Patron (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 14: Bulgarian Troubles

“We’ve stunned a French auror.” Sirius sounded quite concerned.

Harry was pretty sure that attacking an auror wasn’t a good thing, but it wasn’t as if they had hurt him… he took a closer look at his godfather. Sirius was looking nervous, even sweating. Of course - he had to be remembering prison. Azkaban. He stepped closer and put his hand on his shoulder of the older wizard. “It’s just a stunner.”

“We did not know it was an auror. And he looked suspicious?” Hermione sounded nervous too. Well, she was a muggleborn, and she knew - though not from experience, fortunately- that law enforcement was generally less lenient with muggleborns than purebloods. Harry still remembered her reaction to that particular information.

Nymphadora stood up and waved her wand in a complicated pattern. “I don’t detect any compulsion charms or other spells. He’ll be pissed for getting dropped like this, but he might not make a big deal about it if we keep it secret - he’d be teased by his fellow aurors if this got out, I think.” She did sound like she had experienced that, and Harry filed the information for later use. One couldn’t have enough leverage when it came to Blacks.

“‘e was stalking us. ‘e should ‘ave known better than to ‘ide like this - especially since I am a veela.” Fleur stated, frowning at the still unconscious wizard on the ground. Of course the granddaughter of the Head of the Aigle family would not be too concerned about such an incident, and Harry relaxed. Sirius and Hermione didn’t though, from what he could tell. There was not much that he could do about it though, not and remaining within the limits of proper behaviour in public.

“Ennervate.” Nymphadora woke the auror up.

“Ugh… oh.” The man opened his eyes, then went for his wand, freezing when he realized his situation.

“We didn’t know you were an auror, sorry about that. You were a bit too good with your disguise.” Nymphadora smiled at him and handed him the badge back. “I am Nymphadora Black-Tonks, British Auror Corps, on security detail for this bunch here.”

“Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Marcel Dufort, Gendarmerie Magique.” The man stood up and used his wand to remove dust and specks of dirt from his robe. Harry wondered why he didn’t have a self-cleaning charm on his robe.

Nymphadora introduced the rest of their group, even though everyone was sure Dufort already knew their names. “So… let’s forget that this unfortunate misunderstanding happened?” Nymphadora smiled widely and winningly at her French colleague when the man nodded, after a short hesitation. “Why were you following us, though?”

“I noticed the group but didn’t see you, so I decided to keep an eye on our famous guest.” Dufort inclined his head at Harry and managed to not sound as if he was joking about the Boy-Who-Lived’s fame. “You’re certainly very good at hiding,” he added after returning his attention to Nymphadora.

The metamorphmagus smiled proudly. “Thank you. Tailing was one of my best subjects at the academy.” Harry had to suppress a snort at that - keeping Nymphadora’s special talents secret was certainly a wise precaution, but it also served her ego.

“Indeed. My cousin’s quite talented.” Sirius, apparently recovered once it seemed there was no danger of getting to explore the inside of a French prison, put a lewd meaning on that sentence with both his expression and tone.

If looks could kill, Harry would have been out a godfather right then. Nymphadora certainly had the glare of an experienced auror down pat, if not yet the experience itself. Even though she had been flirting with the French auror - or was that gendarme? - or at least had been about to. The important thing was though that they had not gotten into trouble for stunning an auror.

*****​

Dinner that evening was a lively affair: Sirius recounted their adventure in Marseille with such exaggerations and lewd insinuations that he had half the table giggling throughout the tale. Hermione didn’t think it had been that funny - she had not been looking forward to find out if the rumors about French prison procedures were correct, especially not as a foreign muggleborn - and she hoped Sirius would not do anything to offend their hosts. Harry’s godfather had a particular sense of humor not everyone shared, and Azkaban had not helped by adding a rather dark undertone to it. And with Nymphadora off “learning about French police procedures” it was left to Harry to rein in his godfather - Hermione couldn’t do much if Sirius went overboard, not without embarrassing Harry and possibly their hosts.

To the young witch’s relief Sirius finished his tale without any real faux pas, and soon was busy flirting with Fleur’s numerous cousins again. Harry might be slightly embarrassed by that, but it was no real problem in Hermione’s opinion.

“My house in London is open to all of you, and I hope to be able to return the hospitality shown to my family.”

Hermione almost choked on her next bite. Sirius extending a blanket invitation to half of Fleur’s family on the other hand could be a real problem, at least for a young muggleborn witch who was no veela. Sure, the veela aura was a myth invented by unfaithful husbands, but she wasn’t sure that Fleur’s family had really believed that Hogwarts’ reputation for orgies was vastly overblown, and not an indication of British customs. Sirius’s attitude - and as far as she could tell, his nightly exploits - certainly had not helped. A bunch of too-pretty veelas trying to get into Harry’s pants, or hers, or both at the same time, while she and her Patron were still trying to sort out what exactly they felt for each other was not a pretty thought.

Harry’s strained smile at the proclamation showed he had similar thoughts, and the two exchanged a knowing, suffering glance while Sirius was already telling the veelas about the wonders of Wizarding Britain. Fleur seemed to be amused by it all, and even more so when she saw Hermione frowning at her. The French witch probably thought that was just the impetus Hermione needed to sort out her relationship with Harry.

Not that the veela would be entirely wrong about that, Hermione knew. Things between her and Harry seemed to be getting more complicated, and more tempting, every day. If it turned out to be the result of a stupid spell or oath… Hermione didn’t think she would survive that.

*****​

The group arrived in Bulgaria’s capital the same way they had arrived in France - by international portkey. This time, Harry almost managed to remain standing - until Hermione crashed into him. They both fell down on the cushioned floor, barely missing the wildly flailing Nymphadora. There were buckets there too, two of which the clumsy auror bowled over while sliding along the grey stone wall until she crashed into the corner. Even Sirius winced at that, and didn’t make a joke until his cousin had managed to get up, apparently unharmed by her ordeal. Harry wondered if that kind of resilience was due to her metamorphmagus talent, or if she simply were used to such incidents. Hermione might know, but asking her right then would be asking for a hex from Nymphadora - or something worse later.

Two stern-faced guards in black robes that reached their knees and matching pants, both shimmering slightly with the effects of either overpowered protection spells or specially designed illusions, stood guard at the entrance, wands drawn. They checked the group’s passports, ran a few detection spells over them, and only then did one of them tap the door behind them with his wand to open it. A very different welcome than in Paris, Harry noted.

The door led the four British travelers into a large hall, grey stone walls and pillars dominated it. At first it looked rather drab, though when he was passing a pillar on the way to the floo rooms, Harry saw that it was decorated with stone carvings of several animals, all in elaborate detail. He also spotted the tell-tale signs of a lot of detection spells.

Near the customs area a small crowd had gathered around one tall figure - Viktor, waiting for them, and apparently surrounded by his fans. The Bulgarian star seeker had a brief apologetic smile on his face when he spotted Harry and his family, but the wizards and witches parted easily when Viktor walked towards his guests and did not follow him - though many of them stared with unabashed curiosity at the British. Mostly at Harry and Hermione, but that was expected after the Triwizard Tournament.

“Welcome to Bulgaria, Harry!” Viktor, wearing a black and gold embroidered short coat with matching pants as well as sturdy dragonhide boots, bowed his head slightly in greeting.

“Hello, Viktor.” Harry returned the greeting. “You already know my godfather and Head of the Black Family, Sirius Black. This is his cousin, Nymphadora Black-Tonks.” He didn’t introduce or mention Hermione, that wasn’t done in Bulgaria in public. But a quick glance showed him that his retainer wore the polite, bland expression she so often used to hide her annoyance or anger in public.

Viktor bowed to the two Blacks, and then pointed to the side. “Please follow me, the floo is right behind the gate there.”

They had to pass another checkpoint with two guards, though with Viktor declaring them as his family’s guests, there was no further delay, and the floo took them right to Viktor’s home.

*****​

Hermione’s first impression of Viktor’s home was warm and welcoming. The walls were paneled with wood, carved and lacquered. The wooden floor was mostly covered with thick, beautifully woven carpets. Everything showed both care and age, and a lived in feeling - like the Weasleys’ home, if more orderly and sturdy looking.

The young witch’s second impression was less welcoming. Viktor was introducing his family, and everyone - his father Mihail Bogomiliev, his mother Lyubuv Radomirieva and his older brother Apostol Mihailiev - were ignoring her as if she was not present while smiling and bowing to Harry, Sirius and Nymphadora. The sole exception was a young woman standing a bit behind Viktor’s brother, wearing a long dress without embroiderment, who looked at Hermione with a shy smile. Viktor hadn’t introduced her either. That probably meant she was a muggleborn. Like Hermione herself.

There wasn’t any formal hospitality ritual, as far as Hermione could tell, just a jovial declaration by Viktor’s father that his home was their home, before Viktor’s mother led the pureblood guests out and to their rooms. Since the woman didn’t follow them but waited still smiling at her, Hermione waited as well.

Once everyone else had left the room, the young woman bowed to Hermione. “Welcome to the household of the Krum Family. I am Lala Veselinieva.”

Hermione returned the bow. “I am Hermione.” She didn’t mention her family name - as far as Bulgaria was concerned, she was part of the Potter family, but as a muggleborn, she could not wear the name. Up close the British witch saw that Lala was wearing a necklace with a design matching the ornaments on the door - the family crest.

“I hope you had a nice trip. We’ve been expecting you and preparing for your stay for weeks! I am so excited to have a British guest staying with us!” The witch was smiling widely, and talking enthusiastically, even grasping Hermione’s hand - quite the difference to the demure, silent wallflower she had appeared to moments before. “I’ll show you around the house so you don’t get lost. We’ve expanded the interior some in the last years, ever since Viktor started to play professionally.”

With that Lala led Hermione out of the room as well, chattering all the way and pointing out the numerous tapestries and few portraits lining the walls. The first stop was a small but cozy room with a bed and a chest and a desk in it. “This is your official guest room. We expanded the room and brought in some furniture since Viktor said you might actually sleep in your own room.”

“Ah.” Hermione started to wonder about her reputation in Bulgaria. “Did you expect me to sleep in Harry’s room?”

“Of course! Since you’re from Hogwarts we were not sure you’d even bother with a room of your own, but Mother Lyubov was glad to keep up appearances at least.”

Hermione sighed. “The reputation of our school is vastly overblown.” She didn’t comment on the exact nature of her relationship with Harry. But at least there wouldn’t be any scandal if she visited him in his room. To talk privately, of course. A few movements with her wand had her clothes out of her charmed traveling bag and placed, neatly folded, in the chest.

“Really?” Lala sounded almost disappointed.

“Really. You’re a muggleborn like me I take it?”

“Yes! I am Apostol’s mistress. I represent the lower house of the family in the household.” She sounded proud, then grinned. “I am also the only member of the lower house here.”

Hermione was familiar with that situation. “Ah. I know the feeling. I am the only retainer of the Potter family.”

“Oh? Didn’t your head send for someone else from your family to help you?” Lala sounded quite surprised.

“The Potter family consists currently of Harry, who is the head of the family, and myself.” Hermione smiled ruefully. It seemed Bulgarian families were far larger than British ones - although a rich family could grow quite large under one head in Britain if the children didn’t want to become emancipated and lose access to the family fortune. The wars with Grindelwald and then Voldemort had had a drastic effect though - the fate of the Potter family was an extreme example, but not that rare.

Lala had fallen silent, probably shocked by the implications. Hermione smiled, to show she was not offended by her question, and prodded her gently. “Would you mind showing me around some more? I’d like to know where the rooms of the rest of us are.”

