Jules
“So tell me, Julian, your scar… has it been hurting at all?”
Jules stopped himself reaching up to finger the scar on his forehead. “No, sir… should it have?”
“Mmm… it is not so much a question of should, as why it has not.” Dumbledore was wearing a satisfied expression. “It seems Lord Voldemort has finally realized the danger of having a connection to you… the pains that have plagued you in the past should cease, if he has begun using occlumency to block you out.”
“Good,” Jules said fervently. “Not like it was ever much use anyway, was it?”
Dumbledore made the sort of wordless noise people deployed when they didn’t want to answer a question either way but couldn’t pretend you never asked it. Jules held in a sigh and looked around at the distinctly Muggle post boxes and little one-story homes. “Sorry, sir, but where are we? You haven’t said, only that this is… for the Order.”
“In a way. This, Jules, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton, and we are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.”
Jules made a face. Naturally the way to do that was to pick up the Boy Who Lived and use him as a neat little tool. He wondered if this old colleague was a fan, or the type who wanted to get close to powerful people of any stripe, or someone like Moody who just wanted to test him.
“Left here,” Dumbledore said, and Jules followed up a steep, narrow street lined with more houses—taller now, with two stories, made of brick instead of the weird skinny boards Muggles built houses with and set back farther from the road. The incline made itself known in the muscles of Jules’ legs and while he enjoyed the exercise he couldn’t help doubting Dumbledore’s ability to keep this pace for long. He was spry for his age but still well over a hundred.
His thoughts turned to the recent attack on the Bones home. Susan had grown hard and distant since, not shedding a tear at her aunt’s funeral and speaking little to anyone.
“This one,” Dumbledore said, and then “ouch,” as he’d pointed with his mysteriously injured hand. Jules eyed it. Dumbledore had been coming by Potter Manor every now and then over the summer. He’d just turned up one day in July with a visibly curse-blackened hand sporting a ring with an ugly black stone. Ethan had asked about it, and Andromeda had done the Slytherin circular-talk thing that Jules could only half follow, and neither of them had gotten even a hint of an explanation.
Their destination was a stone house, one story but with a flourishing garden. Jules looked suspiciously at the plants: not a one of them was magical, at least as far as he could tell in the streetlamps’ glow. The house itself looked Muggle and Dumbledore didn’t so much as pause as they stepped through the gate, so there mustn’t be any wards.
Which in itself was… odd.
“Oh dear,” Dumbledore said, and Jules stopped on his heels, then drew his wand at the sight of a front door hanging off its hinges. A quick glance around showed no one waiting. He itched to cast homenum revelio but if this was a Muggle house instead of a wizarding one the Ministry would pick it up.
Dumbledore’s wand lit up as he began moving again, approaching the front door slowly, his head swiveling to take in the darkened windows, the peaceful garden. Jules paced him and watched their backs the way Moody had taught him.
They stepped into the house. Jules eased the front door mostly closed and grabbed a hat stand from the corner to put in front of it, so if anyone came in they’d knock it over and make a noise. The front hall itself was undisturbed.
“Homenum revelio,” Dumbledore murmured, and hummed. “The house appears to be empty…”
Jules went ahead of him now, wand up as he swiveled to the right in a crouch, scanning a dark kitchen. Nothing out of place. Nothing odd. He pushed the door wide open so no one could hide behind it.
While he’d been clearing that room, Dumbledore had gone ahead, and stood now at the first doorway on the left. Jules stepped up next to him and winced. The sitting room was devastated: a splintered grandfather clock lying in pieces; a piano on its side with keys strewn across the floor like knocked-out teeth; a chandelier had fallen and smashed all over the floor. Feathers from shredded cushions had got everywhere and fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. And there was blood on the walls, thickly red and glutinous and gleaming in the wandlight.
“Dear me,” Dumbledore said, but inexplicably, he seemed to relax.
“Sir, what’s happened here?” Jules said.
“Something… quite… ah. Ingenious.” Dumbledore was looking closely at the blood on the wall. Jules cast a wary look down the front hallway towards the dark staircase, then stepped further into the sitting room. It was a really alarming amount of blood, but—it didn’t seem quite human.
“Sir?”
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, studying the wreckage at his feet, peering behind an overstuffed armchair that lay on its side.
“I don’t see any signs of spells,” Jules said, when it became clear Dumbledore wasn’t going to answer. “Not real curses, anyway, and no fire-based blasting hexes, so maybe reducto, clodo, or the other pressure hexes… I guess reducto maximus would do this all at once, but then what caused the blood spatter? It’s too high up for that. Maybe a cutting curse to the neck but surely there’d be blood on the floor, then.”
“You are an admirably astute young wizard,” Dumbledore said. “Alastor clearly taught you well… aha.”
Without warning, he swooped and stabbed his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”
Jules fell into a defensive crouch and had a hex on his lips in a second. He barely kept himself from casting. “Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore.
Jules blinked. The chair was in fact a fat, bald old man massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.
“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet.
Wandlight gleamed on his shiny pate, his large, quick eyes, a silver handlebar mustache, and the highly polished buttons of the maroon velvet dressing robe he’d thrown on over a set of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore’s chin.
“Rather clever, you are,” he said to Jules. “I suppose I ought to have done the Dark Mark too, but there wasn’t time, I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered…”
He heaved a sigh.
“Would you like my assistance cleaning up?” asked Dumbledore politely.
“Please.”
Jules stepped back and watched as their wands swept through the motions of a spell he’d seen Andromeda and Molly and Remus use, although it escaped Dad—he flinched and focused resolutely on the chaos setting itself to rights around him. The last bit to fix itself was the newly repaired chandelier, which screwed itself back into the ceiling with a colossal grinding and crashing. Apparently that much glass breaking in reverse caused quite a ruckus.
“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked Dumbledore, as they stepped away.
“On the walls? Dragon.” Horace stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a newly repaired side table and held it up to the light. “My last bottle, and prices are sky-high. Bit dusty… may be reusable.”
He set it aside and his gaze focused on Jules and—yep, there it was. Jules braced himself.
“Oho,” Horace said, eyes flying to Jules’ forehead, where his hair was styled to leave his scar visible. “Oho!”
“This is Heir Julian Potter,” Dumbledore said serenely. “Jules, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”
Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. “So that’s how you thought you’d persuade me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.”
