Patron (Harry Potter AU) (Complete)

Chapter 1: On the Train to another World

Another September 1st, Hermione Granger thought, standing in front of a compartment of the Hogwarts Express. She was wearing her school robe already, the one for the students up to and including 5th year. Black, conservatively cut - even for muggles - and sporting a badge on her heart with the colors of Gryffindor, her house at school. The robe looked mundane, but it was heavily charmed, actually floating mere millimeters above her skin and kept at 22 degrees Celsius no matter the actual temperature around her. The fabric was resistant to wear and tear, and repelled most fluids as well. Hermione doubted any other 4th year student could have cast such spells, much less enchanted a robe, but her pride in her work was muted by the need to hide her achievements. It would not do for a muggleborn, much less a true muggleborn, to show up the pureblood students. Even or especially those wearing robes bought and charmed at Madam Malkin’s. They wouldn’t do anything overtly, of course, but she had enough enemies already. Making more out of pride would be a mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

The young witch reached up to touch her necklace. Or more precisely, a torc. Celtic style, pure gold, enchanted of course, showing the Potter crest on one of the pendants between her collarbones, indicating her status as a retainer of the Head of the Potter Family. Which consisted currently, and for the foreseeable future, of herself, and her Patron, Harry Potter. An orphaned boy and a muggleborn girl. No home, ancestral or otherwise. No real estate. No fortune - after buying that torc in their first year Harry had just a bit more than needed to cover his and her remaining education at Hogwarts. And no pureblood ancestry dating back to the Founders. It would be a joke of a family, if not for Harry being famous as the Boy-Who-Lived and the Slayer of Slytherin’s Monster.

The first had been achieved by Harry alone. Defeating the worst Dark Lord of Wizarding Britain had seen in a long time as a toddler had earned him that title as well as the approval of the Wizengamot for his posthumous adoption by his father, James Potter. If not for that Harry would have legally been the muggleborn Harry Evans. The second title though… that should have been hers as well. Hermione scoffed. Would have, if not for the circumstances of her birth.

Students passed her, most of them nodding at her, receiving a nod in return. Some ignored her, of course. Most of those were wearing the green colors of House Slytherin. Beatrice Wells, Gryffindor 6th year, stopped and smiled. “Hello Hermione.”

“Hello Beatrice. Did you have a nice vacation?”

“Oh, yes. My family went to Spain, Barcelona.” The older girl smiled. She was wearing the open robes of the 6th and 7th years over a shimmering red and black dress that seemed to slowly flow around her. Hermione recognized it from the display in Madam Malkin’s she had seen on her last visit to Diagon Alley. It was the least expensive of the dresses there, though by no means cheap. Simple and very modest, for Wizarding Britain - it covered her from neck to knees. Hermione had expected that, since Wells was another “true muggleborn”, as those wizards and witches born to muggle parents were called. One of only four currently at Hogwarts, including Hermione herself. The dresses, if one could call those elaborate magical constructs by such a normal word, some of the pureblood girls of the 6th and 7th years wore under their open robes would turn heads even in the most liberal muggle night clubs or on the catwalk in Paris.

“Nice. We went to France again. Burgundy this time.” Hermione wondered if her and Wells being ‘true muggleborn’ would make those muggleborns born to magical parents ‘fake muggleborns’. It would fit them, she thought, since they were usually as isolated from the muggle world as the half-bloods and purebloods. The two girls chatted about their vacations a bit more, then Wells went off to find a compartment of her own. Hermione remained standing there, waiting.

More students passed her. Among them was Draco Malfoy, in a robe made of green spider silk, overloaded with gold and jewels, gleaming with enchantments that formed and reformed his family’s heraldry on his chest. Another work by Madam Malkins. The boy was sneering. A year ago he’d have insulted her. Had insulted her in fact. Now, with Harry’s godfather exonerated and confirmed as Head of the Black Family, Draco apparently had learned some discretion. Hermione didn’t think it would last.

She felt her torc grow a bit warmer, the enchantment informing her that Harry was nearby. Turning her head she spotted him entering the carriage and felt the familiar burst of happiness at seeing him. He was clad in a red and black robe that shone with protective spells woven into the fabric. Professional work, better than her own spells, if not as customized. Sirius hadn’t skimped after the incident at the Quidditch World Cup.

The young witch smiled, not as widely as she felt like, but appropriate for a retainer meeting her Patron in public, and bowed in the formal greeting.

“My Patron.”

“My Wand.”

As soon as Harry returned the formal greeting she straightened up and opened the door to the compartment. He strode inside and she followed, locking the door and providing privacy with a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation. Then she hugged him. Hard. It might just be the magic of the Patron Oath at work, but she was almost sighing contentedly at their brief closeness.

“Hi Harry!”

“Hi Hermione.”

Sitting down, Harry pulled out his trunk, unshrunk it, then got his school robes out. Hermione resisted her sudden urge to sort and repack his stuff in an orderly fashion when she saw the chaos inside. Instead she sighed, loudly, which made him laugh, and her giggle.

A conjured screen - a variant of a predecessor of the protego Hermione had found during third year when researching self-defense spells - preserved Harry’s modesty while he changed into his school robes.

“Is Hedwig already on her way to Hogwarts?”

“She is, yes. Sent her ahead after breakfast at Sirius’.” Harry threw the expensive dress robe into his trunk, grinning when he caught her wincing, then closed and shrunk the piece of luggage. Hermione shook her head at him, grinning despite herself. He had come a long way since she first had seen him, the real him and not the image her books had painted of him in her mind.

*****​

It had been her worst day at Hogwarts, in first year. Well, the worst day so far. She had been crying in a bathroom, the harsh words of Ron Weasley hours earlier having been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Alone, ostracized by her fellow Gryffindors, her at the time pitiful attempts to make friends rebuffed. It had felt like the end of her new world, a world full of promises, of discoveries, of magic.

Then the troll had entered, sniffing the air, growling, waving with a massive club, a ripped out tree trunk she realized while she stood, frozen in fright. The beast had spotted her, and let out a roar that broke her out of her paralysis. She had scrambled away, on all fours, frantically, ducking and dodging, all thoughts of magic and her wand forgotten in the face of such a monster. It had wrecked the bathroom, smashing toilets, sinks, stalls and walls with ease, showering her with shards and splinters that cut her skin. It had driven her on, away from the door, until she was trapped in a corner, bleeding. The troll had bared its teeth, slowly raising the big club, as if it was savoring the moment until it would smash her. Hermione had known then she’d die there, alone and far away from her family.

And in that moment he had stormed inside. Harry Potter. The orphan hero who had vanquished a Dark Lord as a toddler. Harry had distracted the monster by jumping on his back and climbing up. At once the troll had forgotten about Hermione and had attempted to shake the young wizard clinging to him off. Ron had been there as well, at the door, wand in hand, staring, until she had shouted at him to cast. Their spells had been ineffective though, the skin of the troll too tough, his grip on the club too strong, until Harry had stuck his wand up the monster’s nose and roasted his brain with what Hermione later thought to be accidental magic. He had almost been crushed when the monster had toppled over, smashing the last intact sink in the process, but the young wizard had managed to get clear at the last second. He had never lost his grip on his wand either.

Hermione would never forget the sight of him, standing on the corpse, his wand tip covered with smoking black ichor, smiling at her, asking if she was safe, unhurt. It had been a moment right out of a fairy tale. The hero, having defeated the monster, and the girl he had saved, staring at each other, ready to...

Then the teachers had arrived, and the moment had ended, and they were just students who had broken the rules. And killed a troll.

*****​

Hermione touched her torc, running a finger over the three enchanted pendants dangling from it. That incident had changed her life. Without it she doubted she would be here, with Harry. She’d probably be in a similar situation like Wells - or gone from Hogwarts. All due to the troll in the bathroom, and of course the talk between two Slytherins she overheard in the library in Hogwarts.

*****​

“That know-it-all made a spectacle out of herself again today. It’s a wonder she didn’t rip her own arm out of its socket, she was raising her hand so fast at each question.”

That had been Pansy Parkinson’s voice, a tad shrilly. Hermione had stopped her search for the most recent volume of “Irish Magical Herbs and Seeds”, and had listened to the conversation on the other side of the shelf.

“What can you expect from mudbloods? Even the ones born into our world are barely civilized.” That had been Draco Malfoy, chuckling at his own “wit”. She had recognized his voice easily - there hadn’t been a day he had not thrown verbal barbs at her, Harry or Ron.

“And the way she’s hanging around Potter. Disgraceful. And he lets her, treats her like an equal even though she owes him her life.” Pansy had sniffed, as if she had smelled something nasty.

“Potter is a disgrace. If I was in his place, I’d use her life debt to put her in her place.” Draco had laughed at his feeble word play again, but it had sounded a bit forced.

“Does your father know who is going to be her Patron? Maybe she’ll be reigned in next year.”

“That’s an excellent idea. Or… maybe my father will become her patron. That would be ideal. I’ll write him.”

Hermione had heard Pansy laugh at that and praise Draco for his cunning, but had stopped listening to their talk. Life Debt? Patron? Put her in her place? She had had no idea what the two Slytherins had been talking about. But she had been in a library, the best and biggest library in all of Wizarding Britain. She would find answers.

And she had found out what the two had meant, in the hours that had followed. She had skipped dinner, caught up in her research, hunger losing any importance when faced with the growing feeling of horror at what the various books and scrolls she had read had revealed to her.

‘When a wizard risks his own life to save the life of another wizard or witch, a life debt is created. Magic itself will ensure that it is paid back with an equal deed or service. As long as the life debt remains active, a strong bond is formed, to facilitate the repayment. Many a wizard whose life has been saved sacrificed his own life later, to repay the debt. A noteworthy example was Hieronimus Parkinson in the Battle at Hogsmeade in 1612, where he took a dozen poisoned goblin arrows for James Abbot, who had saved him from a Manticore 10 years before. The alliance between the two families created by those deeds lasted until the unfortunate almost-wedding between Agatha Abbot and Cyril Parkinson in 1709.’

Hermione had imagined sacrificing herself to save Harry. It had felt right. Then she had realized how wrong that should have felt, and realized that magic was already influencing her. The young witch had needed a few minutes to calm down after that, her fist pressed into her mouth to prevent herself from screaming in the library.

‘To repay a life debt requires an equal deed or service. Among wizards of equal standing, only saving the other’s life, honor or livelihood will truly balance the scales, and lacking such an opportunity can cause quite a detrimental effect as the magic keeps prodding the indebted party, even to the point of dividing their loyalties between their saviour and their own Head of family. It is thought such a situation was the root of the infamous Green Solstice in 1375, when the Head of the Fickleton family as well as his designated successor and bride fell to killing curses cast by his younger brother Anastasius, who owed a life debt to the heir of the Fickleton’s ancient rival, the Proudfoot Family. It could not be verified, since Anastasius in turn was slain by his cousin, with a killing curse as well, before his brother’s corpse had touched the ground.’

She had already been familiar with the hierarchy of Wizarding Britain caste system - though that particular term was absent in every book she had read - with purebloods on top, half-bloods below them, and muggleborns on the bottom. Since she was a muggleborn and Harry a pureblood, this did not apply to her.

‘Between Wizards of unequal standing, repaying a life debt is far easier, for the indebted party can either grant their saviour a boon far above their station, if of higher standing themselves, or enter their service as a retainer, if of lower standing. An extreme example was the adoption of Lucullus Harrison by the Head of the Macmillan family as a reward for saving his life. The muggleborn wizard was thus elevated to pureblood status, though it is believed that he was his natural son, born to a muggleborn client of the family, to begin with.’

Hermione had been surprised to realize just how rare Harry’s adoption might have been according to this volume - though maybe that had changed since this book had been written a century ago. But the implications for her had pushed such thoughts from her mind. To find out she was pushed by magic to repay her debt to Harry... What she had thought to be friendship could have simply been the effect of magic compelling her. That had been terrifying enough, but what her search for the meaning of ‘Patron’ had revealed…

‘Muggleborns, those rare wizards or witches born to actual muggles, without a magical parentage on either side, posed quite a problem for Wizarding Britain, lacking any blood ties to established pureblood families. In the past most of them were simply taken from their muggle families by the pureblood wizard who discovered them and were raised in a magical family, but that practise was outlawed by a Royal Decree shortly before the 16th century. Instead the Patron System was established by Fytherley Undercliffe, the Headmaster of Hogwarts at the time. Muggleborns would receive a Patron during their time at Hogwarts, to help guide them into the Magical World and provide them with a Head of Family and a proper, secure place in Wizarding Society. At the time most muggleborns were married to half-bloods, elevating their children to half-bloods and creating true ties of blood to a pureblood family. The practise of muggleborns marrying each other, or even entering concubinages with not so discerning purebloods was still unthinkable, so muggleborns very rarely inherited their Patron from their parents, as is the usual case today.’

That had not seemed that bad. Hermione would have welcomed having such a Patron to explain to her the intricacies of Wizarding Society, after her first visit to Diagon Alley. She had felt so overwhelmed at walking through such a magical street, filled with sights she hadn’t even been able to imagine, that she hadn’t been able to think clearly, much less ask all that she should have asked Professor McGonagall then. And her time in Hogwarts so far had been spent learning magic, not the ins and outs of the society she was now part of. How stupid she had been!

‘At the beginning there was a fierce competition among some families for talented muggleborns, which besmirched the dignity and importance of the Patron System and even caused a few muggleborns to grow arrogant and have demands far above their station. Fortunately it quickly became tradition that only one Head of Family would ever offer to become the Patron of a muggleborn, determined at the Summer Solstice Meeting of the Families following the muggleborn’s first year at Hogwarts. When the Wizengamot was established this task fell to it.’

Hermione hadn’t liked the undertones in that part. To have others decide who her Patron would be - it was unsaid, but clearly implied that the offer could not be refused - seemed wrong to her. What if someone like Snape would pick her? Or, even worse, Draco’s father?

‘A Patron is like the Head of Family for a true muggleborn. He or she provides guidance for those not fortunate enough to be born and raised in a magical family, helping them to become a productive member of Wizarding Britain and supporting them in their career. While it is a great responsibility to teach a muggleborn wizard or witch the ways of the Magical World, nothing is as rewarding for a Patron as seeing the muggleborn take their place alongside their peers after Hogwarts, marrying and raising children of their own. Only in rare cases does a muggleborn prove to be in need of more than gentle guidance, and thus require their Patron to resort to the means offered by the Patron Oath to correct their behaviour.’

She had been shaking when she had finished that part. If Draco’s father would become her Patron … she had felt bile rise in her throat, and had barely managed to keep from vomiting on the library floor. She had not been an expert in Wizarding Britain’s politics and society, back then, but she had had no illusions what being a client or retainer of the Malfoy family would mean. Months of constant insults and “pranks” and “accidental hexing” had left no doubt about that.

Tears had ran down her cheeks while she had tried to find a way out. Running had been impossible - they’d have found her. Attending Hogwarts was mandatory, and they might even had taken her from her parents afterwards. Hoping for a less bigoted Patron would not have been enough. The teachers would not have been able to help her, since her fate would have been decided in the Wizengamot. Even worse, with her life debt, she’d have been caught between magically enforced loyalty to Harry and whatever magical compulsion her Patron would have been able to command. She hadn’t been an expert, but it certainly wouldn’t have been a good position to be in. How naive she had been, to assume Wizarding Britain was just like her home country, but with magic!

The young witch had still been searching, desperately, for salvation when the library had closed. Her fellow Gryffindors had assumed she had been studying for an upcoming test, and hadn’t cared about her state, though Harry had seemed concerned, before Ron had pulled him up to the boys’ dorm. Harry, she had realized then, before she fell asleep herself, hungry and exhausted, had been the key.

*****​

“What are you thinking about?” Harry’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She smiled at him, and pulled lightly on her torc.

“I was just thinking of when you became my Patron.”

“Ah.” He smiled, though she was aware he did not completely feel like smiling. For all the two of them had gone through, she knew he still felt a bit guilty about her situation, no matter how often she had told him it was the best thing he could have done for her.

*****​

“Harry, I need to talk to you.” Hermione had stated. With a glance to Ron she had added, “Alone. It’s very important.” She hadn’t disliked Ron, but she’d certainly not have wanted to discuss the most important decision of her life with someone who argued against doing one’s homework on time every time she had reminded him and Harry. Judging from the way Ron had cringed and made himself scarce, her glance might have been closer to a glare. Or he had spotted her full bookbag, and had thought it was about homework. It hadn’t mattered, only Harry had, and he had come with her to an unused classroom.

Hermione had closed the door had laid out her notes and books on the table, carefully. She had been delaying, nervous to the point of trembling, and about to bite her lower lip until it bled.

“Are you alright?” Harry had sounded concerned, caring. As she had come to expect of him. She had shaken her head.

“No, I am not. I am in a terrible situation, and only you can help me.” His surprise had quickly given way to determination, as she had expected. Quickly - relatively, for it took some time to explain it all - she had told him what she had found out about life debts and the Patron System.

“So… it’s possible that Draco’s father will become your Patron?” Harry had sounded as horrified at the thought as she had been feeling.

“Yes. It doesn’t have to happen, but… he hasn’t been a Patron yet, so custom would give him precedence over those wizards and witches who already have been a Patron.” Or so she had thought. A lot of Wizarding Britain’s customs were not codified, or even written down. One simply had to know it, had had to be born into it. The best she had been able to achieve was inferring and deducing from recorded events.

“But what can I do? I am not a member of the Wizengamot.”

“I owe you a life debt, and you are the Head of the Potter family. You can become my Patron. Even though you’re still a minor, a life debt is so important, and so personal, it takes precedence over any other claim.” At least partially because the magic of a life debt was so strong, one could not trust a Patron Oath to hold against it if the two conflicted. Or any other oath or obligation.

Harry had looked unsure, almost afraid. Hermione had not know what he had been afraid of, but had not cared. Her life had been on the line. She had laid a hand on his arm, looked into his eyes.

“Please…”

Harry had shivered, then taken a deep breath and calmed down. “Alright. I’ll do it. But I don’t know what I have to do.”

Hermione had beamed at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you!”

*****​

Remembering that scene, Hermione had to smile. She had been so naive then, and so selfish. She had had no idea of just how many things she had had to learn, and to teach Harry.

“Did you ever regret what we did then?” Harry asked, fiddling with a small mirror.

“No.” Hermione had regretted it, of course. Had even ranted, when she was alone, at the injustice of it. But compared to the alternatives, it had been for the best - both for her, and for Harry. Even though they had had to struggle. Or especially because they had had to struggle for it.

*****​

It had been the first time Hermione and Harry had been in the office of the Headmaster. She had been awed, almost distracted by his personal library, by the strange and wonderful knick-knacks, and of course the beautiful phoenix, whose trilling greeting made her feel warm and loved, and banished her nervousness. Dumbledore had kindly smiled at them, introduced them to Fawkes, as the phoenix had been called, invited the two to sit down, and then offered them lemon drops. Hermione had declined, as had Harry. She had been so nervous, she had had trouble eating dinner that day.

“Now, what important topic do you two have to discuss with me?” The Headmaster had sounded like an indulgent grandfather, kind and caring. Hermione had taken heart at that, and had gotten straight to the point of their meeting, while she still felt the phoenix’ magic calming her.

“Sir, as you without a doubt already know, I owe Harry a life debt, since he has risked his own life to save me from that troll during the Samhain celebration. To repay that I offer to become his retainer. As his guardian, we ask for your blessing.” Technically, the Dursleys had been Harry’s guardians, but they had only been able to handle the muggle aspects of his life. For anything magical a witch or wizard had been required, and the Headmaster had been Harry’s guardian for such matters, in loco parentis. A life debt repayment and a Patron Oath without a doubt qualified as magical matters Harry needed his guardian’s permission for.

“Ah. Miss Granger, Harry, you are still young children, who should not be burdened with such grave matters. A life debt is an obligation not easily repaid. One should not talk about becoming or accepting a retainer lightly, or without the knowledge of what such things entail. I would be remiss in my duties if I would let Harry take on a responsibility he is not ready for.” Hermione had not been sure, but she had thought there had been a flicker of surprise and annoyance on Dumbledore’s face, before he spoke with his grandfatherly, if patronizing tone.

Usually Hermione would have been swayed by his words and manner, deferring to a wiser and more experienced adult, but this had not been some complaint about lessons, or some minor trouble. This had been about her life, and she had given this a lot of thought, had sweated and cried about it. So she had sat straight in her seat, collected all her courage, and responded. “Sir. The life debt exists, its bond exists. I can feel its pull already. All the books I have read agree that unless I repay this debt, I will always feel beholden to Harry. And becoming his retainer is the only way I have to repay the debt, short of saving his life.”

“You are still young. Who is to say you will not be able to repay the debt in another way, later in your life?” Hermione had to blink at that. Did the Headmaster expect another troll to enter the castle? “Harry, my boy. You should enjoy your childhood, not try to take on a responsibility beyond your years. We are only young once, and the older we grow, the less carefree we become.”

Hermione had been able to see that Harry might be swayed by the Headmaster’s reasoning, and had spoken up again, her words aimed at both even though she addressed Dumbledore. “Headmaster, in less than a year I will have a Patron. It could be anyone, even Malfoy.” A glance had shown her Harry straightening up. Good.

“Miss Granger, Patrons are selected from the Heads of Families. Experienced wizards and witches. Harry is a mere boy, and raised by muggles. He cannot provide the guidance and insight a Patron has to offer, since he is still in need of guidance himself.”

“If given the choice, I’d rather have Harry than Malfoy as a Patron. I think I am better off without the kind of guidance I’d receive from Draco’s father if his son is anything to judge him by”

“The Malfoys are an old family, Miss Granger, They can offer a lot to a young witch new to the Magical World.”

“They can, Sir. I have my doubts they will. Judging by Draco’s words and actions, they do not seem to be favorably inclined towards muggleborns such as myself.”

“You should not judge the family by the actions of a child, Miss Granger. Young Draco is still seeking his way, making mistakes as children are wont to do.” He had turned to Harry, who had been scowling. “Harry, do you really think you can be Miss Granger’s Patron? Wouldn’t she be better off with a more experienced Patron? What can you offer her that would help her in her life?”

Hermione had seen then how Harry had cringed, doubt and insecurity written on his face. And she had been flush with anger, the urge to protect him, console him, filling her. The life debt at work, she had later realized. At the time, she had simply acted, not thought, and wrapped Harry in a hug while she glared at Dumbledore. “Headmaster! He has saved my life! No one else can ever equal what he has done for me! If he’s not ready to be my Patron now, then he’ll be ready next year. He can learn. I will help him.” Again a flicker of anger had appeared in Dumbledore’s eyes. She had barely noticed it, since Harry had returned her hug at the same time. “If you are unwilling to give your permission for this, then maybe Harry is in need of a guardian who will not stand against all tradition and refuse to let a life debt be honored.”

She had not understood, back then, why that had made Dumbledore cave in. She hadn’t been experienced enough, hadn’t known enough about politics and Wizarding Britain’s society. But she had never been able to fully forget the idea that Headmaster might have wanted for Malfoy to become her patron, despite her life debt towards Harry, no matter how stupid it sounded. All that had mattered had been that the Headmaster had given his permission. Hermione, afraid of Harry changing his opinion or losing his backbone, had pushed for an immediate ceremony right then and there.

Harry and Hermione had stood up and had been facing each other in Dumbledore’s office, with the Headmaster watching from the side. Hermione had bent her right knee and held out her wand with both hands above her head, as they had rehearsed beforehand.

“Harry James Potter, Head of the Potter family. You have risked your own life to save my life. To repay that, I, Hermione Jean Granger, offer you my wand to be used in your service, to be raised in your defense, until it is buried with me.”

Harry had taken the wand. “Hermione Jean Granger, I, Harry James Potter, Head of my family, accept your offer and welcome you into my service and into my family, to be protected in need, and guided when lost.” With that he touched her head, then her chest over her heart with Hermione’s wand before handing it back to her. “Raise your wand for me.”

Hermione stood up, then raised her wand. “I swear to use my wand in your service, raise it in your defense, until it is buried with me. Lumos.” While her wand tip lit up with bright light, Harry raised his own wand.

“I swear to protect you in need, and lead you with honor, and treat you as family. Lumos.” His wand tip too lit up. They - or rather Hermione - had chosen an older version of the Patron Oath, much closer to an oath of fealty in that it bound both Patron and retainer than the currently commonly used version, which only stipulated the duties of the retainer. She had felt the bond changing when the oath took effect, but it had been a subtle change. The desire to help and protect Harry had still been there, just less urgent. A background melody instead of a voice whispering into her ear.

When the two had canceled the light spells Fawkes had thrilled again, and warmth and happiness had filled Hermione again. Impulsively, she had hugged Harry once more. To the side, next to his phoenix, Dumbledore had smiled, though a bit sadly, until the magical bird had pecked at his hand and demanded some treats. He had chuckled then.

*****​

Indeed, it had been one of Hermione’s most memorable events. The first time she had worked powerful magic with a lasting, life changing effect. Before that day all she had done was casting some spells. Minor magic, fit for a beginner witch, seldom more than training exercises. Easily cast, and easily ended. That oath though… Once again she touched her torc. She was still feeling its effects. That happiness she felt when she saw Harry, the slight nudge to follow his suggestions - easily overcome though, since it was a very weak compulsion - were all due to the Oath.

“Oh, just for your information - Sirius is buying you a “proper retainer’s collar” for your birthday, to go with your dress robes.” Harry obviously had noticed her gesture. Hermione looked at him, narrowing her eyes. Given how much of a prankster his godfather was…

Harry held up his hands. “Don’t worry, he does mean a real proper collar, not a, ah…”

“Not a dog collar, but a livery collar, yes.” Hermione didn’t really think Sirius would send a prank gift - he cared very much about his godson’s reputation, which by extension included her own - but it would be prudent to open any gift in private. She blushed slightly when she remembered her own reaction to reading about a “retainer’s collar” when she had been researching the Patron System. Fortunately she had not shared what she had thought those collars were with anyone else before she had found out they looked like the chains of office mayors wore to special occasion. They were only worn with dress robes, and at a select few official events though, so they hadn’t needed to get one so far.

Her torc had been another thing, far too expensive in her opinion, even now, but then, Harry had been livid when Malfoy had mockingly insinuated he couldn’t afford to buy her a proper retainer’s insignia, and had gone overboard, no matter how much she had insisted that a simple ribbon would work fine. She was sure that even without Harry being her Patron she wouldn’t have been able to convince him.

“He does his best to spoil me.” Harry smiled a bit ruefully. He wasn’t that comfortable with it, which Hermione privately found funny - she had been in his place, after all, when Harry suddenly had come into money after the basilisk.

“It just means you can use your money for more important things.” She grinned at him.

“Like you?” He grinned cheekily right back, causing her to frown. She wasn’t a thing.

“Like your education.” And hers.

“You just want more rare books to read.”

“Yes.” Hermione wasn’t ashamed to admit that. Books contained knowledge, which they needed. The more they knew, the less mistakes they’d make. And they couldn’t afford to make many mistakes to begin with.

“So… which poor piece of muggle electronics will you be wrecking this term?” Harry’s tone was light, teasing, and yet Hermione couldn’t help but scowl when he reminded her of her past failures in getting electronics to work at Hogwarts.

“A radio receiver and a walkman. I am convinced that wards are the key to make them work. Electronics work fine right next to Diagon Alley, they work fine even when you cast spell after spell around them or on them, but they stop working once you enter the Leaky Cauldron. It has to be wards that stop them from working.”

“You’ve been busy at home, haven’t you?”

“Not more than usual. Besides, home is the only place I could experiment. Grimmauld Place has wards as well.” Without the permission of their Head of Family, or Patron, or guardian, an underage student was not allowed to do magic outside school. Hermione had gotten a blanket permission from Harry, so technically it was all legal, even if Harry himself wasn’t allowed to cast spells without Sirius’ permission.

“It would be good to be able to listen to music and news at Hogwarts. Sirius has a great, if slightly dated, collection of records from the 70s.”

“You know my dad has a collection as well. What does Sirius listen to?”

For the next while the two compared the music styles of their respective families, sharing amusement at some of the more embarrassing records they had discovered, and reminiscing about the good songs they’d be missing at Hogwarts until the holidays.

“Do you think the Triwizard Tournament will feature a concert?” Hermione had been overwhelmed by her first wizard concert at the Quidditch World Cup. Words, even records couldn’t adequately describe such performances, where spells and music came together to form something far more than either could provide alone. That event alone would have been worth attending the World Cup, Hermione thought.

“I sure hope so!” Harry sounded enthusiastic. Things had been going well for him, and her, ever since Sirius had been exonerated. “This should be a good year. A great year even.”

*****​

Deep in the bowels of the Ministry for Magic, Barty Crouch Jr. wiped sweat from his brow and sat down for a bit, to catch his breath. Manipulating an ancient artifact dating back to the Founders, or close to, was exhausting. Dangerous too - without the instructions from his master, he would have never survived the attempt, and even so he had had to resort to a dark ritual to affect the Goblet of Fire.

Rested enough, he stood up, then checked his pocket watch. A few more minutes until his polyjuice potion would wear off. He took another swig from his flask. It wouldn’t do to suddenly change form, even at this hour of the day. While his father had a legitimate excuse to be at the Ministry in the middle of the night - everyone knew he was married to his work, after the death of his wife, which would also neatly explain his upcoming illness - Barty Crouch Jr. was supposed to have died years ago, and getting discovered might threaten the plans of his Master. Something he’d die to avoid.

And what glorious plans they were! He was not privy to all of them - his master was cunning and cautious - but he had done an important task today. The Boy-Who-Lived and his pet mudblood would receive quite the surprise come Samhain. They would pay for murdering his master’s basilisk.


Chapter 2: Memories and Musings

 

Chapter 2: Memories and Musings

Harry leaned back while Hermione was explaining her latest attempt to get electronics working at Hogwarts. In great detail. The runes and arithmancy theory did sound good to him, but he was not the researcher of the two and she had lost him when she started to post-OWL stuff. So he made the appropriate appreciative noises and studied his oldest and best friend. She was looking well. Slight tan from her vacation, hair loose so her long curls were covering most of her shoulders - he somewhat fondly remembered her bushy hair, before she had learned her first cosmetic spells - and her new robe. Enchanted by herself, of course.

That was Hermione as he and only a few others knew her: Passionate, enthusiastic, happy. Most only knew the facade she presented to the rest of the world. The stoic, dutiful and loyal muggleborn retainer. The shadow of the Boy-Who-Lived. The know-it-all who beat the purebloods at their own game. Harry himself was presenting a facade to the public as well. The Boy-Who-Lived. Youngest seeker in century. Slayer of Slytherin’s Monster. And youngest Patron in history. He almost scoffed at that thought.

He hadn’t known anything about the Magical World when he had boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time. He had committed so many faux-pas in his first few months out of sheer ignorance, he had almost ruined his reputation if not for his Quidditch talent and his killing of the troll. Such heroic deeds had bought him some leeway, he had been seen as eccentric rather than uncouth. Until he had become Hermione’s Patron. Then he had to quickly learn what he should have known all along. Fortunately Hermione was a good, if pushy tutor. If she wanted to learn something not much could stop her. Not even a teacher.

*****

Hermione and Harry had knocked on the Transfiguration teacher’s office door after dinner, and it had swung open by itself while a disembodied voice - not the professor - had invited them in.

“Professor McGonagall?”

“Please enter.” That had been her voice, friendly, tough with a touch of impatience - or annoyance, or so Harry had thought. They had been in that office before, after the incident with the troll. It hadn’t changed. Marble furniture that seemed to grow out of the floor: A desk, shelves, even chairs. Not much in the way of decorations - a single painting of a Highland Cottage on the side, a wand mounted on the wall. The rest had been books and parchment. Austere, cold, solid. Like McGonagall, in a way. And yet flexible when needed - she had to use magic to adjust her office all the time, Hermione had theorized.

The teacher had been looking at them, not quite frowning, but far from smiling. “What can I do for you, Mister Potter?”

Not “Mister Potter, Miss Granger?” Ever since Harry had become Hermione’s Patron it had been like that in such meetings. It had been quite the contrast from the more egalitarian stance during classes. Hermione had felt insulted at first, when she had noticed, but then she had realized that addressing both of them when they were together would have been a faux-pas since it would have implied that they had a similar status. Which would have been an insult towards Harry. Just as it would have been an insult to let Hermione speak for them when addressing both a pureblood Head of Family and an authority with her Patron present. Hermione could have come alone, but Harry hadn’t wanted that. It was for his sake, after all.

“I am in need of lessons in Wizarding Etiquette, Professor. Hermione and I have been studying the relevant tomes in the library, but we have noticed there are a few gaps in the knowledge provided by the books.” A fact that had vexed Hermione greatly. The girl had practically devoured “The Wizard’s Book to Etiquette” and “Etiquette for Witches”, only to realize that they were meant for half-bloods and muggleborns. Purebloods, especially Heads of Families, were meant to learn proper conduct in polite society from their family. Hermione had managed to deduce part of what they needed from various sources, among them even a play that denounced “uncouth muggleborns” by contrasting them with well-bred purebloods on stage, but that method had had its limits. Not to mention that it had also taught them quite old-fashioned customs - although acting even more conservative than the purebloods their age certainly had confused them.

“I am sorry to say this, but I am quite busy with my duties as Transfiguration Mistress, Head of House and Deputy Headmistress. I cannot spend time tutoring students in topics outside the official curriculum.” The professor had not sounded quite as sorry as she had claimed to be. Harry had glanced over to Hermione. She had picked up on that as well, and had had to fight not to butt in. Harry had expected that reaction - none of the teachers had been happy with Harry becoming Hermione’s Patron. Part of that had been caused, he knew, by him and Hermione exploiting their unique circumstances to circumvent a number of school rules which had never been meant to deal with a student also serving as a Patron.

“Oh, of course not, I’d never impose on you like that. I fully understand that Hogwarts has not the capacity to provide such lessons.” He had smiled widely, as guilelessly when he had convinced his elementary teacher that he and his cousin had had nothing to do with the bird bath incident. “I just wanted to ask for permission to hire an etiquette tutor. Well, not for permission to hire one, I do not need anyone’s permission for hiring someone for my retainer, but for him or her to visit us in Hogwarts for the lessons.”

“Mister Potter, only staff is allowed to teach at Hogwarts. I cannot permit such visits.” Harry had been sure Hermione had been biting her lower lip then, ready to explode at the old witch. A glance from him had caused her to settle down a tiny bit. Good enough.

“I understand completely.” His smile had shown more teeth then. “I’ll have to hire a tutor over the holidays, and over summer. It will be quite the workload, but I bet a number of people will jump at the chance to teach the Boy-Who-Lived what Hogwarts or his guardian in loco parentis could not, so I should manage to find a willing teacher.” From the way McGonagall had frozen for just an instant, she had understood what he had implied.

“On second thought I think I can manage to spare the time to fill those gaps you mentioned.” Her eyes had been blazing though her tone had remained controlled, if more than a bit cold. He had not cared that much, despite knowing she was already overworked to some degree. But he needed those lessons, for Hermione as much as for himself, and she was his responsibility. Besides, if McGonagall had noticed Hermione missing at Samhain, none of this would have have been possible.

A bit later the two had left the office, with a tentative schedule for etiquette lessons in their pockets. Hermione had been more than a bit disillusioned that they had had to use such pressure to achieve their goal, but Harry had considered that the first lesson he had taught her as her Patron.

*****​

Hermione was still detailing her planned experiments. A lock of her hair had come loose - he wasn’t sure if that was a fault or feature of the cosmetic charm she used - and she absentmindedly pulled it back behind her ear while explaining about interlocking inverted runes. He had thought she was pretty, even before she had had her teeth fixed, but he knew she was insecure about her looks. And, though he didn’t like to think about that, she might mistake his intent. A Patron had a lot of power over their retainer, and he would not be able to bear seeing his best, most trusted friend look at him with fear in her eyes. Fear of what he might demand of her. He felt guilty enough about her situation as a muggleborn, and that wasn’t his fault.

It was bad enough with the Dursleys. They tried, honestly tried, to be his family, to support him, care for him, but they were so afraid of magic, so afraid of him, he had hated living with them. And had hated himself for feeling that way.

He could not even honestly blame them. Aunt Petunia had lost her parents and sister to wizards who saw her as barely more than an animal, then had been told by Dumbledore that only Harry’s presence in their home protected them from those wizards who wished him and his family harm. He couldn’t hold her responsible for not telling him he was a wizard either - she had been informed of what the consequences were for breaking the Statute of Secrecy. And as he had recently found out, from Sirius, his father and his friends had played some pranks on Petunia and Vernon back in the day. Harmless for wizards (or so Sirius claimed - his standards were a bit off, Harry had found out), but terrifying for muggles who couldn’t undo spells with a wave of their wand and were utterly helpless against magic. It had not been a surprise that she had panicked when Harry had started to have bouts of accidental magic. Not after he had thrown the older boy who had tried to steal Dudley’s toy 10 meters back with a wave of his hand and obliviators had covered it up, but had not touched the Dursleys.

That had happened when he had been five. Petunia had, in an attempt to prevent further such incidents, told her neighbours that Harry was a nice kid, but could “freak out” when pushed. She had meant well, but instead of instructing their kids not to push or bully Harry, the neighbours had told them to avoid him. At least Dudley wasn’t afraid of him, or his special power, as Petunia had explained his magic to him, when ordering him to keep it secret, “or bad men will come and take you away”. An explanation that had made sense to him after watching Dr. Who. It hadn’t helped with his isolation from other kids his age, though. Something he shared with Hermione.

And he actually had a special power, something other wizards had not, as he had found out in his first year.

*****​

Harry had gone home for Christmas but both he and the Dursleys had been glad that he had spent a number of days after Christmas with the Grangers, after Hermione had given them a heavily edited explanation which had taken a long time, even though it could have been summarized as “He saved my life, and now he is responsible for me according to Wizarding Society”. Some of the looks Hermione’s parents had given him had made him almost wish they’d have been afraid of him. Though all in all it had been a good time - best Christmas holiday in years for him.

Neither he nor Hermione had been suspicious when the Defense Teacher, Professor Quirrell, had asked them to meet them in his office after dinner on the same day they had returned to Hogwarts. Hermione usually had done extra credit work for any teacher that allowed it and Harry had demonstrated a talent for defense even the rather demanding professor had acknowledged.

His office had been cluttered with books and all sorts of strange things, not unlike Dumbledore’s and a far cry from McGonagall’s, but it hadn’t had the sort of “lived in” feel that the Headmaster’s had. And no phoenix. It had been darker too, with less lights floating around, and those that had been there had been mismatched like the furniture. The result of too many different teachers, over the years, who had used this office had but never really taken it over. What was unique though was the smell, no stench, of garlic that had filled the entire room. Harry had almost gagged, and he had heard Hermione gasp.

“Good evening, Mister Potter.” The professor hadn’t been behind his desk, but had appeared at their side, out of the shadows there, surprising - to put it mildly - the two students. Before Harry had realized it he had positioned himself between Hermione and the teacher. At the same time he had felt a sudden, stabbing pain in his scar that made him gasp and almost fall down. He had recovered though, despite the ongoing pain, and had faced the teacher, who had looked quite different compared to before the holidays.

The man’s robes had been rather frayed, and instead of his usual wide hat, which tended to float after him when he took it off and was enchanted, as he had been fond to say during class, with enough spells to hold a rampant Manticore at bay, he had worn a turban. His face had looked haggard too, quite a difference from the jovial wizard they had known, and his eyes had showed an intensity that was almost frightening. “Please hand over your wands, I need to check them. There has been an incident.”

The two had done so, after a slight hesitation, with Hermione looking indignant at the suggestion she could have broken whatever rule had been broken during this incident. Harry had been distracted by the constant pain in his scar - he had expected blood to run down his face any moment, or bleed into his brain.

The teacher did not check the wands though, but dropped them into a drawer of his massive desk, which closed by itself at a gesture from him. Harry had started to grow concerned then - handing over a wand was a major gesture in the Wizarding World, apart from authorities in the line of their duty, only the closest of friends would even ask for that.

“Tell me, have you heard about the artifact hidden in this school?”

There had been rumors about something valuable or important or dangerous hidden in the school. Neither Harry nor Hermione had paid much attention - in their spare time outside school and, in Harry’s case, Quidditch, they had been busy trying to learn as much of the rules of Wizarding Britain as possible while avoiding Draco Malfoy’s attempts to discredit or simply injure them.

“No, Sir, I haven’t.” Harry had answered while Hermione, her curiosity evident, had perked up, and stepped up to his side.

The man smiled, and Harry’s unease grew. That smile had been very different from his usual, slightly teasing smile. “Dumbledore has hidden the Philosopher’s Stone here.” When neither Harry nor Hermione showed any sign of recognizing it, the man snarled. “The most sought-after alchemical artifact in the history of magic! I’ve been looking for it for a week, while Dumbledore attended the usual New Year’s festivities at the ICW and the Ministry of Magic, and I haven’t found even a trace of it, only false leads and traps.”

Harry had glanced at the door then, but a flick of the professor’s wand had covered the rust-colored wooden door with a shimmering field of magic. “Too late Mister Potter.” Quirrell had been standing behind his desk, a smile so warped it had almost looked like a caricature on his face. “Your mudblood will go and tell the Headmaster that I demand the stone, in exchange for your life.” With that he had aimed his wand at Harry and shot a red spell at him.

Harry still remembered the surprised expression on Quirrell’s face when said spell hadn’t hit him, but had been reflected back at the caster instead, striking the teacher right into his chest. The man had fallen down, but hadn’t been knocked unconscious - though he had started to move with obvious difficulties, in an almost uncoordinated manner. “Potter!” he had growled in an inhuman voice, “You’ll pay for this!”

Harry and Hermione had charged forward to get their wands, but neither had been able to open the desk drawer. In desperation, Harry had taken a page out of Dudley’s book and had jumped the wizard still trying to get up. Both had tumbled to the floor again, and Harry had started to hit the man wherever he had managed to reach. His weak blows had not shown any effect, until he had landed one in the man’s face.

To his horror, the face had started to disintegrate, turning into ashes. And while the growling had turned into curses, the face had not moved, not even the eyes, while the body had started to jerk and twitch, then flail around. “Potter! Curse you!” It had only been after the turban had come undone that he had caught a glimpse of a second, monstrous face on the back of Quirrell’s head, screaming at him in pain and hatred, until that too had disintegrated, leaving only ashes and a green spectre that had fled through the wall. Harry and Hermione had exchanged shocked looks, then Harry had stared at his hands, right before he had thrown up on the still smoking corpse.

The two had been stuck there for a few hours, until the spell on the door had faded and they had been able to get help - the desk had withstood any attempts to get the drawer to open. They had covered the remains up with some tarp taken from an empty cage in the corner, and had spent the rest of the time sitting on the other side of the desk, trying to puzzle out what had happened.

They didn’t find any explanation, until Dumbledore told them that the man had become possessed over the holidays, likely during his trip to the Mediterranean, where he had planned to investigate ancient tombs.

*****​

Harry still remembered the lessons he had learned then: He had a special power, and he should never hand over his wand to anyone he did not trust. The latter lesson had gotten him into trouble with Snape more than once, of course; but that would have happened anyway.

Hermione had finally finished her explanation of her planned experiment, and despite his well-timed appreciative comments she smiled at him in that mixture of fondness and slight annoyance that told him she had noticed he hadn’t really paid attention. He smiled in return, spreading his hands briefly to show he had noticed. A brief check of his new watch - a gift from Sirius as well, mechanical and enchanted of course - showed they still had quite some time until the Weasleys would arrive, unless they had decided to break with their pattern of always boarding the train at the last minute. Thinking of Ron...

“‘Baiting the Basilisk’ is still selling well. Lockhart sent us our cut for the second quarter last week.” It had been sent to him alone, and both of them knew it, but neither commented on it. Instead Hermione nodded, and noted down the sum in her ledger.

“That alone should cover the tuition for this year.” she commented happily.

“Sirius insisted on paying my tuition.” Harry frowned slightly. He was very happy to have a godfather, a link to his parents and his family’s history, but he had been very proud of being able to provide for himself and Hermione thanks to something he - they - had earned. Hermione snorted, amused - she hadn’t missed the parallels between Sirius’ stance, and Harry’s stance towards her own tuition.

That book, but more so the events that led to it being written, had changed all their lives, back in their second year. Harry would never forget that night.

In the words of Lockhart, “Terror stalked Hogwarts in those days. Someone, something, had petrified a member of the staff and several students. Not even the great Dumbledore, vanquisher of the Dark Lord Grindelwald and the only one You-Know-Who ever feared, had found the lair of Slytherin’s Monster yet. It seemed only a matter of time until the first victim would be found dead - or disappeared. No one seemed safe, not after a Slytherin pureblood had been found petrified together with a ghost. And the mandrakes ordered would not arrive for several more days, so we had no remedy for those petrified. The students huddled in their common rooms, seeking safety in numbers, no matter how much of an illusion that would be in the face of such danger. They would have been sent home already, if not for the terrifying suspicion that among them, hidden by the darkest magic, lurked the Heir of Slytherin, and that sending them home would loosen him and his monster on the Magical World. Aurors supported the staff and had found a colony of acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest. Some thought the Monster had been found - but I and every reader of “Adventures with Acromantulas” knew of course that those beasts rent and poisoned their victims, they did not petrify. No, Slytherin’s Monster was not a giant spider, but something far more terrible.

I had written to all my friends, whose adventures and heroic deeds my readers are surely familiar with, and asked them for advice. Advice, not help. I was sure that with Dumbledore as our protector we had no need of more wands, but knowledge only those who hunted the most dangerous terrors of the Magical World would be privy to. I would be proven wrong, for the knowledge we needed would be found in Hogwarts itself, thanks to our own hero, the Boy-Who-Lived, and his faithful friends. The young wizard had only weeks before been mistaken for the Heir of Slytherin himself due to his ability to talk to snakes - a great gift, as Jungle Jenny, the witch whose bravery and skill with a wand was only second to her beauty and whose deeds I have recounted in “Out in the Outback”, would say, as would anyone else living around the deadliest of snakes. And yet, far from carrying a grudge, he and his loyal retainer Hermione Granger as well as his best mate Ron Weasley, had snuck out of their dorm and braved the dangerous hallways, to search the library of Hogwarts, where I, on a similar mission, encountered them.”

*****​

Harry, Hermione and Ron had used his father’s cloak of invisibility to sneak to the library. Harry had been reluctant to go, but Hermione had been adamant that they only needed a bit more information to identify the Monster, and that time was of the essence. The young witch had also argued that the library, with all the protection spells to prevent theft or damages, would actually be safer than the common room. Since she had been there, unhurt and safe, while Hagrid, carrying a mirror for some reason, had been petrified not ten steps outside, Harry had been forced to agree with her logic.

The library had been an impressive sight. The walls, lined with ancient wooden shelves, reached far higher than the those of the great hall, thanks to expansion charms. Floating marble platforms allowed those perusing it to reach those heights safely and easily. Self-indexing shelves, not quite as old, filled most of the center and wings. Not quite as tall, but still topping four meters each, they could be commanded to rotate their books up and down at verbal commands so there was no need for ladders or floating platforms there. The newest shelves even found books on certain topics, at the mere touch of one’s wand and a strong mental command, and deposited them in one’s hand. That the whole library was covered with a tailor-made silence spell, allowing everyone to talk normally without the voices carrying further than a few meters, was almost to be expected, as much as self-expanding tables that never ran out of space for books or studying partners. Hermione’s home away from home, Ron had called it - the young witch certainly felt at home there, and had happily informed them about the features of the library at every opportunity during their first year, eyes filled with delighted wonder at such a paradise for a bookworm. Kind of like Ron got when it came to Quidditch, not that Harry had ever voiced that comparison to either of them.

They had made their way, still invisible, to the back, near the restricted section. There, visible, but out of reach of even the most advanced student without permission from the Headmaster himself, were the rarest, and most dangerous tomes stored, some of them dating back to the time of the Founders, some said to be even older. Hermione’s Holy Grail, Harry knew. That night though she had not wasted more than a single, longing look on those books before she had turned to the Magical Beast section, face set with stubborn determination.

“My Patron, I would suggest we split our efforts up. One searches the books dealing with mythical and extinct beasts, the other two search through the tomes describing exotic beasts.” Hermione’s expression had clearly indicated that she did not consider this a mere suggestion. She had not yet been as able to hide her feelings on such matters.

“A good idea, my Wand.” Back then, they had been formal with each other even if had been just the two of them and Ron. That had changed, of course, that very night.

The three had been sitting at a table in the back, books covering the top. Hermione had gone through three tomes already, Ron had been on his first, Harry on his second, when they had been interrupted by the arrival of Lockhart. The professor hadn’t been happy to find three second year students there. But since he had been as pragmatic as his lessons, he had not taken much to be persuaded into joining them rather than escort them back to the Gryffindor dorm once he had seen their planned research. As he had put it “If more of my colleagues were willing to research knowledge rather than search the castle, we might have already dealt with the monster.” He had even granted them a pass to access the books that spells prevented students from taking out of their shelf without special permission from a teacher.

Harry hadn’t known how long they had spent there, barely talking to each other but for showing each other possible monsters, until Hermione had suddenly exclaimed “Yes! I’ve found it!” The three others had quickly crowded around her, staring at the picture of a basilisk in an old tome while the excited witch had explained her reasoning. “It all fits! Harry could understand it, so it has to be a snake, or snake-kin, or serpent-like monster. The spiders leaving, the dead roosters - probably the work of a conjured fox, not a real one - and the petrified victims, since every one of the them had only seen the reflection of the basilisk’s eyes, not the eyes directly. Hagrid must have come to the same conclusion, that’s why he has been carrying a mirror! And the monster is traveling through the pipes, that’s why no one found it yet and why Harry could hear it!”

Lockhart had nodded. “It sounds convincing, enough to take to the Headmaster. Basilisks… they have been thought to be extinct in Britain for hundreds of years, maybe even in the world. The last sighting I investigated was a hoax. Well done, Miss Granger. Let us head to the Headmaster’s office then, and inform him.” Hermione had beamed at the praise, and Harry had felt proud of her. Then he had frowned. His best friend had beamed at the famous, good-looking author turned teacher, and he hadn’t liked that.

Hermione and Lockhart had sent the books back to their proper places with a few flicks of their wands and they had gone off. Not even at the door though Harry had heard the hissing voice of the monster again - coming their way!

“I hear the basilisk! It’s headed towards us!” His voice had been muffled by the library’s enchantment, but his friends and Lockhart had heard him. Ron had paled and started to pray to all the gods he could think of, Hermione had trembled, but both had taken their wands out. Lockhart had been faster though, grabbing the three children and pushing them back towards the restricted section. “Hurry, if we hide it might pass!”

They hadn’t needed much prompting, and had run to the back of the library, pressing themselves against the ends of the shelves, hopefully hidden from view. Harry and Hermione in the middle, Ron to their right, Lockhart to their left. The author had been shaking as well, sweat covering his face - they knew he had started to join hunting expeditions for his latest books, but always in the company of a experienced wizards or witches. And yet he had taken out his ever-present mirror - Harry had decided then and there not to make fun anymore of Lockhart’s well-groomed appearance - to observe the doors of the library.

“D-Do you think it has gone away?” Ron had asked, whispering despite the muffling spells.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Harry had answered, holding Hermione close. The young girl was almost panting, and biting on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

“The doors have just been pushed open. It’s coming inside.” Lockhart’s voice had destroyed what faint hope they had had. The monster had been inside the library, they could not look for it without dying, and the spells that muted their own words inside the room would hide any sound the beast could make until it was upon them. The wizard had started to cast, conjuring rooster after rooster. “Send them away with stinging hexes. If we are lucky one of them will get close enough so its cry will be heard by the monster. It won’t kill them, only a real rooster could, but it should still affect it.”

While the three students had started to cast - missing a few before they managed to steady themselves, Hermione had muttered, quietly so only Harry had heard, “I would have never thought I’d die because a library was too silent.” Then the cries of the stung roosters had made conversation impossible.

Suddenly the shelf Harry and Hermione had hidden behind had started to shake, as well as the next on the other side, and the sound of a gong filled the library. “That’s the alert that sounds when someone tries to remove a protected book without permission! It alerts the librarian!” Hermione had exclaimed. It also threw the miscreant back, as Harry had been told. More gongs sounded - the monster had to be stuck between those two shelves, books shaken loose by the impacts, hopefully getting battered by those spells. “Run!” he had shouted. “To the exit!”

The four had scrambled up and had started to run towards the doors while behind them the massive serpent had trashed, caught between the two shelves holding the “magical beasts” section. Eerily, no sound but their own steps and the gongs could be heard even though shelves might be crashing and tumbling behind them.

Lockhart had been the first at the door, reaching out to open it when he suddenly had been propelled sideways, crashing into a table. A slim figure had appeared in front of the doors, smaller even than Hermione, her wand still pointed at Lockhart.

“Ginny?” Ron had exclaimed, incredulously, when his sister had turned towards him, showing red eyes and cruel expression.

“Hah! Did you think you could escape me, Potter?” She had smiled almost manically, and Harry had realized this was not Ron’s sister, but someone possessing her. Ginny had started to say something else, but had been interrupted by Hermione.

“Petrificus Totalus!” The muggleborn witch had cast the spell perfectly, as expected, but the spell splashed harmlessly against a blue shield suddenly protecting the redhead.

“You dare raise your wand against me, mudblood? Crucio!” Ginny’s face had been twisted with hate as she had cast, and Harry had not thought, just reacted, throwing himself between his best friend and the possessed witch, shielding her with his body. Instead of the expected pain he only felt a brief shock as the spell had been reflected towards Ginny, who had cried out with pain for an instant before she had dropped the spell. The girl had been reeling and before she had managed to cast again Ron had tackled her to the ground and wrestled her wand away from her. Hermione’s next body-binding curse had not been deflected, nor had been a stunner from Harry.

With a groan, Lockhart had gotten up. “What happened?” he had asked, shaking his head and blinking, blood seeping through his left sleeve. At that moment the gongs, which had been constantly ringing, had suddenly stopped.

The four had looked at each other for an instant, no one daring to look back. “Run!” And they had run again, through the doors, leaving Ginny or whoever had been possessing her behind. Turning to the right and around a corner, Lockhart had stopped, wand raised and aimed at the floor in front of the doors to the library. When the basilisk had crashed through them, the floor and the doors literally exploded in its face.

The others had only heard an inhuman, monstrous roar, but Harry had heard the curses, the promises of vengeance, and the pained exclamations as the monster had come at them again. Another corner, and a fiery flash had passed them. Only when Harry had heard the trilling song had he understood - Fawkes! The phoenix had been attacking the monster!

Another roar shook the walls. “Eyes! Eyes!” And Harry had understood what Fawkes had been doing.

“It’s blind, Fawkes blinded it!” He had shouted as the reached the next corner, only to see the stairs in front of them turn away just as a sad trilling had sounded behind them, suddenly cut off. “Dead! Kill!” the basilisk had shouted, in triumph.

“He got Fawkes.” Harry had spit out, staring at the empty space where the stairs had been. They had been trapped, no way out. Lockhart had barely managed to run, still hurt from Ginny’s spell. But… “It’s blind, we can trap it here. Send it over the edge!”

Hermione had nodded and had started to cast at once. “Aquamenti!” Harry and Ron had followed her example and had covered the floor with water, which Hermione had turned to slick ice.

“Heard! Kill!” the basilisk had shouted and suddenly Harry had been filled with anger, fear forgotten.

“Then come get me, you stupid snake!” he had shouted - in parseltongue, as Hermione had told him later.

With another roar the monster had just done that, charging around the corner. Harry had already been moving to the side, and still was almost clipped when the monstrous serpent reached the patch of ice and, unable to stop, had slid over the edge where the stairs had been and had fallen down three floors to crash head first into the stone floor.

*****​

As they had soon found out, the fall had killed the beast. Its poison had been sizzling, eating through even the magically treated stone floor - which had cracked from the impact. Hermione had mentioned something about larger animals being more vulnerable to falling, but Harry had not been paying attention. The auror contingent had surrounded the corpse with wards and charms to keep anyone from stepping into the drops of poison splattered around it while the four basilisk slayers had been ushered to Madam Pomfrey to be checked and treated.

Dumbledore had arrived at the infirmary as well, some time later, with an unconscious Ginny floating behind him. “Another victim of Slytherin’s Monster” he had stated, handing her over to Pomfrey. He had looked over at Harry and his friends, then had met Lockhart’s eyes until the author had nodded in understanding. ‘Baiting the Basilisk’ would later strongly hint at Ginny having been controlled by some hitherto unknown power, probably similar to the hypnotic eyes of Chameleon Boas, a fact that had vexed Hermione’s sense of intellectual honesty, as her father had explained it to Harry one day after a particular rant of hers.

On the positive side, all three students had received a cut from the profits of Lockhart’s next book - if not as much as his usual partners got, seeing as he had been involved a bit more than usual in dealing with the beast. Technically, Harry had gotten Hermione’s share as well, as was his due as her Patron, but at least he had gotten to spend it on her tuition without hurting her pride.

The encounter had also turned Ron from Harry’s mate into a friend of the two. Sharing lethal dangers tended to make minor annoying personal faults seem unimportant, or so Hermione had claimed, though Harry had wisely not asked if she had meant hers or Ron’s. At least they hadn’t had to go through all the formal etiquette anymore when it was just the three of them, since Ron now counted as “close family” and would not expect such formalities.

*****​

“At least the book royalties are coming in. The Ministry has still not paid out the due compensation for confiscating the corpse of the basilisk.” Hermione’s voice shook Harry out of his reminiscing. “I can’t believe settling things take that much time, with Lockhart, you and Dumbledore waiting for it.”

“Sirius said that until the Ministry has found a way to profit from it it won’t be settled.” Hermione muttered some very uncomplimentary words about corrupt officials in response. The young witch could be very opinionated about the virtues of an efficient and transparent government. Harry changed the topic before she could could start a rant about the lack of democracy in Wizarding Britain. “It’ll be good to see Remus again.”

As he had hoped, Hermione picked up on it. “Oh, yes. He’s the best DADA teacher we have had so far.”

“Better than Lockhart, five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award?” Harry couldn’t help but tease his best friend about the crush she had had on the Professor.

“You’re just jealous.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, grinning widely, before pulling her legs up on the seat to prop up her book with her knees. “Does that mean Sirius will visit his best friend often, and oh so coincidentally will meet his favorite godson as well?”

Harry smiled in response. “Indeed. He stocked up on enough floo powder to fill a trunk.”

“It’ll be good for him. He shouldn’t be alone.” Hermione grew serious again. Harry knew that she thought Sirius needed therapy after his ordeal, but his godfather was adamant in his refusal, claiming he only needed to live it up to make up for the years he lost to Azkaban. Sirius had pulled himself together after escaping that prison, but it taken him weeks until he could think clearly enough to actually contact Remus, instead of sneaking into Hogwarts and trying to capture the rat while hunted by a horde of dementors. Harry knew his godfather still wasn’t really well, but he couldn’t do much about it. His own encounter with the dementors was still fresh in his mind, to imagine having to live around those monsters for 12 years… he shivered.

“Here.” Hermione handed him some chocolate. “Have they found the one who ordered the dementors to attack us yet?” Harry shook his head in response, munching. “I bet they haven’t yet decided what makes them look worse, having dementors go out of control and attacking the Boy-Who-Lived, or having someone inside the Ministry who had sent dementors to attack the Boy-Who-Lived and might send them out again at someone else.”

Harry frowned. “You’ve been spending too much time with Sirius, he said exactly the same thing.”

“At least we now know how your power works.” Hermione pushed her errant lock back behind her ear again.

“No more experiments where poor Harry gets cast at.” Harry grinned, exaggerating his relief. It hadn’t been that bad, but Hermione had been rather obsessed with finding out what his power did, why it had repelled the spells from Quirrell and possessed Ginny, but didn’t save him from Draco’s ambush in 3rd year, or any of her own spells, and her experiments had become more… elaborate over time.

“Dumbledore knew all along, but never told you about the blood charms until you were about to move in with Sirius. That man and his secrets…” Hermione huffed, annoyance visible on her face. She hated when knowledge was hidden from her.

“To be honest, that was a secret better not revealed to just anyone.” That his protection worked against Voldemort and all his marked followers was good news. That Voldemort was not dead, but trying to return to life, and had attempted so twice by possession, was rather bad news. At least Harry knew his family would be safe at Privet Drive. And seeing Ron’s reaction when he had realized that he had tackled Voldemort himself when he had charged his little sister… Harry had to chuckle. Hermione looked puzzled, so he explained. “I was thinking of Ron’s reaction to hearing about that particular secret.” That caused her to grin as well.

“Speaking of him… it’s a quarter to 11. The Weasleys should arrive any time now.” Hermione stood up and opened the window, leaning out. “I don’t see any redheads yet though… ah, there. They just arrived.” She drew her wand. “Expecto Patronum!” A silvery otter started to swim around in the air in front of their window. The witch sat down, then frowned at Harry’s bemused expression.

“You really like that you finally mastered that spell.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “It’s more dignified than shouting. As your retainer, I have certain standards to hold up.”

“And you can show off that you mastered a spell most adults can’t cast.”

“That too.”

Crookshanks chose that moment to make himself be heard, demanding to be let out of his pet carrier. Hermione narrowed her eyes at her familiar as she opened the carrier. “I should feel jealous. You sleep for hours during the trip, and as soon as Ron shows up, you wake up.” As Harry expected, the half-kneazle ignored her complaints and started to strut around the compartment.

A short time the door to the compartment was opened and Ron stuck his head inside. “Ah, there you are!” Behind him, Fred and George waved. Harry saw they were wearing their new open robes over what looked like a skin-tight suit made out of smoke that was shifting through all colors of the rainbow. Ron noticed his expression, and nodded sagely. “They are baiting people to cast finite on them.”

“Ah.” Harry understood.

Fred - or George - put a hand on his chest, slightly displacing the smoke around it. “We’d never do such a thing. This is just fitting attire for the start of our Year of Exploration.” “Very fitting attire. Form-fitting even.” his twin added.

“It’s the Year of Discovery.” Hermione spoke up, after glaring at her familiar, who was begging Ron for some treats. Then she noticed what clothes the twins were wearing, and blushed slightly.

“We like the Year of Exploration better. We already know who we are, and what we want to do with our lives. But we have so much to explore.” “And so many.” Laughing, the twins went off to find a compartment of their own - probably sharing it with Lee Jordan and the Gryffindor chasers. Harry couldn’t help but remembering what Sirius had told him of his parent’s Year of Discovery, and blushed slightly before banishing the memory.

Hermione closed the door with a flick of her wand while Ron stashed his trunk before feeding Crookshanks a few more treats. She frowned “You’re spoiling him.”

Ron was unrepentant. “Only the best for the tomcat who tried his best to defend me against a vile rat.” He sat down, petting the purring half-kneazle. “So, what have you two been up to? Apart from Hermione abusing her Patron’s permission to practise magic all the time.”

Hermione had the grace to blush, before launching into a detailed description of her family’s trip to France.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson suppressed the urge to hex the idiot in front of her into silence. Draco Malfoy was going on and on about his vacation, his plans for the year, his decision to take part in the Tournament contrary to his father’s warning - as if the Goblet of Fire would actually pick him as the Champion of Hogwarts. But instead of cursing the fool she smiled, giggled, and flattered him. As stupid as Draco was, convinced of his own superiority despite dozens of examples to the contrary, he made a wonderful tool for her own plans. So easy to manipulate. She’d miss him, well, a bit, once she’d drop him in their 6th year. If he lasted that long - his father could only cover so much for him.

Until then though Draco would serve very well for her plans to deal with a few … not rivals, annoyances. Sometimes she wondered if anyone knew just how much of Draco’s blunders were orchestrated by her.


Chapter 3: The Goblet of Fire

 

Chapter 3: The Goblet of Fire

Draco Malfoy sat in his compartment, across from his girlfriend and future wife Pansy Parkinson. Provided he did not find a better bride, of course. He was still young, after all, and the Year of Discovery might change his mind. It would devastate the poor girl, but he had to think of his family first. Crabbe and Goyle sat at the door, acting as bodyguards.

Normally he’d plan his visit to Potter’s compartment, preparing the best insults to throw at the upstart and his mudblood, and their uncouth redhead, enjoying the way they blustered and fumed when faced with superior wit, class and status, but unfortunately, he would have to go without such entertainment this time.

Maybe it was for the best - after the events he had taken part in after the Quidditch World Cup, a mere verbal confrontation might be too tame for him now that he had been blooded, and he might not control himself sufficiently, should wands get drawn. After all, he had left the realms of mere squabbles and child’s hexes behind that night, when he had donned the sacred mask of the cause, and had drawn blood and more at the side of his father.

He smiled, remembering the screams, the smell of blood, and the useless pleading he had heard, and caused, that night. Pansy probably thought he was smiling at her, the foolish girl. Though while she was not the brightest witch of her generation, far from it if he was honest, even though he’d never admit that in front of his peers, she was quite attractive. Equally important, she knew her place. She never contradicted him and always supported him. She would make a wonderful wife for a Head of Family, even if that might not turn out to be him, should he find an equally well-mannered and attractive girl with maybe a bit more wit to her.

But until then he’d enjoy her company.

*****​

“Unfortunately the Channel Tunnel is not yet open for passengers so we took a plane to fly back.” Hermione expected Ron to ask what the Channel Tunnel was, but she was disappointed.

“Dad is still trying to find out how muggle planes stay in the air without magic. It just makes no sense.” The redhead shook his head, still petting Crookshanks. Hermione thought he probably didn’t know what the Channel was. Most wizards apparated, flooed and portkeyed around. And she had had such a good explanation ready… She noticed that no red hair was covering Ron’s new robes. Decent ones too, high quality enchantments, but subtly done - a far cry from his first set of new robes last year, bought right after the gold from ‘Baiting the Basilisk’ had arrived. The only way those could have been more obviously expensive would have been with their price tag displayed on the chest.

“There are books available which explain the principles well.” She refrained from pursing her lips. Mister Weasley was a nice man, but for all his fascination with muggles, he had a patronizing manner that hadn’t been received well by her parents or herself. She snuck a glance at Harry. He was sitting next to her, at the window, across from Ron and Crookshanks the traitor, who was still sitting in Ron’s lap. He had a book on his lap, but hadn’t read it during her story, despite having heard the story before. Unlike other years, his robes were not wrinkled - the spells on them prevented that. Hermione still looked him over, just in case.

“Speaking of France, when will the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive?” Harry spoke up, closing his book.

“They’ll arrive at the end of September. Enough time for us to get settled in before they arrive, enough time for them to get settled in before the drawing.” Hermione answered. She had studied the schedule of the new term extensively as soon as she had heard that the next Triwizard Tournament would be held there. They had missed the last one; it had been held at Durmstrang during their first year. In three years Beauxbatons would be hosting it.

“Are you entering your name for the drawing, mate?” Ron asked, again surprising Hermione. She had expected him to start talking about Krum, who would be arriving with the students from Durmstrang. But then, neither Harry nor Ron had mentioned the World Cup Final yet. Or the attack afterwards.

Harry shook his head. “No. We thought about it, but decided against it. The tasks are too dangerous and challenging for a 4th year student.” Not exactly the reasoning, Hermione knew. The tasks were traditionally not more dangerous than a professional Quidditch match - a high probability of getting hurt, but very few deaths. That hadn’t been the case when the tournament started, of course. The accounts of those read like war reports. But if Harry entered his name as a mere 4th year he was likely to be seen as reckless, arrogant, or flighty. Appearances mattered and as Head of Family and a Patron, he had to act more mature than his age. He’d have a better chance of winning if he entered in three years, with three more years at Hogwarts under his belt. Further, while a minor or even petty issue, he’d rather not give Malfoy and others the opportunity to claim he had been judged and found wanting by the goblet.

“And as a Champion you’d have to put up your Firebolt as your stake in it.” Ron nodded at Harry. “Would be a daft thing to do when competing with 7th years. Besides, there is the Duelling Competition and the Quidditch Tournament to take part in.” Ron’s eyes lit up at the thought of two Quidditch tournaments at Hogwarts that year. “And the Curse Breaking Competition.” He added, with a nod to Hermione.

“It’s tradition that the stakes are ransomed back to the other participants by the winning Champion, but it would be a waste of gold either way.” Hermione leaned back, slipped out of her shoes and pulled her feet up on the bench again. The rules didn’t say anything about that tradition, of course. Like so much in the Magical World, one couldn’t trust the laws and rules without knowing the unwritten customs and traditions.

“Well, we’ve got Quidditch, and with Viktor Krum!” Ron leaned forward a bit, which caused the traitor on his lap to meow in protest.

“If he’s chosen as Durmstrang’s Champion he won’t be taking part in the accompanying competitions of the Triwizard Tournament.” Hermione took the wind out of Ron’s sails before he could gather enough speed for one of his enthusiastic rants about Quidditch in general, and Krum in particular. That is, if he is chosen. There might be a more qualified student among its delegation.”

Ron’s mouth was open, but he didn’t form words for half a minute, then he sat back with a frown. “Oh, you! Now I have to hope there’s a better wizard in Durmstrang than Krum just so I can see him play again!”

Hermione giggled, then added. “He’ll have to train regularly too, to keep in shape for his next season, so you’ll see him flying anyway.”

“That’s not the same.” Ron was only partially mollified.

Hermione shrugged, then stretched some, twisting around so she could lean her back against Harry’s shoulder. The locking spell on the door would allow her enough time to sit up in case someone paid them a visit - it wouldn’t do to fuel rumors by acting to familiarly with Harry in public, after all. She suppressed the anger she usually felt when thinking about the role she had to play in public. Dutiful, meek retainer. Following her Patron around, ready to serve, grateful for the chance to be instructed in the ways of polite society and cultured folks. Some days not even Harry’s presence and support could calm her down and she had to go and vent, cast spells to wreck some conjured things or rubbish until she felt better. And yet it was her best shot at a better life.

Hermione changed the topic before Harry and Ron could get lost in Quidditch details. “Do you think we’ll get Mad-Eye Moody again as guest teacher?” Last year the grizzled retired auror had filled in for Professor Lupin once a month. Hermione still couldn’t believe no one else had caught up on Lupin’s condition - or curse.

“I sure hope so! He’s great - all practise, no theory! And no homework!” Ron sounded particularly enthusiastic about the last part, but from his grin and sly glance at her, Hermione thought he was just trying to get a rise out of her.

“Remus isn’t just theory and homework either.” Harry defended his godfather’s best friend. Hermione nodded. Both of them owed the cursed teacher their lives, or souls, though she did not like to considering that particular aspect - if not for Remus’ teaching Harry the Patronus charm, both of them would have died that year. The young witch shivered, remembering the horrid feeling when they found themselves surrounded by dozens of those demons, at the shores of Black Lake. She had collapsed, caught in nightmarish memories, barely able to keep a grip on her wand, but Harry had managed to drive them away with an immensely strong corporeal Patronus, a gleaming stag that had charged the monsters and driven them away. And it had filled her with warmth, prevented her from drowning in her own dark memories. Hunching over, she suddenly felt an arm around her shoulders, then she was pulled into Harry’s side. Resting her head on his shoulder she took a few deep breaths.

“Well, at least with the twins in their Year of Exploration, we shouldn’t see as many pranks fromthem as last year.” Ron was looking out of the window while changing the topic. Hermione was grateful for the gesture - she felt embarrassed by her own reaction to that particular memory. She would have liked to stay where she was for a bit longer, but that would have been impolite, so she shifted again, sitting up.

“Unless of course the twins think they can impress girls with their pranks.” Harry remarked, to Ron’s visible chagrin. He was probably right, Hermione silently agreed. From what she had observed in her time at Hogwarts, the 6th and 7th years tended to show off their skill with magic whenever possible. She hadn’t ever said so aloud, but it was a kind of mating behaviour - wizards and witches putting their best sides, or what they considered their best sides, on display in an attempt to attract their preferred sex. It was a bit more complicated, of course, but there was a reason the older students had single rooms. Harry at least would be glad to be able to go to bed without selective silencing charms to deal with Ron’s snoring.

Ron leaned back, hitting his head on the cushioned backrest a couple times. “Merlin’s Beard! I’ll need to keep my guard up at all times!” He was right too - with Percy having graduated and started at the Ministry already, Ron and Ginny were the only ones left at Hogwarts the twins could target with pranks and keep it “in the family”. They’d not touch Ginny, of course. Not after Ginny’s first year. Hermione reached out and patted Ron’s thigh with a grin. “Don’t worry. We can study lots of spells to help with that.”

“Ah, yes, thank you.” Again he surprised her - she would have expected him to balk at that. Before she could ponder that further, Harry cut in.

“I think we can expect them to crank it up a notch or two.” He smiled a bit lopsidedly.

“Do you base that expectation on your experiences with your godfather?” Hermione asked, with a glint in her eyes. Harry had been remarkably close-mouthed about some of those lessons. She knew she should not pry, but couldn’t help herself.

“Ah, yes.” She narrowed her eyes - an opening!

*****​

Harry almost winced when he saw Hermione lean forward with that expression in her eyes. When faced with knowledge kept from her, the girl was very … determined. He deflected her questions by handing her a book from Sirius’ family library she had seen, but hadn’t managed to read yet during her stay at Grimmauld Place. He felt a bit bad about implying that this was what Sirius had taught him, but there was no way he was telling her what Sirius had revealed to him in those private talks. If she knew what Sirius ancestors had been up to as Patrons of pretty muggleborn witches or wizards she’d wreck the compartment with accidental magic. Or worse, stare at him as if he was one of those ancestors. He remembered the expression in her eyes back in their second year, when he had lost his temper during an argument between them, and had ordered her to shut up. He had truly meant it, and so the magic of the Patron Oath had enforced his order, for the first and so far last time. Hermione had been shocked when she had been unable to speak. Shocked, hurt and betrayed. It had taken weeks until they had gotten over that, until she had trusted him again, and he had never forgotten it since. That made the dreams he sometimes had, involving him and Hermione, worse though. He’d never do that to her, of course. But knowing that he could do it, as her Patron… he pushed that thought away. Buried it under guilt.