Lala recovered and started chatting again while showing Hermione her own ‘official room’ - which was rather bare - the kitchen, living room, and then the guest rooms on the upper floor, in an expanded wing opposite the quarters of the family proper.

Hermione noticed that just about all rooms were expanded magically. Again similar to the Weasleys’ home, but the walls looked far sturdier and thicker, and reinforced by spells as well. And from what she could tell by looking through the windows, there were clear lines of fire up to where wards on houses usually ended. “The house looks really solid, and easy to defend.”

Lala nodded. “Yes. It was built after the War of Liberation and since then the village withstood a number of raids by the Turks.”

“Was that before the Intervention?” That expedition had put an end to such large raids, as far as Hermione knew.

“And one after it. ‘Rogues and bandits’, the Ottomans claimed.” Lala’s expression made it clear that she didn’t believe that. “Don’t go outside the village borders by yourself. You never know who could be waiting - we patrol the borders, but it’s not perfect.”

“I won’t.” First Fleur’s tales of Barbary Coast Pirates, and now raids by Turks. Britain had suffered through Voldemort’s war, of course, but after his defeat in 1981, the British wizards and witches had lived without fear of getting attacked. Hermione tried to shift the topic of their conversation to something less troublesome, but finding out that muggleborns, half-bloods and purebloods each wore distinct clothes in Bulgaria wasn’t that much of an improvement. And if she visited Harry to talk about those issues, everyone would assume something else was happening. Hermione kept smiling politely as she followed Lala around, but it was getting a bit difficult.

*****​

Harry was in heaven. He was on his Firebolt, chasing Viktor. The Bulgarian was on his new ‘Blitzschlag II’ broom - a customised and improved replacement for the broom destroyed in the last task - and both flyers were pushing the envelope. There was no snitch to catch, nor rings to fly through, not even a goal to race to. Just two expert flyers matching and surpassing each others’ maneuvers and stunts. Weaving through a small forest at close to their top speed, skimming the ground to pick flowers, corkscrewing so fast and with such tight turns Harry’s arms felt as if they were close to getting ripped out of their sockets from the g-forces - If Sirius, or worse, Hermione, saw them right now, Harry would never hear the end of it.

He loved each and every second of it. It just felt so liberating, to enjoy the skies. Leave all the worries and annoyances on the ground. Like the Bulgarian custom that when guests were present, only pureblood family members got to speak at the table unless it was to answer questions. It didn’t take a genius to know what that would do to Hermione.

Viktor dove towards a small river, and Harry followed at once, both seekers accelerating all the way down. Viktor pulled up in the last second, the tips of his boots touching the water, almost causing him to crash. Harry was a fraction of a second faster with pulling up, but then flew through the spray of water Viktor’s boots had thrown up. He yelled with glee. They followed the river for a few turns, almost splitting the water, so close to the surface were they flying, before a small bridge appeared in front of them. A small and very low hanging bridge. Neither of them slowed down though, or tried to fly over it, even if there was less than a foot to spare between the bridge’s underside and their heads, pressed down to the broom handles.

The two wizards shot out from under the bridge and on to a small lake, where Viktor finally slowed down, stopping at the shore.

Harry joined him, a wide grin on his face. “That was great!” If all Bulgarians could train like this, it was a wonder they had lost against the Irish in the World Cup finals.

“It is a rush.” Viktor agreed. The usually stoic wizard was smiling widely as well. “Though most of us prefer hunting with brooms to acrobatics.”

“Hunting with brooms?”

“Yes. We chase through the forest, scare up game. Birds are never hexed; it’s a matter of pride to catch them with your bare hands.” Viktor grinned. “Deer is different. If you go after a deer with your wand, you’re considered weak by the village, even if they will eat the meat. If you go after a deer with your bare hands and succeed, you’re seen as a fool - but girls or boys will flock to you.”

Harry chuckled, not sure how serious his host was.

“It is said my family - my extended family - was born on a broom. We were famous for our broom cavalry in the War of Liberation. We’re still patrolling the border too, but there hasn’t been a war since Grindelwald. It’s a good thing, of course, but the older wizards and witches look down on us, call us ‘green’ and ‘inexperienced’.” Viktor looked at the lake in front of them, then to Harry. “Between us, I’d rather be called ‘green’ until I die of old age than know war.”

Harry emphatically agreed with him - though with Voldemort having returned, he knew he would very likely experience war. And sooner rather than later.

His face must have betrayed his thoughts, since Viktor clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look like that! I know what you are thinking, but your Hermione is safe. Lala is a good woman, very friendly, and will be able to answer any question she has about our village and life.”

Harry smiled, though it was a bit forced. “It’s just quite a new experience for us.” Especially for Hermione. “Customs are different in Britain.”

“Oh, yes. The year at Hogwarts was quite the experience.” Viktor’s face changed to a slightly wistful expression. Harry didn’t feel like prying, and both rested for a few minutes on their brooms, silently gazing out over the water.

Suddenly Viktor turned to his guest again. “Let’s go hunt a few ducks for supper. Impress the witches.”

Harry wasn’t sure Hermione would be impressed, but he was not about to decline such an offer, not on a broom and not from Viktor. Catching a bird in flight… it wasn’t quite a proper seeker’s duel, especially not if it was a duck, but he would give his best anyway.

*****​

“And this is the manufactory where felt boots are enchanted.” Lala pointed at another sturdy stone building with small windows - on the outside, inside they were quite large - but this had a small, enchanted sign showing various boots over the door.

Hermione spotted a woman in red robes leaving the building, and frowned. She had learned to discern the typical clothes of the different castes easily. “Are all the half-bloods doing the manufacturing, and the muggleborns tend to the fields and gardens?”

Lala nodded. “Mostly. Purebloods used to protect the village and serve in the army, since they had gone to Durmstrang. Half-bloods learned their craft at the school in Sofia, while the muggleborns were home-schooled in magic needed to grow crops and herbs. These days, muggleborns go to Sofia too, and the best half-bloods go to Durmstrang, and everyone learns some defensive spells, so there’s some overlap, but most stick with tradition.”

Hermione had noticed that the people seemed a bit less carefree than in, say, Hogsmeade. They acted more like the Gryffindors in the common room when the Weasley twins started to get excited over something - odds were the Slytherins would be suffering from whatever the two had thought of, but one could never be truly certain, or safe. “What about you?”

“Ah, I am the mistress of Apostolos Krum. I tend to the gardens and help his mother, but I’ll mostly take care to the children we’ll have. Once he finds a wife, that is.” Lala sounded proud of her position, so Hermione didn’t tell the other witch what she really thought of such a future. “What’s it like at Hogwarts? Do you truly attend the same lessons as the purebloods?”

“Of course.” Hermione did not like to sound arrogant, but she couldn’t help adding: “I have been the best student of my year four years running now.” The girl needed to know that muggleborns were as good or better than any purebloods.

“Truly? And the purebloods do not take offense?”

Hermione shrugged. “Some do, but it’s their fault if they don’t study hard enough.” Or were fast enough on the draw. Though she had to admit, at least to herself, that if the teachers would not have cared, if the pureblood bigots like Malfoy had had free reign at school, and if she hadn’t been under Harry’s protection, she likely would not have been the best student of her year at Hogwarts. If she would have been at the school still. Fortunately, Hogwarts’ egalitarian reputation was well-deserved, contrary to its other reputation.

“They say Hogwarts is a lesser school since it allowing muggleborns to attend it.”

Hermione scoffed. “Those are ignorant. From what I could see, we did well enough against the best Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had sent, and a fourth year Hogwarts student won the Triwizard Tournament in the end.”

“Yes, but that was the Boy-Who-lived, and the goblet chose him above the older students at his school.”

Hermione couldn’t claim Harry was not special, but at the same time she couldn’t let the misconception that Hogwarts was a bad school stand. “In my experience - and I took part in both the dueling and curse-breaking competitions - there was no significant difference between the students from the three schools.”

Lala nodded, but Hermione couldn’t tell if the Bulgarian witch believed her, or was simply being polite. The two walked past a warded garden where magical herbs were grown. A fat cat chased a gnome past them, batting the creature around with its paws.

“Are you running the household of the Boy-Who-Lived?”

Hermione chuckled. “No, no. Outside school I am living with my parents. Harry’s living with Sirius, and most of the housework is done by their elf.” There was no need to mention the Dursleys. The less people knew about Harry’s relatives, the safer they were.

“Wouldn’t your parents want you to live with your Patron so no one can steal your position?” Lala sounded honestly concerned.

“What?” Hermione shook her head. “It’s doesn’t work that way. I mean, you can’t just steal ... that.” The Oath would prevent that.

“Veela can. They can cloud a wizard’s mind, and make him forget about anyone else.” Lala nodded with obvious conviction. “A witch has to be on her guard to defend her Master.”

“Do you fear that Apostol would kick you out for a veela?” Hermione could understand that, somewhat, after their week at Fleur’s family. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had such fears herself.

“Until we’ve had children, that could happen.”

That was touching subjects Hermione didn’t want to talk or even think about. Witches also seemed to be a bit less equal in Bulgaria than in Britain, if ‘mistress to a pureblood’ was such a coveted position for a muggleborn witch. At least Hermione didn’t think wizards had a similar option. Not that she was about to ask. She distracted Lala with questions about herbs and local animals, until it was time to return to the Krum’s house for dinner.

*****​

Harry was covered in feathers from a too-close catch at too-high speed, but he was laughing. Between him and Viktor - mostly Viktor, if he were honest, but the Bulgarian had far more experience - they had caught two ducks and two pigeons in edible condition and were now flying back to Krum’s village at a leisurely speed. Harry pointed at the large mansion - or castle - on the hill at the edge of the village. “Is that where the head of you family lives?”

Krum nodded. “Yes. We will be visiting later this week, for the proper meeting. Things are a bit tense.”

“Tense? Does he not like foreigners?” Uncle Vernon had a bit of an attitude against foreigners, mostly the French.

“No, no. It’s… you’ve seen my father’s house, right? With the money I make as a seeker, it could be bigger. But that would be seen as a challenge by those in a higher position in the family. Even expanding as we did, internally, is pushing things. I did earn the gold for it with Quidditch and many think that’s not proper. The old way, the proper way to gain status, is the military. Defending the motherland. Or liberating it. But there haven’t been any wars since Grindelwald.”

“And you don’t like wars.”

“Yes. So, inviting the Boy-Who-Lived will also be seen as trying to reach for a higher position. Even though it was the proper thing to do, to return your hospitality.”

“Cursed if you do, cursed if you don’t.”

“Yes. And I’d rather do something, than do nothing. In life as in Quidditch.”

Harry agreed with that. Hermione might call him impatient at times, but he too felt doing something was better than doing nothing - usually. Sometimes it wasn’t.

*****​

A few hours later, doing nothing seemed to be the best course of action. Hermione was pacing in Harry’s room and ranting while he was sitting on the bed, which was more than large enough to accommodate two people, or so Sirius had told him. Fortunately, his friend had cast a few privacy spells on the room before she exploded.

“And did you know that the muggleborns have to wear different clothes? That they think becoming the broodmare for a pureblood, producing half-blood servants, is one of the best lives a girl could have?” Hermione didn’t give him time to answer. “And the jobs they can get are also separated by castes! At least in Britain, you can’t tell if a person is a muggleborn, half-blood or pureblood simply by looking at their clothes, job or house!”

“Unless they are rich.” Harry quipped, then winced when his best friend glared at him. “Sorry.”