He pushed past Jules to examine a shelf of repaired books, while Jules tried to put the pieces together. He wasn’t a fan, nor had he tried to test Jules at all, which left the type who liked powerful friends. And Slughorn had owned up to it straight off. That was rare. Mostly people tried to deny their own social climbing. Jules looked around: Slughorn obviously liked luxurious things—he tried not to grimace at the velvet overrobe now straining over Slughorn’s arse—so he wasn’t hard up for gold.
“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time’s sake?”
Slughorn hesitated, then said ungraciously, “Alright then, one drink.”
Dumbledore winked at Jules and directed him toward a chair very like the one Slughorn had been impersonating (and so well that he’d fooled Dumbledore’s homenum revelio, which meant he was loads better a wizard than his appearance suggested). Jules felt rather swallowed by its overstuffed cushions and knew it wasn’t a coincidence that Dumbledore had put him in a direct line of sight with the most visibly well-used chair in the room, a love seat with a single large dent in the middle instead of two for people side by side. And indeed, Slughorn took that exact spot when he turned back around and levitated a glass over to Dumbledore.
“Hmpf,” he said, sinking into the loveseat. “Here—” The glass shoved itself rudely into Dumbledore’s hand, and a tray with decanters and empty glasses presented itself to Jules, who set it aside neatly. He knew his way ‘round fancy crystalware and the like, even though Dad—another flinch, but Jules forced himself to face it—even though Dad hadn’t been much for high society manners.
“Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?” Dumbledore said.
Slughorn’s answer came instantly. “Not so well. Weak chest, wheezy, rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to. To be expected, really. Old age, fatigue… I’m sure you’re feeling some of it yourself, ha!”
“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” said Dumbledore, ignoring the comment about his own age. “You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?”
“Two. Didn’t hear the intruder charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he pulled himself together, “the fact remains that I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”
Jules looked around the room at soft chairs and rich tapestries and books with leather-and-gold bindings. Boxes of chocolates and candies were placed strategically within reach of most of the seats. It had neither the feminine air of some old pureblood ladies’ sitting rooms or the aggressively masculine one of Dad’s or Ethan’s or his friends’ dads’ studies. My study now, I guess, and then Jules mentally hit himself in the face.
It was not the time.
“Maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” Slughorn went on. His pale gooseberry eyes had found the exposed tips of Dumbledore’s injured fingers with the unerring aim of something used to sussing out weakness. Rather like Malfoy, actually. Or— “Reactions not what they were, I see.”
Dumbledore was unfazed. He shook back his sleeve to reveal the whole of his burned and blackened hand. “You’re quite right. I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand… much wiser, I think you must agree?” He spread his hands wide, and Jules spotted the ring on his ruined left index finger.
Jules also saw the way Slughorn lingered on the ring with a frown.
“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace… are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” Dumbledore said, and Jules whipped around to stare at him. Why would Slughorn be protecting himself from Dumbledore?
“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old duffer like me?” demanded Slughorn with what Jules thought was rather too much force for perfect honesty.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder. Are you really telling me that they haven’t come recruiting yet?”
Slughorn eyed him balefully, then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. Been on the move for a year, from one Muggle house to the next — owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — quite a nice spot, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how. A quick freezing charm fries their absurd burglar alarms on the spot and no wizard my age is worth his wand if he can’t cast a basic Muggle-repelling ward.”
“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore, “but it sounds a rather tiring existence for a, how did you say, broken down old buffer in search of a quiet life? Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts—”
“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat professors these days—”
“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” said Dumbledore sharply. “I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’”
“That’s what she did, did she? Idiotic witch. Never liked her.”
A flash of insight hit like a reductor curse and Jules knew Slughorn had fooled Dumbledore, at least a little—enough that he’d given up what really happened to Umbitch when Slughorn hadn’t seemed to know. He looked at the fat old man with new wariness. Good enough with a wand and words to at least pose a challenge to Albus Dumbledore. Who exactly was Horace Slughorn?
Dumbledore stood up rather abruptly.
“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once.
“No, I was wondering whether I might use your loo.”
“Oh.” Slughorn deflated somewhat. “Second on the left down the hall.”
“You might ask Mr. Potter for his thoughts on Dolores,” Dumbledore said with a conspiratorial tone and wink before he strode from the room.
Silence fell.
Slughorn sighed gustily. “Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you… oh, very well, your opinion of that—wretched witch?”
Jules barely stopped himself from saying something so rude even Ethan would tell him off for using that kind of language in public. “Er, she was… awful. Used these horrible quills on students in detention. I still have scars.”
“Did she. How horrible… some people, you know, just have no sense of fellow-feeling.” Slughorn shook his head ponderously. “How on earth did she run into the centaur? If she’s the sort to call them, well, I’d rather not repeat it, what Albus said, I doubt she’d have sought them out on her own.”
“She didn’t.” Jules hadn’t even been there for that bit and wasn’t sure how much to say. “Some of the students, er, she was threatening to use the cruciatus—”
“I beg your pardon!” Slughorn sat bolt upright and his jowls quivered. “The Cruciatus curse? On a student?”
“Yeah.” Jules set his jaw. “Before that it was Veritaserum, only Snape told her he didn’t have any, I guess, and then one of the students said the thing Umbridge was looking for was in the Forbidden Forest and dragged the whole lot of them out there. I think just to… delay her, or something, but then they wound up in the centaur land and she insulted them.”
“You were not present?” Slughorn said, eyes tracing over Jules like he was some very fascinating shiny trophy.
“Er, no, I was… at the Ministry.”
“Ah, yes… that… incident. Rumors of it reached my ears as well… quite an admirable job I hear you’ve done, Heir Potter.” Slughorn’s eyes were hungry. “You must take after your mother, though you look quite like your father—my condolences, I believe I hadn’t said—you shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother, I mean. Lily Evans—one of the brightest I ever taught! Vivacious, you know, charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”
“Which was your House?” said Jules, who rather expected Hufflepuff.
“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he’d noticed Jules’ grimace, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, then? It usually goes in families. Not always, though. Sirius Black, now there was a surprise sorting.” This time he was too lost in reminiscing to see the black loathing Jules knew he couldn’t hide. “Big pal of your father’s—such a shame that whole business—the whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor, and the rest is history. I got his brother Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”
He sounded like a collector who’d been outbid at auction. Jules had never met a Slytherin quite like this.
“Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pureblood, she was such a natural with a wand.”
“A Muggleborn is the best in our year,” said Jules coolly, for though he and Hermione did not always get on well, he certainly couldn’t deny her academic brilliance.
“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said Slughorn.
“Not really.”