Another thing he would not talk about with Hermione was what Sirius had told him about his parents. The trouble they had had due to their lack of a Magical Marriage, since their muggle marriage had no legal effects or consequences in the Magical World. That his mother had almost left his father over that. That was both too personal, and would be too close to Hermione’s own future, should she ever fall in love with a pureblood.

And of course there were the tales of Sirius’ own “Year of Discovery”, as even the younger generation had called it back then. That wasn’t something one shared with a girl. Or anyone, Harry had decided. Maybe he’d share some with Ron, when his friend started to tell tales of his older brothers.

He wasn’t sure how serious Sirius had been, anyway. As much as he loved his godfather, it was clear that twelve years in Azkaban had affected him greatly, and that he had not yet recovered from that. Hermione had said she doubted he’d ever fully recover, especially without therapy. Harry disagreed, but even he wasn’t sure if that was not just wishful thinking.

Sirius had taken weeks after his escape from Azkaban to recover his wits enough to think and plan, after he had blindly rushed to the Dursleys, and then started towards Hogwarts. Months to recover enough to stop spending more time as a dog than as a wizard. To write to Remus, informing him of Wormtail’s survival and current location. It had taken months, true, but his godfather had managed. Hermione had acknowledged that, but had claimed that had been because Sirius had had an urgent need to recover, to save Harry. Harry almost was glad that they hadn’t found yet whoever had sent the dementors after him - it might give Sirius a reason to keep recovering.

The incident at the World Cup certainly had had an effect. Harry’s robes were almost glowing with protective spells. He and Hermione had been taught a number of spells as well, Black Family spells. Not even Remus had made much of a fuss about breaking the underage magic laws. And Sirius would visit Remus very often during the term - and with him, Harry.

He glanced over to Ron, who was reading the latest “Quidditch Weekly”, then to Hermione, who was, unsurprisingly, lost in the book he had given her. The pendants of her torc swayed gently with each of her movements. They should update the spells on the necklace; so far it only allowed her to sense his presence, and him to signal her, but Hermione wanted to add spells herself. His young wand, friend, was sometimes too proud for her own good, despite all her claims of being pragmatic.

He leaned back and stared out of the window, watching the countryside change as the train made its way to Hogwarts. Their friends and acquaintances would visit, as usual. Neville, Luna, the Quidditch team. A few “fans”, maybe. He doubted Malfoy would make his regular visit bearing insults and threats. Sirius becoming the Head of Family for the Blacks had changed things. Money mattered, and Sirius had tons of it. So for now Harry enjoyed the quiet. Soon he’d be back at Hogwarts, where privacy was scarce even for a wizard.

*****​

Hermione looked out of the window, next to the door of the train. Hogsmeade Station was the usual chaotic mess after the Hogwarts Express had arrived. Hagrid was shouting loudly to collect the first years - it was a testament to his good nature that none of the young students fled from him, instead of heading towards him, in her opinion. The older students were forming a big throng of black-robes slowly moving towards the waiting carriages. Herself, Harry and Ron were waiting for the majority of the students to get underway. It would be a bit too dangerous for Harry in the middle of a crowd, too easy for anyone with a wand to curse him in the back - Hogsmeade was not Hogwarts, after all. Not that Hogwarts was as safe as people claimed.

She saw Faye Dunbar step out of the train. Most of the students around her ignored her, some even laughed - as usual. Faye was a Purist, a member of a sect of Wizard and Witches who believed magic should not be wasted on frivolous things such as convenience, but saved for important, life saving or changing tasks. So the girl - her room mate for three years now - didn’t wear enchanted robes, or use cosmetic spells. Nor spells to protect her trunk or bed from pranks. The perfect victim for bullies who took offense at her views, even though she never tried to force them on anyone else. Even if she could get a bit preachy about them.

Hermione couldn’t stand such behaviour, so she had done something about it. Though Faye hadn’t thanked Hermione for putting up some weak wards that covered both her and Faye’s bed and trunk, she hadn’t asked her to remove them either, so Hermione figured the other witch accepted them even if she couldn’t acknowledge them without violating her beliefs. Good enough in her opinion.

She could understand why many witches and wizards scorned the Purists - the wizard economy ran largely on superfluous magic. Cosmetic spells, charms on clothes, charms on household items, all those spells needed to be maintained, replaced, upgraded. A large part of the population not employed by the Ministry worked in those fields. If there was no demand for such spells, there would be an economic crisis. Maybe - Hermione was no economist herself, and Magic tended to wreck havoc on muggle models.

“See you at the feast!” Luna Lovegood passed the trio together with Aicha Antar, another Ravenclaw 3rd year. Hermione had heard Aicha hated the school robes and wore her traditional clothes until the last moment. A small, glittering figure, barely 10 centimeter tall, flitted after the dark-skinned witch. Hermione would have thought it was a sort of pixie, but Aicha claimed it was a genie from her homeland, bound to serve her family. Luna agreed with Aicha, but Hermione wasn’t sure if that was not simply out of loyalty to her best friend. Although the tales she had heard of Cho Chang’s “accidents” when she had tried to bully Luna certainly went beyond what Hermione thought a pixie was capable of, and both Luna and Aicha had had perfect alibis during each of those events.

Finally the way was clear, so to speak, and the three friends made their way towards the last carriage. Hermione opened the door for Harry. She didn’t see anyone watching, but that didn’t mean anything. She really didn’t want any rumors about her not showing proper deference to, much less being intimate with her Patron to spread.

*****​

The sorting had happened as usual. Hermione hadn’t seen any true muggleborn among the new first years, unlike last year. She looked over to the Hufflepuff table, where the freshly-minted second year Matthew Amsler was seated. The witch had tried to take the wizard under her wing, at least a bit, last year, but had given up quickly. The Hufflepuffs were a closely-knit bunch and had viewed her with a bit of suspicion, and he’d have a Patron of his own soon enough. Had one now, actually - Darlene Abbot, a former Hufflepuff witch, and Hannah’s Grandmother and Head of Family. A good choice, by all accounts, but Hermione couldn’t help feeling that Matthew would have been better off with someone like Harry. Someone who understood the muggle world and did not expect the muggleborn to forget about it. Not that she or Harry showed that, of course - in public they acted more formal than just about everyone else.

With the last first year sorted, the feast arrived on the tables, and everyone turned to the Headmaster. Even the first years knew about what was coming, seeing as there was no true muggleborn among them. Dumbledore stood up and raised his goblet.

“At the beginning of a new term we are gathered to give the gods their due so they will bless us with a fruitful, peaceful year.” The staff members and all the students took hold of their goblets and stood up as well, following his example.

“Janus.” He dipped the goblet. Wine started to fall towards the floor, but vanished before it reached the stones. “Bless us with a good start.” Hermione could feel her skin tingling when she dipped her own goblet, and watched red wine drip from it, the liquid vanishing in sparks before it reached the floor.

“Hecate. Let our knowledge of magic grow.” The wine kept falling, more than her goblet could have held. The tingling intensified and the young witch felt a source of warmth, of heat, grow in her chest until she felt drops of sweat appear on her skin.

“Apollo. Keep us healthy.” Hermione’s hair was almost floating now, small sparks dancing around the tips, until the wine finally stopped falling.

The Headmaster sat down, followed by the staff and the students. While most started to “tuck in”, as Dumbledore had told them to, Hermione took a few deep breaths, waiting until her skin had stopped tingling and her hair and chest felt normal again. Glancing around, she spotted Luna and Aicha as well as Harry in a similar state, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

She didn’t know why they were affected like this, or what affected them. She had looked into it, of course. Most of the Wizards and Witches believed it was the effect of a shared ritual dating back into the time when the Celts and Romans lived in Britain. Most books she had read skirted around the question whether or not there were gods - the British Wizards had rejected Christianity when it turned on them during the witch hunts, and adopted the Old Gods again, but the number of true faithful was rather low, or so Hermione thought. And for all her intellectual curiosity the witch had shied away from finding out who might be in the right about such matters. Religion, in her opinion, was a very dangerous subject to explore.

A nudge from Harry reminded her that the feast had begun, and she started to eat.

*****​

Hermione stood in front of Hogwarts, like all other students, waiting for the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to arrive. To her right was Harry, and next to him stood Ron. Hermione had been researching the event. Beauxbatons would arrive with a flying carriage and Durmstrang with a ship traveling under the sea. When the Triwizard Tournament had started the delegations lived in the magical vehicles for the duration of their stay as well, but these days, the hosting school prepared suitable suites for the visitors, and the only reason Portkeys were not used was tradition. That, and the nauseating way portkey travel worked, especially if going that far, Hermione had to admit. Taking one to the World Cup had been bad enough, and that had been a short trip.

That Hogwarts had switched from their own flying carriage to the Hogwarts Express to transport their delegation in the 19th century was still considered as a blatant breach of tradition by some wizards. Privately Hermione wondered if the Hogwarts Express would travel through the Channel Tunnel when the next tournament would be held in three years, or make its own track as it had done before. Thanks to her academic and other merits, she was likely to be part of the Hogwarts delegation and would find out then, unless she would rather focus on her NEWTs then. Glancing at Harry, she amended her statement to ‘if Harry wouldn’t rather focus on his NEWTs’. Which she didn’t think he would. Even though it might better for him.

One of the younger students let out an excited yell, pointing up into the sky. The older students tried to act more blasé, but turned and looked anyway. There, a speck growing rapidly in size, soon discernable as a huge carriage drawn by winged horses - Abraxans. Hagrid had been very happy about being able to care for them. Almost as happy as he was about the Headmistress of Beauxbatons arriving - it was a barely-kept secret that they two half-giants had a relationship.

The carriage landed safely and softly, Hagrid already taking the reins of the horses - he had to be used to handling them, as long as he had been at Hogwarts. Then the students of Beauxbatons appeared, led by the tallest witch that Hermione had ever seen. Her giant blood was as obvious as Hagrid’s, but mentioning it would have been impolite, so everyone ignored it as a matter of course.

Hermione paid more attention to the students while Dumbledore greeted his colleague warmly. The French Wizards and witches were clad in blue robes of various styles, but sharing the exact same color and material - enchanted silk, she guessed. Compared to the Hogwarts school robes they were, in her opinion, more elegant, if not quite as daring as some of the clothes worn by the 6th and 7th years at Hogwarts under their open robes. As enchanted, though - Hermione could spot a number of spells right away. She wondered if Beauxbatons had different, more egalitarian uniforms for the lower years, like Hogwarts, or if their true muggleborns would stand out even more for the lack of enchanted clothes in their first year. She couldn’t tell, since the two dozen students were all older, and asking without offending anyone might be difficult.

“Wow! Look at that bird! She’s magnificent!” Ron exclaimed suddenly, together with a dozen or more students echoing his sentiments. Ah, a veela. That explained it. She glanced at Harry, who had a faint grin on his face, probably remembering Ron’s reaction to the dancing veelas at the World Cup. That had been amusing.

The French had barely entered the castle when the Ship of Durmstrang rose from the depths of Black lake, water running down the enchanted sails and wooden hull without touching either. Hermione recognized the design as a schooner. Probably “adapted” half a century earlier than the Hogwarts Express. A bit odd for a Bulgarian school, or so she thought. Soon a plank was lowered, and the students and teachers disembarked. Dumbledore greeted his counterpart cordially, but with less warmth than he had greeted Madam Maxime, or so Hermione thought. It could be that the Headmaster was just more charming towards witches, but it probably was because Karkaroff had been a Death Eater. He escaped prison when he gave up all other Death Eaters he knew, but it would be a reason enough to keep one’s distance to the man, from what she knew of his actions in the war.

Durmstrang’s students were wearing three different sets of uniforms. One identical set each for the three countries the school was drawing students from - Poland, Romania and Bulgaria - Hermione realized. All wore the same dark cloak, with Durmstrang’s heraldry on it. They formed three columns, eight each, and marched into the castle with stoic faces. No veelas among them, Hermione noticed - despite the large contingent of them at the World Cup. It seemed what she had heard about that school only allowing pureblood students had been true.

Ron, as was expected, had almost gotten a cramp in his neck trying to look at Krum for as long as possible, and was still excited, almost gushing about his idol when the three took their seats at the Gryffindor table while the visitors were shown their new quarters. “Have you seen him? He’ll surely be chosen in the drawing!”

Hermione and Harry exchanged amused looks before nodding at their friends words. It did look like a good year.

*****​

Harry Potter did not like Samhain. He hadn’t liked Halloween either, before he had learned about the existence of magic and had attended Hogwarts. It was the day his parents had died. Had been murdered by a madman, with a traitor’s help. At least Samhain, unlike Halloween, was no party, but a somber celebration to honor the dead and Dis Pater, the God of the Underworld. All the ghosts of Hogwarts gathered in the Great Hall for the occasion, at their own table in the center of the room, and were served the same feast as everyone else, although theirs rotted in seconds on their table. Apparently, or so Hermione had said, this was needed so they could at least get a hint of taste from it. Harry wasn’t in the mood to care.

According to legends, to kill someone on Samhain was both easier than on any other day, since the borders between the living and the dead were at their weakest that day, and far more dangerous, since Dis Pater watched more closely how people died, and would be punishing a murderer more swiftly and painfully. It certainly fit the events that cost Harry his parents, or so he thought - Voldemort was obliterated right after he had slain Harry’s mother, minutes at most after James Potter had been murdered. Though as he knew, Voldemort had escaped death, and the betrayer of his parents, Wormtail, had escaped justice for 12 years, until Remus had caught him thanks to Sirius’ letter, and the sniveling coward had been tried and executed for his crimes. Dis Pater certainly had not been paying attention in that case, Harry thought, a tad blasphemously.

Hermione and Ron were sitting next to him and across from him, respectively, less talkative than usual, even for the occasion. They knew about his thoughts on the day, and respected it. Unlike others, Harry thought with a frown when he spotted a unfortunately very familiar wizard approaching him. Draco Malfoy, with Goyle and Crabbe and his wanna-be wife Parkinson in tow. Hermione put her hand on his thigh, under the table and out of sight of the Slytherins, both to give him her support, and to keep him from making a scene.

“Greetings, Mister Potter.” Malfoy gave him the barest nod, and didn’t hide his sneer, but he observed the forms of polite society just enough to avoid getting called out on it. Not that Harry could do much even if Malfoy had crossed that line anyway - children, including students until they graduated, were judged far more leniently than adults - while Harry himself, as both a Patron and Head of Family, was expected to uphold the higher standards of those positions. A fact Malfoy had exploited a lot in the last few years.

“Mister Malfoy.” Harry didn’t even nod in response, just stared at the blond.

“I wanted to offer my condolences. Your parents died on this day, did they not?” Malfoy’s smile belied his words and made his true opinion more than clear. Ron was about to stand up and prove the cliches about redheads and their temper true, but suddenly jerked and sat down, glaring at Hermione. The witch had likely kicked him under the table - her wand hand was still on Harry’s thigh. Harry wanted to stand up and curse the ponce. Smash his teeth in until he couldn’t sneer or smile anymore, but he controlled himself - with some help from Hermione, whose fingernails were now digging into his thighs, distracting him from his own rising temper.

“You have my thanks, as heartfelt as your own words, for this, Mister Malfoy. Please be assured that I will not forget this occasion, even if years should pass until I have the opportunity to repay you this kindness.” Harry smiled - technically, Hagrid, more in tune with most animals, would have seen the baring of teeth for what it was - and saw with no small amount of satisfaction that Malfoy’s own smile slipped, and some fear briefly flickered over his face.

The Slytherin nodded tersely at him and turned to return to his own table. No remarks about Hermione, no needling Ron - Harry counted this as a victory. A small one, but still a victory. He saw Parkinson already hanging on Malfoy’s arm, now that he could be reasonably sure Harry wouldn’t start hexing him, and subtly shook his head. That girl had less brains than she had taste, hanging all over Malfoy. It was a small miracle that she had not been caught so far in the backlash of one of Malfoy’s failed schemes. Most thought she was after Malfoy’s money, and was staking her claim early enough so the Year of Discovery wouldn’t throw a wrench into her plans, but Hermione thought Parkinson honestly loved or at least lusted after Malfoy. She reasoned that the Parkinsons were rich as well, and Pansy had a good shot at becoming Head of her Family. If not for her demonstrated bad taste and bad judgement, she would be the one with suitors hanging all over her.

Harry didn’t really care. He had enough responsibilities already to hold his attention, even with his godfather now exonerated and supporting him. Or because, on some days. That man was almost never serious enough.

Hermione withdrew her hand, and whispered “Sorry”, just loud enough that he could hear it. He simply smiled at her, and she smiled back while Ron, calmed down, whistled. “Damn, Harry, that shook him. I bet he’s dreading the time he graduates, once you can actually call him out.”

Hermione glared at Ron, but didn’t call him out on his language. To do so in public to a friend of her Patron would have been quite the faux pas. Still, there were publically acceptable ways to reply open to her. “Duels are illegal, Ron.”

“That’s a law no one enforces.”

“Unless someone pays enough.” Hermione really had become rather disenchanted with the judicial system of Wizarding Britain, Harry knew. She wasn’t wrong, but as the Boy-Who-Lived, and godson of Sirius Black, he could be quite sure that no one would prosecute him for upholding his honor in the traditional way. Not that he planned to call out Malfoy as soon as they had finished their NEWTs. But sometimes he imagined it.

*****​

The day after Samhain was the traditional time the Triwizard Champions were selected by the Goblet of Fire. The oldest records claimed it was so the artifact could confer with the souls of the ancestors of the candidates, before it judged their progeny. Harry wasn’t sure if that was true - Hermione thought it didn’t make much sense, but he was of the opinion it might have made a lot of sense for people holding a wizard’s lineage and blood in such high regard as those who had thought up such a tournament - especially one as bloody and deadly as the original one had been. Ron had said, flippantly, the Goblet simply had to make sure that there was enough room in the afterlife for the Champions who’d die.

The three were sitting at their usual spot, with a good view of the other tables. Hufflepuff was unchanged, but Slytherin’s table had been expanded some, to seat the Durmstrang delegation. That wasn’t a surprise - Slytherin was the only House at Hogwarts who was exclusively composed of purebloods, as was Durmstrang. The students from Beauxbatons were sitting at the Ravenclaw table, also expanded, though the reasons for that choice were not as evident. Maybe it was simply because of the House colors matching with Beauxbatons’ blue? One never knew with wizards, after all.

Contact with the foreign students had been rarer than expected, at least for Harry and his friends. Some chatting while heading to the next class, some conversations in the library, nothing of consequence, barely above talking about the weather or asking to pass the salt at the table. Hopefully that would change after the Champions were chosen, when the tournament would start. Hermione had been itching for a chance to try out her translation charms, or practise her French.

He looked at the goblet - a large artifact, sitting on a pedestal in the center, before the staff table. Two aurors in red robes guarded it at all times, to make sure it wasn’t tampered with - or stolen. In the past candidates simply dropped pieces of parchment with their name and stake in it, but these days, teachers vetted the entries, to make sure everyone participating had permission from their Head of Family, and that the stakes offered were actually valuable enough. One wouldn’t want to get judged as a cheater, after all, by an artifact forged in times where capital punishment was the most common punishment.

While the names of candidates were supposed to be secret, the Hogwarts rumor mill was working as quickly as expected. Malfoy, for all his bragging, hadn’t gotten permission from his father to enter. That had been a surprise, actually - the loss of face caused by this was far bigger than not getting chosen as Champion would have been. Harry himself had been asked several times if he planned to enter, but his explanation that he’d be foolish to enter his name as a 4th year to compete with 7th years had been accepted easily.

Dessert had been served and eaten, and the students were getting restless, the conversations louder. Dumbledore still took a bit of time, enjoying his own dessert, before he stood up. At a gesture the room quieted down, the lights dimmed and he walked over to the Goblet of Fire.

The artifact was filled with an eerie fire, which was far more visible now when it was providing most of the light in the Great Hall. The Headmaster pointed his wand at it, and after a brief pause the fire flared up, forming a pillar of blue flames, almost reaching the enchanted ceiling before breaking up into sparks and motes. The impressive display had many of the students gasp even before they realized that one of the sparks grew instead of fading, and floated down to the outstretched hand of Dumbledore, to form a piece of parchment. The first candidate had been chosen.

Dumbledore’s voice filled the Great hall easily. Maybe a silent sonorous, or an enchantment of the Hall, Harry speculated. He could ask Hermione afterwards, if he really wanted to know. She’d either tell him, or research the question with ‘Hogwarts: A History’. “Beauxbatons Champion is Fleur Delacour. Her stake is her grandmother’s pendant.”

Applause rose as the French Veela stood up. She slowly walked towards Dumbledore, a beaming smile on her face that certainly would break a few more hearts. Harry thought she looked relieved as she took her place next to Dumbledore. “That pendant must be a family heirloom. Likely very old, and heavily enchanted, or it wouldn’t have passed muster.” Hermione commented while the applause quieted down. Harry nodded in agreement.

Another pillar of fire shot to the ceiling. This time the audience was expecting it. “Durmstrang’s Champion is Viktor Krum. His stake is his “Blitzschlag” broom.”

Applause filled the room as the Star Seeker stood up. Ron was clapping frantically, “That’s a custom made broom from Daedalus, a Prussian Broom Tuning firm. Even more expensive than your Firebolt, Mate.” he explained as he sat down again, eyes alight with excitement. “I didn’t think I’d ever see one, they came out right after the World Cup.”

And the last pillar of fire rose. Harry followed the floating, growing spark as if it was a snitch. Hogwarts’ Champion would be chosen now.

When Dumbledore hesitated just a second after the parchment had formed into his hand, Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Something just went wrong, he knew it. The Headmaster was rarely surprised.

“Hogwarts’ Champion is Harry Potter. His stake is his retainer, Hermione Granger.”

Harry gasped. He turned his head towards Hermione. His best friend was staring at him, her expression frozen in shock and hurt. Her lips were moving without forming words. Meanwhile whispered conversations rapidly grew in volume until the Slytherin table started clapping, jeering even. Students from the other tables, at first a few, then then more, joined in. The noise drowned out his curse.

“Fuck.”

*****​

Late that night Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his office, petting Fawkes. The phoenix trilled softly, in between attempts to groom his companion’s beard. His song as well as his antics did soothe the Headmaster’s mood, which had been thoroughly soured by the evening’s events.

Harry Potter had been chosen as Hogwarts’ Champion. Despite not having entered his name. Dumbledore believed the boys’ claim - it had not been his handwriting on the parchment, he wouldn’t have been able to pass a parchment through the seal on the goblet, only Dumbledore could open that, and Harry would never name Miss Granger as his stake. He was sure of that.

Harry Potter might have become the epitome of a pureblood wizard, following the old forms and manners better than some of Dumbledore’s more conservative contemporaries, but he didn’t consider Miss Granger beneath him, much less a piece of property to be wagered. Dumbledore had seen that himself. He wasn’t proud of his spying on his students, but he had had to be sure Harry wouldn’t abuse his power over the young witch.

The old wizard sighed. Young Harry certainly had not turned out as he had expected, being raised by his muggle family. Not that there had been any other option for Harry than his blood family, not by law, and not by need. The Blood Charms needed that connection to keep the boy safe. Lily herself had arranged that, for Harry and her family, in case she and James would die. That Harry wouldn’t have grown up in the Magical World wouldn’t have made her pause, or so Dumbledore thought - the bright young witch hadn’t had the best opinion of the traditions of Wizarding Britain.

He should have visited the family himself, he thought. Openly, that is - but then, what could he have done? Telling the boy he was a wizard before he could understand how important secrecy was would not have been one of his smarter decisions. One couldn’t trust children in the muggle world to keep such a secret. No, his hands had been bound there, even though the boy had grown up ignorant of his heritage. That he could have fixed himself easily enough, once the boy had returned to the Magical World. He’d even have started on that right after the Hogwarts letter, if not for Nicolas needing his help, rather urgently, that summer. Though, in hindsight again, he should have asked Minerva to teach the boy, no matter her stern manners. Or maybe Filius. He closed his eyes. He knew he should delegate more, but… old habits do not change easily. Nor did old people, and he was older than most. Minerva in particular had taken quite some time to come to terms with Harry and Miss Granger’s decision not to heed his advice.

He had consoled himself with the thought that Harry’s ignorance had also offered a unique opportunity. The hero who had saved Wizarding Britain, with dozens of books written about him, a celebrity on par with Dumbledore himself right after his victory over Grindelwald, could have made Wizarding Britain just a bit more liberal, a bit more open to muggleborns, and the wonders of the muggle world. Would have, could have - if not for that troll, and the life debt it had caused.

Miss Granger had been so afraid, so hasty, panicking even, and he hadn’t managed to find the right words to placate her. Too much of a gap between an old wizard and a young muggleborn, he had realized after the fact. Or rather, he hadn’t trusted her to understand his own thoughts, her being a mere child. And he had - vastly - overestimated her faith in authorities. Another mistake he had made. He still wasn’t happy that the boy had become the girl’s Patron. The responsibility he had had to shoulder… a single mistake, easily made by another child, could have ruined her and his life. Harry had managed, but the situation had forced him to grow up far quicker than a child should have had to. And it hadn’t been needed, in his opinion.

Lucius Malfoy would have been unlikely to become Miss Granger’s Patron, after Dumbledore would have explained to the man what kind of scrutiny this would bring from himself, and what risks due to the life debt. And even if… Lucius would have been unlikely to harm the child. The Head of the Malfoy Family was smart. Far smarter than his son, that Dumbledore was sure of. He would have had far more to gain by treating her well, by fulfilling society’s expectations of a benevolent Patron. He would have improved his standing with the more liberal families as well as the conservative ones, would had gained more contacts, and the stain of his… past associations… would have been removed. Further, young Miss Granger would likely have proven quite a handful, judging from her life so far, maybe even enough to influence Draco into changing for the better.

Dumbledore sighed again. It was all moot now. With Voldemort back, in whatever form he might have taken, earlier than he had expected, the situation had changed. If anything, the events at the World Cup had shown that. Death Eaters openly wearing their masks again, attacking and killing people… The Ministry painted it as just some prank that went out of control, but Dumbledore suspected there was far more to it, but hadn’t spoken out. Voldemort might have set that up to make him overextend himself, to raise his concerns about Voldemort’s return in public, only to see the culprits caught and found ignorant of the Dark Lord. It wouldn’t have been the first time Voldemort had used such a ploy, and it would have weakened Dumbledore’s influence.

The old wizard was sure that the Goblet had been manipulated to choose Harry, by Voldemort or one of his followers. What he didn’t know was the reason for this. Was it another attempt to kill Harry? Like the Basilisk had been? It might just be a feint, meant to draw his attention away from another plot. But even if it was, if he didn’t pay enough attention, it could cost Harry his life - Voldemort might even be counting on him thinking it was a feint. What Dumbledore knew was that the Goblet had been manipulated in the Ministry. And that meant he couldn’t trust the Ministry. Not after this and the Dementors the year before. That his own reputation suffered was another problem - even though it was the Ministry’s fault, it had happened at Hogwarts, in his domain.

He had considered hiding the fact that Harry had been entered against his will. It would have avoided some of those problems, but ultimately, would have caused far more problems than it would have solved. Honesty was a good policy, after all, in most cases. And it wouldn’t do to undermine Harry’s relationship with his friends, and especially Miss Granger. The boy needed all the support he could get.


Chapter 4: The First Task: Fire

 

Chapter 4: The First Task: Fire

Hermione walked through the dark hallways of Hogwarts. She wasn’t headed towards the Gryffindor dorms despite the late hour - it was well past curfew. She was going to the east wing, where the unused storage and classrooms were. The young witch needed to vent. She was so angry she was afraid she’d have an episode of accidental magic soon. A destructive episode. She had kept it together during the evening, supporting Harry while things had been sorted out - to a point - with the Headmaster and the Tournament officials. Been helpful, respectful, thoughtful. Even got to quote a few rules. The dutiful retainer. She had pushed her anger away, focused on playing her role. But it hadn’t gone away. Fueled by the memories of the sneers and mocking cheers from Malfoy and other students who resented her, Harry or both of them, it had simmered all evening.

And now it was boiling over, turning into rage. She had been named as Harry’s stake in this barbaric tournament! And the goblet had confirmed it! She had wanted to destroy it, right then and there. No matter that it was a priceless artifact. No matter the spells on it. No matter that it had been used for this tournament for hundreds of years. She was not a thing! She wasn’t like a broom or a family heirloom! No matter what a piece of copper forged by barbarians in a time when slavery was still legal said! She was a witch, equal to the every pureblood or half-blood witch - more skilled even, than most!

Hermione all but kicked the door open to “her” room - a former classroom, now her unofficial training room - only her own spells on the door holding her back. She really needed to destroy something. Preferably a cauldron or goblet, but she lacked either in this room. Snarling, she lifted her wand, and slammed the door closed, trusting the spells on it to muffle the sound outside. Then she reduced a few of the desks she didn’t use, standing in a row at the back wall, to kindling with a series of reductos. It didn’t help much. Too easy.

“Reductincendo!” The next desk was turned into burning splinter that started fires all around it. For a moment she was tempted to let it burn, let it all burn. Then reason took over and she used an aguamenti to extinguish the flames. She needed the room, after all. It took a while, and tired her out some.

Sighing she sat down on a desk in the center, barely singed, and started repairing what she had destroyed. Chain casting reparo helped her calm down. It also made her think of a repair spell that wasn’t limited to one object. Or an aguamenti that did not create the water at the tip of a wand. And a spell that combined the effects of incendo and reducto. She knew she could create those spells - if she had the time to spend on such pursuits. But spells for her and Harry’s robes, for security and status, had a higher priority. And of course she had spent a lot of time learning the Patronus Charm. That had been a matter of pride - she didn’t want to lag behind Harry.

Harry… Hermione felt her torc grow a bit warmer, and knew he was close. She closed her eyes. It wasn’t his fault, she knew that. And she didn’t blame him for the situation they found themselves in either. But she didn’t know if this was because she knew he was not to blame, or because of the Patron Oath.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Her Patron was outside. She pointed her wand, and unlocked the door, then opened it with a flick. Her friend stepped inside and closed the door. For a moment they looked at each other, Hermione still sitting on the desk, Harry standing at the door. Then he walked over and sat down next to her. Hunched over, eyes on the floor. She knew that pose, although she hadn’t seen it much, lately. He felt guilty.

The witch reached over and slung her right arm around his shoulders, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulders. The enchanted silk felt smooth and warm on her cheek. Comforting. “It’s not your fault.” she said before he could start. “It’s the fault of whoever manipulated that stupid goblet, and whoever thought of that bloody tournament in the first place.”

Harry was silent for a bit, but wrapped his arm around her waist. “But I can refu…”

“No, you can’t!” Hermione cut him off and snapped her head up to stare at him. “If you refuse to honor the stakes you’ll lose your magic. It’s not wo...”

This time Harry cut her off. “You are worth it.” Hermione felt both happy and afraid at hearing that, at seeing his face when he said it. He meant it, and yet he was wrong.

She shook her head, fighting back tears. “It wouldn’t help. If you lose your magic, and someone else will become my Patron anyway. Same result. You’d sacrifice your magic - your life - for nothing. Besides, it’s tradition to ransom the stakes back to the losing Champions. Whoever wins would not break tradition.” Or so she hoped - a few Champions had done so, in the past.

Harry closed his eyes, and she used the opportunity to quickly wipe her own eyes. He spoke in a whisper, trembling with emotion. “But… you’d be safe from… “

“Safe from getting a test ride, you mean?” Her plain, crude words shocked him into staring at her, and she started to blush. Now she was looking away. “I think there’s no danger of that happening. I am no broom, the goblet’s opinion notwithstanding. I am rather sure such a thing would not be tolerated. The Headmaster was clear that the times have changed since the goblet was created.”

Harry remained silent. Glancing at him, she realized he didn’t look like he was sharing her opinion. She swallowed. “Harry...?”

He closed his eyes again. “Sirius told me … “ he paused, taking a deep breath, then went on, “He told me that there were rumors. At least in his time. Of Patrons... abusing their power. And what we hear of Durmstrang, and purebloods there...”

Hermione drew in a hissing breath. “Just rumors.” Harry nodded, somewhat reluctantly. The witch clenched her fist, anger rising again. She fought it down. Fought to remain calm. It wasn’t Harry’s fault. “Even so I think Fleur will not try … that… and Krum… he’s got a reputation to consider, as a Quidditch star.” She patted his shoulder. She really needed to have a talk with Sirius about those lessons though.

Harry nodded. “You’re right. But Malfoy and others will use this to needle us.”

Hermione scoffed. “He’s nothing to worry about. Not with someone trying to kill you. Which is another reason you can’t risk your magic for me, you hear me?” She glared at him until he smiled ruefully.

“The Headmaster didn’t name names when he explained how the goblet had been manipulated, but I think we know who’s behind this. The only one with both the motive and the power for it.”

Hermione agreed. “Voldemort.”

“Voldemort.” Harry leaned back until he was lying on the desk, legs dangling, eyes staring at the ceiling. “That monster keeps coming back from death. Three times so far.”

Hermione followed his example, then, impulsively, used her wand to turn the ceiling into a clear nightsky full of stars. A static imitation of the ceiling in the Great Hall. “At least everyone knows that someone manipulated the goblet and wants to harm you. Malfoy will claim that you cheated, but only idiots will believe him.”

“Moody will be taking charge of the security.”

“Good.” Moody was paranoid, but paranoia was exactly what they needed right now. Or so Hermione thought. She felt a sudden urge to hurt, to kill whoever was after Harry, and once again wondered if it was her own feelings, or the result of the Oath. She’d do it anyway.

They remained like that for a bit, staring at the artificial sky until it faded.

“We should head to the dorm. They’ll still be waiting for us.” Hermione sat up, but Harry caught her hand, and gently pulled her back down.

“Let’s stay a bit longer like this. Ron will understand and can handle the others.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but cast the illusion on the ceiling again.

*****​

The day after the Choosing of the Champions started as Harry had expected. His own House, not surprisingly, was supporting their celebrity and star seeker. When he and Hermione had finally entered the Gryffindor dorms, well past midnight, all the other students in the house had all still been up and waiting. Even the first years. Harry had suspected someone had dealt out Pepper-Up potions, and Hermione had muttered that the quality of Prefects had gone down a lot with Percy’s graduation, but that had not changed the fact that Harry had had to explain what had happened, in detail.

As a result the Gryffindors were quite tired the next day. Harry and Hermione took some Pepper-Up potions from Harry’s private stash and used cosmetic spells extensively to portray an immaculate facade in public. Ron had given it a pass, stating he’d sleep in History. Hermione’s reaction to that statement had made Harry smile - he needed that kind of familiar, light-hearted banter right now. Of course a number of the older students regularly took similar measures - those in their 7th year usually after study sessions that robbed them of their sleep, those in their Year of Discovery for other but similarly tiring reasons. Harry wasn’t sure if the majority of this year’s Quidditch Team had slept at all in the first week of the term. That reminded him that he couldn’t fly for Gryffindor this year, another result of being a Triwizard Tournament Champion, and he lost his smile.

In the Great Hall, Harry could see the Hogwarts rumor mill at work, spreading what he told the other Gryffindors last night to the rest of the school. Padma must have waited for her sister Parvati right at the door, and gotten the news straight from her, judging by the way half the Ravenclaw table and several students from Slytherin were clustered around her. Lavender Brown was chatting with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot, with most of the other ‘Puffs listening in openly. The Slytherin table acted aloof, but the students there were already eyeing the Slytherins at the Ravenclaw table with impatience.

Luna and Aicha were on their way towards the Gryffindor table as soon as he, Hermione and Ron had entered. The blonde witch was carrying her oversized notebook and enchanted fountain pen - she was after a story for her father’s magazine. Harry caught Hermione’s scowl at the sight, and smiled again. That the Lovegood family’s well-known eccentricity and long pureblood ancestry allowed Luna to use the pen and notebook without receiving the sneers Hermione would get for using them had irked his friend ever since she had introduced the things to Luna back in their second year. Though to be honest, people still sneered at Luna for being eccentric.

“Harry! Hermione!” Luna greeted them from several meters away, as cheerful as ever. She waved with her notebook since her other arm was linked with Aicha’s, who nodded in greeting. Without waiting for an invitation - which technically wasn’t needed since no one had yet taken a seat - she headed to Harry’s usual spot at the end of the table, dragging the Arabian witch with her. Harry, Hermione and Ron followed, smiling. It was hard to keep a bad mood around the exuberant blonde Ravenclaw.

They had barely taken their seats next to Neville, who had arrived a few minutes before them, and started breakfast when the questions began.

“There are rumors that the Goblet of Fire was manipulated and you have been chosen despite not having entered your name. Is that true?” Luna was munching on a scone and commanding the pot with the hot chocolate to float over to her with a wriggle of her fingers while her enchanted pen wrote down her question.

Harry waited until Hermione had cast a spell to grant them some privacy before answering. “That is correct. I was surprised to hear my name announced, and shocked that whoever did enter me had the gall and perfidity to name Hermione as my stake. She’s not a thing to be put up for a wager like a broom or necklace.” He’d have liked to add “and my best friend”, but that would not have been proper, and he and Hermione needed all the good publicity they could get in their situation. Hermione had already written to Rita Skeeter to arrange for an interview during the next Hogsmeade weekend.

“And who do you think is responsible for this?” Luna stared at him while buttering up another scone. Hermione was finishing a more healthy fruit while Ron was going through a pair of sausages and eggs and black pudding with the appetite of a growing boy. Harry himself had stuck to pumpkin juice so far, or rather, the orange juice he had color changed to look like pumpkin juice. Hermione had come up with that idea in their second year, to allow them to drink orange juice without offending the more traditional wizards and witches. Aicha was eating scones but drinking tea - in the style of her family’s homeland, so sweet that Luna was the only other one to drink it more than once. Though rumors claimed the Headmaster liked it as well. Neville was following Ron’s example, in his selection, if not in the amount of food he ate.

Harry sighed. He didn’t like to lie to his friends, but claiming it was Voldemort would have consequences neither he nor Dumbledore could afford right now. At least Ron knew the truth. “I do not know. I hope it’s just a tasteless prank, but Headmaster Dumbledore suspects there is someone nefarious behind it, and has increased the security for the Tournament. Retired Master Auror Moody has volunteered to help.”

“Oh! That’s great news! Moody is so perceptive, I am sure he’ll be able to see nargles if he tunes his eye just right!” And there went the interview, Harry thought. He consoled himself with the thought that the article Luna would be writing would be at least interesting and filled with things he did not know before.

While Luna started to tell about her latest nargle sightings - they were centered on Draco Malfoy, but avoiding Pansy, or so Harry understood - he was looking around in the Great Hall. A number of students looked away, not wanting to be caught staring. Others met his eyes, with a smile or a sneer. He smiled in return, friendly and not.

The staff table was no exception. Snape was sneering and glaring at him. As was to be expected. Dumbledore had set the professor straight in Harry’s first year, after he had lost his temper and attempted to hex Harry. That had been right after Harry had become Hermione’s Patron. But while the professor had not actually cursed Harry since then he hadn’t even tried to hide his hatred. Snape always seemed to think the worst of Harry, going as far as to threaten Harry with emasculation should he force himself on Hermione. That would have sounded oddly protective of a muggleborn for the pureblood Head of House Slytherin, if Snape had not worded it in a way that made it clear he had no doubt Harry would do exactly that sooner or later.

Sirius, who had gone to Hogwarts with Snape, had had a number of things to say about the Potion Master, and none of it friendly or positive. From what Harry had heard, there had been a veritable blood-feud between Harry’s father and Snape - or would have been, if Snape’s pureblood parentage had been revealed before his graduation. Thought a half-blood during his time in school, he hadn’t had the status to stand up to purebloods, much less the scion of the Black family and his best friend. Of course, students were not supposed to be stating blood feuds, but… that was more of a guideline than a law. How Harry’s mother had been involved in that mess he wasn’t sure even after several talks, but Snape being jealous of James Potter because of Lily Evans was a creepy thought he’d rather not pursue. Though he’d like to hear a bit more about his mother than “she was brilliant, but scary, and had a temper like a redhead.” When he started to ask for more details, Sirius had told him how he once had enchanted the mirrors in the baths of the Gryffindor girls’ dorm to peep on the girls, and what he had seen of Lily Evans then. That had stopped Harry from asking further questions. Maybe if he asked with Hermione present next time… but if that didn’t deter Sirius, then the results wouldn’t be pretty, given Hermione’s temper.

*****​

Ron Weasley was looking around while Luna was asking Harry questions he already had the answers for. He almost frowned at seeing Harry being the center of attention, again. Triwizard Tournament Champion, without having entered his own name - another feather in the cap of the Boy-Who-lived. Ron would have likely been more than slightly jealous if he hadn’t known what was behind this: Another plot by Voldemort. The thought of the Dark Lord plotting his friend’s death drove such petty thoughts away. They’d return, he knew that, but he also knew he wouldn’t let petty jealousy dictate his actions. He had stood with Harry against a troll as a first year, against a basilisk and Voldemort himself as a second year, he had been ready to stand against an escaped mass murderer in his third year. He’d certainly not abandon his friend in their fourth year. He was a brave Gryffindor, not some slimy Slytherin.

Ron was cutting his sausages into bite-sized pieces with the speed his appetite demanded, and the precision his manners, drilled into him by his mother since his early childhood, allowed. The Weasleys were not a rich family, but Molly Weasley made sure they knew how to act in polite society, especially during the - sadly rather few - dinner invitations the family received. Not that that could be helped, given the amount of dinner invitations they could extend themselves. Unlike other, richer families, the Weasleys couldn’t afford the expensive entertainment that was part and parcel of dinner invitations from Wizards, and Molly’s cooking, unrivaled in Ron’s opinion and experience, the twin’s clever spells and Arthur’s extensive collection of muggle curiosa could only go so far in making up for that. They still had enough friends, even rich ones, who invited them, and as importantly, who could be invited to the Weasleys in return without taking offense. The Weasleys were not social pariahs or the kind of dinner entertainment the Lovegoods were perceived as in some circles.

Ron had known that for years now, which didn’t mean he liked it. None of the Weasleys liked it, and all of them were determined to change their family’s fortunes. Arthur would have managed that already, being Head of a Department at the Ministry for Magic, if he hadn’t had to pay for seven children going to Hogwarts. All of them knew that as well, even if no one ever talked about that. But it was the reason Bill was a curse-breaker and Charlie was a Dragon Handler in Romania - both very dangerous professions, but also ones that paid very well. Percy had already started at the Ministry, after being Head Boy at Hogwarts, and the twins were planning their own joke shop, with Arthur’s, if not Molly’s full support. And Ron had made a name and a small fortune for himself already as a Basilisk Slayer. Of course, if the Ministry had finally paid out the compensation for the beast’s carcass, he’d be really set. And Ginny… Ginny was another topic the Weasleys didn’t talk about much.

The girl had, finally, started to change back into the feisty witch with a fiery temper she had been before her first year at Hogwarts. Before Voldemort tried to possess her. Had possessed her. She still had a way to go to return to normal.

Ron waved his wand, and another sausage floated down to land on his plate while his glass refilled with fresh pumpkin juice. Ginny also seemed to be interested in Harry as a boyfriend, again, or still. Ron wasn’t sure what to think about that. He preferred not to. Think about it, that was. Ginny was still not back to normal, in his opinion - he hadn’t been hit by a bat-bogey-hex in months - and Harry was…

He drank some juice, and ate half a sausage, and more pudding. Harry was the youngest seeker in a century. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. And he was the youngest Patron in centuries. Maybe ever. His best friend. And he had been raised like a true muggleborn. Like Hermione. His other best friend. Ron knew he wasn’t the best friend of either of them. But in this case, second best meant a lot, given how close those two were. Any witch who married Harry would have to live with Hermione. Any wizard who married Hermione would have to contend with Harry.

Another thing he didn’t want to think about. Not that it would matter much to him, personally. He liked Hermione. He might even like her as more than a friend, but they would have no future. She was a muggleborn, he was a pureblood, they couldn’t marry. He’d certainly not live in concubinage with a muggleborn witch, any children they’d have would be muggleborns, unable to inherit much, and without many prospects. His mother had raised him better than that.

Ron suppressed a sigh. Even him and Hermione doing some “exploring” together during their 6th year was a rather unlikely prospect. She was a true muggleborn, and as his father had explained to him, they didn’t see things the same when it came to sex. They were more uptight. They’d expect more than some fun times in bed, more than Ron could or would offer.

Ron hoped Harry would have overcome that way of thinking thanks to Sirius by the time their Year of Exploration started. Two Basilisk Slayers would have the pick of the girls at Hogwarts. Maybe the Patil twins, together… but there would be Hermione too, at Harry’s side. She’d be hurt... Ron shelved those thoughts and focused on his breakfast. Hopefully things would work themselves out before their 6th year.

*****​

“Look at Potter, still eating with Weasley and the mudblood. And to think last night I had hoped he had finally decided to put the mudblood in her proper place!” Draco angrily commented. He took a sip from his pumpkin juice then put the glass down with such force the sweet juice swapped over his hand. Pansy quickly vanished the splashed juice with her wand and kept from rolling her eyes at Draco’s antics. Only a fool would have ever believed Potter would have put his retainer up as stakes for the tournament, so naturally, Draco had thought so.

“Not that the tournament is anything but a disgrace already, with the French witch a veela! Truly, Magical France has sunk lower even than I expected if that mongrel is the best their school can offer.” Draco scoffed and sneered, but it didn’t look like either Potter nor Delacour noticed. Pansy smiled - not at his words, but at the thought that Draco apparently still hadn’t heard the rumor that Malfoy family had veela ancestry. Close veela ancestry. And no one knew Pansy had started it a few weeks ago, when she had praised Draco’s grace and beauty, and remarked on his French ancestry. With Fleur having made such an impression upon her arrival, it hadn’t taken long for those rumors to start up. Pansy just hoped she’d be around when he heard it - she was curious how he’d react.

Taking a sip from her own juice, she glanced around. Greengrass, fresh from talking with Davis, who had returned from the Ravenclaw table where Patil had filled them in about the news from Gryffindor, was staring at Potter with a faint smile on her face. Did the blonde witch fancy Potter? Pansy would have to stop that. It wouldn’t do for the blonde to get a better boyfriend than Pansy had. Not that it was likely that Greengrass would be able to charm the Boy-Who-Lived anyway. She had insulted Granger a bit too often, and Potter carried grudges. Cho Chang was a good example for that. Potter hadn’t forgotten what the Chinese pureblood had done to Lovegood in Pansy’s second year, after Lovegood had proved her wrong about some magical animal or other. It seemed Ravenclaws took such matters more seriously than Slytherins took their ancestry.

Pansy was about to assure Draco that Potter would stand no chance against Viktor Krum - and at the same time make her boyfriend jealous of that Quidditch star - when Dumbledore stood up for an announcement about the events of the last evening. She, like all the students, fell silent. They already knew what had happened, but it was always a good idea to listen to the official word on such matters. And he was Dumbledore of course. One did listen to him.

The Headmaster did explain that Potter had been entered in the Tournament against his will, and that while a prank was a possibility, they would take measures to ensure the safety of all participants. Many at the Slytherin table showed as much mirth at those revelations as was possible and still within the borders of politeness, but privately Pansy was concerned. Someone who could manipulate an artifact like the Goblet of Fire must be powerful, and might not care about bystanders when he or she went after Potter. Staying near the Boy-Who-Lived would be hazardous. Which of course meant that her idiot boyfriend would try to hound Potter as much as possible, given his past behaviour when faced with danger.

*****​

The following days brought little relief for Hermione’s temper. A number of students, mostly but not exclusively Slytherins, were discussing broom and jewelry prices whenever she was nearby - a subtle but effective way to insult her without giving her Patron any cause to be offended. She didn’t know who started it. It was too subtle and too effective for Malfoy, which ruled out his cronies and girlfriend too. That only left most of House Slytherin and half of Ravenclaw, though Aicha didn’t think anyone from her House had started it. Luna claimed that it was someone who repelled more nargles than one would expect, which of course made no sense at all.

And it wasn’t the full moon either, so she couldn’t even let off steam by hexing some of those students in Moody’s practical lessons which happened when Remus was indisposed. Not that showing what she had learned during the summer and now was capable of would be smart; not with the duelling competition coming up. But it would feel so good to hex some of those bullies! If they’d threaten Harry she could even curse them freely - retainers were allowed to raise their wands against anyone in defense of their Patron, even if their targets were half-bloods or purebloods, which custom usually prohibited muggleborns from casting at unless attacked first.

She was walking with Harry into the Great Hall when she heard a familiar and hated voice. “Ah, Mister Potter. I wish you the best for the tournament.” Malfoy. She saw Harry tense up - he hadn’t taken the bullying well either, and stepped a bit closer, the best she could do to support him in public, where touching would be improper.

“Thank you, Mister Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was so cold, it could have frozen fiendfyre. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice, but Hermione saw Parkinson wince a tiny bit.

“It goes without saying that I am very pleased that you have chosen to uphold our oldest traditions with your stake in the tournament.” Malfoy smiled at Harry, then glanced at Hermione. The witch kept her face expressionless, but it took some effort.

Harry cocked his head sideways. “Thank you. That is too kind of you. Although, since I did not choose my stake in this myself, nor ever intended to, I have to admit you have me at a disadvantage. What kind of traditions do you mean?”

Malfoy floundered, and Hermione almost smiled. The bigot couldn’t explicitly claim slavery was a tradition to be valued. “Ah… your intention to go honor the conditions set by the goblet, despite not having chosen them yourself.” A weak attempt at recovery, even for Malfoy.

“I can’t imagine anyone who would rather lose their magic than their gold, but apparently you would find such a decision a difficult one, and worthy of note. Peculiar, Mister Malfoy, but not entirely unexpected.” Malfoy gaped, trembling with rage as he realized the insult he had just been dealt, and for a second Hermione thought he was about to draw his wand. Her own was just a flick of her wrist away from sliding into her hand, but the moment passed as Malfoy kept his temper under control, even though it looked like he might suffer a stroke from the effort. Hermione had to fight from giggling in a rather undignified manner as she and Harry left the fuming Slytherin and walked to their table.

*****​

One good thing the tournament had caused was, in Harry’s opinion, the opportunity to continue his lessons with Sirius and Remus, and now Moody, in preparation for the first task. Their lessons, now, he corrected himself with a glance to Hermione and Ron. Knowing that Voldemort was back, again, meant his friends would stick close to him. Not that anyone would try, much less succeed in keeping them away anyway.

Remus was showing them the flame-freezing charm. The first of the four tasks would have a fire theme, so learning that spell, or mastering it, was a priority. Hermione was already planning to enchant his robes with a variant of the spell, but Harry wasn’t sure she’d manage to do that in time for the task. “Now, the spell is easy, but hitting fire and flames that are moving can be hard.” Remus explained, and he and Sirius created floating motes of flame in the former duelling chamber they were using for the training. “Try to hit them before they reach you. The flames won’t hurt you, of course, but they’ll mark you if not frozen. Your goal is to avoid getting burned.”

The three students raised their wands, and the dozens of floating fires shot at them, some straight, some in wild turns, others seemed to attempt to circle around them. Harry took care of the closest, fastest first. His spell hit, rendering it harmless even though it didn’t actually freeze it or stop it from moving, and he quickly switched targets. Another fire was rendered harmless, and then another. He had to dodge a fast one, missing it with his next spell, but hitting another sneaking up on him from below. Then suddenly the ground was on fire, and and while he tried to freeze those flames he was hit multiple times from behind, each spark acting like a stinging hex. Judging by the yelps from Ron and hermione, they too had been had. Then the exercise ended.

Sirius smirked while Remus smiled encouragingly, unaffected by their glares. “As you can see, the charm is not that effective when used against moving targets, such as fire elementals or animals with a flame aura. Against fire-breathing animals, it’s useless. Harry saw Hermione mumble something. She was likely trying to work out how to adapt the spell to remove that weakness. He raised his hand out of habit.

“Yes Harry?”

“As far as I know I’ll have to face such animals in the first task.” Hermione had researched the tournament thoroughly, and the Fire task usually dealt with fending off or defeating such opponents. Often while surrounded by fire, or enchanted lava.

“Yes. But you are likely to have to deal with enchanted fires as well, and for those the flame-freezing charm works very well. Much better and quicker than aguamenti, for example. You’ll learn a protection spell as well, after the bubblehead charm.” That spell would be needed to breathe while surrounded by smoke, and would help with the next task as well. Almost all tasks involving water involved some amount of time spent in and under it, after all.

“Remember: The tasks are as safe as we can make them, but there’s still a slight risk.” A bigger risk, with Voldemort meddling with the tasks. The goblet’s power prevented the tasks from being altered too much as well. Harry couldn’t help but being nervous. The uncertainty was not helping either - it was likely that Voldemort would make his attempt during one of the four tasks, but the dark Lord might have other plans as well. Moody’s attitude started to sound rather appealing to Harry these days.

Then they had to dodge and freeze the flames again. And failed again. And again. Not even working together and covering each other’s blind spots - which was not the goal of the training anyway, since Harry would compete alone - helped that much. Those flames stung, and Sirius’ cackling laughter whenever he heard them yell didn’t help either. Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione, then nodded towards Sirius. She nodded, understanding his intent. Ron took a bit longer, but not much, to understand.

Then the flames flew at them again, but instead of casting the flame-freezing charm, Harry sent a stinging hex at Remus, followed by Ron’s body-binding hex. He saw the eyes of his teacher widen in surprise right before the spells hit and and Remus toppled over. Sirius was already trussed up in conjured ropes courtesy of Hermione, and judging from his complaints, she had added a few stinging hexes for good measure. With the two controllers out, the flames had actually frozen in mid-flight.

Grinning, Harry pointed this out. “All flames were prevented from burning us.” The glares he got in return made him grin wider.

*****​

After the lesson, Harry and Sirius sat together on conjured chairs in a small alcove in the room, which originally had been meant for the judges’ table. Ron had gone off to get a snack and Hermione was badgering Remus with questions about the spells she planned to adapt. Harry’s godfather pulled two bottles of butterbeer out of his mokeskin pocket and handed one to him.

“How are you doing?” Sirius took a pull from his own bottle, but his eyes didn’t leave Harry.

“I am doing ok.” Sirius narrowed his eyes a bit, and Harry amended “Given the circumstances.”

“No nightmares? No urge to kill nuisances? No desire to drink fire whiskey?”

“No.” Harry realized Sirius was going through his own symptoms. He didn’t mention that though - Sirius had a new goal to focus on, keeping Harry alive, and he was doing better. Prying or prodding his godfather wouldn’t help anyone.

“Still an eye for the witches?” Sirius grinned while Harry gave him a flat stare. “Lighten up, Harry. You’re handsome, if not as handsome as I am, you’re a Triwizard Champion, and you’re famous. Witches will flock to you even before the Year of Discovery.” The older wizard glanced over at Hermione, still deep in a discussion with Remus. “You should be preparing for that as well. I am sure Hermione would agree with me. She might even help you.”

“I am sure she would hex your bits off for asking that.” Or his.

“That’s why you should ask. Safer.”

Harry snorted, to hide his growing unease. That wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. With anyone. Least of all Hermione herself. “How are you doing?”

Turning the tables was a cheap shot, but effective. Sirius gave some evasive answers, and both drank the rest of their butterbeers in silence.

*****​

Viktor Krum was an imposing sight, even up close, and away from his broom, Harry thought. Tall, muscular - unlike most professional seekers - but quick on his feet. Not very talkative, but that could just be the occasion. Dumbledore had called the other two Champions and their Headmaster and Headmistress to his office to discuss security for the upcoming first task. Moody was there as well, standing in a corner, his dark cloak almost melding with the shadows if one did not pay enough attention. He was staring at Karkaroff as if he was just a second away from cursing the man to death. That was likely the case, Harry realized, since Karkaroff was a former Death Eater.

Strangely though Harry felt reassured by this - he was sure that if Karkaroff was a threat to him Moody would have already taken care of the wizard in the ruthless manner he was famous and infamous for. Karkaroff himself looked nervous, almost trembling in his the fur-lined red robes, but that was normal for anyone Moody glared at with his artificial eye.

Harry snuck a glance at Fleur Delacour. The veela was as beautiful and perfect as she had appeared each day, clad in her ethereal blue silk robe which seemed to float around her rather than be worn. He had trouble imagining the French witch covered with sweat, soot, and dust after a training lesson, brushing a lock of her unruly brown hair back behind her ear… Harry blinked. The French Champion was blonde. It must be the unusual absence of Hermione, who was near him almost constantly, that had caused that slip.

He briefly looked over at Olympe Maxime. Sitting next to Fleur, she looked smaller than he remembered her. Maybe some enchantment - he had heard from Hagrid that she didn’t like to stand out too much, even though she was not as self-conscious about her ancestry as she had been before she had met Hogwarts’ half-giant teacher. Of course her robe was splendid, fitting the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, but more sturdy-looking than Fleur’s ensemble, which gave the impression that a strong gust of wind would blow it away, exposing the witch. Harry clamped down on that thought as well, and silently cursed Sirius for telling him about the spell the Marauders had created once that did exactly that.

“Now that we are all here, let me inform you about the security measures taken for the first task.” Dumbledore sounded calm and serious, lacking the hint of humor usually present in his voice. “We have done what we could under the constraints of the Goblet. I cannot go into too much detail regarding the task itself, but I have personally checked the enchantments in the arena that safeguard the Champions, and will do so on the day of the task again. Alastor will make sure the staff members and everyone connected to the tournament are safe before they can get on the grounds. We have acquired - at great cost, I note - a Thief’s Downfall for this from Gringotts. While we cannot interfere directly during the task, each Champion will receive a potion that will disable him or her if ingested, and then turn into a portkey to our infirmary. That way the Goblet will note them as incapacitated, and allow them to be withdrawn from the field without punishing them.” Theoretically. No one really knew what the goblet would be doing, after all it had been manipulated already. But it beat dying. Harry still resolved not to use the potion and he thought his fellow Champions didn’t plan on using theirs either.

Dumbledore detailed a few more security measures taken, nothing unexpected as far as Harry could tell. The arena, constructed similarly to the one that had housed the Quidditch World Cup, was tamper-proof by design. It could simulate a variety of environments, whose settings could be locked for a set time, preventing sabotage and meddling during the task. Apparition was warded against, for this task at least. Since Harry couldn’t do that anyway - though he and his friends had plans to learn that next summer, just in case - he wasn’t bothered by that restriction. And of course the area housing the creatures used for the task was heavily warded and isolated. Only a select few could enter, and those usually stayed there.

After a bit of discussion - mostly to let Karkaroff feel like he had as much of a say in this as Dumbledore had, Harry thought - the meeting started to break up. Harry was about to head out to rejoin Hermione when Viktor Krum approached him. “Mister Potter? May I have a word, please?”

“Of course, Mister Krum.” Harry nodded, and saw Fleur Delacour eye them discreetly. He cast a privacy charm, which seemed to surprise the older boy. Maybe even impress him, Harry thought.

“I wish to tell you that contrary to some unsavory rumors I have heard, I have no untoward intentions concerning your retainer. I will follow custom and traditions, as expected, should I win the tournament.” His accent was strong, but his English was good. Maybe a translation charm, though those could remove accents as well, Harry remembered Hermione telling him.

“I would not expect anything else from a wizard of your reputation, Mister Krum.” Harry nodded. “Should I happen to win the Tournament, I will of course do the same.” Which was quite unlikely, in his opinion, even though he couldn’t help having a few fantasies about winning the tournament, and holding all three stakes in his arms as well as the trophy.

Krum nodded at him, and then stepped outside the spells radius, to leave with his impatient Headmaster. Harry was about to leave himself, when he was stopped again.

“A secret meeting between Champions, Mister Potter?” Fleur Delacour sounded amused, but also interested.

“Mister Krum just assured me of his intentions to honor custom and tradition should he win the Tournament.” Harry explained. The French veela faintly smiled in response.

“That is good to know. Although I would ‘ave expected the chastity enchantments to work well enough to prevent anything untoward.” The witch bowed her head and glided out of the room before Harry managed to respond.

“The what!?”

Harry heard Dumbledore laugh behind him, and turned around. The Headmaster was clearly amused, and even Moody was grinning - usually a terrifying sight. After a bit, the old wizard explained. “There are persistent rumors in the other schools that all Hogwarts students below 6th years are under spells to ensure they remain chaste. To keep them safe from the mandatory orgies of our upper years, you understand.” Mirth twinkled in his eyes while Harry gaped. “Oh, yes. Our school has quite the reputation among the students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. There’s a lesson, I guess, to teach us not believe everything we hear about the other schools. Or from them. Off with you now, your friend is waiting and might start to grow concerned about your continued absence.”

Outside, Hermione was indeed looking worried. Before the young witch could ask anything though, Harry spoke up. “Did you know the other schools think we have chastity enchantments and mandatory orgies?”

“They what?” Harry hadn’t seen his best friend that flustered in quite some time.

*****​

The day of the first task had finally arrived. Hermione was waiting in the Gryffindor common room for Harry to descend from his dorm, so they could walk together to the arena. She hadn’t managed to finish the adaption of the flame-freezing charm in time, but she had brewed some fire-retardant to soak Harry’s robes in. And his hair, just in case. There were not many left in the dorm, most had already gone ahead to secure good spots for themselves, including Ron. Neither Harry nor herself would have to worry about that, of course. Harry would be taking part in the task, and Hermione had a spot next to the judges, together with a broom and a necklace. Just thinking about the indignity made her frown. And then she felt guilty for it. She would be safe, and secure, while Harry would be taking part in this stupid tournament, dangerous enough on its own, but manipulated by a homicidal maniac.

Her torc grew warm, interrupting her thoughts. Harry was on his way. Hermione checked the room. No one else was around. She quickly started up the stairs, meeting Harry halfway. Before he could say anything, she hugged him with all her strength, as if she could keep him here and safe that way. “Please be careful.” She whispered, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Of course.” He rubbed her back until she pulled back, wiping some tears from her face with her sleeve, the moisture fading at once thanks to her spells, then nodded.

“My Patron.“

“My Wand.”

They made their way towards the arena. It was a marvel of magic, Hermione had to admit. As big as a Quidditch arena on the outside, but expanded inside in a way that enlarged the floor several times beyond the Arena’s capacity and yet kept all spectators as close as if the arena was actually smaller than it was. As far as expansion charms went, it was the most complex and mind-warping example she had ever seen. Truly inspirational. If only Harry wouldn’t be forced to enter it and compete in the tournament.

They entered through the reserved gate for the staff and Champions and walked to the judges. Harry whispered “I am sorry”, before he motioned her to the chair next to judges’ table, flanked by two pedestals holding a Krum’s broom and Delacour’s necklace. “It’s alright.” Hermione whispered back before taking her seat there, feeling various protection charms and spells snap into place around her.

“The Hogwarts Champion has placed his stake.” Dumbledore announced formally, and Harry walked towards the small platform where the other two Champions were already waiting. Delacour was wearing a sturdier robe, Hermione noticed - though she was sure it wasn’t any less enchanted. Probably less vulnerable to a finite. The arena floor was shrouded in shadows, keeping anyone from seeing what had been prepared.

Hermione fought to not bite her lip. To remain stoic, and not show how nervous she was. She distracted herself with studying the audience. Some of them, she suspected, were mainly here to see if Harry would die. Rita Skeeter’s article, while based on the facts they knew, had been as sensationalized as ever, and had more than simply hinted at some nefarious design behind the manipulation, even speculated to a link to the attack on the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione had liked that - it meant an extra-complement of aurors standing guard. No one wanted a repeat of that incident. Especially not with most of the Wizengamot and the Ministry here. Of course, Hermione thought, spotting the Malfoys, some of the prime suspects of that attack were here anyway.

The whole spectacle reminded her strongly of Roman gladiator games. The parallels were hard to miss. Though contrary to ancient times, no gods were called upon here - the Goblet had been forged in the time before the Witch Hunts had soured Christianity for the Magical World.

“With all contestants ready and their stakes on display, let the first task of the Triwizard Tournament begin!” Dumbledore raised his wand, and the shadows dispersed, revealing the arena. Hermione gasped at the sight. The floor was made of lava, from which stone pillars rose, holding up a platform made of what looked like wood, three meters above the lava. Hermione knew the lava was enchanted, it couldn’t be real or the wood and anyone passing over it would burst into flames from the heat, but it still was a sight she’d rather not have seen.

The audience disagreed of course - applause filled the arena. It grew stronger when a dozen shapes appeared from a gate opposite the Champions, what looked like hundreds of meters away, and yet was as easy to observe as if she was sitting just a dozen meters from it. Fire drakes, Hermione realized. Fire-spewing flying lizards, as large as a border collie. Luna had told her and Harry about them, when they had studied fire-themed animals. They were fiercely territorial, related to Dragons, resistant to magic; if not to the same degree as their much larger relatives, and could smell their prey, especially fire crabs, which they considered a treat, from miles away.

Another flick from Dumbledore’s wand sent three shining gems into the arena, a golden one, a silver one and a bronze one. They settled on a pedestal in front of the gate the Drakes had come through. The flying lizards at once rushed around the shiny gems, screeching. The drakes coveted shining things, Hermione remembered. Even if they very rarely hurt humans seriously, preferring to drive them away from their nests with fire and intimidating behaviour, they would defend such a prize. And accidents could happen.

Dumbledore hadn’t finished though. Another swish and flick, and the wooden platform was filled with a veritable obstacle course of wooden walls, ladders, and figures of all kinds.

“Whoever reaches the golden gem wins the task, with silver earning second place and bronze third.” Or last, Hermione thought. Then the wooden figures and walls and obstacles on the platform started to burn. “The longer you wait, the less obstacles you have to pass, for they will have burned down. But be careful, for the floor will be sinking down, and if you wait too long you will end up in the lava yourself. The gate will only open if you hold a gem.” At that moment, Hermione wanted to hurt whoever had thought of such a task, but judging from the loud cheering, she was a tiny minority there.

A loud fanfare was the signal to start, and the three Champions entered the arena. Hermione couldn’t help but cry out when Harry stepped on the wooden floor, and a transparent shield appeared behind him, cutting him off from the audience.

*****​

Harry was grateful for the bubblehead charm, the air inside the arena was filled with smoke, partially obscuring their goal. It was hot, but not as hot as it should be, so close above lava. He was still looking around when Krum started for the first obstacle in front of them, a burning wall made of wood. The seeker’s reducto blew a hole into it, but a rather smallish one, Harry thought Judging from the curses Krum muttered, Harry hadn’t been the only one expecting a bigger one. It would have been too easy, he realized, if they could simply blast their way across the platform.

If he had his broom with him he could simply fly right at the prize… He grinned suddenly. Lateral thinking, Hermione called it. Going through the obstacles was a slow process, even without the animated figures attacking them. But going above…

Harry used a few reductos to blow up a wooden wall until he had a board broken off, then cast a levitation charm on it. It wobbled a bit, but rose obediently. Perfect. it wasn’t a broom, and it would be very slow, but still faster than going through the obstacles.

Though as soon as he sat down on it it burst into ashes, dropping him on the ground. Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one thinking of this. Though on the other hand… if he could cast that spell on an obstacle, and then step on it to destroy it in seconds…

Loud screeching interrupted his planning. Looking up, he saw a dozen fire drakes descend, fangs bared and claws out. Krum was in the middle of climbing over an obstacle 20 meters in front of Harry, and two of the drakes attacked, raking him with their claws. They had not spit fire at Krum, Harry realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach. They were not trying to frighten him away, they were hunting Krum! And himself!

He dropped to the ground and rolled away when he caught a winged shape dive at him, barely evading fangs that could crack a fire crab carapace. The young Champion shot a stunner at the beast without thinking - and without any effect, the spell splashing harmlessly against the drake’s wings. For a moment he thought of using the potion-portkey, but then decided against it - if he was knocked unconscious, even if only for a few seconds before the portkey worked, those drakes would tear him to pieces. And eat him. A sprint carried him past another dive-bombing reptile, closer to where Krum had fallen down. If the lessons from Remus and Sirius had taught him one thing, then that teamwork was the key when defending against multiple fast attackers.

Harry jumped at a burning wall, trusting the potion covering his robes to protect him, and pulled himself up, then over it. A blunt impact behind him, right as he slid down the other side, told him another drake had gone after him. He ran around the burning embers of a ripped apart scarecrow and dove through a small hole in the next wall, pursued by two more drakes who had to pull up to avoid that obstacle. There was Krum, on the ground, one arm dangling uselessly and bleeding at his side, but casting and holding three of the drakes at bay!

Harry screamed like a madman - it couldn’t hurt, he later defended himself - and then sent a glowing stag at the drakes. The stag had not much of an effect, but distracted the beasts long enough so he could reach the Bulgarian wizard. Crouching down next to Krum, he cast a shield. “Can you heal yourself?” he shouted, to be heard over the screeching of the lizards.

Krum nodded, and flicked his wand at his bleeding arm. Harry couldn’t check how much it helped, he had to focus on his shield as one, then another drake crashed against it, almost shattering it.

Then a much larger figure landed - or crashed - to the ground near the two. Harry almost cursed at it, until he realized it was Delacour, in her bird form. Gone was the perfect face, replaced by the beak of a bird of prey. Large wings had sprouted from her shoulders, and her clawed feet held the broken remains of a drake, crushed on the ground. She raised her head and screeched at the drakes circling above them. Harry barely heard Krum whispering curses or prayers under his breath while he stared at the sight. He couldn’t help but briefly wondering what Ron would think of her now.

Then the remaining drakes attacked again, and he was busy shielding. Krum blinded one of the drakes with a well-aimed conjunctivitis curse, Delacour flew up and smacked two more from the air, crushing one as she came down on it just as Harry used a reducto on the ground under the other, turning the wood into deadly splinters that pierced even drake scales.

And opened a hole for the heat simmering under the platform. Even Delacour, with a veela’s affinity to fire, was driven back when the temperature rose quickly and drastically, and the wooden planks around the hole started to burn. Harry exchanged a glance with Krum, then started to run towards the gates, their original goal, followed by Delacour.

The drakes were still chasing them. It made no sense, they had seen three of their number killed and another blinded, and yet kept coming. Delacour’s screech warned them of another attack, and Harry raised his shield in time to see two more impact on it. He was straining to keep it up while Krum finished one of them with a curse that looked like a poison effect. Delacour ripped the other to pieces with her claws, screeching at the remaining six again.

One of those seemed to respond to what Harry realized was a challenge, and dove at her, spitting fire that washed harmlessly over her. Her own fireballs, launched from her hands, showed an equal lack of effect. Then the two met in a flurry of claws fangs and beaks. The drake fought fiercely, but Delacour had size and mass over it - and her wings were far more powerful than the drake’s. She knocked it down with one blow from her left wing, then smacked it 10 meters back with the other when it jumped up. That was enough for the drake, who flew away before rejoining his brethren.

Harry expected the next attack, wand ready, while Krum healed the cuts Delacour had suffered, but none came. “I claimed you as my prey.” Delacour explained, her voice distorted into an alien sound, drastically different from her usual melodic voice.

“What?” Harry blinked. Had he heard correctly?

“They see you as prey. I challenged them.” Delacour kept her eyes on the circling drakes.

“You can understand them?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Harry shouldn’t have been so surprised, He was a parselmouth, after all. It stood to reason that a veela might understand other creatures of air and fire.

“They have simple minds, seeing everything as either predator or prey. I proved to be stronger.” She turned her head with her blood-stained beak towards Harry and Krum. “I am not eating you.” The screeching laughter that followed told Harry just how shaken he and Krum must have looked.

Working together - the drakes were still following them, “They hope to scavenge from me”, Delacour had explained - the obstacles posed no problems for the three champions, and soon they stood in front of the pedestal holding the three gems, exchanging looks. Everyone needed a gem to escape the arena, but who would get which one?

Krum didn’t hesitate long. “Miss Delacour saved us both, she gets the golden one.”

Harry nodded. “And you get the silver one. It’s my fault those drakes attacked us.”

Krum looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded after he met Harry’s eyes.

With the drakes still waiting for an opportunity to attack, the three went through the gate together. The first task of the Triwizard Tournament was over.

*****​

Barty Crouch Jr. laughed, reading the Daily Prophet detailing the events of the first task. As if he had struck then and there if he had actually wanted to kill Potter. No, he’d have waited, let them grow complacent and lower their guard, before striking. But now, and for just an imperius, an obliviate and a few liters of fire crab liver extract, his Master’s enemies would focus even more on Hogwarts, allowing him to prepare the resurrection ritual with very little risk. And who knew? With a bit of luck, Potter might still die to his next attack. And should that happen, should the Boy-Who-Lived die in Dumbledore’s care, then the meddling old wizard would be far too busy dealing with everyone screaming for his head to oppose Barty’s master until it was too late.

The Death Eater stood up, dropping the newspaper on the table, then smiled at his father and the family elf, Winky, both bound and gagged by his spells. “I’ll take my leave now, father. I’d love to kill you, but… that would create a risk I cannot take. Not yet. So…”

He pointed his wand at his father’s head. “Obliviate! Your son died in Azkaban. Your wife died soon afterwards. You never thought to rescue him.You have spent the rest of your life alone, with Winky as your only companion, regretting that you sacrificed your son’s life for political ambitions which ultimately failed.”