“And did you know that my most impressive achievement according to the village muggleborns is not being the best student in our year four years running, nor helping to kill a basilisk or placing well in competitions against students two to three years my senior? No, the villagers are impressed because I became the kept woman of a pureblood wizard before I even took my O.W.L.s!”

“But you didn’t.” Not that Harry would have minded terribly if that had happened. He wanted to take care of her, provide for all her needs, Oath or no Oath.

“That’s beside the point!” Hermione was standing in front of him, chest heaving, gesticulating wildly. Her hair had mostly thrown off the charms she had cast on it in the morning and was forming a wild, frizzy mane. Harry thought she looked cute and passionate. “And I can’t even talk at the table without causing a scandal!” she spit out.

“It’s just a week. Weve been through worse.”

Hermione sighed and sat down next to him, then closed her eyes and leaned back, stretching out on the bed. Harry didn’t stare at how that stretched the fabric over her chest. Much. “I know. It’s still frustrating. I can hardly believe Viktor turned out so nice in such a country.”

Harry frowned, unseen by his friend. Viktor was a great wizard and seeker, but he wasn’t that nice. Or great.

“I am almost tempted to simply stay the entire time in your room, just so I don’t blow up at anyone.”

Harry had been about to reach over and pat Hermione’s thigh reassuringly, but froze upon hearing that. “Ah…”

“Err…” Hermione hid her face with her hands.

“I know what you meant.” Harry chuckled.

“Prat.”

Harry grinned at her. “Feeling better?”

“I’ll survive the night.”

“My door’s always open for you, night or day, you know.” That earned him a pillow to the head. “Ah… I think your mind went into the gutter to take offense at my innocent offer…” That caused his friend to send every pillow in the room at him until he was pushed off the bed. But she was feeling better again.

*****​

Dardan Curri studied the village through his enchanted glasses. Night had fallen, and most villagers would be at their homes. The target, the so-called Boy-Who-Lived, was staying in the house of Viktor Krum. It didn’t look like much, just another house in that backwards village. Quidditch had to pay less than he had thought, if Krum couldn’t afford a bigger one. Not that he minded; it would make the task of his men easier.

“I still say we should ambush the boy when he is out on his broom.” Ernir Prifti was complaining again. If he wasn’t Dardan’s cousin he’d have hexed him twice already.

“Have you seen how he flies? Or have you slept through the last two days? You want to try to ambush him when he can be out of reach in seconds? We have to catch him in their home, where he cannot simply flee.”

“He’s just a boy.” Ernir sounded like a boy right then too.

“A boy who can fly. Better than you.”

And there was no comeback for that. Everyone in the family knew that Ernir had lost two brooms to accidents as a kid.

Dardan looked at the rest of his band. Twenty wizards, unfortunately not all related to him, but even so he could trust them - within limits. All were dressed like Turks. Their employer had insisted on that, to make it appear that slavers from the Ottoman Empire were behind the attack. The Albanian mercenary was fine with that. As it happened, he’d be fine with making a bit more gold by kidnapping suitable witches or wizards for the markets in Constantinople as well. The boy wouldn’t have any need for his mistress once he was dead, after all.

“Attacking a Bulgarian village with only 20 wands is not a good idea.” Leka Xhepa, the other annoyance. That wizard wasn’t related to Dardan, but he knew the land, unlike Dardan himself, who had mostly plied his trade in the western parts of the Mediterranean, and Greece. Easier targets, no chance to start a blood feud, but Bulgarians couldn’t be that much tougher than Greeks. Leka had done well enough guiding them past the patrols, but he obviously lacked the spine a successful mercenary had to have. Dardan needed him too, though, but if the wizard would not shut up after they were done...

“We’ll be done before they know what’s happening, our distraction will make sure of that.” It was a good plan. Set a field or two or a barn ablaze, on the other end of the village, watch the villagers run around like headless chickens, then strike at your real target. The house was heavily warded, but fiendfyre wouldn’t care about the wards and force them out, as long as floo and apparition were blocked. And anyone trying to fly out the few small windows would get a spell to the face. And if it was Krum… well, Dardan had lost quite a sum betting on Bulgaria at the World Cup. Krum owed him.

He checked his watch, taken from his first kidnapping victim, 15 years ago. The enchantment was not weakening, showing the time despite the darkness.

“It’s time. You know what to do. Ahmed, set fire to the fields and barn. Ernir, once you see the flames, cast the jinxes to block the floo and apparition. The rest of you - surround the target house while disillusioned, and hex anyone that looks like Potter. Go!”

*****​

In the middle of the night Hermione was woken when her torc vibrated - Harry needed her! She had her wand in hand before she was fully awake. The young witch threw off her nightshirt, grabbed her robe and slipped into her shoes, then stormed out of her ‘official room’ while the enchanted garment was still closing itself around her body. She should have slept in Harry’s room!

Viktor was waiting at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor. She almost ran past him but spotted Harry descending the stairs. The two exchanged a look and smile, then Harry turned to Viktor and Hermione stepped behind her Patron, satisfaction filling her - she was at his side, where she belonged, ready to protect him. Sirius and Nymphadora, both not completely dressed, joined them. Hermione didn’t comment while their robes adjusted themselves, but noted that her own enchantments had been as fast, or close to.

“The village is on alert. Someone set fire to the fields in the west.” Viktor explained. “My family has gone out to help.”

“We can help as well. We’ve got some experience with fire, after all.” Harry stated. Hermione didn’t think it was funny, even if Sirius chuckled. She still had some nightmares about the last task. And Harry had them as well, even if he managed to joke about it.

Viktor shook his head. “You’re our guests, it is our duty to protect you, not send you into harm’s way.”

“As your guests and as your friends we are bound to help you.” Harry countered. Hermione felt that staying where it was safe was far more reasonable, but held her tongue. She knew Harry wouldn’t see her point.

Before Viktor could respond the house shook and he jerked. “That was the fire ward… overloaded, but how… it’s not… Baba Yaga’s dancing hut, it must be fiendfyre!”

That sent a chill down Hermione’s spine. Cursed fire, born of dark magic, consuming everything in its wake, often the caster too, until it burned itself out - it was the stuff of nightmares. Her nightmares, after the fourth task. The protective enchantments on her and Harry’s robes wouldn’t do much, if anything, against fiendfyre! She started to tremble. “We need to get out before it burns down the house, Harry!” She tugged on his arm and tried to pull him towards the floo, they needed to get away from the fire!

“I just tried to apparate two meters. It did not work. Assume floo travel is blocked as well.” Nymphadora’s statement made Hermione freeze up again. The young muggleborn witch was close to hyperventilating. Caught in a burning house, cursed fire coming closer and closer… Harry needed her help, she had to make sure he was safe! Suddenly, she started to calm down. She didn’t know how, but she was not panting anymore, nor was she shaking with fright. Purpose filled her. She had to protect her Patron, she could not afford to fail him because she was too weak to do anything.

“Death Eater tactics.” Sirius’s voice was grim, no trace of the usual humor audible. “Summon your bags.” Hermione and Harry obeyed, summoning their mokeskin bags. The clothes in the chests and armoires would be lost, but they could be easily replaced with Sirius’s money.

Harry’s godfather meanwhile had stepped to the wall next to a window. He conjured a block of stone, then transformed it into a head that looked like him and levitated it to the window. Both the window and the head were shattered by an explosive curse right away, showering him with splinters that were deflected by the enchantments on his robes. “Definitely Death Eater tactics.” More spells followed, forcing the group to move away from their original position.

Hermione heard a crack and roar, and felt the air brush past her, from the now open window to the entrance. Smoke, not fire usually killed people, she knew that. “Bubblehead charms!” she said, and cast one herself. Everyone followed her example.

“The front door just got consumed by fiendfyre.” Viktor confirmed what she had feared. “We need to signal the other villagers.”

“They can’t really miss a burning house.” Sirius looked grim, but kept his wand pointed at the broken window.

“But they might take too much time to reach us. The fields are quite a way from us.”

Nymphadora interrupted them. “Shut up and listen. Harry - you and Hermione use your cloak. Sirius, Viktor - disillusion yourself. I’ll distract the ones out front, Sirius blows up the back door, and then you three flee with your brooms through the upper windows. Open enough so they cannot cover all of them.” The young auror’s tone broke no dissent.

Viktor tried it anyway. “You’re my guests! I…”

“Shut up, we are running out of time! Do what I say, now!” Nymphadora yelled at him, then turned towards the entrance hall, which was by now filled with fiendfyre. The cursed fire seemed to be alive, monstrous forms made of flames appearing and striking at furniture and walls, turning tapestries and portraits to ashes in seconds. If the expansion charms started to fail… Hermione had a sudden vision of the house being filled with too much furniture for its natural space. They would be crushed, and even if they survived that, they’d be trapped, stuck helplessly in the debris while the fire burned its way towards them…

“Do it!” Sirius yelled, then started for the kitchen where the backdoor was located.

Cursing, Viktor led Harry and Hermione upstairs, summoning his own broom at the same time. They had barely reached a window when they heard screaming from Nymphadora “Get out, get out!”, followed by the sound of a cannon blast going off. It was so loud, Hermione expected the house to shake even though it was no real explosion.

Another blast - Sirius. Viktor stopped cursing under his breath, and blew out all the windows in the hallway before mounting his Blitzschlag and fading from view. Hermione felt Harry’s arm around her, then she was pulled behind him. “Get on the broom!”

She complied, wrapping her arms around him. He draped his invisibility cloak over both of them. Various spells hit the windows that had blown open, some striking the walls behind them, others the frames. One blew a hole in the wall large enough to walk through, which drew more spells from below.

They were standing still for a second, and Hermione could hear the crackling, hissing cursed fire, closer than she wanted. Smoke was filling the hallway, and screams could be heard outside, followed by explosions. Then Harry kicked off and they shot towards a window.

“Protego!” a blue shield appeared in front of them, barely in time to stop and be shattered by a curse that would have struck them otherwise. Then the two were out of the window. Hermione felt a tingling sensation, they were passing a ward. For a moment something seemed to ripple around them, blue sparks outlining them despite their invisibility cloak, then they were past it and the sparks disappeared. A failed anti-disillusion ward? Such things usually defeated invisibility cloaks easily. She had no time to dwell on that though.

The young witch had to hold on to Harry for dear life, wishing she had had the presence of mind to cast a sticking charm beforehand, since Harry went into one crazy turn after another, dodging spells that were sent at the window they had flown through, or simply into the air. More spells crossed each other on the ground below. The attackers didn’t seem to see through the cloak though, and soon they were in the clear. Harry stopped the Firebolt hundreds of meters above the village, giving them a good view of the fight and fire below. Several spells, brightly colored, were flying around - the villagers must have returned.

“Sirius…” Harry whispered, barely loud enough for Hermione to overhear. then, louder he said: “I’ll drop you at a safe distance with the cloak. I’ll have to help Sirius.”

Hermione was furious. Her Patron wanted to risk his life, and leave her? “Don’t be stupid! You fly, I cast, we give Sirius air cover. You’re not leaving me alone!”

Harry was silent for a moment, tense. Hermione waited. Would he order her to wait? If he did... Then the wizard slouched a bit, sighing. He held her left hand, which was gripping the front of his robe, for a moment, squeezing it gently. “OK.”

Despite the fact that they would be facing Dark Wizards, Hermione felt jubilant. Her Patron, her friend, trusted her to fight at his side. Then Harry dove at the burning house, and it was all she could do not to scream. They wouldn’t enter the house, wouldn’t get too close to that terrible fire either, she told herself...