Jules’ voice was hard, and Slughorn looked at him in surprise. “You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced! No, no, not in the least! Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time best students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too — now head of the Goblin Liaison Office, another Muggleborn, very gifted with languages, and gives me excellent insider gossip on Gringotts—there’s just a certain, oh, instinct for magic that Muggleborns don’t often have as children, comes of not growing up around it, not remotely their fault—makes the truly exceptional ones stand out all the more, of course!”
He smiled in a very self-satisfied way and gestured at the many glittering picture frames on the walls and dresser. “Yes, I’ve lent a helping hand to a good number of Muggleborns, you’ll see them around here—all ex-students, all signed. There’s Barnabus Cuffe, the Prophet editor, always interested to hear my take on the latest news; and Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes—a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss who gave him his first job! And at the back—crane your neck a bit, there you are—Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies—free tickets whenever I want them, to my favorite team!”
This thought seemed to cheer him enormously.
“And all these people know where to find you?” asked Jules, who didn’t think even Death Eater incompetence could explain how Slughorn had gone unnoticed despite quidditch tickets, hampers of sweets, and visitors begging his opinion were after him all the time.
The smile slid off Slughorn’s face like Ghostly Jelly down a glass window. “Of course not, I’ve been out of touch with most of them for a year. Some messages still get through, naturally—a few close friends and the like—but…” He looked unsettled, as though this was not something he’d faced before, but then he shrugged. “Still, the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I”m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t personally fancy the mortality rate—”
“You don’t have to join the Order to teach,” said Jules, who could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice. It was all very well and good to hide out here with his velvets and candies, but cowardly to avoid a war that wouldn’t leave anyone out. “Most of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of them has ever been killed except Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.”
Jules had been quite sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Jules ignored. “I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster. He’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?”
The repetition of the name got another unhappy noise. Jules ignored it. “I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster. He’s the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?”
Repetition seemed to have done a bit, or maybe it was just distraction. Slughorn barely twitched at the last use of the name. He was too busy staring off into space thinking over Jules’ words.
“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore. And I suppose one could argue that as I have spurned the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me as a friend… I cannot pretend Amelia’s death did not shake me… if she of all people could be taken…”
Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten the Headmaster was in his borrowed house. Jules tried not to frown: clearly for all his skill Slughorn wasn’t a fighter, really, not with that kind of situational awareness. Moody would eat him for breakfast.
Well. He could try. Slughorn was pretty large even for a bloke with Moody’s appetite.
Jules shook off that weird train of thought.
“Oh, there you are, Albus.” Slughorn gave him a baleful look. “You’ve been some time. Upset stomach? I have potions for that, you know.”
“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines. I do love knitting patterns. Julian, my boy, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”
Right. Dangle the snitch, yank it away. Jules rolled his eyes—turned away so Slughorn wouldn’t see—and got to his feet.
“You’re leaving?” Slughorn said.
“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.”
Jules rolled his eyes again, so hard it hurt. Seriously? He knew he wasn’t the best at seeing someone be manipulative, but maybe it was all the time talking to Andromeda lately; he knew Dumbledore was setting Slughorn up to prove him wrong, feeding the weird hermit bloke’s ego on top of tempting him with the Boy-Who-Lived, and sure enough—
“Well, I’m sorry you didn’t want the job, Horace,” said Dumbledore, while Jules shrugged his cloak back on and Slughorn fidgeted. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”
“Yes… well… very gracious…”
Slughorn dithered.
Jules marched straight out into the hallway ahead of Dumbledore. He knew why his Headmaster was using Jules’ fame. He wasn’t going to muck it up—he trusted that Dumbledore’s plans were in pursuit of the war effort—but if this fat old snake said no, if it didn’t work, he wouldn’t be sorry at all.
They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them. “Alright, alright, I’ll do it!”
Dumbledore turned; Jules, having expected this though hoped otherwise, sighed through his nose. “You will come out of retirement?” Dumbledore said pleasantly.
“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.”
“Wonderful! My Floo will be open on the first of August—password Sparkle Sprinkles. Preparation for the term starts then. Hogwarts will be richer for your presence, Horace!”
“I daresay it will,” Slughorn said.
They set off down the path. Just at the gate, Slughorn’s voice floated after them: “I'll be expecting a raise, Albus!”
Dumbledore chuckled. The gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down through the hill, through the swirling mist and patches of light and shadow cast by Muggle streetlamps.
“Well done, Jules,” said Dumbledore.
“Right,” said Jules a bit shortly.
“What did you think of Horace? I find myself rather curious.”
“Er.” Jules was used to people who wanted to use him for his fame; he didn’t know if it was any better that this particular person treated lots of people that way. Especially since Dumbledore did it, too. Andromeda had pointed out the other day that Dumbledore did much the same thing—not for vanity or personal gain, perhaps, but he did still treat people like chess pieces, a bit.
There was no trusted member of the Order who didn’t work in the Ministry or have money or business connections that were useful to the war effort.
Dumbledore saved him from having to say anything. “Horace likes his comfort. He also enjoys the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see.” Jules laughed and immediately felt a bit guilty. “He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office.”
Jules had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.
“I tell you all this not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Julian. You would be the jewel of his collection, the “Boy Who Lived”... or, as they call you these days, the Chosen One.”
Jules made a face. The prophecy echoed in his head, but beneath its looming specter, there were other worries. None of this was unintentional. Dumbledore wouldn’t have told him all this about Horace Slughorn unless it mattered.
“It might perhaps,” Dumbledore said delicately, “be best if you allowed him to collect you.”
“Can I ask why, sir?” Jules said.
“Oh, well, one never knows when a man like Slughorn may know someone or something of use,” Dumbledore said vaguely, which Jules knew meant he wouldn’t be getting a straight answer, so he dropped it and let Dumbledore side-along him home.
As always lately, walking back into Potter Manor made his heart hurt. Jules ran his hand along the banister on the main staircase. Dad would never touch it again. Never again walk down these stairs to greet guests. Never slide down the railing like he’d taught Jules to do when Jules was little.
He’d fantasized about showing Harry how to slide down the banisters, back when he’d first learned his brother wasn’t a squib after all. He’d been so excited. Haunted all his life by the hollow his mum left in Dad’s and Remus’ lives, and here was this sudden extension of their family, like a last gift from Lily to her husband and her younger son. But Harry had been nothing Jules ever expected and now—
Ethan and Remus and Andromeda were probably around somewhere, but Jules didn’t feel like talking to them. He went back to his room and got changed for bed and thought about Horace Slughorn.