After wiping the knowledge of his continued existence from the minds of his father and his elf and canceling the spells that held them, Barty left his family home. He had his Master’s resurrection to prepare.


Chapter 5: Duels

 

Chapter 5: Duels

Hermione was standing so close to Harry, she was sure he could feel her breath, she was still panting from her dead run to him, on his neck. Watching the first task had been a horrible experience for the young witch. She had realized at once that the animals were not acting naturally when they did not display their typical threatening behaviour, but attacked right away. When she had seen them attacking Harry she had felt such an urge to help him, save him, she had almost tried to break through the shield separating the arena from the audience. Only the knowledge that it would not only have been forbidden, but futile had kept her from trying, and even so it had been a close call. Her best friend, her Patron, had been in danger, and she had been forced to watch helplessly, uselessly. She had bitten her lip bloody waiting and worrying while the audience, not realizing this was not planned, roared with delight. Blood sports indeed.

But even worse was the aftermath. Hermione had rushed to the exit, to Harry, as soon as he had left the arena. While not exactly proper procedure for a stake in the tournament, her being his retainer allowed this, even called for it. But hugging him, as she so desperately wanted, to not only see, but feel that he was safe and unharmed, was out of the question. Far too many were watching them. She contented herself by brushing some ash from his robes as an excuse to at least touch him. In response Harry turned his head briefly, smiling at her. “I am fine, My Wand.” At least someone had cast a spell to keep the crowd’s loud reaction from reaching them.

The judges, several aurors and the healers assigned to the tournament surrounded the three Champions. Everyone was talking over each other for a bit, with the healers barely having enough space to check for wounds other than the obvious ones on Krum, which quickly were dealt with.

“I do not detect any curses on them.” Stated a tall, black auror.

“No sign of Malaclaw Venom either.” Another auror said, after waving his wand. The other auror scoffed at that. “If they had been suffering from that they’d not have made such a good time through the obstacles, and they’d have been mauled, Gregor.”

Hermione caught Snape, who seemed to be conducting his own investigation, smile snidely at that comment before the Potion Master focused on his wand work again. The witch took note that almost everyone was casting silently. Even Dumbledore was casting, though she had no idea what kind of spells - he was barely moving his wand at all.

“Headmaster! Headmaster! I found it!” Hagrid’s loud, booming voice, made everyone stop and look at the half-giant. Hermione just then realized that he had, with a few more aurors and probably experts for magical animals, entered the arena.

“Splendid, Rubeus. Please enlighten us.” Dumbledore sounded almost cheerful, despite the seriousness of the situation, in Hermione’s opinion. Madam Maxime also seemed to brighten up.

“From the way the drakes attacked they must have mistaken the children fo’ their prey since they normally do not attack humans. There was no sign o’ any spells on them, not now and not befo’ the event, I checked personally. But they hunt by smell, so someone must’ve dosed the Champions with somethin’ that made ‘em smell like prey. Prolly like fire crabs, the little tykes go crazy for them and they haven’t had any fo’ weeks. Someone cut the budget fo’ it. If I ‘ad been in charge o’ the animals… they’d not have been killed. Poor little tykes.“

Dumbledore nodded. Snape cut in “Since fire crab liver extract is harmless, the wards against poison wouldn’t have caught it in the kitchen.” He sneered at Harry and added “Since I doubt all three Champions would have been so careless to let someone dose them with such a substance, the meals are the most plausible means to accomplish such a feat.”

“Exactly, Severus. Provided this hypothesis turns out to be true. I believe you can easily confirm it with an analysis of the children’s sweat, can’t you?”

“Blood would be better, but sweat will work as well.” Hermione had no doubt that was true, but not many wizards would let another draw blood from them to experiment with. Far too dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands. She remembered the reactions of her fellow students when she had mentioned blood donation drives and blood transfusions. Everyone had thought she was pulling their legs, even when she had tried to prove it with a book her parents had mailed her on her request. Judging by the snort Harry had let slip at Snape’s words, he’d not even dream of letting the man get ahold of his blood.

“I believe we have done all we can here, and can leave the rest in the capable hands of the aurors and Severus.” Dumbledore beamed. “Our Champions handled themselves splendidly, and I was delighted to see them close ranks in the face of unexpected danger. The audience certainly went wild, as the saying goes.” Hermione saw that most of the wizards and witches present nodded. Karkaroff frowned, but didn’t say anything, and Snape was glaring around. “Let us now proceed to judge the event, before Cornelius grows impatient.”

With that the judges led the Champions to their table, with Hermione trailing behind Harry until she had to sit down at the stakes table again. The Minister for Magic gave a short speech about the skill and bravery of the Champions, and the spirit of cooperation, as expected, then the verdict was rendered. Unsurprisingly, Delacour was confirmed as the victor of the task, with Krum taking second place and Harry third. Hermione had the impression Karkaroff would have liked to argue, but had not wanted to contradict his own Champion. With everyone finishing at the same time, the actual point differences were minimal anyway - 60, 55 and 50 points, respectively. Harry had still a good chance to win the tournament, Hermione thought, then chastised herself silently for thinking such selfish thoughts - he had to survive the assassination attempts, not think about winning!

*****​

The next day Hermione was sitting in the Great hall, next to Harry, and reading the newspapers delivered by owls. The Daily Prophet’s headline stated “Champions brave fire drakes”, and the pictures on the front page made Hermione remember the fear she had felt for Harry. She would have shivered, if not for Harry’s hand briefly patting her back. She did study the picture showing Delacour transforming in detail though - it was a fascinating process.

The muggleborn witch and her Patron had been very surprised that seeing the beautiful French witch change into a frightening bird-woman did nothing to diminish the attraction so many students had for her - quite the contrary, in fact. Delacour remained the witch many dreamed of bedding, and her ability to change her form seemed to make her more magical, and therefore even more perfect in the eyes of many wizards and not a few witches. A brief glance to her left confirmed that most of the Gryffindor Quidditch team was looking at the Ravenclaw table with hopeful expressions on their faces. She felt a brief satisfaction that Harry didn’t seem to share that opinion even if Ron was straining his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the blonde again.

The picture showing herself with the rest of the stakes was less welcome, in her opinion. At least it was taken before the start instead of during the event, when she had bitten her lip until it bled. The description of the picture was quite flattering. Her pride at the praise of her appearance, skill and manners was short-lived though, since the very next sentence speculated that Krum or Delacour might wish to keep her for themselves in case they won the Tournament. Fortunately she knew from Harry that Krum had no such intentions, and neither did she think had Delacour. A growl from Harry made her look up - he had just read the same paragraph.

“It’s just some baseless speculation.” she whispered, briefly patting his thigh. He nodded at her, but his mood did not seem to improve. She decided to distract him before someone picked up on that.

“Look at that. They know that the Fire Drakes have been manipulated, but they do not know the method used. But the author blames Dumbledore for his ‘appalling lack of security’ while at the same time dismisses the Fire Drakes as ‘mere pests’. Those drakes hunt fire crabs! Has that man ever seen a fire crab?” Hermione huffed before summoning the floating plate of fruits to her to pick up fresh pineapple slices.

“It’s from Valdemar Beckleton. Rita said he’s in Malfoy’s pocket.” Harry dug into his own breakfast. “But on the positive side, the Purists have stopped protesting the Tournament since now it’s ‘not just an unneeded entertainment for the masses’.” Harry snorted.

“That’s positive?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Better than this: ‘This interference is just the first step of the vengeance from heaven for not calling upon the gods at the start of the Tournament. Jupiter has been angered, and has sent his animals to reap vengeance.’ That’s a quote from the High Priest of the Faithful.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. The Faithful were extremists who took the veneration of the Old Gods very seriously - and took the lack of true faith among mainstream Wizarding Britain even more seriously. “Great. I wonder if he even realizes that Jupiter’s animal is the eagle, not the fire drake,” she added whispering despite the spells granting them privacy.

“Are you sure? That sounds odd. Eagles are not even magical.” Ron had returned to his own meal, and joined the conversation. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to correct the redhead when she caught his sly grin. He was pulling her leg. Huffing, she speared her next pineapple slice.

“Snape confirmed that our food was laced with fire crab liver extract. Hagrid found some more, near the cage for the fire drakes. He said the smell drove them wild. Hagrid wasn’t affected himself, so it probably happened when he was eating in Hogsmeade with Madam Maxime.” Harry explained to their friend.

“Why didn’t anyone notice?” Ron shifted a bit, to make space for Neville who was arriving late, as seemed to be the norm this term for him.

“They kept the drakes isolated from any student or teacher, so no one noticed the effect.” Hermione explained. “A classic case of using our own security measures against us. I do hope this was accidental, and not planned.”

“Better not count on that.” Ron commented while refilling his goblet with more pumpkin juice.

“Are you sure they didn’t dose you specifically?” Neville asked after filling his own plate with the help of a few summoning charms.

“They checked more students than just the Champions.”

“Someone has to have helped them, then. Someone on the inside.” Neville looked at his food as if he was suspecting it to jump up into his face.

“It must have been a house elf. Probably an Imperius or Confundus charm, followed by an obliviate.” Hermione had finished her own breakfast, and could focus on the topic at hand. “Checking all elves for possible hints of that will be nigh-impossible. It’s hard enough to spot altered memories in a human brain, and it takes a long time with a pensieve. I do not think anyone ever bothered to do the same for elves.” She felt for the elves, they were in a situation somewhat similar to her own. If one squinted and closed an eye, as Harry had said when she mentioned it. Close enough for her, in any case.

“So, that trace is a dead end.” Ron summed her statement up.

“Yes.”

“Heads up, Malfoy’s headed our way.” Ron nodded towards the blond Slytherin strutting through the Great Hall as if he owned it, his girlfriend at his side and his two goons at his back.

“Good Morning, Mister Potter.” Malfoy nodded at Harry, barely enough to avoid insulting him. Harry returned the greeting with the same precision. “Is it true that you had so much trouble with mere pests, you had to run to the other Champions to save yourself?”

“I would hardly call animals who hunt fire crabs for food as mere pests, but then, I am not taking Care of Magical Creatures, so I bow to your superior knowledge. You even have the scars on your arm to prove your mastery of the subject.” Harry answered with a pleasant if toothy smile. Malfoy stiffened and Hermione smiled blandly, to hide her amusement. Malfoy had defied Hagrid’s instructions, and gotten mauled for it. And to top this particularly fine piece of stupidity, he had then tried to use his wound to not only get the Quidditch games rescheduled but also to get the hippogriff killed. As if Matron Pomfrey would not see right through his malingering, and Hagrid not provide pensieve evidence of the lesson in question. Sometimes she wondered just how he came up with those plots.

“Good. I do wish you better success in the next task. Apparently your competitors might actually find your stake attractive enough to consider keeping her. I would never contemplate to lower myself to that level, but foreigners apparently lack our standards.” Draco sneered at Hermione while stating this, making it quite clear that the standards he considered lacking should such an event occur were not those of honor and tradition, but of aesthetics.

Harry bristled at the intended insult to Hermione, but fortunately managed to control himself enough to answer in a civil tone. “I trust my fellow champions’ honor. We fought side by side, after all, in the face of lethal danger, which forms a certain bond. Mister Malfoy.”

“Indeed, Mister Potter. Good day.” Malfoy nodded, seemingly acknowledging the point, which surprised Hermione. Parkinson seemed surprised as well, before she started tittering to her beloved.

“For someone who just insulted the honor of two Champions and possibly their schools and countries just to needle me, that was a surprising reaction, or lack thereof.” Harry commented.

Ron agreed. “Usually he’d claim he did the same, or better, or that you lied.”

“Maybe he is growing up some?” Hermione nibbled on her lip again.

All four Gryffindors at their corner of the table looked at each other, then shook their heads.

*****​

Harry almost smiled, watching Hermione check and recheck the spells that had turned an unused classroom she was normally using for her - still unsuccessful - experiments in magic-proofing electronics into a small lounge. She was just a bit too concerned with everything appearing to be perfect for their guests. Inviting Delacour and Krum to discuss the events of the day before in a more casual setting had been her idea, but she seemed to have forgotten the casual part. At least she was focusing on the room, and not anymore on him. She had cast half a dozen charms on him already. The room showed the results of her efforts though - the walls were covered with illusions a wooden panels and animated paintings, the floor was covered by a conjured thick brown carpet, and the refreshments provided by the house elves (and double-checked by Moody and Hermione) were waiting on floating trays. There even was an illusionary fireplace in the other wall.

A glance to his right increased his amusement. Ron was rechecking all the spells on his best school robe, and fretting over meeting both his Quidditch idol and “the most beautiful bird in the castle” at the same time, and in an almost intimate setting. Or so he had described it.

After a few more minutes of this entertainment, there was a knock at the door. Their guests had arrived. Hermione ran a cosmetic spell over herself, for the 6th time this evening, and went to open the door. After glaring at him, that was - she seemed to have not forgotten Harry’s joke that if she overdid it with the cosmetic spells, she might cause Krum to regret his earlier promise.

“My Patron bids you welcome, Mister Krum, Miss Delacour, and offers his hospitality for the duration of your visit.” Hermione formally greeted Krum and Delacour. So much for a more casual setting, Harry thought, while his two guests accepted the invitation and hospitality. Though knowing that any hostile action would be a scandalous break of custom for whoever did it was a good way to make wizards and witches feel at ease.

“Welcome, my fellow Champions, to my humble if temporary abode. May I present my close friend Ronald Weasley to you?” Harry gestured to Ron, who had managed to compose himself, to the point of grinning at the two Champions while he greeted them. Both returned the greeting.

While everybody sat down on the massive but soft dark leather couches and seats Harry and Hermione had conjured, his retainer summoned the prepared trays with drinks and a few snacks, levitating them over to the tea table floating in the middle. Once everyone had been served, she sat down on the armrest of Harry’s seat. It was a seating arrangement they had developed for such gatherings, casual but not limited to close friends and family. It let Hermione sit close - to Harry and the guests - while giving a nod to the tradition of a retainer waiting at their Patron’s side in case their services were needed. From the amused smirk on Delacour’s face she had noticed. Krum was harder to read; his face didn’t show any emotion.

“I am happy you accepted my invitation.” Harry started. “I would offer my sincere apologies for the events of yesterday. If not for whatever madman is after me, you’d not have been in danger.”

“Not in quite as much danger, you mean.” Delacour answered. “But we would still ‘ave ‘ad to deal with the drakes.”

Krum nodded. “And while I would not like to downplay my wounds, or your help, which was greatly appreciated, it did seem a bit… weak for an assassination attempt.”

Harry had to agree. He and his friends had come to the same conclusion, after giving it some thought. “I concur. Though whether that happened due to a lack of skill or opportunity on the side of the assassin, or if that was done to make us lower our guard is impossible to tell. I trust such a ploy will not work though.” Both his fellow champions nodded at that, and for a moment the mood grew somber. With a smile, Harry raised his glass. “That said, I have to express my appreciation and respect for your skill and talent. While we are all Champions, I would prefer to consider you as allies first, competitors second, and not just because of possible further tampering. It is no secret that I did not want to enter this tournament, not this year at least, and that my focus is on survival rather than winning.”

Ron, Krum and Delacour raised their glasses as well, then drank. Hermione sipped from her own glass at that point.

“A wise stance, Mister Potter. Though given my impression and your past deeds, you do have the means to win as well.” Krum stated, and with a nod to Hermione, added “And of course the best motivation of all of us.” Harry felt a slight spark of irritation at that, but tried to suppress it. It was a compliment, after all. Though when a glance of him revealed Hermione’s faint blush at the comment, he grew more irritated, not less.

“I trust your honor in that area, Mister Krum.”

“Of course. Despite some rumors, Durmstrang does not condone the taking of liberties from those of less than pureblood status.”

“Ah, rumors.” Delacour sighed, though a bit overly dramatic in Harry’s opinion. Maybe that was just the French way. “I think everyone present is familiar with ‘ow annoying those can be.”

That brought a general agreement from all present.

“I was surprised to hear what rumors claim happens at Hogwarts.” Harry took another sip from his glass, which was refilled by the floating carafe. “To think there were mandatory orgies here… or chastity spells…” he shook his head. He heard Hermione cough at his comment.

Krum looked a bit surprised. “So, the claims that the upper years at Hogwarts do, ah ‘live it up’, are false? I have received a number of offers to join them, and did not think those were false.” He didn’t sound quite disappointed, but that could be because he inferred that he had not taken up anyone on such offers.

“Oh, there are orgies. Just not mandatory ones.” Ron clarified, oblivious to the glares from Harry and Hermione. Harry still wasn’t that comfortable with what the Year of Discovery entailed, and he was not sure he’d ever be, despite, or because of Sirius’ tales. From the lack of surprise on Delacour’s face, she had been aware of that already, though Harry doubted due to personal experience - such news would have spread like fiendfyre through the Castle.

“It does seem as if ‘ogwarts is the closest to the traditions, or rumored traditions, of our pre-Christian ancestors in that area.” The veela added. “In Magical France, we focus more on courtship than orgies. Or so we claim, which I am bound to support.” Her glass was being refilled as well, and she smiled in a rather flirting manner. Harry could see where the rumors concerning Beauxbatons students and their conquests had come from. A glance showed him that Hermione could see the same. He patted her thigh, concealing it as a request for more snacks.

Krum frowned. “It is different at Durmstrang than the rumors claim. We do not speak so frankly of such matters, or only when drunk or with friends closer than brothers. But we do not live like monks, nor do we have a stable of, ah, employees for such acts. We’re simply discreet.”

Harry was relieved to hear that, but felt it was time for a change of topic. For Hermione’s sake, of course, and because he was still two years away from the Year of Discovery. “I must say I was very impressed by your broom. I fly a Firebolt myself, but yours seems far superior from what I heard. ” He could almost feel Hermione frown at that, but Ron of course jumped at the chance to talk about brooms. Delacour changed the topic when it became apparent to everyone but Ron that Krum was not as enamored of talking about Quidditch, to which the talk had quickly shifted, as one would expect from a star seeker. A quality Hermione appreciated, or so it seemed to Harry.

Nevertheless, the evening continued in a friendly manner - they had fought side by side, after all - and when it was time to leave for their dorms, everyone was on a first name basis. Even Hermione, though of course such familiarity was limited to private - or as Fleur called it, in he teasing manner, intimate - gatherings. Harry would have been angry about that injustice, if not for the fact that he thought Viktor had been interested in more than the subject when Hermione had talked about her spell crafting attempts. He couldn’t help but wishing Hermione was a fan of Quidditch. Something he had wished for often in the past, but not for this reason.

*****​

“Dean asked me out for the ball, but… I hope Ron is asking me out! He smiled at me at breakfast.” Lavender Brown’s voice carried through the dorm like a Harpy’s screech, in Hermione’s opinion. Especially when followed by giggling from both Brown and Parvati Patil. And that suck-up, Perks the fake muggleborn. Talking about the Yule Ball. About dates. Most of the school was talking about that. Speculating who would be going with whom. Hoping for someone specific to ask them out, or asking someone out themselves.

“Oh… Ron’s a prize. A Basilisk Slayer and a pureblood, but not stuck up at all.” Patil cooed. Actually cooed. Hermione was sure they were talking that loud just to make sure she would overhear them. She, and Fay Dunbar, of course. Fay would not be at the ball at all. The Purists spent Yule contemplating and honoring magic, as she had explained to Hermione in their first year, not in frivolous celebration. It was a good time to make important decisions, or so she claimed.

Hermione… she wasn’t sure what she’d be doing at the Yule Ball. That she would be there was a given, even if she had no date she’d attend as Harry’s retainer. The thought made her frown, and from the way the three other girls started giggling and whispering, they must have noticed. Harpies. The young witch didn’t think attending as Harry’s retainer, waiting to serve, would be fun. But getting a date would be a problem, not that she had anyone in mind.

Hogwarts usually was rather egalitarian for a Wizard school, the Hogsmeade dates and of course the Year of Discovery proved that, but since the Yule Ball was part of the Triwizard Tournament, different rules - customs - applied to who could ask whom to be their date. As a muggleborn, she couldn’t ask anyone but a muggleborn. At the same time, as the retainer of the Boy-Who-Lived, anyone wanting to ask her would have to ask Harry first. A daunting task. Not many would want to risk angering Harry by asking his mistress to be their date, no matter how unfounded those rumors about them were. Which was not that bad, all things considered - it spared her the task of turning someone down. Ron of course would be her date if she wanted him to, but that would be unfair to her friend. He should be dancing with a girl - or boy, though so far he hadn’t showed any such preference, with the possible exception of Viktor - he wanted to dance with. Besides, she was too proud to ask for such pity.

“What about you, Parvati? Who do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know… if Longbottom asked I’d certainly not turn him down. Or Zabini.” Patil sighed, and Hermione could imagine the affected pose she must have struck.

“Oh, tall, dark and handsome…” Perks of course tuned in. Hermione, not too kindly, thought Finnigan would ask Perks, once he got turned down by too many other witches. The irish student was a skirt-chaser with not many standards, in her admittedly biased opinion.

“What about you, Hermione? Who do you hope will ask you for the ball?” Lavender asked with fake interest. She turned towards the three other girls, all leaning forward with clear interest in their eyes. Even Fay was looking up from her book. Hermione suppressed the urge to sigh. So transparent.

“I haven’t thought about that at all yet.” she lied with a smile. “I was completely concerned with helping my Patron preparing for the Yule Ball. Neither he nor his friends have chosen a date yet, and I might be called upon to offer what meager advice I might give.” Her smile grow more honest when she saw the three social climbers suddenly understanding that while Hermione might be heading for a dateless Yule Ball, she was close to three of the most fancied boys in Gryffindor, or even the school, and that at least Harry, but maybe the others as well, were often relying on her advice in a lot of matters. She noticed that Fay barely hid a smirk.

When the three others quickly grew far more friendly than before, she almost sighed again. So transparent!

*****​

Harry wiped sweat from his face with a quickly conjured piece of cloth. He was winded, and the training with Sirius and Remus wasn’t even close to finished. After the sabotage at the first task, their training had grown far more intense. Even Sirius had grown more serious, and they referred a lot more to their own training and fights during the Blood War than to the pranks they had pulled at school. It was a marked contrast to the almost giddy feeling that had taken over Hogwarts in preparation of the Yule Ball. Though he would call it more like a feeding frenzy, in private. Fortunately, his status as Head of Family meant that no one his age could ask him, so he was free to … carefully think about who he would ask. Later.

He banished the cloth then finited it before it hit the ground. Sirius nodded at his aim and conjured a couch for them to sit down and take a small break. Two bottles of butterbeer were floating near him. Remus and Hermione were still going at it, sending waves of spells at each other on the other side of the room. Harry recognized most, but not all spells the two used. Hermione must have been busy studying on the side, or spellcrafting in preparation of the dueling competition of the tournament. Ron had cut the lesson short, to see if he could ask Padma Patil out for the ball. His friend would have asked her sister, if not for Hermione informing him that Parvati was hoping for Blaise Zabini to ask her.

“Good casting there, Harry. You’ve gotten faster and more precise.” Sirius sounded approving, even proud. It felt good.

“Thanks. I do need to improve a lot though, I couldn’t touch you most of the time.” He levitated one bottle over to him while Sirius grabbed the other.

“You’ve got the basics down pat, the rest is just training and refining.” Sirius raised his bottle as if toasting him. “Look at them go. Remus always knew more spells than James and I together, and Hermione seems to match him already in that area, if not yet in speed. Quite precise as well.”

“Her spells lack power though.” Harry remarked. That would hamper her in the competition when faced with someone with a strong shield spell.

“That’ll come as she grows up. Not that she hasn’t already grown up nicely in the right spots.” Sirius grinned at Harry. “You’ve certainly noticed that, eh?”

Harry closed his eyes, hoping Sirius would take it for fatigue rather than annoyance. He liked his godfather, and while he could be a pain at times, he didn’t want to hurt the man who had spent a dozen years in Azkaban. He didn’t want to talk about his best friend’s body, or flexibility, or preferences in bed. Again. He still had those dreams from the first discussion. He needed to change the topic. “I still haven’t gotten a date for the Yule Ball.” Not that much of a change, granted, but it should at least get Sirius to talk about girls other than Hermione.

“Cutting it close, are you? You’re risking that the best dates are gone if you wait too long. My godson can’t go with an ugly one. I’ve got a reputation to live up to!” He grinned at Harry, and for a moment his expression reminded him of Sirius’ dog form.

“I know, but… it’s difficult.” Harry looked at the stone floor, and drew a few circles made of red lines with his wand.

“It’s not. Pick the best-looking girl outside Slytherin, ask her. If she turns you down, pick the next best-looking. One will say yes, and you have your date. That’s what I did, and it worked perfectly! Oh, the memories...”

“I am in fourth, not sixth year, Sirius!”

“I was talking about my third year, Harry.”

Harry hung his head, muttering something about dogs while Sirius laughed. Then his godfather clapped im on the back. “Trust me, you’re overthinking it. It’s just a ball. If it was that important, don’t you think your lovely retainer would have made more of a fuss about it?”

Harry groaned. “She made charts for me, Sirius! Detailed the girls’ appearance, personality, magical talent, grades, blood type, star sign and family influence. She even noted whether or not they’d be on their period at the time of the ball!” His godfather started to laugh so hard he almost fell from the couch. “It’s not funny, Sirius! Obviously, she takes this very seriously…” His godfather laughed even harder, which stopped Harry. Blinking, he looked over to Remus and Hermione, who had stopped their duel, apparently some time ago, and were laughing as well. He slapped his face. “You’re a really bad influence on her!”

Hermione came over and rubbed his back. “You needed to lighten up, Harry. Sirius was right, you’ve been overthinking this. The charts are fake, of course. Though as compensation I made a list of the girls I know are still hoping you’ll ask them.”

He snatched the parchment she held out and glanced at the names. There were not in alphabetical order, so she probably had listed them in order of preference. “Susan Bones?” He asked, reading the first name on the list.

“She’s the niece of the head of the DMLE. She’s pretty, comes from an old family and can hold her own in a conversation.” Hermione explained, in a matter of fact manner. Maybe a bit too clinical, Harry thought. And Susan was, for lack of other living family members close enough to her aunt, in line to become Head of the Bones Family, so she was unable to marry another Head of Family. Like himself. Good choice.

He smiled warmly at his best friend. “I’ll ask her first thing in the morning. Thank you.” She beamed at him, until he added “And now we will pick a date for you.” He grinned at the expression on her face while Sirius and Remus laughed. Did she really think she could prank him and he’d not get back at her?

*****​

“What?”

Hermione stared at the blonde witch. A quick glance to Harry, seated next to her at their usual corner of the table proved that she had not been hearing things; he was looking as surprised as herself.

“I asked you if you’d like me to ask Harry for permission to ask you to be my date for the Yule Ball, Hermione.” Luna beamed at her, obviously not caring about their surprised reaction.

“Ah…” Hermione didn’t know how to react. She hadn’t put Luna on top of the list for Harry, or even near the top because the younger witch was so open and earnest in all she did, she had seemed a bad choice for a date of convenience that would not mean anything. Or so Hermione told herself. Now the Ravenclaw was asking to ask her? What did that mean? She looked at the blonde’s best friend, Aicha, seated next to her, but that was no help. The dark-skinned witch was just smirking in amusement and seemed unwilling to help. And Ron, who knew Luna better, was off, eating with Padma Patil at the Ravenclaw table, while Ginny was likely waiting for Neville and still in their common room.

“Ah… why?” Harry had found his voice, but sounded not quite as sure of his words as he usually did. Fortunately, their usual privacy spells were in effect.

“Well, I want to go to the Ball since everyone is going. Aicha’s going with Blaise, you’re going with Susan, Ron with Padma, Neville with Ginny, and since I am in my third year, I need an older date to go. Hermione’s free and old enough.” Luna had been ticking off the pairings on her fingers, then took a bite from the scone she had been levitating near her. Hermione was about to nod in understanding. A date of convenience for two witches without dates. It made sense, and was a good reason. Before she could could voice her agreement and understanding, Luna continued. “And I think you’re very pretty and I’d like to dance with you and get to know you better.”

The way Luna smiled this was not a double-entendre, or flirting. Probably. Hermione realized that everyone was looking at her. “Ah, I’d like that, Luna. Thank you for asking to ask for permission to ask.” Judging by the way Luna squealed in delight, that had been the right thing to say. Not that she could have turned the exuberant witch down anyway, not without feeling bad. Luna just got to one.

“Mister Potter, would you give me permission to ask your retainer, Miss Granger, to be my date for the Yule Ball? I promise to treat her well and will not endanger her virtue.” The Ravenclaw’s formal wording was contrasted by her buttering up her second scone while talking.

With a bemused smirk, Harry nodded. “You have my permission, Miss Lovegood.”

“Thank you! Miss Granger, would you grant me the honor of being my date for the Yule Ball?”

Hermione nodded “The honor is mine, Miss Lovegood.” Formality felt good, right now.

“Great! We can coordinate dress robes at Hogsmeade! It’s a date!”

A date? Hermione looked at Harry, but her traitorous Patron was grinning widely. She glared at him, and then focused on her breakfast. Her parents would be surprised to hear she had a witch as date for the ball, though no more surprised than Hermione herself was, but it wasn’t as if it Luna was interested in her that way. Or so she thought. Maybe. One never knew with Luna.

*****​

Harry Potter couldn’t help but worry. Hermione, his best friend, was about to fight in the Dueling Competition of the Triwizard Tournament. As a Champion, he was banned from competing there, so he was reduced to watching her fight. And as his retainer, how she fared would reflect back on him. The irony of this reversal of their roles in the first task did not escape him, but didn’t help his mood. Duels, as he knew from personal experience, always carried some risk with them. Even spells that were not classified as lethal could cause severe wounds, or death, under some circumstances. And Hermione would be facing tough opponents. He felt the urge to rush to her side, to help her, protect her from any danger, rise up inside him, and suppressed it. Again. He couldn’t help her with this.

His friend was among the few younger students who were allowed to compete, thanks to her grades and performance in DADA. Ron was another, despite lower grades. But Remus knew he could handle himself in a duel. Malfoy was competing as well, thanks to Snape’s influence and his family’s money, or so Harry thought. Though maybe the Slytherin had received special training as well? They hadn’t crossed wands this year, yet, so he couldn’t dismiss that possibility. Most of the other competitors from Hogwarts were older, the best duelists among Hogwarts upper years. The toughest would be Flitwick’s protégés. The visiting students were all participating, of course. They had come in the hope to be chosen as Champions, and so would be the best the other schools could offer.

In total 64 students would be starting. Six fights to win. He didn’t expect Hermione to win, of course, but imagining it was a nice thing. She deserved to show up everyone. The competition would be taking the whole day, even though most duels would be quickly decided, and the lava field in the arena for the first task had been remodeled into a stone floor with four slightly elevated dueling circles, separated by powerful wards. Harry was sitting with the other two Champions in a special booth next to the judges. He had spotted more aurors present than at the first task, and was sure a few more were hidden among the spectators.

“I am sure ‘ermione will perform to your complete satisfaction, ‘arry.” Fleur said, with her usual teasing smile, interrupting his thoughts. Krum made an agreeing noise.

“I know. I can’t help but worry about her getting hurt. Duels are not a safe sport.”

“Neither is Quidditch, n’est-ce pas?”

“Touché, Fleur.” Hermione had been vocal in the past about having to watch Harry dodge bludgers and other players on the hunt for the golden snitch. And her reaction to him using the Wronski feint for the first time… He had learned a lot of new words that day. “I do not have to like it though.” He sighed and settled in to watch the first fight starting. The magic of the arena allowed every spectator to observe the duels as if sitting right at the ring. At least Hermione would not be distracted by his reactions.

*****​

Hermione craned her neck while shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back. The heavy dueling robes she wore felt stiff and unnatural after getting used to robes that floated over her skin. She also felt very vulnerable without the protection spells she had woven into her personal robes. It couldn’t be helped though - all duelists had to wear magic-free clothes to prevent people from using enchanted robes to cheat. She was waiting for her turn, against a 6th year from Durmstrang. Her lower lip had already borne the results of her nervousness. She knew she was a skilled witch, she had done well facing Lupin and Sirius, and yet she was nervous. Her opponent had two years more experience, more lessons on her, and came from Durmstrang, which had a quite deserved reputation of favoring combat spells, with less discrimination against dark spells than Hogwarts or Beauxbatons. And here she was, a mere muggleborn fourth year. A fact she counted on exploiting.

“Next fight in ring three: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts, versus Petar Draganov, Durmstrang!”

Hermione looked up. Her turn. While she stepped up to her starting position she studied her opponent. He was as tall and muscular as Krum, but had the same sneer as Malfoy. She took care to stumble when climbing up the stairs to the ring, and noticed Draganov was smirking. She took her place and faced him, hunching her shoulders a bit. His smirk widened. Good.

“Bow!”

She bowed, deeper than she would have normally. Let him think she was scared and intimidated.

“Wands ready!”

She raised her wand, in the “guard” position.

“Start!”

Hermione slashed her wand down, sending a cutting curse at her opponent while stepping to the side. A red stunner flew past her, and Draganov barely managed to shield her spell, eyes wide with surprise. Hermione was already casting a barrage of minor hexes, all hitting his shield, drawing his attention. She dodged the next stunner of his, and let a number of her next hexes miss deliberately. He grinned behind his shield. As planned. His next spell was an expelliarmus, which almost hit her. She had to drop to the floor to evade it. Rolling she came up in the classic dueling position - what Sirius called useless in the field - with her right side facing him and her wand arm pointing straight at him. Three more spells flew at Draganov, two impacting on his shield, which still held - unsurprisingly, those were weak hexes - the third passing him, before striking the stone right behind him, and exploding in a shower of stone shards. A few hit his legs, causing superficial, but painful wounds. His shield wavered and her next spell, a stunner, collapsed it and took him out.

“Winner by Incapacitation: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts!”

Hermione smiled widely wand raised, and bowed to her enervated opponent, who was shaking his head with a rueful grin before returning her bow. She spotted Harry wildly cheering for her, and beamed at him, before bowing into his direction.

*****​

“Next fight in ring two: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts, versus Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts.”

Draco couldn’t hide his glee. This was perfect - he would be able to teach the mudblood servant of his greatest rival her place! Beating the Beauxbatons boy - he had already forgotten his name - had been great, but this was better! Grinning, he swaggered to the duel ring, head held high. He was Draco Malfoy, scion of the Malfoy Family. Trained by his father and bloodied in real combat. Mere duels were almost beneath him, as his first fight had proven when his opponent had been defeated by one of his family spells that poisoned him through his weak shield and brought him to his knees with pain. He sent a smile towards his girlfriend, waving at her. She waved back, as she should.

The mudblood was facing him, her face showing that she had realized in what peril she was. He grinned savagely at her, savoring the moment. He had beaten a 6th year pureblood, granted, a French one, but what resistance could a mere mudblood offer to him after his experiences during the Summer?

“Bow!”

He inclined his head. That was as much of a bow as the mudblood deserved.

“Wands ready!”

His wand rose. He would not take her out right away. He’d hit her with a few spells first, make her bleed, before poisoning her.

“Start!”

The mudblood was fast, Draco had to admit. Fast, but weak - his shield had no trouble stopping her spells. And she couldn’t cast a shield spell herself, so she had to dodge his spells, tiring herself out. Then a blue glow surrounded her, and stopped his jelly-leg jinx. He frowned. So she could shield. No matter. It was time to end this farce. A green cloud shot towards her, no shield would stop that. He grinned in anticipation when suddenly the cloud was coming back at him! Before he could react he was surrounded by the cloud. He had a brief moment to panic before pain filled him and he collapsed, screaming. His father had told him that compared to Crucio, this was nothing, but Draco couldn’t imagine pain stronger than this. He barely heard the announcer over his own screaming.

“Winner by Incapacitation: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts!”

*****​

“Next fight in ring one: Hermione Granger, Hogwarts, versus Marie-Anne Dubois, Beauxbatons.”

Hermione’s next opponent was a slim girl, 7th year, with long, blonde hair. Not a veela, but she could pass for one with a few spells, the young witch noted with some jealousy. And judging from the way she eyed her, not one to underestimate a 4th year student either.

“Bow!”

Hermione bowed, deeply. She still was angry at the slight from Malfoy during their duel. But then, he had been shaking, screaming with pain until his father had come running in to cancel it. Hoisted by his own petard, served that git well. Ron had taken particular pleasure in the sight of Malfoy in pain, after his own defeat in his second fight against a 6th year student from Durmstrang.

“Wands ready!”

Hermione raised her wand and met the girls’ eyes.

“Start!”

Unlike her tactics in the duel with Malfoy, here Hermione opted to strike as fast and hard as she could right away - she doubted she could outlast the other witch. Her first stunner was deflected by a shield. Her next spells were dodged. Her first trick would not work here, she realized, while dodging a series of bodybinders and stunners herself, shielding the last one, but with some trouble - the French witch was powerful. Before she could retaliate, a swarm of birds flew at her, and she barely managed to drive them away with the wind spell that had returned Malfoy’s poison cloud at him. While she had been doing that though, Dubois had conjured more animals. Two great dogs charged her, and while she managed to drive one out of the ring with a bludgeoner, the other jumped at her, and dragged her to the ground. A piercing curse to the head took care of it, but the other dog was already returning, and an eagle was diving at her from the other side. For a moment she was tempted to use one of her custom spells, but… this was just a duel. Not a fight for her life.

Cursing, she dove forward, rolling to avoid the eagle, and cast the strongest stunner she could at her opponent. It was stopped by a shield, even though the shield itself broken, and then she screamed when the dog sunk his teeth into her left arm. The eagle struck at her shoulder, barely missing her head, and another dog appeared between her and the other witch. She tried to ignore the pain, focusing on her opponent, and cast another stunner, but the new dog jumped into it, and then she, the first dog and the eagle were pushed out of the ring by an expelliarmus, landing in a heap on the stone ground below. Just before she lost consciousness she heard the announcer.

“Winner by Ejection: Marie-Anne Dubois, Beauxbatons!”

*****​

Harry was watching Hermione in the infirmary, waiting for her to wake up. That last fight… seeing her mauled by those animals had been horrible. The wounds had been easily healed, the robe repaired, but the memories of her screaming, hurting, bleeding…

With a groan, his best friend woke up. “Hello Hermione.” He smiled at her.

She smiled in return, then frowned. “I have underestimated the use of conjuration.”

“You did well, reaching the best 16 as a 4th year student.” He smiled. “And you didn’t use your best spells.”

“I couldn’t. The rumors that would spread, the damage it would do to your reputation, and mine… I’ll save those for a real fight.“ Hermione lifted her left arm, looking for scars, probably.

“There’s no scarring.” He reassured her.

“Did you check personally?”

Harry gaped at the implication. “No, no! The healer told me.” He must have sounded very appalled at the question since she giggled a bit. His pout caused her to giggle some more.

“Who won the competition?”

“A witch from Durmstrang, Katarzyna Swiech I believe. I recorded her duel with Cedric Diggory with my Omniculars. You can watch it later. Your last opponent took 4th place.”

Hermione nodded at that. “Some consolation, at least. I need more training.”

“You’ll get it. In three years you’ll walk all over students like her.”

Neither he nor his friend added ‘if we’re still alive by then’, but both thought it.

*****​

Barty Crouch Jr. hummed a little ditty while spotting a particularly interesting tome, next to the cooling body of the tome’s former owner. For such a weak wizard he had had a great collection of works dealing with the Dark Arts. Rather incomplete, though, but there were a few gems he hadn’t know to have survived the purges in the 18th century. He was tempted to indulge his intellectual curiosity for a bit, but then reminded himself that he was here on his master’s orders. Though stealing the books would likely serve as a good cover for his real goal; the rare and highly illegal ingredients the man had dealt with, and which were needed for his master’s resurrection. Not that the fire he’d leave wouldn’t consume all traces anyway, and probably burn down the next houses in the alley as well, but with a task so important, failsafes were a must. It would be a catastrophe should his master’s enemies learn of his plans before he was returned to his rightful stature and power. Still humming a ditty he started to collect the potion ingredients he needed, storing them in his mokeskin pouch.


Chapter 6: The Yule Ball

 

Chapter 6: The Yule Ball

Ron Weasley was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, waiting for Harry and Hermione to return from the infirmary. He was a bit irked that he hadn’t been allowed to enter as well, but on the other hand he was glad they had tightened up security. And to be honest, he would not have wanted to see Hermione lying there, hurt and bleeding and helpless. Nor Harry in his usual state when the girl was hurt.

He summoned a butterbeer and some snacks Parvati’s mother had sent from the basket floating around the room, then blinked and tried to remember when he had last contributed to the “common room fund”. He didn’t count his mum’s cake last week, that was sort of a family contribution. Deciding it had been long enough he pulled out a galleon, flipped it into the air and banished it towards small box for donation. He was ready with a levitation charm when it reached the box, and gently guided it into the slit in the top there.

“Smooth.”

Ron turned his head towards the sound and smiled. Parvati Patil looked impressed by his brief display of precision casting. “I try.” He answered, modestly, though his grin was anything but modest.

“You were very impressive today. You beat that Beauxbatons student handily, and she was two years your senior.” The half-blood beamed at him.

“She underestimated me, but yes, I did well in that fight.” Ron answered. And he had - his shield had held, and his stunners had been well-aimed, boxing the witch in and driving her into his next stunner. Like Remus had taught him. He frowned. “I got steamrollered in the next fight though. Those spells from that Durmstrang student just shattered my shield.”

“Steamrollered?” Parvati looked confused.

“A word from Hermione. It means the same as “bludgered” here.” Ron answered. He could see Parvati’s slight frown at that. As he had expected. He was not the smoothest wizard, but one could not be Harry and Hermione’s best friend for years and not learn at least something about the finer points of social climbing. And he had eyes, ears, and a sister in Gryffindor. Hermione might be too noble to sabotage her dorm mates’ dreams of dates to the Yule Ball, but Ginny certainly wasn’t. Now to drive the point home.

He lifted his snack. “I really like this. At the Yule Ball I’ll have to ask Padma for some good Indian dishes to order then. It might even be a challenge for the kitchen.” He kept his face bland and earnest, but inwardly he was enjoying the witch’s thin-lipped smile.

“I could help you there. I know all about Indian Cuisine.” Parvati didn’t give up quickly, he had to admit. The way she was leaning forward, not quite touching him… she’d be cutting a swath through the school in 6th year. He waved her off. “Ah, thank you, but I want to coordinate with Padma. Twice the dishes to sample, if we pick different things. And as her date, I will of course let her choose.”

That did it. “Ah, how gallant of you. My sister is a lucky witch.” Parvati’s smile was quite forced now, but she managed to gracefully retreat to Lavender, who was waiting in the wings. Ron wasn’t sure if Parvati had been talking to him because he had asked her sister and not herself, or if she had been testing the waters for her friend, but he didn’t care. Even if he had been interested he had already asked Padma, which Hermione assured him was a smart witch and nice to talk to, and he’d not go back on that. Not that Parvati had been the only witch praising him for his performance.

A murmur that sprang up drew his attention to the door that had just opened. Harry and Hermione had arrived! He waved at them and looked both over while they made their way through a quickly formed throng of well-wishers and friends. Both looked well, so there must not have been any complications in the infirmary.

“And the heroine of the day arrives!” He summoned two more butterbeers for his friends and grinned at the slight blush on his friend’s face. She didn’t like it when she was teased, even if it was a mostly honest compliment. She had done well, after all, better than he had done. But then, knowing her, he had expected that. After casting a privacy spell, as much for privacy as for simply dampening the noise from a mostly full common room so they could easily talk, he continue. “I guess you have already altered your studying plans to incorporate more transfigurations and conjurations.”

Harry smirked, and Ron knew he had sunk the quaffle. His other best friend pouted. “Am I really that transparent?”

“Only to those who know you well.” he added with a smile. ‘Not as well as I’d like’ remained unsaid.

“I’ll need to adjust my tactics too. Indirect attacks require a different set up. I am still not convinced they are superior to my preferred spell choice, but I can’t dismiss their use in certain situations,” the young witch explained, between sips from her bottle. That was, he knew, Hermione-speak for ‘I realized I was wrong, but don’t want to admit it right now’. He didn’t quite grin, but he felt vindicated - he had told her that one could not entirely rely on direct attacks, as she called them. Not that it had helped him much; that 6th year student had demolished his own conjured help with demoralizing ease before knocking him out.

The rest of the evening they discussed dueling tactics and watched the recording of the final match of the competition in Harry’s omniculars.

*****​

“That mudblood! How low must one sink to turn my own family’s spells against me? A honorable opponent would not even have thought of such!” Draco was pacing in the Slytherin common room, fortunately behind privacy spells, even though anyone knowing him could probably tell exactly what he was saying from his expression and gestures. Pansy kept her supportive smile in place instead of telling her boyfriend that one witch taking control of a transfigured creature from her opponent had decided one semi-final. It wasn’t as if Draco would let reality intrude in his world even if it brought gifts.

“Of course not, Draco. But it’s an international competition. As you said, foreign standards are different, and so Granger’s actions couldn’t be sanctioned. Maybe you can show our class how to duel properly next time we spar in Defense?” She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and pushed under the couch and her upper body leaning forward, attentively, as if she was hanging on the lips of Draco. He ate it up, and struck a pose straight out of a play.

“Oh, that is an idea, Pansy! I’ll teach that mudblood how a Malfoy duels when the rules are not favoring underhanded tactics! She will rue the day she dared to cross me!”

Pansy had to make an effort to keep her smile from showing her satisfaction. She should have been surprised that Draco just denounced what most of their House would call cunning tactics, but she knew him too well. That he had apparently forgotten that they would use the same rules when they dueled in class - the standards of the International Dueling Circuit Federation - as they had used at the Triwizard Tournament Dueling Competition she had also expected. ‘Too easy’ she thought, ‘but it should still be amusing.’

“What did your father say about your performance in the competition?” Draco had reached the second round, which had been a surprise for everyone but for Pansy, who had known about his plans to use a family spell. She had won quite a little sum from Housemates betting on Draco losing in the first round. Crabbe and Goyle had won their bets as well, but Pansy wasn’t sure if they had known or counted on that spell as well, or simply bet on Draco out of stupidity or blind loyalty.

Draco sat down next to her, pouting. “He lectured me about exposing a family secret for a ‘mere school competition’, and I had to promise not to use any other spell he taught me in public.” Her boyfriend sneered in an imitation of his father that probably was meant to be derisive, but simply looked just like his usual sneer. “Mother was very proud though.”

Pansy doubted that. Narcissa Malfoy had never struck her as a simple witch. She thought it more likely that Mrs Malfoy had let Draco’s father do the lecture instead of doing it herself. It was what she would have done in her place. If she would ever let any future child of hers grow up as spoiled and stupid as Draco, of course.

While Draco prattled on about what he was expecting as Yule gifts from his family, Pansy pondered Granger’s performance in the competition. She had done better than expected, even counting the fact that one of her opponents had been Draco, but she had shown a surprising lack of variety in spell choices. A weakness Pansy would be quick to exploit, should they ever cross wands for real. She’d not make the same mistakes as Draco had done.

Draco… at first it had been an amusing game, manipulating the idiot. Playing the besotted girlfriend. Using him for pranks and getting him into trouble was such a rush. But this term, Draco had changed. He hadn’t gotten any smarter or more skilled, but he had grown more cruel. Less inhibited. Pansy had been sure so far she could drop him whenever she wanted to by orchestrating an embarrassing incident that gave her enough of an excuse to ‘finally see the light and drop the git’, but lately she had been wondering if Draco would accept such an outcome, or do something… foolish.

*****​

Harry, Hermione and Ron were watching the recording from the final match again later that week, with Sirius and Remus, who were going over the spells and tactics used by both duelists. Both were pointing out how some spells were a bad choice outside a duel, or a less than optimal choice.

“If you have a killing shot, take it. A dead enemy cannot be enervated, healed, or otherwise used against you.” Sirius explained. “At least not until someone turns the body into an Inferi, but that takes longer than a fight usually lasts, and if you let an enemy do that you deserve getting eaten.” Then he winked at Harry and added “And not in the good way.” Harry fought the urge to hex his godfather.

“I wish I had succeeded in getting my walkman to work. I could have borrowed my parent’s camcorder, and Harry could have recorded the whole tournament, and we could watch it on a television screen, pause and even use slow motion.” Hermione sighed. Her experiments had shown progress or so she claimed, but she still had wrecked both electronic gadgets she had brought with her.

“Muggles have pensieves now?” Sirius was blinking in surprise.

“No, the just found ways to record things for the television, remember Lily’s explanation?” Remus corrected him.

“When we accidentally blew her parents’ television up? Yes, I’ll never forget that lecture. Or that hex.” Sirius shuddered, then sent Harry a glance. He had commented a few times, usually when drunk, that he felt guilty that Harry had no good memories of his parents. Harry smiled at him. He loved hearing such stories about his parents, and he was sure he would get the whole story out of his godfather later. The young wizard patted Hermione’s thigh when he heard her mutter about wizards not getting it. She had gotten better - or more resigned - about it. A year ago she’d have tried to explain and correct the two wizards.

“Alright. Due to popular demand…” Sirius coughed and wriggled his eyebrows at Hermione who sniffed at his antics, “... we will teach you how to use transfiguration and conjuration in battle today. Or start on it, at least, so you can train by yourself while we resume Harry’s training in dealing with water-based threats. Everybody, pay attention! This is how to create a cat from a bunch of rubble. You’ll be able to scale that up to a lion later, but I’d rather deal with a cat than a lion if you lose control.”

Harry and his two friends stood up and paid attention, then tried it themselves. It was far harder than it looked, and Harry quickly understood why it was not a really popular tactic for the average wizard. His first attempt was looking like a cat built from cobblestones glued together, if one squinted. And it moved like one too, that is, not at all. Hermione’s was moving at least, if reduced to stumbling around, while Ron had created a decent copy of Crookshanks’ head, without a body. It still managed to meow, which was so creepy. Harry couldn’t help but shudder at the sight. His retainer, of course, thought the crime against nature was cute. But then, she thought Crookshanks was cute, and that little devil was the ugliest cat Harry had ever seen. Even Ron, who spoiled the beast rotten, admitted that.

Sirius was laughing like a hyena, and even Remus was showing far more amusement than the faint smile he usually had for the trio’s antics. Harry quickly exchanged glances with his friends, and a salvo of minor hexes turned their instructor’s laughs into cries of surprise and dismay. They paid for that though - at the end of the lesson, each of the three was sporting numerous scratches that the cats had accidentally caused, or so the two older wizards claimed.

Harry didn’t mind, it had been a good lesson, informative and entertaining. And after dealing with fire drakes trying to disembowel him, scratches from cats did not really concern him much. Though seeing red lines crisscross over Hermione’s arm and hands made him swear revenge, of course. She was his retainer, it was his duty after all.

*****​

Shopping for dress robes with Luna Lovegood was an experience. A unique experience, Hermione Granger had found out. The young blonde witch was dashing around in “Seamstress Sophia’s Shop” in Hogsmeade, pulling out dresses with her wand and floating them in front of her or Hermione seemingly at random, often returning them with an inane comment before Hermione managed to get a good look in one of the floating mirrors that trailed the two of them. After twenty minutes of those antics, ten of which her Patron had spent openly chuckling from the seat he had conjured for himself, she had had enough. “Luna!”

The blonde girl froze for a moment, in the middle of summoning a frilly pink robe Hermione wanted to burn at first sight, and turned her head towards her without moving the rest of her body. “Yes, Hermione?”

“Do you know what kind of robe you want to buy?” Hermione forced herself to remain polite, and not let her frustration show. She was used to planning her purchases in advance as much as possible, and narrowing down the selection in a methodical manner. “If you do we can pick a matching or complementary robe for me.”

“Of course!” Luna beamed at her. “Let me show you!” With that the witch grabbed her hand and pulled her with surprising force over to a section of color-changing robes, pointing at what Hermione would have thought was a cape, if not for the thin, shimmering bands of fabric floating in front of it. “It won’t get boring during the ball since it will be changing colors!”

Hermione stared at the robe for a moment, then glanced over at Luna, who had already summoned a screen and thrown her robe over it. “Luna?”

“Just a moment!” came the perky reply, and a camisole joined the robe on the screen, then a wand held by a slender hand appeared over them, and a flick later the dress Luna had shown Hermione floated over and disappeared behind the screen.

A few moments later the screen, still serving as a rack for Luna’s clothes, slid to the side and revealed Luna, wearing her chosen dress robe. Which still looked like a cape to Hermione, though one that moved by itself. Underneath it Luna was clothed in thin sashes that wrapped themselves around her body before coming together in a kind of shred fringe that formed a skirt, of sorts. Both the sashes as well as the cape were moving and changing their colors. Hermione imagined herself wearing a matching outfit, and couldn’t help but blush.

“How does it look?” Luna asked, with a beaming smile. “The outer robe looks a bit stuffy, but it’s winter after all, and we can always drop it if it things become heated.”

“Very daring.” Hermione managed to answer, wondering briefly if Luna was flirting with her, or if she was reading too much into what might simply be a poorly worded comment about the expected temperature in the ball hall. “We should look now for a robe for me that goes well with your robe.” She wasn’t going to wear the same style, she thought to herself. Then she noticed Harry was staring at Luna from his seat, and narrowed her eyes at the quick stab of jealousy she felt. “Maybe we can link two of those robes with an enchantment, so we’re always wearing complementary colors?”

“Oh, a great idea! Are you sure you can enchant them that way?” Luna clapped her hands enthusiastically at the idea.

Hermione studied the garment more closely, running her wand over it to check the enchantments. Satisfied with her findings she nodded at Luna. “Yes, I should be able to. And probably add some personal touches and tweaks.” She grabbed a robe and held it up to her own body, smirking when she noticed Harry blinking in surprise.

Then her view of him was cut off by the screen Luna had called back, and Hermione barely managed not to yelp when she felt Luna’s hands on her, tugging at her robes. “Come on, Hermione, time to strip naked!”

“What?”

“You can’t wear anything under that robe, silly.” Luna explained while trying to pull Hermione’s robe off the girl - without any success, of course, due to her enchantments on the robe. But those hands were wandering around a bit too much for the muggleborn witch’s comfort.

“Ah… wait a second…” Hermione managed to extricate herself from the blonde’s grasping but probably, hopefully, innocent hands, and used her wand to lift her robe off her, quickly followed by her underwear - just in case Luna wanted to help her again. The girl seemed to have a quite different idea of personal space than anyone else Hermione knew. Unless she knew exactly what she was doing - it was impossible to tell with the blonde witch. She flicked her wand and her garments joined Luna’s on the screen.

The new robe wrapped itself around her on command, and when Hermione looked into one of the floating mirrors she had to tell herself she was wearing more than she usually wore at a beach. Several times. Fortunately, the mirror’s own comments were tasteful and polite - and helpful. Quite unlike some of the mirrors at Grimmauld Place, whose lewd suggestions were often anything but.

Just as she was getting more or less comfortable in her new robes the screen slid to the side, and she heard Harry gasp and Luna giggle.

Yes, shopping with Luna was a unique experience.

*****​

“Today we will be learning about the Unforgivables.” Mad-Eye Moody was pacing in front of the class, managing to look like a caged tiger despite his peg leg. It was the 18th of December, and he was filling in for Remus Lupin. Like every month. Hermione still couldn’t understand how the werewolf teacher hadn’t been outed yet - though she wasn’t complaining, of course. “Who can name one of them?”

Hermione had started to raise her hand before he had even finished the question. She had read up about the Unforgivables years ago. One tended to learn such things as the retainer of the Boy-Who-Lived. A glance told her that Harry was smirking, and she pouted just a bit. He still tended to be amused by her eagerness in class, no matter how much she toned it down. Which she had.

“Granger!” Moody barked, his artificial eye rolling around and staring at her for an instant before moving again.

“The Imperius, Professor.” As a first year, she’d have named all three. She had learned since.

“Correct. Who can name another? Brown!” Hermione saw Lavender jerk with surprise at being called without having raised her hand.

“The Killing Curse.”

“Correct. And the last one? Potter!”

“The Cruciatus.” Hermione snuck a glance at Neville. His parents had been tortured into insanity with that curse, and the young wizard was struggling to keep a neutral expression.

“Correct. Why are they called the Unforgivables? Granger?”

“Because casting one on a wizard or witch is punished by imprisonment for life, Sir.” Hermione quoted the textbook definition. She wasn’t sure if casting one of those on a normal human would be punished the same - she hadn’t found a precedent.

“Right. They also have other characteristics unique to them. Shields cannot stop them. The only defense is to dodge or take cover - and either action is damned difficult if you’re up against a competent caster.” Moody glared at the class with his natural eye while the enchanted one whirled around wildly, scanning for enemies, hidden or not. “And they need the caster to truly want his target dominated, dead or suffering. That emotional component is another unique characteristic of those spells. Other spells are affected by the caster’s emotions, but only those three spells require it.”

“We’ll start with the Imperius Curse. That nasty spell allows the caster to take total control over the target. Any order you give will be executed, as if one was commanding a construct. Any order, that is, no matter how cruel. No matter how insane. You will do your best to at least try to execute it. But a few things you will not be able to do.” The old auror narrowed his good eye and stared at Malfoy. “You cannot cast an Unforgivable while you’re under the Imperius. The spell’s control is such that you cannot muster the emotions to cast an Unforgivable.” Malfoy swallowed, but kept staring at the auror, who grinned maliciously. “And that means that if you see anyone casting an Unforgivable, they are not under the Imperius.”

“Now, the Killing Curse. Unstoppable, unresistable. Only one wizard ever has survived it.” Everyone in the class room looked at Harry. Even Hermione glanced at her Patron, to see how he was taking this. He was staring at the teacher, and seemed to be holding up well. Moody continued. “No one knows how Potter managed that, and I do not recommend that anyone else try to repeat the feat. The Killing Curse instantly slays you. No wound is left, no blood is spilled, you’re simply dead. Supposedly it is painless, but so far no ghost has appeared who could have confirmed that.”

“And then we have the Cruciatus Curse. Being hit by it feels like a thousand burning knives stabbing into your skin. The pain is worse than anything you can imagine.” He grinned at the class again. “Even giving birth pales against it, or so I have been told. I can tell you from my own experience that it is worse than getting your nuts crushed.” The auror laughed briefly. “Only the worst wizards use it, since it has a single purpose: to cause as much pain as possible. For everything else you have better spells.”

Hermione wanted to correct him - she thought that the Cruciatus Curse, for its ability to bypass a shield, would make a great tool to incapacitate someone quickly - but held her tongue. To voice such thoughts, no matter how logical, would stain both her and Harry’s reputation. She glanced over at Neville again. Their friend was sweating, his jaws clenched together, but he was still holding up. He was in Gryffindor, after all.

Moody continued. “The Cruciatus is a sustained spell. If you’re held under it long enough the pain gets too big and you lose your mind.” He glanced over at Neville, who was staring at his desk and breathing heavily. “Now, we will discuss the history of those spells, from their creation to the time they were outlawed.” Hermione started to eagerly take notes - she might learn something she hadn’t researched yet.

*****​

The second Yuletide in Sirius’ house was quite different from the first, Harry thought happily. Back then, in his and Hermione’s third year, Sirius had just been exonerated, the house had been a mess of curses, pests and filth, neglected by a deranged house elf. Harry, Hermione, Remus and Sirius had been using the kitchen, the only clean and safe spot in the building, to hold the ceremony at the family altar and exchange gifts. Everyone had still been very careful to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings by accident, with Sirius feeling guilty about abandoning Harry to chase after Wormtail, Remus feeling guilty for not believing in Sirius or trying to get him a trial, Hermione feeling guilty for not realizing why Crookshanks was going after Wormtail despite knowing that kneazles had a reputation to sniff out lies, and Harry feeling guilty for wishing they had done this at the Grangers’ instead. Despite that it had been a happy occasion, and not just because Sirius had given him a Firebolt. It had hinted at a better future for everyone, a shared desire to make this work.

This year’s Yuletide was what everyone had hoped for back then, at least that was Harry’s impression. The house had been cleaned and refurbished, the curses and dark items had been removed and Kreacher was … more polite. He still called Hermione “Master’s godson’s slave”, but everyone ignored that after Hermione had claimed the elf wouldn’t know better with his history of service to the Black family. Harry had thought the claim sounded a bit forced, but he hadn’t pressed his friend. House elves were a volatile subject for Hermione.

Apart from Hermione, who according to Sirius might as well be moving in officially, they had other guests as well. Sirius’ cousin, Andromeda Black-Tonks, was visiting with her husband Ted and their daughter Nymphadora. The head of the Black-Tonks family was a beautiful witch with perfect manners, a biting wit and pride to spare. Harry could see how she had chosen to be emancipated and left without a knut from her family rather than remain under the thumb of the husband of the harpy whose portrait had taken two curse-breakers and a new wall to get rid of. Her husband Ted, a half-blood, was a jovial wizard who seemed to be easy-going but observant. Both worked as lawyers specializing in contract work, or so Harry had understood. He knew the Wizengamot had only allowed their marriage after their daughter had been revealed to be a metamorphmagus, able to assume any human shape she chose to. The belief that this rarest of magical talents could only be the result of a union blessed by magic itself was widespread, and no member of the Wizengamot wanted to be seen as opposing magic's will. Nymphadora - she had quickly taught both Harry and Sirius to never shorten her given name - was currently attending the auror training course and shared both the love of pranks and of lewd jokes and remarks with Sirius. Fortunately, her parents managed to rein her in some. Usually.

They were sitting in the salon, next to the lavishly decorated family altar upon which the gifts for the gods were slowly consumed by a magical fire. As Sirius had explained it was bad luck to pass out the gifts for the mortals before the gods had had their due. To Harry’s ears it sounded more tradition than faith though. Not that he’d mention that - religion was a tricky topic of conversation. He and Hermione had found out that in their first year.

He glanced over to his best friend, sitting next to him with a couple of his presents in her lap, ready to pass them out. Their gifts, actually, but the little fiction of her passing his gifts out allowed Hermione to attend the family gathering as his retainer, since the Black-Tonkses were not yet close enough to family to let go of the conventions of polite society in their presence. With the way things were going though Harry was sure that would change soon.

Sirius had been peering at the altar for several minutes now, visibly impatient, and finally stood up. “The gifts for the gods are now sufficiently given!” he announced. “It’s time to pass out our presents!” With a swish of his wand he summoned a mass of brightly-wrapped presents of various sizes that floated around him. Harry knew that the size or even shape of a present’s wrapping was no indication of what was contained within, but he couldn’t help but speculate when a star-shaped present floated over to Remus, and a square one to Andromeda while Nymphadora had to duck a round one that kept trying to smash into her like a bludger on the pitch until she immobilized it with her wand. The young auror glared at Sirius and everyone else, in case anyone dared to laugh openly.

Harry got a square-shaped one, almost bigger than his torso, as well as another that seemed to change shape constantly, both from Sirius, and a few smaller ones from Remus and the Black-Tonkses. Hermione passed out his own gifts with precise movements of her wand, floating them over to their recipients. The gifts for the Black-Tonks were nothing too personal, the latest dictaquills with translation functions for the parents, and a mokeskin wand holster for Nymphadora. Remus, always a tricky one to give a present to, with his tendency to refuse “handouts”, received a beautiful robe he could not take offense to thanks to the protective spells Harry and Hermione had personally enchanted it with, turning it from an expensive gift into a homemade one. The look he sent at both of them after checking the enchantments said he understood just what they had done. Harry grinned at him in response. Sirius, who had more money than he knew what to do with, in his words, got a muggle bathrobe with a more than passing resemblance to the usual attire of a certain muggle publisher and mansion owner. His delighted whoop proved that this was an aspect of muggle culture he was quite familiar with, as Hermione had predicted.

Harry’s first gift from Sirius shrunk down when he opened it, revealing a smaller case made of polished wood. Inside was a beautifully crafted retainer’s collar. Any mayor whose chain of office paled next to it would be envious. It was actually Hermione’s gift, but custom prevented Sirius from giving it to her directly. Harry smiled at his godfather, and picked the chain up. “My wand.”

“My Patron.” Hermione lowered her head towards him.

Harry placed the chain on her shoulders, admiring how well it went with her dress robes. He was about to conjure a mirror for Hermione when suddenly there was a blinding flash, and Hermione was left wearing a dog collar with him holding a leash. Nothing but a dog collar, he realized with sudden horror, but he couldn’t help staring while Sirius was laughing loudly and the others were split between amusement and disapproval. Remus managed to project both.

Hermione growled, and pulled out a small red stone from … her thigh? Harry blinked as she crushed the stone, triggering the enchantment she had placed on Sirius’ robe, “just in case he does something stupid”. Seeing Sirius wearing a muzzle and a pink straight-jacket with “Mad Dog” printed on it and hearing his muzzled complaints drove Remus into outright laughter as well, quickly followed by their guests.

“That should teach him a lesson.” Hermione stated, in a satisfied tone. Harry was still staring, unable to understand why no one else was reacting to her lack of robes and anything else. His best friend noticed his blush, and looked puzzled. “Can you let go of the leash, Harry?” she whispered and raised her wand. “I want to get rid of the spell.”

As soon as he let go of the leather strap he saw Hermione wearing her dress robes. Taking a deep breath, he glared at his godfather, who was smirking at him behind his muzzle and wriggling his eyebrows. If Hermione ever found out about that part of Sirius’ prank she would neuter Sirius. Or Harry. Or both. He spent the next minute frantically undoing the charms on the collar, and the rest of the evening trying to ignore the memories of what he had seen. He wasn’t successful in the least.

Everyone else, though, considered the Yuletide a very successful evening and was looking forward to the next year already.

*****​

Harry was standing in the entrance hall of No. 12, Grimmauld Place, waiting for Hermione to come down from her room, where she was getting ready. Technically it was a guest room, but she lived there as much as in her parent’s home, so everyone, even Kreacher, called it her room. Sirius had placed her next to Harry’s room, but his stated intent to create a door connecting the two rooms had not been implemented. Fortunately, for Harry’s peace of mind. Since Sirius’ Yuletide prank his dreams had gotten far more vivid and tempting. At least he had managed, after the first night, to look at her again without imagining her naked. He shook his head to banish those particular memories. Fortunately she thought he was simply embarrassed by the implications of the part of Sirius’ prank she was aware of, and even had taken to tease him some about it. Harry had ranted earlier today at Sirius for pulling such a prank on him and her, but his godfather had shrugged it off with a grin, and then told him about the time Harry’s father and Sirius had placed a spell on the mirrors in the female dorm at Hogwarts that projected their images on another set of mirrors. Harry loved his godfather, but he was so often so exasperating...

The young wizard sighed and focused on the schedule for the evening. He would hand his retainer over to Luna Lovegood for the evening, as custom demanded. Then he would floo to the mansion of the Bones family, where his own date waited, while the two girls would floo straight to Hogwarts. Luna was already here, and waiting - if one could call flitting around the hall, peering and poking at things with open curiosity, waiting. Currently she was frowning at the hollowed out troll leg serving as an umbrella stand. He could not fathom why wizards would need such a thing, since he hadn’t seen an umbrella anywhere in the Magical World so far. Neither did he understand why Sirius had not gotten rid of it. Nymphadora kept tripping over it each time she visited. Which, he realized, was why exactly Sirius had kept the umbrella stand.

As expected Luna was wearing the dress robes she had bought in Hogsmeade, which Hermione had later modified with some of her own spells. The scarves - or ribbons, Harry thought, given how thin they were - now floated rather than wrapped around her body, and the cape part did not simply move, but changed shape, forming a cloak on command which looked far more appropriate to the season than a flimsy cape, even though warming charms meant neither was actually needed to ward off the cold.

Sirius was standing next to Harry, passing the time with an entirely inappropriate tale about his own experiences at a Yule Ball 20 years ago, while Remus was keeping an eye on Luna, and answering about half of her rapid-fire questions about everything that caught her attention.

Then, finally, Hermione appeared on top of the stairs. She was wearing the same dress robes Luna wore, but it looked different on her, somehow. Harry couldn’t explain the difference. Or anything else when he saw her wearing those moving ribbons, and smiling at him when she started to descend. Until Sirius’ wolf-whistled, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at his godfather. Followed by Luna’s squeal of delight at the sight of her date. Both robes did synchronize as soon as they got closer, Harry noticed, grateful for the distraction.

“My Patron.” Hermione bowed.

“My Wand.” Harry turned to Luna. “Miss Lovegood, I trust you with my retainer’s safety and virtue for the evening.”

“Mister Potter, I accept this responsibility, and will return her to you safe and sound.” Luna answered in a serious tone, which changed at once when she took Hermione’s hand and broke out in a wide, infectious smile. “We will have such a great evening!”

After a series of pictures had been taken by the older wizards they went over to the floo, where Harry split off to travel to the home of the Bones family, to fetch his date.

*****​

The Great Hall, usually amazing enough already, was a fantastic sight. Expanded to provide enough room for all the guests, it had more than doubled in size. Illusionary snow fell from the ceiling, catching the light from the equally illusionary moon shining down on the guests. Smaller, round tables were placed around a shining dance floor that looked like the Black Lake frozen over without any snow or scratch marring the surface. Trays floated around, providing the guests with a variety of food and drink from all over the Magical World, with an emphasis on the countries represented by the three schools, of course, but Hermione had seen Indian snacks on a tray near Padma and Ron.

Hermione wished she could take out her wand and analyse some of the spellwork; she was sure it would give help her a lot in developing her own enchantments and spells. The young witch was standing next to her date, Luna Lovegood, lined up with the other couples and waiting for the champions and their dates to make their entrance. After the Yule Ceremony they’d open the ball. Their matching outfits had drawn quite the attention from friends and fellow students, which Hermione had, if a bit guiltily, enjoyed very much. Just as she had enjoyed Harry’s reaction at Grimmauld Place.

She felt rather than saw Luna starting to fidget, again, and took the blonde’s hand into her own, whispering: “It won’t be much longer.” Next to them were Neville, dressed in expensive but a tad too old-fashioned robes, with Ginny, who was wearing the dress robes Ron had bought her as a Yuletide gift. The robes were well-made and looked their price, but judging by the looks the redhead had been giving her and Luna, Ginny would have preferred a more daring design. She was out of luck though, it had taken Hermione quite some time to persuade Ron that his little sister was not so little anymore. His first choice as a robe for Ginny would have had the youngest Weasley hex him into the infirmary.

Ron himself was wearing new dress robes as well, fashionable ones. They didn’t look at all like the horridly gaudy ensemble he had shown her as a joke right before the end of the term. A joke she had fallen for, she had to admit - she had been winding up for a desperately needed lesson in fashion and style before she had noticed his cheeky grin. Padma Patil was standing next to him, regularly smiling sweetly at her sister Parvati, both wearing Indian saris with identical cuts, but different colors. Parvati was attending the dance with Lavender Brown, both witches apparently preferring that arrangement to the limited selection of pureblood dates left. Perish the thought that those two social climbers would date a half-blood like themselves, or ask a muggleborn!

Luna’s best friend Aicha was wearing an outfit that seemed to be taken straight out of ‘One Thousand and One Nights’. Or a harem in the Magical Ottoman Empire. From what Hermione had been able to tell after a brief check earlier, the shimmering clothes were made of air and magic, rather than illusions, and tied to the little genie hovering behind the dark-skinned witch. The clothes of her date, Blaise Zabini, paid homage to his Italian heritage and looked like they had roots on a design from Leonardo da Vinci. They looked almost conservative, compared to other robes. Hermione couldn’t help feeling jealous that all the immigrants from other countries could wear clothes showing off the culture of their origin country without anyone batting an eye, but she, as a true muggleborn, would cause a scandal should she wear something from muggle London, or Paris. She banished the thought. She would be enjoying this ball, not brood on things she could not change. Not yet.

Suddenly the great doors opened and the Champions made their entrance. As representative of Beauxbatons, Fleur was the first with her date, Cedric Diggory. Fleur simply looked radiant, dressed in what Hermione could only describe as “a whisp of nothing” that somehow still managed to remain on the right side of the line between daring and scandalous. Somehow she had managed to create an effect that gave the impression she was wearing almost nothing. But as soon as one focused on her one would see the still daring dress quite clearly. Hermione was dying to learn how she had managed that - Illusion? Compulsion? A variant of the unplottable charm, but inversed? - and was sure a number of the boys present would suffer from strained necks at the end of the ball. If not for the looks she had gotten earlier, she would have felt like an ugly duckling in Fleur’s presence. Cedric was wearing dashing robes, but next to Fleur and her clever spellwork, he made a plain impression, despite his obvious handsome looks. At least, Hermione noted, he was not ogling his date as much as he could.

Viktor was next, leading his date Cecile Lebert, a friend of Fleur’s from Beauxbatons. Both wore a matching ensemble that managed to combine both Bulgarian and French influences into something very attractive. Hermione had heard Cecile had done most of the work herself, and was planning to work in that field after her graduation. From the way the robes flattered the two, flowing in subtle but graceful waves in response to their movements, Hermione was sure she would be successful.

Then came Harry, and Hermione’s smile widened while she was filled with pride. He was dressed in a variant of a duelist’s robe. It was made from dragon leather lined with enchanted silk, cut so the heavy material offered the best range of movement. Hermione was quite proud of having managed to enchant the silk lining in a way that made the leather more supple, despite the material’s known resistance to magic. Not many would pick those details up, she knew. Most would only notice the illusions flowing over the leather, showing celtic symbols and nordic runes of protection and battle. The rune for vengeance was prominently placed on his back, a challenge to the unknown assailant that had placed him in the tournament. Susan Bones was wearing a green dress robe that flattered her full bust while matching Harry’s dueling style and, as Hermione realized, the protective enchantments as well. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, she realized, Susan’s head of family was the head of the DMLE, and would place a heavy emphasis on safety and protection, especially when her niece was the date of someone with an assassin after him.