*****​

Dardan was cursing. The fight was not going as planned. Those damn villagers were attacking instead of fleeing, and the maniacs inside the burning house were still not all dead. Someone hit him with a piercing curse from the side, but the protections on his transfigured robes stopped most of it, and the small blow it managed to deal to him still didn’t stop him from returning a curse at the man who had attacked him. The villager went down with a scream - the poor fool had no protective robes, and his shield shattered under the spell. Dardan’s own protections were spent now though, or that curse wouldn’t have touched him at all. Until they were restored, he had to trust his shield and seek cover.

Ernir was dead already, hit by some dark curse that strangled him with his own entrails. His mother would be weeping once Dardan told her. Leka was gone - maybe dead, more likely having fled. Ahmed the fool had chased a large black dog that had simply been trying to flee, and had gotten mauled for his stupidity. At least the screams had sounded like that was happening.

The rest of his men were holding their own though. Three quarters of his remaining wands held the villagers at bay, the rest were reducing the damned house to rubble and ashes. At least he was reasonably sure about that - it wasn’t as if he could see all his men, with them having to spread out to cover the house as well as all approaches for the villagers. Or trying to - it was remarkably tough, far more than a peasant’s house had any right to be. Almost like a fortress or castle.

And Potter was still inside, casting at them regularly. No one else but the Boy-Who-Lived could have such infernal luck. But it would run out soon enough, a few minutes, at most, and the house would collapse. Already some expansion charms had failed, he had seen the rippling effects, had felt the sudden increase in heat when the fire had gotten more fuel at once. Soon the upper floor where the boy was moving around would collapse and he would burn. There was no way out - they had gotten his broom, and the wards defeated his disillusion spells. “Don’t let up, remember the gold!” he shouted, aided by a Sonorous Charm, before sending another cutting curse at a witch in a white robe who had gotten a bit too close. She went down as well. Unprepared fools.

He took a step to the side, trampling some night-active herb that tried to grasp his boots, and crouched down behind a transfigured rock to cover his back while he watched the house. There! Movement on the upper floor! He sent another explosive curse at the wall covering the boy, and was rewarded with a scream. Yes! Another curse should finish the boy off, or take out the floor and send him into the inferno on the ground floor…

Before he could cast though the earth around him exploded, and he was flung through the air. Dazed, he got up on one knee, pointing his wand around. Who had cast… then something stepped out of the darkness and he froze with fear. Red eyes and white teeth, fur darker than pitch black. It hadn’t been a dog Ahmed had chased! It was a grim, the messenger of death himself! Before Dardan could cast, or flee, or even move again, the monster pounced. His wand and hand were crushed between those terrible jaws, and he screamed, trying to break free with increasing desperation.

When the grim released his mangled hand he felt elation, hope despite the pain from his wounds. He would live! Before he could get his portkey though the monster leaped at him again. Paws landed on his chest, pushing him back. He staggered over the rubble behind him, lost his balance and fell down. Dardan didn’t understand why the grim was not attacking again, just standing there, until he saw the cursed fire licking at his robes and boots. Then he felt the heat on his skin, smelt his hair burning, saw his robe melting on his legs, and started to scream. The Albanian almost missed the grim changing into a wizard and smiling at him, before the shape-changer’s curse tore out his entrails.

*****​

Nymphadora Black-Tonks was done for, she knew that. Not even John McClane would be able to escape from this. She was on the first floor of a burning house, whose expansion charms were failing one after another, shaking the walls and even foundations. Fiendfyre had turned the entire ground floor in an inferno and was now following the damned wood paneling up to the floor she was on. She could barely see anything inside the house, and outside a bunch of Death Eaters was waiting for her to show herself so they could curse her again.

Not that she could move much, not anymore, not even using her metamorphmagus talent. Shifting from one form to another had helped with the first wounds she had taken, but she couldn’t work miracles. She was back to her own form now, for all the good it did her. The young auror had lost her broom, and almost her life, when she had tried to escape through a window early in the fight, to be caught by spells crossing her path, driving her back.

At least the bubblehead charm was still working and she had some cover left. The spells reinforcing the walls were very strong, or the house would have imploded or exploded long ago. Though given the fate waiting for her, maybe dropping the charm would be a good choice. She might suffocate to death before the fire reached her and burned her alive. At least the children had gotten out. Her parents would be devastated, but she had known this could happen when she signed up for auror training.

The auror looked at the tattered remains of her robe. Top of the line, a gift from her mother for her graduation. Expensive as hell, but it had saved her life multiple times this evening. Though in the end it had not been enough. She coughed, pain stabbing her chest, and for a moment she wondered if her bubblehead charm had failed. No, the air was still clean and cool. The charm was still working. It was her lungs that were not working right anymore, she was coughing blood. Maybe she would die before the flames reached her. Or not - the house shook again, and the floor started to tilt beneath her. Slowly at first but gaining speed she felt herself sliding down, towards the cursed fire on the ground floor. She tried to scream, but her lungs were not cooperating.

Then she was yanked up and into the air, away from the inferno raging below her. The last thing she saw before she passed out from the pain that filled her was Viktor fucking Krum sitting on his broom with his wand pointed at her while spells splashed against his shield.

*****​

Harry stood next to Viktor, staring at the remains of the star seeker’s house. All that was left of it were ashes and still smoking rubble. The fiendfyre had spread too quickly for anything to be saved. Harry didn’t say anything - what could he say that would not sound empty and stupid?

The house was not even the worst loss the family had suffered. Lala was dead, killed by a cutting curse when she had tried to reach the house to cast the same flame-extinguishing charms she had used on the fields before. More bodies were found all over the battlefield. Most of them belonged to the bandits, but there were dead villagers too. More had been wounded - over a dozen were in the hospital in Sofia, suffering from dark curses or complicated wounds or both. Nymphadora was among them. The auror was alive, though Harry didn’t know how. Probably some metamorphmagus ability. There had been so much blood, if not for that potion from Viktor...

Harry felt an arm slip around his waist, and a body press into his side. Hermione. She like him was still covered in soot, her hair was a mess, but she was unharmed. Like Sirius. His godfather was in Sofia, arranging an international portkey back to London via Vienna and Paris. It did not feel right to leave the Krums, not after that night, but Harry couldn’t do much, couldn’t do anything here, and staying would only cause his godfather, and his retainer, to worry. And they had been through more than enough already.

Harry glanced at the bodies lined up nearby, then looked away again. Some of them had been maimed by teeth and fangs, the work of Sirius’s animagus form. Harry didn’t know how to feel about that. It was one thing to send curses or transfigured animals at an enemy, but to bite and savage them as an animal? Sirius’s robes had been covered with blood when he had ranted at Harry and Hermione for returning to the battle before hugging them. Harry hoped he could look at his godfather again without remembering that scene too vividly.

“Is it weird that I can only think that it was a good thing that we had not yet built a bigger house?” Viktor asked without averting his gaze from the ruins.

“You’re still in shock, it’s a normal reaction.” Hermione pointed out, probably glad to find something to distract herself as well.

“I see.”

The three stood there in silence again.

“Thank you for saving Nymphadora.” Harry had to say something before it became unbearable.

“What kind of man would I be to leave her to die?” Viktor’s voice was still lacking any emotion. Still in shock. Like himself, Harry thought, and like Hermione. He felt numb, and guilty. They had fought, and probably killed last night. Casting from the air, under his father’s cloak, at night. It was as far from the heroic tales one found in books, even in history books sometimes, as one could get without poisoning someone’s food or drink. And yet the bandits had deserved it. They had come to kill them. He didn’t know why they had done it. Slavers used similar tactics to flush their victims out, Viktor’s father had told them, but these attackers had been going for the kill.

They had deserved it, and even those who had been taken alive would likely be executed for their crimes, and yet... Harry’s excuses and reasons didn’t help with the guilt he felt. When he closed his eyes he still saw men exploding, burning, getting cut. Hermione must be feeling the same, he knew. He had failed her. Failed to protect her. He should have ordered her to remain safe, and yet, if he had done so, he knew he would have hurt her even worse than she had to be hurting now. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, indeed.

Hermione’s voice addressing Viktor shook him from his morbid thoughts. “If you saved Nymphadora, does she owe you a life debt now?”

That made both Viktor and Harry turn their attention to the young witch. Harry didn’t know what Viktor muttered in response, but he was sure it was not printable.

*****​

“What do you have for us?” auror Kenneth Fenbrick asked when he walked into the office he shared with his partner, Bertha Limmington.

“Remember that attack on Viktor Krum and Harry Potter last week?” She didn’t look up from whatever she was reading. Typical.

“I’ve read about it. Wasn’t that in Bulgaria? Turkish ‘bandits’, fiendfyre and killing curses, open and shut case?” Kenneth sat down on the edge of her desk, smirking when he saw her frown. She hated that. Just as he disliked her not fully paying attention to him.

“The Bulgarian aurors finished interrogating the surviving attackers. They were Albanians mostly, not Turks, and were specifically hired to kill the Boy-Who-Lived. By a wizard with a British accent.” Now she looked up at him, her expression as serious as usual.

Kenneth whistled. “That’s bound to make some waves. Do you think it’s the same wizard who tried to sabotage the tournament?”

His partner nodded. “It would fit. The accent could be faked, but the DoM identified the robe as the custom work of Madam Malkin thanks to pensieve memories of the meeting with our mystery wizard the Bulgarians sent us. Apparently the kind of self-cleaning charm that was triggered when he spilled a drink on himself is distinctive in its effect. Something about a ‘flower pattern’ for the effect.”

Kenneth closed his eyes and held up his finger. “I’ve got a vision! I see us two, heading to Madam Malkin’s, getting a list of her customers, and then working through the list, asking annoyed rich wizard after annoyed rich wizard where they have been two or three weeks ago. How am I doing as a seer?” He grinned at the witch.

“It’s standard procedure.” His partner still had not found her missing sense of humor.

Sighing, he stood up. “Let’s get to it then.”

*****​

Six hours later, Kenneth was sure he would have been better off as a seer. They had gotten a dozen names from the tailor shop, each one richer and more arrogant and more annoying than the other. They were up to number five on the list now, and if he had not been sure Bertha would arrest him without hesitation, Kenneth would have hexed a couple already and claimed they were resisting arrest or obstructing justice or something.

Number five, or Malcolm Branwick, seemed to be a difficult one too. Not surprisingly - he had admitted having supported the Death Eaters in the last war with gold, if not his wand, but had claimed he had been forced to after the war was over. Like so many others. Kenneth shook his head and used the door knocker again. He heard the gong inside go off, but no one came to open the door. He exchanged a glance with his partner. Branwick was too rich not to have a house elf who’d answer the door even if he was absent. If the elf was not opening the door, then he or she would have been ordered not to…

“In the name of the Ministry, open this door for the aurors!”

Kenneth rolled his eyes at Bertha. “This sounds so pompous.”

“It’s the official command.”

They waited a few minutes, as per standard procedure. “I am calling it in. We’ll need a curse-breaker team to deal with the wards.” Kenneth sighed. More paperwork. But he didn’t fancy breaking into the house of an old family, not with wards still up. That was a nasty way to commit suicide.

Bertha nodded. “We can go ask number six on the list while they work.”

Kenneth sighed. So much for taking a break while the curse-breaking boys worked. Then he blinked. Had that been the hint of a smile on his partner’s face? He narrowed his eyes, but Bertha was not showing anything but her usual determination now.