Specifically about why the Death Eaters would be after him so specifically. Dumbledore had said his considerable talents, and with everything else that must mean he was good at Defense, but surely there were loads more wizards who’d be handy in a duel and also believed in Voldemort’s cause. Slughorn was a Sacred Twenty-Eight name (Jules internally made a face at the stupid title) and yet there he was hiding from the pureblood supremacists. They’d have no real reason to target him just for, what, not even fighting against them, just refusing to join up. Something was weird about the whole situation.
He’d figure it out, or Parvati would. Jules turned over and tried to make himself go to sleep.
Thirty minutes later, when he was still wide awake, Jules got up and went down to the dueling hall.
***
Harry
Everything about this felt like a terrible trap, but for two reasons, Harry was certain it was safe. One, he trusted Blaise. Two, Blaise would have arranged a much cleverer and more complicated trap than just giving Harry a Floo address and a time and a stern order to come.
They all knew the ‘order’ was completely pro forma, but it was the principle of the thing, so Harry went.
He popped out into the exact sort of place ‘Rose Cottage’ implied: warm and cozy, with exposed wooden beams in the ceilings and a number of soft and welcoming pieces of furniture in what was a pretty typical Floo receiving room. Wardrobe, hatstand, end tables, a sofa. One window looked out on a rather stunning half-wild garden that backed up to a deciduous forest.
The Floo roared, and Harry stepped out of the way quickly. Theo strode out and spelled ash off his robes with a twist of his wand. “Blaise?”
“I assume he’s already here, in this mystery destination,” said Harry, who wasn’t much of a fan of mystery destinations even when they were given to him by one of his closest friends.
Theo looked around with more suspicion than the extremely homey cottage warranted. “Well, let’s off and find him.”
They both kept their wands at the ready, of course.
The receiving room let them out into a short hallway. Harry looked left, saw only closed doors, and went to the right, where about fifteen feet away an opening and abundance of light suggested a public sort of gathering space.
“Blaise,” he said, spotting his tall friend in the living room and neatly sliding his wand away. “This is a…”
Harry’s words died off when someone in an armchair jumped up and spun around. “Harry?”
“Neville?”
Harry, Neville, and Theo turned in unison on Blaise, who stood by the wet bar with his hands up. “No one curse me.”
Theo’s wand was still out.
“Slytherins,” Neville groaned. “Why are you all so dramatic? You could have just, I dunno, asked, Blaise, instead of…”
“Sneaking and deceiving to get us all here?” Harry said drily.
Blaise rolled his eyes and lifted a tray of drinks out from behind the wet bar. “I’m making cocktails.”
“Oh, well in that case,” said Theo, stowing his wand away. “Give it, Zabini.”
“Matteo taught me mixology,” Blaise said smugly, handing Theo something that was a toxic shade of blue, garnished with a slice of lime. Harry eyed it dubiously but took his own. It was silvery and thick, almost like mercury, though it smelled vaguely fruity.
Neville sighed. “We’re doing this, then? You’re making drinks all day.”
“That was the plan.” Blaise smiled.
Harry sipped his surprisingly good and hopefully mercury-free drink. He didn’t know what to say.
Blaise handed a bright green something to Neville and took one in a clear amber much like the color of his own eyes for himself, and then sprawled back in an armchair in a way that was calculated to appear careless and appealing. “Well? Don’t just stand around like lumps.”
“I hate you,” Neville sighed.
“No, you don’t.” Blaise gestured between Harry and Neville. “You two need to talk. It’s been weeks and I…”
“Awww,” Theo cooed, “he’s having feelings.”
“Yes, Theodore, I am.” Blaise stared at him, and all the ease was gone from his face, leaving something icy behind—cold and sharp, but fragile, too. “I am having feelings, and so are they, and we are going to resolve them.”
Harry remembered that in many ways Blaise’s childhood had been as lonely and as damaging as his own.
“I haven’t got many friends,” Blaise said, quieter. “I don’t want to have to choose.”
“You won’t,” Neville said.
Harry turned to him. He was almost—not afraid, but hesitant, to look, bracing to see any of that ruthless, piercing clarity from Litha. But it was just Neville. Round-faced and kind-eyed and warm. Older now. He knew how to be hard and he chose kindness instead and that was a kind of strength Harry did not have.
“Don’t expect me to ever like him,” Neville said, and they all knew who he meant, “but I’ve made my peace with it. I… he… broke into St. Mungo’s and, uh, cast a bunch of super illegal healers’ diagnostics on my parents.”
“What the fuck,” Theo said. Harry looked over: he was already halfway through his drink. There was also the matter of the dark circles under Theo’s eyes. They weren’t the sort of friends who pushed, though, so he’d wait for Theo to come to him about it.
“Yeah. But without that, we… wouldn't have even… it’s really specialized. They thought it was just nerve damage. No one even thought to look for… but once we had those results, like, no one who wasn’t a super specialized mind healer would’ve even been able to interpret them, I don’t want to know where he learned the spells, they’re restricted, but. Well. We showed a normal healer and she recommended a mind healer who took one look and got super pale and… and…”
Neville was breathing hard now, gulping air and sweating. He rubbed his forehead and then drained his drink in one go. Blaise summoned the empty glass and retreated to the bar. “It took four people to go in and pick apart the damage. It wasn’t just obliviate. There was a—this really experimental spell, it’s meant to be used to control psychosis or hallucinations in people with a mental illness, but whoever cast it like, twisted it, and… I don’t even know what all. It’ll take ages and we don’t know if they’ll come… all the way back. Dad’s worse off than Mum—she was always a bit better at occlumency, so that makes sense, and she’d kinda, you know, react to me sometimes in hospital, she’d always give me these Drooble’s Blowing Gum wrappers. Just the wrappers.” Tears slipped out of his eyes, and he didn’t even seem aware of the new drink Blaise shoved into his hand. Harry had never felt quite this helpless. “She told me the other day that—she used to—she used to use them to pass notes to her friends in classes. It wasn’t as obvious as paper, the professors just thought people were tossing rubbish at each other to be silly, and I… I never knew. I might never have known that if not for—”
He broke off, shuddering.
Blaise shifted to sit next to Neville and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Neville leaned into him and pressed a hand to his face and cried.
Meanwhile, Harry and Theo traded panicked glances. I’m sorry? Theo mouthed. Harry grimaced and shrugged.
“You’re both useless,” Blaise snapped.