The other guests applauded the Champions as they made their way towards Dumbledore, who was standing with his back to the altar placed in the center of the hall. Hermione hadn’t seen the massive block of carved obsidian before, so it was probably something they only brought out for the Yule Ball. The three couples lined up right behind Dumbledore, who smiled at them before turning to the altar.

“Janus, as the year is ending, we call upon you to judge our past deeds, and bless us for the next year.” Dumbledore started the traditional Yule Ceremony. He raised his wand, and all present followed his example, everyone muttering a brief personal prayer about their wishes for the next year. A tension seemed to fill the Great Hall as wands reacted to their owners’ emotion and desires, sparks flying from some tips.

Then Dumbledore flicked his wand, and all lights went out in the Great Hall. Even the glow from some of the enchanted robes was dimmed until the guests were standing in total darkness. It was an eery experience for Hermione, bereft of her sight she felt as if she could sense the magic present, gathering around her and everyone else.

“Hecate, as the year ends, as the nights have grown long and the days have grown short, we ask of you to let our magic light the way for us, into the new year, to be our strength and guide. Lumos!” Dumbledore’s wand lit up with a light spell.

“Lumos!” Everyone else cast as well, and the Darkness gave way to the light from hundreds of wands. They remained like that, in silence, for a minute, until the regular lighting returned and the spells were canceled.

“Jupiter, we beg you to watch over us and ours, to protect us as you protect yours.” Dumbledore used a weak diffindo to cut his palm, letting his blood drip on the altar.

Hermione should have been uneasy with the idea of cutting herself, but it just felt so right, so needed. She cut her own palm and did not notice any pain. Blood dripped from her hand, but vanished before it reached the floor, and she felt more magic gather around her, growing warmer. A tingling feeling ran through her, and the small cut in her hand vanished.

She stood there, taking deep breaths, still caught in the ritual. No one spoke until Dumbledore clapped his hands. “And with that, it’s time to open the ball! Champions, to the floor! Music!”

*****​

Harry was mentally thanking both Hermione and Sirius for insisting that he had to take dancing lessons during the summer. He would be making a fool of himself, and his date otherwise, especially with the music provided by the Orchestra of Magical Vienna, the most famous magical musicians of Europe. To become a member of that formation one had to be better than the current member holding the spot one wanted, which was a tall order since it included the ghosts of the best musicians of the past as well. Hermione had remarked, after she had heard of and then researched the orchestra, that there would be a time when all members would be ghosts, at least temporary, given the size of the magical population to pick new members from.

All Harry cared about right now was that they were as good as their reputation, no, better even. Listening to a magical musician giving a concert at the World Cup had been great, but dancing to an entire orchestra’s music was better. Much better. He felt as if he was part of the music, following the melodies wherever they led him. He thought he was more gliding than stepping, as if the dance floor was as smooth as perfectly polished glass, but he did not care, nor did he feel as if there was even the slightest possibility he could fall.

When the first dance ended he was waiting impatiently for the next dance to start. With the ball opened now, the other guests filled the floor. After another dance, he had grown used enough to the experience to both pay attention to other dancers and converse with his date.

“I would ask if you are enjoying the dance, but I think your rapt expression until now already answered that.” Susan Bones smiled at him.

“I have to confess I was a bit overwhelmed by the experience, and I humbly beg your pardon for briefly not paying as much attention to you as your grace and beauty demands.” Harry answered, channelling Sirius a bit. The charming, not the lewd Sirius he knew. Susan giggled, and smiled, so he was doing well, he thought.

“You are forgiven.”

They danced past Fleur and Cedric, and Harry spotted Hermione and Luna dancing nearby, the two young witches twirling around each other, as caught up in the music as he had been until now. He didn’t spot his other friends, but given the size of the crowd that was no surprise.

“Did my aunt threaten you should anything happen to me?” Susan sounded honestly curious.

“Not past the required formalities.” Harry answered.

Susan pouted a bit. “She must trust you a lot.”

“Or she trusts you a lot.”

The witch shook her head, her long dark-red hair obscuring her face for an instant before her magical coiffure restored itself. “She knows me better than that,” she claimed with an impish smile.

“Ah.” Harry wasn’t sure how to answer that, which made her giggle some more, until he joined her. The evening was turning out to be even better than he thought.

*****​

About an hour later dinner started. Harry sat with the other Champion’s and their dates at the table of honor, where the altar had been before the dance. The elves had pulled out all the stops and Dumbledore had announced they were able to offer any food one might desire. So far Harry had not heard of anyone disproving the Headmaster’s claim. He was enjoying an entrecôte Café de Paris, ordered on Fleur’s recommendation, while they made small-talk about the music, the couples and the styles of the robes they had seen. Harry wasn’t paying that much attention to that, he was trying to keep an eye on Hermione and Luna’s table, in case someone, like Malfoy, was trying to cause trouble.

“It looks like a number of people were surprised by the appearance of ‘arry’s retainer.” Fleur’s comment made him pay attention though.

“Oh, yes.“ Susan answered. “Not many expected that kind of robes from her. She’s usually so … reserved. I guess it was her date’s influence?” She looked Harry, slightly cocking her head.

“Ah, yes.” Harry answered, truthfully. Though he wasn’t sure it was entirely Luna’s … he couldn’t call it a fault, the dress did look very well on Hermione. His best friend was not one to follow anyone’s lead easily anyway, and would certainly not have worn such a robe if she didn’t want it. Which raised the question, he realized, why she would have wanted to wear such a dress.

“I assume ‘ermione will be more popular in two years than many would have thought yesterday.” Fleur added with a teasing tone. “I certainly would not mind if she was in her sixth year already, though my performance in the tournament might suffer from such a distraction.”

“Ah.” Harry didn’t know how to answer that. His first thought - hands off, she’s my retainer! - didn’t seem to fit. Since the French witch was giggling, it was most likely a joke anyway. Even if Viktor nodded in agreement to the veela’s words. Harry hoped the seeker was not having second thoughts about his stated intentions.

“Harry has been craning his neck, watching over her like a hawk.” Susan was getting in on the teasing.

“He’s just doing his duty as her Patron.” Cedric at least was not joining the fun, Harry noted. The Hufflepuff was not one of the most popular students in Hogwarts for no reason. “It was quite the surprise when it was announced that he had become her Patron, you know. Youngest Patron in history, and thanks to a life debt. The Boy-Who-Lived does not do things halfway.”

Harry quickly used the opportunity to steer the conversation away from Hermione and the Year of Discovery towards the life debt. It might feel like bragging, but it was better than talking about Hermione doing that sort of exploring.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson was enjoying the Yule Ball very much. With so many important guests around it hadn’t taken much for her to keep Draco from making a scene - the boy was a fool, but he could dance, and his manners were impeccable if he cared to use them. They were seated at a table with Crabbe and Goyle, who Pansy knew were not about to converse during a meal, and a Ministry employee and her husband. The topic of conversation - rising prices for coffee - was dull, but safe, and Pansy could indulge in covertly watching other couples while chatting.

Greengrass was looking at Potter, or glaring at his date, it was hard to tell. The blonde witch’s date didn’t notice, he was busy staring down her décolleté. Pansy carefully took note of that, it would serve nicely in a verbal confrontation with her rival. The two Gryffindor gold diggers, Brown and Patil, apparently had recovered from the blow Granger had dealt them, foiling their plans for dates, and were already well on their way to breaking up two pureblood couples while not appearing to do so. Quite clever, for half-bloods. Weasley was showing more and better manners than expected. More class too. Pansy briefly wondered if she had been influenced by Draco’s rant about the redhead without noticing it, or if that was more of Granger’s influence. She briefly wondered what Draco would say if she became Weasley’s girlfriend. He was handsome, sufficiently rich to feel secure about himself - anyone would have to, to stay the best friend of Potter and his mudblood - and he was not in line to become head of his family. He loathed Slytherins, unfortunately, but if she managed to appear as a poor victim of Draco’s evil ways… It would have to be done perfectly, to fool Granger, of course.

The mudblood herself was acting as if she actually enjoyed her pity-date with Lovegood. She was a better actor than Pansy had given her credit so far. Unless she actually was enjoying the blonde’s company. That would mean anyone going husband hunting into Potter’s direction would not have to compete for his attention as much as expected. Or might be getting two partners for one. Unless of course this was just Granger trying to make some of those girls show their hand prematurely, so she could counter them. Usually such ploys didn’t happen until sixth or seventh year, but Granger was one to always prepare in advance.

Oh, yes, Pansy was enjoying the Yule Ball very much.

*****​

Dumbledore watched his students dance and smiled at the sight, even at the two 6th years wizards whose grace on the dance floor painfully reminded him of Gellert and himself, what felt like an eternity ago. He didn’t dare relax though, not with what he was sure was a follower of the Dark Lord just waiting for him to lower his guard to strike at all the innocents trusting in his protection. Alastor was patrolling outside the Great Hall. Rubeus was walking the grounds, he had insisted even though Dumbledore had asked him to enjoy the ball with Madam Maxime. The half-giant had taken the incident at the first task personally, and was determined to make up for what he saw as his mistake, even though he had not been involved with caring for the fire drakes. Dozens of aurors were present too, both openly and among the guests. With the wards of Hogwarts, and the hundreds of house elves and portraits watching, the ball should be safe. Should be. He had thought that of the first task as well, and had been proven wrong. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

*****​

After an hour of dancing and two hours of dinner conversation, Hermione was still not sure if Luna was just very friendly or flirting with her. She considered simply asking several times, but had decided against it every time. Her friend just had such an innocent air around her, Hermione felt as if asking such a thing would somehow hurt the blonde witch. Not to mention that she would have to decide how she felt about that as well in that case. Luna was fun to be around though, no question about that, and a good if a bit too enthusiastic dancer.

That was a good thing as well - as long as they kept dancing, and in the middle of the floor, no one was likely to cut in and ask Hermione for a dance. She’d rather not dance with some of those she had spotted waiting in the wings, like Cormac McLaggen. That Gryffindor was one of those who seemed to think that he was Magic’s gift to witches, especially to half-bloods or muggleborns, whom he expected to properly reward him for spending time with them. She could of course refuse him, but since he looked slightly drunk as well, it would not just be a snub, but likely result in a scene, which would embarrass Harry. And herself.

The other wizards eyeing her were not much better, in her opinion. Her dress was too flimsy to protect against wandering hands - she had noticed the scarves moved out of the way of Luna’s hands, after they had finished the enchantments - and she’d rather not suffer a grabby dance partner. Luna was touchy-feely enough to put her on edge already. Though she had to admit that seeing Malfoy stare at her in surprise, and Pansy narrow her eyes, had felt satisfying.

Lost in her thoughts she had not realized they had drifted to the edge of the dance floor right when the current song started to end, and cursed herself for her inattentiveness.

“May I cut in?” Harry was there. And looking at her. Hermione didn’t know how to react to that, but Luna already had agreed, and her Patron had taken her hand and started to dance before she had gathered her wits. It wasn’t exactly a faux-pas for a Patron to dance with his or her retainer, but generally it wasn’t done outside dance lessons, especially not at such an important ball. Someone who didn’t get to dance with him would feel snubbed. At the moment though, both relieved at having escaped McLaggen and happy to dance with Harry, Hermione didn’t care.

Unexpectedly the music changed to a slower song, and all around them the other dancers danced much closer their partners. After a brief hesitation, Harry gathered her in his arms. She could feel his surprise when the scarves of her robe moved out of his way and his hands touched her suddenly bare back, but she was already resting her head on his shoulder, and had her arms wrapped around his waist.

She closed her eyes and for a song it seemed as if they were alone, just the two of them dancing together.


Chapter 7: The Second Task: Water

 

Chapter 7: The Second Task: Water

Harry woke up later than usual the morning after the Yule Ball. Not surprisingly - the ball had lasted past midnight, and he had first brought Susan back to the house of the Bones family where her aunt had been waiting. Afterwards he had headed back home to Grimmauld Place so Luna could formally return Hermione to him. And then Sirius and even Remus had demanded to hear everything that had happened at the ball, and between his talk and Hermione’s report, he had been dead tired by the time he finally hit his bed. It hadn’t kept him from dreaming though. He held up his hand, and stared at it. After that close dancing with Hermione, with his hands on her bare back, his dreams had gotten even more vivid.

He sighed. He was her Patron, as Sirius reminded him often, and if he wanted… he closed his eyes. He’d never do that to her, never abuse his power. It was bad enough to know he could. That he even was allowed to. For all the protectiveness that the Patron Oath caused him to feel, that part seemed not to register as a threat to her.

Cursing the archaic magic having a hold on him, he got out of bed, cleaned himself with a few charms, and threw on a robe to head down to the kitchen for breakfast. Or lunch. Not that it mattered - soon after moving back into the house Sirius had made it clear that no matter the time of day, he and everyone else would be able to eat what they wanted. Hermione had as quickly mentioned a number of cultures around the world with quite different breakfast dishes than England, which had prompted Sirius to try as many of those dishes out as possible. He smiled - that had been a quite memorable month, and he still wasn’t sure how many of the dishes had been real ones, and how many the result of a prank from Remus, Sirius, or even Hermione.

“What does Master’s godson want?” Kreacher asked, a tad haughtily, as soon as Harry entered the kitchen.

“Tea and scones.” Harry had long since decided not to react to the elf’s tone and instead interpret his sentences in the best possible way. He had not sat down yet at the massive table in the middle of the kitchen before his breakfast had appeared at his usual place, with an assortment of honeys and marmalades. For all his acerbic manners, Kreacher did excellent work when not abandoned with only an insane portrait to direct him. He summoned the Daily Prophet from the countertop and skimmed it. Lots of pictures from the ball, a few puff pieces on the Ministry and the Champions, including himself. No picture of him dancing with Hermione, though. No scandal either, it seemed, or Rita would have mentioned it in detail. At least if it involved adults - she knew better than to gossip about the dalliances of teenagers at Hogwarts, that was not a topic to write about in Wizarding Britain. Every rule had its exceptions though, so one never could assume too much.

Harry was halfway through his second scone and third cup of tea, magically kept in stasis until drunk, when Hermione joined him. His best friend looked still a bit sleepy, but she was already wearing one of her usual robes.

“What does Master’s godson’s slave want?” The elf sounded even haughtier than usual. Hermione briefly glared at him before smiling widely, if a bit forcedly. “Tea and croissants, please, and orange juice.”

Her selection appeared across from Harry’s, cup and glass already filled. Kreacher had only once dared to have it appear on the ground in a bowl. Harry still didn’t know what Sirius and Hermione had said - or done - to him after that, but the elf had never dared to do something similar ever since, and had even treated Sirius with more respect afterwards. He had also informed Harry repeatedly that “the ‘discipline’ chamber of the old Mistress” was ready, should his Master’s godson feel the need to use it, but Harry had steadily ignored that.

“Slept well?” he asked once Hermione had had her first two cups of tea.

She nodded, smiling. “Like a log. That was a great ball. Even better than I hoped. The orchestra… the dancing… perfect!”

Harry nodded and finished his last scone. “At least one good thing came of the tournament then.” He saw the witch lose her smile, and wanted to hex himself. He hurriedly tried to fix his mistake. “Did you enjoy your date with Luna?”

“Yes.” Hermione answered, lifting her chin in answer to his teasing tone. “She was a perfect gentlewoman. And we had a very entertaining dinner conversation.” Harry could imagine that.

“Was everyone enjoying it?”

“I would think so.” Hermione shrugged in a manner that made it clear she didn’t really care what others might have thought. “How was dinner at the Champion’s table?”

“Like one of our evenings with them, just with their dates instead of you and Ron.”

“How quickly we are replaced!” Hermione sighed theatrically, and Harry was sorely tempted to throw a scone at her in response.

“Susan and Cedric were pleasant company. Not as pleasant as you, of course. Or Ron.” Harry added.

“How reassuring.” Hermione giggled at his frown. “I trust you behaved as a true gentleman?” Her tone was teasing, but there was some concern in her eyes.

“Of course. Her aunt is a scary witch.” That prompted more giggles from his best friend.

“And if she weren’t?”

“I’d still have behaved as a gentleman.”

That seemed to satisfy his best friend, though he didn’t know what exactly she had been worried about. They spent the rest of the meal talking about the ball, and their friends’ dates.

*****

“Aw, you are actually studying.” Harry and Hermione, both sitting in the Black Family library, looked up at Nymphadora Tonks. The young witch was wearing her auror robes, a slightly paler red than those for senior aurors, but cut from the same material. Hermione knew from her research into clothing enchantments that all auror robes had the same basic spells on them to provide the wearer with protection and mobility, but each auror routinely placed personal spells on the robes as well.

“What else would we be doing in the library?” Harry sounded puzzled, but Hermione knew he was probably thinking of Sirius’ off-color jokes.

“Well… what could a young wizard and a young witch be doing, in private?” Nymphadora leered at them in such an exaggerated way, she had to be using her metamorphmagus ability, or so Hermione thought.

“Does Sirius know you’re using his lines?” Harry shot back, and Nymphadora’s frown in return caused Hermione to grin. Harry had been more curt, and more annoyed with Sirius’ lewd jokes recently, an attitude she approved of.

“My lines are much better than his outdated ones.” Nymphadora grumbled while walking over to the table Hermione and Harry were sitting at. “What are you reading? Muggle newspapers?”

“That’s a muggle magazine.” Hermione explained, wishing she had stashed the November issue before starting on the tome about water spells she had found.

“They have magazines about time?” Nymphadora was already browsing the contents. “What’s Star Trek?”

“A Science Fiction TV series from the USA.” Hermione launched into a brief - for her - but detailed explanation of Star Trek, television series, movies, science fiction, and Dr. Who. To her surprise and delight, Nymphadora didn’t look bored, but interested, and even a bit impressed. She still had not dropped the magazine, nor asked why the pictures were not moving. The only other wizard Hermione knew who was interested in her parents’ culture was Ron’s dad. And his patronizing attitude grated a bit on her nerves whenever she tried to explain something to him.

“Wow. I thought muggles liked football and bugs.”

“Bugs?” Hermione was lost for a moment, before she made the connection. “Do you mean the Beatles?”

“Yes, the beetles. Dad told me a muggleborn friend of his was all crazy about them. Weird right?”

“Those are musicians, not bugs.” Hermione changed the topic back to books and movies - muggle musicians, no matter how good, simply were not in the same class as magical musicians. At least not when it came to concerts. “But there are lots of books and movies, for every taste, actually.”

“I guess that comes with the territory, if you’ve got so many customers, right?”

“Exactly!”

“We should go see a movie.” Harry had been silent so far. Hermione had seen him smile at her enthusiastic explanations, but he had not commented.

“Great idea! Can we see Star Trek?” Nymphadora pointed at the magazine cover.

“It’s not out yet in Britain, only in the USA.” Hermione often cursed the release delays. It was not likely she’d be able to watch the movie in the cinema. “We can watch another movie, or we can watch a video at my parents’ house.” They were currently in the Alps, skiing, so she didn’t have to ask for permission to bring guests over.

“What’s a video?”

“A movie you can match at a muggle home on television.” Harry’s explanation was far too imprecise for Hermione’s taste, but it was far quicker too.

“The video it is then!”

Harry went to inform Sirius of their plans for the evening, at which point his godfather invited himself to come along, claiming someone responsible had to do the side-along apparition. That claim made Remus join them too.

It was a very entertaining movie evening, even if Hermione had to write a lengthy letter to her parents afterwards, to explain why they would have a new television, a new stove, and and a new VCR. At least the fridge had survived Sirius’ curiosity and Nymphadora’s clumsiness. And maybe her parents would not go skiing without her. She knew she was being a bit unfair - they had known before the term already that she’d be going to the Yule Ball, and she had told them they should go ahead and enjoy their usual holiday to France, but it would have been nice if they had stayed anyway. Even if she would have felt guilty herself since she’d still spent most of her time with Harry, seeing as his life was in danger due to that tournament and he needed all the help he could get. ‘Hypocrisy thy name is Granger’, she thought.

*****

The Hogwarts Express after the Yule holidays was under much closer scrutiny than the one on September 1st. Neither the Ministry nor the school, and certainly not Harry’s godfather were taking any chances with security. Aurors patrolled the cars openly, which rendered the prefects’ patrols a bit redundant. Nymphadora was “undercover”, disguised as a Hufflepuff student of their year, and sitting with Harry and Hermione as a ‘last line of defense’, in her words. As she had told them at Sirius’ house, the Ministry even had spread the rumor that Harry would be traveling by floo back to Hogwarts. Hermione had thought that was actually a good idea, but Harry was glad he ‘would not let that cowardly saboteur force us to deviate from tradition’, as Sirius had put it. The train would forever hold a special place in his heart. Not only because he had met both Hermione and Ron on the train, but because it represented, even more than the Hogwarts letter, that he was a wizard.

Hermione and he had been busy over the holidays, that entertaining - if a bit expensive - movie night at the Grangers’ notwithstanding. He had been studying all sorts of water spells in preparation for the next task, while Hermione had upgraded the protective spells on his and her robes. She had also started to research some spells she thought would be useful in the next task, but she hadn’t gotten far yet. He glanced at her, nose buried in notes she had taken in the Black Family Library. She’d not rest enough until she had finished, he knew. Harry felt a mixture of pride and guilt at that sort of loyalty and friendship, even if it was caused by magic. He didn’t deserve it, not that much, at least.

“Hello you two!” Ron’s arrival interrupted his brooding, as Hermione would have called it. While Harry and Hermione returned the greeting he noticed Nymphadora. “Ah, hello Miss.” He beamed at the disguised auror, and for a moment Harry was tempted to claim she was what she appeared to be. Nymphadora would play along, he was sure. Hermione though would not.

“Ron, this is Nymphadora Black-Tonks, an undercover auror and the daughter of Sirius’ cousin Andromeda. Nymphadora, this is Ron Weasley.”

“Wow, you look young.” Ron smiled and offered his hand to the witch, then gasped when he suddenly was looking at a witch older than Dumbledore. “Merlin’s ghost!”

Nymphadora giggled, which sounded very creepy coming from a crone, and changed back.

“A metamorphmagus!” Ron exclaimed. “How old are you actually?”

“Old enough to be an auror.” Ron wrinkled his forehead for a moment, obviously calculating the age requirements. Nymphadora grinned, and went on. “I was in my 7th year when you three were firsties.”

“Ah. An older woman then.” Ron nodded sagely, while Nymphadora huffed.

The redhead was earlier than usual. He must have noticed Harry’s glance to his watch, since he explained. “Mum made Dad take the floo today, since she said there might be more checks at the gates and we might be actually late if we drove.”

“Did you have a good holiday?” Hermione looked up from her notes, but did not put them away.

“Dodged more pranks from the twins than not, I think. So, a good holiday.” Ron grinned, and heaved his trunk up to stash it instead of levitating it. Showing off his muscles, Harry thought, but Hermione didn’t seem to have noticed. His friend had barely sat down before his lap was filled with a half-kneazle demanding food. Harry grinned while Hermione muttered “traitor” at her pet.

“What about you?” Ron asked, after feeding two treats to Crookshanks.

“We spent the holidays at Sirius’. He was immature enough to prank us at Yuletide, but we were prepared for that.” Hermione sniffed. “He should have known better.”

“What did he do, and what did you do to him in return?” Ron leaned forward eagerly. Harry knew he was always hoping to find something he could use against the twins back home.

Hermione sighed, making her view on pranks quite clear, though Harry had had the impression she had liked preparing a revenge prank for Sirius in advance. Liked it very much. Not that he would have voiced that belief.

Nymphadora was already telling the tale, despite, or because, of Hermione’s frown. “He put a spell on a retainer’s collar, turned it into a dog collar with a leash.” Ron chuckled briefly until the victim of the prank glared at him.

“We turned his gift into a muzzle and a pink straightjacket, with ‘Mad Dog’ written on the back.” Hermione proudly smiled.

“What’s a straightjacket?”

Hermione explained the garment to Ron while Harry hoped they’d change the topic soon, before Ron asked why Sirius hadn’t pranked Harry harder.

*****

Hermione had returned to studying her notes while Harry, Ron and Nymphadora chatted about Quidditch. She needed every bit of time to finish the spell she wanted to create in time for Harry to learn it. If it worked he’d have a big advantage in the second task.

A bit after the train had left London Susan Bones visited their compartment. Since the door was locked with a number of spells, Nymphadora had enough time to change her robe’s badge to that of Ravenclaw. The red-haired witch was in a good mood, though she did look at Nymphadora for a bit longer than expected when she presented herself as “Deborah Bailey, 6th year Ravenclaw”. Was that some jealousy there? Hermione wondered silently. She hoped not, even though the Hufflepuff sat down a bit close to Harry. She felt slightly uneasy at that sight herself, but didn’t know why. Susan was a nice girl, and seemed to like Harry.

“Did you know you snubbed me to dance with your retainer?” Susan grinned.

“What?” Harry sounded as surprised as Hermione was at the accusation, in jest or not. She was sure Harry would not have made such a faux-pas. It had been daring enough to dance with her. Daring, but nice. “I asked for your permission!” Harry sounded indignant.

Susan giggled. “Yes, you did. But someone’s spreading the rumor that I left in a huff at that insult.” Hermione didn’t feel like laughing. Such rumors could harm Harry’s reputation, and her own, if left unchecked. “Don’t worry, I made it clear there was no snub.” She leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “I haven’t found out who started that rumor, but I will.”

“I am sure it was Malfoy through Parkinson.” Harry growled. “I wondered why he was not doing anything at the ball.”

“Ah… it could have been Patil and Brown too.” Ron had the attention of the entire compartment. Even Nymphadora’s, who should be more concerned with attacks by the still unknown assassin, Hermione thought. “I think they blame Hermione for not getting the dates they wanted. And… I might have tweaked their noses a bit about going with Padma instead of Parvati.” He smiled apologetically at Harry and Hermione. “I am sorry.”

Great. If she had helped those two, she’d not have to deal with yet another rumor. But the thought of helping those two, after their needling remarks, had not sit well with Hermione.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find out. All of Hufflepuff will be helping. They were quite proud that two champions picked a Hufflepuff for a date.” Susan beamed at Harry. Hermione thought that was not much to be proud of. She would have hated to be known as the best date instead of the best witch. Susan, as the niece and heir of Amelia Bones, head of the DMLE, should know better! “And when we find out, they’ll pay.” Susan’s grin was now more feral than amused. Hermione reminded herself not to underestimate the witch. Not that she was planning to get into a conflict with the redhead. Unless Susan would hurt Harry. Should that happen not even the entire House of Hufflepuff would be able to protect her.

*****

Harry stole a few glances at Hermione. She had been behaving a bit odd since Susan had visited. Maybe the rumors hurt her more than he had thought? He resolved to find out, in private of course. No one hurt his retainer!

A knock at the door had Nymphadora draw her wand and everyone else tense up at least. He noticed Hermione had hers behind her notes, and smiled. “Yes?”

“It’s me, Luna, and Aicha is with me. Can we come inside?”

Harry looked at Nymphadora, who cast a few quick spells at the door, then changed her badge back to Hufflepuff and nodded at him. He undid the locking spell and opened the door with his wand. The blonde witch, wearing what looked like a roman-style short tunic, and Aicha, wearing her customary arabian-looking outfit, entered, trailed by Aicha’s genie-kin.

“Hello everyone. Oh, you’re new. Or are you?” Luna cocked her head sideways, staring at Nymphadora.

“Deborah Bailey, Hufflepuff 6th year.”

“If you say so.” Luna all but dismissed her and sat down next to Hermione and pulled her legs up on her seat as well while Aicha sat down more demurely across from her. “I have to thank your retainer once again, Harry. It was a lovely evening.” Before Harry could answer, she turned to Hermione and hugged the surprised witch. “Thank you for a lovely evening! Our robes were perfect thanks to your spells! We’ll have to create more like them, but suited for the warmer weather of summer this time!”

Harry didn’t know exactly how to take that - their robes had had as much fabric as a bathing suit, not counting the cape, in his opinion. Hermione seemed lost as well, which probably explained why she did not protest when Luna twisted around and placed her head on the other witch’s lap while propping her feet up next to the door. Hermione made a surprised noise while Ron snickered. Aicha seemed unfazed, but that was to be expected - she had been Luna’s best friend since their first year, and was well-used to the quirky blonde’s behaviour.

Luna asked about their holidays, and fortunately - for Ron, given Hermione’s glare at him - no one mentioned Sirius prank while they exchanged news. Luna and Aicha had spent most of the holidays visiting each other, it seemed, split between ‘hunting ice genies’ and animating snow-creatures to reenact the last Goblin Rebellion. Hermione looked quite flustered since the blonde witch didn’t show any indication of wanting to move her head out of his retainer’s lap, even when she was gesturing animatedly while telling them about the climax of the battle, accidentally entangling her hand in Hermione’s hair and pulling her head down towards her own.

“Oh, we almost kissed.” Was her own comment while Hermione was busy recasting her hairstyling charms. To Harry’s amusement, the comment almost caused his best friend to miscast her charm, something she hadn’t done since their first year. Though he couldn’t help thinking that Luna should have left Hermione’s lap now.

*****

Ron had enjoyed watching Luna confuse Hermione until the two Ravenclaws had left for their own compartment again. His friend was often in need of some loosening up, he thought, or 6th year would be difficult for her. The blonde witch had certainly grown up in the last year. Like Ginny, his traitorous brain added, and he frowned. He would have preferred if Ginny had joined them in this compartment, but as usual she had wanted to sit with her friends. Unlike every time they boarded the train she had added that she might join Neville in his compartment. Ron had smiled at that, if a bit forced. If he had said a single word against that she’d have done it just to spite him.

Ron had enjoyed the Yule Ball, but he wasn’t sure if Padma had really liked his company as much as she had claimed, or if that had just been born from the desire to one-up her sister. He certainly understood such a desire. In any case he would be lying if he said he had not liked the attention.

Speak of the inquisitor, and he appears, he thought, when he heard Padma - he thought it was Padma’s voice - ask if she could come in. The Indian witch was let in after Nymphadora cleared her and sat down next to Hermione, greeting everyone. She didn’t seem to question Nymphadora’s cover, and smiled at himself. He liked that. Then he noticed that the rest of the compartment was looking at him, and he realized they were expecting him to ask Padma about the rumors. He was expected to gossip!

“How were your holidays, Padma?” It was not the best opening, but it got her talking about her family.

“They were great. Parvati was usually off with Lavender, and so I had some peace. It’s hard to read if you’re interrupted all the time because she wants a “third opinion” on something - which she doesn’t, she simply wants to needle me. She is still steaming about the Yule Ball, by the way, going with Lavender didn’t work out as well as she thought. They broke up a couple, but didn’t manage to snag either of them.” For a witch who said she was glad her sister left her in peace, she certainly knew a lot about her sister’s actions.

“Ah, rumors. Did you know some people say Harry snubbed Miss Bones at the ball? Even though she said it wasn’t the case herself?” Judging by the way Padma’s eyes lit up, he thought she shared at least one passion of her sister as well.

“Oh, Parvati said she had seen Miss Bones storm off on a huff, after Mister Potter started to dance with Miss Granger. I am sure it was an honest mistake.” Her smile belied her words, of course. And he had thought he knew what sibling rivalry was.

The expressions on his friend’s faces didn’t bode well for Parvati, and by extension, Lavender’s near future. Ron himself was more concerned that even after Padma’s visit he didn’t know what she really thought about him. But he certainly did know that he did not wish to have her angry at him.

*****

The first days back at Hogwarts saw rumors spread like wildfire, overtaking each other. Harry snubbing Susan, Susan leaving in a huff and setting her aunt on Harry, Hermione snubbing Susan… Harry barely could track them all, though it didn’t help that no one wished to tell them to his face.

“Mister Potter? What is this I hear about an incident at the Yule Ball that left your date in tears? Surely that is just a rumor.” No one but Malfoy, apparently.

“Of course it is just a baseless rumor, Mister Malfoy. Miss Bones was not slighted, nor feels any ill will towards me.”

“Of course. Only a fool would assume you’d be so crass as to publicly embarrass the heir of the Bones family to dally with a mere retainer so much below you. You are a wizard of honor, after all.” Malfoy smiled graciously. It seemed he was getting better with his insults. Or lucky. Hermione’s face remained expressionless, but Harry knew she was vexed by the Slytherin’s comment. Before he could retaliate though Malfoy nodded at him and left again.

This time it was Harry who placed his hand placatingly on Hermione’s thigh. Not that he thought she’d have to be kept from hexing the git. But he wanted to comfort her.

*****

Hours after Malfoy had insulted her Hermione was still fuming. That blond bigot personified most of what was wrong with Wizarding Britain. The arrogance built on nothing more than having been born into a rich pureblood family, the bigotry, the maliciousness hidden under a thin veneer of manners… she forced herself to calm down. She needed to finish her spell for Harry, she couldn’t afford to waste time with angry thoughts about that idiot.

She returned her attention to the books in front of her, and her notes, glaring at the abacus. If only she had managed to get a calculator working over the holidays, but… she was getting closer, she knew, but it took so much time and effort. Neither she could spare a lot right now, with the next task, the next danger, looming so close.

“Are you creating a new spell?” Luna’s voice startled her and broke her concentration right when she had managed to immerse herself in her work again. She hadn’t noticed the blonde witch arriving at her table, but with the library’s enchantments muffling noise and other sounds, that was no surprise.

“Luna!”

“Hermione!”

Hermione had to laugh a bit at the blonde, despite herself. Her table had already expanded to accommodate the Ravenclaw, and a new chair had appeared. Sighing, she resigned herself to losing more time. “Yes, I am. I hope it’ll be useful to Harry in the next task.” If it all worked as she planned, it would be very useful.

Luna peered at her notes, then looked up at her. “Just be careful. Spellcrafting is dangerous.”

“It’s safe. This is just a variant of an existing spell.” Hermione had it under control. She wasn’t about to try anything dangerous, after all.

Luna shook her head, looking more serious than Hermione had ever seen her. “It’s never truly safe. I should know; my mother was a spellcrafter until she died when a new spell reacted in an unexpected manner.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She tried anyway “Luna, I…”

Luna grasped her hand, and stopped her. “Magic is not that predictable. Promise me you’ll be careful, Hermione!”

The blonde witch sounded so earnest, so caring, Hermione could only nod. She hadn’t known about Luna’s mother, but in hindsight, she should have at least suspected something. Luna had only ever talked about her father, never her mother, when they had been shopping, or enchanting the robes, and at the ball. “I promise.”

Luna smiled, though Hermione couldn’t tell if it was with relief or satisfaction. “Good. By the way, why didn’t you tell me Harry and Susan had come to an agreement about sharing you?”

“What?”

Hermione’s plans for the evening were delayed further while Luna filled her in about the latest rumor. Apparently Susan Bones assurances that Harry had acted with her full approval at the ball had been slightly misinterpreted.

*****

Dumbledore was in his office, listening to Alastor’s report on the security measures taken for the second task. It did look like the old auror had planned for every eventuality, but then, they had thought that had been the case for the first task as well. He couldn’t think of anything they had missed either though.

“Very good, Alastor. This task should pass without trouble then.”

“I’ll believe it when it’s over, and the culprit in custody or dead.” The gruff auror answered, his eye spinning as usual, with Fawkes peering at it with open curiosity despite the number of times the phoenix had seen it.

“How goes the investigation into the attack on the Quidditch World Cup?” Alastor was not an active auror anymore, but he still knew everyone of importance at the department, and, as he put it, “a few even like me still, enough to talk.”

“They managed to identify one of the attackers through the residue of a curse he was hit with at the Cup. Marcus Brownstem. One of the hanger-ons in the first Blood War, too young to implicate himself, and smart enough to play nice afterwards. He was interrogated extensively, but he doesn’t recall who contacted him, nor does he know who had the idea for the attack. Whoever orchestrated the attack was smart - he only remembers meeting ‘fellow wizards wearing masks’.”

Dumbledore was disappointed, but not surprised. He had hoped to get at least a hint of who was behind this, but whoever it was, had planned this well.

“Too many suspects with the means and brains to organize this.” Apparently, Alastor had picked up on his reaction.

“I fear you are correct, old friend. The whole incident doesn’t make much sense. Those we suspect of being involved have so much to lose should they get caught, why would they risk that? Why now?” Dumbledore and Alastor knew one possible explanation, but to voice that without proof would invite scorn, and worse, from those who did not share their experiences.

“How are things in the Wizengamot?”

“Better than expected. Cornelius is holding up well, despite the pressure from France and Eastern Europe.” But the Minister would blame anything that went wrong on him, Dumbledore knew that. It was not that much of a concern, as long as he could prevent a catastrophe. If the tournament finished without a serious incident, his standing might even benefit - and Cornelius would then try to claim credit for that as well. Judging by Alastor’s snort, his thoughts paralleled his own.

“In other words, dirty business as usual.” Alastor nodded to him and Fawkes, and stood up. “I’ll check the perimeter once again. We’ll have to pick a site to house the animals for the second task soon.” The retired auror left, and Dumbledore found himself alone with his thoughts, and a phoenix, in his office.

*****

In the middle of January, two weeks before the second task, Hermione was preparing their training room for another evening with Fleur and Viktor. She was looking forward to it - she would not have to play the servant in private with them, and she hoped to be able to find out what spell Fleur had used on her robes at the Yule Ball. Ron of course was looking forward to more talking to Viktor, and maybe Fleur. Though Hermione had the impression that with Padma showing obvious interest in Ron her friend was likely to avoid even giving the hint of trying to court Fleur, no matter how unlikely him wooing a veela three years his senior was to begin with. The possible relationship between Ron and Padma irked Parvati and Lavender to no end, as she and Fay knew very well from the overheard complaints in their dorm. Between arranging the furniture and checking the snacks, Hermione looked her friends over. Both seemed more relaxed, less nervous than before. Good. She hated to see either one fret. She adjusted the floating trays a bit, to line them up better, and cast another cleaning charm on the chairs and table. Almost perfect. Maybe dim the light a bit?

She was still tinkering with the arrangement when the knock on the door announced that their guests had arrived. Running a last cleaning charm over her own robes - and ignoring Harry and Ron snickering at her - she walked to the door and opened it.

She still went to the expected formalities since they were, technically, in public as long as the door was open. “My Patron bids you welcome, Mister Krum, Miss Delacour, and offers his hospitality for the duration of your visit.” The two accepted the hospitality as formally, but Fleur had a teasing smile on her face.

Once the door closed behind them, everyone relaxed visibly, and even Viktor slouched a bit in his seat while the snack trays circled around. Fleur positively lounged on the couch with an air of casual but sophisticated elegance Hermione felt a stab of envy for.

They chatted about the Yule Ball, and the rumors it had generated. Both Fleur and Viktor were very familiar with rumors, and according to them, the newspapers of their own countries showed far less restraint when it came to rumors about students than the British publications did. Some of the more outrageous rumors were quite entertaining though, at least those that did not involve herself. The one speculating about her, Harry, Ron, Luna, Susan and Padma… honestly, did those reporters know nothing about Hogwarts? Hermione didn’t want to think about the mental picture that generated. It was bad enough that she had had dreams of dancing with Harry and Luna making comments as if she was observing them in the bedroom.

She did use the opportunity to ask Fleur about the spell on the veela’s ball robes, but apparently it was a family secret, or so the French witch claimed. Hermione managed to ferret out enough hints though that she would be able to attempt to reverse engineer it, or a reasonable facsimile.

“Were you planning to use the spell yourself, ‘ermione?” Fleur asked with a wide smile. Hermione stiffened. She did not really plan to use that spell. It was just an intellectual challenge. Mostly.

“No, no. I was just curious. It looked like a very interesting blend of different spell effects.” She sipped from her glass to hide any involuntary reaction, and wished she had dimmed the lights some more.

“You made quite the impression at the Ball, my dear. If I ‘ad not given my word already, I’d be tempted to keep you after my victory.” Fleur was smiling, and obviously jesting, but Hermione froze. This was not something she wanted to joke about. It cut too deep. Fleur must have realized, since she apologized right away, and changed the topic to Quidditch. Hermione felt Harry’s hand on her back, and smiled gratefully at him.

The rest of the evening passed without other sensitive topics being touched. Fleur and Viktor didn’t invite them to visit over summer, but Hermione expected that would come after the next invitation, or the one after that. Custom demanded that hospitality was returned, after all, and she was looking forward to seeing magical France and Bulgaria. Not that Harry knew that when he proposed such evenings.

*****

The next training session with Sirius and Remus - focused on water-based spells, of course - had Harry panting with exhaustion after two hours spent swimming and diving and casting in a transfigured pool. With the second task so close, his godfather and his Defense teacher had increased the intensity of the training. Hermione was not there, she said she really had to finish the modifications to the bubble-head charm. Harry was not sure if he should be worried for her - she was overdoing it again, he knew - or relieved he would not be distracted by a pretty witch in a robe transfigured into a skin-tight suit. Ron was there though and his friend was looking as tired as Harry felt. Sirius and Remus on the other hand were looking fresh. No surprise there - they had not been in the pool.

“Come on, kids. It’s only been two hours. We’ve got another hour left until you can rest.” Sirius stood there, hands on his hips. Before Remus could chime in as well, the spell on the door announced a visitor.

It wasn’t Hermione, as Harry had thought, it was Nymphadora. The auror was in her usual red robes. “Hi everyone. Are you torturing the children as we planned? I don’t see any weights on their feet.”

“We’re saving them for the next lesson.” Sirius answered while Remus nodded at the witch. Harry was too tired to say more than “Hi Nymphadora.”

“Good good. Take some pictures then, for next Yuletide.” The three adults laughed at that while the two teenagers groaned in protest. “More seriously, though”, a quick hex from the auror shut Sirius up before he could utter his usual pun, “we think we discovered how the next task was to be sabotaged.”

Suddenly Harry didn’t feel tired anymore. “What? What did you find?”

“It was Hagrid, actually. He checked the animals delivered for the next task, and found out a number of them were infected with poisonous parasites from Magical Australia. Everything is poisonous down there, you know, even the plants want to kill you. And that’s just the muggle parts. The Magical parts are worse. Don’t ask me the name of the beasts, I forgot, but if you had wounded any of the infected animals, they would have poisoned the water and spread.”

Harry winced at that. Poison was bad enough, but to be infected with parasites… he shuddered.

“What are you doing about it?” Sirius asked, now as serious as Remus.

“We’re keeping them and acting as if we did not notice anything. We’ll swap them right before the task, so the one behind this will think it’s working and won’t try something else.” Harry noticed that she was chewing something, but he hadn’t seen her eat anything before.

“Good idea.” Remus said approvingly. Harry agreed - it was a sound plan.

“What are you eating? Can I have some?” With the important matters settled, Ron was apparently focusing on something more practical. “Swimming makes me hungry.”

“It’s chewing gum, not food.” the metamorphmagus answered, sticking out her tongue to show what she meant. Harry blinked. He was pretty sure, and the confusion of the other three wizards present confirmed it, that chewing gum was not something Wizards were familiar with. “A muggle thing. You chew it, you don’t eat it.”

“Why would you do that? That sounds barmy!” Ron answered.

“It’s like a chewing toy.” Harry could not resist. “You know, for dogs. You should try some.” When the dog animagus, the werewolf and the witch currently chewing gum glared at him, he knew he should have held his tongue. The next hour was even worse than the two before combined. For him at least - Ron was mostly collateral damage.

*****

The arena had been completely rearranged again, Hermione noticed. In its centre stood a massive cube of water, filled with coral reefs, what looked like kelp fields, and even caves. She couldn’t spot any walls outside the water, so it was likely just held together with magic. Given that it was also expanded on the inside, she noticed the telltales of those charms, there was enough water there that, should those spells fail, it would flatten the arena and everyone inside.

In what looked like a transpositioned piece of the sea, various fishes swam around, and she could spot other creatures lurking in the shadows, and the kelp fields and caves must be hiding more. She would have missed them entirely, if not for the enchantments that allowed the spectators to closely observe the entire event, no matter how far the champions swam. In the centre of the water rested a giant clam, and on it sat a blue-skinned female figure wearing floating, silken clothes - a marid, Hermione realized, a water genie. In that moment, the clam started to open revealed two fist-sized pearls - one golden, one silver colored one. The bonus tokens, as Hermione mentally called them. Getting one would give 10 respectively 5 additional points. There was no bronze pearl, so a pearl was not needed to use the portal next to the clam that would take the Champion out of the arena, done with the task.

The young witch wished she was with Luna and Aicha, and not sitting, as during the first task, with a broom and a necklace next to the judges. She had read up on marids, but not enough in her opinion. She didn’t know how the tournament organizers had managed to persuade such a powerful genie to take part in the task, but she knew they were known to command magic wizards could not, and were said to twist wishes and offer poisonous deals to the foolhardy.

She glanced to the small platform where Harry was already standing next to Fleur and Viktor, facing the immense wall of water. Hermione hoped Harry would stick to the plan, and not try something foolhardy. It was dangerous enough to get to the exit. She saw a small shark cut through the water and dug her nails into her thighs to avoid making a scene in public.

*****
Pansy Parkinson was wishing she was sitting somewhere else as well, rather than next to Draco. Her boyfriend was trying to lord it over their fellow Slytherins again, trying to free the seats to either side of them just so he’d stand out a bit more. He still had not realized, or so she thought, that the students did not respect him, but feared his father. Though he had become a bit more subtle in mentioning his family. It was as if he did not care as much about how others saw him as he had cared before. She didn’t know why, and that worried her. She liked her toys predictable. Easy to control and use.

Draco still was vain, proud and arrogant, but he had started to handle setbacks with more grace. Losing to Potter in a bout of verbal sparring wasn’t grounds to moping around for a day anymore. He was acting as if he had something up his sleeve, something that would turn the tables on Potter, but he wasn’t bragging to her about it, as he used to about his past plots.

And she couldn’t ask easily about it, not without endangering her own image of a silly doting girlfriend. And it was not yet time for that particular twist. But it galled to not know everything about Draco. She didn’t like it at all.

Her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts though. She smiled widely, her hand on Draco’s arm, and pointed out the different couples that had formed after the Yule ball in the excited manner of Daphne Greengrass, just with a tad more decorum. As expected, Draco soon looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else. It was a small victory, but she enjoyed it anyway.

*****

Harry was studying the arena in front of him. Thanks to massive expansion charms it was a vast underwater area, divided by coral reefs and kelp fields. He spotted what looked like a miniature underwater volcano, another hazard. From what he could tell the open water above the reefs and kelp fields was actually a chaotic maelstrom formed of different currents, only made possible by magic, for water would not naturally behave so.

It was clearly designed to lure the unwary or foolish in, then throw them around before spitting them back out, all their time wasted. And yet, if one could reach the center of it, the way down to the goal would be clear. If one could. He didn’t see a way, not even with Hermione’s spell. The currents looked simply too strong to navigate. He and the other champions would have to swim through a maze of coral reefs and underwater canyons, or brave kelp fields which could be hiding anything - or pose a danger themselves. And they would have to deal with sharks, squids, probably salt-water grindylows and similar pests as well as water elementals.

Harry was prepared for that though. Or rather, prepared to cheat a little. To break the spirit of the rules at least, if not the letter. He patted the pouch where his emergency portkey was resting, strapped to his thigh, and glanced at Fleur and Viktor. Fleur would be at a disadvantage, he knew, due to her heritage, but he didn’t know how big a factor that would be. She looked confident though. Viktor was harder to read, he looked stoic as usual. Neither had revealed their plans during the evening spent together, nor had Harry let anything slip. Smirking with more confidence than he felt, he nodded at both. They returned the gesture, and then the signal to start was given.

Viktor dove right into the wall of water while Fleur and Harry transfigured their competition robes into skin-tight suits - no one wanted to go swimming in robes, especially in a race, which meant Viktor was probably transfiguring himself. Fleur cast a bubble-head charm and slid into the water while Harry cast his own charm, grateful that his suit covered him from neck to toe - having his whole body surrounded by bubbles of air would be a distracting experience - and then jumped at the water wall himself.

To his relief the spell worked as expected. They had tested it, but not against enchantments holding water back, and as Hermione had said, spells could be very unpredictable when interacting with other magical effects. Instead of water he felt air around him. He wouldn’t have to worry about the coldness of water, for one, nor about breathing. But more important was the other effect, the reason Hermione had modified the bubble-head charm. Supercavitation, she had called it.

It wasn’t as if he flew through the water, but coupled with a slightly overpowered aguamenti charm as propulsion he could travel far faster than swimming. It took a bit of work to steer using his wand, but he had managed to get a few hours of training in, last night, and he soon dove into one of the underwater canyons to avoid the maelstrom, leaving Fleur behind and quickly catching up to Viktor, who had apparently transfigured himself into a shark, at least partially. Harry was reminded of McGonagall’s warning tales of self-transfiguration gone wrong when he passed the Bulgarian.

He was leading now, which usually would mean he’d be slowed down by whatever obstacle he’d run into first, allowing the others to catch up and maybe pass him again. Harry had no intention of slowing down though - he was a seeker, not a beater. He barely saw a school of grindylows ascend from the kelp field below before he was already past them. He couldn’t ascend too much though, or he’d be sucked into the maelstrom and transported who know where, so he stuck quite close to the ground.

A man-sized shark turned towards him, but then decided he was too fast, and didn’t pursue. As dangerous as it was, Harry couldn’t help but starting to enjoy the trip. It was almost as good as flying on his Firebolt. Acting on impulse he rolled and let out a whoop and dove through an opening in a coral reef, skimming the ground. Their plan was working perfectly!

He was about to ascend a bit more, to avoid getting too close to a kelp field, when he suddenly saw a struggling figure in the middle of it. How could Fleur have gotten ahead of him? He moved closer and realized it was not Fleur, but Hermione! He didn’t know why she was here, probably a result of more sabotage, but he’d save her. Without a thought he dove at her, then brought his wand up. A few cutting curses freed his retainer, and he took her into his arms. Her torn clothes fell off her, and he felt her hug him in return. He smiled then realized she needed a bubble-head charm as well. Before he could cast it though her grip on him tightened and she kissed him. Like in a dream.

He closed his eyes returned the kiss and felt her tongue slip inside. Her kiss tasted salty, like seaweed. Seaweed? His eyes flew open and he realized he was wrapped up in kelp, and being dragged towards the ground. He started to struggle, but barely could move his wand, and the plant’s grip tightened, driving more air out of his lungs. Even with the bubble-head charm he’d have trouble breathing much longer. The temptation was there to give up, to trigger his portkey, but that piece of seaweed had used Hermione against him! Filled with fury he started to blindly send out cutting curses, until he felt the grass wrapped around himself give some, and then started to aim his curses. A few minutes later he was rising from the ground, through a cloud of cut and ripped plants. He longed to destroy the trap completely, but held back - he had to reach the center, not waste even more time. Casting aguamenti again, he continued on, a fair bit more cautiously than before.

By his estimation he still was in first place, with a sizeable lead. Or so he hoped. He did give the kelp field a far wider berth and stuck closer to the coral reef on the side when he had to pass another one. A few squids tried to make a grab at him, but he easily avoided, and left them to attack his competitors. Another reef loomed ahead. Any other time he’d have marveled at the colors and structures, but not now. Just as he was passing that as well, a sudden blow out of nowhere slammed him into the reef. The impact robbed him of his breath, and he skipped over the corals, his suit and skin sliced open from the shells.

Where had that come from? He couldn’t see anything, or anyone. Another blow caught him from behind, then the next batted him back towards the reef, and more cuts joined the ones he already had suffered. His chest felt like a few ribs were cracked as well. He finally spotted a faint outline in the water, moving as if invisible - a water elemental. Cursing, he moved a bit away. He needed his wand to move quickly, but if he used it to move he could not strike at the elemental.

He winced in anticipation, and readied his wand. When the elemental moved to strike at him again, he hit it with a modified cooking charm while he got hammered into the chest again. Battered, he started to flee, using aguamenti again, pursued by the elemental. They played a game of seeker and snitch for a few minutes until the charm had finally managed to turn most of the creature’s body into steam. Battered and bruised, Harry continued towards the centre, and the clam.

Shortly afterwards a school of smaller sharks, about the size of a shepherd dog, came right at him, apparently attracted by his blood. Again he had the choice of either fighting them, healing himself, or moving on and hoping to lose them. Wounded as he was, he chose to press on, and dove to the ground to get around them. He dodged the one coming closest to him, and soon was shooting through the water, pursued by the sharks.

He raced past another reef, into another canyon, under what looked like a shipwreck, and circled around the volcano, but the sharks did not give up. Either charmed, or some magical variant that was more stubborn than a mule. He didn’t care right then. But he couldn’t face the marid with a pack of bloodthirsty predators nipping at him. Turning around, he cast a bombarda at the leading shark. The spell turned the animal into bite-sized chunks of meat, and spread blood all over the other sharks, which seemed to be dazed by the explosion for a moment.

Good enough, he decided, and he turned away and shot towards the clam, where the marid, a beautiful, blue-skinned woman with long, pointed ears and turquoise hair was waiting. She made no move to intercept him, but kept sitting on the clam.

“Greetings, Champion. I am the guardian of the pearls. I will test your mettle, wit and power.”

“I am Harry Potter, Champion of Hogwarts.” He flipped her a salute and dove past her, straight for the portal. He had to grin at the surprised expression on the marid’s face right before he was transported out of the arena.

*****

Hermione had been close to weeping with frustration and fear several times during the task, especially when Harry was being battered around by a water elemental, or when he suddenly dove right into a field of strangling kelp. By the time Harry was leading a school of sharks on a desperate chase she was pressing a fist to her mouth so she’d not scream. When her best friend shot past the genie to the exit, she sagged in her char with relief.

“Why did he not engage the marid for the pearls?” the young witch heard Karkaroff ask Dumbledore. She could have told them that it would have taken Harry too long, and carried a too big risk. He’d gain more points, relatively, if he simply saved as much of his lead by finishing as fast as possible. She didn’t though. She was too angry still at the traps and obstacles Harry had had to deal with to explain his tactics to anyone.

He had won, and both of the other champions were still far from the centre. Too far to overtake him in points even with the pearls, Hermione noticed. She didn’t care at the moment. All she cared about was Harry. He had survived. He was alive.


Chapter 8: The Third Task: Air

 

Chapter 8: The Third Task: Air

While the audience roared and applauded at his exit, Harry was moved to the healer’s area and checked by a wizard. His cuts, bruises and broken ribs were quickly fixed. He didn’t bother fixing his transfigured robe. Instead he discarded it, vanished it, and slipped his school robes on. The familiar feeling of the numerous enchantments wrapping around him, adjusting the temperature, the robe lifting a bit to float above his skin, and the knowledge that he was now much better protected again, was a great relief. As much as spotting Hermione safe and sound near the judges was. Remembering the illusion of her struggling, drowning, still made him shudder.

When he returned to the spot he would be waiting for the others to arrive on, Viktor had yet to reach the centre. The Bulgarian champion had been forced to revert his transfiguration to deal with what looked like a small plesiosaurus, and judging by the blood leaking from his wounds, he’d be attracting sharks soon. Fleur was decimating grindylows with area-effect spells above a kelp field. Harry checked his watch - he had a mechanical wristwatch, but Sirius had told him repeatedly that he’d get a ‘real watch’ for his 17th birthday, like every wizard - and was pleased to find that even if Viktor managed to reach the clam right away and get the golden pearl, he’d still get less points than Harry.

Five minutes and an encounter with a familiar-looking school of bloodthirsty sharks later, Viktor was facing the marid. They talked for several minutes, with the genie’s smile widening and Viktor scowling, but Harry didn’t hear what they were talking about. Finally, the genie nodded and with a flash, the golden pearl appeared in her hand. She offered it to Viktor, who snatched it up and dove to the exit, followed by what looked like booming laughter. The star seeker arrived next to Harry, grinning wrily at his dry and robed appearance. Both exchanged brief nods before the Bulgarian was moved to the healers. Fleur arrived a few minutes later, and skipped the marid, going straight for the exit. Judging by the snarl on the genie’s face, that seemed to have been a wise decision.

Finally the points were awarded. Harry got the full 50 points for finishing first, bringing him to 100 total. Viktor got 35 for finishing a quarter of an hour after Harry, but 10 bonus points for the golden pearl, which meant he tied Harry overall. Fleur received 30 points, which meant she was now 10 points behind the two wizards. The veela didn’t seem to be disappointed. Not that Harry was paying that much attention to his fellow champions’ reactions, he was busy collecting his retainer.

*****​

Barty Crouch Junior, polyjuiced to look like a disreputable wizard currently sleeping in his room after he had overindulged on fire whiskey last night, folded the Daily Prophet and dropped it on the table in the Leaky Cauldron together with a few sickles. His parasites had been discovered. He had expected that - Hagrid was one of the foremost experts for magical creatures in Britain after all. But not only had it kept his master’s enemies busy and focused on the tournament, he had also gained valuable information about how the aurors and Dumbledore handled his sabotage attempts. They were clever, but were they clever enough to anticipate his plans? He’d find out.

*****​

Hermione was in hell. Quidditch hell, to be precise. February was the month of the Triwizard Tournament’s Quidditch competition, and Hogwarts seemed to have gone mad. Or madder than the school normally got about that infernal game when matches took place. Hermione had managed to ignore the tryouts and training sessions while helping Harry prepare for the tournament tasks and getting ready for the dueling competition, but that was not possible now. Harry, who really should be preparing for the next task, was training the seeker of the Hogwarts team. He claimed it was training for the third task, which would be a broom race of sorts, but Hermione knew better. Ron of course was spending more time on watching the trainings, watching the training sessions of the other teams, and discussing Quidditch with whoever would listen - which were far too many in her opinion - than on studying.

One match would be held each Saturday, pitting all the teams of the three schools against each other, and the fourth match, on the 26th, would pit the two best teams against each other. The two best teams out of three seemed a bit less than impressive to Hermione, but she knew better than to voice that opinion. Or to criticize Quidditch at all, even though the rules made no sense! They may have made sense when the game was created, but with the modern high-performance brooms, the rules should really be adjusted. Seeker bias was fact, not an invention by jealous chasers!

At least Harry had invited Fleur and Viktor again this week. Hopefully they’d not talk about Quidditch, or not too much. A slim hope, she knew, with Ron and Harry present, even though Viktor seemed to prefer not to talk about Quidditch. Maybe they’d focus more on the second task. It was certainly, in her admittedly biased opinion, noteworthy how Harry had won against the two older champions. The Daily Prophet too had been full of praise for Harry’s performance, with many pictures of him shooting through the water, but also of his fights. Hermione had winced each time she had seen the first page, which featured Harry getting hit into a coral reef and sliding along it, trailing blood. Harry, the stupid boy, had wanted to get it framed.

She was alone in the training room, since both Ron and Harry were still at the Quidditch practise. The young witch hoped they’d remember the event - she had reminded them twice, each, today. Sighing, she sat down on the couch. She would rather be at the pitch herself, near her friends, even if Harry would be off on his broom, but somebody had to prepare the room, and the refreshments. She touched her torc and wished it would grow warm soon.

*****​

Harry enjoyed the evening with his fellow champions. And with Hermione. He hadn’t seen her outside classes as much as usual this week, due to Quidditch, he realized. That might have explained the slight surprise, quickly covered by a wide smile, she had shown when he had arrived earlier than expected, dragging Ron with him. He suddenly felt more than a bit guilty, and covered it up with taking a long sip from his drink. Hermione had done so much for him, her spell had allowed him to win the second task, and he was all but ignoring her in favor of Quidditch as a reward?

“That was a surprising tactic in the second task, Harry. I didn’t recognize the spells you were using. Where did you find them?” Viktor leaned a bit forward, curiosity evident on his face.

“It was all Hermione’s idea. She created the spells and taught them to me.” Harry gestured to the witch sitting at his side, who blushed at the appraising looks she got from the two champions.

“I only modified the spells. The bubble-head charm and aguamenti. And I knew the aguamenti could be modified to serve as a propulsion since I saw a classmate of us knock a teacher over with it by mistake.” Hermione’s embarrassment at the attention had vanished with the start of her explanation - her lecture, Ron would call it. Harry loved to see her like this, showing just how smart she was. She usually hid her talents too much, in his opinion. He could understand that - she already got some grief for being the best student of her year, mostly from Slytherins and Ravenclaws - but he didn’t have to like it. She deserved better.

“But ‘ow did the bubble-’ead charm make ‘arry swim faster?” Fleur sounded a bit confused, even after Hermione’s had detailed her work. Harry refilled his glass while Hermione started to explain of the Supercavitation effect. He already had heard it after all, and he was sure the two other champions and Ron would not get it. Wizards rarely understood science. Hermione said that was because magic not only didn’t rely on it, but often disproved it. Or, as the witch was fond to say, ‘seemed to disprove science’. She was determined to unite scientific and magical theory, one day. Harry was sure that if anyone could manage it, it was his best friend.

As expected neither Fleur nor Viktor had understood Hermione’s explanation. Ron, Harry noticed, had not even listened, but seemed amused by the two champions’ reaction. Taking pity on them, Harry changed the topic - somewhat. “I noticed you ignored the marid as I had done, Fleur, while Viktor engaged it. Why did you skip it?”

“The marid would ‘ave attacked me; I would never ‘ave gotten an acceptable deal out of ‘er. ‘er kind ’ates my kind.” The veela smiled at her two rivals. “The water is not my element. I did better than I expected, and the next task will take place in the air, where I am at ‘ome.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her implied confidence of victory in the next task. “We shall see that. Viktor is a star seeker, after all, and I am a fair flyer, if I do say so myself.”

“Youngest seeker in a century!” Ron mentioned with a grin.

“Oh, yes. But you are quidditch players. This will be a race.” The veela’s smile widened. Harry connected the dots.

“And you are a broom racer.”

“I am not looking to race professionally, but I am a fair racer, if I do say so myself.” If Fleur’s grin was any wider it would have split her face. Harry was about to answer with a rather feeble promise to do his best to prove her wrong when he noticed Hermione’s expression. His retainer was frowning, and then trying to hide a smirk. He knew she had thought of something. “We shall see”, he answered, with what he hoped was a confident smile that did not give away anything. Viktor just grumbled something about even odds.

“You are very lucky to ‘ave ‘ermione, ‘arry.” Apparently, Fleur had noticed Hermione’s reaction as well.

“Yes, I am.” Harry slipped his arm around the witch in question, and pulled her closer, ignoring her surprised sound at his possessive gesture. “She’s the brightest witch of her generation and my best friend.”

*****​

“I should be the seeker.” Pansy had stopped counting how often Draco had said that sentence in a voice that was growing more petulant with each repetition. “Not Diggory. Everyone knows seekers have to be lithe, like me, not a brute like him.” Pansy had to struggle to keep her face from showing her reaction. No one sane would call one of the most handsome wizards at Hogwarts a ‘brute’. Cedric was a witch’s dream - muscular, but not overly so, with a charming smile that rivaled Lockhart’s, perfect manners and skilled with a wand. He had gone the farthest of all Hogwarts students in the dueling competition, after all. She longed to hex Draco for his insult, but forced herself to simply smile, pat his arm, and make an agreeing sound. She did not even mention that Viktor Krum, thought by many to be the best seeker of those currently active, was anything but lithe.

They were in the arena, reshaped to form a Quidditch pitch that conformed to international regulations. The enchantments on the arena allowed them, for the first time for many enthusiasts who had not been able to attend the World Cup, to really follow the action on the pitch. It was a unique experience, and Pansy wouldn’t miss it for the world. She could not think of any decent wizard or witch who would want to miss this - according to rumor a 7th year Gryffindor had broken down crying when Snape had given him detention for this afternoon, but Dumbledore had overruled the detention. Even Granger was present, and everyone knew the mudblood hated Quidditch and wouldn’t be found within a mile around the pitch if her Patron was not playing. Or, as was the case today, watching. Pansy had to smile at the thought of Granger forced to attend, unable to even read a book, as she was usually doing when she watched Potter train, to avoid a faux-pas. And the mudblood couldn’t cozy up to Potter either, since they were in public. She must be squirming in her seat, hoping for a quick catch!

Hogwarts was playing Beauxbatons today, in the opening match of the Quidditch competition. Although it was more like Gryffindor’s Quidditch team with a Hufflepuff seeker and a Slytherin keeper were meeting Beauxbatons’ finest today. Pansy had expected more Slytherins to protest the line up, but apart from Draco and half the team most of the Quidditch enthusiasts and players had agreed that it was smarter to send players who were used to playing together. Apart from the seeker and keeper, of course. Miles Bletchley was the keeper of the Slytherin team, and the best keeper in Hogwarts after Wood had graduated - he certainly had had enough practise against the Gryffindor chasers. Cedric was simply too good to let the red headed little girl that had replaced Potter for this year fly. It wasn’t as if the seeker was much of a team player to begin with: only a few seekers were as crazy as Potter and tried to disrupt the opponent’s formations and plays.

Draco was still complaining. Briefly rolling her eyes, Pansy distracted him with a quick rules question. She knew the answer already, of course, but Draco loved it when he could show off ‘superior’ knowledge and experience. While he was explaining, and telling her an anecdote from one of his matches, she watched the Hogwarts chasers score again. It felt weird to cheer for the “Flying Foxes”, but it was Hogwarts against their rival school from France. And Hogwarts was doing well - they were in the lead by a comfortable margin of 120 to 60. Not that that would matter much if the French seeker caught the snitch first.

“And Diggory has spotted the snitch! There he dives!” The announcer - not Jordan, every teacher had vetoed that idea of Dumbledore’s, or so rumor claimed - drew everyone’s attention to Cedric, who was flying almost straight down. For a moment Pansy’s breath caught in her throat. If he couldn’t pull up in time… that was how players got hurt or even died on the pitch. From the side the French seeker was closing in, but unless the snitch moved far faster than before, he’d not reach it before Cedric. There! The handsome Hufflepuff - and hadn’t that a ring to it? - pulled up, almost as close to the ground as Potter at his craziest, fist held high. “And Diggory caught the snitch! He caught the snitch! Hogwarts wins 270 to 60!” The announcer’s voice almost broke with excitement.

Draco was trying to say something, probably claiming he’d have found the snitch quicker, had he flown, but the crowd’s roar was drowning his words out. Pansy didn’t even notice, she was shouting as loud as any Hufflepuff student just to make sure she could not hear what he was saying.

*****​

Harry was proud the Hogwarts Quidditch team had made such a good showing, even though Diggory had not wanted to use Harry’s tactics. He didn’t know why the wizard refused - with his greater mass, he’d have had an easier time at disrupting chaser formations. Harry had even offered to let the Hufflepuff use his Firebolt, but that too had been refused as ‘not fair’. As if Durmstrang would not use Viktor’s broom, if it was not a tournament stake!

Hermione had buried herself in research again, first studying the tournament and broom race rules, to check if her idea was even legal, then starting spellcrafting. He worried about the witch, she was overdoing it again. At least it meant he did not have to feel guilty for training with the Quidditch team since she would be busy anyway.

He spotted Susan in the stands. The witch had been watching him practise often lately, claiming she was showing that there were no hard feelings to counteract what rumors were still making the rounds. It made sense to Harry. After what the Hufflepuffs had done to Patil and Brown, he’d hate to have anyone target him for an imagined insult. Or, much worse, Hermione.

He dove towards the ground as if he was pulling a Wronski Feint, then pulled up in time to come to a stop in front of the girl, who had shrieked in surprise. Easily startled, he thought.

“Hi Susan!”

“H-hi Harry. That was some move you pulled.” She looked still a bit shaken.

“Just a normal dive. I can go far faster and closer to the ground.” He made a dismissive gesture with his left hand. “I have to get used to this broom anyway, I can’t use my Firebolt in the next task.”

“Why not?” Susan pouted.

“Everyone’s using the same broom. Makes the field even.”

“I guess that’s true.” The witch reached over to him and brushed some grass from his sleeve. Probably from the roll he had practised earlier, when he had been flying low to the ground.

“Hermione was impressed by the spells on Patil and Brown, by the way. She said it was a very exotic and interesting selection.” Harry grinned at the thought.

“Really? … I mean, I am sure the unknown wizards and witches who cast those hexes would be glad to hear that.” Susan had frowned a bit at first, Harry noticed. Was she feeling a bit guilty at the ‘prank’, or had she hoped the spells would last longer?

“Yes. She probably would have reverse-engineered a number of them, if she was not busy preparing for the next task.”

“Reverse-what?”

“Recreated.” He reminded himself to choose his words more carefully. Muggle technical terms tended to not just go over the head of wizards, but wouldn’t fit his carefully crafted public image, as Hermione had said. Even though she was where he got those terms from for the most part.

“Ah. That’s why she is not here, supporting you?”

“Yes.” Harry felt a bit of an annoyance at the suggestion Hermione would not support him, but let it go. They chatted a bit more, or gossiped, as some would say. Harry enjoyed the break, but also felt a bit guilty when he took to air again, though he didn’t know why.

*****​

Ron was jumping up from his seat, whooping. That had been a beautiful combination by the Gryffindor chasers! He sat back down again, and turned to Padma. “Did you see that? A triple pass with a corkscrew shot at the end! The keeper stood no chance!”

“Ah, yes.” Padma smiled and nodded, but she looked slightly annoyed. Not as much as Hermione usually did though. He glanced over at Harry and Hermione, which were sitting next to him. His best female friend was smiling, but slightly forced. Harry was clueless, as usual.

“If they keep that up, then it won’t matter who catches the snitch.” He said. He understood that Padma was not as interested in Quidditch as he was - the Ravenclaws rarely had a good enough team to matter. They weren’t quite the Chudley Cannons of Hogwarts, but came close. And he felt that they were the least enthusiastic of the Houses, even if Hermione was still calling them fanatical. She didn’t see the nuances he saw.

Padma leaned against him again, and he realized he had shoved her by accident when he had jumped up. “I am sorry for shoving you.” He apologized, it a bit late.

“It was nothing. I know you’re passionate about Quidditch”, the Indian witch answered him with a smile. Ron was wondering, again, if she fancied him. He had asked for Harry’s opinion on the matter, but his friend had had no idea either. Ron had not wanted to ask Hermione, but Harry had brought the question up before he could stop him. The witch had not been able to help either - she certainly understood his concern that this was just a way for Padma to one-up her sister, but she hadn’t been able to tell either way. Parvati was claiming that, but Hermione had said the Gryffindor twin would be doing that even if Padma fancied Ron. And asking Luna about her fellow Ravenclaw was asking for trouble. The blonde witch was likely to loudly ask in the Great Hall if Padma fancied Ron or was just trying to needle her twin.

Ron still remembered that dinner at the Burrow when Luna had asked about his mum’s brothers, which had led to the Lovegoods not being invited again for more than half a year, even though his family was not exactly overflowing with opportunities to exchange invitations. Ron almost sighed, thinking about the Weasleys’ finances and social status. Most of his dad’s colleagues were richer and therefore expected better, meaning more expensive, entertainment at a dinner party than the Weasleys could provide, despite the twin’s talents, and even while his mum’s cooking was the rival of restaurants, that alone was not enough to compensate for that.

Another goal made him jump up again, and shout with glee. He quickly glanced at Padma, but she didn’t show any sign of annoyance, even though she had almost slid off her chair. That had to mean something, right?

Ron still had not gotten any closer to unravel the mystery of witches in general, and one Ravenclaw witch in particular by the time the Durmstrang seeker had caught the snitch, deciding the match. At least they had a better point spread than Beauxbatons. If only Cedric had not been so far away when the snitch had appeared… though Harry might have made the catch anyway. Even if Hermione would have torn strips off him afterwards - she had a weird view of what risks were acceptable in Quidditch.

*****​

Luna was distracting, Hermione found. And not just because instead of sitting on a chair, the blonde was sitting on her desk, with her legs dangling right next to Hermione, shoes hanging from one toe each. Nor was she distracting because she was craning her neck to peer at the book Hermione was currently reading, and her long hair was almost, but never quite, brushing over the dictaquill that was taking down the notes the Gryffindor witch was taking. Her comments were even helpful - apparently, the Ravenclaw had picked up more than a bit from her late mother’s work. But she was, well, one couldn’t call it grabby, but she had a far different view of personal space than anyone else Hermione knew, outside 6th year students at the start of their first term. And that wasn’t an association she needed to make.

“Are you sure this is safe? If the spell’s not anchored enough, it’ll push the caster off the broom. Or he goes splat.”

“It’s anchored to the caster. I thought about anchoring it to the broom, but in a crash, that would be dangerous to the rider; he’d slam into the barrier.” No need to say who would be suffering such a fate. Both witches knew this was a spell for Harry. Even though Hermione hoped some broom racers might pick it up. It would be a feather in her cap - though it was more likely that the rules for broom racing would be changed to ban her spell, and similar ones. Wizard sports were conservative. They only had changed to an artificial snitch when they had started to run out of the birds because they were going extinct. Quidditch maniacs! But until then, her spell was not against any rules.

“Ah.” Luna steadied herself with a hand on Hermione’s shoulder while she twisted her body to look at the notes sideways. “And will he fly well with only one hand?”

Hermione winced. “That’s the thing I still need to work on. If one needs to sustain the spell with one’s wand, it won’t be of much use since you need both hands to fly competitively. It could still be useful on straight parts of a course, but they would need to be quite long to offset the time lost drawing and later storing the wand.”

“Chasers often fly one-handed while carrying the quaffle. Seekers too, while grasping for the snitch.” Almost absent-mindedly, Luna picked up a strand of Hermione’s hair that had escaped her hairstyling charm. The older witch was tempted to slap her hand away, but told herself that Luna was just being Luna.