*****​

They had finished with number six when the curse-breakers were done. It had been amusing, for Kenneth at least. That rich old wizard had been hitting on his partner without any subtlety or shame, referring to his wealth and influence in every sentence, but he had stayed so clearly within the borders of politeness and traditions that Bertha had had to endure it with a forced smile. And for the last ten minutes after they had left she had twitched each time Kenneth had mentioned ‘gold’ ‘old family’ or ‘good breeding’. Life was good.

When they reached the door, he grew serious though and drew his wand. One never knew what awaited an auror in a suspect’s house, and that went double for the mansions of the old families. The rumors he had heard about the cleaning of Grimmauld Place 12 were enough to send shivers down his spine. Only a madman would want to live in such a place - but then, Sirius Black had spent a decade in Azkaban, he was bound to be crazy, and the Boy-Who-Lived was suicidal judging by how he flew in a Quidditch match, or so his nephew had told him.

“DMLE, Aurors Fenbrick and Limmington! We’re coming in with wands drawn!” he shouted before he pushed the door open with a spell. No curse flew out, so he quickly ducked around the door frame and took a look inside. A small body caught his attention in the middle of the entrance hall. “We’ve got a stunned or dead house elf here.”

Bertha nodded, and both stepped inside. No trap triggered, no one seemed to notice them. No portraits even. The house elf was dead, cutting curse to the throat. That was not good news. They proceeded with even more caution. Fifteen minutes later they had cleared the ground floor. The mansion was inhabited, the pantry well-stocked, the rooms clear. “Upstairs.”

Kenneth nodded and took point. His partner was a stick in the mud, but she was still his partner, and he was better in a duel, so it fell to him to go in front. If only she would reward such bravery and gallantry properly! If she had been a Gryffindor instead of such a Ravenclaw…

Upstairs the door to the room overlooking the street was ajar. Kenneth stepped up and again took a quick glance inside. “Someone’s at the desk, slumped over.” he informed Bertha. Both entered carefully, taking care not to disturb anything. There was a bottle on the desk, and an empty glass next to it.

“It’s Peruvian Chameleon Viper poison, at least according to the label.” He looked at his partner.

“Such a viper was used in a failed attack during the third task.” She was not a Ravenclaw for nothing.

On the desk were notes with Potter’s traveling schedule, contact addresses in Albania and a payment note from Gringotts, for gold transferred to Tirana.

“That looks pretty damning.” Maybe a bit too damning, Kenneth thought. “But who killed him?”

“It could be suicide. He realized we were onto him, and would be able to match his schedule to the traveling done by the instigator. That would mean he’d be interrogated with veritaserum.” Bertha speculated.

“He could have fled.” Kenneth would have, in his place.

“I checked with the tax collectors while you were taking a break. He would have lost most of his fortune if he fled, it was tied up in land and buildings. Easy to confiscate. Hard to move.”

Kenneth nodded. Many of the richest purebloods would rather die than become poor. Or so he heard often enough. “Plausible enough. Let’s see what else we can find out.”

*****​

Albus Dumbledore sighed, looking at the headlines of the Daily Prophet. “Saboteur found, killed himself!” It looked like Harry would dominate the front pages for another week, just when the frenzy of articles covering the attack in Bulgaria had started to fade. The boy would be hounded in public again. Worse even, with the saboteur apparently found, the security measures taken by the Ministry would be relaxed, or even lifted completely. Everyone liked a neatly solved case. Even the Order members would not remain as vigilant as they should be. And Albus couldn’t say anything without tipping off Voldemort that he was aware of his return.

“Well played, Tom.” He raised a lemon drop in a mocking salute before popping it into his mouth.


Chapter 15: Consequences

 

Chapter 15: Consequences

“No! Harry! No!”

Harry Potter closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and held on to his friend even though each of her cries felt like blow to him. Hermione was having a nightmare, the same she had been having in the two last nights, since the attack. She was sweating, trembling, and he couldn’t do anything but hold her, and feel guilty.

It was his fault that she was suffering. If not for him, if he had not been there, those bandits would not have attacked, and Hermione wouldn’t see the fiendfyre rushing at her in her dreams, wouldn’t feel as if she was back at the last task, burning alive. Wouldn’t see him, dying, bleeding, burning.

“It’s OK, Hermione. You’re safe. I’m safe.” He held her and whispered in her ear. They were in the best hotel in the Magical Quarter in Sofia, in a cozy room with lots of dark wood paneling on the walls, and a massive canopy bed in the middle, with heavy dark blue drapes. Viktor’s family had offered to make arrangements for their guests, since they had been attacked while under their roof, but Sirius had insisted on moving, citing the need to be close to Nymphadora, who was at the magical hospital in the capital of Bulgaria. With floo and apparition, there was no need to actually stay in Sofia - Viktor himself visited daily - but the polite fiction satisfied the honor of all involved. And getting away from the village, from the constant reminders of the battle, had helped them as well.

Harry felt the witch in his arms stiffen and knew she had woken up. Before she could say anything, he whispered again. “You’re safe, Hermione. We’re safe.”

She sighed deeply, but didn’t roll away. “What time is it?”

“It’s 1 am,” Harry answered, after a glance at his enchanted watch.

“Did you sleep yet?”

Harry didn’t answer, which was enough for her to know he had not. If he had slept he’d have likely woken up from a nightmare of his own in which Hermione, Sirius and Nymphadora all burned to death while he was forced to watch by Voldemort.

“You need to sleep as well, Harry. Maybe you should…”

“No.” Harry stated firmly. He’d not take a potion for Dreamless Sleep. It would make him sleep, yes - and likely to sleep so deeply, he’d miss another attack.

Hermione didn’t argue - she too had refused to take the potion, with that very argument. Harry had been tempted to order her to take it. He’d keep watch over her, keep her safe. He had been tempted, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t hurt her like that.

His best friend, his love, sighed. “I’ll not go back to sleep until you are asleep. And I’ll know if you’re trying to fake it,” she stated sternly.

Harry smiled at how familiar she sounded. That was his Hermione, his best friend, looking out for him for his own good. She had not sounded like that since the attack.

He sighed, the fleeting moment of warmth gone. It was his fault that Hermione was not, had not been herself.

Before he could voice his thoughts though Hermione dressed him down. “Don’t you dare blame yourself again, Harry Potter! I told you, it’s not your bloody fault, and I’ll not let you take the blame that belongs to whatever madman hired those bandits!”

Harry held up the arm not wrapped around his witch in a placating gesture even he could barely see in the darkness of the room. “I won’t,” he said. Lied. He did blame himself. He knew it was irrational, as Hermione had explained, but part of him thought he deserved to suffer through his nightmares. If he had not wanted to return to the fight to save Sirius Hermione would not have come with him. And would not have fought to kill. And would not… well, she’d still have nightmares from the fire.

“Good.” Hermione sounded satisfied, and he relaxed a bit. Last night, when he had blamed himself, she had exploded. She had both cried and ranted at him for feeling guilty at the same time, then, once she had spent her rage, had apologized for her outburst and explained that it was a normal reaction to blame himself for things out his control. And then she had still told him not to do it again. That was his Hermione, contradictions and passion and all.

He smiled and pulled her closer, ignoring her surprised yelp as well as her weak attempts to push back until she gave up and rested her head on his chest.

“Hmph.”

Holding her, he fell asleep, and for the remainder of the night, the nightmares were held at bay.

*****​

Hermione Granger was sitting in their room in the hotel, in a leather seat that could have handled Hagrid’s size without problems, pretending to read a book. It was a cheap move, but she needed some time to think for herself, and Harry was not likely to leave her alone otherwise. Well, he would, if she asked him to, but… that would hurt him. He was already feeling guilty for what had happened, she couldn’t do that to him. So she pretended to be fascinated by the book in her lap instead and hoped that Harry, who was not leaving her out of his sight anyway, would be fooled. It was not honest, but it was the best she could do.

And she really needed to think, without any distractions. Such as feeling Harry’s arms around her body, his breath on her neck, his heart beating… she took a deep breath. Their recent sleeping arrangements did wonders against their nightmares, but didn’t help the kind of dreams she really should not have while sleeping in Harry’s arms. If she ever did anything thinking she was still dreaming…

The young witch forced herself to focus. She had realized the day after the battle that something had not been right. Since the last task, she had had issues with fire. Sure, she had not shied away from fire anymore after a week or so, but the fiendfyre should have terrified her. Had terrified her. As had the fighting. And yet when Harry had wanted to return to the battle, she had not been afraid anymore. She had needed to help Harry, to keep him safe, and that had been enough to push away her own fear.

That had been the damned Oath at work, of course. She knew she was not that brave, Gryffindor though she might be. But such reckless bravery was what she had read about during her research of life debts and the Patron Oath. That urge to help, to protect, to save one’s Patron. No matter how it had helped her protect Harry, it felt wrong on a fundamental level to be manipulated like that. Like a puppet dancing to the strings of magic. Purebloods might accept that, even embrace it, but she did not. She was no pureblood. And she’d not remain a slave to that Oath her whole life. She was Hermione Granger, and she was no one’s puppet. Not society’s, not magic’s!

Not even Harry’s.

She glanced over to her friend. He was sitting on the bed, his back resting against a couple cushions, a book in his lap, propped up by his knees. Pretending to read, no doubt. She wanted to walk over, hug him, comfort him, until he finally accepted that he was not at fault, until he listened to her. But was that, too, just the Oath driving her?

Although, despite all her research, no book had mentioned the Patron Oath being able to cause love. Absence of evidence was not evidence of absence, of course. But wouldn’t someone, anyone, have mentioned it, if it was possible? It wasn’t as if this was some obscure question only a few academics might care about.

Hermione took a deep breath, closed her book, and stood up. She still had doubts, of course. She was not the prettiest witch, nor the most likeable. And just because she really, really wished that what she was feeling, and what Harry was feeling, was not the result of magic didn’t mean that it was the case. But neither did it mean that it was not.

And so she sat down next to Harry and gently and carefully took his book away. It wouldn’t do to damage a book, after all. He was staring at her, had been staring since the moment she had stood up.

“Hermione?”

She just smiled, pushed him down on the bed, and then snuggled up to him. Sometimes, believing in something hard enough was enough.

*****​

Nymphadora Black-Tonks looked quite different from the vibrant witch they knew when she was just lying there, unconscious, in the hospital bed, Harry Potter thought. Three days, and she still was like this. The healers claimed she was recovering nicely, but he could not see it. The young metamorphmagus looked frail, vulnerable, almost delicate - nothing seemed to even hint at the energetic, brave auror he knew. Maybe it was the lack of teasing and outright lewd remarks from her and Sirius. He had gotten used to the banter, he realized. It had become part of what he thought of as home. As family.

Sirius was staring at his cousin with an expression Harry had last seen on his face at Pettigrew’s trial. It was as if his face had been frozen into a mask, with only his eyes showing emotion. Harry suddenly saw his godfather’s face covered in blood, right after the fight, an evil smile on his lips as he watched the bodies of the bandits getting laid out. The young wizard briefly closed his eyes, banishing the thought. He didn’t want to see that when thinking of Sirius. He couldn’t help it though. Even worse, he knew that it was in his defence that Sirius had killed. That Nymphadora had gotten hurt. Guilt tore at him again. So many of his family were suffering and he was not even hurt.