Neville let out a watery chuckle. “I wasn’t expecting hugs and cuddles from them, Blaise.”
“Well, fuck, now I feel bad,” Theo said. “Do you want a hug? Would that help? You might have to tell me where to put my hands, though, I can never work that out.”
“Merlin’s saggy ballsack,” Neville said.
They all laughed, Harry more out of relief that the crying was over than anything else. He disliked when his friends were upset. He disliked it especially when there was nothing to do about it. Last year when Cormac McLaggen made Hermione cry, Harry had promised to curse him with ingrown toenails, and it cheered her up, but there was no one to curse here.
“Do they know who did it?” Theo said, and the laughter died.
Neville was grim. “That’s the thing. My parents were—they wanted—they were negotiating neutrality.” Harry had already known this, so he wasn’t all that surprised. “There were letters. The handwriting checked out and Dad used the Longbottom seal and magic. It couldn’t have been forged. They—I was an accident but they didn’t want to, er, terminate the pregnancy,” he blushed, “so they wanted neutrality and a promise I’d be safe. There were memories of—of that night.” Harry winced. “I saw—Crouch didn’t lie. We had them verified as untampered by five different experts—all sworn to secrecy, don’t give me that look, Harry—and it was… it was just, uh, three curses. I mean, each, and it was—it was awful. To watch.” Harry sort of hated that Neville had had to see that. “But it was just—they were fine. They spoke. The—she—told them, at the end, why. And Mum said—Mum said she wasn’t sorry, because it was a war, but she wouldn’t have killed him otherwise, and she said “There are no more debts between us,” and they just left. Mum was coherent! Dad was—not talking but aware, you could see it in his eyes, he was just watching, and Crouch left potions behind, I think for the pain, I saw Mum in the memory drink one before Crouch left, and it was just. They were fine. They were fine. Whoever did it would’ve had to get there within an hour, maybe? That’s when Gran came home and found them unconscious on the floor and took them to St. Mungo’s.”
“So either one of the Death Eaters who knew about the attack, or someone on the Order’s side who found out about it,” Blaise said.
Neville nodded. “I dunno who knew, though. It wasn’t—things were over, at that point. V-Voldemort was—Jules had already, y’know, wrecked him. So… and I dunno how anyone else could’ve got through the wards. Crouch was the grandson of a Longbottom, that’s how he led the others through.”
“Could it have been someone already keyed into the wards?” Harry said softly.
“That’s what Gran said.” Neville’s mouth hardened. “Which shortens the list of candidates to about like, ten people? Half of whom were dead at that point.”
“Of the other half, how many could have cast the spells used on your parents? Or, Merlin, even known the spells?” Theo said.
Neville looked directly at Harry. “One.”
“Dumbledore.”
“Yep. There’s no proof, and nothing to do, but.”
“One more reason to kill the old codger,” Blaise said with vicious good cheer.
Harry sipped his drink: it did not taste like mercury, but it did taste rather like something toxic. The good kind of toxic, though. “Killing him would be far too easy. I’d rather ruin him first.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Theo said.
“You lot are a terrible influence,” said Neville.
Both Harry and Theo smiled at him.
“That’s just creepy.”
“Give me those,” said Blaise, summoning Harry and Theo’s now-empty glasses out of their hands. “That’s enough depressing talk. We’re going to laze about and drink like the wealthy, sexy aristocrats we are, and pretend there’s no war for a while.”
“Well get mixing then, barman,” Neville said imperiously, snapping his fingers.
Blaise affected a wounded stagger but the effect was ruined considering he did so while seamlessly pouring some kind of pink liquor into fresh glasses.
“That,” said Theo, “was a terrifyingly good impression of your Gran.”
“She uses a charm to make it louder when she snaps at people,” said Neville. “Mum told me. It’s a secret. I’ll teach you.”
He turned out to be too tipsy to do the charm, though, and none of the others knew it, but by the time they gave up everyone was one or two more drinks in and Harry was laughing more than he had in a very long time.
“Thank you,” he said quietly to Blaise, in a lull when Neville and Theo had gone off to track down a cursed quilt Neville swore was locked in the airing cupboard.
Blaise didn’t have to ask what for. “I couldn’t stand you fighting.”
“We weren’t fighting, exactly.”
“Close enough,” Blaise said. He looked away. “Matteo told me once that good service is anticipating what someone needs when they don’t even know they need it, and arranging things even when that person might be angry they’ve been pushed.”
Harry was just buzzed enough that he had to think a minute to parse that. Once he had, he looked closely at Blaise’s expression. It was… complicated. “You’re not my servant.”
“No,” said Blaise, “but I do serve.”
“You’re my friend.”
“I would not, if I weren’t.”
They couldn’t talk anymore because Theo and Neville came back with a quilt of red and purple squares with edges of blue velvet. Harry pulled out his wand to help figure out whether the quilt would actually roll up and trap people who slept under it for too long.
It took quite a few more drinks for his conversation with Blaise to stop rattling around his head.
***
Ginny
The day of OWL results had literally all of Ginny’s now-sixth-year friends in a tizzy. Hermione spent the entire morning they’re scheduled to come out ranting in the journals about how she’d bungled her Ancient Runes translations—in the main page, too, so literally everyone can read it. Ginny, who’d gone to Luna’s and from there to Harry’s for some sanity, just sat back and laughed while Harry banged around and stress cooked waffles while pretending he was just fine. Kreacher sat in the corner and grumbled about Master Harry doing house-elf things.
The waffles were delicious.
“Oh, they’ll be here soon,” Luna said out of nowhere.
Harry whipped around so fast the most recent waffle went flying off his plate. Ginny snatched it out of the air and dropped it on her own.
“That was mine,” Theo said, glaring.
“You don’t scare me.” Ginny defiantly poured syrup on it.
“I should.”
“You’re very scary,” Luna reassured him. “Only Harry would be upset if you hurt her.”
Theo sighed. “Harry, please?”
“No scaring the other Vipers.” Harry paused. “Not too badly, and not Ginny, unless you want the twins mad at you.”
Theo winced. “Yeah, alright.”
“Luna, how did you know?” Harry said suddenly, because the narrow window set up against the kitchen ceiling, that opened into the backyard at ankle height, had flipped open to admit two very poncy owls carrying very poncy letters, and six more owls carrying ordinary letters.
Ginny stuck her head out of the kitchen and whistled, piercing and loud. “GUYS! LETTERS ARE HERE!”
A crash and the thunder of feet heralded the imminent arrival of Harry’s wards. She beat a tactical retreat to commandeer the last of the bacon and went back to her seat where an impatient owl waited.