“I know, but broom racers do not. I wish I could do an enchantment, but that’s not allowed. I thought about transfiguring water into a transparent shield, but that would be too heavy for a race.”

Luna patted her shoulder in a comforting, if again quite touchy-feely gesture. “You’ll manage, Hermione. Just be very careful. You’re too cute to risk yourself by taking hasty steps.”

“Thanks…” Hermione trailed off, unsure how to react, when the Ravenclaw ruffled her hair again, and then jumped off the desk and skipped towards the exit of the library. Sighing, she fixed her hair, again, and tried to concentrate on her work, again.

*****​

Draco was bored. No, not bored, restless. The Slytherin common room was filled with students discussing the recent Beauxbatons-Durmstrang match. Durmstrang had won, of course - a team that had defeated Hogwarts would not be beaten by the French. And yet his so-called peers were rehashing the match as if there was anything to be gained by it. Hogwarts had lost because of an inept seeker. If he had been flying, his school had won. But they had made their bed when they had picked Diggory over him, now they could sleep in it. There was a quip in that, he thought.

Sighing, he faked paying attention to his girlfriend, who was supportive as usual. As she should be. And yet even her fawning did little to soothe him. At first, the knowledge that he was no mere student anymore, that he had been blooded, had fought for the sacred cause, had helped him tolerate the filth in Hogwarts, the insults from the rabble beneath him. But the longer he had to endure this, the more he felt the urge to cross wands in battle, not mere duels. To fight, to kill. To feel that rush again, to see his enemies cry out in pain, to see them beg, to see them die…

His father had told him to wear a mask at school, to play the rule-abiding student, until he was called upon again, and yet Draco felt he could do so much for the cause here. Those students were sheep, not veterans such as him, ripe for some culling. He was a Slytherin. He was cunning. He could do something without anyone knowing who had done it.

But his father had told him not to do anything without his say. And his figurative mask here did not offer him the freedom to act as he wished, unlike the real mask he had left at home. Sighing, he summoned another butterbeer. The things one had to endure for the cause...

*****​

The final match of the Quidditch competition saw Hogwarts facing Durmstrang again. As Harry had expected, to be honest - Beauxbatons simply was not that good at Quidditch. Hopefully, that wouldn’t mean Fleur was as good at broom racing as she claimed to be. He didn’t think the veela had been boasting too much though. Well, she would not be facing just him, but his best friend as well. He glanced over to the witch in question, sitting on his left side, and frowned. His retainer was scribbling notes down still. Spellcrafting, he’d bet his broom on it. She was overdoing it again, stressing, wearing herself out, all for him. And he couldn’t do anything about it, she had every right to it, with her at stake. Even though he’d only lose the gold to ransom her back. Luna, sitting on Hermione’s other side, wasn’t helping there - the blonde witch was craning her head so much to read whatever Hermione was writing, Harry expected her to fall over and into Hermione’s lap any minute.

A poke from Susan Bones, sitting on his right side, brought him back to the game. The teams were making their entrance. He mouthed ‘thanks’ to the redheaded witch while the crowd roared and applauded in response to the Hogwarts team flying a quick lap around the arena. Harry cheered as well, even though he still felt he should be flying with them up there, not watching down here. He was the best seeker in the school. He knew it, and everyone else but maybe Malfoy knew it.

Sighing, he pushed back his envy. At least Viktor was not flying either. It would have really galled him to miss out on facing the probably best seeker in Europe. And the game was on! Gryffindor managed to get the quaffle, and the chasers flew in a V-formation. Harry glanced at Cedric, who was already flying laps around the arena, high above the goal rings. Just what seekers should be doing, according to standard doctrine. Harry frowned. He’d be diving at the Durmstrang chasers in his place, and disrupting their formation so Hogwarts could score. Cedric could do the same, Harry knew that - he had trained him, after all. But the Hufflepuff simply didn’t want to. Harry didn’t know why - it was neither unfair nor foolhardy, no matter what Cedric claimed. Anyone else he had asked from the team had agreed, as had Ron. Hermione hadn’t of course, but she didn’t count when it came to Quidditch.

“What’s Cedric doing?” Susan’s question confused him a bit. Shouldn’t she know that? nevertheless, he explained it.

“The other seeker is shadowing him, and he’d have the advantage in a dive, so Cedric went lower to negate that. Now the other seeker can either follow him, but lose his advantage, or stay up high, and gain a slight advantage in spotting the snitch.” He saw Susan smile, and added. “It’s a bit riskier as a tactic that I would have expected Cedric to try. He’s usually far more cautious.”

That drew a giggle from Susan, and a snort from Hermione, She couldn’t voice whatever sarcastic comment just had to have gone through her mind though, not in public. Small mercies, Harry thought, something he’d never mention to her, of course.

The game quickly settled - if that was the right word for it - into a fierce, almost brutal back and forth between the chasers, with the beaters nailing a few on either side, but not hard enough to take anyone struck out of the game, fortunately. Harry studied the maneuvers. He would have to pull some similar moves in the air task, there would certainly be bludgers flying around as well, but no beaters to keep them away. On the other, he was allowed to use his wand. The thought of blowing up a bludger or two was very satisfying after what he had suffered through in his matches.

He hoped Hermione would finish her spell soon, so he could train with it. If she took too long he wouldn’t be able to get the most out of it, and all her work would have been for nothing. Glancing at her, he saw she was studying the chasers too, and taking notes. If only she showed so much interest when it was just Quidditch!

Again Susan distracted him from his thoughts with a brief touch from her hand to his knee and a question. “Harry, have you spotted the snitch yet?”

“No, I haven’t yet. So, Cedric hasn’t had a chance to miss it so far.” He grinned, to take the sting out of his jibe - Hufflepuffs took House solidarity seriously. Susan still stuck her tongue out at him, but she was laughing. Good.

The chasers of both teams were scoring quite evenly, with a slight advantage for Hogwarts. Angelina was using Harry’s Firebolt for the occasion, so that was not a real surprise. Still, the advantage was so slight, and the lead building up so slowly, Harry thought, the seekers would have to miss catching the snitch for hours for that to decide the match. It would be coming down to the seekers, as usual. Hermione would take that as more ‘proof’ that Quidditch needed rules changes, but she was no seeker, she’d not understand! She was barely pretending to watch the game by now, instead she was talking to Luna. About the spell she was working on, Harry thought. Hoped.

Then his attention was caught by a small golden glint across the arena - the snitch was circling around a side stand. Harry hated it when he spotted the snitch before anyone else, but wasn’t playing. It was annoying, having to wait for the others to catch on. He did try not to look too obviously at the ball - he’d not put it past some of the players to keep an eye out for him, and take their clues from that. But it was still annoying. He wanted to catch the snitch, not watch it!

A hand patting his thigh distracted him. His left thigh. Hermione. He didn’t know how she had noticed his state, focused on her work, but he appreciated the gesture. Before he could thank her though, even if it was just with a glance, the announcer started shouting and the crowd went wild.

“Diggory’s cutting across the field, has he spotted the snitch? He has spotted the snitch! And Ivanov is diving, he has caught on! Who will reach the snitch first? Diggory’s rolling to avoid a bludger, losing some speed, but it still looks like… no, the snitch darted away in the last second! Diggory’s giving chase, and so is Ivanov, who almost plowed into the ground! It’s a neck to neck race!”

No one was paying any attention to the chaser’s anymore, or the other players. Harry saw Cedric roll again, bumping the other seeker to the side without being too obvious about it, and made a mental note of the move. That could be useful in the upcoming task. He was standing, like everyone else, even Hermione and Luna, and watched while Cedric battled the other seeker. If only he had taken the Firebolt Harry had offered! The snitch would be turning any second now, Harry knew. But in which direction? Down! And Cedric rolled with his broom again, managing an upside down catch! Harry cheered as loud as every other Hogwarts student. Hogwarts had won! Due to his excitement, he didn’t even notice at first that Susan was hugging him, not Hermione.

*****​

Hermione was having some trouble focusing on her work. The memory of that scene yesterday, Susan Bones hugging Harry, kept distracting her. She didn’t know why. Susan was a safe friend for Harry. Friendly, pretty, loyal - she was not a Hufflepuff for nothing - and while a pureblood, she was in line to becoming head of her family, and therefore very unlikely to ever marry Harry. She also did not seem to be someone who’d try to exploit Harry’s fame. Safe to be around. So why did Hermione feel the need to elbow her out of the way and hug Harry herself yesterday, if Harry wasn’t in danger?

Sighing, she focused on her notes again. Thanks in part to Luna’s help - and she didn’t want to think about that blonde witch right now either, thank you very much - she was very close to finishing her spell. She might have even finished it already, if not for the whole school celebrating their victory at Quidditch over Durmstrang last night. Loudly, enthusiastically, and for a long, long time. Harry had dragged her with him, not heeding her protests, citing that she needed a break, and she had spent several hours in the company of crazy Quidditch fans going wild. And in the company of Harry, of course.

Smiling, the muggleborn witch took a look at the book on aerodynamics her parents had sent her, checking the shape she needed again. It should work. It wouldn’t last too long as the equations to extend the effect were still beyond her. Well, she could manage them, if only she had more time. Or a calculator.

Looking at the slide and the abacus on the table she sighed again, hunching her shoulders a bit. She longed to work on “hardening” electronics. If she had a calculator here, or a computer, the things she could do… And she was sure she was on the right track, this time. Wards had to be the key. But Harry needed her spell now. It would help him a lot in the tournament, and would add some protection against whatever attempt at sabotage that assassin after him might try in the third task. And, if she was honest with herself, she wanted Harry to not just survive the tournament, but win it. She’d rather not get ransomed back. It would not only set back their, or rather, Harry’s finances by a lot, but it would feel far too close to getting traded and sold like property. Like muggleborns were treated, back when that cursed goblet was created.

She leaned back, all pretense of working on her spell gone. To be fair, Wizarding Britain’s society had moved past that. Centuries ago, even. But the laws had not kept pace with that development, and precedents only went that far, since they were built on tradition and custom. Either of which could change - for the worse as well.

The young witch straightened her pose. She couldn’t depend on tradition and custom. But she could depend on power. Harry’s, and, even if she had to use it through him, at least for now, her own. She glared at her notes, as if daring them to defy her for much longer. They’d win this Tournament, and use this opportunity to win more fame, more gold, more power.

*****​

“I have to thank you again, Harry. If not for your tutoring and training, Cedric might not have caught the snitch. That last move, that roll… you taught him that, right?” Susan was smiling widely, and leaning forward, towards Harry. He idly noted that she had changed her hairstyling spell somewhat. Her red mane was longer, and a bit … wilder was a good description. Strands were flowing gently in a breeze that seemed to only touch the hair, and nothing else.

“Oh, no. I haven’t taught him that, to be honest. I was trying to teach him how to disrupt chaser formations.” They were sitting with Luna and Aicha in the Great Hall, at the Hufflepuff table this time. Not for the first time Harry was wondering why there was no common room for the school so one could sit with friends from other Houses. They made do with the house tables, but even with a lot of privacy and other spells, it was not as cozy or convenient as a dedicated common room. Too spacious, too open, and too many doors and entrances a teacher could come in from, and see things best not seen by the staff.

“My Patron.” He hadn’t seen Hermione approach until she had addressed him.

“My Wand.” Another drawback of using the Great Hall: Even with privacy spells, and surrounded by friends, it was still public, and therefore forms had to be adhered to.

“I’ve finished my project.” Hermione was looking tired, but she was beaming with pride. Harry knew that expression well. Resistance was futile, as the Borg would say. He stood up and turned to Susan.

“Susan, I am afraid, but I am being called away.” Close to be dragged away, he knew, if they were not in public and maybe a year younger. Hurricane Hermione, Ron had called it once, in their second year.

“Of course. Duty comes first.” Susan smiled politely, and nodded while he bowed slightly. Hermione was falling in behind him as he strode out of the hall. His friend cast a privacy spell as they entered a corridor.

“You have finished the spell then.”

“Yes! It turned out well - better than I expected, if a bit less than I hoped.” Hermione sounded excited. Harry mentally rescheduled his evening. Evenings. He’d not get a free minute until he had learned the spell, he knew that from experience. “The wandwork is a bit complicated, but you’ll have no trouble mastering it I’d say. It’s sort of derived from a Protego.” ‘A bit complicated’ she said? Oh, yes. Harry’s next few evenings were definitely spoken for. On the other hand, he was looking forward to some time spent with Hermione, just the two of them. He had been missing that lately, he suddenly realized.

*****​

“No, no. It’s ‘Ae-ro-ar-ma-gut-tis’. Emphasize the ‘ro’, Harry.” Harry definitely had not been missing this. Hermione was a gifted spellcrafter, a genius, a prodigy at magic, the smartest witch he knew, but she wasn’t the kindest teacher. ‘Taskmaster from hell’, Ron had once called her, behind her back. Harry hadn’t disagreed.

“AeROarmaguttis.” Harry repeated it a few times until his friend was satisfied.

“Perfect! Now, the wandwork goes like this…” Harry lost her half a dozen swishes or flicks into the demonstration. And that was not even halfway to the finish.

“I thought it was a derivate from a normal shield spell?”

“I had to modify the spell a lot more than I wanted.” Hermione looked so defensive, Harry at once felt bad. She had done so much for him, and he criticized her?

“I am sorry, it’s just a bit daunting. But I am sure it’ll help me a lot.” If I ever manage to learn it, and then learn to cast it on a broom, he added in his head.

Beaming, Hermione nodded several times. “Exactly! And you have almost a whole month left to learn it!” Harry realized that his friend was far more exhausted than he had suspected, and probably was running on Pepper-Up potions. Or sheer manic excitement at having finished another spell.

“Hermione, how long did you sleep last night?” The way she looked away was not a good sign. But a familiar sign. He sighed. “You need sleep. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“But…”

“Bed. Now.”

She caved, and followed him to the Gryffindor dorm, even though she was mumbling protests under her breath. Harry didn’t listen. Hermione needed her rest, and as her Patron, it was his duty to provide for her.

*****​

The day of the third task was, appropriately, sunny and warm - for the end of March in Scotland. Hermione, sitting at her by now customary place next to the judges, was still grateful for the warming charms on her robe. The arena had been expanded, and filled with floating rings, each of them just about wide enough to let a flyer through with some space to spare. The champions would have to pass through them in a set order. The ring a champion had to fly through next would light up in the colors chosen for him or her - Blue for Fleur, Red for Viktor, Green, no doubt to the delight of the Slytherins, for Harry. Hermione told herself it was also the color of his eyes.

The three champions were currently slowly flying through the course, to familiarize both themselves and the spectators with it. It was, in Hermione’s opinion, insane. She might be a bit biased, seeing as she was no fan of Quidditch, but the race had sharp turns aplenty, as well as dives and climbs, even a loop. And a long dive where the champions had to follow a corkscrew pattern. The rings were just wide enough for one flyer, meaning they’d serve as a bottleneck, and Harry would only be able to overtake his competitors between two rings - and even Hermione was able to see that there were not too many parts of the course long enough between two rings to allow that. It was, she realized with a sinking feeling, a bit like the Formula One course in Monaco. Just three laps, not 78 though. She hoped the racing robes the champions were wearing would offer enough protection in the crashes she feared would happen.

And that was just the course. There were the obstacles too. Not only would artificial winds, unpredictable, hinder the flyers, but bludgers would roam the airspace. She could spot half a dozen of them being contained inside a magical barrier, the enchanted iron balls bouncing off the invisible walls as if they were mad with rage and fury. There were thunderbirds circling overhead, magical animals from America who were able to discharge lightning at their foes. And there would be fog too, reducing visibility to dangerously short distances in some parts. Not for the first time Hermione felt a strong desire, almost a primal need, to hurt whoever forced Harry into this tournament. If she ever got her wand pointed at them… And Merlin help Harry should he plan to re-enter that tournament in their 7th year! Even if the rules might let a former champion compete again, this witch would blow up the goblet and then Harry before she would allow that!

*****​

Harry gripped the handle of his broom with one hand and recast a sticking charm on his robes with his wand. While Hermione’s spell would shield him from bludgers - at least to some degree - it would not protect him from lightning, and if he was knocked off his broom he would lose enough time to be out of the race, unless Fleur and Viktor suffered the same fate. His racing robes felt unfamiliar to him, but at least he was not stripped of protective enchantments. Crashing into a ring would still hurt, at least if the aerodynamic shield ended at the wrong moment.

He hadn’t told Hermione so, but the spell was not as effective as she imagined it. It had a rather short duration, and while Harry had learned - after great efforts - to cast it while flying, recasting it would still mean he’d lose speed. And whenever the spell ended, or started, the aerodynamics of him and his broom would change too. That was the idea, of course, but it meant that he had to be very careful with his timing, or he might suddenly find the spell ending in the middle of a slightly dangerous maneuver. And compensating for sudden, drastic changes in how his broom flew and steered were not the thing he wanted to do in tight turns at the speeds he would be flying at. No matter what some of his friends thought when talking about his flying, he was not fond of taking crazy risks - he simply had a stricter definition of what counted as a crazy risk.

Not for the first time he wished he could fly his Firebolt. He simply knew that broom as he knew his own body. Spell or not, he could be sure to handle it perfectly. But the rules were the rules- everyone would be using the same broom, a racing model, a Cleansweep Marathon. Next to him Viktor was sitting astride his broom, eyes on the starting line. The Bulgarian champion was so focused, Harry wasn’t sure if he could even hear the crowd’s murmuring in his state. Next to Viktor, Fleur was sitting on her broom - side saddle style. The French veela was the picture of careless elegance, a witch out for a pleasant joyride, not a champion about to enter a race. Harry knew the casual, almost lounging manner she displayed was just a ploy to unnerve him, but it was working anyway.

He knew how Viktor flew, had seen him at the World Cup, and sometimes in Quidditch training. More importantly though, Harry was a seeker himself. He knew how seekers flew, and thought. But he knew nothing about racers, such as Fleur. And he knew Hermione’s new spell would not give him as big an advantage as her other spell had given him in the second task. He could only hope that whatever help it would provide would be enough.

The tournament official on the broom next to them checked his watch, and raised his wand. A red light shot up.The crowd grew silent as the three champions steered their brooms to the starting line. Even Fleur was now astride her broom.

“Ready.” The man’s voice carried through the arena thanks to a sonorus spell. Harry leaned forward, wand in hand, ready to cast at once.

“Go!” And the race was on!

“Aeroarmaguttis!” Harry urged his broom forward while his wand went through the motions, then followed up with a sticking charm. He was falling behind a bit, but not too much. His spell finished and a shield, almost invisible, formed around him. No longer was the wind hitting him in the face, tearing at his robes. No longer did he hear the noise from the airflow and the shouts from the crowd of spectators dimmed. And he shot forward!

Grinning, he slid the wand back into his holster with a well-practised flick and gripped his broom’s handle with both hands. As he passed Viktor he barely noticed the Bulgarian’s surprised expression since he was already counting down in his head. ‘One. Two. Three…’

The spell would last thirty-one seconds, more or less, as he and Hermione had found out. He almost caught up to Fleur, but the veela was already passing through the first ring, and Harry had to fly after her. A steep climb followed - almost like the start of an invisible rollercoaster.

‘Five. Six. Seven...’ With the spell forming a bubble around him, Harry wasn’t able to use the slipstream behind Fleur as much as he would like, and so he veered to the side, and tried to overtake her in the climb.

‘Nine. Ten. Eleven...’ It did not work. The veela started to match his movements, glancing back at him under her shoulders, even flashing him a grin. A seeker wouldn’t have been able to do that, they had to keep their eyes on the snitch. Glance back too long, or too often, and you’d end up losing sight of the golden ball. A racer though could, and was used to do so.

‘Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen...’ Fleur passed through the next ring, still ahead of him. Even worse - their veering back and forth had allowed Viktor to catch up. Fleur was already in the steep dive when Harry shot through the ring. He was grinning though - he had done Wronski feints from higher up than this.

‘Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty...’ He changed his course just a bit, going down almost vertically, and as fast as he could. He saw the ground rush up at him. Almost.

‘Twenty-three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five…” He pulled up, as hard as he could. If the ground had been covered in grass he would have had green stains on his boots now. As it was, his shield hit the ground and shattered. A bit too close. But he had overtaken Fleur, even if he was a bit lower than the next ring. Heedless of the still diving veela he steered straight ahead, forcing her to veer off or slow down to avoid a collision. She chose to slow down a bit, and he thought he heard French curses. Something about ‘Folie’. No matter - he was first through this ring, and had taken the lead. And probably given Hermione a heart attack.

As soon as he was through that ring, he recast his spell. Again he slowed down a bit - Fleur had almost caught up - but he finished in time to preserve his lead. A series of turns followed, each forced by a well-placed ring. Harry kept his lead, but couldn’t gain any distance - the bubble surrounding him was just large enough so he couldn’t cut corners as well as Fleur. And Viktor was not falling back much, he had gained some in the dive as well.

‘Eightteen. Nineteen. Twenty...’ Now for the looping. Harry pulled up, grinning. Ten seconds was plenty enough to complete the loop. Would have been, but for the thunderbirds who dove at him, screeching. He would have cast a Protego, but his Aeroarmaguttis was still going on. Cursing, he turned to the right, then dove, avoiding a lightning strike. Fleur and Viktor, both protected by a protego, shot past him, through the hoop. At least they had caught the attention of the thunderbirds and Harry was able to pass through the ring without getting hit with lightning.

‘Thirty, Thirty-one.’ His spell faded during another dive. The air hit his face hard. If not for his glasses he would have had a hard time keeping his eyes open, at his current speed. But he managed - and grinned. From his position he spotted half a dozen bludgers flying straight at his two competitors.

He slowed down a bit and recast Aeroarmaguttis. It really needed a better name, but Hermione’s proposals had been as awful as usual. That witch simply could not be trusted to name anything. While Fleur was having trouble dodging the bludgers, using her wand to blow two of them up, which caused her to fall back, and Viktor was rolling and twisting to avoid them, Harry came from above both of them, and simply barrelled through, the iron balls bouncing off his shield. He was in the lead again!

‘Ten. Eleven. Twelve...’ Another long, horizontal stretch, but very close to the ground. A slight mistake, and he’d bounce and shatter his shield again. Harry loved it! He would be able to distance the other champions here! Then fog rose from the ground, and visibility shrunk. For a moment he was tempted to simply fly straight on, at the ring, but caution won out - a small mistake, a gust of wind pushing him a bit to the side, and he’d smash into the ring instead of passing through.

By the time he rose up from the fog, Fleur and behind her Viktor had caught up some, and his spell had ended again. Another climb followed. He started to recast his spell, but was interrupted by a bludger that came at him from the sun. If not for his quick reflexive dodge the iron ball would have smashed into him or his broom. Even so it passed so close he could feel the air flow change. When the thing started to turn around he shot a reducto at it, blowing it up.

That had allowed Fleur to overtake him again though, and he was jockeying with Viktor for the position behind the French witch. Without the help of his aerodynamic shield, the Bulgarian’s greater mass easily won him that contest, and Harry passed through the ring in last place.

The corkscrew dive followed. He wouldn’t have a chance to overtake anyone in there, Harry knew, and so he simply flew after the other champions. Then he saw them getting battered by sudden gusts of wind, almost driven off course, and he cursed - if he had recast his shield, he would have been able to exploit that opportunity. As it was, it was all he could do to not get pushed off course himself, or driven into a ring - or, at the end, the ground. He had to constantly react to changing winds, compensate for what felt like a randomly moving whirlwind. It was horrible. Crazy. Confusing. Exciting. He was panting when he flew through the last ring, but grinning widely.

When they passed the finishing line for the first time, he was still in last place. And now Fleur and Viktor were wise to his new spell’s capabilities. Somewhat, at least. He still cast it, to reduce the distance to them at least. By the time the first climb finished, he was right behind Viktor. And the Bulgarian was not an experienced racer, he couldn’t pull the same tricks as Fleur could to prevent Harry from overtaking him. He was as good in a dive though, but this time Harry knew how far he could go. He shot past Viktor, and came up in front of him, shield still holding, right behind Fleur. She managed to keep him in second place in the turns that followed, but only barely, and due to him having to recast his spell again.

‘Twenty’ They reached the looping again, but the thunderbirds were not present. Instead, the ‘ceiling’ of the arena, very close from here, seemed to shake, and he spotted what looked like owls impacting on it, some of them exploding, others dropping off packages that released liquids or gases. It did not seem to pass through the arena’s border, so he ignored it.

‘Thirty-one’. He had to recast his shield after the looping. No bludgers around this time, though, and he was able to distance Viktor while sticking close to Fleur, until they entered the fog again. This time Harry trusted in the shield, and simply flew by instinct, passing the veela with barely enough space to avoid hitting her, causing her to curse again. Then it was straight to the next ring, or what he felt was straight. He almost didn’t see the ring in time to correct his course, and shattered his shield when he hit the hoop off-center, sending him spiraling out of the ideal route. He managed to regain control of his broom in time to keep the lead up to the corkscrew part.

This time he was ready, and with the shield on he managed to pass through the storm, as he dubbed it, without too much of a problem. Only to run into a pack of bludgers right when his spell went out. He did a barrel roll, avoiding most of them with as much luck as skill, but the last clipped his side and would have thrown him off the broom if not for his sticking charm. He heard a sickening crack, then the pain hit him, and he screamed.

Harry reached the finishing line in first place, but lost that when he had to numb his side. Fleur shot past him, but he managed to block Viktor from passing him while he recast his shield, then started the last lap. Fleur kept him at bay until the dive, and this time she did not veer off when he pulled up from his dive - she was flying straight at him. For a second Harry was tempted to fly on, let her crash into his shield, then he veered off, letting the veela pass. “You are crazy!” he shouted, following her.

The turns didn’t allow him an opportunity to overtake the veela. But the looping, maybe… no, the thunderbirds were back. He had his wand in hand - he hadn’t stashed it since the first lap, he realized - then shook his head and pressed on. He wouldn’t win this race by playing it safe. Neither was Fleur, it seemed. Both of them wove around the thunderbirds, lighting strikes passing close to either of them. Fleur kept her lead, but Harry was so close now, his shield was almost bumping into her broom.

They dove towards the next ring, side by side. Harry’s shield went out. He couldn’t recast it in the dive, not without losing all speed. He did it anyway, Fleur was too skilled to let him overtake her without its help, and he needed it in the fog. His side being numbed affected his ability to shift his weight on the broom, and with it his flying, but the spell allowed him to compensate, some at least. This time Fleur too was going full-speed into the fog, and he was able to follow her, staying in her slipstream. He needed a chance to overtake her though, and soon.

The dive that followed the fogged stretch did provide that - more bludgers came at them, and Fleur was forced to dodge while he barreled through again, bouncing another off his shield. He kept her at a distance until the corkscrew dive, but it was close - she was gaining on him, hampered by his cracked or broken ribs. But he had his shield, and it would allow him to pass through the storm zone with much greater ease.

He lost his spell in the middle of the corkscrew turns, unexpectedly - it should have lasted longer than that - and cried in pain when the wind pushed his elbow into his side a few times. He couldn’t re-numb it either, he needed his hands to keep control of his broom. Gritting his teeth, he finished the corkscrew turns behind Fleur. He recast the shield, but knew it would not be enough to catch up to the veela until the finishing line. He still tried his best though. To no avail.

He managed to beat Viktor, at least, he told himself while Fleur flew a victory lap around the arena. That was something. When the healers on standby pulled him off the broom and started treating his side, and he saw his best friend rushing towards him, concern - and were those tears? - obvious on her face - he could only hope it was enough.

Chapter 9: Curses

 

Chapter 9: Curses

Hermione had been in all but agony, watching her best friend, her Patron, take such insane risks in the task. It had been worse than watching him play Quidditch. When that bludger hit him she almost lost it. Even though the entire race hadn’t taken longer than 15 minutes, almost the same amount of time that had been spent familiarizing the champions with the course, they had felt like hours for her. It hadn’t helped at all that the drawbacks - failings - of her spell that she had been aware of had been revealed in a drastic manner - in her opinion - through the race. If she had managed to craft a spell with a longer duration, maybe Harry wouldn’t have been hurt…

She didn’t cheer when Harry finished in second place. Not because she had expected him to win, or felt he had failed her, or whatever lies Malfoy, or others might come up with later. No, she didn’t cheer because she was already off her seat and on her way to Harry, protocoll be damned.

She didn’t yell, but she ran. She didn’t quite bowl over a wizard in her way who was too slow for her, but she pushed him to the side and made him stumble in her haste to reach Harry. Her Patron greeting her with a weak smile didn’t reassure her in the slightest. She had enough self-control though not to hinder the healer treating him, even though she had drawn her wand and would be checking their work as soon as they were done. As she so often did, she cursed whoever had invented flying brooms, and sports using flying brooms. At least she did it in her head, and not out loud - it would not do to embarrass Harry like that.

When the healer finished, patting his shoulder, and Harry got up with the all too familiar relieved smile that told her that he had been in more pain than he had wanted to admit, she longed to hug him, run her hands over him to reassure herself he was fine. Instead she had to settle for running her wand over him.

“My Patron.” She had her wand out already.

“My Wand.” He nodded at her, and she started to cast a diagnosis charm. It wasn’t one healers used - too old, not enough details - but it was the best she could do, and she needed to do something, anything for her Patron. Slowly she moved her wand around, over his ribs, then his limbs. He didn’t comment, but his smile, when she finished and met his eyes again, held the slight amusement and embarrassment she knew so well. She bowed, and took a step back, then moved to his side. The judges would award the points soon.

Fleur had won, earning 50 points. Harry received 45, for second place and his rather close time. Viktor’s 40 surprised Harry, as Hermione noticed. He probably had not realized just how close Viktor had come to overtaking him. Harry stayed in the lead with 145 total, followed by Fleur and Viktor, with 140 each. Quite the close match, Hermione realized. Even if Harry’s participation was the result of a manipulation, it seemed the Headmaster was correct in his assumption that the goblet would not have picked Harry if he truly would be out of his depth. She felt a brief, warm burst of pride for him. Then she started to fret about her own faults and mistakes again. If she had been faster, then Harry would have had more time to train with her spell…

*****​

“I’ve checked the remains. The owls were purchased from the Owl Emporium. On the day before the task.” Alastor entered Dumbledore’s office without much of a greeting other than a nod. Sometimes, the headmaster thought, his old friend was a bit too gruff.

“I assume the description of the buyer was of no use?” Dumbledore didn’t think the assassin, whoever he or she was, would have made such a mistake. But one still had to check, and his friend would have done so, and would not have missed anything

“Polyjuice or Glamour - the description fit a regular of the Leaky Cauldron, Stepan Brockturtle. He was sleeping most of that day, after a night of heavy drinking.” Alastor sat down with a grunt, and stretched his artificial leg out, rubbing his knee.

“Imperius?” Again, unlikely, but he had to ask.

“No trace of it in his memories. No sign of them being tampered with either. Whoever is doing this is careful, or very good.” Grudging respect shone through his friend’s words.

“Or both.” One had to prepare for the worst, after all.”

“Or both.” Alastor agreed. “What were the owls carrying?”

“Poison, acid, a cursed item or two, and a peruvian chameleon viper.” Rubeus had been quite angry at such a rare animal being killed by this attack, no matter that this particular snake could turn close to invisible and had some of the deadliest poisons known to wizardkind. Dumbledore was sure having skin the fangs of most snakes could not penetrate was a factor there.

Alastor whistled. His artificial eye kept spinning, of course, looking every which way, even behind the retired auror. “That’s a rare snake. Not many have seen one, fewer still would know how to get one.”

“Yes.”

“Which means it’s a false trail.” Alastor stated with conviction, then gestured, and Dumbledore’s enchanted fire whiskey bottle floated over to his friend. The headmaster’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise, then settled again when Alastor made no move to pour himself a drink, but ran a series of spells over the bottle before sending it back.

“It could be overconfidence. Those animals are so rare, it has to have left a trail.” Dumbledore didn’t comment on his friend’s eccentricities. They might save the life of his students, or himself, one day.

“Yes. But our foe doesn’t strike me as the overconfident type who’d make such a blunder. Maybe he wants us to investigate, as a diversion. Hagrid would be the expert for such animals, and he has discovered one attack already.”

“Rubeus is also not an expert for such an investigation.” Dumbledore flicked his right index finger, and a lemon drop appeared in his hand, then was deposited in his mouth. Fawkes trilled, and another flick summoned some grapes which floated around the phoenix, who took delight in snapping them up one after the other.

“But our enemy might hope he’d get called in as a consultant, or cover, for the investigation.”

“You do not really believe that though.”

“No.” Alastor took a sip from his ever-present flask before continuing. “Owls are easily stopped by wards and other spells, even more easily if they are carrying enchanted items. Everyone knows that. Otherwise they would be the weapon of choice for assassins. Our enemy would have known they’d not be able to enter the arena and get to Potter. And what they were carrying, again, couldn’t have been powerful enough to get through the arena wards even when dropped right on them.”

Or splattered against them, together with the innards of the animals carrying them, Dumbledore thought. He nodded, silently inviting his friend to go on.

“So, this smells like a distraction. A distraction with another distraction. Or as a distraction. We are missing something.” Alastor scowled, a quite fearsome sight with his maimed nose. Most wizards would cover up with a glamour in his place, but Dumbledore knew his friend took some warped pleasure in the effect his appearance had on the young and inexperienced, like students or fresh aurors.

“I agree. I am quite sure this is a distraction, but for what?” Dumbledore sighed.

“Maybe the whole attack on the tournament is a distraction.”

Dumbledore nodded. That was what he feared as well. For someone to go to such lengths, just to distract - him, who else? - meant there was something very important, very dangerous going on. “But if it is, I am still ignorant what it could be a distraction for. But even if it is there is not much we can do - we cannot risk lowering our guard, or neglecting the security of the tournament.” They had to remain ever vigilant. And as warped as it sounded, they had to hope that young Harry’s death was the goal of their mysterious foe, and not a distraction.

“You’ve called the others though.” A statement, not a question. Alastor knew him well.

“I did.” Alerting the Ministry would do more harm than good, Dumbledore knew. If nothing happened, his reputation and influence would be reduced. But his old friends would not think less of him for a warning that might turn out to be too hasty, or some task that might turn out to be unneeded. They would think less of him if he did not alert them in circumstances such as those they presently found themselves in.

“Good. Should recruit some fresh blood too.”

“I’ve got a few people in mind already. But I think it might be better to wait until we know more, before approaching people we have not worked with already.” People who had not worked with them already, fought at their side, and had bled with them. The old Headmaster truly hoped this was just an attempt on Harry’s life, and not something worse.

*****​

Harry enjoyed the week after the third task. And not just because he was leading the tournament before the last task, no matter how narrow a lead it might be, or because he was often approached by students wishing him well. Less than after his victory in the second task, but noticeably more than after the first task. Some of them even might be honest, Hermione had commented in private. She was not being fair, of course - Hogwarts students wanted their school to win. But she was a bit on edge, and Harry didn’t know why. He was safe, no longer hurt, and he didn’t blame her for her spells shortcomings. And he had told her not to blame herself. Not that she’d listen, much. But it seemed to be more than that.

Briefly he considered asking Susan, who was walking with them to dinner after an afternoon spent in the library, doing homework, for advice, but decided against it. This was between him and his retainer. A private matter. Besides, he’d have ample opportunities to find out what was bothering Hermione, since he no longer needed to spend so much time in the air, training. The next and last task would be taking place on the ground. Or in the ground.

Hermione’s laughter made him glance over his shoulder at her. Judging from the smile on Luna’s face, she was the source of the sudden improvement of his retainer’s mood. Harry didn’t know why that didn’t make him as happy as it should.

*****​

“I ‘ave to ‘and it to you, ‘arry, and to you, Viktor, that was some very nice flying. For someone not used to racing, you and Viktor acquitted yourself well.” Fleur’s smile took the sting out of the backhanded compliment, well, mostly. She was still smirking. “Though I am curious about the new spell of yours, ‘ermione. It didn’t seem to be as effective as your spell for the second task.”

Hermione masked her frown by taking another sip from her glass. Harry had told her she should not blame herself, but she knew she could have done better, with just a bit more effort. “It was simply a spell that provided a more aerodynamically shaped shield for the caster and his broom.” It also reduced friction further, but apparently not enough. “What worked in the water wouldn’t have worked in the air.” Hermione didn’t even try to explain the differences. She wasn’t sure Harry had fully understood the principles involved, and he had studied anything related to flying ever since he first got on a broom, back in their first year. Well, after she had pointed him towards such books, and hinted at it helping him with Quidditch. She suppressed the brief spark of anger thinking of that stupid sport created.

“Ah!” Fleur nodded, as if she understood physics. The veela probably thought it was related to the elements. Well, she wouldn’t be that wrong, simply not correct.

“It certainly worked well enough to allow him to beat me.” Viktor threw in, raising his butterbeer bottle at her with a nod. Hermione nodded back, oddly proud of the recognition - Viktor was a world-class seeker after all.

“That, and ‘arry’s crazy stunts. I’ve known racers like that, but they tend to crash a lot. And sometimes crash others.” Fleur’s smile had stayed, but her tone had shifted towards more serious. Hermione nodded in agreement, and under their twin glares, even Harry seemed to cave. A bit. But that probably was just his dislike of hurting others - he seemed fine with risking his own health, the idiot.

Hermione waved her wand and summoned the snack tray to her, busying herself with checking the selection in case some food needed to be restocked to hide her exasperation. Judging by the hand on her shoulder and the brief apologetic smile when she sat back down again next to Harry, he had noticed anyway.

After that the group finally switched from discussing suicidal flying and racing to more comfortable - at least for her - topics.

“It is a bit vexing that whenever I think I ‘ave adapted to the British culture, I quickly find out I ‘aven’t.” Fleur commented with a slight pout.

“Oh?” Ron, who had been a bit nervous at the start - Hermione wasn’t sure why he’d be nervous - cocked his head sideways. As the only one present who was raised in Wizarding Britain, he probably was curious to see if Fleur’s experiences paralleled Hermione and Harry’s, years ago. Hermione herself surely was. Curious, that is.

“Yes. I know that in Britain, there’s only one ‘ead of family per family. Unlike France, where the duties are split between the parents. It might explain why you ‘ave far more smaller families than we ‘ave. But at the same time, you do have sub-’eads of families as well, though, or so I understand, they are informal.”

“Sub-heads?” Hermione hadn’t heard that expression yet.

“Yes. Those who are not the ‘eads, I mean ‘ead of a family, but govern their own children.”

“Ah.” Hermione understood now. “It’s informal, yes.” It wasn’t as if the head of a pureblood family commonly took over raising children not his or her own. That was generally left to the parents, though she had heard of exceptions, where a head raised a child chosen to become the next head.

“If they ‘ave that possibility, why are so many leaving their families?” Fleur sounded honestly puzzled. Ron looked confused, as if he didn’t see the problem. Hermione was slightly lost as well.

“Being emancipated in Britain doesn’t mean you’re cast out of the family in anger.” Harry started to explain. “It’s rather normal for the children of a family without a big fortune to start their own families, but they still consider themselves related to their parents and siblings. Generally only the heads of the richest families, those with a seat in the Wizengamot, have power over more family members than their own children.”

“Ah.” Hermione understood now, as did Fleur, Viktor and Ron. Apparently, French families were more like clans, and leaving it to strike out on their own was a rather harsh decision, akin to cutting all ties.

“I assume this is a sign of a more individualistic bent of British wizards and witches.” Fleur summed up. Hermione, who felt that British wizards were anything but individualistic outside their choice of wardrobe, wasn’t sure what that said about the French.

“Yes.” Ron agreed with the veela.

“I assume we’d have the same difficulties when in Magical France.” Hermione threw in. To make the fishing for an invitation less obvious, she added “I experienced some of that this summer, when I was with my parents in Burgundy.”

Fleur didn’t take the bait right then, but Hermione hadn’t expected that. To extend an invitation needed a bit more formality anyway, and would likely be done by her parents. Probably after the last task, to avoid the appearance of improperly influencing a fellow champion.

“I for one am looking forward to the last task.” Viktor changed the topic again. “With the standings so close, it will come down to who’s getting through the task best there.” It was left unsaid that the Bulgarian wizard expected himself to be the victor. Judging by the smiles on the faces of Fleur and Harry when they agreed with him, each champion thought the same - of her- or himself. Hermione almost sighed.

*****​

Harry was back at Grimmauld Place for the holiday in the middle of April. Like with other holidays, as Hermione had explained in detail to him, the wizards had gone back to the pagan roots after the Statute of Secrecy had gone into effect, and what had been Easter break was now named after Eostra, an old goddess of the dawn. He still thought of it as “Easter break”, and Hermione probably did the same.

His retainer wasn’t there though, but had gone to her parents. Harry didn’t like that. It was selfish, but he wanted her to be with him. He was her Patron, she was his retainer. He sighed, blaming the Patron Oath for it. She’d visit, at least.

Hermione wouldn’t be the only visitor. Ron would swing by - anything to escape the Burrow, his friend would claim, though both would know he wasn’t serious. And Susan had arranged for a visit with her aunt, later.

And Nymphadora was visiting right now. Wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt she had been badgering him with questions about muggle culture for an hour. Not that he minded talking to her, or about muggle culture, but… the metamorphmagus was as bad as Hermione on a roll when she got enthusiastic. Harry really wished Hermione was here, to take the brunt of the questions. She would know the differences between those rather obscure works Nymphadora was mentioning. Harry could handle Star Wars and Star Trek, and Dr. Who, but who had ever heard of ‘Raumpatrouille Orion’? Or ‘Valérian’? Or ‘Le Vagabond des Limbes’?

“You don’t know really anything about muggle culture, do you? It seems I know more than you do!” Nymphadora was frowning at him, pouting with disappointment.

“I do know muggle culture! I was raised by muggles! You’re simply asking about the most obscure things! French even!” Harry was indignant. He had been raised in the muggle world, he knew what it was. The idea that a pureblood witch would know more than him about it was ludicrous.

“Those are not obscure. They’re mainstream. Hermione would know what I am asking about.” Nymphadora huffed at him.

“Yeah, but I am not… wait a minute.” Harry narrowed his eyes. Where could Nymphadora, completely new to muggle culture, have heard of so many foreign works? There was one source, but why would she… “You talked to her already!”

Loud laughter was his answer, and he groaned, letting his head drop on the kitchen table they were sitting at. At least Sirius had not … more laughter coming from the door ended that hope. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“It might be more what you haven’t done, Harry.” Sirius clapped him on the back while he summoned a scone for himself from the tray Kreacher had provided for “the Metamorphmagus and Master's Godson”.

“Don’t start about that again, Sirius. I am not even 15 yet.”

“Well, I started at…” whatever tale Sirius had been about to tell, or spin, was silenced by a the scone in his hand suddenly filling his mouth, effectively gagging him.
“Now, now… no corrupting the youth when I am around. You can do that when I am not here.” Nymphadora was laughing while wagging her finger at Harry’s godfather.

“Besides, I have another question. I bought a few muggle devices since I visited Hermione, and I need an expert to explain them to me.”

Harry leaped at the distraction. Anything but another lecture why shagging was good for you. “Of course. What did you buy?”

Nymphadora reached into one of the enchanted pockets on her robe, and handed him a small bag. “Can you show me how to use these?”

“Of course.” Harry opened the bag, and stared at a pack of rubbers, then at the earnest eyes of the metamorphmagus, until she and Sirius broke down laughing again. Bouncing the bag off her face only resulted in her laughing louder.

Harry retreated to the library. Blacks were all maniacs, he had decided long ago. Hopefully his own Black blood was diluted enough to keep him sane. Then he started plotting his vengeance.

*****​

The week dedicated to Eostra was the perfect time to choose the sacrifice needed for his master’s plans, Barty Crouch thought. A new dawn for Britain would be heralded by it, after all. Things were progressing according to schedule. He had all the ingredients needed for the ritual as well as the tools prepared. But he needed a sacrifice. A powerful one.

He was sitting in Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream parlor, appearing to read the Daily Prophet, which incidentally had not covered the attack by the owls on the third task at all, but in reality looking for a family with young children. A child would be the perfect sacrifice to restore his master. Innocent, and young, teeming with life and magic.

Dabblers in the Dark Arts, ignorant fools, assumed innocence meant a virgin. That wasn’t true. One could be a virgin and yet far from being innocent. Barty had been proof of that himself, if not for long. He had enjoyed his Year of Discovery, after all. No, innocent meant untainted. A soul that had never used magic with ill intent. And given the leanings of young people, and the practises at Hogwarts, Barty was sure only a child that had not yet received their wand was likely to fit the bill. Given accidental magic, a baby would be best. Just to be sure. Though sacrificing a toddler to restore what a toddler had robbed his master of, would provide a large symbolic boost to the ritual as well.

It had to be a pureblood child, of course. To have the Dark Lord restored with tainted blood… he shuddered at the thought and ordered another bowl of Fortescue’s Famous Selection, which quickly floated towards his table. He sighed with delight at the taste - that wizard really was as good as his reputation claimed. While he was enjoying the second scoop, he noticed that a family fitting all his needs had just entered the ice cream parlor. Young wizard, young witch, a baby in her arms, a toddler next to them in a floater. A flick of his wand had him listen in to Fortescue’s greeting. So those were the Cattermole-Brandons. Not rich, judging by the quality of their robes, or the lack of it, but solid incomes. So, likely freshly emancipated. Their house wouldn’t be secured by the powerful wards on the homes of older families. Perfect.

As luck - or providence - had it, the family chose the table next to his. Still in the guise of a jovial if slightly rotund wizard, he smiled at them. “Ah… showing the kids where they’ll spend most of their allowance once they’re a bit older?”

The Cattermole-Brandons laughed at his weak joke. “Oh, we’re here for us, we just love ice cream. Though I am sure our children inherited the taste for it from us as well.” The man explained while using his wand to pull out the chair for his wife.

She smiled while she sat down and adjusted the baby on her arm. “We met here for the first time, as kids. And it was where we had our first date as well. And where he proposed. Its tied to so many happy moments in our lives…”

“And Fortescue’s does make the best ice cream.” Barty nodded with a broad smile while he silently tagged them with tracking charms. “What are their names?”

“Mykew and Delia.” The proud mother answered.

“Beautiful names.” Barty nodded, and returned his attention to his newspaper. Once he had finished his own bowl, sent a galleon over to Fortescue, and left the parlor. He’d check the home of the Cattermole-Brandons and the wards protecting it later. He had a few shops to visit as well, and runes to prepare. After all, the last task was coming up soon, and he had a surprise to prepare. It was a long shot, but given what he knew about the security of the tournament, and the work ethics - or lack thereof - of the Ministry department in charge of organizing it, it was entirely possible the Dark Lord would be restored to a country that had just lost their boy hero.

*****​

Hermione snickered, reading Nymphadora’s letter. Her mother, sitting across from her on the couch and reading the Times, looked up.

“Harry fell for the prank, mum.” Hermione explained.

“The one you and Miss Black-Tonks planned?”

“Exactly. She had him going for an hour until he wised up.” Hermione giggled at the thought.

“And you had her prepare for it for hours. And made her buy those obscure novels and comics you had her ask Harry about.” There was a slight, tiny hint of disapproval in her mother’s voice.

“She wanted to know about more than just mainstream culture.” Hermione defended herself.

“After you had explained what mainstream was. In a slightly biased way, if I may remark.”

“Well… I like to think of it as getting back at her for a prank of hers.” Hermione smiled. It hadn’t actually been a prank, but a remark about Sirius’ prank at Yuletide. The young witch didn’t want to explain the details to her parents though. She didn’t want them picturing Harry having their daughter literally leashed. They didn’t know exactly how much power Harry had over her. Back when he had become her Patron, she had not explained the magical oath, nor all of the legal consequences. They still had no idea that as far the Wizarding World was concerned, the Grangers had lost custody of their daughter years ago.

Her parents had remarked a few times that Hermione was ready to drop anything when Harry called. Fortunately they attributed it to a crush, or maybe a fancy, and not to magical compulsion. But it was a can of worms best avoided. Explaining the Year of Discovery, even without going into details, would be bad enough. Sirius’ fondness of sexual innuendo, especially aimed at her and Harry, would not help at all.

Fortunately, the exonerated wizard was wary of spending too much time with the Grangers, or pushing the boundaries of decency in his usual way, after Hermione had explained - sort of - what exactly her parents did for a living. If she had emphasized and illustrated the drilling part, and neglected to mention the pain killers, well… she counted it as a prank as well.

She briefly closed her eyes. Sirius was really corrupting her. In more ways than that, judging by some dreams she had had. She pushed the thoughts away. She wanted to enjoy her time with her family. Today, and especially tomorrow, when she’d visit Harry.

*****​

“My aunt almost didn’t want to let me visit you, Harry.”

Harry stopped walking, and turned towards Susan Bones, whom he was presently giving a tour through Grimmauld Place 12. He couldn’t fathom the reasons for that. Did Amelia Bones still suspect Sirius had been guilty? Or did she not trust Harry with her niece? Did she think he was following in Sirius’ footsteps? She knew him from their time at Hogwarts, after all. “Ah, why?” he managed to ask.

“She was worried about the amount of cursed items your godfather had handed over to the DMLE for safe disposal after he moved in.” Susan grinned. “She seemed to suspect that was only half of all the cursed items Mister Black had found.”

Harry smiled, if a bit weakly - he knew Sirius had not handed over even close to everything they had found, even if the truly dangerous but potentially useful items, as Sirius had called them, were now stored in a vault in the cellar. “It’s safe now. I’d never invite guests otherwise, trust me.” Hermione had been there with him, he thought with a small amount of guilt, at the start even, but he told himself that he’d never have managed to keep her away.

“That’s what I told auntie, Harry.” Susan smiled at him, then hooked her arm around his. “Now, lead on - I am curious how the famous Harry Potter lives!” She grinned, making it clear that she was joking. Susan didn’t act as if she was overly impressed with his reputation, or fame, something he was very happy about. As much as Hermione and he had been working on building up his reputation, fame and money over the years, Harry wasn’t happy with the effect that had on many of his supposed peers. Dealing with sycophants and what Hermione had dubbed “fawning fangirls” was often tiresome, especially since he had to remain polite, to avoid giving offense or hurting someone’s feelings.

Susan though was different. And, even better, given her situation as the chosen successor of her aunt as head of the family, the possibility of a future marriage was not present. Unlike in the case of say, Ginny, Ron’s baby sister. Ron had made jokes about becoming his brother in law, but Harry hadn’t found them that funny. He didn’t want to think about marriage when he wasn’t even 15 years old! Hermione had agreed with him when they had discussed that in private. That was why she had proposed he ask Susan to the Yule Ball, of course.

And she had been right. With Susan Harry didn’t feel tense, or even awkward. Unless of course her aunt was present - Madam Bones was a very impressive witch. Sirius called her scary.

“And this is my room.” Harry opened the door to his room with an exaggerated gesture, as if presenting a treasure vault. Susan giggled, and made a show of carefully stepping inside, as if she was suspecting a trap.

“Hm… where’s Hermione’s bed?” the redhead was looking around, then cocked her head at Harry’s admittedly oversized canopy bed. “Hmmm.”

“She doesn’t sleep with me! I mean, she doesn’t sleep in my room.” He would not want her to sleep in his room either, some - disturbing - dreams notwithstanding.

Susan giggled, then patted his shoulder. “I know, Harry. But I had to ask, or Hannah would never forgive me.” She stepped over to his desk, looking at the muggle writing utensils laid out there with unveiled curiosity. “Besides, as traditional as you two are, even I wasn’t sure you’d not have chosen the traditional sleeping arrangements for a Patron and their retainer.”

Harry stared at her. He was quite aware of what those arrangements were, Sirius had taken pleasure in telling him all about them. And their deranged elf had even asked if he wanted his room rearranged “to keep Master’s Godson’s Slave”. Harry hadn’t wanted to know what Kreacher had meant with that, and still didn’t want to know. Susan giggled again. The witch had a sense of humor that would serve her well with Sirius and Tonks, though hers was quite a bit more refined in comparison to those two. And, well, more gentle too.

He was still quite relieved when Susan stopped the teasing and asked about the pen and paper he had on his desk. He picked up the fountain pen and showed it to her. She reacted like most wizards - impressed in that patronizing way at what muggles managed to create without magic. But she did seem genuinely interested. He wished he could show her a computer. Maybe next time he visited the Grangers, he could ask to bring her along? She and Hermione got along well, after all.

*****​

Draco Malfoy was lounging in the Slytherin common room, feeling restless. His vacation hadn’t met his expectations. He had hoped to help his father fight mudbloods and blood traitors, but nothing of the sort had happened. Instead, his father had spent the vacation at the mansion, questioning Draco about the unimportant happenings at school. Like he had done over Yuletide. back then Draco had assumed this was a punishment for using a family curse in the dueling competition, but surely that was in the past now, forgotten?

And yet his father had not even mentioned any further plans, had even told him to be silent when he had asked about the cause. And his mother had not helped him either! Draco didn’t understand why his father had become so… cautious. Not after his bold, magnificent actions at the World Cup. It was as if the head of the Malfoy family regretted those events.

Draco had scorned that thought. His father was powerful and cunning, he’d not feel remorse for doing what needed to be done to further the Dark Lord’s cause. And his mother hadn’t found any trace of a confundus spell or compulsion charm on either of them. Who’d dare to hex his father anyway? Sighing loudly, he pushed the thoughts away. It didn’t do any good to dwell on past problems, Pansy had told him that many times. ‘Look forward, forget the past’ was sound advice indeed!

Thinking of Pansy, shouldn’t she be back already from her errand, whatever it was? Just as he was about to get up and look for his wayward girlfriend, the door to the common room opened and she stepped inside - then turned to say something to a Durmstrang student who apparently had walked her to the dorm. Draco frowned - Pansy was his girlfriend. Not that he thought anything untoward had happened, she was far too loyal for such.

“Doesn’t it look like Malfoy’s been replaced? Parkinson might have finally grown some taste.” Draco stiffened, then turned to the table next to him. The insult was spoken just loud enough to be overheard, but low enough so that to take offense, as any wizard worth his wand would, might be seen as listening to a private conversation.

Draco wasn’t just any wizard though. He addressed the speaker, a 6th year student, Wilkins, ignoring the two others with him for now. “Did you mention my name, Wilkins?” he asked, his face and tone portraying the disdain he felt for the childish insult clearly.

“Just wondering why Parkinson dumped you.” Most would have claimed to have been misheard, avoiding to give offense, it not apologizing, but apparently Wilkins was made of dumber stuff - or had forgotten his place. His family had some influence, true, and they were of the right sort. But still below the Malfoys in standing, and their coffers could not rival his father’s.

“Ah, I was wondering if I had misheard. After all, it would take a quite remarkable lack of intellect to mistake a chivalrous gesture from one our guests as a sign of a dalliance. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that such a person could be a member of our house, but apparently you just proved me wrong.” He stared haughtily at Wilkins, slightly sneering even. And with perfect timing, Pansy arrived, greeting him with a one-armed hug that, while chaste, left no doubt about their relationship.

“Draco dear, is something wrong?”

“Nothing of the sort. A simpleton letting his own base nature color his perceptions.” That hit home, and Wilkins stiffened. In any other house, wands would have been drawn and a brawl would have ensued, Draco knew, but Slytherins held themselves to a higher standard.

“I feel the need for some dueling practise. Would you care to help me with that, Mister Malfoy.” Wilkins stated in a clipped tone.

“Certainly. I am always willing to help those who have not learned their lessons.” His quip made Pansy and a few more chuckle, as it should.

They stepped in the middle of the common room, into a hastily cleared ring. The 7th year prefect sighed, but activated the wards that would keep spells from hitting anyone outside the ring. Pansy was hugging him, even placed a kiss on his cheek, for luck. Not that Draco would need luck, but it was the thought that counted.

Confidently, he stepped into the ring, flashing his wand. His robes swirled around him, the enchantments picking up on his intent to fight, or so the tailor had explained. Draco hadn’t cared that much for the explanation. More important than such cosmetic spells were the protective enchantments woven into the robe - the best gold could buy, his father had assured him.

“You’re quite confident for someone who was schooled by Granger.” Wilkins sneered at him, no doubt trying to mask his deserved nervousness.

“This is not a mere competition, but a lesson in dire need of being learned.” Draco scoffed at his foe, then glanced at the prefect. The older student sighed again, but stepped up.

“Bow!” Draco merely inclined his head.

“Wands ready!”

Draco’s wand rose, until he was standing in a perfect guard position.

“Start!”

“Protego.” Draco’s first spell was a shield, and just in time to stop a hex from Wilkins. Grinning, he started to send some hexes and jinxes back. Wilkins had a shield up himself now, but Draco was confident it would not last long.

The two exchanged spells while neither even tried to dodge. Draco approved - running, or even rolling around was for mudbloods and muggles, not for true wizards who could trust their magic to protect them. Wilkins’ shield spell proved to be stronger than Draco had anticipated, but he was confident he’d get through in time. He hardly noticed when his own shield shattered. But the look on his opponent’s face when the hex he had cast, confident of his victory, was simply stopped by his protective enchantments as if it had fizzled out - Draco would treasure that for some time to come.

Then Wilkin’s own shield was overcome by Draco’s magic, after he had toyed with him long enough of course, and a body-binding curse took the student down. Draco was halfway into casting a flaying curse on his helpless opponent before he could stop himself. This was no real combat, just a duel. He was with fellow wizards, not mudbloods and blood traitors too. So he simply cast the traditional humiliating spells for such a situation - and added a bowel-loosening hex if only so he could make some barbs later about Wilkins wetting himself. Then he looked at the referee, signaling it was over.

“Winner by Incapacitation: Malfoy.”

Draco bowed, if with less than his usual grace, and stepped out of the ring, into the arms of his adoring girlfriend while the frowning prefect told Wilkins’ two friends to transport him to the Infirmary. He was filled with pride - he had just demonstrated that he was a wizard to be reckoned with, when he was not shackled by foreign competition rules and facing cheating mudbloods. That should cow those who had been nipping at his heels.

*****​

Harry was watching Hermione getting ready for the curse-breaking competition in their training room. His friend had complained that she had not been able to prepare properly for the competition - she had wanted to train with a few of the cursed items still locked up in Grimmauld Place. But after he had heard about the accident a Ravenclaw student had over the break, when he botched breaking a curse on an item he had apparently bought cheaply in Knockturn Alley, Harry was glad that Sirius had refused the young witch. The student was still in St. Mungos, after all, two weeks after the break had ended. ‘The only minor curses are those others deal with’, his godfather had said, ‘and as a Black, I would know that.’

In the competition they’d deal with harmless curses, prepared by experienced curse-breakers from Gringotts. Flashy but harmless. Though, seeing as Ron’s oldest brother, Bill Weasley, was among those contributing, the results of a failure to break the curse would surely be humiliating as well, if what the twins talking about Bill was to be believed. Harry might even drop his planned revenge for Hermione’s and Nymphadora’s prank if his retainer was too badly affected.

Though for that to happen she’d have to fail first, and then the protective enchantments on her robe would have to fail as well. Harry didn’t think that was too likely to happen - Hermione had been preparing as obsessively as usual in such situation. Even now, so close to the start of the event, she was reading a book from a French cursebreaker who had worked in Egypt in the 18th Century. Harry thought finding out just how exactly that had come to pass, given the relations between Magical France and the Ottoman Empire at the time, would be more interesting than the accounts of his work, but obviously his friend disagreed.

48 students, 16 from each school, would be competing. They started with the same item and curse. The 24 fastest would reach the next round, the 12 fastest of those would enter the final round, where the fastest would win. Should the curse get triggered the student was out. Literally out, Harry had heard from older students, in the final round. He worried about his retainer. Magic was not as predictable as it should be, she had said so several times herself. And there was an unknown assassin trying to sabotage the tournament. A wizard or witch able to manipulate the Goblet of Fire surely would be able to manipulate a few cursed items.

Hermione trusted the security provided by the Headmaster, or so she claimed. The wards would prevent any items with serious curses from being smuggled inside. Harry knew that as well, but knowing, and trusting one’s knowledge, were two different things, as he was finding out. He checked his wristwatch. It was almost time to go. Acting on an impulse he stepped over and hugged his friend, who let out a surprised sound before relaxing in his arms.

“Good luck, Hermione.” he whispered near her ear.

“Thank you, Harry.” She patted his back. For a second Harry had to fight the urge to simply keep holding her until the competition was over. It would be hypocritical, given that he played Quidditch, or so Hermione would say. So she actually had said when the point was raised during their break. So he released her, took a step back, and smiled encouragingly. Then the two left the room and made their way over to the tournament arena.

*****​

The arena was a flat surface this time, with marked and warded - lightly, Hermione knew, more to keep competitors from being disturbed by the efforts of their neighbors than to contain the minor curses on the items - spaces for the students measuring their skills in curse-breaking. She felt a bit outclassed, if she was honest with herself. While curse-breaking was an exciting intellectual exercise, and fascinating field to study, she had been interested in it mainly because of the synergy with spell crafting, her true passion. Not that she was not good at it, or she’d not be here.

She told herself to shelve the defeatist talk and calm down. She was here to compete, not to worry. Instead she looked at the item for the first round, still behind a barrier so no one could get a headstart. It was an inkwell. Probably cursed to splatter the handler with ink, maybe indelible ink too. That would mean either a variant of aguamenti, or a banishment charm, and some transfiguration, unless it simply used the ink in the well. Hermione shook her head. She was making too many assumptions, which could blind her to traps. Just because that was how she would curse didn’t mean it was cursed that way.

Then the signal to start was given, and the barriers disappeared. Hermione cast a detection spell, a curse breaker’s bread and butter. It allowed her to see magical effects and spells, but only a rather close range. And it made spotting anything further away, magical or not, nigh impossible. Those limitations had certainly cost many a curse breaker his or her life. She could think of traps that would use those limits, maybe combine a curse with a more classic mechanical trap… Pushing those thoughts away, the young witch started to study the item. She barely heard the roar of the crowd, dimmed by the arena wards. Apparently, one of her competitors had been too hasty, and now was out already. Instead she focused on the spells she could see on the well. It was not too complicated, but overlapping spells on a small object were always a bit tricky, so she studied it with extra care. There was the everfull charm, and a banishment charm, as expected, coupled with a color charm. All entwined with each other. To remove the trap and leave the everfull charm would require her to… suddenly she blinked. Why would they enchant the ink with an everfull charm? For security reasons, all items were cursed here, on location and under supervision. They wouldn’t have used an everfull charm… she studied the charm again, recasting her spell to make sure she got it right. Ah! Another trap! That was an everfull charm, but with a twist that would affect not the well, but the one touching it, or rather, their mouth. They’d be spewing ink out as a result - for quite some time.

Shaking her head, she thought about her course of action. Canceling one curse would trigger the other. She had to either remove both at the same time, or remove the links without triggering the curses. That would take time, which she might not have. Taking a deep breath, she aimed her wand at the center of the entwined spells, visible only to her enhanced sight. “Finite!” she shouted, stabbing her wand forward. For a moment, it looked as if the spells were resisting, absorbing her own spell, then they broke, and she saw the magic dissipate, leaving just a normal, mundane inkwell. Above her a number - 14 - flared up and started to shine. She had made it to the next round. Looking around, she saw half a dozen students being led away, most of them either covered by ink, or spitting out ink. One though was both covered and spewing ink, and another had the inkwell stuck in his mouth. She didn’t know how anyone could have managed that. She waved at the Champion’s lounge, and Harry. He was too far away from her to see his smile, but she knew he could see her as well as if was sitting next to her, so she beamed at him, before turning back to her area.

The next item was placed behind a barrier again, a robe this time. A robe moving by itself, even. She smiled - this would be interesting. She would have to restrain the thing, to be able to study it. But using immobilizing spells on it would likely trigger the curse. She could, of course, cast a shield spell, and then study it from behind that, but that would make observation very, very difficult. A decoy might also work, but she hadn’t learned how to conjure or transfigure something that would work as a decoy for her. Yet. The protective spells on her robes were good against hexes and jinxes, probably curses as well, but they would not do much about attacks by animated cloth, or transfigured or conjured animals. She needed to upgrade them, and Harry’s, but she hadn’t had time so far.

The signal to start came as a surprise for some, judging by the muffled screams and the dimmed laughter from the audience she could hear. Hermione herself was ready, and when the robe charged at her, she met it with an aguamenti that both stopped it for a short time and thoroughly soaked it - Harry hadn’t been the only one learning to overpower that particular spell, after all. Before the cursed garment could recover, she froze the water, and with it the robe. A simple spell, and, as she was slightly relieved to find out, not one to trigger a trap.

She cast her detection spell again and started to study the robe. While the ice would not last that long, she could recast the freezing charm, but her competitors would not be wasting time either. An interesting, and more complicated mix of spells was revealed to her eyes. A dancing feet charm, as she had expected. A modified body-binder - she was wondering how many would recognize that one, she only did because she had experience in modifying spells - a tickling hex and a transfiguration on the robe. Too easy, she thought. There would be another trap.

“Wingardium leviosa.” The young witch levitated the still frozen robe up, and started to slowly rotate it. Ah! That spark at the collar was not part of the transfiguration, but almost covered by it. It was a separate effect. A gag, she realized with a smirk. She knew that one - she had used it on Sirius herself, after all. But that left her with a cascading set of trapped spells. Triggering one would set the others off, and break the ice. It couldn’t be helped, she’d have to do this the hard way.

Hermione refroze the water, just to be sure, and started to note down the sequences she could make out with the help of a dictaquill - a curse-breaker’s best friend, she had heard people call it, and sometimes its records were the only clue to what had happened to him or her. There was a reason curse-breakers were so well-paid.

When she finally had the sequence down - hopefully - she wiped sweat from her brows, recast the freezing charm again, and started to finite, using her wand with as much precision as she could muster. One single sloppy flick or swish, and the spells would blow up in her face, leaving her dancing while wearing a potato bag and giggling into a gag. After the third finite she had to take a quick rest, her hand was trembling. She finished the last finite right before her ice had melted, and sank down to her knees with relief when the robe flopped to the ground, all magic gone. Over her head shone a bright “11” - she had made it into the final round, if barely.

She didn’t turn towards the champion’s lounge. Harry would be fretting, she knew that, and simply waited for the last round to start while resting. She did spot a number of dancing students in sackcloths, though. And a few wearing gags, and a furious expression.

The last item to be placed behind the barrier was a box. An ornate box, large enough to hold a head, she added, morbidly remembering some tales she had read in preparation for this competition. Not that that would mean anything, she could certainly expect expansion charms on any box. Maybe if triggered it would release a guardian creature? Or maybe it would suck the curse-breaker into the box? A shield was a good precaution, but not enough.

When the signal to start came and the barrier disappeared, she quickly cast a shield, then a detection spell. She followed up with a conjured rock which she transfigured into a cat, which she ordered to touch the box. As soon as the cat was about to put a paw on it, a flash went off, briefly blinding Hermione, and when she managed to see more or less clearly again, the cat had lost most of its pelt. She frowned. She might not like her bushy hair, before cosmetic charms, but she’d rather keep it than go bald. The cat had lost most of its pelt, not all - so it was not a hair-removal spell disguised in the flash, but something that really burned hair off, but weak enough not to do further harm. Almost a prank spell. She had the cat touch it again, this time squinting her eyes. Again she was blinded, but she had caught a glimpse of the spell. Another touch did not reveal any more information, so she dismissed the cat and cast a finite. Before her eyes, the box fell apart, revealing… another box, slightly smaller, and with a different design on the sides.

Another transfigured cat did not trigger any defenses, leaving her stumped for a moment. She couldn’t see any spell at work either, but… walking around the box, she couldn’t find any mechanism to open it. That would not make any sense though, a curse without the means to trigger it. Especially not for a competition. She had checked all sides but the underside… for a moment she thought about levitating it. That might trigger whatever curse it held though. Though she ordered the cat to topple it on a side.

As soon as the box started to topple, green liquid shot out from it, covering the cat and part of her shield before hardening into what looked like glue. That was some nasty little trap there. And the symbols on the box had changed, rearranging the sides so she still didn’t see the underside.

Two minutes later she had another cat ready, and constructed a grid from conjured rulers, then had the cat push the box onto the grid, which she then levitated up so she could study the underside. She was grinning - it was a challenge. And contrary to real curse-breaking work, she’d not die if she made a mistake!

On the underside she discovered a keyhole. Or rather, a wandhole, it seemed. And inside the hole she spotted a detection spell, no two. One of them would check if a wand was inserted, the other would check if it was the right wand. If that was the standard wand-lock she read about, of course. But to find out which did what… she had a feeling that canceling both would trigger a curse, and canceling the wrong one would stop her, and trigger a curse.

She narrowed her eyes, but the spells were just too entwined, and she couldn’t see enough details. It was a coin-toss, in other words. Hermione didn’t like such odds. But then, it was just a competition. Taking a deep breath, she started to finite the right one, hoping it was the right one. She almost ruined her casting, giggling nervously at her own joke. No curse went off, so she stuck her and into the hole, and - to her considerate relief this time - the box fell apart, revealing another box. Shiny, golden, and ornate this time.

Just as she was about to send in another testing cat, she heard an excited announcement. “And Anton Iliev broke the last curse! Anton Iliev won!” She had not expected to win, but she was still disappointed. She was more disappointed that she would not get to solve the box curse puzzle though, and glared at the box while getting up, applauding a beaming Bulgarian student who made his way to the judges’ area. She also saw there were just about half the of the original dozen finalists left, and a number of blackened spots where competitors had been working indicated they had not gone quietly, so to speak.

This time she did turn towards the champion’s lounge again, waving. She had given her best, and hadn’t gotten hurt. In this tournament, that counted for something.


Chapter 10: The Fourth Task: Earth

 

Chapter 10: The Fourth Task: Earth

Hermione and the other still standing competitors watched while Anton Iliev received the winner’s reward - a purse filled with galleons, traditionally cursed as well, and an invitation to spend a month at the main curse-breaking camp Gringotts ran in Egypt, where he would be studying the work done there. After another round of applause in response to the Bulgarian’s words of thanks, Hermione was finally free to mingle with her friends and family.

She smiled as she spotted Harry walking towards her, but before he reached her, she was almost bowled over by an enthusiastic blonde witch who hugged her. “Hermione! That was great! Seeing you fight a cursed robe was so exciting - do you think it was jealous that you did not enchant it with the spells you know?”

“Huh?” Hermione was caught off-guard in more ways than one, having stumbled when Luna had all but tackled her, and understanding her friend took a bit of an effort even without having focused on curses for so long. “I don’t think so. It’s not as if it was alive.”

“Aw. But maybe the right spells would have placated it anyway. Or made it come alive. That’s how Lethifolds were created, you know.” Luna released her just in time for a smirking Harry and a smiling Aicha to arrive, and put a finger on her nose, pondering a second. “Maybe it was a good thing you didn’t.” She nodded sagely, but with a smile that made it impossible to tell if she was serious or not. Though Hermione couldn’t help but think about what kind of spells she knew that could have countered the curse on the enchanted robe. Maybe a variant of the floating garment charm would have prevented it from latching onto her? And if it had been transfigured into an animal, would that have broken the curse?

Harry’s cough broke her train of thoughts, and she hastily bowed to him - they were in public. “My Patron.”

“My Wand.” He was smirking still, and Luna was craning her neck and patting Hermione’s back, to check if she had caught any curses, or so the blonde claimed. “That was impressive, Hermione. You made the final round.”

Hermione beamed, happily. “With some luck. I almost was too slow in the second round.”

“You didn’t get hurt, and that’s the most important thing.” Luna rapidly nodded several times at her own words.

“Luna’s right. For a curse-breaker, how fast you are at breaking curses matters much less than how good you are it. Speed only matters for counter-curses, though from what I saw, you are quick on your feet.” Hermione turned towards the man who had just spoken, and her eyes widened. He was impressive. Tall, but not lanky, red hair, long, tied back in a ponytail, battered looking robes that nevertheless were bristling with protective enchantments, if she interpreted the sigils on them correctly, and cut in a way to allow him as much freedom of movement as possible, while still covering his body from neck to dragonhide boots. A roguish grin on his handsome face, and a fang dangling from an ear. Impressive and attractive, she noted. Then she noted Ron standing next to him, rolling his eyes, as well as Ginny, and she spotted the resemblance.

“You must be William Weasley.” Normally it would have been a faux-pas to address him before Harry had done so, but he had addressed her first.

“You’re as sharp as Ron and Harry told me. Call me Bill.” He offered his hand, and when Hermione reached out to shake it - refusing that would have been a clear offense - he turned it into a kiss on her hand. She couldn’t help but blush. Tall, handsome, skilled - former head boy - and charming.

“William Weasley.” Harry’s greeting was a tad more formal than Hermione would have expected; they had met before after all.

“Harry Potter.” Bill returned the greeting with the exact same amount of formality, but clear amusement visible in his eyes. Hermione felt a sudden if slight annoyance at his attitude towards her Patron. Harry may have been just 14 years old, but he was the head of his family, and a Triwizard Tournament champion, and her Patron. “Your retainer gave an excellent showing in the competition. Truly impressive, especially given how much older the vast majority of her competitors were. You must be very proud of her.” With proper decorum and respect shown - Bill was smooth - Hermione’s annoyance was replaced by pride again.

“I am.” Harry stepped a bit closer to Hermione. “Though she truly excels in spellcrafting.”

Whatever Bill had been about to answer was cut short by Luna jumping into his arms. “Bill! Have you shrunk? You look and feel smaller than last time we saw each other!”

“Luna! That’s because you have grown.” Bill laughed, and twirled her around once, then set her down. She promptly started to poke him, claiming to check if he had still all parts. For a moment Hermione was jealous, then she laughed with the rest of the group. Luna introduced Aicha as well, who bowed to Bill, and her genie, who flitted around the wizard and tried to grab the fang dangling from his ear.