He lifted his hand, about to reach out to his godfather, then hesitated, suddenly uncertain. What if Sirius shrugged him off? Or got angry at him, saying it was Harry’s fault they had been attacked? A hand on his back gently pushed him forward - Hermione. He looked over his shoulder at her, and saw her nodding towards Sirius. She was trying to smile encouragingly, but she looked so sad, he wanted to hug her right then. Before he could act on that though, his friend pushed him towards Sirius again.

He nodded to her, then stepped next to his godfather and put his hand on his shoulder. Sirius stiffened, and for a horrible moment, Harry was sure he’d be pushed away. Then the man wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him towards him almost desperately.

“Oh Harry…” Sirius whispered, and for a moment, the young wizard thought his godfather would break down and cry. He didn’t though, just held on to him for minutes, trembling, before finally releasing him. Harry saw the animagus was smiling in silent gratitude, but his eyes remained haunted. Harry nodded at him, then turned to watch Nymphadora again. Hermione stepped forward, but not to his side, stopping a half-step behind him. Even in such a situation, in a hospital room watching a hurt member of their family, they were keeping up appearances. Harry wanted to curse something, someone. Wanted to scream, to rant at stupidity of it. But he controlled himself. They had come so far, he had no right to throw it all away.

Viktor had been standing there without saying a word. Harry wasn’t sure if he had been ignoring their reactions out of politeness or respect, or if he honestly was so captivated by the witch in the bed. If there was a life debt, that would be not out of the ordinary - Harry knew that from Hermione’s experiences.

The Bulgarian wizard must have noticed Harry looking at him, since he spoke for the first time since he had greeted the others upon arrival. “I see her lying there, and I want to do anything to make her recover faster. A witch so brave and skilled should not be in such a state.”

That did sound like a life debt to Harry. Or like what he felt as a Patron for his retainer. He looked at Hermione, who was biting her lower lip. She must be thinking the same. Poor Viktor. Not that Harry regretted saving Hermione, and becoming her Patron had been the best thing that happened to him in his whole life, but life debts were serious, dangerous things. “So… you think there is a debt?”

Viktor took a hissing breath, but did not answer.

“Debt?” Sirius looked at them. “What debt? Who needs money?”

“We’re wondering if Nymphadora’s actions have caused a life debt. She did sacrifice herself for us, after all,” Hermione explained.

“Oh.” Sirius frowned, and remained silent for a moment. “No, I do not think a life debt was created.”

“Why not?” Viktor asked, a hint of anger audible in his voice. “She risked her life for us!”

“Yes, she did,” Sirius agreed, “but it takes more than risking your life to create a life debt. You have to save someone else’s life by risking yours.”

“But she did!” Hermione exclaimed. “She sacrificed herself to create a diversion so we could escape!”

Sirius shook his head. “She did, and it helped without a doubt, but we would not have died for certain without her selfless action. We could have escaped through the windows anyway, for example, or held out a bit longer, until the villagers arrived.” He smiled at Hermione. “When Harry saved you from the troll you were helpless, and would have died without his brave but very, very lucky action. But if the same situation happened again today and Harry would risk his life and defeat the troll, it would not create a life debt, since you are now a skilled witch, and probably could defeat a troll, or at least escape. A life debt will not be created just because the people involved believe it.”

“Ah.” Hermione was not satisfied yet though. “But Viktor stated he wanted to do anything to help her. That’s just how I felt after Harry had saved me.”

Sirius chuckled at that, and Harry frowned. He didn’t see what was so amusing. Life debts were serious.

“Hermione, that’s a normal reaction. Not all bonds are magical. There’s the bond of friendship, there’s family, there’s love. If you have fought side by side, risked your life in battle with your comrades, then it would be weird not to form a bond. Back in the war, I grew very close to my comrades in arms, and would have done anything for them. And they would have done anything for me. Especially the witches,” he added with a leer.

Harry was at the same time embarrassed and happy to see Sirius joke inappropriately again. Hermione probably felt the same, since she did not chide him for it. He glanced over, and saw that she was lost in her thoughts. That did not happen often, so he was very curious what would occupy her mind like that. He’d have to ask her later.

“I see,” Viktor stated gravely. “The older wizards and witches, those who who fought in the last war, spoke of similar things. Of ties of friendship and honor.” He looked at the sleeping metamorphmagus. “Easy to mistake for a life debt, then, for those who are not familiar with such things.”

Sirius nodded, then added in a long-suffering tone and with a glance at Harry and Hermione “Oh, yes. Emphasis on ‘mistake’.” He ignored Harry’s glare, and for a bit at least, Harry’s family was back to normal.

*****​

After the Mediterranean, and the Black Sea, Britain’s climate left a lot to be desired, temperature-controlling charms on one’s clothes or not, Hermione thought. Or it might be just the circumstances of their return - earlier than planned, and with a still wounded Nymphadora - that made it seem so. On one level, it almost felt like running away, fleeing and leaving Viktor’s family and village to deal with the aftermath of the attack. Intellectually she knew that that was not true though - the attackers had come for Harry, not for the Bulgarians. There was no reason for another attack on the village. And yet… what if it happened anyway? If actual Ottoman raiders came over the border? Would more villagers die, like Lala?

Hermione closed her eyes, leaning back. She was in her room in her parents’ house, and should be working on runes. But instead of ways to protect electronics, Lala was on her mind. She felt guilty when she thought of the young Bulgarian witch who had welcomed her so warmly, when everyone else had been distant. And how had she repaid that? By looking down on Lala for her goals in life. Hermione had not shown her disdain, of course, but she had wanted to scoff at Lala’s pride in becoming a pureblood’s mistress. The British witch had even been rather angry when she had realized that Lala thought she shared those goals.

And then Lala had died defending her home, and her guests. Hermione’s family. While Hermione had looked down on the Bulgarian for her goals in life. And now she’d never be able to apologize. Telling herself that Lala hadn’t known about Hermione’s opinion of her path in life only made her feel more ashamed of herself.

Ashamed, and concerned. In hindsight, Hermione realized that she had been so affected by Lala’s views since the situation of the Bulgarian had been rather too close to her own. She was a muggleborn herself, and in love with a pureblood. She knew most wizards and witches expected her to become Harry’s mistress, his ‘other witch’. Some called it ‘wife of his heart’, or something like it. Most expected Harry to marry a proper pureblood witch to have a proper pureblood heir with. A few might expect Harry to follow his father’s example and live with Hermione in concubinage. But no one expected her to become his equal, his partner, his ‘proper wife’. In the eyes of Wizarding Britain, Hermione was and would remain the muggleborn who had to know and stay in her place.

And she could not stand that thought!

Hermione closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. Getting angry at what she had known for years served no purpose. And it distracted her from something else she had to consider carefully: staying with Harry - in whatever position that might be - was dangerous. Voldemort wanted him dead, and whoever stood with Harry would be sharing his fate.

Hermione stared at the ceiling. Harry had hinted at that before. She had told him off, of course. Lala’s death also showed that a witch wasn’t safe even if she was not the best friend of Harry Potter. She knew that muggleborns had not fared well in the last war. People didn’t talk about that, but the newspaper articles she had seen painted a rather clear picture. And Hermione had made a lot of enemies already. She had shown up just about every rich pureblood at school by beating them at magic, and they would not forget that. The likes of Malfoy would use the first opportunity to destroy her - one way or the other. Thinking of Malfoy, the young witch sneered. As if she’d let that foul cretin dictate how she would live her life.

Not that it mattered anyway. Harry was her best friend. Her love. She’d stay with him, to the end. Suddenly, she had to snort. She sounded like one of the witches in Lavender’s books. But it fit. She only hoped it was love and not magic making her think like this.

*****​

“Sirius? Can we talk?” Harry hated how timid he sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He really didn’t want to talk about this, not with Sirius. But Hermione was right - they had to talk about this, before it poisoned their relationship. Theirs with Sirius, not their own.

Harry’s godfather dropped the Prophet he had been reading on the sideboard next to his seat, and looked at the two teenagers, smirking. “Harry, you just sounded like one my old ex-girlfriends.” He raised his eyebrows at them when neither chuckled, then pouted. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Should I say ‘it is serious’ so you can make an even worse joke?” Harry asked.

That made the other wizard pout even more. But he whipped his wand out and summoned another chair. “Have a seat then, you two, and let’s see how I can help you.” Judging by the grin on his face, he expected them to blush, protest, or summon another chair.

They did nothing of the sort. Harry simply sat down, and Hermione slid into his lap. The closeness would help, or so he hoped. And the brief but pleased surprise on Sirius’s face was a welcome sight. It didn’t feel like it was a facade.

Of course, that was the moment Sirius held a hand to his mouth in an exaggerated gesture and gasped “You’re not telling me that I am about to become a great-godfather? I did tell you about contraception spells, after all!”

“What? No!” Hermione blurted out while Harry was gaping. Then both glared at the wizard laughing like a hyena at them.

“It’s about the attack in Bulgaria.”

Sirius stopped laughing at once at hearing Harry’s words. He almost seemed to deflate, leaning back in his seat and staring at the floor for a moment. “Oh. I should have seen that coming.” He looked at them both. “You handled yourself so well, I forgot you’re not used to that kind of battle.”

That wasn’t what Harry wanted to talk about, but it might be a way to ease into it. “It wasn’t that bad while we were in the battle.” It had been rather easy, actually, to attack those bandits with lethal spells. Too easy, Harry thought. Hermione believed it was the Patron Oath at work. Harry was inclined to agree, to a point - he thought he’d have killed anyone attacking Hermione without the Oath, but Hermione was still concerned they were influenced far more than they thought by that piece of old magic. He pulled Hermione closer to him and rested his chin on her shoulder.

Sirius nodded. “That’s not uncommon. You start casting, you fight and you kill, and you do not really realize just what you have done. Until it’s suddenly over, and you have time to think.” He shook his head. “Harry, those wizards were trying to kill you and all of us. Or worse,” he added with a glance at Hermione. “You shouldn’t feel bad at what you had to do to protect yourself, and those you love.”

Hermione had told Harry the same. It would have been more convincing if she had at least looked like she was following her own advice. Harry snorted. His love must have understood what he was thinking, since she pinched the back of his hand. He ignored it. Sirius had given him an opening, of sorts. “I am not concerned about feeling guilty.” Not that concerned, at least. “But I am concerned about, you know, getting used to it.”

Hermione had picked up what he was doing. “We’re afraid we might get so used to it, we’ll start to use fiendfyre ourselves.”

Harry didn’t think either of them would ever use that, not after almost burning to death twice in a few months, but it was close enough to what they actually wanted to talk about.

“You would be stupid to use fiendfyre! Even the strongest wizards - or witches - can barely control it, and many have been killed by their own creation.” Sirius shook his head. “There are better curses that will not turn on you.”

Harry pinched Hermione before she could start asking what spells Sirius had in mind. Sometimes, his love was a bit too intent on learning all that she could. “But aren’t those curses dangerous to the caster in other ways? You know, the Dark Arts?”

“Ah.” Sirius nodded in understanding. “Well, as you know, my family was rather … knowledgeable about the Dark Arts. So, just growing up, I picked up a lot, despite my difficulties with my relatives.” He leaned forward. “I guess you’ve heard all the tales of dark wizards, empowered by dark rituals and working dark magic, spreading death and misery, while they are getting corrupted by the Dark Arts?”

Harry and Hermione nodded. Some of the tales had sounded like the sort of cautionary tales adults made up to scare children into behaving, but others had sounded far less far-fetched.

“Well, they are not exactly wrong, but not exactly true either. What we call the ‘Dark Arts’ are basically spells and other magic used to harm others - to wound, control or kill. They are not inherently evil, nor do they damage your soul, or make you ‘go dark’, or whatever the idiots want you to believe.”