The envelope was a little thicker than usual. Ginny narrowed her eyes. No way. Right?
“Oh look,” said Luna, “we’ve not been given a book for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Harry and Theo were too busy staring at their envelopes to pay much attention.
“Merlin, just open them,” said Ginny.
“You’re a hypocrite, you haven’t opened yours either,” said Veronica, tumbling into the room at the head of a pack of younger kids. “Do I smell bacon?”
“Mine,” said Ginny, guarding her plate.
Kreacher popped in front of the stove. “I is making more bacon.”
Harry didn’t even notice. He took a steadying breath and tugged his envelope open with neat, precise movements. Theo murmured an incantation and ran a finger along the top of the envelope, splitting it open as cleanly as if he’d used a knife.
“Show off,” Ginny accused, finally tearing into her own. Then she forgot to pay attention to the boys’ results because she was too busy staring at the shiny green badge in her palm.
No way.
“I’m—I got straight Os,” Harry said.
“Of course you did,” said Graham. “Wait, really? You were worried?”
“I’ll silence you,” Harry threatened.
Graham smirked. “No, you won’t.”
Harry pointed at him. Graham opened his mouth and no sound came out. His face turned bright red and indignant, lips shaping to say Hey! although of course he couldn’t.
“I’m prefect,” Ginny said, and somehow, despite the hoots of laughter from Veronica and Dylan and Rio, Harry heard her.
He looked over sharply at the badge in her hand, and a slow, curling smile spread over his face. “Excellent job, Ginny.”
Something warm and gooey filled her stomach. Ginny pretended she wasn’t blushing. “I can’t believe Snape gave it to me. I mean, I get in trouble all the time!”
“But you never get caught, and your grades are really good,” Theo said, reasonably. “Also, you’re a Weasley, and not to take this away from you, but Dumbledore would probably rather die than let someone with Death Eater relations be prefect. Well, except for Draco, but that was a trap.”
“Which Draco neatly avoided,” Harry said with a self-satisfied smirk. Ginny knew he’d done something last year to Malfoy, or with Malfoy, or about Malfoy, or all of the above, because whenever Malfoy did something responsible and prefect-y he’d glanced at Harry in a way that was complicated and nervous. She made a note to pester Daphne into telling her what she knew about it. Pansy collected secrets like some people did chocolate frog cards, but Daphne was her best friend, and also more practical and less patient. She’d cave sooner.
“Wonder who the other one is,” Ginny said. “Probably Alex. He’s most responsible and has the best grades. He’s wanted prefect for ages.”
“Write and ask,” Harry suggested.
Oh, right, they all had journals. Ginny pulled hers out and found it was glowing with unread messages. Probably Hermione flipping out.
“Oh, wait, I’m quidditch captain!” Harry said. “Excellent!”
“You aren’t going to have any free time,” said Theo.
Harry snorted. “When have I ever?”
“Too busy torturing bullies for that,” said Dylan with a sneaky little grin.
“If I’d known badgers were that vicious I might have considered Hufflepuff,” said Theo.
Ginny frowned at the page. “It’s Finn.”
“Pardon?” said Harry.
“The other prefect. It’s Finn. Is this because Alex is a Rowle?”
Theo made a face, which pretty much confirmed it.
“Oh, Alex is going to be so mad,” said Ginny.
“I shouldn’t like to be a prefect,” said Luna thoughtfully. “Most of them have wrackspurts.”
“Do I?”
“No,” said Luna, “but you might accumulate some.”
“You’ll have to tell me if I start.”
“I will.” Luna beamed at her.
Ginny turned around and found both Harry and Theo watching them while pretending not to. “What?”
“Do I have wrackspurts?” said Harry, which was almost certainly not what he’d actually been thinking.
“You’re not a prefect,” Ginny pointed out.
“He’s powerful,” said Luna. “But no, you don’t, mostly. Sometimes you get some around Jules.”
“Well, that’s only to be expected.” Harry’s mouth got tight and flat for a moment before he smoothed the expression away. “Ginny, is Alex going to be a problem?”
“If he is I’ll… I dunno, figure it out.”
Theo cackled. “That’s the spirit.”
***
Harry
The sky was dark with a summer rainstorm. Harry couldn’t help but find the belligerent weather appropriate for a clandestine meeting with a Death Eater.
“How’ve you been?” said Barty, like they hadn’t been exchanging messages in their journals all summer.
“Well.” Harry stirred his tea, which he had already wandlessly checked for poison—possibly redundant considering the neutralizing agent he’d slipped in with the sugar, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.
Barty nodded. “I’m glad. I hear there’s to be some changes at the school this year.”
“A new Inquisitor. Hoping he’s less of a sadistic toad than the last.”
“You insult toads.”
Harry grinned.
The Muggle tea shop offered much less of a suitable ambiance than the storm, but the tea was good and the location neutral, all of which helped set Harry at ease. Also, if need be, he could disappear out the back entrance and vanish in a way few if any Death Eaters could track.
“You need to be careful,” Barty said, apropos of nothing.
Harry raised an eyebrow and sipped his Earl Grey.
“You’ve drawn interest.”
“I knew that.”
“Too much, maybe.”
“Why do you of all people think that interest is a bad thing?”
Barty made a face. “It’s different.”
Harry waited.
“He has nothing you want.”
“At least not that I can’t take for myself,” Harry said.
Barty waved a hand. “Semantics. Just… be careful.”
“I always am.”
“Now that,” Barty pointed at him, “is just not true.”
“Hey, I didn’t walk into lessons with you without like four backup plans.”
“I remember. That antivenin.”
Harry laughed.
“That reminds me. How’s Longbottom?”
Harry gave him a careful answer, stepping around anything related to Neville’s personal emotional state and giving only bare-bones facts. Then he hesitated, and added, “He’s accepted it. We’re okay.”
“I’m glad. You rely on your little gang,” Barty said. His eyes were unreadable. “This is how it starts, you know.”
“What starts?”
“Dark Lords.”
“Pfft. I’m not going to be a dark lord.”
“You’re not nearly dramatic enough.” It could’ve been a joke, but nothing about Barty was relaxed. “Your friends are your strength, but they can be a weakness too.”
Harry went very still. “Is that a threat?”
“No.”
It sounded like not yet.
***
Pansy
The newspaper was the best idea they had ever had. “I hate journalism and I wish I’d never brought this up.”