“I do hope you liked the last round, some of my finest work, if I do say so myself. How far did you get there?” Bill turned to her again, ignoring the blonde witch trying to look into his pockets.

“I reached the third box, the shiny golden one.” The slightly pranking impression she had gotten from the boxes made sense, she realized.

“Ah. An interesting one. How did you get through the earlier ones?” He grinned at her.

Hermione ignored the way everyone but Luna and Bill frowned a bit, and started to explain what she had done.

*****​

Harry didn’t really like Bill Weasley at the moment. Not at all, if he was honest. The too-handsome curse-breaker was monopolizing Hermione’s attention. She was his friend, and his retainer. It was rather rude of an outsider to butt in when Harry had wanted to talk with her about the competition. Even if he didn’t know as much about curse-breaking as the red-headed rake did, he knew far more about his friend. And Ron and Ginny were doing nothing! Didn’t Ginny care that Bill was ignoring her? Harry knew she idolized her oldest brother, and had been very sad that Bill had chosen a career outside Britain. He glanced at her, trying to convey his annoyance with the situation, but when their eyes met, she simply smiled widely at him. Traitor.

Ron wasn’t doing anything either, but at least he was glaring at his brother. And Luna… well, she wouldn’t see the problem. And Aicha had no stake in this. Harry tried to tell himself that he should be glad Hermione was having fun talking about curse-breaking, but it was not working. He really wanted Bill doing anything but talking to Hermione right now.

Then he spotted a solution, of sorts. “Have you met my fellow champions yet, Bill?” Harry interrupted a far too smooth tale about a particularly dangerous trap in some old tomb that made Bill appear both modest and impressive, and pointed to Viktor and Fleur.

“No, I haven’t yet have the pleasure…” Bill turned towards the direction Harry was pointing at, and his eyes widened when he spotted Fleur. Perfect.

“Let me introduce you then.” Harry ignored the glare Hermione was sending him, and the guilt at ruining her fun, while he led the eldest of the Weasley sons over to meet the French veela. And the Bulgarian wizard too. “Viktor, Fleur? May I introduce Bill Weasley? He is a curse-breaker from Gringotts, and was responsible for the final challenge of this competition.”

Bill was as smooth greeting Fleur as he had been when he met Hermione, no even smoother. The two seemed to hit it off, even. Harry smiled, satisfied. When he turned to Hermione he realized everyone but Luna and Aicha, who were both smirking, and Viktor, who was politely listening, was frowning at him. What had he done now?

*****​

Draco was still sulking about Granger not getting cursed during the competition. Pansy could have told him Granger was playing it safe and not taking risks, but he wouldn’t have listened anyway. At least it meant he was not talking too much, and most of what he was saying could be safely ignored. That at least had not changed. Other things though, had. Draco’s recent victory in that “dueling lesson” had increased his standing among those who had not realized that his enchanted robes had made him win, not his skill.

Fools, Pansy thought. On the other hand, outside a dueling tournament, only a fool would dismiss such protective enchantments when assessing an opponent. And any Slytherin worth his or her salt knew that the only competition that counted was the one outside the tournaments and their rules.

Draco, with her on his arm and his two “friends” following them, made his way through the crowd after the competition. By now all of those who had failed to deal with the curses had returned from the Infirmary - with such set-pieces, removing a curse was easy for the healers since they knew the exact spells and their counter spells in advance.

She nodded to Tanya Ricklebern, one of the Slytherins who had taken part in the competition. “Well done, Miss Ricklebern. Reaching the second round is quite the achievement.” Pansy smiled sweetly. She almost meant it - Ricklebern was a fifth year, and even counting the fact that most Slytherins from old families had at least some experience with curses by the time they recovered from their first visit to the family home’s attic or cellar, it was impressive. Would have been, if not for Granger, of course. Judging by the slightly forced smile when Ricklebern thanked her for the compliment, the other witch knew it as well. Outdone by a 4th year mudblood, and one who did not really focus on curse-breaking… Pansy felt like shaking her head. Though in a twisted way she was glad for that as well - Granger showing up older students made her showing up Pansy and the others in her year more tolerable. In their first year, the older students of their House had scorned Pansy and her year mates for doing worse in class than the mudblood. That had stopped once Granger started showing up the older students as well.

Draco of course couldn’t help speaking his mind. “Half the students reached the second round. Some families might accept mediocrity, but who would consider it an achievement to do as well as half the crowd?” Pansy felt like hexing him.

Putting on her best vapid smile, she answered as if she had not understood that Draco had meant to ask a rhetorical question. “She was only two places behind Granger in the first round.” That shut Draco up, and made Ricklebern smile more honestly.

Unfortunately, it also made Draco complain about Granger again. “To think that that mudblood progressed so far. Truly, things have only gotten worse in the last decade. It is high time someone does something about this before Britain completes its slide into barbarism.” He glared at the floating tray with drinks and finger food as if it was the cause of it.

Pansy was more than a bit disturbed hearing him talk like this. He was doing this more and more frequently. Usually she’d not care much, Draco loved to talk, but at the end of that duel, Draco had been about to cast something, but had stopped. And while he had told her all the spells he had cast, in detail, multiple times, he had never mentioned what that spell would have been. Not even an off-hand remark about how he had graciously spared his opponent further humiliation or pain, or something like that. Pansy didn’t know what spell Draco had planned to cast, but she knew she didn’t like the implications of her “boyfriend” not boasting about it.

*****​

The evening of the day of the curse-breaking competition saw another concert in the arena, this time with the Weird Sisters. Hermione knew they were an up and coming band of witches, though how much of that was due to their talent, and how much was due to lack of competition was hard to say. They were not bad, she knew that from listening to them on the Wizarding Wireless - Lavender was a big fan - but also quite eccentric. For an entire year they had exclusively performed while polyjuiced into wizards.

The arena would packed, especially the flat part where the audience could dance. Due to the strict security measures, it would take a long time until everyone was inside the arena, but since Harry was a champion, and a target, he and his friends could enter right away - standing outside in the middle of a crowd was deemed to be too dangerous, for Harry, and for anyone around him. One good thing in this mess, Hermione thought.

Though it also meant they had a long time to spend waiting, but at least it was with snacks and drinks, and in the semi-privacy of the Champion’s Lounge. Semi-private since while it was reserved for the champions and their friends and families, acquaintances of course could visit, if only for a short time without being rude. In Hermione’s opinion Daphne Greengrass had crossed the line into being rude just by entering. It wasn’t as if she was on friendly terms with anyone inside. Throwing that into her face, much less throwing her out, would have been a faux-pas though. Feuds had been started over less.

Hermione still had to fight not to audibly groan when the blonde idiot started to flirt with Harry. Or attempted to. “I have to say, Mister Potter, your retainer’s performance exceeded all expectations. You’ve done so well as her Patron, it’s unbelievable.” Hermione tensed up - what was unbelievable? It wasn’t as if Harry had taught her curse-breaking! - when she felt a hand on her back. Harry was slightly to the front of her so… a glance confirmed that it was Luna, smiling at her.

“Try the dirigible plums? They are so sweet, they’ll float into your mouth.” The blonde witch pushed a few floating fruits at her. Hermione opened her mouth to politely decline, and found one of them on her tongue before she could utter a word. They were very sweet, at least, and Luna looked happy.

The plums had distracted her though, so she had apparently missed Greengrass leaving. Susan was standing close to Harry and smirking at the Slytherin’s back, so she probably had sent her away. Hermione was not as happy about that as she should have been.

A bit away, Fleur was talking to Bill, as she had done since the two had met hours ago, when Harry had so rudely broken into a most fascinating discussion of curse-breaking. Though talking was the wrong word. Hermione was not even sure if the two were still flirting, or if Fleur had started to court the wizard, as French witches and wizards did when looking for an affair, or more. Hermione was not too experienced in such matters; the books she had read were notoriously vague on the finer points of romance and courtship.

Maybe she should try some French books? Lavender had offered to let her read some of hers, but those were the magical versions of steamy romance novels, with asinine plots and characters. And the one the other witch had put into her hands, ‘In the Sultan’s Harem’, had not looked like it would contain any useful information about the customs of western european countries. So she had handed it back, but not after changing the hair color of the slave girl on the cover from a chestnut brown that looked suspiciously like her own hair color when she used her favorite styling charm into a color that exactly matched Lavender’s locks. If the witch wanted to get back at her for the Yule Ball she had to try harder.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous.” What? Luna was grinning at her.

“Who would I be jealous of?” Hermione retorted.

“That’s a good question, Hermione. When you find out, tell me?”

Hermione covered her lack of response up by fetching another drink and a snack. She knew she didn’t like it when a girl got too close to Harry, but that was the Patron Oath influencing her, making her afraid of getting replaced as his closest friend.

*****​

“So, what is this I hear about Malfoy being skilled now?” Ron was sitting in the unused classroom they had taken over as a training room, and checked how much was left in his bottle of butterbeer by holding it up against one of the lights hovering near the ceiling. Harry summoned one for himself. He couldn’t stand pumpkin juice, but butterbeer was good.

“Rumor is - and I heard this from Parvati, mind you, so it went through a few students already - that he won against a 6th year Slytherin student in one of their duels they pass off as ‘studying’ or ‘training’. Won without trouble, even.” Hermione explained without looking up from the book on magic plants she was reading. She was making notes about potential obstacles in the last task. For him.

“Any details on how he managed that?” Harry frowned. Malfoy was an idiot. A rich idiot, but an idiot nevertheless. He shouldn’t be able to best a student two years his senior, unless that student was an idiot as well. Granted, there was no shortage of those in the school. “And who did he beat?”

“Wilkins.” Hermione was still not looking up, but this made Ron pay more attention.

“Wilkins is not half-bad. For a Slytherin.” Harry’s friend emptied his bottle. “I’ve seen him dueling before. Malfoy is worse.”

“That might have changed. Or Malfoy got lucky.”

“That’s always a possibility. But I think the rumors would not be spreading that much if it had just been luck.” Hermione closed her book, finally paying attention.

“What else would it be? Robes do not make that much of a difference.” Ron summoned a sandwich, which he kept floating in front of his mouth, taking a bite out of it without using his hands. Harry grinned at the sight - his friend would never dare doing that at the Burrow.

“Most robes do not. But if you spend enough money, you can buy some really good protection. Especially against the sort of spells people use in duels where they do not want to kill their opponent. I’ve been looking into that, in order to work on duplicating it.” Hermione frowned at Ron’s display, and summoned a glass and a pitcher of water for herself.

“Merlin’s balls, just what we needed - Malfoy’s money mattering even more.” Ron added a few more colorful curses under his breath. Harry was tempted to do the same, but Hermione would not appreciate that. She was still a bit miffed about his handling of the ‘Bill intrusion’, as he liked to think of it. Harry had asked Sirius for the latest book on curse-breaking, to mollify his retainer. Expensive, but then, she was worth it. And not just because she was likely to use her knowledge to save him.

“I can probably match or exceed whatever protections he has on his robes over the summer, unless his father hired one of the enchanters doing custom work.” Case in point, Harry thought.

“And if he has hired one of those?”

“Then I’ll surpass it next year.” Hermione smirked confidently.

“So, we need to take that into account when we train. Spells that bypass, ignore or go through protective spells.” Ron looked at Hermione. As expected, she nodded.

“I’ve made a list of such enchantments to help improve our own protections.” She dug in her mokeskin pocket, and pulled out a sheet of parchment. “The general tactic is to either overload them, which breaks them, temporarily disable them, or use spells that ignore them.”

No one mentioned the Unforgivables, but Harry was sure every one of them thought about them.

“The thing is, there are limits for all protection spells. They don’t work that well with each other, and some need quite the fine-tuning to help more than hinder. Otherwise your spell will stop a bludger from knocking you over, but also slow you down when you want to drop to the floor to dodge a spell.” His friend explained while pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear in a very distracting manner.

“So, if we play it right we can arrange it so that Malfoy gets defeated by his own robe?” Ron was grinning broadly. Harry had to agree, this was a most promising possibility.

“If we play it right we’ll not fight him at all.” Hermione of course had to spoil their fun. “We’ve got more important things to worry about than Malfoy.”

That Harry had to agree with. The last task was coming up. He’d be facing Earth-themed foes - plants, burrowers, elementals - and traps of all kinds, in a cave or underground labyrinth. And he had barely more than a month and a half left to prepare. Hermione hadn’t been able to think of a spell she could craft to help him there, but she had found plenty of spells he could learn.

*****​

“No.” Hermione stated firmly. She would not give in. No matter what.

“But Hermione! It would fit you perfectly!” No matter how much Luna whined and begged. “Look!” Luna held up the latest spring robe she had picked out in the shop in Hogsmeade. ‘Spring robe’ only in a loose sense of the word - it was closer to a bathing suit than a robe, at least from the amount of fabric it used, in Hermione’s opinion. A skimpy bathing suit.

“It consists of a few scraps of fabric floating in place. Small scraps of thin fabric.”

“And a cape!”

“A transparent cape.” Hermione crossed her arms under her chest and raised her chin. Luna caved in. Sort of.

“This would fit you perfectly!” It had more fabric. It also looked like a low-cut cocktail dress more than anything else. A cocktail dress that barely reached her thighs, with spaghetti straps and wandering, growing and shrinking holes in the fabric. On the other hand, she had nice legs, she knew that, and this would draw attention to them. And the wandering holes could be enchanted to make sure nothing embarrassing was revealed. It would just take a bit of tweaking. Hermione studied the garment, almost missing the grin on Luna’s face.

“You wanted this robe from the start.” She stared at her friend, narrowing her eyes.

“Uh uh.” Luna just smiled, and picked another of those robes for herself. “We can enchant it to match colors again!”

Hermione had to smile - Luna’s enthusiasm and bubbly personality was hard to resist. And it was fun, she had to admit. And if she was honest with herself the young witch had to admit she wanted to see how her friends, how Harry, reacted to that robe. On that thought… “How much was the other robe?” She grinned at the look of surprise on Luna’s face, a very rare sight.

*****​

May had finally brought temperatures warm enough to allow swimming in the Black Lake without too many warming charms. As was to be expected half the school had taken to spend the afternoons at the shore of the lake, or in the lake. Some were studying under a tree, some were sunbathing, many were swimming or taking a break from swimming. A number were jumping from floating platforms or from brooms. Harry was seated under a tree himself, a book on stone manipulating spells on his lap. He should be preparing for the next, the final task, but he hadn’t turned a page in the last 30 minutes. The weather was too nice, the lake too inviting, and the sights too appealing.

A shriek and laughter made him turn his head. Another illusionary bathing suit had been hit with a finite. Judging by the age of the students in the group there, and the lack of nasty hexing in retaliation, that finite had not been entirely unwanted or unplanned for, and the illusion hadn’t just been chosen because swimming without a stitch of actual fabric on was more comfortable. Sixth years, showing off.

“Have you been waiting long for us?” Hermione’s voice made him turn his head away from the sixth years and towards his friend with such speed he almost hurt his neck. Had she noticed? She was smirking, so she had. Then he noticed what she was wearing - a dress that just about stopped where her thighs started, and looked so thin that the slightest breeze would lift it, if not blow it away completely, given how many holes it already had… he coughed, and looked at the lake instead of at his friend.

“Not long. Half an hour or so. What took you so long?”

“We had to decide on our bathing costumes.” Luna answered for the two of them. Three, Aicha arrived as well. “Where’s Ron?”

“Ron’s already in the water, with Neville.” Harry pointed at the two, using brooms to fly up to the highest of the platforms.

“Showing off for Padma, I see.” Hermione’s voice sounded amused and satisfied. Harry wasn’t sure if that was just because she liked Padma - or if she liked Parvati fuming about that particular couple.

“And for Ginny.” Luna added. “Neville I mean.”

Harry turned his attention back to the three girls, just in time to catch Hermione slipping out of her dress. He stared. His best friend was wearing nothing but an illusion. She was not actually showing more skin than anyone else at a muggle beach, but to think the only thing hiding her body was a flimsy illusion, so easily dispelled with a flick of his wand… his second thought was to tell her to wear something more resistant to finites. He didn’t, of course. She’d have hexed him for that. His third thought was that he was glad he had a book on his lap.

“I am headed into the water myself then, I am feeling a bit hot.” Hermione slowly walked down to the lake. Harry’s eyes seemed glued to her, he barely noticed Luna and Aicha following his retainer. When she finally started swimming he leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes, and tried to drown out the voice of Sirius that told him that girls wearing that kind of swimming costumes were asking for a finite. Hermione wasn’t like that. And she’d kill him if he tried anything. He still feared her reaction, should she ever find out what exactly Sirius had done to prank her and Harry and Yuletide.

“Hi Harry.” Susan sat down next to him. She was wearing a sensible robe, at least.

“Hi Susan. Are you going to swim as well?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t feel well enough.”

“Oh. Shouldn’t you see Madam Pomfrey then?” She sent a look at him that made him shut up. He didn’t know what gaffe he had committed, but he knew better than to ask further. So he looked at the lake, at his friends, at Hermione swimming and laughing. He wanted to join them, but he didn’t want to leave Susan all alone when she was not well enough to swim. Instead the two of them chatted. Or rather, Susan filled him in with the latest gossip while he kept an eye on his retainer, and made agreeing noises from time to time.

Finally, Hermione stepped out of the lake again, and started towards him. Then suddenly her bathing costume disappeared! Harry was on his feet, his book falling to the ground, and had drawn his wand before he realized his friend was not naked, but wearing a bikini. He blinked. He was sure she had not been wearing that before. Hermione kept walking, after throwing a glance at whoever had cast the finite. Harry was still staring when she reached his spot and dried the bikini with her wand.

“A disillusion charm on the bikini, tied to the illusionary bathing costume. I got the idea after the curse-breaking competition.” Hermione explained, with a proud smile. Harry beamed at her. That was his girl!

“That was clever.” Susan nodded at Hermione, who smiled at her.

“Thank you. I think it was Lavender, she had a really shocked look on her face, and her wand in hand. I am not sure though. It could also have been Parvati, or someone else.” Judging from the way her smile turned from proud to slightly evil, Hermione was planning to find out, and then retaliate. Harry really did not want to be in the place of whoever had tried to expose her. Once again he hoped she’d never find out what Sirius had done.

He collected his book and sat down again. He could handle Hermione in a bikini. Or so he thought, until Hermione leaned over and whispered into his ear: “We should work on desensitizing you, Harry. Proper purebloods do not react that strongly to nudity in public.” He gaped at her, until she giggled.

Huffing, he hid behind his book for a while. Girls!

*****​

Hermione wiped some sweat from her brow. Helping Harry to prepare for the last task was exhausting. With the expected set-up - an underground labyrinth filled with traps and monsters - there was no single spell to give him an edge. Or rather, she had not been able to think of one. A spell to travel through the earth had come to mind at first, but she hadn’t been able to find a way to achieve that. Most spells that allowed to travel through earth resulted in such slow movement, braving the labyrinth would be faster, and not that much more dangerous, given that she had not found a way to see through the earth and spot traps and monsters in advance either. Harry had agreed with her that they should focus on learning and training with existing spells. Which was why she was now getting put through her paces, in an impromptu training session apart from the regular ones with Sirius and Remus. Professor Lupin, she corrected herself.

At least she had found an obscure spell that would help Harry find his way through the maze - Minotaur’s Bane was it called. And she had collected a lot of information about typical opponents champions had faced in the last tasks of past tournaments. She still felt she was letting Harry down, even if he had told her he would never have come as far as he had without her. But as his retainer, she had to, needed to help her Patron. The thought of him getting hurt due to her failing him… it hurt.

She summoned a glass of water and watched Harry hold his shield up while Ron pelted it with stunners and other spells. She wasn’t sure if it would be a blessing or a curse that she would not be able to watch Harry’s progress through the task this time. She wouldn’t see him getting hurt, but she’d worry even more, not knowing how he was faring. Sighing, she got up again and banished the glass. Putting a smile on her face even though she didn’t really feel like, she joined her two friends again.

*****​

The last “Champions’ Evening” before the fourth task was different from the others, Harry thought. The camaraderie the champions had shared ever since the first task was still there, as was the friendship that had grown from that. And yet there was a nostalgia present that affected them all. This was the last time they’d meet like this, before a dangerous task. After the task they wouldn’t be the three champions anymore. One of them would be the Triwizard Tournament Champion. And the two others would be the ones who didn’t win. The losers, in other words. He supposed he shouldn’t feel bad, should he lose. Beaten by Viktor Krum or Fleur Delacour, both three years his senior and the champions of their schools, shouldn’t be too bad. But to lose, even if only temporarily, ceremonially, Hermione…

Harry raised his glass, filled with a cola he had gotten for the occasion, to his fellow champions. He didn’t say anything, but since they too raised their glasses - wine in their case - and had the same grim and challenging expression on their face he was sure he had as well, he guessed they understood. They drank in silence. Ron looked confused but Hermione was frowning at him, before she raised her own glass.

“To safely finishing this tournament, and a final task without any incident or sabotage!” The way she glared him, there would be an incident right there and then should Harry not agree. So he did. Even though her toast needed a lot of work. But that was his Hermione, as he… liked her. As her Patron, oath-bound. He had asked himself if they would be as close without that oath, without the life debt, but he had never been sure if he wanted to know the answer. If all his feelings towards her were the result of such magic… or, worse, the feelings he hoped she had...

After this chastisement, the rest of the evening was spent in a less competitive mood, though the melancholy remained. Things would not be the same again, for better or worse. Though if Harry was honest, not having to worry about losing Hermione, or about sabotage of a tournament he shouldn’t be participating in in the first place, would be a good thing indeed.

He patted Hermione’s thigh and filled his glass again, smiling at her surprised and then confused expression. He leaned over to her, and whispered. “I’ll not lose you, not even for a second.” She blushed, then glared at him, but he thought her heart was not in it. Not completely, at least.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore was standing at the window in his office, looking out. It was a bit unusual for him these days, or years. Fawkes was making inquiring noises behind him, so he turned to his companion of so many decades. “I am just enjoying the scenery, Fawkes.” When the phoenix cocked his head in what Albus had come to recognize as doubt, he added “and thinking about young Harry.” At that the phoenix lost what interest he had had, and started to groom himself. Albus chuckled. It was true that Harry was often on his mind, especially these days.

The boy, no, the young man, had been faced with yet another calamity, and had risen to the occasion, as he had done so often in the past already. The young man and his friends, first and foremost among them Miss Granger. And since the Yule Ball Harry’s date, Miss Bones, had become a good friend of his as well. And maybe more - which presented Albus with a possible problem.

Miss Granger was of crucial importance for Harry, as the tournament so far had proven. If what he suspected was true, then the young wizard would need her support even more in the future. And Albus was not sure if Miss Bones’ growing friendship was about to threaten that. If Amelia’s niece was seeking just friendship, then she’d be a boon to Harry. But if she was looking for something more, if she was looking to become young Harry’s lover… Miss Granger was already not likely to easily accept becoming Harry’s mistress while he took a wife, although he thought her pragmatism would win out over her pride. But to share his heart with someone else… Albus shook his head. She’d never accept that. If Miss Bones was aiming for something more than friendship with Harry, this would put a strain on the relation to Miss Granger. Either relation.

He returned to his desk and summoned a lemon drop. The Year of Discovery would be bad enough for the two young students’ relationship, without additional complications. But interfering would make matters worse, much worse. It usually did, when teenagers were involved. His own experiences, both as a teenager and as an adult, had proven that.

The enchantment on his office doors informed him that someone was coming up the stairs. Alastor, a look at the small mirror on his desk confirmed. “Good day, Alastor. Lemon Drop?”

“No thanks.“ His friend sat down on the chair in front of his desk, which automatically adjusted to provide more comfort. “I caught one of the tournament staff trying to poison the champions’ robes.”

“Imperiused?” Albus had expected such a ploy. The day of the last task was the best opportunity for such attempts, with so many guests and staff arriving in the morning. The gruff old auror nodded.

“Aye. The Thieves’ Downfall caught him.”

Every galleon the Ministry was paying the goblins for that had been worth it, Albus thought, satisfied. Cornelius had balked at the cost at first, but the thought of having a champion, much less the Boy-Who-Lived, dying on his watch had made him see reason. And yet… “One would think that our saboteur would have been a bit more clever than to rely on that.”

Alastor nodded. “Right again. The replacement robes we got from Madam Malkin’s were already trapped.” He pointed at his artificial eye. “Even with this I almost missed it. There were runes expertly hidden inside the fabric.”

“Oh? What was their effect?” Albus loved discovering new spells or other feats of magic, and even circumstances such as these only dampened his enthusiasm, but did not remove it.

“Don’t know, don’t care right now. The robes were supposed to be free of any enhancements, so there shouldn’t have been any runes. You can sort the things out after the tournament - but it might be a trap for you. Our saboteur certainly would be able to plan that far ahead. The bugger has a twisted mind.” Alastor sounded almost approving.

“I will be careful. You have taken other measures to reduce the chance of similar traps.” It was no question, Albus knew his friend well.

“Aye. Replaced whatever we could spare with conjured things. The stakes stand, the chairs, most of the judges’ lounge. I’d have replaced the robes with conjured ones as well, but the organizers balked.” He scoffed. Albus understood that decision - in such tasks, the students often had to resort to finites to cancel spells affecting them, and to see their clothes disappear would not make a good impression on the guests of Hogwarts. “So I got clean robes from my own tailor.”

“Very well. Let us descend to the arena then, and supervise the preparations again.” Albus knew he should have been there from the start, but he was not getting any younger these days. And he wanted to be well-rested when the task started.

He didn’t show any weakness when he stood up and followed his friend down the stairs, but since his friend had not commented on him not being present at the arena already, Alastor certainly knew or suspected.

*****​

Hermione was sitting with Harry, Sirius and Professor Lupin in the Champions’ Lounge. The Delacours and Krums were walking around Hogwarts, sightseeing with the two champions acting as guides. That had been deemed too dangerous for Harry, and by extension, herself. Not that anyone present had felt like it. This was their school, after all. Professor Lupin lived here during the terms, and Sirius had visited so often, he might as well have taken a room too. She wished she could show her parents the school, but… she told herself it was too dangerous under the circumstances. And they’d not like seeing their only daughter presented as one of the prizes of the event anyway.

The door to the lounge opened, and Hermione tensed up. She had her wand partially drawn, hidden at her side, and pushed away from the wall she was leaning against, so she could react faster, just in case. When she saw it was Fleur, she relaxed - a bit. The French champion was leading her family inside and introduced them. To Harry, Sirius and Professor Lupin, of course. Retainers did not rate introductions on such occasions. Next to Fleur’s parents, a stunningly beautiful veela and a stocky but jovial looking wizard, her grand-parents and head of families were also present for the event. All decked out in high-fashion robes from Paris, which seemed inspired by the latest Chanel collection, as far as Hermione could judge. It seemed she had not been as original as she had thought when she had turned to muggle fashion as inspiration for her own projects. Unless of course the designer for Chanel was inspired by wizard fashion.

And there was Fleur’s adorable little sister Gabrielle, who was clinging to her mother’s leg and peeking out from behind her. Hermione smiled when she met the little veela’s gaze but Gabrielle squeaked and ducked behind her mother’s robes. She didn’t look that scary, did she? Fortunately, Ron was not present, he’d have made a few jokes at her expense later. Unfortunately, Sirius was present, who’d cover for Ron’s loss, and then some. She glared at him, but he just smirked.

“We have heard such good things about you from my granddaughter, Fleur’s grandmother, a witch and not a veela, stated with a noticeable lack of accent, “you must visit us over the summer at our mansion at the Côte d’Azur.”

Hermione noted that it was the grandmother who extended the invitation she had expected for months, but she was not sure if that meant the mansion was within her purview, or if it was because Harry was Fleur’s friend, and therefore it fell to the female head of family to invite him. She’d have to ask Fleur later.

Harry of course accepted. Hermione didn’t know what she would have done to him if he robbed her of the opportunity to visit the French Magical Riviera as a guest of the Delacours. Or rather, as the retainer of a guest of them.

While the two groups were still exchanging pleasantries, Krum’s family arrived as well. They presented quite the contrast to the elegant Delacours. Not just because of their robes, which had more than a passing resemblance to duelists’ robes, but their guarded, reserved attitude. Even when smiling and inviting Harry to visit them in Bulgaria over the summer, they seemed to be wary, ready. Like herself, Hermione realized, wondering if that was just because they knew about the threat of sabotage, or if there was something more behind it. This summer would be interesting, she decided.

*****​

Barty Crouch Jr. smiled widely, overlooking the site chosen for his master’s rebirth. Everything was in its place. The altar, the sacrificial implements, the needed ingredients, the candles and runic stones encircling it, the polished stone floor, perfectly aligned. If the members of his old coven knew what ritual he would be performing at their sacred site… not that any of them were still alive. But the protections placed upon it so long ago would mask the magic worked this day. And the corruption of the site’s magic that would result from the ritual would help power it.

Next to him Mykew Cattermole-Brandon was sleeping peacefully in his crib. Barty sat down and caressed the baby’s cheek. Such a fine young wizard. He tickled his belly, and grinned at the giggling noises that produced. The Cattermole-Brandons had every reason to be proud of their son, if not of their pitiful wards, or equally pitiful skills at defense. He didn’t think they had even seen him, before he had taken them out. Once his Master was ruling Britain, as was his his ancestral right and sacred duty, such weaknesses would be corrected.

He stood up again and walked over to the altar upon which the temporary host of his Master was resting. The wind was picking up, despite the clear sky - the magic of the place had to be feeling something important, something glorious was about to take place.

His Master, wearing the form of a small child, a transfigured snake, turned his head towards him, but otherwise remained still as a statue.

“Barty, my most faithful servant.”

“Master.” He bowed deeply.

“It is time. Begin.”

*****​

“It’s time, Mister Potter.” Harry turned towards the attendant addressing him and nodded. Since he was in the lead by five points he’d have a head start of five minutes. Staggered starting times meant that whoever reached the goal first was the winner, without the need to award and then compare points totals, as had happened after the other tasks. He didn’t know why that was not done for every task. Probably tradition.

He walked to the entrance to the labyrinth the arena had been changed into. A three-dimensional maze of tunnels, chutes and twisted passages, made from stone, earth, even clay, the structure slowly changing, warping. Hermione had said it reminded her of a painting from Escher, come alive - whatever that meant. Harry was pretty sure it was not a good thing. It didn’t matter though. What mattered was that somewhere inside there, at the exit, was Hermione, waiting for him. He didn’t know what kind of traps and monsters would be trying to stop him, but he knew they’d not succeed. His retainer, his Hermione, needed him.

“Ready Mister Potter?”

Harry drew his wand and nodded. “Yes.”

“Begin.”

Harry entered the arena and felt the familiar tug of a portkey. After a very brief trip he landed in a crouch, wand out, in a dark tunnel, on the top floor of the labyrinth - probably. He had expected that, had been counting on it. If all champions started from the same place, his and Hermione’s plan would not work that well. Waving his wand in a complicated pattern, he started to cast Minotaur’s Bane. Soon a glowing ball of yarn appear at the tip of his wand, floating a bit away before it started to uncoil, with a strand floating down the tunnel. The spell led the caster to a place or person known to him. It had a short range but it should cover the labyrinth. Harry smirked as he followed the yarn. Some might call this cheating, but it wasn’t his fault that Hermione was his stake in this tournament. He’d take any advantage he could get to make sure he could get her safely out of it again. She was his retainer, after all.

Turning around the next corner he came face to face with what looked like an animated clay figure the size of a man. It was trying to catch the intangible yarn and had not noticed Harry yet. A reducto from him made sure it would not notice him ever by splattering clay bits all over the … clay walls? Harry’s eyes widened when he saw that the remains of the figure he had blown up were sinking into the walls. He might have been a tad hasty in blowing it up. When over a dozen clay figures started to form out of the walls, floor and even ceiling, he knew he had made a mistake.

Running past them before they had fully formed, he hit a few of them with sticking charms in passing. Hopefully that would at least slow them down. Glancing back, he saw that half a dozen were still chasing after him, but they seemed to be rather slow. He would be able to outrun them - unless another obstacle stopped him.

He continued to run until the walls changed from clay to stone. Perfect. Turning around, he started to transfigure the stone into a wall to close up the tunnel between him and the clay figures. It took some time, but he managed to raise the wall high enough to keep him safe before the first of his pursuers reached him. Sketching a salute at the clay arm grasping through the gap left on top of the wall, he turned around, then stopped. That was a rather long arm… looking back, the arm was almost touching the ground. That thing was changing its shape to go over the wall!

Another reducto blew it up, giving him enough time to raise another wall. This time he left no gap for them to ooze through. Shaking his head at the mistakes he had made, he vowed to to be more careful.

*****​

Hermione definitely didn’t like this task. Not only was she still on display with the other stakes, a prize to be taken by whoever reached her first, but she couldn’t even see how Harry was doing. Wouldn’t know if he was hurt, or worse, while she was left to stare at the stone walls of her temporary prison.

“Ah. Did you feel those tremors? Someone fell down a chute. I wonder if that was your owner.”

A temporary prison she was stuck in with the last guardian of the labyrinth, an Earth Genie. Who apparently believed he would be able to keep the stakes if no champion managed to defeat him. She rolled her eyes in disdain at the creature, who looked like a man made of grey stone clad in arabic garments. She knew that if no one managed to win, the stakes would be returned to the champions. Or their heirs.

“You’ll be a prize my rivals will be jealous of. They laughed at me when I agreed to take part in this contest of you mortals. But I will have the last laugh!” He stepped closer to her, but was careful not to cross the line around the stand where the stakes rested. Or sat in Hermione’s case. His grin showed pearly white teeth, in a mouth too wide for a human his size. “So pretty…”

Hermione really wanted to hurt whoever had the idea to pick this creature as the last obstacle. Refraining from hexing the creature - that would break the deal he had made, she had been told several times - she pulled out a book from her enchanted pocket. Reading should distract her. Or at least, show the annoying genie just how little she cared about his delusions. They were delusions, of course. No wizard would break custom and tradition and deal away the stakes of the champions. She told herself that while she started to turn the pages.

*****​

His Master’s form was soaked with the potion Barty Crouch Jr. had been brewing for months. He didn’t notice the awful stench of rotten, putrid meat. The candles were burning and the runic stones were glowing, shielding the site from the winds that had grown to the strength of a storm, battering at the glowing barrier and destroying the foliage of the trees surrounding the area. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane, Barty thought, or how he imagined that would be like.

The obsidian dagger had been soaking in the potion as well. The stone blade would shatter in a day and an hour from the stress, but it would hold until then. It had carved out the hearts of countless people sacrificed to the sun in the Americas, before the Spaniards had put an end to that practise and to the people who had practised it, centuries ago. They had believed such sacrifices were needed to keep the world from ending, to continue the cycle of life. It was only fitting that such a weapon would serve to return his master to life.

He took the dagger and started to walk around the altar, chanting the words he had learned by heart from the grimoires his Master had guided him to. He didn’t even notice the storm growing stronger, tearing branches off trees and smashing them against the barrier. All his thoughts were on his glorious duty as dark magic filled him.

*****​

A trapdoor. Harry almost smiled. After the encounter with the strangling fireproof roots that had left him in tattered, ripped robes and after the quicksand roof with the gravity reversal field, encountering a trapdoor, likely with a pit beneath it, felt like catching a break. It was well-made, but he had spotted the fine lines in the stone floor. He conjured a rock the size of his head and banished it at the trap. That should be enough of a weight to trigger it.

The rock hit the trapdoor, bouncing off, but nothing happened. Harry frowned. Maybe there was a magical trigger, a detection spell? He cast a finite at the area, then banished another rock at the trapdoor. Still nothing. Maybe this was a fake trap, meant to stall the too cautious? He stepped closer when the trapdoor suddenly opened - towards the ceiling - and a dog-sized spider jumped out.

Harry dove to the side, but one of the legs caught him, smashing him against the wall. He lost another part of his robe, as well as some skin. Harry managed to cast a protego in time to stop the spider from pouncing on him. For a moment he was staring at the mandibles scraping over his shield in an attempt to snatch him, and saw eight beady eyes meeting his. Then the spider jumped back and crouched down. It was about to charge at him again, the wizard realized. His shield would not stand up against another impact.

Harry cast aguamenti. The stream of water managed to push the animal back - he had become quite proficient at casting that spell when he had been training for the second task - and while it was recovering, he followed up with a piercing curse. The spider moved at the last moment though and he didn’t hit the head, instead drilling a hole into its body.

Screeching, the monster rushed him, green blood pouring out of the wound. Harry froze the water on the floor and slid to the side. The spider went past him and stopped near the trapdoor. A quick banishing charm and a colloportus later, the spider was trapped in its own trap. Panting, Harry cast a quick episkey on his side and continued. Fortunately, the yarn he was following had not reversed direction - that happened already once, to be expected when traveling inside a labyrinth that was slowly changing, after all.

*****​

Barty Crouch Jr. took a deep breath. He was covered with runes written with his own blood, as was his masters’ body, and Mykew. With the child in his arms, he walked backwards around the altar, retracing the steps he had taken before. Every candle he passed was snuffed out, the site growing darker despite the fact it was still afternoon. When he had completed the circle the area was covered by unnatural darkness. Barty didn’t see anything anymore but his own body - and the runes written with his own blood, which seemed to glow in the darkness, filled with power that made him shiver with pain. The obsidian dagger was floating, its point tracking Barty - no, Mykew.

With a smile, Barty placed the baby on the altar, opposite his Master. Outside the barrier, which was shining now, the storm had started to uproot trees, and wood, smashed to kindling, was starting to pile up around the barrier. He smiled - nothing would stop him now.

He closed his eyes, savoring the moment for just a second, then reached for the dagger. On the altar, Mykew, held in place by a sticking charm and unable to move, started to cry. Barty’s smile widened while he raised the dagger. Perfect!

*****​

Harry was in a very bad mood. He had dropped down a chute filled with water, bouncing and scraping over the stone walls, acquiring bruises faster than in one of Wood’s infamous “dodge the bludgers” exercises. Exercises Hermione had hexed Wood for, before Harry could stop her. He had to recast the Minotaur’s Bane spell twice so far, and had dealt with poison gas, underground rivers and magical kudzu that had grown almost faster than he had managed to burn it.

The tunnel he was in had changed too. No clay, no stone, but packed earth surrounded him. That usually meant plants of a sort, he thought. He didn’t see any sign of roots though. He raised his wand and shot flames at the walls, the floor and the ceiling. He hadn’t heard of invisible plants, but one never knew what a wizard or witch could invent. Nothing. He moved forward, and repeated the spell. This time he hit something - out of the wall slid a thick-limbed, slow-moving creature made of earth and stone - an elemental. He bared his teeth. He had dealt with such before, and he had just the spell for it.

He raised his wand, ready to blast it, but before he could finish his spell, he felt as if someone had driven a red-hot poker into his forehead. He threw his head back, screaming with pain as blood spurted from his scar. He didn’t even realize he had fallen to his knees, nor did he see the elemental close in. He was still screaming, unable to do anything, when the thing started to engulf him.

*****​

“Did you hear that? Unless my ears deceive me, one champion just found his end. So close… and yet so far, now.” The genie was gloating, but Hermione wasn’t listening, She knew that voice, even if she had never heard it scream like this. And her torc was warm. Harry! She jumped up without thinking, wand in hand, while her chair clattered to the ground behind her. He needed her help! She turned to the tunnel among the three leading here that the scream had come from.

She didn’t get far, the barrier around the stakes stopped her, to the amusement of the foul genie. His cackling laugh made her want to hurt him, kill him even. Harry was suffering, and that monster found that amusing? She had her wand pointed at the barrier, almost trying to break it, despite the knowledge it would be futile. When she lowered her wand instead, and pressed her hands against the barrier, looking at the tunnel she knew Harry was in, tears of frustration and anguish running down her cheeks, the genie laughed louder.

*****​

Barty Crouch Jr. was on his knees, panting with exhaustion, covered in blood - his, and Mykew's. The potions he had taken an hour ago were starting to end, and he was feeling the damage the ritual had done to his body, the pain growing with each breath he took as his blood was leaking through the holes the runes on his skin had left when they were consumed by the ritual. And yet he was filled with rapture. In front of him stood his master, restored to life. Larger than life, handsome, powerful, a wizard in his prime. Shiny black hair framed an aristocratic face, and the body… fitting for a quidditch star. He was perfect!

Struggling with the effort, Barty pulled out the Dark Lord’s wand, taken from a cache he had been guided to months ago, and held it out. His Master looked at it, and it flew to him, landing in his hand. A moment later he was wearing a robe, blacker than night, and tailored to his new form. Magnificent.

Barty was still smiling, caught in ecstasy despite the horrible pain wracking his body, when he started to topple over. Before he lost consciousness he felt his Master’s magic catch him, preventing him from touching the ground.

*****​

Harry was surrounded by earth. If not for the bubblehead charm he had cast to pass through the poison, some time back, he’d have suffocated - or rather, the portkey he was carrying would have activated. His scar was still hurting, bleeding too, but the visions of blood, death and a crazy wizard turning a baby into a snake and then into an adult man had stopped. He could not dwell on whatever that had been though, he had to reach Hermione.

He realized the elemental had engulfed him. Was about to crush him. He couldn’t move his limbs, but he still was holding his wand. For all the good it would do to him - he wouldn’t be able to move it enough to cast. For a moment he was ready to give up. He had done what he could. Then rage filled him. Nothing, no one would stop him! He screamed into the earth surrounding him, holding him prisoner, wishing with every fibre of his being to smash his bonds, to break free. He would not be defeated!

A shield sprang up around him, pushing the earth elemental holding him back. Far enough so he could cast. Grinning, he started to transfigure the the animated earth holding him into sand. Soon the floor was covered with fine grains of sand, and what was left of the elemental was fleeing. He almost chased after it, wanting to destroy that thing for daring to attack him, but realized that Hermione, his Hermione was waiting for him, needed him. Panting, he staggered onward. His spelled yarn was gone, but he was sure she was just ahead. He knew it.

*****​

“Hermione!”

Hermione gasped, relief - Harry was alive - mixing with horror when she saw just how hurt he was. His robes were in tatters, he was covered with mud, dust, sand and blood. So much blood. He was stumbling more than he was walking, and his glasses were bent. And his eyes… wide, bloodshot, and so intense… “Harry!”

“Ah, one brave champion managed to reach me! But will you be able to overcome me, as beaten as you are?” The genie was cackling at Harry. “Or will you try to make a deal? Maybe ...”

Whatever the genie had been about to offer Hermione would never know. Harry turned towards the creature, snarled, and blasted it into the stone wall with so much force, it left a small crater. Hermione stared. That had been an expelliarmus. A very, very powerful one.

Her friend staggered towards her while she was pressing herself against the barrier. “Harry!” He looked like he’d collapse any second. The barrier disappeared as soon as he touched it, and he fell into her arms.

She didn’t know how long they remained like that, kneeling, holding each other, crying into each other’s shoulder. Harry was alive. He had come for her. But he was hurt! He needed help! She started to stand up, pulling her friend up with her. The door was right there. Healers would be waiting outside.

The door was glowing - the seals were broken. Just a few steps. Behind her, she heard the genie groan. Served the foul creature right. Then the words registered. “The task is over, the deal done. I am free now. As planned.” Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him smile cruelly, and pull out a red egg. Her eyes widened when the egg began to glow and he pulled its arm back to throw it.

Hermione cast a protego then spun around, shielding Harry with her own body as she pushed him towards the door. The egg hit her shield just as the door opened, shattering it, and she felt the the protection spells on her robe flare up when fire engulfed her.


Chapter 11: Endings and Beginnings

 

Chapter 11: Endings and Beginnings

Fire engulfed Hermione. Flames licked at her clothes and at her hair, but the heat was not touching her. Or she was not feeling it yet, due to shock. The young witch didn’t know what was the case, didn’t care. All she cared about was pushing Harry through the door, out of the labyrinth, to the waiting healers. To safety. Behind her, the genie laughed, cackled.

She tackled Harry forward, tried to shield him from the flames with her own body. He hit the door, gasping - in pain - when she drove him into the stone, forcing it open. The two fell out of the arena, onto the stone floor of the platform. Hermione could see the waiting wizards already starting towards them, wands out. Before she could tell them to heal Harry though her protective spells started to fail, and she felt the flames surrounding her, felt herself burn. She screamed.

Her hair was burning, the acrid stench reaching her nose. Her neck felt as if something was tearing the skin off, slowly. Her robe was burning as if it had been dipped into oil and set aflame. She realized that was true - she had been splattered with a burning substance. Screaming, she tried to tear the blazing robe off her, the same toughness that had saved her so far now working against her. A small part of her was making a note: she needed a quick-strip charm or such. But that thought was drowned out by her panic, her struggle to open her robe and slide out of it before she was burned to a cinder.

Water hit her and for a second she felt relief, felt the heat abate. Then the flames roared up and the heat increased. Steam surrounded her, and her lungs hurt with each breath she took. “Stop! Stop it! No Water!” she screamed, frantically shaking her left arm to get it out of the smoldering sleeve clinging to it. With the burning remains of her robe hanging on her right arm, her wand arm, she started to cast a spell she had learned a week ago, to see if it would help Harry in the task. “Terrenum Mantellum!” Earth, clay, some stones appeared around and on her, covering her, and started to smother the flames.

The earth mixed with the water the fools were still shooting at her, turning into mud. She did not care. It covered her, her head first, then her body, then her limbs, until she was engulfed in mud, earth, and clay. She lay there, blind, held by densely packed earth. Hermione didn’t know if she was still burning, the pain from her wounds was already too strong to tell. Her lungs hurt from the steam and the lack of air. The material surrounding her was supposed to be brittle, but the heat and water had changed that. Not enough to bake the clay, fortunately. Using her left hand she dug at the sticky cover over her mouth, tearing at it until she could breathe again.

She gulped down the air, screaming with the pain it caused her, and stammered again “No water… no water.”¨She kept stammering, pleading, encased in her shell, in pain. She faintly heard someone else screaming: “No water! She said no Water!” Harry. Then she didn’t hear anyone, anything anymore.

*****​

Harry’s battered body gained more bruises when Hermione slammed him into the door, forcing it open as if he was a battering ram. He fell down on the stone floor, hard, hurting his wrist in an attempt to catch his fall. Groaning, the young champion started to get up, spotting several wizards and witches in healer robes running towards him. Behind him the door had already closed again. Then he heard her scream. Hermione!

He spun around, heedless of his injuries, and saw his best friend on fire, burning, screaming. It felt as if someone had torn his heart apart.

“Aguamenti!” Streams of water hit her, turning into steam as they suppressed the flames, but to his horror the flames did not flicker out, but increased in size.

“Stop! Stop it! No water!” When he heard her words, he didn’t think, he simply lashed out. A banishing spell bowled over half the wizards surrounding his friend and interrupted their spells. Someone tried to grab him, and he stunned whoever it was without looking. Hermione needed him!

The witch had struggled out of her burning robe and had started to cover herself with earth. Earth Shell! Trusting his best friend he followed her example. “Terrenum Mantellum!” Earth covered the burning witch, surrounding her, replacing the flames. Water was still hitting her, hampering both his and her spells.

“No water! She said no water!” He screamed at the wizards and witches standing there, brandishing his wand. If they did not stop hurting Hermione…

Fortunately, they did. He barely noticed another, older wizard kneeling, casting at a burning spot on the stone floor. He was too focused on his friend, encased in mud and stone, lying on the floor - dying? He staggered towards her, shrugging off hands trying to stop him, and knelt down, staring at her.

The voices around him started to grow dimmer and he slumped forward.

“It’s Byzantine Alchemical Oil. Keep water away from her. Get her to the infirmary and tell them we need a fire-suppressing potion, at once!”

“Levitate her. And get him to the Infirmary as well.”

“Merlin! His sleeve is burning!”

“Carefully now!”

He closed his eyes, his cheek pressed into the warm mud covering Hermione’s body.

*****​

Ron was screaming at the auror standing between him and his friends. “They are my best friends! I need to know how they are doing!” If not for Padma and Neville holding him back, he’d have attacked the stupid wizard, even without his wand, which Ginny had nicked.

The auror remained impassive. “This is a restricted area. No one is allowed inside. You’ll be informed in due time about your friends.”

Ron relaxed a bit, then tried to rush forward, but Neville knew him too well and didn’t let go of his arm. Closing his eyes, Ron finally stopped struggling. What a horrible end to the tournament!

It had started so well, with Harry using his head start and a spell Hermione had found in an obscure book - the announcer had to ask an expert to identify it - to rapidly make progress towards the exit. Fleur had been held up by a giant-sized Brazilian Venomous Tentacula right after entering. Neville had been all excited about the fire-proof strangling plant. Everyone else had been more excited about Fleur getting part of her robes torn off in a most intriguing manner. The veela had defeated the obstacle by draining the plant of any water in it, but it had cost her time. Viktor had blown up a pack of giant moles, and then had run straight into a trap that had sent him down into the deepest bowels of the arena, leaving him in magical darkness that extinguished even magical light. Thanks to a projection the audience had been able to clearly see the walls slowly closing in while Viktor had been stumbling around. He had escaped that by conjuring metal poles to stop the walls, then opened a door with a series of reductos. That too had cost him much time though.

Harry had had his share of close encounters as well during that. It had been exciting to see him go through the enemies, and Ron had cheered louder than anyone else when Harry had banished the spider down the trapdoor it had jumped out of before. He had also screamed louder than anyone else in their group when the spider had appeared, but no one had mentioned that. Yet.

And then Harry had suddenly screamed, and blood had gushed out of his scar. No one had know what that had been - another trap? Luna had stated that elementals had no such powers, but by then, everyone had been hanging on the edge of their seats, following Harry’s struggle with the elemental.

When he had reached Hermione, when the barrier had gone down and the victory fanfare had sounded, the cheers had been almost deafening. The Champion of Hogwarts, the Boy-Who-Lived, had won! The cheers had turned into screams of horror when that earth genie had thrown a fireball at Ron’s best friends. Seeing them burning, hurting, hearing them scream, that had been pure torture for Ron and the rest of their friends. Padma had cried into his shoulder, Neville had held Ginny, Luna and Aicha had been frozen, even Aicha’s genie had been muttering what probably were curses in a voice too high pitched to be heard.

Ron shook his head to banish those horrible memories. They were walking towards the Champion’s Lounge now. The families of Viktor and Fleur were there, or had been there, and might know more. Maybe Viktor and Fleur would be there too.

“How was that possible? Didn’t the organizers made sure that all creatures in the maze were safe?” Ginny sounded angry, gesturing wildly at Luna and Aicha. Aicha’s tiny genie was hiding inside the hair of the witch, Ron noticed, probably afraid of getting hexed in place of the other genie, who had disappeared from the labyrinth as soon as Hermione and Harry had left. Ginny could be a handful, he knew, and had a temper, but he didn’t think she’d hurt the tiny little sprite. Better safe than sorry though.

“They would have made a deal with the genie, and I cannot believe they would not have stipulated a “no killing” clause. Either someone made a really stupid mistake, which is very unlikely given the genies’ well-deserved reputation for making dangerous deals, or whatever it did was not lethal, or…” Aicha trailed off, suddenly looking grim.

“Or?” Ginny demanded, impatient.

“Or the deal with the organizers ended when the tournament ended. Usually, the genie would return to its home at once, but if there was another deal already in place…”

“The saboteur.” Neville stated in a flat voice.

“The saboteur. But to arrange such a deal, knowing which genie would be chosen, in advance… that would have required a lot of information, and experience.”

“But who could that be? There cannot be too many wizards that could do such a thing, and right under Dumbledore’s nose.” Neville said with conviction.

“And Moody’s nose. Or what’s left of it.” Luna added, which made Ron snort despite the seriousness of the situation. He could think of one likely candidate for this. Another reason why he needed to talk to his two best friends. If they were still… no! They couldn’t be dead! Not from a stupid fire!

*****​

The first thing Hermione saw when she opened her eyes was a white ceiling. She knew at once she was in the Hogwarts infirmary - the young witch had been in there often enough following Harry’s quidditch matches. It was a comforting thought - if she was here, then her wounds had not been too grave. Otherwise she’d be in St. Mungos. Turning her head, she looked around. Next to her bed was another, occupied by a sleeping … Harry! She’d knew that mop of hair anywhere. But why was he still here? Had he been hurt that badly?

“Harry!” Her voice sounded raspy, hoarse, and she had to cough to clear her throat before she could continue. “Harry!” She was about to try to get out of her bed, check on him, when he woke up.

“Hermione?” his head turned towards her and a quick flick had his glasses appear on his head. “Hermione! You’re awake!” Her friend jumped out of his bed, to her side, before she could answer. Belatedly she noticed that he was wearing his school robes, not a hospital gown.

“Have you been sleeping here?” She tried to sound incredulous, disapproving even, but to see him care so much about her made her almost as happy as seeing him unhurt and whole.

“Of course!” He gripped her hand, her left hand, she realized, and squeezed gently.

Hermione giggled briefly in response, then grew more serious. She lifted her right arm, covered in bandages, then touched her face. No bandages there. But her hair… she ran her fingers over her scalp, and found only stubble where a thick mass of curls should be. No scars though that she could feel. “H… How bad is it?” Her eyes sought his, demanding the truth, not some gentle lie.

“You’ll be needing a hair growth potion.” He smiled at her.

“And?” She waved her bandaged arm.

“They had to grew back the skin on your arm, neck, part of your shoulder, and legs. The arm was the worst.” Harry winced while recounting her injuries.

“No cursed fire then?” Cursed wounds that could not be magically healed were the nightmare of every witch or wizard. Even if one survived them one was scarred for life. Like Mad-Eye Moody. Hermione suspected that muggle plastic surgery could help, but she was not too keen on finding out in person if she was right.

“No. Byzantine Alchemical Oil.”

“Ah. That explains the reaction with the water.” Which had almost killed her.

“Yes. If not for your quick reaction…”

“...I’d be dead.” Hermione finished with a flat voice, and immediately regretted it when Harry shuddered and took a deep breath, fighting off tears. “I am not, though. I am alright,” she added quickly, patting the hand holding hers with her bandaged one.

“Merlin!” Harry gathered her in a hug so tight it hurt. “I feared I’d lost you!”

“So did I,” she whispered. The two remained like that for some time. Hermione couldn’t tell how long, she simply enjoyed hugging Harry, feeling his warmth, smelling him, alive, healthy, sensing his hands roam over her back, which her gown had left bare… She blinked. That was a bit… “Ah, shouldn’t you call Madam Pomfrey?” The Matron usually told Hermione to inform her as soon as Harry woke up, in such a situation. It was quite the reverse from the usual, she realized, with Harry waiting at her bedside.

“Ah… yes, she said something like that. She wanted to check you.” Harry suddenly pulled back, and she saw a guilty expression before he turned around and sent off a glowing stag with his wand. “Merlin, I didn’t think, I was just so happy you have woken up.”

“It’s OK. If I were in danger or needed immediate attention she’d have left a monitoring spell in place.” Hermione smiled at him. “So… how long was I, ah, out?”

“Three days. They fed you dreamless sleep, so you’d not feel pain while they … fixed your wounds.” Harry winced again. Hermione understood - that was longer than she had expected. She wasn’t an expert though. “Fleur and Viktor send their regards.” He pointed at cards sitting on the small table next to her bed. “The delegations from the other schools left Hogwarts yesterday. Though apart from that you’ve not missed anything else. The exams won’t start until next week, anyway.”

“I know that.” Hermione glared at him, without any anger though, and he grinned in response. School. Exams. Good-natured teasing. For a moment it was almost as if they were not in the infirmary. As if she was not recovering from an attack that had just failed to kill her. And Harry. If not for the protections on her robe. Her robe! “I guess I’ll have to get a new robe.” Not really a problem, she had planned to replace some of her spells on her robe anyway, over the summer.

“Sirius already bought half a dozen for you.” Harry smiled with an apologetic expression.

“Great. How many of them are not meant for 6th years?”

“There’s one standard school robe. I made sure he’d not prank that one.”

Hermione rubbed her forehead. She’d feel naked without her protective spells, but it would do. Belatedly she realized she had forgotten something else. “What happened to the broom and necklace?”

“The broom was burned to cinders. The necklace was unscathed.”

“Of course! A veela heirloom would be fireproof. You won, right?” Hermione had heard the victory fanfare, but she would not put it past some people - Karkaroff - to try to get Harry disqualified for the loss of the broom, or her own actions in protecting him.

“Yes. Karkaroff tried to argue that I had received illegal assistance from you, both for the Minotaur’s Bane and when you pushed me out of the arena, and should be disqualified, but the other judges shot him down. Or so I was told - I didn’t really care to follow that, not with you… like this.”

“You were hurt as well.” If he told her he had been fine, she’d hex him, as soon as she got her wand back.

“I was fine.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Honestly, I was no worse than after a rough quidditch match!” Which was not fine at all, in her opinion.

“You mean beaten to a pulp and ragged past the point of exhaustion?” Hermione was not quite growling, but close to it. Things were rapidly returning to what passed for normal when it came to the infirmary and the two of them.

“Err… I won the tournament. I ransomed the necklace back to Fleur, but seeing as Viktor’s broom was destroyed, and since that had happened after I had won, so technically it was mine right then, we called it even.”

“So you got the prize for the winner and half the ransom. Not bad.” Viktor would get a new one from his sponsor, Hermione was sure. The publicity from the tournament, and the dramatic circumstances of its destruction, would ensure that. A good deal - a new broom, and no ransom to be paid. It vexed her a bit, seeing them lose out on the ransom money, but… she didn’t care that much about the loss, not after what she and Harry had just gone through. The tournament was finished, she was no longer a stake in it. Even if there had been no real danger of her ending up as Viktor’s or Fleur’s retainer, it was a relief. She leaned back, sighing.

“Hermione….”

“Yes?” Hermione looked at Harry. He seemed to be hesitating, timid even. That was very unusual.

Her friend took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot, while you were… while I was waiting for you to wake up.”

Hermione’s first impulse was to make a joke, but Harry sounded too serious for that. So she just nodded, prodding him to continue while wondering what he had been thinking about.

“The thought of losing you, to death… it scared me so much, it hurt me so much…“ Harry closed his eyes, took another deep breath, then looked at her again.

Hermione licked her lips, suddenly nervous.

“Hermione, it made me realize that you’re not just my best friend. You’re more. I don’t just care for you, I…”

Hermione held her hand up, stopping him. Suddenly, things were clear. Things she had not wanted to see, or hope for. She wanted him to say it, wanted it to hear it, wanted to say it herself, but… “Harry, I… I know.” She saw him starting to smile, and it pained her to continue, to wipe that shy smile off his face, but she had to. “But… are you sure it’s not just… “ she trailed off, and touched her throat, where she would usually be wearing her torc.

Harry understood what she meant, of course. They knew each other, sometimes better than they knew themselves. “Sirius said the Oath doesn’t create love. No magic can create love.”

“Sirius says a lot when it helps him get girls into bed.” Hermione regretted her outburst at once when Harry jerked back, hurt. “I am sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… he doesn’t seem to be taking this seriously.” Not as seriously as she felt it deserved to be taken. She didn’t mention that Sirius was still suffering from his time in Azkaban, and not getting the help he needed, in her opinion. Harry already knew her thoughts on that matter.

Her friend weakly smiled at the familiar pun. “I know. But… have you ever found anything about the Oath, or the life debt, creating love? You’ve researched the topic extensively. If there was anything, you’d have found it.”

Hermione nodded, even though she knew she had not researched the Patron Oath as much as she should have. She had been 12 at the time, and afraid. And afterwards… she hadn’t wanted to know. She had been afraid of knowing, she realized.

“I know, but… there is magic that is said to create love, or something like it. Potions.”

“The Oath is not a potion. And we’ve not been potioned either. Pomfrey would have noticed even if we would have missed it.” Harry was sounding almost as if he was pleading.

Hermione’s heart went out to him, and more than anything she wanted to hold him, and tell him what he wanted to hear, what she wanted to say. Instead she said what she needed to say. “But what if … I don’t want to wake up one day, and find the Oath gone, and with it our…” That was her greatest fear: To find out her feelings were just a lie caused by magic. To find out that Harry only loved her because of magic. To be so happy, and then realize it was fake… she could not bear that.

Harry drew a hissing breath, and grit his teeth. “It’s not the Oath. It can’t be. Some things, magic can’t do!” He didn’t sound that sure though, to Hermione at least. He sounded almost desperate. She wanted to tell him it was alright, wanted to make him feel better, but… was that the Oath, urging her to help her Patron? To agree with him, to obey him?

“I’ll find out. I’ll find out, and we’ll know.” The young witch patted his hand again, blinking when tears appeared in her eyes. She started to brush them away, but he stopped her.

“Please.”

Hermione nodded, unable to say anything right then without breaking down and crying.

The sound of the door to the Infirmary opening made both of them straighten up. Hermione wiped the tears off her face then, and Harry rubbed his own eyes. The were not in private anymore. Appearances had to be upheld. Hermione squeezed his hand again while Madam Pomfrey walked over to them.

“I am sorry for the delay. I was held up by the Headmaster. I trust you know how he can be. Now, Miss Granger, let’s see how you’re doing. You gave us quite a scare there.” The Matron didn’t even try to shoo Harry out before she started to cast diagnostic spells. She had learned her lesson with Hermione years ago. One did not try to separate the two under such circumstances.

*****​

“Did sleeping beauty wake up yet?” Alastor lowered himself into the seat with more care than usual. He wasn’t getting any younger either, Albus knew.

“Miss Granger woke up an hour ago. Poppy found she is well on her way to a full recovery and should leave the infirmary in another day or two.” Albus smiled stating this. He loved giving good news - especially in times like these.

“So, Potter’s ready to be debriefed then.”

“Do you think he saw something that will give us a clue about the saboteur’s identity?” Albus asked softly.

Alastor scoffed. “No. But his scar was gushing blood, that’s something to worry about. I want to know what caused this.”

He wasn’t the only one. Albus kept his expression bland, but something must have given him away since his old friend narrowed his good eye.

“You know or suspect something.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do. But if I am right, it needs to be kept secret at all costs.”

“Why haven’t you already dragged the boy in here then?”

“He was too distracted by his worry about Miss Granger. He would not have been able to deliver a clear memory of the event.”

Alastor raised one of his eyebrows. “I see.” No need to elaborate further - there was only one thing Albus was using his priceless pensieve for, after all, and both knew it. “If that’s true…”

“If it is, we’ll know soon enough.” It was too late for immediate action now, and rushing anything would cause more problems rather than less. “What did you find out about the sabotage?”

“Precious little. The thing has returned to its home, and we can’t track it down from here.” Alastor scowled and rapped his staff on the stone floor.

“Not even with the genie’s name?”

“We do not have that. The deal was brokered in Greece by a wizard from the Ottoman Empire, who has since disappeared, or so it seems. Our representative never heard the thing’s name. And the Ottomans are damned uncooperative. They’re not even talking to us, they’re flat-out ignoring our requests.” Alastor still considered himself part of the auror corps. He probably would until his death.

“A pity. Cornelius might have been a bit too harsh in his latest missive to the Sultan. But then, he had good cause.” Albus grabbed a lemon drop. He did not offer Alastor any, his friend did not appreciate good sweets.

“Aye. We can’t have the Ottomans kidnap British tourists in the Mediterranean and let the Sultan claim ignorance of what ‘rogue elements’ might have done.” Alastor bared his teeth. “Might be time for another intervention.”

“Impossible in the current climate.” None of Britain’s allies would risk war over a few kidnapped witches and wizards. Not unless their own enclaves were getting raided. But that hadn’t happened since the last intervention.

“Aye, pity.” Alastor snorted before returning to the topic. “Our saboteur has done his homework. He knew we had no alchemists among the healers on standby who might have recognized the oil and prevented the rest from making it worse with water spells. He knew the deal with the genie ended when the task ended, and knew that that would happen before the champions had left the labyrinth. And he managed to get Byzantine Alchemical Oil - quite rare and expensive.” Alastor sounded impressed.

“He could have learned that from the unfortunate clerk caught acting under an imperius.”

“No. That one didn’t know all that, I checked. Our saboteur had multiple sources. Either imperiused and obliviated, or bribed.”

“He will be hard to track either way.”

“He is, even though that shouldn’t be the case. Wizards that skilled are not a dime a dozen. There are not many who could pull this off in Britain, and even less who have the motive for it. Lucius and his old comrades come to mind, but even among them not many had that skill.” Alastor glared at Albus, as he usually did when talking about the Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban after the last war.

“It could be a foreigner as well. A mercenary.”

“Aye. I still think it’s one of ours though. My gut tells me so.” The grizzled ex-auror patted his stomach. “Multiple layers, multiple traps and fail-safes. That’s not something you can do without intimate knowledge of how we operate. And how Hogwarts and the Ministry work.”

“I agree. But even with the current uproar, there’s no chance to get a permission to interrogate some suspects. Not without at least something that points their way.” Albus spread his hands. When his friend opened his mouth, he raised one hand to stall him. “Before you say anything: Given how intelligent this saboteur has proven to be, any auror acting on less than solid evidence might find out they just played into our unknown wizard’s hand. Even my reputation would suffer significantly should I accuse people without being able to deliver proof.” Or by forging proof. Especially after the winner of the Triwizard Tournament almost got killed under his nose.

“Which could be what our man is planning for.”

Albus nodded. “I’ll ask young Harry for a memory once Miss Granger has left the Infirmary.”

His old friend laughed. “You don’t want her to badger you to see the pensive, should she hear of it after the fact.”

Albus smiled ruefully. Miss Granger’s passion for arcane knowledge, especially when her Patron was involved, was a force to be underestimated at one’s own peril. After the events in his first year as a teacher, young Remus still checked his words before mentioning obscure spells. And given Harry’s protectiveness of his retainer - and maybe more, unless Albus was wrong about how their relationship was developing - trying to exclude her would alienate the young man. Something he, and Britain, could not afford right now, if his suspicions were correct.

*****​

“Hermione!” The witch in question had just enough time to put her book away before Luna Lovegood rushed to her side and grabbed her hands. “Merlin! Your hair!”

Hermione touched her still mostly bare scalp self-consciously. She wished she could have taken the hair-growth potion already, but Madam Pomfrey had forbidden that until her skin had finished growing back. Otherwise there was a chance that the potion would react with the treatment, and she’d end up with hair growing from the new skin as well as from her head. She winced at the image that conjured, then patted Luna’s hands, which had started to wander and poke various parts of her. “It’s OK. A potion will fix that before I leave the infirmary.” She looked up and greeted the rest of her friends who had come to visit her. Behind them stood Harry. Their eyes met, and his smile, tinged with hope and sadness, once again made her want to rush towards him and hug him and...

“Evanesco!”

Hermione’s train of thoughts was interrupted by Luna trying to vanish her hospital gown. “Luna!”

“I need to check if all your skin has grown back correctly!” the blonde all but yelled while Aicha was pulling her back.

Hermione looked down and noted with some relief that while most of her right sleeve was gone, she was still decent. She looked up to glare at the culprit, but her rebuke died on her lips when she noticed that Luna was crying. “It has healed perfectly fine, Luna. Trust me. See?” she raised her right arm. “My arm was the worst, and it’s perfectly fine.”

The blonde witch muttered something about treacherous genies between sobs. Hermione exchanged a glance with Aicha, and the Ravenclaw released Luna, who immediately rushed to hug her, still crying. Hermione returned the hug, consoling her friend, but couldn’t help but feel guilty - Harry had to have been feeling even worse about her close brush with death. She glanced at him, briefly, while Aicha and Ginny were consoling Luna and Ron and Neville were trying to ignore the scene. He nodded at her, approving, and she felt better, but still far from well.

*****​

Voldemort stood atop of a seaside cliff, looking out at the sea. He felt a touch of nostalgia. Back when he was still living at the orphanage he used this place to teach those who made the mistake of angering him the error of their ways. Back when he was just discovering his power. Back when he was just entering the Magical World. It was only fitting that this was where his return would be completed. He pulled out a small stone from his pocket and cast muggle-repelling wards. Then he canceled the spell on the rock.

The stone changed into the body of Barty Crouch Jr., his most faithful follower. Smart, driven, and utterly loyal, Barty had given everything for his Lord: His wand, his mind, his life, his soul. He had known he was very unlikely to survive the strain from the ritual, yet had still done it. As Voldemort had known he would. And now even Barty’s body would vanish, forgotten by everyone but Voldemort himself.

He had considered leaving Barty’s body at the ritual for aurors to find. To have the body of a man who died in Azkaban years ago suddenly appear would have caused the Ministry, especially Barty’s father, quite the trouble. It would have been a fitting revenge for Barty. But it would have been too dangerous. Voldemort was not yet ready to challenge the Ministry, much less Dumbledore. Finding Barty’s body would have pointed at him, and not even the tampering he had done to the ritual site would have fooled Dumbledore for long. No, it was better for Barty to vanish, to leave no trace that could lead to him, until he had gathered enough followers, and gained enough power to secure his position.

Without further ceremony Voldemort pointed his wand at the corpse and set it ablaze. Fueled by his power the corpse burned to ashes in minutes. A flick of his wand, and the ashes were scattered into the sea. Below him was the well-hidden entrance to the sea cave he had discovered so long ago. Now it served another purpose. He thought about checking up on it, but shook his head. No need. It was after all just a trap for his enemies, no matter how unlikely they were to find it after the death of Regulus Black.

The dark wizard took out another, smaller rock, throwing it up and catching it again with effortless grace. His new body was perfect. Handsome, unravaged by the effects of dark rituals and more fights he wanted to remember, and utterly unlike his old looks. His Death Eaters would know him thanks to their mark, but others who knew Tom Riddle, or Voldemort, could pass him on the street and would never recognize him.

He turned away as the sun set. He had another, much smaller body to dump into a hag’s cooking pot in Knockturn Alley.

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick rolled his eyes, staring at the devastation in front of him. Next to him his partner, Bertha Limmington, was already studying the remains, wand waving. She was a skilled witch, pretty too, but a bit too eager to work and not eager enough to play. With him, for example. “Guess the Faithful overdid it this time. I haven’t seen that much destruction since the day their former High Priest, old Ignatius, tried to resanctify the pitch of the Chudley Cannons.”

Bertha looked up at him, frowning. “This site was devastated by a ritual, not a fight between quidditch fans and religious extremists.”

He sighed. She was really no fun. But she was the best to have at one’s back, so he had to take the good with the bad. “I know. I was joking.”

“Ah.”

“But whatever ritual it was, it didn’t leave anything standing. Even the altar is cracked and scorched, and whatever they had placed on it has been melted.” He poked with his wand at a piece of black, polished rock, which crumbled to dust at the touch.

“It turned most of the trees in the vicinity into kindling, too. Judging from the position of the remains, the wood was smashed against a barrier.” Bertha stood up and pointed at a broken branch near her.

“One hell of a barrier, to withstand that.”

“Muggles assume it was a tornado.”

“That the work of the forgetful squad?” Kenneth didn’t really like the obliviators. One simply couldn’t trust wizards who spent their days altering memories, even if they were the memories of muggles. Too many rumors of one or the other obliviator using their skills on wizards or witches who caught their fancy.

“No, they came up with it themselves. Apparently, someone saw the storm.”

“Only the storm?”

“Yes. The muggle took shelter and only came out again once the storm had ended.”

“The only way to get this much power into a ritual, even on a site like this, is a sacrifice.” Kenneth was no expert, but no auror was ignorant of the Dark Arts.

“A powerful sacrifice.” Bertha looked grim. She knew as well as him that there were very few sacrifices that were powerful enough for such effects. Either a magical animal like a Unicorn, or a wizard or witch.

“I am not about to accuse the Faithful of delving into the Dark Arts and sacrificing people. Let’s kick this upstairs.” Kenneth knew what happened to aurors who made the wrong kind of enemies and couldn’t back up such accusations. Azkaban always needed guards to relieve those who burned out. He had stepped on a few toes already, and couldn’t afford any serious mistakes.

“Or downstairs. The Unspeakables might want to take a look at this.”

“Unless they were here when it took place.” Kenneth had heard all kind of rumors about what the Unspeakables did. And what they were. Such a ritual would fit right in.

“No trace of blood or bone. No body. No danger for muggles. Let’s report back.” The two aurors apparated away, leaving the ruined site alone again.

*****​

Harry watched as Hermione stared at the potion in her hand. She was already wearing her new robe - ‘the unpranked one’, Sirius had called when he handed it over. Harry didn’t think he wanted to know what Sirius had done to the other robes. He didn’t think he wanted Hermione to know either. “Something wrong with the potion?” Hermione’s head was still a mess of stubble and very short hair. The potion was supposed to fix that.

“Hm? Oh, just lost in thought.” His friend pulled the cork off and downed the potion. She shuddered and made a face at the taste, then started panting when hair suddenly started to grow rapidly on her head. The brown locks did not stop growing until they reached her hips and completely obscured her face.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. Hermione raised her wand, pointed it at her head, and muttered an incantation he didn’t catch. Her hair shortened to its usual length, straightened some and, most importantly, styled itself so her face was visible. She conjured a mirror to check her appearance, despite having done the spell hundreds of times before.

“You look great.”

“You’re not exactly objective.” She smiled at him, but with less mirth than he’d have expected, if not for the memory of what she was alluding to.

Neither of them had brought up that particular topic since. And yet, things had changed. Harry held out his hand to help her stand up from the bed she was sitting on. It was a polite gesture ingrained into him since years, but today, he almost hesitated, and when she took hold of his hand, he felt suddenly self-conscious.