Hermione opened her mouth, probably to protest, but Harry’s godfather held up his hand and stopped her. “There is magic which does all that. Magic which truly deserves to be called The Dark Arts. There are rituals that have costs beyond what sacrifices they call for. Spells that harm the caster as much as the target, but in other ways. Magic more dangerous, all things considered, than fiendfyre. One mistake, and you may even lose your soul.” He looked at them both, then nodded, apparently satisfied they were listening. “But most of the spells that harm, control or kill a target are not like that. Not even the unforgivables.”

Harry felt Hermione tense up at hearing that. No surprise there - they had been told how evil those spells were quite often.

Sirius chuckled, but it lacked any humor. “My father used to say that the Ministry simply classified any spell as ‘dark’ if it was good enough to be used effectively in battle. He wasn’t wrong. The Ministry is using a legal definition, not a magical one. Using the killing curse won’t magically damage your soul anymore than using bombarda will.”

That was too much for Hermione. “Why are they outlawing the spells then? If a spell is not inherently dangerous, then the only thing that matters should be how and what you use it for!”

“They may not magically damage you or your soul, but they are not safe.” Sirius sighed, and leaned back. “Some scholars claim magic is all about intent. They aren’t completely correct, but intent matters. To cast the killing curse you have to hate your target very much. The more hatred you feel, the easier it gets to cast. And the more you cast it, the more you get used to hating others. It’s a vicious cycle, and in the end, you will have damaged yourself. Or your soul.” He smiled, but with a rather vicious expression. “So, stick to other spells. There are a lot of spells that can kill almost as easily, but without that kind of requirements. Most of them are family secrets of course - what the Ministry doesn’t know it cannot outlaw.

Harry nodded - it made sense. It didn’t answer the question he had started this talk for, though.

“Can we learn such spells?” Hermione, of course, had latched onto that part of the explanation.

Sirius smiled, but without humor showing in his expression. “I think you two have to learn such spells. Voldemort is out there, and he’ll come after you again.”

Harry interrupted the two before they could start discussing training schedules. “But… isn’t there a danger in getting used to killing as well? That one starts to kill far too quickly?” What he really had wanted to know was whether Sirius had started to kill too quickly, or easily. But he couldn’t ask that.

“Yes, there is. But if people want to kill you or yours, killing them before they succeed is usually the best answer. Both the Potters and the Blacks agreed on that.” Sirius bared his teeth as if he was in his dog form. “As long as you don’t start killing people who cut in line before you or insult you, you’re fine.”

Harry didn’t share that opinion, not completely, but he could understand it. If anyone wanted to attack Hermione he’d rather kill them than let them succeed. So he nodded. Sirius didn’t sound as if he was about to turn into a dark wizard on them. Or for them.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sirius transforming into a dog, and jumping onto Hermione’s lap, licking both their faces. Hermione shrieked and squirmed, distracting Harry even more, and the old dog was out of the room, barking loudly, before either of the teenagers could take revenge.

*****​

Sirius Black leaned against the door with his eyes closed. Neither Harry nor Hermione would be able to break into his room, not for another year or two at least, so there was no need to pretend anymore. He slowly slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor. That talk had been difficult. He didn’t like talking about those kind of things. It brought back too many dark memories. From his childhood, from the war, from … that time. But the two kids - his children in all but blood - had needed it. And, he thought with some pride, he had managed to help them.

Harry’s question at the end… if his boy knew how close to the mark he had hit… Sirius whimpered, the need to shift becoming too strong. As a dog, life was simple. No conscience that tormented him, no guilt to make him feel bad. Just gut feelings and instinct. Defend, hunt, kill. Being a dog had saved his mind and soul, in… that place. He had spent almost all his time as a dog. Any time spent as a man had been torture. Ten years he had been more dog than wizard. Padfoot, not Sirius Black.

He knew he couldn’t live as a dog. Shouldn’t live as a dog. And he knew it wasn’t healthy to hide as dog from his problems. But it was so easy to shift, to change, leave the doubts and sorrows behind together with wand and robe. His first instinct when something bad happened was to change into a dog. Even in combat. But he couldn’t protect Harry as a dog. Not really. Harry needed his godfather, not his dog.

Feeling as if he was letting his godson, the son of his best friend, down, Sirius had shifted into his dog form before he realized. And then he did not want to change back for quite some time. The big, black Padfoot stretched out on the thick carpet in Sirius’s room and took a nap.

*****​

Draco Malfoy threw the Daily Prophet on the ground, then set fire to it with his wand. He didn’t care about the damage it would do to the tiles in his room, house elves could fix that. The sight of the pictures of Potter and his mudblood desperately but futilely trying to escape the encroaching flames helped his mood some. Only some, though. The real ones had escaped the fire, after all.

Draco scowled. This summer Potter had seen combat, real combat that made one’s blood run hot, while he was forbidden from experiencing the same. And the brave pureblood who had done so much to kill Potter during the tournament was now dead. The aurors claimed it had been suicide, but Draco knew that that was just a cover-up. They had murdered the wizard, just as they had murdered so many fine purebloods during the war. And his father had forbidden him to strike back against such injustice! He should… Draco shuddered. No, he would not disobey his father. Not again, never again.

A wave with his wand sent the ashes left over from the newspaper scattering in the air. More work for the house elves. Those not attending his father’s guests right now - some old witch wearing hideous pink robes. His mother had made some disparaging remarks, before going to visit friends of hers. She did that a lot these days, Draco had noticed.

Draco’s thoughts returned to Potter, and the attack in Bulgaria. He had read all the articles, multiple times. Of course, the coward had fled instead of standing his ground, and had to be saved by pureblood wands and skill. Blood would tell, after all, even that of blood traitors like Sirius Black and Nymphadora Black-Tonks. But it probably had been too much to hope that Potter would have been killed, though why had his mudblood managed to escape as well? Draco knew she would not have fetched a good price in the markets of Constantinople he had heard of, but the slavers could have killed her at least, and removed that stain on magic from Hogwarts. If Draco had been there, no one would have escaped!

But he had not been there. He was stuck at home instead. And he had not even a muggle to amuse himself with, not anymore. He sighed, then smiled, remembering. His father had shown him things. Terrible, fascinating, exciting things. Draco shivered. He had not really known his father until this summer. He had known the Head of the Malfoy family was a great wizard, of course, powerful and skilled, though that had been the limited view of a child, a coddled child. The child his mother loved and wanted him to remain.

But Draco was no child anymore, and accordingly, his father treated him as a man. It had been a painful lesson, but he had learned it. And accordingly, he had been received a reward, fit for a man, not a child. The things he had done, the things he had learned, at his father’s side.

Draco smiled again.

*****​

“And then Nymphadora held up a badge, and we realized that we just had attacked a French auror!” Harry stated, chuckling.

“The French call them ‘gendarmes magiques’, actually,” Hermione corrected him, then stuck out her tongue at Harry when he pouted at her.

His friends had changed, Ron Weasley thought. The three of them were in one of the rooms on the ground floor in Grimmauld Place, the one they had more or less taken over as theirs, and furnished with comfortable couches and seats. Ron had noticed that Harry and Hermione were sitting closer to each other, touching and exchanging glances far more often than before their trip to France and Bulgaria.

He had expected them to have changed, of course, after hearing of the attack on them in Bulgaria, but not like that. He had thought that Harry would be hovering around Hermione, almost in a paranoid manner, and annoying the witch a great deal with ham-fisted attempts to ‘keep her safe’. Or that Hermione would be frantic, following Harry, her wand ready to hex anyone that looked dangerous. There were hints of that, true. Neither was really relaxed. Both tensed up whenever the door opened. But despite that, they looked like … a couple.

“So, everyone is worried about getting thrown into prison, and the wizard’s still on the ground, out like a light.” Harry continued his tale. Ron was only half-listening. Should he say something? Ask if they had finally slept with each other? No, he couldn’t ask that. But asking if they had finally realized they loved each other would sound too much like one of the wireless shows his mum and Ginny listened to. But he had to know.

“Are you a couple now?” When he saw their surprised expressions, he added: “I am not blind, you know. And I know my two best friends.” Who should have told him right away, of course. But then, both had been raised in the muggle world. Things were different there, he knew that. More prudish, less open.

“Well… “ Hermione hesitated.

“Yes, we are.” Harry stated and pulled Hermione into his lap. The girl yelped and the bottles she had been floating towards them stopped in the middle of the room for a moment. They did not drop though, and after a moment they were continuing towards them again.

Ron raised an eyebrow at the sight. Hermione had sounded surprised at Harry’s words, but she didn’t utter any denial or protest. Good enough in his opinion - he had feared the two would not settle their relationship issues before their sixth year. Things would have become rather difficult in that case, for everyone in the vicinity, including and especially himself, he thought. Now though they had a year to get comfortable. Hopefully comfortable enough to enjoy the Year of Exploration with him. “Good.” He summoned a bottle of butterbeer for himself, flipped the cap off and raised it in a salute to his friends. “About time too.” He grinned, but then stopped when he saw Hermione’s expression.

“What do you mean, ‘about time’?” His best female friend glared at him.

Uh oh. Ron didn’t know what he had done, but he knew she was quite angry. He had to say something safe. “Well, you’ve been dancing around each other for a long time now.” It was much clearer in hindsight, of course.

His comment seemed to mollify Hermione and she settled down in Harry’s lap once more, smiling. Ron didn’t know what she had been angry about, or why she wasn’t anymore. He’d have to ask Harry later, once they were alone.

Of course that was when Luna arrived, with Ginny and Neville in tow.

*****​

“Hermione!” With a cry, Luna threw herself at the young muggleborn witch.

Hermione almost hexed the blonde before she realized who it was, and before she could do anything else, the slim blonde was already sitting in her lap.

“Are you OK? Did you get hurt? The Daily Prophet didn’t mention you getting hurt, but we all know how unreliable that newspaper is.” Luna started babbling and running her wand - and hand - over Hermione in what seemed to be an attempt at finding hidden injuries. Harry, who had now the weight of two witches resting on his lap, made some strangled noise while Ginny giggled, Ron chuckled, and Neville looked slightly embarrassed.

Hermione tried to calm the blonde down before her friend tried to vanish her enchanted robes to check in detail. “I am OK, Luna. I wasn’t hurt at all.” At least not physically.

“Are you sure? You’re not just saying this, like Harry usually tries to, after a Quidditch match?” Luna stared at her with her eyes, already quite large, wide open, barely a centimeters away from her own.

“Yes, I am sure, I am not just saying this.” Hermione pulled her head back, almost hitting Harry in the face in her attempt to gain some distance, at least for her face.

Luna made a content noise and smiled widely, then hugged her. Hermione patted the blonde’s back reassuringly. The younger witch must have been as scared as after the last task. Harry made another groaning noise, but he would be fine. Like after a Quidditch match.

Ron summoned two bottles for his sister and Neville and invited them to sit down on the couch. Hermione waited a bit, but Luna didn’t seem to plan to move from her spot anytime soon. The muggleborn witch tried to gently push Luna off her lap, but the blonde had a surprisingly strong grip on her.

“Luna?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like a butterbeer as well? Or some milk? Pumpkin juice? Tea? Maybe a cola?” Maybe that would make her move.

“Yes!” Luna nodded vigorously.

“Which drink do you want?”

“What is a cola?”

“It’s a famous muggle soft drink.” Which, due to the sheer amount of sugar it contained, was almost never seen at the Grangers’. Hermione had a whole stash at Grimmauld Place though.