“Harry thought of it too,” said Luna. “That wouldn’t have worked.”
“But then I might not have gotten saddled with it,” Pansy snarled, glaring at the parchments in front of her.
Luna blinked owlishly at her. “Yes, you would. You’re his best.”
Oh, Merlin, was she blushing? She was. Pansy hated how easily she blushed. “What are you working on?”
It was a horrifyingly, embarrassingly unsubtle subject change, but Luna brightened. “Oh, well, I’ve figured out the distribution problem.”
“You have?”
“We’ve enough funding. We simply deliver it to establishments. One bundle in the Leaky Cauldron will reach any number of people, really. Have you ever seen an octopus release its decoy ink?”
Okay, even for Luna, that was random. “Pardon?”
“Octopi,” Luna said, like Pansy was the weird one here. “They—”
“Yes, I know they use ink to escape predators,” Pansy said.
“Ink spreads.”
“I never know when you’re being dotty or when you’re being metaphorical on purpose.”
Luna smiled and looked back down at her parchment. “I’ll make a list of places we can use as distribution points.”
“I wish the typesetting was as easy to solve,” Pansy grumbled. Luna’s father’s presses wouldn’t work for the layout she wanted, his fonts were all too weird, but all the Muggle presses Justin turned up were the modern sort that would just combust if anyone tried to enchant them, and the newspapers had to be enchanted. The audience they needed to reach wouldn’t be much pleased by Muggle newspapers in their pubs.
The vast majority of British wixen were a bit conservative. Not in a blood purist sort of way, but in a rural I-have-my-ways-and-I’ll-stick-to-them one.
It was such a good thing she’d had to listen to Daphne and Hermione going off about weird enchanting stuff for hours upon hours. Pansy had internalized enough of it to get a handle on the kind of thing they might need to get a Muggle press cooperating with magic. An old one, for sure—electricity and magic didn’t mix, but the older ones, without any of that weird ‘computer’ nonsense, those were all metalwork and mechanics. Magic was energy. Energy could move things. Ergo, if they just took out the electric bits, they could make the parts move with magic, and voilá, magic newspapers on a Muggle press.
Theoretically.
“You are Harry’s best,” Luna said abruptly. “He needs you.”
“He needs all of us.”
Luna shrugged. “He needs different things, sometimes. He values all of us. He doesn’t need everyone.”
Well, alright. Normally Pansy would respond to a compliment by batting her eyelids and saying, “Tell me more,” but this was reminding her far too much of that time she’d kissed Harry like a pathetic ninny, so she deflected instead. “Does he need you?”
Luna considered. “Sometimes.”
That was probably as clear of an answer as she was going to get. Pansy cracked her neck and sighed. “Let’s talk about something that isn’t Harry and isn’t this fucking project. Please.”
“Oh, well,” and did Luna look shy, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“I am an open book,” Pansy said, which was just completely untrue, but it was the thought that counted.
“How do you know when someone likes you?”
“Hm.” Pansy considered. “Depends on the boy, but at your age, odds are he’ll get either very tongue-tied and awkward around you, or be an extra little shit because he’s uncomfortable and insecure and trying to cope with it.”
“What if it’s not a boy?”
“Oh. Oh.” Pansy looked at her. “Right, okay. Is there a, uh, specific girl?”
“I’m not worried about if she likes me. But I want to show her I like her.” Luna frowned. “I had been, I thought, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”
Pansy thought about it. “You could just tell her.”
“But that would be boring.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know you like girls,” Pansy said. “If she thinks you only like boys, then she wouldn’t even guess you’re into her unless you’re up front about it.”
“Oh.” Luna frowned again. “I hadn’t thought of that. I thought everyone knew.”
“I didn’t,” Pansy said, “and I know all the gossip, so.”
“I was a bit surprised you didn’t know,” Luna agreed.
Pansy waggled her eyebrows. “Want to tell me who it is?”
Luna bit her lip and smiled. “You know her.”
“Not—Ginny?”
Luna’s smile grew.
Pansy let out a sound that was not a squeal, thank you very much. “Merlin’s balls, I can totally see it. You really might need to just tell her though. As Slytherins go she’s pretty straightforward.”
“I like that,” Luna said. “She reminds me to be focused when I need to be. And she never makes me feel loony.”
“You aren’t loony,” Pansy said firmly. “You see the world differently than most people. And if anyone calls you loony I'll curse them.” She paused. “If Ginny doesn’t beat me to it.”
***
Draco
Narcissa Malfoy née Black was not the sort of witch a sensible person wanted to cross.
Draco knew this. He had known it since he was five and watched his mother orchestrate a months-long gossip campaign that systematically ruined the life and job prospects of a former friend who had whispered about the Malfoys to the Ministry. He had learned it anew when the Dark Lord moved into their manor and his Death Eaters, while they mocked Lucius, ignored his wife entirely.
She was a Black. She was untouchable.
“Mother.”
“Come in, my dragon,” she said, looking at him in her mirror with a smile. Draco had loved to sit with her, as a child, while she got ready for one party or other. Things were different now—her face tight with stress no one else could see, a few more fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the wariness of her glance past him into the sitting room of her suite.
Draco came in and closed the door to her dressing room. “I’m alone.”
“Of course, darling.”
He sat on the pouf next to her vanity and leaned up against the wall. As a boy he had looked up at her. He was taller than her now, and he could see the faint darkness at the roots of her hair. She had been dyeing it since Hogwarts in what he suspected was a sort of defiance against her family. Nothing overt, of course, nothing remotely Gryffindor, but defiance all the same. No one other than he and his father knew about it. No one alive, at any rate.
“What is it?” Mother prompted, when a few minutes had gone by. She was delicately spelling makeup off her face. A pot of clay, shimmering with minerals and magic, waited to be smeared over her skin once it was cleared of the day’s mask.
In response, Draco pulled his wand and cast a ward Theo had taught him, a very old spell in a language almost no one spoke. Mother’s eyes sharpened though her movements didn’t falter.
“Father isn’t here,” he said.
“Your father will be returned to us.”
“I do not doubt His magnanimity,” Draco murmured. “But I find myself… I need guidance.”
“And as your father is not here, you turn to me?”
He swallowed. “If Father were here, I would turn to neither of you.”
“Ah. A mother’s guidance.”
“A Black’s,” he said. “A… Father always… Granger beats me in classes regularly.”
There. He’d said it.
“Granger, the mudblood.” Mother swiped some of the spelled clay onto her finger and began rubbing it onto her forehead. “The Greengrasses speak highly of her. Neil Parkinson says she is close with his daughter.”