Hermione didn’t grin at him, as she would have done a week ago, nor did she display the snobby, exaggerated attitude she sometimes used in private to make fun of the old-fashioned manners they had learned and practiced so thoroughly. She just smiled, almost shyly, and let her hand linger in his far longer than politeness required. Though when they approached the door leading out of the infirmary and she fell into her customary place half a step behind and to the side of him, he heard her mutter that she felt like Melinda Brockthistle, the heroine of one of the wizard novels from the last century she had read when studying manners. Harry grinned widely. That was his Hermione. Then they stepped out into the hallway and were Patron and retainer again.

*****​

“Good evening, Mister Potter. Please have a seat.” Dumbledore’s office never seemed to change, Hermione thought while she followed Harry inside. Still as cluttered as the first time she had seen it, with those tempting books she was certain were not available in the library of the school, or even the Black Family Library. She managed not to let her gaze linger too long on them, though, and sat down next to Harry. The Headmaster was sitting behind his desk. Parchment and knick-knacks covered most of the polished wood. Alastor Moody was sitting at the wall and growled something one could consider a greeting, if one were generous. He was tapping his staff on the floor and staring at them with his natural eye while his artificial one rolled around. Hermione had gotten used to it, after he had filled in for so many lessons during the full moon.

“I am glad Miss Granger has recovered fully. That was quite a dramatic moment, at the end of the tournament.” Dumbledore smiled gently at the two of them, even as he was nominally addressing Harry as her Patron.

“Thank you Sir.” Harry bowed his head slightly, which Hermione copied as a matter of course.

“You gave us quite a scare. I have to apologize again for the lapse in security that allowed that horrible moment to happen. A tragic mistake that would have had the most grave consequences, if not for Miss Granger’s and your own quick thinking.” The Headmaster took a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk. Hermione briefly closed her eyes as she remembered the flames surrounding her, burning her, the horrible stench of her hair, her skin, smoldering… she clenched her hands, dug her nails into her thighs until it hurt to stop her thoughts. The nightmares were bad enough already.

From the way Dumbledore stiffened, he had noticed her reaction. He did not comment on it though. “I have asked you to meet me, Mister Potter, since there was a peculiar moment during the task, when suddenly, you started to bleed heavily from your forehead. From your famous scar, to be precise.”

Hermione saw Harry straighten up. She hadn’t heard about that scene. That didn’t sound reassuring, and his reactions told her he was about to claim he was fine, as usual.

Dumbledore didn’t give him the opportunity though. “I would like you to copy your memory of that moment, so we can study it and find out what caused it.”

“Donate my memory, Sir?” Harry sounded as surprised as Hermione felt. That was the first time she heard about such a thing.

“I have a special item, quite delicate and very, very rare, that allows me to store and study copies of memories. It’s called a pensieve, a gift from my friend Nicolas.”

Hermione had to close her mouth. To think what one could use such a thing, such an artifact for… if those memories could be stored, one could preserve the memories of the greatest minds of the Magical World, see lessons from the most famous teachers, or watch obscure spells be cast as often as needed until one could learn them…

“How do I do that, Sir? And how do I limit the memory to the exact scene you are talking about?” Harry’s question interrupted her fantasy, and made her realize what else such a thing could be used for. It was worse than legilimency, in a way. If memories could be taken against one’s will… she resolved to study occlumency with Harry over the summer, as a priority.

Dumbledore explained how to draw out a copy of the memory using one’s wand. Hermione took note that one could also remove the memory entirely, judging from his words - a useful trick to keep it secret, she thought, even from legilimency… maybe even from oneself? She longed to study this pensieve. If she could copy it…

The silver strand that Harry drew out of his temple looked ethereal, flimsy even, as if a single gust of wind would disperse it. Dumbledore held out a vial, and Harry guided the memory into it.

“Thank you, Mister Potter. Please keep this secret, it might turn out to be very important.” The Headmaster slipped the vial into one of the pockets hidden in the yellow stars decorating his blue robes. Moody had remained silent so far, but stood up now. This seemed to be quite a bit more important than Hermione had thought - and Harry suddenly bleeding was very important to begin with, in her opinion!

“Might we see the pensieve, Headmaster? As much as this might require secrecy, it’s my memory, so I already know whatever you hope to find out.” Harry stood up, and Hermione hastily followed his example. She wanted to hug Harry for that - the opportunity to see such a marvelous artifact… she could barely conceal her glee when the Headmaster nodded.

“I think that would only be fair. Follow me.” Dumbledore turned and stepped towards the door behind his desk, which presumably led into his quarters. Quarters they were about to enter!

The private living quarters of the greatest wizard of Britain looked the part. Where others might have had shelves, sometimes formed from the walls themselves on demand, Dumbledore’s quarters were cluttered with knick-knacks, clothes, books and exotic items, all floating around each other as if they were caught in a whirlwind, which had been slowed down to a gentle breeze. Hermione didn’t recognize even a quarter of things she saw. But she realized that there were far too many objects to fit inside the room.

As they followed Dumbledore the floating items gave way, only to reform their dance after them, looking like curious hovering birds. Dumbledore must have noticed her staring, since he smiled and explained: “In my life I have acquired far too many things even for a bottomless trunk armoire, so I needed a bottomless apartment.” Hermione drew a sharp breath - she had never ever heard or thought of such an application of that spell. To live in such quarters...

The Headmaster looked at an alcove, and a small item floated towards it, set down and grew into a shallow stone basin which reminded Hermione of a bird bath covered in complicated runes and glowing slightly. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of Fawkes bathing there.

Dumbledore used his wand to remove another strand of memory from the basin, storing it in a vial, the poured Harry’s memories into the pensieve. After he touched a few runes with the tip of his wand, the glow intensified and a fine mist started to raise from it. “Lean forward and push your head into the mist, and you will find yourself inside the memory. Focus on pulling your head back, and you will leave it again.”

Hermione repeated the instructions in her mind several times. It would not do to get lost in Harry’s memories. As tempting as that thought might be, sometimes. She stepped next to Harry, whose face was tinted blue from the glowing basin. A short bow later she suddenly was in the labyrinth, facing an elemental - she was seeing through Harry’s eyes! His body, with her in it, moved by itself, and she smelled the air. Wet, fresh earth. She saw the elemental come towards her, saw Harry’s wand raise, and then suddenly, she was elsewhere.

She was in the middle of a hurricane, wood, trees smashing against a glowing barrier. To her horror she saw a dead baby, cut open, on a stone altar, next to a another screaming baby that suddenly started to turn into a snake, a viper she noted, rapidly growing and … changing, Limbs sprouted, and the head changed, hair appearing… scales faded, replaced with skin… until a handsome man stood there, covered with blood. Another man, trembling and covered with bloody runes, was holding out a wand to him. Then she found herself surrounded, engulfed with earth. Just like…

With a scream she pulled her head back and fell to her knees, panting, then vomiting on the floor until only bile was left. Harry was there, rubbing her shoulders, keeping her hair back, whispering into her ears. “I am so sorry, Hermione. I should have known… it was my memory.”

“It’s not your fault”, she managed to mutter in response.

“I should have expected this. Please forgive my lapse and accept my heartfelt apologies.” Dumbledore apologized, but he did sound a bit distracted.

“We all should have expected that.” Moody added in his usual gruff voice. “But we saw what you suspected, Albus.”

“We did. Mister Potter, it might be best if you return to the Infirmary with Miss Granger. I think she, and you as well, could do with a calming potion, maybe even some dreamless sleep tonight. But please, do not tell anyone about what you saw. It is of the utmost importance that this is kept secret. Lives depend on it.”

Hermione vanished the vomit. She felt embarrassed about the whole situation, no matter how apologetic the Headmaster acted. But this… “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s back.” She felt Harry stiffen. Both were staring at the Headmaster. Hermione wanted him to deny it, to reassure her that it was not true, but he didn’t. He only gave them a sad smile, and the barest of nods.

*****​

Once the two teenagers had left his office, Albus sighed and sat down at his desk again. Alastor was already pacing.

“That was Barty Crouch Jr., a dead man.” The retired auror stated. “I recognized him clearly. How is this possible?”

“That is a mystery yet. But I think we both know who the revived man is.”

“Aye. Only one Barty would go to such lengths for. He is back, then.”

“As I suspected.”

“What will you do now? Inform Fudge?”

“I doubt this is a good course of action. We only have a memory. And while I think I could persuade Cornelius, should I show him the pensieve, it is by no means a sure prospect. And it certainly would alert our enemy’s old and possibly new supporters that we witnessed his return.” Albus sighed. He did not like the course of action that he was persuading himself to take.

“You hope Potter will have more such visions, giving you more information. And you want to keep it secret from the Dark Lord so he doesn’t take steps to stop this.” Alastor knew him well.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you trust your pet spy anymore?” Alastor sneered, as he usually did when talking about Severus. He was almost as good at holding grudges as Severus was.

“He hasn’t been contacted by his former Master yet.”

“Or he has not told you about it.” Alastor still doubted the man’s loyalty. Albus didn’t think his friend would ever trust Severus.

“He informed me that the Dark Mark has grown stronger, more pronounced, again. But I think it would only be prudent to use as many ways to gather information on Voldemort as possible.

“You won’t tell your pet snake though.”

“No.” Albus trusted Severus, but only a fool would let a spy operating in the enemy’s camp, which Severus would hopefully soon be able to, know much of one’s own secrets.

“Good. Should I look into what Barty Sr. knows?”

“That might tip our hand, if he is compromised. But if he is, we need to know, or he’ll be able to do a lot of damage in the Ministry.” The thought that Barty Crouch Sr. might be a supporter or pawn of Voldemort… it was absurd, and yet… one could never be sure.

“I’ll be discreet.”

Alastor left through Albus’ floo, leaving the Headmaster alone with his thoughts and with the crushing weight of the responsibility today had placed on his shoulders.

*****​

“Walden.” The soft, almost melodic voice made Walden Macnair whirl around, wand appearing in his hand. Someone had broken into his home, without triggering any of his wards! He didn’t see anyone though - disillusioned?

“Quick reflexes. You’ve kept in shape.” Walden turned towards the voice, now coming from his side, when suddenly pain worse than the Cruciatus he had once suffered filled him, drove him to his knees. His wand dropped from nerveless fingers and he screamed, throwing his head back.

“Yes. Your Master has returned.” The pain stopped, and a tall, slender man stepped out of the shadows of his living room. It wasn’t the Dark Lord. He looked too different, too young. Before Walden could challenge the intruder the mark on his left arm burned, and he suddenly knew with every fiber of his being that he was facing the Dark Lord.

“Master.” Already on his knees, he bowed his head. He didn’t know how his Lord had returned, where he had been - dead, or hidden from any magic - but he had returned.

“Walden. One of my faithful. You didn’t deny me when I disappeared. You were not captured either. You hid.” The Dark Lord circled around him with slow, measured steps, tapping his wand - Walden recognised it at once - against the palm of his hand.

“Yes, Master. I hid, so I could serve you upon your return.”

“You hid, and waited, but never searched for me. Did you hope I would never return, never call upon you again to do your duty?” That voice brought back memories. Walden suddenly realized he might be killed here, now, for having offended his Lord.

“No, Master. I waited, to be ready to serve you again.”

“I see. You were lazy, weak even, without my guidance.” The Dark Lord sounded amused, but Walden could almost sense the danger. More than ten years had passed, and yet it felt like yesterday.

“Yes, Master.”

“I have need of a man in good standing in the Ministry, who has never ever been suspected of belonging to me, and who was not ambitious enough to act on his own.”

Walden was relieved, but didn’t show it. He would live to serve. He had met few, even among the Death Eaters, who could kill as easily as his Master. Many thought the Dark Lord killed on a whim, but Walden knew better. He knew all about killing, it was his daily bread, and the Dark Lord never killed on a whim. Each of his kills served a purpose.

Walden remembered his initiation. He had been young, barely out of Hogwarts, and looking for a purpose himself. He had followed the Dark Lord because his friends in his House had done so, but had not really understood what it meant, what it offered. Until the day he had received his dark mark. He would never forget that. He had met the Dark Lord alone, just the two of them. And the muggle he had brought, but that vermin didn’t count. He had expected he would have to kill the muggle, to prove his loyalty and dedication. Had psyched himself up for hours so he could do the deed without showing any hesitation or weakness. And the Dark Lord had gone and killed the muggle himself. A flick of his wand, and it was done. Burning the dark mark into his arm had taken far longer. Walden had bit his lip until it bled so he’d not scream, would not show a weakness, but when it was done Walden had understood what power was. Power over life and death. He had felt sure of his place in life for the first time in his adult life. A month later he had joined the Ministry, as an executioner. Killing suited him, as he had found out thanks to the Dark Lord.

“Rise, Walden. We have work to do.”

“Yes, Master.”

*****​

“I still cannot believe that cursed mudblood survived! To think Matron Pomfrey would waste her efforts on such undeserving filth…” Draco trailed off while biting into a bread roll as if he was trying to kill it.

Pansy glanced over at her nominal boyfriend. Draco had been lamenting Granger’s survival ever since the Headmaster had announced that the mudblood had fully recovered and would be leaving the infirmary soon. It had become repetitive hours ago, so she tuned it out whenever she could.

Pansy hadn’t expected the mudblood to survive either when she had seen her ablaze, and heard her scream. She didn’t think it was just Madam Pomfrey’s efforts that saved her though. Granger was tougher than she had thought. She spotted Potter and his retainer enter the Great Hall, and studied them. There was no need to be subtle about it - everyone was staring.

Pansy kept observing the two during the meal, while making agreeing noises whenever Draco stopped his ranting to get another bite. She didn’t think the mudblood had escaped unscathed. And it was not just that the mudblood’s robes were looking drabber than before - she probably could not afford to replace the robe that had burned. No, something had changed between her and Potter. It was subtle, but it was there. They were not as close as before, a certain awkwardness, a hesitation, was there that had not been there before. Maybe she was hideously scarred from the fire and Potter did not want to touch her anymore, but felt guilty enough for her wounds to still do it? He just was the kind of boy who would act like that, even without the added push from being her Patron. Quite the difference to Draco, who’d drop her in a heartbeat, should something similar happen to her.

“Look at them, sitting there, gloating. To think such a mudblood-lover has actually won the Triwizard Tournament! A stain on every prior champion!” Draco didn’t care that Hogwarts’ champion had won, and the fact that many others in their house did care didn’t faze him in the slightest.

Pansy considered telling him her theory about the mudblood being scarred, but decided against it. Draco would not spread it subtly, but shout it across the hall. Potter would take offense, and things would escalate. Best case, Pansy would have to spend an evening consoling Draco, and with exams starting next week, she really had better things to do. Worst case… she didn’t know what the worst outcome was, not anymore. Potter had changed, Draco had changed. Pansy didn’t like it, didn’t like not knowing, but she’d rather not find out right now just how much they had changed.

*****​

“Did you read this article? ‘The Faithful deny any involvement with a possible human sacrifice ritual in Western Wales, where an old holy site was destroyed by what seemed to be a tornado.’” Ron put down the Daily Prophet and looked at the others in their compartment. Ginny and Neville didn’t look like they had heard him. They were talking about plants. Ron wondered how dense Neville had to be; his little sister was so transparent. As if she cared about plants past her grades in Herbology! Padma at least was interested, she had been reading the article together with him. Luna sniffed, demonstratively holding the latest issue of the Quibbler she was reading a bit higher. The blonde witch had calmed down after her scene in the infirmary, but she still seemed determined to keep an eye on Hermione, and Aicha had naturally followed her best friend. Which was why the compartment currently held eight instead of the regular six people. Not that Ron minded sitting so close to Padma.

“No, I haven’t. Can I borrow it for a moment?” Hermione held out her hand. Ron handed the newspaper over without a thought. One did not come between that witch and something she wanted to read. He was about to turn back to Padma, asking about her exams - she was a Ravenclaw and loved to talk about such things as much as Hermione - when he noticed his friend freezing for just a second, and then showing the newspaper to Harry. Ron saw Harry’s expression turn grim for a second before his friend relaxed again.

The two had been acting odd since the tournament - odder than usual during the end of year exams, at least - but that had been understandable, given what they had gone through. This though… he met Harry’s eyes and raised his eyebrows, then looked at the Prophet. Harry looked at Ginny and Neville, then back at Ron and nodded subtly. Ron understood. He should have known, in hindsight, from what he had heard.

“Well, better they trash an old Druid place than the Cannons pitch!” he stated loudly. “Speaking of the Cannons, did you hear about their last game?” He had to fight to keep his eager expression on his face when he saw Hermione grit her teeth. Well, he could honestly claim it would help keep the others from paying attention to that hint of Voldemort’s return. In addition to that, annoying Hermione with Quidditch talk was a bit of normality that all of them needed right now, in his opinion. And he could do with a bit of distraction from thinking about Voldemort’s return himself. For the first time ever in his life he was not looking forward to the Summer vacation.


Chapter 12: Summertime

 

Chapter 12: Summertime

Hermione Granger woke up at home. At her parents’ muggle home, to be precise, in the room she had since she had been moved from her crib to a real bed. Her room. With full bookshelves, an old armoire (with books on top), a desk with her computer, a small portable stereo next to her bed, and a potted plant next to the window, that would have died long ago if it had just been up to her to water it. Her electronic alarm clock was on the sideboard. Nine o’clock.

A casual observation of her room would have never revealed that a witch was living there. Her trunk had been stashed in the cupboard as soon as she had arrived yesterday evening, her robe - she still needed to replace it, or at least the spells on it - was in the armoire. Which she really should expand one of those days. Her wand was sitting in her wrist holster, hidden under her pajama sleeve, and by a spell on it. She wasn’t about to sleep without her wand ready, not with Voldemort back. She had to find a way to increase the security for her parents as well. Wards would interfere with electronics, but she had some plans to use spells to make the house safer and alert the DMLE and Harry in case of trouble. It wasn’t enough though.

And there was so much she needed to do before school resumed! Her homework was no concern, it would barely take her a day to finish it. But she needed to enchant her robe, to bring the protective spells up to par. She’d have to check Harry’s too, and update it. This was the most urgent task. Apart from the occlumency lessons, which Sirius and Professor Lupin - Remus now - would give her, Harry, and Ron. Those would take time, though, and likely not be finished until long after they were back at school. And her experiments with wards and electronics. She was so close, she was sure she was on the right path. If she managed to get an electronic calculator or even a computer running at Hogwarts, that would allow her to break new ground in spellcrafting, too. But any time spent on those experiments would mean less time spent on using her computer now, during her vacation, to help with her other tasks. Decisions, decisions...

Hermione got up, blinking, and ran her hand through her hair, which had escaped her fading styling spells during the night. A quick flick and swish of her wand had it back in some semblance of a hairstyle other than ‘bird’s nest’, before she headed to the bathroom, skirting around the piles of newspapers and science magazines her parents had collected for her during her absence. She loved coming home from Hogwarts and catching up with what had happened in the world. It kept her grounded, sane, when she was forced to play the role of the dutiful muggleborn retainer of her pureblood Patron again, cut off from her parents. When she was again a third-class citizen due to her birth, no matter how talented and skilled she was compared to everyone else. And yet, she thought with a wry smile, she would not want to lose the blanket permission to use magic at home that Harry had been able to grant her. Magic was just too convenient, and she really liked to look good with a flick of her wrist, instead of an hour spent with muggle cosmetics and hairstyling means. “Hypocrisy, thy name is Granger,” she muttered while she placed her pajamas on the rack in the bathroom and stepped into the shower.

Thirty minutes later she was sitting at the kitchen table with her parents, her hair perfectly styled thanks to a more complicated spell, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a Dr. Who motif on it. Both had been resized so they fit perfectly - in her opinion. Her parents might have disagreed, but after seeing what other witches her age wore in Diagon Alley, they had become far more reasonable about her attire.

“Have you already finished your movie schedule?” Hermione’s father asked after putting down the ‘Times’. He was an avid reader, not just of newspapers and magazines, and responsible for her name.

“I’ve got a preliminary one I’ll pass to Harry, so he can go over it.” Hermione answered primly. There were not that many good picks, in her opinion, but Harry might add some action movies. She didn’t mind that and had left a few slots open for the likeliest ones, though one had to keep up appearances. She was certain he’d want to watch ‘Braveheart’. She was looking forward to it herself, if only to see what Americans had done to British and Scottish history.

“Ah, Harry. How is he doing?” Her mother asked, a bit hesitantly. Hermione knew what she really wanted to ask, since she had filled them in about the events of the tournament on the drive back from King’s Cross - well, most of the events. Some details her parents didn’t need to know. Like how close she had come to burning to death. And the exact nature of her relationship to Harry, which was what her mother really wanted to know. And which Hermione didn’t know either, right then. Even if she knew what she wanted it to be.

“He’s doing well. He won the Triwizard Tournament as the youngest champion in centuries.” Hermione smiled, she was proud of her Patron.

“I bet the girls are throwing themselves at him.” Her father’s tone was slightly teasing. Only slightly. Her parents didn’t know just how much power Harry had over her, but they knew how close the two were, and had hinted a few times that Harry might be abusing what they saw as a massive crush on the boy who saved her life, given how quick and eager she always was to help him.

“Not yet. They’ll do that in our sixth year.” Hermione took a sip from her orange juice and nibbled on a scone. Not quite as good as those at Hogwarts, not that she’d ever say so to her parents.

“What?”

“Sixth year is when British wizards and witches traditionally start dating at Hogwarts.” Hermione wasn’t about to explain what really went on in the Year of Discovery. Her parents might have grown up in the 60s and 70s, but neither had been a flower child, nor wanted their daughter to practice free love, woodstock style, at 16.

“Ah.” Her father even sounded relieved.

“And how do you feel about girls throwing themselves at Harry?” Hermione’s mother, on the other hand, was not so easily diverted. Hermione had inherited her single-mindedness in the pursuit of knowledge from someone, after all.

“That depends on just what kind of relationship Harry and I have by then.” Hermione answered with an unconcerned smile on her face that was not indicative of her current state of mind. Her mother raised her eyebrow, and the girl sighed and looked at her plate, where a half-eaten scone was all that was left of her breakfast. “I’d not like it.”

She had the undivided and full attention of both her parents now. “And how does Harry feel about ... that?”

Hermione didn’t want to lie to her parents. Not more than needed, in any case, to keep them from worrying, and from finding out that according to the law of Wizarding Britain they had lost custody of their only daughter to a boy younger than Hermione years ago when they tried to do something about their fears. She sighed again. “He wants us to be more than friends.”

Her parents stayed silent, other than taking some deep breaths and making noncommittal noises. She glared at them, knowing what they were asking, without stating it. “I am not sure how I feel about him. I want us to be more than friends too, but… I want to be certain it’s more than just the result of … him saving my life, and us spending lots of time together.” The young witch almost spat the words out, her frustration with her own situation leaking into her tone.

“You want to be sure it’s true love?” Her father asked in a teasing tone, which earned him an elbow and a glare from his wife.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and decided to vent some of her frustration. “Yes. If we end up sleeping together, I want to know if it’s out of love, or just a mutual attraction between friends.” When she saw the expressions of her parents, she hastened to add “I don’t mean this summer, or this year.” The expressions didn’t change. Drat.

*****​

Harry Potter stepped out of the floo at No. 12 Grimmauld Place and relaxed. Spending the night at Privet Drive was not enjoyable. Even if he avoided his relatives completely by heading out before they even got up, he still felt guilty, knowing he caused them such troubles just by being a wizard. Not guilty enough to even consider removing the private floo Sirius and Dumbledore had installed to connect his room at the Dursleys and his room here, though, even if he knew that the connection made his muggle family nervous. Well, his adult muggle family - Dudley was fine with magic. His cousin hadn’t had any bad experiences with it, of course. Unlike Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

Harry sat down on his bed and looked around his real room. A well-locked and protected room, given his magical family’s penchant for pranking. Not that he minded pranks, especially now - they took his mind off Voldemort’s return, and off his hope for a change of his relationship with Hermione. He sighed, sitting up on his bed. Sometimes he wished his friend was less smart. They’d be a couple already then, neither thinking about the possibility of being influenced by magic. Harry didn’t want to think about that, but with the genie out of the bottle… He hissed through his teeth when that saying brought back memories of the end of the tournament, Hermione on fire, screaming, hurting. He shook his head and tried to calm down before he had a flashback to the ritual that brought Voldemort back as well. He almost succeeded.

A bit later he was in the kitchen, watching Kreacher cook breakfast. Neither Sirius nor Remus were up yet, both having celebrated Harry’s safe return last night a bit longer and with more alcohol than Harry himself.

“Tea and scones for Master’s Godson.” Kreacher stated while a plate, a cup and pot appeared on the table.

“Thank you Kreacher. Did anything happen while I was at Hogwarts?” Harry didn’t expect a useful answer, but he still felt odd, sitting there with just Kreacher in the kitchen, and not making conversation.

“Master’s been bringing witches home. Lots of work cleaning up after them.” Kreacher grumbled, and Harry couldn’t tell if he was glad or angry about the work. Most elves would have been happy, but Kreacher was not most elves.

“Oh?” That was news. Sirius had started dating again, then. Or the witches looking for a rich pureblood husband had started their attempts to catch him. Sirius was young still, after all, handsome - not that Harry would say that to his face - and had both roguish charm and a tragic history. ‘That combination will be irresistible for so many witches, the house will be under siege once they think it’s acceptable to pursue him again,’ Hermione had declared over Yuletide, with a pointed look at Harry, in case he had missed the fact that he too shared many of those traits.

“Yes. Master brought many different witches. Hard to learn what they want for breakfast, if they never return.”

That sounded more like Sirius was playing the field, instead of dating. At least as Harry understood it. He was no expert. But sooner or later, Sirius would settle down, that much he was certain of. For all his rebel attitude, his godfather longed to have a family, a big family. He deserved it, too. The young wizard wondered what his future ‘godmother’ would be like. He didn’t know what kind of witch Sirius prefered. Or what kind of witch he’d end up marrying.

He chuckled at that - here he was, unable to sort out his own love life, and yet speculating about his godfather’s.

“What’s so funny?” Speak of the devil. Sirius had appeared in the door, looking far too well for what he had drunk last night, and wearing a silken house robe with the Black crest embroidered over his heart, and on the back, in gold thread.

“Nothing.” Harry smiled at him.

“That usually means there is something. Want to talk about?” Sirius sat down, and his breakfast appeared on the table without any delay. Kreacher by now knew his master’s habits by heart.

Harry debated this. Sirius wasn’t the most mature adult he could talk about this with, but he was his godfather, and with the possible exception of Remus, there was no one else. And while Remus would likely be more mature about it, it would hurt Sirius if Harry talked about such matters with Remus, and not with him. And Sirius had been hurt more than enough already. Still… “Only if you promise not to tell anyone about this.” Asking Sirius to be serious would only lead to a bad pun, so he could only hope it wouldn’t be too bad.

“I promise.” Sirius answered at once.

“Not even as a prank.”

“I promise.”

Harry sighed. “Okay… It’s about Hermione.”

Sirius perked up as if he was a starving dog who had just been shown a juicy steak. ”Did something happen between you two?”

“No. Yes. Sort of.” Harry sighed, then held up a hand when Sirius opened his mouth. “Let me explain before you speculate what we might have done, and we get side-tracked.” He waited until Sirius nodded, then continued. “I told her I love her. Well, I almost did, but she understood what I was about to say, so it’s close enough.”

Sirius was frowning. “That sounds like she wasn’t happy about your declaration. Did you check her for love potions or compulsion spells?”

“We were in the infirmary. I am sure Madam Pomfrey would have noticed either.”

“I don’t understand then. I was sure she loves you.” Sirius looked puzzled. “Did someone else get her while you were dithering?” Harry wasn’t exactly sure what ‘dithering’ meant, but he understood the gist.

“No. She’s afraid that the both of us are under the influence of the Patron Oath, or the life debt, or both, and that we’re not really in love.” Harry sighed, hunching his shoulders.

Sirius slid over and wrapped an arm around him. “Well, she’s wrong. Magic can’t do that, I told you that before.”

“Tell that to her.” Harry shot back. “On second thought… no, don’t.” He didn’t want to know what Hermione would do if Sirius tried to educate her - his godfather’s mouth had a tendency to be faster than what his brain could keep up with. “But there are love potions, lots of them.”

“Harry, if either of you were under the influence of a love potion, you’d have noticed, trust me. They’re only called ‘love potions’ because ‘lust potions’ was not acceptable back when they were invented. If you were under the influence of say, Amortentia, then you’d have shagged Hermione silly each night at Hogwarts, and would likely be starting to live out all those kinky fantasies you have had about her by now.” Sirius showed him a grin that was both toothy and leering at the same time.

“Sirius!” Harry shrugged off the arm of the older wizard.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have fantasies about her. You’re a healthy young man, and you’ve got some Black blood in you.” Sirius chuckled. Harry glared at him, but didn’t protest further, which made his godfather laugh.

“It’s completely natural, Harry. If you and Hermione had been raised in the Magical World, you’d not have such concerns at all.”

“If we’d both been raised in the Magical World, we’d not be together like we are.” Harry shot back.

“That’s true. And you’d have to deal with her head of family.”

“Can we get back to Hermione’s fear?” And his own fear, though he didn’t want to mention that. And how I can help her?”

“Sure, sure. We can revisit your fantasies and how to make them come true afterwards.” Sirius held up his hands in a placating gesture when Harry snarled at him. “Pax, Harry! I just want you to lighten up some. It’s clear you two have the hots for each other. You’re better off than most others wondering if their crush loves them back enough to put out.” Sirius coughed, probably noticing Harry’s expression. “Anyway. Hermione is just insecure. She probably thinks she’s not pretty enough for you, and that you’re only after her because of magic, and not because you want into her pants.”

“Hermione is one of the prettiest girls in school!”

Sirius smiled at him. “Your mother was the hottest girl in school, and she said she felt like an ugly duckling - whatever that means - for years, after meeting all those witches who already had cosmetic spells on them when she arrived at Hogwarts. Such impressions tend to linger. I used to have quite the success in teaching witches that they were prettier than they thought, back at Hogwarts.” Sirius had a dreamy expression for a second. “But, back to your witch. She’s had those huge beaver teeth, right, till second year or so?”

Harry didn’t deign that with an answer. He did twitch though.

“Right. Anyway, she probably felt really ugly compared to the Patil twins, or that bubblehead Greengrass. And other witches will have made sure she was reminded of that regularly. You’d know that as well, if you’d ever followed my example and placed some enchanted mirrors in the girl’s bathrooms.”

“What?” Whenever Harry thought his godfather couldn’t shock him anymore, he was proven wrong. Did he peep on Harry’s mother?

“Ah, don’t spread that, right? They found the mirrors after two weeks, but never found out who put them there. Anyway, she just needs time to realize that your feelings for her are genuine, and not magical. Not that kind of magical, at least.”

“So, you think I’ll just have to wait?” It couldn’t be that easy, Harry thought. Things never were.

“Yes. Just wait, help her realizing she’s pretty now, and before you realize it you’ll have to tell Kreacher to widen your bed in your room and get the toys from the attic.”

“Sirius!”

“Unless you prefer the toys from the dungeon.”

“SIRIUS!”

Laughing, Harry’s godfather fled from the kitchen before Harry could violate the ban on underage magic and hex him. When he sat down at the table again, he had to admit though that he felt much better than before the talk. Sirius was right - he and Hermione were in love, and she just needed to realize that. This was shaping up to be a very good day.

“Kreacher will have to polish the cage then, so it’ll be ready when Master’s Godson needs it for Master’s Godson’s Slave.”

Or not. Maybe he should talk to Remus too.

*****​

“How was your first week at home?” Hermione asked, walking next to Harry down the street towards the movie theatre. The young witch was happy. She had dressed up just a bit - short skirt, close to a mini, and matching blouse with just the right amount of cleavage shown, heels - and Harry had complimented her quite nicely for it. He might just be influenced by magic to make her happy, but it was working.

Hermione glanced over. Her friend was wearing jeans and a t-shirt under a light jacket with sneakers. All expensive brands. Someone at Gringotts had made a mint changing galleons from the Black Vault. It was money well spent, in her opinion. She moved closer to Harry and slipped her arm into his.

“It was good, mostly. Kreacher’s doing better, Remus and Sirius are relaxing, now that the tournament and school are both over.” He didn’t mention the Dursleys, and Hermione didn’t ask. She knew how they felt, about Harry and herself, and while there were quite a few people she’d like to be afraid of her, seeing people she had never done any harm cringe when she entered their house hadn’t felt right.

“That’s nice to hear, but you said ‘mostly’.” Hermione wanted to know what was not going well for Harry, so she could fix it.

“Ah, yeah. Sirius has started dating.” Harry sighed.

“Oh. Is she nice?” He was probably jealous, Hermione thought, for not having the full attention of his godfather anymore. Understandable, if a bit selfish - but her Patron deserved to be selfish, after last year.

“Who?”

“The girl Sirius is dating.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. Harry was usually not that dense, but maybe her blouse was providing a greater distraction than she had planned.

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“Oh.” Hermione understood. She shouldn’t have expected Sirius to settle down yet, she berated herself. “How many?”

“So far there was a new girl each morning.”

“That’s not dating, that’s womanizing!” Hermione frowned. If that dog gave Harry the wrong ideas…

“Yes. But… he has been in prison for over a decade. I can’t blame him for trying to catch up.” Harry smiled ruefully. He did love his godfather, Hermione knew, and had a hard time seeing his faults.

“You’re right. As long as he doesn’t string them along.”

“He isn’t… I think. At least he’s not doing anything worse than what they are planning.”

“Probably mostly gold diggers.” Mostly, but not all of them, she assumed. “How’s Remus taking it?” He was the responsible adult in the household, after all.

“It’s close to the full moon, so he’s not doing well.” That would explain it.

“So, you’ve got no future godmother yet.”

“No. You’re still the only witch in the house. When you’re there.” Harry smiled at her, but his tone made it a question, as well as a statement.

Hermione sighed. “My parents were prying into our relationship, and I lost my temper and tried to shock them. It took a while before they were convinced I did not really plan to sleep with you this week.” She frowned at her friend when he started chuckling. “I got a lecture on safe sex too; they said they didn’t want to become grandparents just yet. As if I didn’t know all about safe sex already! And I use magical protection anyway!”

“Oh…” Harry was chuckling again, and she briefly elbowed him in his ribs. “Oof. At least you didn’t get the safe sex talk from Sirius.”

“I’d have thought he’d teach you the contraception charm, and that was it.” Hermione also expected him to hand Harry a coupon for St. Mungo’s, but she didn’t want to go there.

“His lecture involved safe words.”

“Ah.” Hermione hoped she was not blushing as much as she felt like. That was some fuel for her imagination she didn’t need.

“Yes. Apparently the library at Grimmauld Place also has a few books on the matter.” He was looking ahead at the movie theatre, avoiding her eyes, but he was grinning. Teasing her. Probably noticed her blush.

“I’ll make sure to study them carefully.” She spoke in her most serious tone, and managed to keep from laughing until he had stumbled and was staring at her.

“You should aim your wit at Sirius, not at me.”

“I am going out with you, not with your godfather.” She tensed up. That was a bit too close to the topic they still were not touching.

“So, your parents don’t have problems with you visiting me unsupervised anymore?” Her friend was not changing the topic, merely nudging it a bit away from that particular minefield.

“No. Though if they knew Sirius as well as we do, that would not be the case. Even with Remus there.” Hermione didn’t think telling her parents that there was a very respectable werewolf in the house would do much to make them feel better. “But when you visit, they might keep a closer eye on us for a while.”

They walked the rest of the way to the movie theatre chatting about the latest hits and the TV series they had missed. Hermione really needed to find a way to deal with the interference from wards that wrecked electronics. Even if the lack of such distractions made studying easier. A bit. Then she pushed the thoughts aside. She was here to enjoy a movie, and immerse herself in muggle culture. With Harry at her side.

*****​

“It was a superb dish, Amelia. My heartfelt compliments.”

Sirius was right - the course just served at dinner at the Manor of the Bones family had been excellent. “I have to agree with my godfather, Madam Bones. It was excellent.”

Susan beamed at him while her aunt nodded graciously. It was an almost intimate dinner, just the two Bones, Harry and Sirius. Fewer than six people at a dinner party with three head of families would have been unheard of, before Voldemort. A dozen would have been the minimum, with the spouses of the heads, and the heirs and their spouses expected to attend the occasion as well. These days, it was still exceptional. The Potter, Bones and Black families had been hit harder than any other families. Any other families that had survived, to be precise.

The entertainment had been solid, if not spectacular. A Sword Dancer from the Ottoman Empire - with significant dervish blood, their host had explained. It had been an impressive performance, exotic and skillful, but… it was paid entertainment. Understandable, since Amelia Bones had a very demanding position at the Ministry and most families did the same, but it was not very personal. Harry also had missed Hermione whispering tidbits of information into his ear. He would have brought her, but that would have been a faux pas. Like showing up with your mistress instead of your wife. He almost snorted when he considered that most assumed Hermione would be, or already was, his mistress. They didn’t know her. He was already looking forward to the trip abroad to France, and then to Bulgaria. It would be just him, her, and Sirius. And hopefully no worries about her future status.

A house elf served more wine. Harry stopped him from filling his own glass. He wasn’t expected to talk politics as a minor, but he wanted to keep a clear head. Especially given what he knew about Voldemort. So far he had been lucky - Madam Bones and Sirius had handled most of the dinner conversation until now.

“Would you like another wine?” Madam Bones asked with a slight concern audible in her voice. Harry shook his head.

“Thank you, Madam Bones, but plain water will suffice. I fear I drank my fill already.” An instant later a glass of water appeared next to his plate.

“Susan told me you were a serious young wizard, for your age.”

“I try to live up to my duties.” Harry nodded at Susan and at her aunt.

“I keep telling him he should loosen up some, but he doesn’t listen. In that, he is a typical teenager.” Sirius laughed at his own remark, and Harry saw Madam Bones chuckle slightly. The stern witch was a marked contrast to Sirius, but they seemed to get along.

“There’s always sixth year.” Susan spoke up, grinning at Harry. He smiled back, not quite sure if she was implying more than the obvious.

“I think Harry might remain more reserved than most even during the Year of Discovery.” Sirius didn’t sound as disapproving of the prospect as he usually did at home, which confused Harry some.

“We’ll see.” Susan was winking at him. She had had more wine than he had, he noticed, but not too much. Unless she was what Sirius called a lightweight. But the implications were quite clear now, and Harry had to suppress the first answer that came to mind. Susan was a friend of his, and had done nothing to offend him.

“It’s still a year away. A lot can happen in that time.” Harry tried to sound as noncommittally as possible.

“I’ll just have to team up with Hermione.” Susan giggled. She was wearing a low-cut thin robe, he had noticed before, with floating patterns that kept forming her house crest, breaking up, and reforming it again, drawing attention to her chest, which was quite ample for her age.

Harry coughed. Her remark made him imagine scenes he was quite sure were not very likely, unless a lot happened this year. He wasn’t sure if Susan wanted to be his mistress, the lover of both him and Hermione, or if she was just teasing him. He managed another vague answer before Sirius steered the conversation back to the Wizengamot. Harry was grateful - with his and Hermione’s relationship still… unconfirmed, he was not really up to discussing it with anyone. Especially not without her being present. The talk with Sirius was a special case.

Part of him wished he’d have drunk more wine. The other part wished he had not drunk any. That one sounded like Hermione’s voice in his head, so he listened to it.

*****​

“It’s a madhouse.” Harry sounded slightly shocked. Honestly, what did he expect, after inviting the entire Weasley family (apart from the three eldest sons) to dinner? A quiet affair, as he had described the dinner at Bones Manor?

“It’s your house.” Hermione answered. Harry had left the dining hall to fetch a muggle magazine from his room for Mr. Weasley, and Hermione had exercised her retainer’s privilege, as she liked to think of it, to come with him, in case he needed assistance. Merlin knew she needed the break as well. It was a formal invitation, so manners had to be observed as if they were in public. Which meant she was not Ron’s best friend, like when she and Harry visited the Weasleys, but Harry’s retainer. It wouldn’t have been bad, but for the twins and Sirius and Remus hitting it off, and starting to compare notes and spells. And demonstrating them. As long as Sirius, the host, was not only condoning the scene but actively participating, there was nothing Mrs Weasley could do to rein in the twins, not without giving offense to Sirius. And, since it was a formal affair, Hermione couldn’t do anything either, not without embarrassing Sirius and Harry. Which was where the need for a break had originated. Harry could have done something, though.

“It’s Sirius’s house.”

“Your point?” Hermione giggled at his expression, which made him smile.

“I can intervene, I guess.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’d just end up a target for the next demonstration, and Mr. Weasley is looking forward to reading the magazines you mentioned.” Which likely wouldn’t survive such an event unscathed.

“Well, it’s entertaining. And educational.” He must have noticed her expression, since he hastily added “In an immature, inappropriate way, of course.”

“It’s not quite inappropriate, but certainly immature.” She couldn’t keep from grinning though. “Now just imagine if the Lovegoods were not on their yearly expedition, and could have come as well…”

“Thank the Gods for small blessings!” Harry sounded as fervently as a member of the Faithful at that moment. While he searched for the magazine with the article he had mentioned to the head of the Weasley family in one of the chests in his room, Hermione waited at the door and let her thoughts wander. Could she live like this, always Harry’s retainer in public, even in the company of friends? Invitations in her, Harry’s home, she only could attend if she could provide entertainment? Could she stomach such a future?

“Ah, there it is!” Harry held up the magazine he had been searching for, and beamed at her as if he had just found a new spell. Hermione shook her head slightly. She knew she didn’t want to imagine a future without him.

*****​

The wards protecting Malfoy Manor were quite extensive. Far stronger and older than those pitiful shreds covering Macnair’s home. Lord Voldemort knew he could break through them, but it would take a while - long enough for the residents to alert the Ministry. Once, the wards would not have stopped him, but the changes caused by his resurrection were too extensive. Fortunately, he didn’t have to break through the wards, or approach dear Lucius in Diagon Alley to contact the wizard. It was not as impressive as waiting in Lucius’ own study for him, and it carried a bit more risk, but it would suffice.

The Dark Lord left his vantage spot near the manor’s boundaries and apparated to the middle of a clearing in a small forest in Wales, where Macnair was waiting. “Your arm.” His follower hastily raised his left arm and exposed the dark mark. He was not quite trembling, but Voldemort could see the nervousness and fear the Death Eater was trying to hide, and smiled before jabbing the point of his wand into the mark and concentrating.

“Go now, Walden. I will contact you once I have finished my business. Do not hunt until then.”

“My Lord.” The other man bowed, his relief and resentment at the order as imperfectly hidden as his earlier fear, and apparated away. He was an enthusiastic tool, a killer, but after more than a decade away from the Dark Lord’s control, Macnair had to learn again that everything he did was at Voldemort’s pleasure.

The reborn Dark Lord disillusioned himself, and stepped a bit away from the center of the clearing. In the past it had been a holy place of Celtic Druids. Roman wizards had put an end to their rituals here, but the magic was not completely gone: no trees had grown in the clearing since. It was a fitting site for him, who would restore the ancient glory of Wizarding Britain.

Voldemort didn’t have to wait long until a faint popping sound announced the arrival of another wizard, behind an old tree. He had expected that. “Step up!” he commanded, though he moved to the side as soon as he had spoken, still hidden by his spell. One could never fully trust one’s followers, after all, after they had been out of control for over a decade they might have gotten ideas above their station.

After a few more seconds, a figure appeared at the edge of the clearing. Unlike Macnair, this one wore no silver skull mask, nor the pitch black robe of a Death Eater. A dark grey cloak with a hood hid his identity, but the Dark Lord could feel their connection.

“Crucio.” He didn’t have to say the words, but it added to the strength of the spell. He didn’t have to aim, or even point his wand, not with the dark mark burned into the man’s arm. While the wizard collapsed, screaming and thrashing on the ground, Voldemort canceled his disillusionment and stepped forward. He did not stop the curse until his boots were just a foot away from his victim’s head. “Greetings, Lucius. Did you forget during my absence what the signal I sent you meant?”

Lucius Malfoy stared up at him, pain and shock plainly visible on his face, his lips moving without words being heard.

“You were to appear in the clearing and wearing your robe and mask, Lucius. Not skulk around in the woods garbed like an assassin.” He had known Lucius would not do that, of course - the man was far too cautious to show his hand, after more than a decade of freedom.

“Forgive me, M-master. I f-feared an a-ambush.” Malfoy was shaking, but managed to get up enough to kneel. He would have an excuse ready, of course. He always did.

“You honestly thought someone else would be able to use the mark that ties us together to prepare an ambush? You doubt me so much?” Not that his excuses always worked.

“F-forgive me, M-Master!” Lucius pressed his head into the ground, his long blond hair covering the grass. He was still trembling, both from the lingering effects of the spell, and the shock of the Dark Lord’s return, no doubt.

“Why should I, if you think so little of me to defy my orders so blatantly?” Voldemort moved his wand in a lazy motion. It was so tempting to torment the wizard further, debase him, but he needed the man, and his gold. “Others held their head high and went to prison in my name. You denied all ties to me, and claimed to have been my victim.”

“I… I have worked for the cause, M-master. I cultivated contacts, gained influence in the Ministry. Raised my son to follow your ideals. Command me, and reap the fruits of a decade’s labor!” The blonde wizard was panting. “I did not surrender, nor give up, but worked for you, even while you were absent.”

“And you feel this excuses your wavering faith in me?”

“Forgive me, Master. I did what I could do, what I did best, to serve you.”

Theatrically sighing, Voldemort turned away, but kept the man in his field of view. Staring at the edge of the clearing, he spoke: “While I have others more faithful than you, and more obedient, it would be a waste to not use your own talents and influence.” Turning his head back at the man, who was staring up at him with raw hope in his eyes, he nodded. “Provided you will not lapse again.”

“Never, my Lord!” Lucius smiled weakly, through the pain and fear still holding him in their grip.

“Never again, you mean. Do not presume to be able to fool me. I know what you did, three years ago.” He smiled coldly at the paling, groveling wizard. “Even if you did not know what you were doing. Or did you?”

Lucius shook his head. “I did not know, Master.” He probably had not known anything more than what Voldemort had told him back before that cursed night at Godric’s Hollow, that the diary was a cursed muggle object, a trap for mudbloods and blood traitors.

“And yet you used it, ignorant of its nature, to further your political aims. I expected better of you, Lucius.” It wasn’t a terrible loss. That diary had been the result of his foolish, youthful enthusiasm, back when he had just started to delve into the real Dark Arts. It was even embarrassing, in hindsight - he had done so much more once he had truly understood its nature. A talking diary, with a copy of his teenage mind and a sliver of his soul… He would have had to kill whatever had come of it himself, he guessed, if Dumbledore had not taken care of it. And his old foe likely was chasing a false trail now. But his basilisk slain by Potter and that buffoon Lockhart… that was a loss.

“Forgive me, Master!” Lucius was getting repetitive. No reason not to do the same.

“Crucio!” He let the man suffer a bit more - not enough to damage his body or mind, of course. Malfoy was too useful.

This time it took longer until the blond man was able to speak and move again. Voldemort savored every second. “Now that I can trust you not to make such a mistake again, I forgive you.”

“T-t-thank you M-m-master! Th-thank you!”

“Now return to your home. To your family. Young Draco is back from his fourth year, right? A promising child, I think. Though not yet strong enough to be taken into confidence.” Only a fool would let children know crucial information. Unless one wanted such information to spread.

“Y-yes, M-master!”

“Go home, and work on weakening Dumbledore’s influence on the Ministry. Make sure that my return remains a secret. Do not fail me again, Lucius.”

“I w-will n-not, M-master!”

“I will call you again.”

The trembling wizard managed to apparate away without splinching himself, and Voldemort was alone again in the clearing. Once, before, it had served for meetings with his inner circle. It would serve again.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore smiled at the various wizards and witches gathered in the - magically expanded - cottage near the coast of Dover. The place had served as a safe house in the War with Voldemort, and he had hoped it would not have to serve the same purpose again. But Voldemort had returned from death, and so it was time to revive the Order of the Phoenix. He almost lost his smile when he took in just how few had survived that war, and how they had changed since they had last gathered. It had been but a bit more than one decade!

There was old, and there was experienced, of course. But he feared many of those present had just grown old, and not experienced, in the peace they had enjoyed until now. A peace that, unknown to them, had ended. Some of them would already know what he was about to tell them. The attack on the World Cup had been the first sign. Others would not want to know, but had to.

He coughed, and the conversations among those present fell silent as everyone turned towards him, standing at the head of the conjured table. “My friends, I thank you all for accepting my invitation. Many of you will wondering why I have called you to this gathering. Some may already suspect the reason.” He glanced at Alastor. “I wish I had better news to share, but the truth is, grave times are ahead of us.”

He waited a bit, until the whispers that had started had died down again. “You remember the attack on the World Cup last year, rumored to be the work of Death Eaters. The sabotage of the Triwizard Tournament that almost claimed the life of the Boy-Who-Lived.” He nodded apologetically towards Sirius, who was sitting at the end of the table with Remus.

“Neither crime has been solved so far. The culprits behind those events have not been caught. They will be emboldened by this, and I fear they will continue, or even expand their activities.” Some of his friends - Sirius, Remus, Hestia, Emmeline, Kingsley, Minerva and of course Alastor nodded grimly, but others, Molly, Arthur, Dedalus, and Elphias gasped in dismay. Mundungus looked like he was about to faint. “We will have to be on our guard. While we do not know who is behind the attacks, and what their goals are, the events are clearly aimed at causing fear among the population, and painfully remind us of how the last war started.” That started even more whispers.

“The Death Eaters are back!” Dedalus exclaimed.

Albus nodded at him. “Some of them might have donned their old robes again.”

“Should have killed them all after the last war!” Alastor growled.

“I do hope this is nothing more than a few vile individuals lashing out in an attempt to satisfy their own urges, but we cannot exclude the possibility that this is a more organized effort.” He couldn’t tell them he knew Voldemort was back, not without risking Harry’s connection becoming known to Voldemort. As long as the Dark Lord believed his distraction had succeeded he would not be as careful, and might make mistakes. “Which is why we need to prepare for the worst.”

“You mean… You-Know-Who…?” Emmeline trailed off, and more people gasped.

Albus hated lying to his friends, but this secret was too important to be revealed just to be honest with them. If Voldemort learned that Albus already knew about his return he’d adjust his plans accordingly, and they would lose a big advantage. And, there were ways to make even the staunchest of his friends talk. He had to suppress a shudder at the memory of the fate the Longbottoms had suffered. “All the signs point to followers of his acting out of their own volition.” All the signs Voldemort had placed, no doubt. “And yet, that does not mean they are not dangerous. We all know that many claimed to have been under the Imperius in the last war who might not have been under such duress. Many other Death Eaters never were caught and remained hidden. They will not have forgotten what they did in the war, nor how they did it.”

Albus saw his friends take heart. Voldemort was terrifying, but Death Eaters? They had dealt with them in the past. Whispers started up again, but more confident. Even vengeful. He exchanged a glance with Alastor, who had expected that. “Please do not act rashly. All we can do right now is to be careful, make sure our homes and families are protected, and keep our eyes open.”

“Aye. And you better start getting back into shape. You lot got lazy and soft. A fourth year student could take out half of you I’d say.” Alastor bared his teeth at the Order members. A number glared back, or scoffed, but others looked away.

Alastor was right - with a few exceptions, namely the grizzled former auror himself, and the active aurors, they had grown softer. And neither Alastor nor himself were getting any younger either. There was no way around it - they needed more wizards and witches skilled at fighting. “That, and recruiting more members for the Order. The more we are, the better we can protect each other.”

“Do we know what the Death Eaters are after?” Kingsley spoke up.

“Not at this point. The attacks on the World Cup and the Tournament seemed meant to cause terror among the population, and make them question the competence of the Ministry and Hogwarts, but this year is lacking such high-profile events.”

“Apart from Quidditch matches.”

“I am sure the DMLE will guard those.” Especially after Albus voiced some of his concerns to Amelia.

“The Boy-who-lived was present at both occasions.” Kingsley was sharp.

“It is not unfathomable that some followers of the Dark Lord want to avenge him, but trust me when I say that his security is taken care of.” Albus nodded at Sirius and Remus.

“If they come after the boy we can use that to prepare an ambush.” Not that sharp, Albus thought. At least Remus managed to hold Sirius back from hexing Kingsley.

“Be on your guard, and keep your eyes open - for suspicious activities, as well as potential recruits and allies. This may turn out to be just a scare, but I’d rather feel like a fool and laugh at our fears in a year, then attend a funeral.”

On that somber reminder, the meeting broke up and the Order members left. Alastor stayed.

“Fat load of good that’ll do us. Whole lot has gone soft.”

“Mundungus has good contacts in Knockturn Alley. If Voldemort or his followers are making waves, he’ll pick it up. And Kingsley will keep us informed about all the aurors find out.” Albus smiled with more confidence than he felt. Mundungus had not been brave in his youth, and had not grown braver since. He still tried to do the right thing, but his fingers slipped ever so often.

“Without more skilled wands that will just mean that we can see what’s coming, but won’t be able to do something about it.”

“Voldemort too will not have many wands. He cannot trust all his former followers not to betray him. Not after Karkaroff.”

“What about your pet spy?”

“He has not yet reported any contact.”

“‘Not yet reported’, you say.”

“Yes.” Severus had proven himself in the war, but… people changed. It had been over a decade since Lily had died, and the young Potion Master had not shown any affection for anyone else. That was not a good sign. He was so full of anger, and loathing… Albus would have to keep an eye on him.


Chapter 13: Foreign Shores

 

Chapter 13: Foreign Shores

“Drat!”

Harry Potter took care not to react in any way to Hermione’s cursing, nor to the sound of sparks getting set off, or the smell of burning plastic that started to fill the room he and his friend were in at Grimmauld Place 12. He hadn’t kept an exact count, but that had been close to half a dozen calculators that had been sacrificed for Hermione’s experiments today, and he knew from experience she would be getting angrier with each failure to shield the electronic calculators from the effects of the wards on the house. At least she was making some progress, or so she claimed.

That both of them had had quite a stressful week behind them, and could look forward to another one, only made his friend’s temper worse. It couldn’t be helped though - with the upcoming trip to France and Bulgaria and the need to learn occlumency, their usual summer schedule was more crammed than usual this year.

Without turning his head away from the treatise on mind shielding techniques he had been skimming in preparation for today’s lessons with Sirius and Remus, he glanced over to Hermione. She had pulled the fried calculator apart and was checking the runes she had edged onto the casing, muttering while she made notes with a dictaquill. He spotted a stray lock that had escaped her ponytail and was hanging in front of her face. The witch did not seem to have consciously noticed it yet and was unsuccessfully trying to blow the distraction away from her field of vision while she worked. It was an adorable sight. Then she started to brush it back with her left hand, without any success at keeping it away from her face. After repeated attempts, she finally huffed and used her wand to restore her hairstyling charm without taking her eyes off her experiment. That was the witch he knew so well, and loved so much, in a nutshell.

He let his eyes linger over her for a bit longer - she was wearing a tank top and jeans today, with her robe draped over her chair, in case someone visited the house - before returning his attention to his book. Or trying to. Hermione was on his mind a lot these days. Between enchanting her and his robes, learning occlumency, her experiments, and running arithmantic calculations on her computer at the Grangers’ for spellcrafting projects, the young witch hadn’t had time to look further into the intricacies of the Patron Oath. Or so she had claimed - he wasn’t sure, but he had the impression she was afraid, on some level, to find out exactly what the Oath did. He wouldn’t press her though. Sirius and Remus had agreed that pressing his friend in this matter would not be helpful. She’d have to work through this herself. He only hoped it would happen soon. He sighed.

“Harry? Is something wrong?” Hermione looked at him with concern clearly visible on her face.

He didn’t want to tell her what he had been thinking about, so he quickly made up something. “No, no, I am just a bit stumped with this passage here.” Harry pointed at the page he had been staring at for ten minutes now, without really reading it.

“Oh? Let me see, I read the treatise two days ago and found it quite sound.” With that, his friend came over to him and leaned against his back to look over his shoulder at what he had been pointing at. He should have been used by now to such close contact, but he still had to struggle to focus on her explanation, instead of her body pressed into his back, and her head so close to his that he’d only have to turn his cheek a bit to plant a kiss… he really had to struggle to follow her.

*****​

“I said ‘no’, Draco, and that is final.”

“But Father! We had plans! I was looking forward to it all year!” Draco wasn’t whining. He was asking - no, demanding - an explanation for his father’s sudden bout of … whatever it was that had caused him to cancel their summer plans.

“Draco, circumstances have changed. We cannot risk it, not now.”

His father wasn’t even looking at him, but reading notes on his desk. He was his son! He was more important than a scroll of parchment!

“Why not? The mudbloods and blood traitors are weak! We can strike at their homes, kill them, and vanish before anyone notices! Like in the war!” Draco had been looking forward, had longed, to don the sacred robe and mask again, to fight mudbloods and blood traitors, to further the cause of the purebloods. To feel the thrill of lethal battle again, like last summer.

“No we cannot. Not now. Maybe next year, if things go well.”

“Next year?” To spend another year, caged among the sheep in the school, unable to show his true nature, unable to strike at his enemies… no, that was impossible!

“Yes. If things go well, next year.” His father rolled up one scroll and dropped it on an enchanted pad on his polished marble desk. The scroll vanished with a quick flash of green light. It was the same color as the Killing Curse, something Draco had found very funny when he had noticed it after the World Cup.

“Why? Why can’t we fight now? We did it last year!” They had sent their enemies fleeing in terror. Culled their numbers in glorious combat! He would have stamped his foot, if it would have made any impression on the thick Persian carpet on the floor in his father’s study.

“I told you, circumstances have changed. We cannot risk getting exposed.” His father was, finally, looking at him, and he looked annoyed - no, he looked angry.

“That’s it? You fear the aurors? You have the Minister in your pocket, why should we fear the aurors?” It wasn’t as if anyone had bothered them after the fight at the World Cup last year. Not the Malfoys. Draco put his hands on the desk and leaned forward, towards his father.

“I told you my reasons. In the current political climate, a mistake or slip up could be ruinous. The risks are simply too big.” The head of the Malfoy family narrowed his eyes, and Draco had taken a step back before he realized that he had moved

Huffing, the young wizard turned away. “I’ll amuse myself with some muggles, then.”

“No, you will not do that either.” The cold voice stopped him.

Draco whirled around. “What? You can’t forbid that! Those are muggles, animals! No one cares about them, not the aurors, not even the blood traitors!”

He didn’t hear the incantation and when he saw the cloud appear around him, it was too late to do anything. For a moment he felt as if he was back at the dueling competition last year, when the mudblood had sent the poison cloud he had sent at her back to him. Then the poison touched him, and he collapsed, screaming. The pain was far worse than back then - unbearable. Death would be a relief! He thrashed around, hands and knees hitting the floor, lashing out at the poisonous air that clung to him. And during it all, he kept screaming.

Then it ended, and he lay there, panting, crying, vomiting on the carpet, and heard the anger in the voice of his father.

“I’ve had enough of your backtalk, Draco. Your foolishness could doom our entire family, and I will not tolerate disobedience in this. Do you understand?”

Draco was unable to answer, his voice hoarse, but he managed to nod jerkily at the boots and the hem of his father’s robe that he saw from his position.

“Get out then, and do not bother me about this again.”

The young pureblood wizard crawled out of his father’s study, weeping and shivering. As soon as he had crossed the threshold the black wooden door closed behind him, and he curled up in a ball. His father had cursed him! He had never done this before!

He barely heard a gasp before soft hands caressed his cheeks, brushing away the tears. “Mother...” His mother was there, for him.

“Shh, Draco. Drink this, it will bring relief from the pain.” A vial was held to his lips, and he drank it all. The pain lessened, but did not go away.

Draco looked at his mother, kneeling next to him, holding him in her arms. “Mother! Father cursed me. Cursed ME!”

“I know, Draco.”

“But why? Why?” He didn’t understand. His father had never done this before. He had been punished, but never like this.

His mother looked very sad. “Draco, your father is... I can’t tell you why, but you cannot anger him, or disobey him. Please.”

Draco nodded. He wouldn’t dare to cross his father, not after today. He still didn’t understand what had happened, what had changed, but he understood that.

“Good boy.”

*****​

She should have known it was a bad idea, Hermione Granger told herself when she stepped out of the floo into Grimmauld Place. She had known it was a bad idea, actually, but her parents, even Harry, had not agreed with her.

“That was…”

“That was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, Harry. I want to forget it as soon as possible.” Hermione cut her friend off.

“I didn’t think she would…”

“Talking about something is not conductive to forgetting it.” She glared at Harry until he shut up. She’d not talk about Nymphadora Black-Tonks, metamorphmagus and a recent but big fan of muggle culture, and her disastrous visit to the Grangers.

Wisely, her friend did drop the topic. Both knew that once Sirius heard of it, they’d have to do something drastic to keep him from bringing it up at every opportunity. At least her parents had not forbidden her to travel with Harry this summer. Probably too shocked still. She could explain to them that the French and Bulgarians had quite different customs than the British, but that wouldn’t help that much.

“Greetings, Master’s Godson and Master’s Godson’s slave.” Kreacher was busy in the kitchen when the two entered.

Hermione had to take a deep breath to control herself, and not hex the evil little… poor old house elf who didn’t know any better after more than a century spent in service of the Blacks. “Tea please.”

While the elf was busy preparing tea, the two sat down at the kitchen table, in their usual spots, facing each other. “Well, the floo works. If anyone attacks your parents they can flee through it.”

“Yes.” Hermione smiled at her friend. Thanks to the private floo connection coupled with the spells she had cast on the house, her parents were much safer than before. Still not as safe as she wanted them to be, but without warding the house and dooming her family to a life without electronics, that was the best she could do. Until she managed to solve the problem with wards and electronics. She was so close...

Two cups appeared on the table. Harry leaned towards her and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. Both remained silent for a while, drinking their tea.

“I wonder how many such private floos exist, separate from the public network.” Hermione refilled her cup.

“Not too many. They are quite expensive to install, and there are not many wizards able to do it. And even fewer one can trust to be discreet about it.”

“Don’t tell my parents that.” Hermione hated being indebted to anyone, a trait she shared with her parents. But their safety was more important, and if they didn’t know just how much that connection had cost it would harm no one. Her father probably thought the sole reason for it was to let her visit Harry more easily. Well, that was a rather nice side benefit, if she was honest with herself. Too bad it was situated in the living room, and not in her own room, or she’d be able to sneak out at night, and visit… she clamped down on that thought before it touched on some of her fantasies she really shouldn’t indulge in before she had mastered occlumency. One never knew when Sirius might try to surprise test one’s mental defenses, after all, and if Harry’s godfather knew about that she’d never live it down. Or if he told Harry.

*****​

In a small cottage in Wales, the greatest Dark Lord of Britain was pacing back and forth between the desk and the bed. It was a safe house, arranged by Barty Crouch before his sacrifice, secure and well-hidden, but he would have to expand the interior a few times, until it was fit for him to spend more than a day in. Doing that might leave clues that would point to him having returned though, if the wrong people found the house despite the precautions he had taken. Another inconvenience hampering his path back to the power he deserved, though a minor one compared to other obstacles. Like his lack of trustworthy Death Eaters.

The more Voldemort knew of the current state of his old followers, the more he realized how much of a blow the loss of Barty Crouch Jr. had been. Barty had not just been fanatically devoted to him, but far more skilled and talented than most of his Death Eaters. And Barty would have died rather than betray him, or his secrets. Voldemort was sure that none of his followers outside Azkaban had that kind of loyalty right now, no matter if they were marked or not. At least Lucius was cowed enough to keep the Ministry from meddling too much in his affairs, and Walden was apt at finding malcontents to bolster the numbers of his followers, as well as at thinning the ranks of his enemies. But neither one could really replace his Bellatrix, or the others imprisoned at Azkaban. He briefly considered contacting Severus. The man was certainly competent, one of the best potioneers, and had been a fair hand at dealing with enemies on the battlefield as well. But he couldn’t be trusted. Not after revealing himself to be a spy for Dumbledore in the aftermath of that particular Samhain. Even if Severus had only claimed that to escape Azkaban, he had been at Hogwarts, at Dumbledore’s side, for over ten years since. No, one could not trust such a man, not yet.

As much as it galled Voldemort, he still had to move with the utmost care, lest Dumbledore learn of his return. He had planned to send a few of the potential recruits out to deal with annoyances like Lockhart. People who had vexed him but didn’t pose real problems to his plans. It would serve to bloody his recruits, and to weed out the incompetent. But that would have to wait for now. He needed another diversion. He pondered this for a while. As far as Dumbledore knew, the saboteur who had tried to kill the Boy-Who-Lived was still at large. If his old enemy could be fooled into assuming that that man was dead, he might lower his guard, which would make both recruiting more wands for Voldemort’s cause as well as dealing with obstacles much easier. But how to arrange that?

Potter and his mudblood were bound for France and Bulgaria this summer according to Lucius’s sources in the Ministry. That would be a good opportunity to strike at them without Dumbledore able to come to their rescue, even though there was a small risk of making more enemies abroad. On the other hand, Voldemort didn’t know the French and Bulgarians well enough to predict their responses, so letting them dispose of his scapegoat in a way that would fool Dumbledore would be more difficult to pull off. And, if there was an opportunity to kill the Boy-Who-Lived, it would be a shame to deliberately waste it.

He nodded. He knew the right sort of wizards - ruthless, and mercenary - from his time in the Balkans, when he had prepared his refuge in Albania. He just needed to pick a fitting scapegoat, and have that one hire them. Best case, the Boy-Who-Lived died, and the French or Bulgarian aurors tracked down his puppet, who would be killed of course. Worst case, he would have his puppet try again in Britain.

He went to the kitchen and checked what kind of meals were left in stasis in the pantry. He’d have to restock them soon.

*****​

International magical travel was faster than muggle travel, but no less exhausting, Harry had learned, both for organizing the trip, as well as the actual travel. International Portkeys took a lot of paperwork to get, and more than a little gold, though he was sure that that could be improved with a better organization of the department that issued them. At least Hermione had claimed that, after she had gone along with Sirius to that particular department in the Ministry. The trip itself though… International portkeys spun one around as badly as national ones, just for longer. Fortunately, they hadn’t traveled the entire distance to the South of France in one trip: that would have been nasty. Even so, he noticed there were buckets placed in the room of the traveling agency they had just arrived in at Paris. After he found his bearings, that is.

“Wow! I had forgotten just how much fun those trips were!” Sirius, of course, was having a blast. He hadn’t fallen down upon arrival, either. Life wasn’t fair.

Hermione muttered something under her breath - they were in public, so she couldn’t curse the animagus, literally or figuratively - and got up from where she had been thrown by the portkey. Fortunately the floor was enchanted with a cushioning charm. The walls probably as well.

“Only an utter fool out of his mind would enjoy such torture.” The last member of the traveling party, Nymphadora Black-Tonks, had leave to voice her feelings on the matter. She was prone to clumsiness to start with, and the trip had not done her any favors, so she was not even trying to get up right now. The young auror was their security detail - the Ministry feared for their safety, since at least to their knowledge the culprit behind the attacks on the Tournament had not been caught yet. Apparently, she was a compromise - a trained auror and, if not legally family, she at least had blood ties to them. Further, unknown to the Ministry, she was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. The auror hadn’t been told about Voldemort’s return so far, a fact that didn’t sit well with the rest of their group, but Dumbledore had been adamant about the need to keep this secret. And after her display at the Grangers’, Harry and Hermione didn’t feel that bad about keeping her in the dark anymore.

“Why, dear Nymph..adora, did you have trouble during the trip?” Sirius made a show of offering her his hand to help her up, knowing she’d not be able to stand yet.

If looks could curse, Sirius would be sprouting something embarrassing, painful, or both now, but as it was, Nymphadora’s eyes only showed the promise of future retribution, or so Harry thought. You never truly knew with Blacks, even if they were children of an emancipated Black and not of the main family. Their tempers were sometimes too much for their manners.

“I wish we had Remus with us,” Hermione whispered next to him, shaking her head at the antics of their two fellow travelers and supposed adult chaperons.

“Me too.” It was impossible, though. Bringing a werewolf along without informing the host of his nature would have been a grave insult, even a capital crime depending on the phase of the moon, and revealing his curse would not be not worth the trip, not for the trouble it would cause for Remus and Hogwarts back in Britain.

Hermione sighed. “They are supposed to watch us, not the other way around. So much for our vacation. Let’s see if we can find the floo entrances before they start something.”

Harry nodded, cast the translation charm Hermione had taught him, and the two went off to the information desk. With some luck they’d be back before Nymphadora and Sirius had started too much trouble.

*****​

The entrance hall of Chateau D’Aigle, where Fleur’s family lived, was an impressive sight, though to Hermione’s surprise, it was more similar to Hogwarts than to Beauxbatons, at least according to the pictures of the French school she had seen, even though it was situated in a similar location in France. While beautifully decorated, it left a very solid, secure impression, with thick walls and sturdy doors.

When she spotted the half-dozen veelas and wizards awaiting them - Fleur and Gabrielle, their parents, and their maternal grandparents -, Hermione was very glad that they had arrived by floo and not by portkey. To arrive flat on her back or stomach would not have made a good first impression, in her opinion.

“Ah! Ugh! I’m okay… I’m okay.”

Or to arrive as a flailing bundle of limbs and roll over the polished marble floor until stopped by a pillar, like Nymphadora. The young witch noticed with some relief that their hosts seemed to ignore the spectacle, apart from a few giggles from Gabrielle, which were quickly shut up by a glare from her mother. Sirius and Harry, who had arrived before Hermione, didn’t react to the scene either. The young witch stepped up to stand slightly to the side and behind her Patron while their security detail was still untangling her limbs. Fortunately, not quite as literally as she could have done it, given her body-changing talent.

“Be welcome in our home, honored guests.” Fleur’s grandmother levitated a loaf of bread, and with a flick of her wand, broke it up in bite-sized pieces which floated to each person present.

“Please accept our thanks, honored host.” Sirius bowed, then ate his piece. As they had been instructed to beforehand, the rest of them followed his example. The bread tasted very salty - bread and salt, Hermione knew, symbolized hospitality. She also felt a tingle of magic as the small ritual finished and everyone relaxed while less formal greetings were exchanged. Gabrielle went back to hiding behind her mother as soon as possible, but she was peeking out and at staring at Hermione with wide eyes, which was puzzling the witch.

“You must be tired from your travels. Please follow me to the guest quarters so you can rest until lunch.” Fleur smiled, taking the formal edge off her words. The British group followed her out of the entrance hall. As soon as they were out of earshot, she started speaking English instead of French. “You’ll be given the tour later, of course - grand-mére loves to show off the chateau - but I’ll show you where the dining hall and the terrace are.” The young veela led the small group to the guest quarters, a series of rooms in the west wing, with a beautiful view of the azure mediterranean sea. Hermione’s room was last, as expected.

“And ‘ere is your room, ‘ermione.” Fleur opened the door, but stepped inside as well, surprising Hermione. The room itself was spacious, with cream-colored walls, big windows and elegant furniture including an old armoire and a big bed with thick curtains. The windows looked a bit off though, something wasn’t right.

“And here’s the door to ‘arry’s room. In case you get lonely at night.” Fleur stated with a teasing smirk.

Hermione should have blushed or smiled saucily back with a joke, she knew, but all she managed was a weak, even wistful smile. “I will keep that in mind.”

The veela’s smirk changed into a puzzled frown at that reaction. “Did something ‘appen? Should I ‘ave the door sealed?”

“No, no.” Hermione held her hands up. To lock Harry out? Perish the thought. “It’s just… we’re currently trying to find out if we want to use such a door, you know? In the future, that is. For what you implied.” She sat down on the soft bed.

Fleur nodded, grinning again. “Ah, I see. Romance is in the air then. This is the perfect location for a couple to grow closer.”

Hermione coughed. That wasn’t what she had meant, well, not precisely. Not that she was against the idea, in principle. She decided to change the topic. “Did your exams go well?”

“They did. I ‘ave a number of offers for employment. Even one from Gringotts in Britain.” Fleur looked proud of that, and she had reasons to - Gringotts was a first-rate employer, able to take their pick from a number of applicants.

“I am glad to hear that. I am sorry I missed seeing you off after the tournament.” Hermione ran a hand over the covers on the bed. Silk, embroidered and enchanted. Thin and soft.

“‘ermione, you were hurt and in the ‘ospital! No one would ‘ave expected you to come see us off. Not that ‘arry would ‘ave let you leave, I assume. It looked so bad, Gabrielle was convinced you ‘ad some fire creature ancestry to survive that.” Fleur shook her head, but Hermione couldn’t tell if it was at her, or at the notions of her little sister. The British witch held up her hands in surrender anyway, and Fleur nodded, apparently satisfied. “Now rest. We’ll eat lunch in an hour, and afterwards you’ll get the tour. After that I’ll show you the beach.”

“I am looking forward to it.” And she was - French food, an old French chateau to explore, and a beach to enjoy. That’s what Summer vacations should be like!

*****​

The meal was great, and the company was charming. French hospitality was as good as the tales he had heard, Harry thought. Well, apart from the tales from Sirius - according to his godfather the French would make sure he wouldn’t have to sleep alone. Harry had dismissed that as another tall tale. Though, maybe it would be prudent to make sure that his door was locked - some of Fleur’s cousins were giving him funny looks between whispering to each other.

That was another difference to Britain he fully approved of: The French let the head of a family decide who was part of his family. Just as what looked like all of Fleur’s cousins and other assorted relatives were present, so was Hermione. His retainer could sit at the table with him, even though she was a muggleborn, without anyone feeling slighted as long as she didn’t make a faux pas. He wasn’t worried about that - his best friend knew her manners, better than most.