“What’s a soft drink?”

Hermione started to explain what soft drinks were. Too late she realized that Luna and cola might not be a good combination. But the lure of a new and exciting drink got the blonde off her lap and into a seat of her own. Harry shouldn’t have sounded quite as relieved though, in Hermione’s opinion - it wasn’t as if the two girls weighed that much.

Watching Luna try a cola for the first time was a fascinating and amusing experience. The blonde raised the glass, held it against the light, sniffed it, then ran her wand over it, as if she was handling an unknown potion. Hermione realized that Luna, like most witches, had no experience with muggle drinks at all. Suddenly, it was not that amusing anymore. “It’s safe, Luna. I drink it all the time. Ron’s been drinking it too.” Occasionally.

“Ron will drink and eat anything.” Ginny interjected with a smirk.

Ron just shrugged. “I have an open mind. You never know what you might be missing if you never try out new food.”

Hermione did not say that Wizarding Britain would be better if more wizards had an open mind for muggle food - and muggle culture. She wanted to, but if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that muggles were not exactly open-minded with regards to other cultures either.

Luna took a careful sip, then blinked. “Its good!” She smiled, then downed the whole glass. “Ah… quite refreshing!” Then she turned her attention to Hermione and Harry again. “It’s good to see you two together!”

“Thank you, Luna.” Hermione wasn’t sure if Luna was talking about them being a couple - her sitting in Harry’s lap was a clue no one should have missed, but Luna was a special case - or if she meant to see them both safe and whole after Bulgaria. Ginny and Neville had noticed, of course, and had been whispering to each other.

“You’ll be swamped with applications.” Luna nodded encouragingly.

“Applications?”

“Yes.”

“Applications for what?” Hermione was pretty sure she didn’t want to know, but had to.

“Sex, of course. Since you are now officially Harry’s girlfriend, it would be terribly rude to proposition him without asking your blessing first.”

“We’re not even in fifth year yet!” Hermione exclaimed.

“They do that?” Harry sounded shocked.

“The early snorkack gets the tuna sandwich.” Luna nodded sagely. “Can I have another ‘cola’?”

“Of course. And speaking of snorkacks, did you find any tracks on your expedition?” Hermione told herself it was just Luna, and summoned another bottle.

“Ah, we did find what we believe were snorkack lairs, abandoned though. Our tuna sandwiches kept disappearing, so they might have been around, but hidden from view.” Fortunately, Luna seemed happy to talk about her own adventures over the summer instead of what sexual adventures Hermione and Harry could be looking forward to.

Unfortunately, as Hermione and everyone else found out soon, caffeine had a rather strong effect on Luna.

*****​

Lord Voldemort, future ruler of Wizarding Britain and the wizard who had conquered death itself, carefully folded the latest issue of the Daily Prophet up before laying it on his desk. Combined with the news from Lucius, the articles proved that his ruse had worked - the search for the tournament saboteur had been called off, the case was considered closed. As planned. It was regrettable that Potter had survived the attack, of course. Getting killed by lowly bandits would have been a fitting end for the boy who had defied him. He briefly considered setting another trap for Potter, but decided against it. Should the boy be killed now, then people would assume a conspiracy, and take measures against it - no matter if there was one or not. It would be stupid if he started one investigation right after he had managed to stop another. Potter was not worth that trouble.

With the Ministry’s attentions deflected, he could work on furthering his plans with fewer obstacles in his way. Walden had his orders, as had Lucius, of course, but there were always ways to refine his plans. Maybe he should start on removing some of Lucius’s political enemies in and out of the Ministry. He’d have to be subtle, though. While it would be nice to both let his new recruits gain combat experience - they needed to be able to face aurors at some point, after all - and remove some obstacles at the same time, the risk of getting exposed was too high. At this point in time at least - the Ministry was not the most efficient institution, but it could be remarkably focused and quick to react when its employes were getting killed. Embarrassing and disgracing some of Dumbledore’s allies though, making room for purebloods with the right values, that would work. And there were other targets he could send his recruits against, to blood them and bloody them, without risking discovery in Britain.

The Dark Lord ran his hand over his head, through his thick hair. His new body still felt a bit off to him. He told himself that this would pass soon enough, he grew more comfortable with each day, while his new appearance would serve him well, once he had defeated his enemies. Some of the decisions he had made in the last war had left him looking rather… impressive and intimidating, but not as attractive as he had been. And no one would recognize him - not until he revealed himself.

He considered the possibilities those changes offered him for a while. There were more of his old followers to visit, but that could wait. Time was on his side, after all.

*****​

Hermione resisted the urge to crumple her Hogwarts letter up. She hadn’t been chosen as a prefect. Professor McGonagall had told her she wouldn’t be, months ago. The reason given, that as Harry’s retainer, there would be a conflict of interest, made kind of sense. Harry being able to order her around would be a problem. Should he ever decide to do something against the rules, she’d not be able to stop him unless he let her. And yet she had hoped…

Of course, as a true muggleborn, she shouldn’t have expected to be chosen as prefect anyway. Hogwarts was an egalitarian school, but only to an extent. The teachers wouldn’t admit it, but a muggleborn disciplining Slytherins, or other stuck-up purebloods, was not too unlikely to cause more problems than she was solving.

She knew all that, but given her achievements, she still had harbored some irrational hope. Which the letter had dashed. It would be easier to accept the news too, if Susan Bones had not been chosen as the female Hufflepuff prefect for their year. Susan Bones, who currently was visiting Grimmauld Place, which was why Hermione and Harry were sitting in the salon, and not in their usual room or the kitchen. The pureblood witch was not yet a close enough friend to take her there. Only out of respect for her status as heir of Amelia Bones, of course. And not because Hermione thought the redhead was a bit too close to Harry already. Who was a prefect, to no one’s surprise. Not picking the winner of the Triwizard Tournament as prefect would have been an insult worthy of a blood feud in past times, and would have damaged Hogwarts’ reputation through the questions such a decision would have caused to be asked about the standards and motives of the teaching staff.

“And I am looking forward to patrolling with you. Some of the other prefects I’d rather not be alone with.” Susan smiled conspiratorially.

“And I’ll be with him as well, of course.” Hermione cut in. It was at most a small faux pas - they were in Harry’s home, after all, and they were friends.

“What? But you’re not…” Susan hesitated.

“I am his retainer. Guarding his back is part of my duties.” The young witch sent Harry a look that stopped what comment he might have been about to make. This was not negotiable in her opinion.

“But they caught the saboteur, he’s dead.” Susan frowned. Her aunt was the head of the DMLE after all.

“Harry’s got more enemies than that. Would you put it past Malfoy to use the opportunity to ambush him?” Hermione nodded at the redhead, who had just hinted at a similar suspicion.

“That’s true.” Susan didn’t sound like she was looking forward to mixed patrols anymore. “But no one would even think of having Harry patrol with Malfoy.”

“Snape would.” Hermione countered.

“I can handle Malfoy.” Harry sounded as if his pride was hurt.

Hermione didn’t contradict him. She did not tell him not to underestimate the pureblood idiot either. She’d do that in private later. Instead she acted like a proper retainer again and summoned a few more butterbeer bottles and floated them to Susan and Harry, opening them with her wand. No muggle soft drinks for Susan.

“Do you know who will be the female Gryffindor prefect?” Susan spoke up again after drinking half a bottle.

“I guess Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil,” Harry answered.

Hermione winced. Fay Dunbar would have been a much better choice, if not for her beliefs. A purist simply did not use enough magic to handle the duties of a prefect efficiently enough. To think that either of the gold digger duo would be able to discipline her… well, Harry would put a stop to that easy enough, and if not… she had ways to deal with that, should it become a problem. She’d not let those two twits hassle her. Not when she had a number of serious problems to deal with already.

Susan winced as well. She was familiar with the two witches, of course, and their antics before the Yule Ball. Their guest changed the topic to general gossip, but Hermione caught the redhead sneaking glances at her. She raised her eyebrows in response, but the other witch didn’t react, leaving her wondering what that was about. She may have overstepped her bounds as a retainer earlier, but just a bit, even by the stricter standards of the older generation Harry and Hermione usually followed.

“I can’t believe we’re in fifth year already. One year more, and the madness starts.” Susan grinned.

“Hermione’s madness usually starts at the end of every year.” Harry quipped.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. She did take exams seriously, which was a good thing. In response he raised his hands in a placating gesture and acted as if he was trying to fend off a spell. Susan giggled at that, and then at Hermione huffing at her Patron’s antics.

“Are you looking forward to sixth year?” Susan sounded like she was just making conversation, but she was glancing at Hermione again even though she was addressing Harry.

“I haven’t really thought about it, with everything else that has happened lately.” Harry deflected the question.

While Susan apologized for dredging up such terrible memories, Hermione stood up to summon another bottle, then sat down again, so close to Harry that her thigh touched his. Hopefully Susan got the message.

It wasn’t until Susan had left again that Hermione realized that Susan might have gotten a slightly different message than the muggleborn witch had wanted to send.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore finished the last of his paperwork for the coming term and dropped it in the small basket for the Hogwarts house elves to pick up. Even with delegating - dumping - much of the paperwork on Minerva, it still took up too much of his time. Time he should be spending on finding a way to deal with Voldemort.

The Dark Lord had not been as careless as he had hoped, following the apparent success of his ruse. Albus had noticed Lucius being more active at the Ministry, meeting more people than just the Minister himself, but other than that, Voldemort’s suspected followers had not shown any unusual activity. There hadn’t been an incident like the attack on the World Cup last year either.

Severus didn’t know anything - he had not even been contacted by Voldemort yet. Albus was not sure what to think about that. Did Voldemort not trust Severus anymore? But if he did suspect him, wouldn’t he use the potion master to feed Albus fake information? Or had he contacted Severus already, but the young professor had kept it from Albus? Could he trust him still? The Head of House Slytherin had been showing more of a temper lately. He had been angrier too. It could just be stress, but…

Albus sighed, and petted Fawkes, who was picking at his bowls of lemon drops. The phoenix liked to play with them from time to time, and Albus liked to watch the mythic bird’s antics. He drew a line though when Fawkes tried to feed them to him and fended off his companion’s determined attempts to stuff him full of the sweets.

Feeling better, he focused on his problems again. He could trust Severus, for now. He knew just how much the young wizard loathed the Dark Lord. But with his spy not delivering information, or not yet, he had to find other ways to discover Voldemort’s plans - without alerting the Dark Lord that he was on to him. Getting the Order to keep an eye on the suspected Death Eaters, especially Lucius, would be easy. No one wanted Lucius to corrupt the Ministry further, and many of Albus’ friends, even Arthur Weasley, were well-connected enough to hold their own in office politics, which was what Lucius was meddling in. The Wizengamot was not in too much danger of getting subverted either - all of the members remembered the dark times of the Blood War, and a number of them had never believed the excuses Voldemort’s smarter followers had used after the Dark Lord’s defeat. But Albus lacked sources in the seedier parts of Wizarding Britain, where Voldemort would find eager recruits. Mundungus was well-connected, but he was but one wizard, and, as much as Albus hated to admit it, not as young nor as sober as he used to be. Moody knew some informers, as did Kingsley, but the DMLE’s lack of success in controlling the denizens of Knockturn Alley showed that those sources were not enough.

There was one wizard who had the kind of contacts Albus needed, or so he assumed, but the wizard in question had hated him for almost a hundred years. Albus was not looking forward to talking to his brother.

Chapter 16: Past and Present Problems