“She is. And… Daphne sees her as a sister of sorts.”
“Mmm. This distresses you?”
“No,” Draco said hurriedly. “Not at all. I like her, actually.”
“Do you.” Mother still didn’t turn, but he felt the full weight of her attention for the first time. “I suppose that is logical. A gifted, intelligent witch can overcome any misfortune of birth.”
“She’s lovely,” Draco said. “Powerful, brilliant. Always one of the first to get new spells and her memory’s like a jabberknoll. She memorized the first year textbooks before school even started. Stubborn as anything, and not always creative, she’ll never be a potions master, but she’ll be an amazing arithmancer or charmer. Or barrister. I don’t know what she wants to do.”
“And fostered by the Greengrasses—may I presume they have given her guidance in the softer matters?”
“Yes. She doesn’t always bother, but she knows her social graces. I imagine no one would ever suspect she weren’t raised magic if they met her now.”
Mother made a sort of humming sound and leaned forward, turning her face side to side to check for any missed spots in her clay mask. “Full coverage,” the mirror told her. Only when she was satisfied did she at last turn to face him.
“You speak as if you wish to court Miss Granger.”
Draco forced himself to sit tall. “I had considered it.”
“But you worry about your father.”
He nodded, once.
Mother’s lips pursed faintly. “Something you must understand, my dragon, is that all family lines had to begin somewhere. A muggleborn marries a halfblood and their child is magic. Their grandchild marries a pureblood and their child marries a Malfoy. You understand?”
“Then… the Sacred Twenty-Eight—”
“Was a political ploy by a canny forebear of your friend Theodore. In those days the Longbottoms, the Weasleys, the Prewetts, they were pure, they were traditional, they were trusted. Even when one did not agree with a Prewett one could trust a Prewett’s word. Well, except perhaps Malfoys and Weasleys, but that’s a special case.”
Draco frowned. “So marrying a muggleborn is acceptable?”
“Well, historically, families like mine and your father’s have preferred third- or fourth-generation magicals—once the line is proven to continue producing magic, you understand. But purity, the absolute purity of the kind many narrow-minded modern fools espouse, is a myth. Any amateur crup breeder can tell you the importance of outcrossing in a bloodline. My family began to develop hereditary insanity and other problems because the Blacks grew entirely too fanatic on the subject.” She sighed. “I know not if your father would accept this Miss Granger. I, however, would not object to the girl as described. She has the support of House Greengrass, which in the old days would make her a foster ward and as good as another daughter. If she can stand at your side come what may, if she can comport herself with all the dignity and grace of a born Malfoy, why does it matter whence she came?”
“And in the current… political climate?”
Mother held his eyes steadily. “Miss Granger is a ward of House Greengrass in all but name. If you care for her, you will do nothing to endanger that status, least of all treating her like a plaything. You will court her with all the respect due the Greengrass daughters and you will end the relationship politely no matter how angry she might make you. Do you understand me?”
“She could be in danger if…”
“If she loses their protection, yes.” Mother hesitated. “I understand she is close to my cousin’s heir, as well.”
“Harry.”
“Yes. And I have heard… rumors… of him taking in several other younger children.”
“Two muggleborn Slytherins a few years below me, and a Hufflepuff, and Graham Pritchard.”
Mother’s eyes sharpened. “Yes, Lord Pritchard’s youngest. No one has limitless influence, my dragon. Not even the heir of the Blacks.”
“So you’re saying Harry can’t protect—”
“Our Lord will require no one to need protection provided they are loyal.”
Draco bowed his head. “Of course, Mother.”
“Heir Black cannot extend the sponserage of the Blacks to everyone he might wish to. It may be best if Miss Granger can retain her position amongst the Greengrasses, but if you throw her over…”
“I understand.”
She leaned over and cupped his cheek. A floral scent wreathed around him—the one Mother wore when she wanted to be underestimated.
She’d been wearing it a lot lately.
“Malfoys do what they must,” she said softly. “Like Blacks. Like Slytherins. Blood matters, my dragon, but ability matters more. Your father loves you, but you are your own man. Respecting him does not mean you have to emulate him in all things.”
“I understand, Mother.”
“I know.” She smiled softly and lowered her hand. “You are the best of us.”
Draco sat quietly while she went through her skincare routine. Every step was methodical, unhurried. Nothing about any of it was anything unusual. It might have been a month ago or a decade ago.
If not for the wand carefully at the ready next to her discarded hair clips.
***
Andromeda
It was not the first target. It was not the last.
Andromeda tossed the scroll in her sink and incinerated it with a wave of her hand. The smoke was sucked out by enchantments; a wash of water swept the ashes down the drain. In moments it was as if it had never existed.
She knew better than to keep too many records. The information was in her head. Another dead end. Mallian Jugson had spent the last week doing absolutely nothing interesting—going to and from her job at a cauldron manufacturer, a book club, and the home where she lived alone with two kneazles and a few beehives. On Friday evening she’d gone to a market and sat at a stall she shared with a few others who also lived around Aylsham to sell her homemade honey.
Useless.
They only had so many bodies. They could only watch so many people at a time. Mallian Jugson’s older half brother was a marked Death Eater but as far as they could tell Mallian herself was utterly normal. Even their contact in the Floo Network Authority couldn’t report any suspicious uses of her Floo.
Andromeda still wasn’t sure the Floo tracker was going to come to anything. Some kid fresh out of Hogwarts swore he’d come up with an arithmancy trick that used the activation times, network connections, and distance traveled to track Floo use even though the FNA itself had no way of telling the destination address. They could watch public spaces, they could keep a log of the Floo activations within Jugson’s home, but the formula so far hadn’t picked up on any odd travel, only a high probability of her having visited the homes of two known friends of Mallian herself. No other suspected Death Eaters. No suspected or known sympathizers. Nothing.
Andromeda made a note to tell Ethan they needed to narrow their focus, and turned back to her quilting. A good thick quilt could support a decent number of enchantments. If she made it well it would hold a strong warming charm and she could send it to Ethan for the nights he still woke up trembling with remembered cold.
Does Sirius get those nightmares too? Andromeda wondered, and then, ruthlessly, she stomped out any resultant sympathy. Her cousin was lost. She knew how he’d been in the war, the magic he’d used, the lines he’d crossed. Being a Gryffindor didn’t guarantee goodness any more than being a Slytherin did evil.
She could not afford to care whether Sirius had nightmares.
She had a war to win.