Slytherin commons for his free period “to needle Draco until he snaps; it’s rather excellent stress relief,” leaving Harry and Pansy to walk to the library together.
“You didn’t tell me what you suspected about the Zabinis,” Harry observed.
Pansy glanced at him sidelong. “You didn’t ask. And it wasn’t my secret to tell.”
“I’m not upset. I’m—I appreciate…” Harry trailed off, grimacing. The words he wanted just weren’t there.
“You like it when your people support each other,” Pansy said with a smirk. “I know.”
Harry couldn’t look at her for this bit. “I also trust you, with incentive, and—you know a lot of secrets. I trust you to tell me what I need to hear, and that if you keep something to yourself, it’s with good reason.”
There was no immediate snarky or flippant comment, so he steeled himself and looked at her. This was Pansy, one of the oldest and best of his friends, who had proven her loyalty time after time. He owed it to her to actually say how much he valued her mind and her counsel. And if he’d hurt her on accident, he owed it to her to not pretend otherwise.
Her eyes were suspiciously shiny, and Harry panicked for a second, running back what he’d said in case there was an inadvertent insult in there. But— “You were the first person,” she said evenly, “to see me as more than an heiress. I care for my parents, and they for me, but they can’t help… you did, though.” Some of Pansy’s usual charm returned. “And, really, if we can’t trust each other by now, I might as well go live in the Dark Forest like a hermit.”
Harry was startled into laughter. “Wouldn’t want that,” he agreed, nudging her arm with his the way Justin sometimes did when something was funny. Pansy mock-gasped and planted her pointy elbow right into Harry’s ribs. Then she hexed his feet to the floor and ran ahead, cackling.
“I’ll get you,” Harry called, fumbling to end what was a low-power but incredibly tricksy stay-there hex.
“Not in the library you won’t!” she sang back.
Harry got his shoes unstuck and took off after her, just in time to spin around a corner and see the hem of her robes disappearing into the library, and Madam Pince’s domain.
Merlin’s balls.
Theo
It was all just too similar.
After that lacerating conversation, Theo had slipped away to the grounds, using his free period not to study but to think, which he always did better under the open sky, because Blaise’s confession had been raw and honest and a lot of things Theo couldn’t bring himself to be, and Theo understood.
Theo was not a fool; the incarcerated Death Eaters would be out sooner or later, and then his reprieve would be gone. Father would begin to pressure him to take the Mark. Theo loved and respected his father, as was his duty as the last son and Heir of his father’s House; that did not mean he agreed with him fully or wanted to follow him in all things.
There was only one person Theo would ever follow and he was not a Death Eater.
And yet, to appease his father, to keep his father safe from the Dark Lord’s curse-happy attention, Theo might find himself trapped into certain promises, certain bargains. He might well be asked to kill on behalf of the Dark Lord before his last year of schooling. If not over Yule, then in the summer; and if Theo’s suspicions about a plot at Hogwarts this year were right, then he had very little time before the Dark Lord started recruiting as many of his followers’ children as possible.
How could Harry protect him from that? How could Theo ever ask him to try? All Theo could do was avoid learning too much, absent himself from Vipers’ meetings, deliberately avoid Harry when Harry was deep in conversation with Pansy or Blaise, Daphne or Celesta, Justin or Ginny. All he could do was let his best friend cut Theo out of the group of people Harry could fully trust.
It was hardly fair to resent Harry for that. Most of the time, Theo didn’t. And even when he did he didn’t mean it. The fault lay with the Dark Lord and Dumbledore and their matching predilections for making children pawns in their stupid game.
Theo kicked at the dirt and felt like a child.
“Oi! Theo!”
The voice was familiar. Theo’s head snapped up, hand going to his wand even though his brain was already telling him he knew who it was. He only relaxed fully when his eyes processed the sight of Neville waving at him from the path to the greenhouses.
Merlin, Theo had wandered far. He glanced around and, seeing no one else around, picked up a light jog over to where Neville waited in grubby gardening clothes, a dirt-stained linen tote bag slung over one shoulder. “Off to help Sprout?”
“Independent project. I’m playing around with a new fertilizer for the real finicky outcrossings of magical species,” Neville said with a grin. “It’s pretty cool. Want to come?”
“I dropped Herbology,” Theo said ruefully.
Neville waved a hand. “Not a problem, Sprout doesn’t mind who I bring in there s’long as it’s not a party. You can sit. I mean. If you want.” He winced and blushed. “I find it peaceful, there, I guess, but not everyone…”
“I’d like that,” Theo said, surprising himself. “I always think better outside and the greenhouse will be less chilly.”
“Yeah?” Neville perked up. “Greenhouses might be warmer but there’s a higher chance of something trying to eat you.”
“I’ll take plants over Hagrid’s monsters any day of the week.”
Neville laughed. “C’mon, I’m going to Six.”
One of Sprout’s personal greenhouses, used almost exclusively for her own research and for advanced NEWT students doing independent study. Theo was impressed and asked about Neville’s project as they walked. Most of the details went over his head, though he followed enough to know he was developing a new system to germinate and support magic-hungry experimental plants. Potentially hugely useful, and complicated besides, the topic carried them all the way inside and to the back of the greenhouse, where Neville had a whole two worktables to himself covered in plants, equipment, gardening tools, and books.
“Doesn’t look like anything’s going to eat me,” Theo noted, glancing around. “Is it safe to sit over here?”
“That corner? Yeah.” Neville’s attention was already on his plants; he barely looked up, gesturing vaguely in the corner Theo indicated. “There’s extra chairs in the office… and desks, er… one second…”
He trailed off. Theo permitted himself a smile and conjured a desk and chair instead of hunting down Sprout’s spares. They only needed to last an hour or so; it wasn’t anything too difficult.
Neville was the ideal companion for this—he didn’t pry, he didn’t pay much attention to Theo even, but he’d make the occasional comment or observation about his work out loud, and there was no pressure on Theo to do or be anything in particular. He could just tip his head back and let the sun and the warmth charms settle into his skin and forget the fact that he was a Death Eater’s son, forget the people taking over his home and the secrets he couldn’t let himself know, forget everything.
For this hour at least the sword over his head faded away.
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