Despite everyone having dressed up, and the formal elegance of the meal, with the dishes floating in graceful arcs around the table, darting in at the point of a wand while soft music played in the background, it felt more like being at the Weasleys’ than say, at the Bones’. Part of that was the number of people present. They had to be filling the chateau to the roof, if everyone was sleeping here. But more importantly, they also seemed to be more relaxed than Harry was used to on such occasions. Fleur’s family members laughed more, joked more, flirted more… at that thought he briefly and hopefully subtly checked if anyone was flirting a bit too much with Hermione. It didn’t seem to be the case, she was mostly talking with Fleur about the veela’s future plans.

Harry didn’t glance, subtly or not, at Sirius, who was outrageously flirting with every pretty witch - and all the women and girls present were very pretty - within reach that was not obviously married or engaged. Not that he did not flirt with those as well, just not as hard. Harry didn’t think his godfather had to worry about sleeping alone. More likely, he had to worry about his bed getting too crowded… and now Harry was thinking like Sirius. It was just flirting, they were not courting. Fleur had explained the differences when she had been at Hogwarts. At least he hoped it wasn’t.

Nymphadora was acting a bit more restrained, in comparison. She wasn’t showing off her talent, at least. Harry wasn’t keen on living through another moment like at the Grangers’.

“I was very impressed by your performance in the air race, Mister Potter. You came close to beating my daughter, and that’s no mean feat given her talents in the air.” Fleur’s mother addressed him. She was wearing a high-necked silk robe that seemed to flow around her body, with small illusionary exotic birds flying around the fabric, and on the fabric.

“I have to thank Hermione for that, mostly. She created a spell that allowed me to fly faster. I am a Quidditch player, not a racer.” Harry had done well, he knew, but he didn’t want to sound as if he was boasting. He was wearing his best robes himself, recently adjusted by Hermione’s latest spells.

“I have heard of that spell. It was recently banned from both Quidditch matches and races, without having been used so far in either sport. That’s quite an accomplishment for a witch so young.” The veela nodded towards Harry’s retainer, but Hermione hadn’t noticed; she seemed engrossed in her conversation with Fleur.

“Oh, yes, she’s a genius. I’d have died without her help.” Harry saw Fleur’s parents exchange smiles, and noticed Fleur’s cousins giggling some more, but with half the table flirting, he didn’t mind if they realized just how he felt about his Hermione. If that made a few of those too-handsome wizards stop looking at his best friend like that, so much the better.

*****​

Lunch had been great! For the first time in her life Hermione had felt truly welcome at a formal occasion involving rich purebloods. Sadly, she knew it did not mean that France had a more liberal society - it was simply the result of French wizard and witches caring less about how the heads of family treated their muggleborn family members. Wizarding Britain’s society might not approve of muggleborns sitting at the pureblood table, but it also didn’t approve of a Patron exercising his or her legal power over a retainer in ways that apparently wouldn’t even make the French blink.

Hermione pushed those thoughts away. She had better things to focus on - the tour of the chateau afterwards was perfect! Fleur’s grand-mère was better than any tour guides in a museum. The tapestries she had shown them, the portraits on the walls… Hermione hoped she could note down all she had heard, it made for a fascinating and enthralling story. The hallways and rooms of the chateau were also enchanted with spells that kept a soft warm breeze of fresh air going, scented with the merest hint of the sea.

“The chateau was built on the location of an ancient veela enclave taken by the Romans when they conquered southern France and named it Gallia Transalpina, later renamed to Gallia Narbonensis. They had a castellum here at first, but it was abandoned later after Pompeius had driven all the pirates from the Mare nostrum. During the middle ages, the Clan d’Aigle took control of the place once more and rebuilt the castle, sheltering veela from Barbary Coast raiders.”

“That explains the thickness of the walls.” Hermione nodded.

“Indeed.” The older veela smiled at her. “Given our history, we never felt secure enough to trust spells and wards, like the founders of Beauxbatons. Instead of just strengthening our walls with magic, we did both that, and created magical windows that can be reduced to firing slits in case of an attack.”

“How often does that happen these days?” Nymphadora asked. “I thought after the Intervention such raids ceased.”

The old veela smiled ruefully. “If only that were the case. The larger raids ceased, but lone veelas or witches, and the occasional wizard child, still disappear. And as memories grow weaker, raiders grow bolder. I fear that before I die I’ll see the day the chateau will be under siege again.”

That was a sobering thought. Hermione had been at this coast before, with her parents. To think she could have been kidnapped…

“But we have improved our defenses. Our private beach is as heavily warded as the chateau itself. Do not fear for your safety as long as you are here.” She turned towards a side corridor. “This leads to our wine cellar. It’s heavily warded, of course - we French do value our treasures greatly - but if you are interested, my husband will likely give you a tour; the wine cellar is part of his responsibilities.”

Hermione had known that the French had two heads per family, who divided their responsibilities among them as they wanted, but this was the first time she had heard of an actual example - apart from Fleur’s grandmother handling the female members of her family, and her grandfather the male ones. She noticed Sirius was looking very interested, and slightly shook her head, though with a smile. She had hoped this vacation would be helping Sirius deal with the lingering effects of his time in Azkaban, and it seemed to be working. Almost too well, even - she hoped he didn’t start to drink too much.

*****​

The ‘private beach’ of the Chateau d’Aigle was an impressive feat of magic. It wasn’t, as one might expect, a natural beach, hidden by wards from muggles, maybe made unplottable too - no, it was an artificial bay, originally a tiny inlet that had been magically expanded. Like the mokeskin bags Harry was familiar with, just on a scale he had not heard of before. Hermione had been gushing over the intricacies of it for a quarter of an hour after realizing what had been done, so he was now well-acquainted with the theory. More familiar than he wanted to be, if he was honest. It wasn’t as if he’d have an opportunity to duplicate the feat anytime soon, after all. Not that he had let Hermione know that, of course - she loved discussing such things, and he’d be a poor friend to spoil it for her. Poor Patron too. Though given that everyone on the beach, including his retainer, was wearing the merest hints of bathing suits, if one could call the tiny illusionary patches floating over their bodies that, he would have had trouble following a normal conversation, much less Hermione’s explanation. Sirius and Nymphadora had gone into the water right after they had arrived at the beach. Traitors.

“Am I boring you, Harry? You seem a bit distracted.”

Harry blinked. It seemed he had not been as discreet as he had thought. “Ah… no, no. It’s just…” he made a sweeping gesture at the white sand, and the azure sea, and Fleur’s relatives currently either swimming in the water with Sirius and Nymphadora, tossing some glowing spheres around, or sunbathing.

“I guess that is a bit distracting.” Hermione sounded a bit wistfully, or even sad. He didn’t know why.

“Yes… I mean, no.”

“I think I’ll go swimming for a bit myself.” Hermione stood up and started down to the surf. He started at her back, almost bare but for a bit of illusionary string, and she was out in the water before he could say anything else.

“I believe you’ve made a bit of a blunder, ‘arry.”

He turned his head away from the sea, and realized Fleur had sat down next to him, on another of the enchanted towels that appeared on command. The veela was wearing a bit more than her family, but if it had been real cloth, it still wouldn’t have been enough to craft a purse that would hold more than six galleons. He closed his eyes, both to avoid staring, and because he felt angry at himself. “I know.”

“That wouldn’t ‘ave ‘appened if you were French.”

“Do you mean if I was French, I would have been more… attentive?” Charming, suave, seductive?

“That I cannot say. But if you were French, you’d be formally courting. You’d ‘ave an understanding, and you’d be less afraid of stumbling or missteps in the dance towards each other.”

“We have an understanding, of sorts.” Or so he hoped. Hermione just had to accept that magic couldn’t create love.

“You should compliment ‘er more then. Every witch likes to be flattered by ‘er lover.”

Now he was staring at her with wide open eyes. “We’re not, I mean… we’re still… that’s usually done in sixth year.”

“I thought the Year of Discovery was for experimenting, not love.” Fleur was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows, looking at him.

“It’s complicated.” Though Harry was quite sure that if he and Hermione didn’t manage to settle things this year, their sixth year would be a catastrophe. He sat up and pulled his knees up.

“It must be a British thing then. It looks quite simple from my point of view. You love ‘er, she loves you.” Fleur showed him a friendly smile, though her tone was gently teasing.

“It is a British thing, yes.” Harry wasn’t about to discuss the particular details of his relationship with his retainer and all of its problems with Fleur.

“See? If you were French you’d not ‘ave this problem.” Fleur giggled.

“Speaking of British… how is Bill doing?”

The veela stopped giggling. “‘e is doing well. ‘e recently got a promotion at Gringotts, and was transferred to Britain.”

“Are you two… dancing towards each other?” Harry was proud he managed to say that with a straight face. It probably sounded better in French.

Now Fleur sighed. “We are, but… I am not sure we should be dancing in Britain. The laws there could be a problem.”

Harry nodded. There was not much he could say. Veela were not considered purebloods in Britain, with all the consequences that brought with it. “Bill’s been working in Egypt.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t ‘appy about being so far away from ‘is family. If not for the money ‘e’d never ‘ave accepted the position.”

“And his family is in Britain.”

Fleur nodded, staring out at the sea, though Harry was sure she was seeing something else than the bay. “Things would be so much better if everyone was French.”

Harry had to snort at that, but couldn’t argue the point right then. A squeal from one of Fleur’s cousins that Sirius had grabbed and was about to throw into the water caught his attention.

“Ah, there’s a British wizard who knows ‘ow treat a girl, or girls. Your godfather is quite the flirt.” Fleur must have noticed the scene as well, and took the opportunity to change topics.

“He’s more a seducer than a flirt.” Harry frowned a bit. It wasn’t as if Sirius was acting uncouth, but… he was an older wizard, in Harry’s opinion, and some of the girls looked hardly older than Fleur.

“I do ‘ope so. There would be much disappointment otherwise, later tonight.”

Harry closed his eyes again. He was glad for Sirius, he really was, but seeing his godfather having such success was not making him feel better about his own love life.

*****​

“My Patron, may I take your leave and head to bed? I am in need of rest.”

Harry was surprised for a moment. Hermione had been a bit distant at the beach, swimming a lot and chatting with Fleur’s family and not with him, but dinner had been filled with tales of their adventures at Hogwarts - the stories they could tell in public, at least - and she had been talking animatedly about this or that detail, as she would usually do in such occasions. His retainer had been swimming a lot today, but… she didn’t look that tired to him, and Harry was usually better at knowing when she was tired than Hermione herself. Too often he had had to send her to bed because she was pushing herself. It wasn’t that late either, but he certainly wouldn’t keep her at his side if she wanted to leave. “Of course, my Wand.”

Hermione bowed to him, then to their hosts, and left the salon. With her gone, Harry’s good mood seemed to have vanished as well. He managed to finish the account of his first Quidditch match, but then acted as if he was stifling a yawn. It took two more tries until Madam Aigle asked if he felt the need for rest himself, though given the way she was smiling, she probably assumed he had other plans for the night, and was just being discreet. Sirius of course was winking so blatantly, a blind wizard would have been able to figure out what he was thinking. And Nymphadora was not that much more subtle. If only they were right!

Once in his room he couldn’t help but staring at the door that led to Hermione’s room. Fleur had pointed it out to him as a matter of course earlier that day. The young witch in the room next to his would be in bed by now. Probably reading. Or sleeping. Wearing… he shook his head. He didn’t want to dwell on that, not now. He pulled his robe off and sent it to the hanger in the corner with a quick swish of his wand. His undergarments followed, and he summoned his pajamas from his traveling trunk. Red Silk with golden trim, a birthday gift from his godfather - Sirius took house pride seriously. He had just pulled the bottoms on when he heard a knock on the door. The door to - or from - Hermione’s room. He unlocked it with his wand at once, but it didn’t open more than a narrow gap. “It’s open.”

“Harry? Can I come in?” Hermione sounded almost timid. Had something happened? She usually didn’t hesitate to enter his room at Grimmauld Place. Sometimes she even stormed inside without knocking, usually when she was very excited about something.

“Of course.” He realized he still held his top in his hand, and was about to pull it on when Hermione entered and he froze. His friend was not wearing a robe, or pajamas, but some flimsy, mostly transparent thing, held up by magic, that exposed far more of her bosom than it hid, and barely reached her thighs. His mouth suddenly felt dry. Hermione had been wearing less fabric at the beach, but…it had been a bathing suit meant for swimming and sunbathing. This… this outfit was meant for seduction. It drew far more attention to the curves it failed to hide, and it looked as if all it took to make it fall off was a touch. Why was she wearing this? And coming to his room, at night. He could think of a reason, of course.

“Harry?”

He blinked, and tore his eyes off Hermione’s body to look at her face. She was smiling, but he could tell she was nervous. Or afraid. And blushing. But she had restyled her hair as well, using her wand as a hairpin. He licked his lips nervously. He had had dreams that started like this, and went on to… he was suddenly glad he still had his top in his hands, it covered his groin. “Yes?”

Hermione bit her lower lip, then took a deep breath. The movement of her chest sent Harry’s thoughts again to places he wasn’t sure they should be in. “After this afternoon I wanted to… I am no veela, I know, but… “ she cocked her head slightly to the side, and smiled, though a bit weakly. “I can be distracting too, can’t I?” She gestured at her body with her left hand.

Harry was nodding, staring again. Then he realized she was trembling. “You’re not distracting, Hermione, you’re beautiful,” he stated as firmly as he could. He wanted her to understand and accept that.

It seemed he had failed. She still looked nervous, insecure. Timid. The sight tore at his heart. Harry stood up and walked towards his retainer. Her mouth opened, but she made no sound, and Harry saw she was staring at him. At his body. He stopped in front of her, close enough he would only have to lean forward to...

He didn’t know who of them started it, but suddenly, their lips met. It wasn’t the sort of kiss Sirius had told him of. His godfather would call it chaste even, but it was his first kiss, and when they separated, both were flushed and taking deep breaths. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated, “and I love you.”

Hermione beamed at him, smiling while tears ran down her cheeks, and then she hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her, his hands touching her bare back, like at the Yule Ball. But this time he was wearing only his pajama bottoms, and Hermione was wearing a little bit of nothing. He could feel her body pressed into his as if she was nude. Harry wanted to rip her clothes, such as they were, off her, push her against the wall, and… he closed his eyes, shivering at the thoughts filling his mind. Suddenly he felt her freeze, stiffen in his arms, and blushed when he realized what she must have noticed. He gripped her shoulders, and pushed her back a bit, until he could look into her eyes.

Neither said anything while they stood there, facing each other, the only sound their heavy breathing. For a moment, everything seemed possible. Then Hermione’s eyes wandered down and widened, and Harry took a step back, covering himself up with his hands.

“Well…”

“Well…”

Suddenly, Hermione’s expression changed into a wider smile. She reached out and gripped his wrists with one hand, fixing his hands in place, before pulled his head towards hers with her other hand. The kiss that followed was more suitable to their current location.

*****​

“And this is the best tailor of the Quartier Magique of Marseille!” Fleur pointed at a small shop in a side alley - though one a bit wider and brighter than the ones she was used to in Diagon Alley. The streets were made from the same cobblestones though, though the houses looked quite different, in a distinct Mediterranean style, especially the roofs. Even apart from that the shop looked quite different compared to Madam Malkin’s. No big windows showing off the dresses, just a small display of a single robe, next to a sign that simply read ‘D’Alba’. “‘e is not as well-known as the tailors in Paris, but ‘e makes the best protective robes. All the top aurors of France shop ‘ere.”

“Really?” Hermione looked at the ship with renewed interest. A tailor specializing in protections! She winced when she thought of how much such robes would likely cost, and how long it would take her to identify and then reverse engineer the spells used. Well, it was for Harry’s protection, ultimately, and so she was sure Sirius would buy a robe or two, if she asked. She glanced back at where Harry and Sirius were looking at the latest French racing brooms in the display of the broom shop on the main street. From the looks of it, Harry was asking for a test ride. She smiled - he looked so passionate, so attractive…

“Mh. That look on your face tells me something happened last night.” Fleur’s teasing voice interrupted her little fantasy.

Hermione jerked and looked at the veela. “What?”

“You were not looking at ‘arry like that last evening. Did you visit ‘im at night?” Fleur was leaning close to her, and had dropped her voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

“It was not like that!” Hermione protested. Fleur’s tone insinuated something very different than what had actually happened - even though the young witch knew they had come close, very close, to that. If she had not kissed him while holding his hands, but had had instead pulled his hands away, placed them on her chest… maybe simply waiting would have been enough for Harry to take charge and grab her, and...

“How was it then?” Fleur interrupted her fantasies again.

For a moment Hermione hesitated to share. She did not know Fleur that well. On the other hand, the veela was more experienced, and it wasn’t as if Hermione had a best girlfriend. Apart from Luna, and Luna was… not here. The young witch took a deep breath, looked at the main street again to make sure Harry and Sirius were still checking brooms, and whispered: “I visited him, but we just kissed.”

And she now knew Harry thought she was beautiful. After the beach, with all the veelas around, distracting him, she had felt like an ugly duckling. Not pretty enough for the Boy-Who-lived to pay attention to without being forced by a magic oath made as a child to a silly girl. She had been so afraid, so desperate, when she had gone into his room, wearing that negligée. To prove her doubts and fears wrong, she had been willing to… it had not come to that, fortunately. Or unfortunately. After she had broken that last kiss, and returned to her room, Hermione had spent a few minutes leaning with her back to the door, panting, knees trembling, and much longer in her bed, before she had calmed down enough to find some sleep.

“Mh. Why do I think there was more than that?”

Hermione frowned at the veela, then sighed. She didn’t think the witch would let up until she knew more. “We were not wearing much while we kissed.” Let the veela draw her own conclusions from that!

“Ah! Marvelous! So you’ve become a couple then.”

That wasn’t the conclusion Hermione had wanted her to draw. “It’s complicated.”

“You British are always complicating things that should be simple.” Fleur shook her head in mild disapproval.

“You sound as if you are speaking from experience. Did I miss something that happened at Hogwarts?” Hermione didn’t think she had been that out of the loop, even with Lavender and Parvati giving her the cold shoulder after the Yule Ball, but she had been quite focused on helping Harry survive the year.

“Did you ‘ear about the time a few of my fellow students were caught with some ‘ogwarts sixth year students in a very embarrassing situation on top of our school’s carriage?”

Hermione shook her head. That did sound scandalous, even for sixth years. Unless it had involved the Weasley twins.

“Well, you missed a near-scandal then, but that’s not what I was talking about.” Fleur giggled when Hermione scowled at the teasing veela. Then she grew more serious. “It’s Bill. Bill Weasley.”

“Oh.”

“I love him. He loves me. We have an understanding. But he also loves his family, and doesn’t want to leave Britain. And there veelas are not held in the same regard as in France.” She sighed, leaning against the white wall of the shop. Unlike many other shop signs, this one did not react to her presence, didn’t change and try to entice her to enter. Only the very old, established shops could afford that kind of understatement.

“You’re not seen as purebloods there.” Hermione was quite familiar with the problems differences in blood status caused, or could cause in Britain.

“Yes. We’d need the permission of the Wizengamot to marry. And that means politics, and bribes. Not the most romantic things to think about when it comes to marriage. And while Bill loves ‘is family, I love mine as well. I am not sure why we should live and marry in Britain, if it’s so much easier to marry ‘ere in France. Not to mention the question of whose family we will become part of.”

“I see.” Hermione hadn’t thought about those problems, but they were quite obvious in hindsight. Though she wasn’t sure Fleur, who had been raised as a pureblood, and a privileged one at that, even realized that she was still in a far better position than Hermione - it wasn’t as if muggleborns were even permitted to marry purebloods in France or Britain. But even if the veela saw things from the perspective of a pureblood suddenly treated as a half-blood, and might not realize that muggleborns faced worse everywhere, this was not the time to point that out. This was the time to be supportive. “But if you two love each other, you’ll manage to find a way to be happy together, no matter the problems you are facing.” Hermione smiled encouragingly at the veela. She was sure they’d find a way - she had to be sure, or she would not be able to face her own future.

“Thank you, ’ermione.” Fleur smiled at her, with gratitude, but also sadness. “But let’s talk about something else.”

“Ah. I have a question.” It was a rather intimate question, but Hermione had spilled all of her admittedly not so great love life to Fleur, so the young witch felt she was not overstepping her bounds in asking a perhaps a bit prying question herself. “At the beach I noticed a number of your family members were wearing the same tattoo.”

“Ah, the aigle? Most wear it. The eagle is the symbol of grand-mère’s family.”

“Oh. Is that common among the French wizards and witches?” Hermione was intrigued. It sounded like the French really cared more for their extended family than the British, if they went as far as wearing matching tattoos. No wonder Fleur thought the British were more individualistic.

Fleur grinned, though a bit ruefully. “You could call it a tradition among veelas, but it has a rather dark origin. The tattoos are magical marks that allow our family to track us - in case we get kidnapped that might allow them to rescue us.”

“Oh.”

“Things have improved a great deal since the Intervention, but… old habits and fears die slowly.”

“How do they work?” If she and Harry shared such a tattoo they could track each other. Maybe even communicate. And it would be a quite intimate tie between them too. Then Hermione had a more chilling thought. Hadn’t she heard speculation that the Dark Mark of Voldemort worked like that?

“That’s a secret I cannot share. If slavers would learn of it, they could find easier ways to remove them, or even find a way to track us through them.” Fleur pushed off the wall again, and to the entrance of the side alley. Harry and Sirius were on their way to them.

“I understand.” She’d have to look into this. Once she had time.

The boys, as Hermione sometimes thought of Harry and his godfather, joined them, both carrying slim packages. Not big enough to be brooms, Hermione thought, unless they had been shrunk. Which was quite likely. She knew Harry was just waiting for her to ask what they had bought, and so ignored the packages after a frown at him, which made her Patron grin widely. Before she could point out the auror robe shop an old witch walking past them stumbled and would have fallen down if Sirius had not caught her. Then the old woman spoke in a whisper, and Hermione realized it was Nymphadora.

“Someone’s following you. They’re good, changing appearances frequently, but they’re not good enough to change how they walk. One of them is at the entrance to this alley right now, brown robe and blonde hair.”

Fleur hissed under her breath. “The saboteur?”

“Or someone wishing to kidnap you?” Hermione had just been told that kidnappings still happened, after all.

“Either way we’ll deal with it.” Harry looked like he was about to hex their tail right away.

“If the alley up ahead is clear we can lure the tail in and ambush him. I’ll scout it out,” the metamorphmagus stated, before walking away, still in her disguise.

The other four waited in front of d’Alba’s shop, with Fleur giving them a short lecture about its history to pass the time so the wizard tailing them would hopefully not suspect anything was up.

When a young man passed them on his way to the main street, winking at the two witches with a very familiar leer, they knew the alley ahead was clear. The four moved further into it, leisurely strolling until a bend broke the line of sight to their pursuer, at which point they quickly spread out a bit. Shortly afterwards, a different wizard from the one they had expected turned around the corner - or was it the same as before, but with a changed appearance? The possibility of attacking an innocent passerby by mistake was enough to stay their wands, though, and, for a second, the man was staring at them He had to know something was up now, from the way they were spread out for their ambush. Then a red spell hit the man from behind. Nymphadora, who had changed her form again, back to a witch, had followed him. The spells on the man’s robe flared, shielding him from the stunner, and he whirled around, wand ready to curse the metamorphmagus.

Hermione’s had been ready too though, and she started casting as soon as his back was turned - together with Harry, Sirius and Fleur. The protections on the robe of the unknown wizard were quickly overloaded by a veritable hail of stunners and other spells from the four of them, and he dropped, unconscious, before he got off more than one spell, which Nymphadora shielded against. There was no need to try anything fancy to bypass protections, no sense in wasting spells on lowering defenses.

“Good work!”

Hermione exchanged a smile with Harry at Sirius’s praise. Despite the short time the fight had taken, she was still riled up, almost panting from the rush. Their trap had worked perfectly. She looked at the man. “Do you think he’s from Britain, or from the Barbary Coast?”

“I think he is from the French Auror Corps.”

What? Hermione stared at Nymphadora, who was holding up a badge she had taken from their victim.

Damn.

*****​

Draco Malfoy didn’t cringe when his father entered his room, but it was a near thing. He had not forgotten - could not forget - the pain he had suffered at his father’s wand, even though he had not been harmed since. His father had not mentioned the incident in the prior week, but he hadn’t apologized either. The mood at Malfoy Manor was tense, with Lucius only meeting Draco’s mother and Draco himself at the meals, where they acted very formally towards each other - as if they were strangers. And now he was here. Draco felt quite nervous.

“Father.” Draco stood up and bowed his head. The formality emphasized the distance between them, but it felt safer than risking another punishment for angering his father.

“Draco. I have a gift for you.” He sounded like the father Draco knew, most of the time - friendly, generous, and proud.

The young pureblood perked up. A gift?

“Follow me.”

That sounded promising. A gift too big to be brought to his room? A new broom maybe? Draco’s father didn’t lead him to the stables or to the garden though, but down to the cellar. That didn’t look too promising anymore. For a moment Draco feared the worst. Had he angered his father again, and would he now be punished here?

When he saw a secret door opening, revealing a dark corridor lined with sturdy doors and small, barred openings - cells, Draco realized - he wanted to turn around and run away. He didn’t, though. He was a Malfoy. He’d face whatever his father had prepared like the wizard he was.

“You’ve learned your lesson, Draco, and you deserve a reward.” With that his father opened the last cell and smiled at him, motioning him forward.

Draco smiled back, and then stepped up to take a look inside. He gasped in surprise. There was a girl. No, not a girl, a muggle girl, in dirty muggle clothes, chained to the wall. She was staring at him with wide eyes, trembling with fear. He could see the tracks tears had left on her dirty face. She was moving her lips, but Draco heard nothing. She was silenced, he realized. He looked at his father, who smiled indulgently at him.

“No one will be missing her, no one will suspect us. Go ahead son, enjoy yourself!”

The girl was trying to scream now, from the looks of it, and was desperately pulling at her chains. She could understand them then. For a moment Draco wanted to turn around and run away, back to his room. He didn’t know why - maybe because he had not captured the muggle himself. There was no challenge, no tension. It made sense, but didn’t feel right to him.

He glanced back. His father was still smiling. He clearly expected Draco to be grateful, overjoyed even. Would he want to disappoint his father, after he had gone to such troubles? How would he react to an ungrateful son refusing such a gift?

Draco did not want to find out the answers to these questions. So he smiled back, as widely as he could, and drew his wand. He’d make his father proud.


Chapter 14: Bulgarian Troubles

 

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

 

Chapter 16: Past and Present Problems

The ‘Hog’s Head Inn’ in Hogsmeade didn’t look like much from the outside. Just another small, dark, wooden building with a shingled roof. A floating animated illusion of a hog’s head served as the sign, addressing each customer approaching the door with a friendly grunt. Supposedly, it roared at children coming too close, but Albus Dumbledore had never seen it do that. Then again, the head had never grunted friendly for him, either. Not since his brother had taken over the inn, after the war with Grindelwald.

Albus entered the inn, and the buzzing noise of the guests talking ceased at once while everyone present looked at him, then cast privacy spells. Once again he asked himself if that happened to everyone, or just to him. The inn was as well-maintained as ever, Aberforth’s spells had been perfected long ago, and the expansion charm more than doubled the available space for tables, and even a small stage. And yet it had a worn, old feeling. Albus wasn’t sure if it was the guests, or something Aberforth did with his spells. He didn’t dwell on it as he walked to the bar, passing half a dozen tables on the way.

As usual the inn had drawn a decent and very varied crowd. Albus recognized many of the guests as a former students of Hogwarts, and each of them made him feel as if he had failed them, somehow. He couldn’t help but think that all the boisterous, almost defiant carousing he had observed just hid the melancholy, or even desperation of wizards and witches who had stumbled in life, fallen, and never gotten up again, never realized their potential. Like his brother.

Mathilda Miller, a talented student with a penchant for charms, was wearing robes far more suitable for a 6th year than a witch who should have children of her own at Hogwarts by now. Her Patron had been killed in the last war, and there had been rumors of problems with his heir, but if she had come to him for help, instead of this…

Mathilda was sitting in the lap of Bertram Kettlestock, ten years her senior. Bertram had been a prodigy at Defense against the Dark Arts, and had gone on to become a fine auror, but he had never recovered from losing his family in the war. Albus didn’t know what he was doing to earn a living now, but his name had come up with quite the number of shady incidents. Never arrested, but whether that meant he was still law-abiding, or too good to be caught, or had friends in the right places, Albus did not know.

Felix Flitterdorn, impeccably dressed in the latest robes, raised his glass in a sort of greeting to Albus. His parents had been members of the resistance against Grindelwald, and Albus had seen to their move to Britain personally. Their son had been a delight to teach, but when his relationship with some French witch had fallen apart, so had he. According to rumor he was living with two muggleborn mistresses half his age, and wasting the family fortune on fire whiskey, Bavarian moonshine beer, and gambling.

He currently seemed to be losing gold to Lucrecia Browtuckle, who smirked at Albus while dropping Fire Cards in a skilled pattern, barely waiting for the cards to display their values before grabbing the pot. Contrary to many witches, she did not bother to hide her scars, but wore duelist robes with cut-outs that drew attention to them. She had been a fresh auror during the war against Grindelwald, eager and skilled, but had never managed to adjust to peace afterwards. When Voldemort had raised his wand openly against Britain’s Ministry, she had returned as an experienced mercenary, to defend her home country, but the means she had employed to do so… Albus wondered if she was back in Britain to spend the gold she had earned abroad, or if she was looking for work. And if she was, which side she’d sign on with this time.

“Hello, Sir, and welcome to the Hog’s Head Inn. What can I serve you?” As usual Aberforth greeted him as friendly and politely as he’d greet any stranger - to emphasize, no doubt, that he did not consider Albus family anymore.

Albus did not wince at the reception, having expected and experienced it before. “A butterbeer, and a private talk with you, please.”

“I’m working the bar. Why don’t you talk with some of your friends?” Aberforth sounded as politely distant as before, though Albus heard the edge in his voice, and the mocking - the Headmaster had no friends in this inn, and both knew it.

“It is important.” Albus ignored the stares of the other guests in the bar, probably expecting or hoping there would be a repeat of that evening in 1960, the last time Albus had pushed his brother. The Headmaster had paid for the repairs, but a year later, the exact amount of money had been returned to him by a rented owl, without a word.

Aberforth stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Cornelia, take over for me.” he bellowed towards a corner table, where a witch half his age and wearing low-cut robes that had been in fashion two years ago had already left her seat. Again, the room had fallen silent, most were openly staring as the two old wizards took over the freshly vacated corner table. Some kept staring even after Albus and Aberforth both had cast privacy spells, maybe vainly hoping that they’d not have guarded against lip reading as well.

Aberforth summoned a butterbeer for Albus, and a fire whiskey for himself. Neither of them touched their drinks, though.

“Things must be worse than one would think, for you to ask me for help.”

“Yes. I expect Wizarding Britain to be at war in the near future.” Albus didn’t like to spell it out, but his brother wouldn’t be moved by mere crimes. Not anymore.

Aberforth scoffed. “War? Grindelwald is safely locked away, and probably crippled by now from your wards.” When Albus flinched at the reminder of his greatest mistake, and shame, his brother smiled viciously. He had never forgiven him for Gellert or Ariana. “And the Boy-Who-Lived vaporised Voldemort. So who would wage war? On Britain, that is, since you do not care much about the rest of the world.”

Albus ignored that barb and took a sip from his butterbeer, waiting. His brother was not getting any younger either, but if his mind was still sharp, and not dulled from the amount of liquor that must be drunk each evening in this inn, by Aberforth and patrons alike…

His brother stiffened, then narrowed his eyes. “One of them is back then. It is not Grindelwald. They would have noticed his escape, and he would have to build up forces again, on the continent, from nothing. That means Voldemort has returned. He has still followers left, scum some idiot foolishly left alive to prosper after their leader was killed. So he would have an easier time to prepare for war.”

Albus nodded - at the reasoning, not at the accusations. His brother’s mind had not suffered from his chosen lifestyle. In hindsight, he was correct. The Ministry should have prosecuted all of the Death Eaters, but at the time, after so much blood had been spilled, Albus had been too tired to make sure a purge would not degenerate into a general settling of accounts and feuds, so he had not intervened when the Ministry had shown a rather lenient hand - and one open to receive bribes. A mistake he had come to regret dearly since.

“Is that it? No speech about the the virtue of forgiving, and the dangers of revenge?” Aberforth’s tone had some mocking, but also some hurt in it. He too had lost a lot of friends in the last war.

“No. In hindsight, it is rather clear that I was wrong.” Albus was not quite sure the kind of revenge his brother had wanted would not have left their society a hollow shell, tainted with with blood and hatred, but to start a debate now would only antagonize Aberforth, and he needed his help. And he quite liked the look of surprise on his brother’s face upon hearing his admission of a mistake.

“Things must be even worse than I thought, for you to admit you were wrong, and to me to boot.” Aberforth did recover quickly, of course - he had had decades to hone his anger at Albus.

“Indeed. Tom is craftier than I expected. More careful too. His defeat at the hands of a toddler must have cured him of some of his arrogance, at least.”

“And what are you expecting me to do?” Aberforth asked.

Albus was sure his brother already knew what the Headmaster wanted, but wanted him to say it. A petty, but expected gesture. One he would oblige easily, given what was at stake. “He will be recruiting among the seedier elements of Wizarding Britain. Neither the Ministry, if they were not ignorant, nor myself have sufficient contacts in those circles.”

Aberforth snarled, the bitterness in his voice so thick, Albus could almost taste it: “But I, the black sheep of your family, have them? I am, after all, mingling with criminals and whores, instead of making something of my life. So, I should use the result of my failures for the Greater Good?”

The barb about the foolish plans Albus and Gellert had had, in their youth, hurt Albus as much now as it had when he and his brother had parted ways at Nuremberg. He would have liked to deny it, but Aberforth was not entirely wrong. “He already tried to kill children, multiple times. Tried, and succeeded, even.”

“Those are my friends, Albus. My family. You want me to send them into harm’s way, to risk their lives for the pampered brats at your school and their parents, who sneer at them whenever they dare to show their face in public!” Aberforth was getting louder, angrier.

“Are they your followers, to be ordered around by you as if pieces on a chessboard, or your friends, to decide for themselves what risk they will take?” Albus’s question made his brother hiss for a second.

“Don’t talk to me about pieces on a chessboard! Will they be discarded, their deeds and dead forgotten, like before? Or sacrificed when it would be politically inconvenient to save them?” Aberforth’s fist struck the table hard enough to make the bottle and glass on it tremble.

“Starting a war over one person is not merely ‘politically inconvenient’. Or would you want your country, your friends, to risk their lives in a war to save you?” Albus grit his teeth. His brother still could not see that sometimes, the price to do what was right was so high, it was not the right thing to do anymore.

“She was my responsibility, and you abandoned her! And then she died, just like Ariana!”

Albus did not remember standing up, nor seeing Aberforth stand up, but he found himself facing his brother, wands so close their tips were almost touching each other. For a long moment, neither moved nor said a word, then Aberforth sat down again, followed by Albus himself.

His brother downed his whiskey and slammed the glass on the table as smoke and fire poured out his mouth and ears. Albus took another sip of his beer. He wondered what their spells would have showed to the rest of the inn - some animated discussion, or merely two old men staring at each other? It was hard to tell, when two parties cast privacy spells on the same spot.

A minute passed in silence as tempers cooled.

“If my friends help in your war I want your word they will not be betrayed. Protected, like your pet thief. Rewarded in the end.” Aberforth had never liked Mundungus. Not since he had found out what the thief had done in his youth, before returning to Britain. And his brother had never forgiven Albus for protecting the wizard from his wrath.

“You have my word that I shall do what I can for them. Provided they do not abuse that. There are things I will not cover up.”

“If you can afford to protect your thief without losing sleep over it, then supporting my friends will not weigh on your conscience at all. They do not dabble in the kind of things men should be executed for.” He summoned a bottle and refilled his glass. “Manipulative old goat.”

Albus nodded. He had what he had come for. And at the expected cost. He wouldn’t have to mention that the secret about Tom’s return would have to be kept from Aberforth’s friends - for all his bluster and obvious care about his ‘family’, his brother too understood the needs for secrecy. Albus could not resist to answer that last barb though. “It wasn’t my experiment.” His brother had never forgiven him for covering up that particular mishap either. He had not been able to do anything right in the eyes of Aberforth, not since Ariana’s death. Even helping his brother just had aggravated him further.

Aberforth downed the glass again, then stood up, grinning. “We’ll need to make a show of it, of course, to make everyone believe you came here to make amends, and failed again, spectacularly. Purely to keep up appearances, of course.”

Albus sighed. He saw the need, but it would cost him quite a bit since his brother would not let him repair anything personally, instead insisting on hiring professionals. Something Aberforth was counting on, and enjoying. On the other hand, taking his brother down a peg would feel somewhat cathartic too. He raised his wand, ready to dispel the privacy spells. “Of course.”

They took it outside, and still managed to do enough damage to the inn for Albus’s vault to feel it.

*****​

No matter how the world changed, the Hogwarts Express didn’t seem to change at all. From the color of the engine to the number and composition of the carriages, it looked exactly the same as it had when Harry had first laid eyes on it, four years ago. Contrary to last year, his whole family was arriving at the same time - Harry and Hermione were escorted by Sirius and Remus. Nymphadora had wanted to come as well, but her mother had put her foot down and threatened to use a sticking charm if the metamorphmagus tried to ‘return to duty’ before she had been given a clean bill of health.

Harry and Hermione boarded the train, nodding at and greeting the students who had arrived early enough to secure a compartment comfortably close to the exits. Ron and the rest of the Weasleys were expected to arrive at the last minute, as usual, with Luna and Neville sometime in between. The Patils… Harry actually didn’t know when they would be arriving, usually, or if Padma would join them in their compartment. He doubted Hermione knew either, and asking if Ron and Padma were still a couple sounded a bit… inappropriate anyway.

Hermione picked a free compartment, and checked it out before Harry entered, acting as a proper retainer was expected to. As soon as the door closed though she sighed. “Did you see them? They already know. Gossip truly travels faster than light, even outside Hogwarts.”

“It was to be expected. At least Luna’s father didn’t write an article about us.”

“Yet.” Hermione stored their trunks overhead with a quick spell and released Crookshanks from his carrier. The orange menace promptly tried to shred Harry’s robe or maul his leg, but not even a half-kneazle’s claws were a match for Hermione’s protection charms. His love, of course, thought the cat was just trying to be friendly and fed it a treat as a reward.

“Yes, yet.” Harry pulled his leg back and glared at Crookshanks. “Anyway, its not as if I want to hide our relationship.” He looked at Hermione. She was wearing her school robes, tailored and customized of course, with her own spells, but he imagined her in quite another garment. A camisole, and some lacy… His thoughts were interrupted when his friend plopped herself down in his lap. “Ooof.”

Hermione patted his cheek. “You didn’t complain yesterday. Or any day.” The pats became caresses, and her other hand started to move behind his head, sinking into his hair.

His own arms held her, and he dipped her just a bit, before their lips touched. His first kiss would always be something special, but they had improved on those first attempts, with lots of practise over the summer. When they broke up, both teenagers were flushed, and breathing heavily. For a moment Harry was tempted to go further. The door was sealed, no one would disturb them… he shook the thoughts off. “So, you think you’ll be able to show us a movie at Hogwarts?”

Hermione smiled widely. “Oh, yes. Preliminary testing showed the calculators worked at Grimmauld Place, but I have not been able to see if the deteriorate with prolonged use. But either way, I should be able to have a VCR and a TV last at least long enough for a decent movie night.”

“Should I order a replacement from Sirius already?”

“Prat!” Hermione pouted. “I’ll have to create one for Nymphadora anyway, as soon as it is proven to work. I promised.”

Harry nodded. “It’ll save your parents’ house.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me. The worst thing is that after hearing about Bulgaria, my parents now feel guilty about throwing her out of the house that one evening. If I don’t get this thing working, I’ll find my room taken over and filled with all the compact discs and video tapes Sirus can buy for his cousin once we return for Chirstmas.”

“Don’t forget the comics and books.” Harry added, helpfully.

“Hmph. Those she can use at her home, at least. I still say she’s been milking this for far more than it’s worth.”

“She almost died for us.”

“I know. And I am grateful. But she’s obviously feeling much better now, and someone had a van’s worth of records and tapes delivered to my parents while a cousin of us was visiting. They blamed it on me. Now my whole family - well, that side of it - thinks that I’ve broken under pressure and have become a punk girl, hoarding trash movies and music, and that my parents are enabling me!”

“That’s Sirius’s fault. He went and bought ‘one of everything you have’ in that store.”

“And you let him!”

Harry grinned ruefully. It had been amusing, and he had used the opportunity to grab a few nice records for himself. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of using the opportunity to expand your library when you were buying books for Nymphadora.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s a great idea! We can take one of the unused rooms, and turn it into a muggle library! A few expansion charms, and we can have a decent collection there!”

“And you complain about being mistaken for a manic collector!”

Hermione glared at him. “Books are not the same thing! A woman’s worth can be measured by the size of her library!”

“I am pretty sure you just made that up.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true!” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, giggling, talking took a backseat to further training in kissing and more, until the spell on their door signalled that someone wanted to enter.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson should have been happy to return to Hogwarts. This year’s summer vacation hadn’t been as much fun as the ones before. Her father had been curt, even annoyed most of the time. Fortunately, her mother had taken up the slack and not only arranged a three weeks long visit to the summer house at the coast, but also bought her the latest robes for school. Granger would eat her dinky robes with those pitiful self-cast comfort spells overlaid on all the protection charms she needed just to survive at school once the mudblood realized what comfort and options her new robe offered. With a grin, she had her robe change looks again, switching from a school robe - with a Slytherin crest, of course, and her shiny new prefect badge - to a much racier, much more revealing robe in a shimmering, semi-opaque dark green. That would be perfect to show off in the Slytherin common room, where one was not required to wear school robes.

She would be happy, if not for Draco Malfoy. If she had thought her vacation had been a bit less than perfect, Draco’s must have been… something else. He seemed to be wanting to bitch and boast about it at the same time, and yet never did either, interrupting himself after a few words, or trailing off. And the smile she saw, sometimes, when he was looking at nothing in particular… she didn’t like to admit it, but it scared her. Maybe she should ditch the boy sooner than planned?

“Do you know where Potter’s compartment is? I’d like to see how having to be saved by true purebloods affected that stain on our school’s honor. And congratulate Potter for having at least the sense to shag his mudblood so she learns what awaits her in 6th year and won’t embarrass him.” Draco stated, with both arrogance and condescension.

“I do not. But we have the meeting of the prefects to attend to in a few minutes, so I don’t think you should visit his compartment right now.” Besides, they’d soon meet Potter at the prefect meeting in the train. It wasn’t as if there was an alternative to Potter for his year’s Gryffindor prefect position.

“That is true. And I have a duty as a prefect too. Someone has to uphold the standards of our school, after all. Uphold and improve.”

“Of course, Draco. Who else would know better about standards than yourself?” Pansy cooed, then let him offer her his arm for the walk to the prefect’s compartment. Then she saw that evil smile on his face again, and shivered. She was almost hoping Draco would provoke an incident in the meeting, and end up in the infirmary as a result.

*****​

No true muggleborn was at the sorting this year either. Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of that - it was not yet statistically significant, but she felt a bit more alone, despite her friends surrounding her and Harry. The sacrifice of wine to the gods - Janus, Hecate and Apollo - made her forget about that though, since it left her, as it did every year, breathless and with her skin tingling and her hair almost floating. Once again she wondered why she and a few others, including Harry, seemed to be more affected than most of the students. And once again she shied away from thinking about, much less researching the matter. She told herself she had more important things to worry about - Voldemort, her runic experiments, and her relationship to Harry. But on some level she didn’t want to know.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was easy for her to be distracted from such thoughts anyway, since her and Harry were the talk of the school. While the two had spent most of the train trip but for Harry’s patrol as prefect in their compartment, with just their close friends, there was no privacy to be had in the Great Hall, not without advanced spells, which she had not yet learned. It felt as if everyone was staring at them, staff included. And whispering about them. Speculating or gossiping, no doubt. Or spreading nasty rumors about them, Hermione added mentally, when she saw Parkinson look at her. She met the Slytherin’s eyes, smirking, and received a sneer in return. Malfoy, seated next to the other witch and glaring at Harry, must be rubbing off on Parkinson. If looks could kill, then Harry would have died from Draco’s, or Snape’s, alone. The Potion master seemed to be in a really bad mood, even for him.

Ginny, Neville and even Ron were doing their part to avoid mentioning what everyone else was talking about by talking about unrelated topics. Mostly Quidditch, of course. Even Neville seemed to prefer to talk about that bloody game rather than about the upcoming lessons and their O.W.L.s.

When the meal ended Hermione followed Harry, who was gathering the new first years from their House. She felt slightly nostalgic - had she looked as awed as those children, four years ago? She’d like to think so, but she had probably been lecturing her year mates about ‘Hogwarts: A History’ instead of staring in wonder at the marvels of a magical school.

“Hermione? What are you doing here?” Parvati sounded both curious - she was an incurable gossip - and annoyed. ‘You’re not a prefect, I am!’ remained unsaid, but was clearly implied by the way she rubbed her shiny new badge.

“As custom dictates, I am simply standing ready to serve my Patron, should he require my assistance in carrying out his duties.” Hermione answered, smiling politely. Of course the duties a patron would have help from their retainer with usually were those of a more important position than those of a prefect at Hogwarts.

To her credit, Parvati did not challenge Hermione’s statement, but her pout made it clear that she didn’t like it. Hermione almost shook her head - had the other witch really expected that she could use the patrols and other duties shared with Harry to somehow win his heart?

Harry had gathered all of the first years in the meantime, and was leading them towards the Gryffindor tower, explaining the route on the way, and answering question after question. He was good with children, Hermione realized, and smiled wistfully for a moment while she and Parvati brought up the rear of the small group.

“Will you join us on patrols too?” Parvati kept her voice neutral, but Hermione imagined she had to make an effort.

“I expect so, yes.”

“Why? You are not a prefect, you don’t have to do that.”

Hermione glanced over at her yearmate. “With the events of last year, and this summer, I feel it would be best to remain cautious. Three wands are better than two wands, should someone attempt to ambush a patrol.”

“Oh.” That set Parvati thinking. “But they caught the assassin!”

“He could have hired someone to attack at Hogwarts before he died, like he hired those bandits to attack in Bulgaria.” Hermione didn’t sound too condescending, or so she hoped. To her surprise, Parvati shut up after that. But only until they were back in the girls’ dorms - there she and all the other girls from Hermione’s year wanted to know all about her relationship with Harry. Hermione was quite proud of her self-control when she did restrain herself from hexing the lot of them.

*****​

“Should we cast a shield?” Ron sounded worried.

“If it doesn’t work it’ll sizzle and burn, it won’t explode. Calculators are not bombs.” Harry tried to assure his friend. Not even calculators that had been taken apart, had runes engraved on every surface, inlaid in silver, and then cobbled together again, would explode like a bomb. He hoped so at least.

“And what about Hermione?”

“She won’t explode either. I think.” Hermione had been a bit stressed lately, Harry knew. It wasn’t just the rumors about what she might have done to “snare” Harry. Or what they were doing now. Or Snape making them brew contraception potions ‘since some students seem intent on abusing their power over others’. Granted, it had been Hermione who had held Harry back from doing something he’d not regret at all in response to that insinuation, but the witch had been incensed as well. Fortunately, the Headmaster had sorted that out and set the Potion master straight. The man had not taken that well though, and was now all but abusing his students with constant acidic remarks and point deductions at the slightest mistakes. Even the Slytherins, which had shocked them.

“It’s not that time of the month then?”

Harry didn’t deign that with an answer. “Shh. She’s finishing her preparations now.”

All three were in the room they had taken over during the Triwizard Tournament. So far, no one had reclaimed it, so there was no reason not to continue using it. It wasn’t as if space was at a premium in Hogwarts, anyway, with expansion charms available.

Hermione sent them a glare, then took a deep breath, reached out, and pressed a button on the calculator. Harry could see her flinch, even though nothing happened. She tapped a few buttons, and a smile blossomed on her face. “It works!” She turned to them, beaming. “It works! The calculator works!” She jumped into Harry’s arms with a jubilant yell.

“You did it!” Harry smiled and turned around with her in his arms, then set her down and looked at the calculator. Right then they heard a crackling sound and saw a small cloud of smoke rise from the calculator.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Ron asked, looking at them.

Harry had to struggle to keep his girlfriend from hexing their best friend, who maintained that he had done nothing wrong.

Hermione calmed down, and then took the ruined calculator apart again, to find out what had gone wrong, this time, muttering arithmantic equations and tidbits of runework Harry recognized.

“Probably a question of power. The wards at Hogwarts are far stronger than at Grimmauld Place.” He was no slouch at Arithmancy or Runes either, if not as much of a prodigy as Hermione.

“I accounted for the power differences.” Hermione sounded exasperated. “I’ll have to double the scheme, and maybe try to tie it into the wards to power the array.”

“You’d need the Headmaster’s permission for that. Only he can affect the wards.” Harry pointed out. Then he saw his girlfriend’s eyes widen.

“That’s it! I am trying to counter-ward the calculator without permission! The wards would be fighting that!” Hermione hugged him, hard, then kissed him. “I know what to do now!”

And with that, Harry’s best friend was happily lost to the world, and to him, scribbling furiously in her notebook and muttering about involving the Headmaster. It was a sight that warmed his heart, after all they had gone through.

Ron summoned a can of cola for Harry and a butterbeer for himself. “I still don’t get why she was not sorted into Ravenclaw. She’s far worse than Padma when she gets like that.”

Harry opened the can, took a sip, and then answered. “That’s because she’s even braver than she is smart.” He was rewarded with a beaming smile from his love, not as lost in her work as he had thought then, before Hermione focused on her work again.

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick was bored before he and his partner, Bertha Limmington, even had reached the door of their suspect. “Why are we doing this? It’s just graft, which everyone at the Ministry does once they are in a position to do so. We should be investigating the latest assaults in Knockturn Alley.” Or anything else that actually mattered.

“We’ve got a warrant for questioning, and we’ll serve it.” His partner, as always, was a stick in the mud.

“It won’t stick anyway. Those kind of charges never do. Too many friends in high places.” Last he heard, Berty Pickwick was close enough to Albus Dumbledore to call a favor in. Pointless to bother the man.

“Orders are orders.”

With another sigh, Kenneth tapped his wand against the door of Pickwick’s house. He didn’t order him to open, it was just a warrant for questioning.

The door opened, revealing an old wizard with pinch-nez glasses that had gone out of style decades ago.

“Mister Pickwick?”

“Yes?”

“I am auror Fenbrick, this is auror Limmington. We’re here to ask you a few questions about a recent discrepancy in your department’s budget.” Judging by how much the eyes of the man widened, he was as surprised of the reason for their presence as Kenneth had been when he had gotten the warrant to serve. The wizard probably had misjudged the amount of graft that would be tolerated. Or he had made the wrong kind of enemy in the office.

And of course, Kenneth thought, ten minutes later, he was claiming to be innocent. They always did.

*****​

In Viktor Krum’s opinion, Nymphadora Black-Tonks had fully recovered from the wounds she had taken in defense of his home. She certainly was as energetic, or even more so, as she had been upon arriving in Bulgaria. Quite enthusiastic too. If not for his extensive training as a soon to be professional Quidditch Player, he was sure his arm would be hurting by now, from the way she was using it to pull him this way and that each time she spotted something else she wanted to show him in muggle London.

So far they had visited ‘the tube’, a sort of train buried beneath the earth, probably with the help of goblins, and a tailor shop with rather bland, if not drab clothes in it. He thought they were some kind of uniforms, since there were dozens of copies of each articles, but Nymphadora had assured him that everyone could wear them, provided they had the right figure. Which he apparently did, even though both shirt and pants felt a tad tight. He did look good in them though, and he fit in with the British muggles. And that was important, since they would be visiting a muggle restaurant, a muggle cinema - whatever that was - and a muggle club, and Viktor was not keen on drawing attention, not when he could finally walk the streets without getting swarmed by fans. Not that they did not draw attention anyway, since Nymphadora was wearing equally tight, but also ripped clothes, which had to be quite daring for muggle fashion.

“Come on! There’s the restaurant!” The witch was again pulling him off the sidewalk, straight towards a muggle restaurant. It did look inviting, with cheerful, bright colors, and a big yellow ‘M’ sign. And while there were no animated menus showing the food it offered, the muggles made do with big pictures of the sandwiches. Contrary to his expectations, they did not have to wait for their food either, but got it right after ordering. Almost like in a wizard pub. Viktor didn’t see any dishes or cutlery though - was he supposed to eat with his hands? A few glances confirmed that yes, he was supposed to. That must be a British Muggle thing. And the pictures didn’t quite match the food either - Viktor was sure his ‘burger’ was not supposed to look that squished together.

“You’re the first wizard I am on a date with who has not yet asked me to demonstrate my talents.”

Viktor looked up from his half-eaten ‘Big Mac’. Nymphadora was staring at him, sucking on the straw stuck in her “milkshake”. The sight briefly distracted him. “You are the second witch I met who has not asked me about Quidditch yet.”

The young auror smiled, and Viktor nodded, before taking another, careful bite from his ‘burger’. It was exotic, no doubt. Not inedible, though it had to be an acquired taste.

“The first was Hermione, right?”

Viktor nodded again.

“She doesn’t like Quidditch.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, I do. Like every normal witch.”

Viktor nodded again while finishing his meal. Both of them understood what they were saying. In that, at least. “What is this ‘movie’ you want to show me?”

Nymphadora started to explain what a cinema did, straying into other areas of muggle culture ever so often, and even mentioned that Hermione was trying to make a cinema for wizards. Viktor listened, but his attention was more on the witch than her words. He liked what he saw. He had known she was brave, and skilled. Anyone seeing her fight would have known that. But she was more. Passionate as well as mischievous. Vulnerable, or at least sensitive about her special talent, even he had noticed that. Certainly neither meek nor boring. And not impressed by his fame. In short, interesting. He hoped she found him interesting too. At least both of them had one thing in common - they knew what it meant to be reduced to one thing in the eyes of the rest of the world, no matter what other achievements they had earned.

*****​

“Is this seat taken?”

“Susan?” Hermione looked up from the ‘Treatise of Wards, Vol. 2’ she had been studying while Harry was training with the rest of the Quidditch Team. The stands at the pitch were not the best place to read, but a few spells made it comfortable enough. And her presence should both support Harry, and keep him from doing something spectacularly stupid during training. She wasn’t the only one in the stands either, a number of Gryffindors were present and actually watching the game. She was surprised Susan showed up though - usually, members of the other houses didn’t show up during trainings, or they might be suspected of spying for their team. The Hufflepuffs had a reputation of valuing fair play, unlike the Slytherins, but some of the fans of the stupid game were quite fanatical. “Of course not, please have a seat.”

Susan sat down next to her, her robe’s spells automatically smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric. A basic spell, and one one got far too quickly used to, as Hermione’s muggle dresses could attest to. The muggleborn witch also noted how the robe clung to the redhead’s body and outlined her curves, and made notes to adjust her own spells accordingly. She had to keep up, after all. From the grin on Susan’s face, the other witch had noticed, so Hermione grinned back. There was no shame in copying professional spells as a student.

Susan watched Harry do a few loops and rolls, chasing a practise snitch. “He’s quite the sight on his broom.”

“That he is.” Hermione agreed. She would have agreed more enthusiastically if Harry had not been doing the rolls and loops far too close to the empty stands on the other side of the pitch. But she’d not criticize Harry in front of others, especially not Susan. Even if she wanted to.

“Mh.” Susan had the bright and slightly vacant smile of a Quidditch fan as she watched. Or, Hermione realized with a chilling feeling, the kind of smile a girl lusting after the Boy-Who-Lived would wear. She must have misunderstood the message Hermione had been sending when the redhead had visited Grimmauld Place. So much for thinking Susan was a safe date for Harry!

Susan’s hand on her knee interrupted her thoughts. The Hufflepuff prefect was beaming at her. “Don’t worry, Hermione, I understand.”

Hermione realized her thoughts and fears must have shown on her face. But if Susan understood… she felt a pang of pity for the other girl. To be in love with Harry, but holding herself back from acting on it, that was not a good place to be in. She knew that from experience.

The muggleborn witch nodded, still thinking of something appropriately understanding to say, when Susan squeezed her knee. “You make a beautiful couple. Both of you are very attractive. It would be a shame to neglect either of you for the other in sixth year.”

With that the Hufflepuff stood up and left the pitch while Hermione realized that the other witch definitely had misunderstood her message.

“Hermione?” She hadn’t noticed Harry flying over on his broom, summoning a bottle of water from her bag. “You look distracted.”

She turned to him right when he was opening the bottle and starting to drink and blurted out: “I’ve just gotten a proposal for a threesome.”

It was a testament to Harry’s skill as a flyer that he was never in danger of falling off his broom during the minute he spent coughing up all the water he had accidentally gotten down his windpipe upon hearing that.

*****​

Felix Flitterdorn thought the “pub” he was currently gambling in could only be improved with a bombarda or two, or some fiendfyre. He wasn’t exactly a paragon of moral fortitude, but as low as his standards were, he still had some, contrary to most of the people around him. Monsters in human form, the lot of them. If Melissa and Mary were aware of where he was “gone for a drink”, they’d hex him for sure, even if he could explain to them why he was wasting gold in such a place.

But Aberforth had asked him to keep an eye and ear out for a possible rabble-rouser recruiting wands in Knockturn Alley, and he owed the old wizard too much not to help - without him, neither of his two loves would be still alive, he was certain of that. And he wouldn’t have met them either. Felix didn’t know what kind of plot he was supposed to uncover, but he knew it was important. Otherwise, Aberforth would not be helping his brother, the mighty Albus Dumbledore.

Oh, their performance might have fooled outsiders, but anyone who knew both of them well - such as Felix - had seen through the act right away. Some of his friends might balk at helping Albus Dumbledore, but Felix was not among them. His family owed the Headmaster too. And while Felix was many things - a scoundrel, a rake, a gambler and a drinker - he was not one to shirk from paying back his debts, in gold or deed.

He laid down his latest hand and while everyone was waiting for the cards to settle on their values he looked around, acting as if he was checking out the girls and boys available. He was looking for wands for hire. He didn’t recognize any from the time he had been active in the Mediterranean, but then, that had been 30 years ago, and not many wizards or witches grew old if they stayed in that kind of business. He did recognize the type of low-lives someone looking to rouse rabble would hire: overconfident, stupid, and not good enough to become an auror, hit-wizard or professional duelist. Just like him, before he had met Joelle.

Even after 25 years, he felt the pain of her loss, still saw her getting hit with that curse, off the Croatian coast. Neither Melissa nor Mary ever asked about her, not even when he woke up shouting her name. Fortunately, his hand turned out to be so awful, his pained expression was not out of place.

By the time he had lost two more hands and had won a third, he had spotted a familiar wizard in the pub, mingling with the hopeful wands for hire. Walden Macnair, the executioner of the Ministry. He could be looking for some help with a particularly nasty beast, of course - he was sometimes hired to deal with creatures outside of the Ministry’s jurisdiction, and not many of the experienced creature hunters were fond of the man. Felix would mention it to Aberforth anyway.

The wizard seated across from him chuckled at seeing his next hand and grabbed the gold he had just won before waving at a witch who looked young enough to be still at Hogwarts. She either wasn’t, or she was an immigrant - the Headmaster was quite protective of his students - but either way, Felix once again felt a few curses would greatly improve the ambience. He’d have to settle for emptying the wizard’s purse though, if he did not want to sabotage his task.

With a nasty grin of his own, Felix started to play seriously.

*****​

“What did you say?” Remus’s question was loud enough to qualify as a shout, in Sirius’s opinion.

Sirius Black frowned. His best - and only - friend was far too loud. Especially after a night of heavy drinking. “I said that a few of Fleur’s cousins are coming for a visit: Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and whatshername, Valérie.”

“Merlin’s Balls! What did you do in France?” Remus shook his head in what Sirius thought was a jealous daze.

“Well, as you know, I am quite limber, and I’ve got an exceptional…”

“That was a rhetorical question, Sirius.” Remus growled, rudely cutting him off. Yes, definitely jealous.

“Ah, OK. Anyway, I wanted to tell you and Harry and Hermione, so you’re not surprised when you visit.”

“It’s quite surprising that you’re thinking ahead. I’d have expected you to inform us right when we interrupt an orgy.”

“Well, it would have been amusing if you stumbled on that, but with the on-going troubles, I’d rather not have a guest hexed by mistake.” Hospitality was to be taken seriously, after all. It would have been a good prank though, Sirius thought, to have the kids arrive in the middle of something. Harry and his girl were still far too uptight, far too serious, and not Sirius enough.
All Remus’s bad influence, of course. Well, someone had to be responsible for it, and it wasn’t Sirius, nor Kreacher, and not Nymphadora either. And not the Grangers. Everyone knew muggles were prudes, so they were prudes, but as teenagers, neither Harry nor Hermione would be listening to them. So it had to be Remus. Who should know as well that life was far too short to waste time when one could be shagging instead. James and Lily had died far too young, and they had taken too long to get together as well.

“Isn’t Krum still a guest as well?” Remus asked. Everyone else called him “Viktor”, but Remus kept calling him “Krum”, and in a tone similar to how he spoke of Snape. Sirius hadn’t asked why Remus didn’t like the Quidditch Player, probably something about the Bulgarian’s attitudes towards werewolves, which were about as appreciated or tolerated as visits from the Ottoman Empire.

“Yes. I told him he can stay as long as he likes, and he likes it in London, probably will be staying until his new team’s season starts.” Sirius liked Viktor. He was too serious too, but he could drink, could fly, and made his cousin smile.

“A Quidditch star, and four veelas.”

“Sounds scandalous, yes? But I am sure Nymphadora can handle them, should they make moves on her wizard.” And it would be funny too. Judging by how Remus frowned, he didn’t think it would be amusing. “Anyway, I am off to inform Harry. And Hermione.”

A big black dog ran from Remus’s quarters towards the Gryffindor dorms. It was easier to travel like this, Padfoot knew, since the memories it brought would be happier, simpler, than if Sirius had walked. Exploring the Forbidden Forest, running away from Filch, tackling a werewolf, chasing a rat…

The sight of his godson, and his wide-eyed surprise at being tackled and licked by Padfoot, drove the darker thoughts away.

*****​

Ron Weasley sighed and rubbed his temples. The last occlumency lesson Remus - Professor Lupin at Hogwarts - had given them had left him with a headache. He hadn’t wanted to bother Matron Pomfrey for a remedy, it was an hour until curfew already, and he didn’t trust the small white muggle drugs Hermione had offered - who knew what they would do to him, he had read the warnings about drugs in the magazines Hermione had brought with her - so he had to suffer some. He knew it’d pass soon enough anyway.

“Are you OK?” Padma, seated next to him on the bench in the Great Hall, looked at him, concerned. He had thought she was focusing on her book and was pleased she had noticed.

“Just a bit of a headache. Too much studying.” He grinned. It was true, in a way, even though she’d assume he was joking.

Padma snorted at his comment, as expected, and returned her attention to her book. She kept leaning on him though. Ron liked those moments. Close contact, comfortable silence, and no need to talk about anything. It wasn’t that he disliked talking, but he didn’t like talking all the time. One ended up saying the wrong thing, sooner or later, that way.

Unlike her sister, Padma was content reading a book while being with him. Not always, of course, but often enough for Ron to enjoy the opportunity to let his thoughts wander. Did Harry feel the same when Hermione was lost in one of her books? Probably. He loved the muggleborn witch - not like that though - but she could talk as much as Parvati and Lavender together, if she wanted to. And she was stubborn too.

Like today, before the occlumency lesson. Hermione had told him and Harry that the French veela used magical tattoos to track each other in case they were kidnapped. She had thought that would be a good idea for them and their friends too. Merlin! She had not even noticed how close that was to the dark marks on the arms of the Death Eaters, or to the slave marks the Ottomans used, until he had pointed it out. Even then she had argued it would be different - meaning, ‘improved’ - until Harry had put his foot down. And Ron was quite certain Hermione had not given up, but was doing more research. He shuddered - he was quite sure mum would flay him if he got a tattoo. They had gotten remarkably unpopular in Britain after the last war. Not even Bill the rebel had dared to get one in Egypt.

He looked at Padma, who was twisting a long strand of her black hair around a finger while she was reading. It was adorable, but sometimes he asked himself if he was lo... liking Padma because she was similar to Hermione in many aspects.

He didn’t know the answer. But he hadn’t known if Padma was just with him because it would irk her sister either, and now, after months at Hogwarts and after the separation during their summer vacation, he was pretty sure she liked him. And even so - he was young, he’d enjoy that he was with the pretty witch and would not let worry about such things poison what he had with her.

*****​

Lord Voldemort was studying the wizards Macnair had pointed out to him. His Death Eater was looking for wands for hire in Knockturn Alley, thugs willing to cast and kill for gold, no questions asked. Useful curse fodder, but some of them might have potential for more. Might become faithful followers. But they had to be tested.

A number of them were being hired to deal with competition for businesses in Knockturn Alley. Competition by mudbloods and their Patrons, who had invested in their shops. The ruffians would think they were hired by someone working for those businesses, and he’d build a reputation as a broker. Or rather, Finnegan Greenbrand, the wizard whose form he was wearing thanks to Polyjuice would gain that reputation. The wizard was in the cellar of his safe house, under the effect of Draught of Living Death, and would provide all the hairs Voldemort would ever need to impersonate him. Barty Crouch Jr., his most loyal and best follower had been very apt at hiding his tracks, and Voldemort was following his example. Not only would no one connect those ruffians to his actual face, but anyone, Macnair or even Lucius, could use Polyjuice and appear as Greenbrand as needed. And if the thugs messed up and aurors got involved… well, Greenbrand would serve as a scapegoat, and no one would connect him to Voldemort. And those who distinguished themselves he would recruit into his cadre.

It would take a lot to make him bring Lucius in on this though, the wizard’s touch for politics was too useful to be wasted on recruiting curse fodder. The way he had cultivated Umbridge showed that. That witch, stuck in a dead-end job in the Ministry, despite her infatuation with Fudge - or maybe because of it - was a distinctively unpleasant individual even if she had the right attitude towards mudbloods. But her detailed knowledge of the inner workings of the bureaucracy, and of prominent employes, had already proven to be very useful. Knowing how to manipulate paperwork and records was a weapon more powerful than curses, if used correctly. Dumbledore would have to either save his friends and allies from scandal and even prison, and lose influence with others by doing it, or cut them loose and save his reputation, but lose the loyalty of others who would have reasons to fear sharing such a fate.

Lucius’s work in undermining Dumbledore’s influence at the Ministry was so promising, Voldemort was almost willing to forgive him his cowardice after his defeat. Almost, but not quite. Everyone who had offended him would be paying for it, one way or the other.

The Dark Lord glanced at the Daily Prophet. Another article about Lockhart. Apparently the author was about to receive the compensation for the basilisk corpse the Ministry had confiscated years ago. Voldemort sneered. Discovering the basilisk had been the most important moment of his time at Hogwarts. It had been the key to his immortality, the proof of his heritage and destiny. The oldest link to his ancestor. And the fools were rewarding its murderer? Its murderers, actually - Potter and his blood traitor friend would be receiving their share of the blood money as well. It was an insult to his family that could not be allowed to stand.

He rubbed his chin, calming down. Maybe he had a better target to test promising recruits than a few mudblood store owners. Lockhart had made enemies, as anyone who stood out from the rabble was fated to do. On the other hand, Lockhart, who had killed his basilisk, should be killed in a way that everyone realized why he had died.

His revenge could wait, he decided. He had more important tasks to focus on. His most loyal followers, especially his dear Bellatrix, were still languishing in Azkaban, tortured by the dementors. He couldn’t do anything about that though, not yet, other than giving them hope of deliverance through the marks that bound them to him. And there remained that prophecy, which had spelled doom for him once already. It would be moot, of course, once Potter was dead.

He told himself again that he couldn't have the boy killed right then, or it would upset his plans. But the same was true for an attempt to learn the full prophecy - if it was discovered, it might alert his old foe about his return.

He pushed thoughts of revenge away. He had other plans to make.


Chapter 17: Movie Night at Hogwarts

 

Chapter 17: Movie Night at Hogwarts

Hermione Granger ran her wand over her robes one last time before walking up to the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster’s Office in Hogwarts, even though her enchantments already would have removed any specks of dust and wrinkles. She had to make sure she looked impeccable - she was about to ask a very big favor of Dumbledore. Not as big as when she had wanted Harry to become her Patron, but unlike that time, tradition and custom and magic was not on her side this time. In fact, tradition and custom might be against what she was asking for - or at least against the results of what she planned to do. Magic didn’t care.

“Mars bars.”

The stone guardian moved aside with a slightly scraping sound, and she idly wondered if that was by design, to add some flair to entering, or a sign of a spell in need of retuning. She didn’t think the Headmaster would be sloppy when it came to spells protecting his office, so it was probably by design. The actual door to the office opened before she reached it.

The office hadn’t changed since her last visit. There were still the books she longed to read, the intriguing knick-knacks filling the shelves, and the friendly phoenix greeting her. Dumbledore himself was sitting behind his desk, signing some parchment before putting it into a basket, from where it promptly vanished. “Please have a seat, Miss Granger.” He gestured and a comfortable chair appeared in front of his desk.

“Thank you, Sir.” Hermione sat down, her enchantments automatically smoothing out her robe.

“You have asked to see me about ‘a matter of magical experimentation’. An intriguing topic for many of us more academically minded, especially coming from such a brilliant student as yourself.”

Hermione blushed at the compliment, but tried to keep her composure. It wouldn’t do to lose her concentration here, especially since that might have been an intended effect of the flattering greeting. “Thank you, Sir.”

“I speak only the truth. Mister Potter must be quite proud of your achievements.” Dumbledore smiled at her. “Lemon drop?”

“No thank you.” Hermione’s answering smile was a bit strained. This was a purely scholastic matter, not something that needed the involvement of her Patron - it wasn’t as if her grades were failing, or anything else that might need an intervention from a guardian. “My Patron is aware of my plans and supports me.” She pulled out a few parchments and started to explain. “I am working on enchanting electronics so they will work at Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose a bit. “That is a problem many of the talented muggleborns have tackled during their time at Hogwarts in recent years. None have succeeded so far though.”

“I have conducted a number of experiments and I have come to the conclusion that magic itself does not affect electronics negatively. What disturbs their function is a side effect of the wards. The stronger the wards, the more powerful the effect.” Hermione pointed at a graph she had prepared. “It’s contained to the area that is warded. In hindsight, it was obvious. If it was the presence of magic itself, then London would have a zone around Diagon Alley where electronics would regularly stop working.”

“I am impressed, Miss Granger. You have proven that sometimes it takes an unbiased, fresh view of things to advance our knowledge.” Dumbledore nodded at her, slowly and respectfully.

“Thank you, Sir. I’ve also created a workable runic array to counter the effect of a ward, though while it has been tested successfully - to a degree - at Grimmauld Place, adapting that to Hogwarts has run into a problem.” She pulled out another parchment and handed it over. “As you can see here, to shield the electronic device from the effects of a ward requires an inverted ward, of sorts. I call it a ‘counter-ward’. But, when I try this at Hogwarts, it doesn’t last as long as it should. I suspect that this is because the wards of Hogwarts do not allow other wards to be created inside them - not without permission, at least.” In hindsight, it was only logical that a ward would oppose an attempt to cancel it, even partially. It also meant she was more than a visitor at Grimmauld Place. Much more.

Dumbledore studied the parchments the young witch had presented to him, absently grabbing a lemon drop. Hermione noticed Fawkes, on his perch, inching closer and closer to the desk, staring at the bowl of sweets. The phoenix looked at her, then at the bowl, then back at her. Without looking up from his reading, the Headmaster stated “You have already had your daily amount of sweets, Fawkes. Please refrain from begging our guests to feed you more.”

Hermione hadn’t known phoenixes could sulk until she saw Fawkes’s reaction to that. She had to cough to avoid giggling, but when the phoenix seemed to pout at her reproachfully not even that helped.

“Even a magical creature as magnificent as a phoenix is prone to very simple desires, and foibles. A quite humbling thought, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.” Hermione was sure the words hinted at something else, but she was waiting almost anxiously for the Headmaster to finish studying the notes she had prepared for him. She had been concise, yet detailed, laying it out all in a manner that should convince anyone - provided they cared about new magical discoveries. It was even safe, too. But what if the Headmaster deemed it not important enough? Or if he opposed the experiment because he certainly could see what it would lead to: Muggle devices at Hogwarts. Muggle culture at Hogwarts. An anathema to many purebloods. She knew Dumbledore did not share that opinion, but what if he felt her experiment, and the consequences of its - in her opinion inevitable - success would be too disruptive for Hogwarts, or Wizarding Britain? She started to bite her lower lip, then angrily stopped - she had to drop this habit, even though Harry found it cute.

Finally, the Headmaster put the parchments down and looked at her again. “A quite convincing presentation, Miss Granger. I expect this is not just a theoretical exercise.”

“No, Sir. I’ve planned to shield a video cassette player and a television screen. Maybe a radio too, and a few other devices.” Like a calculator, which was, in her opinion, the most important thing she’d have to shield. It would be fun to watch movies at Hogwarts, but to be able to use a calculator for arithmantic equations would speed up her spell crafting projects immensely.

“Are you planning a Movie Night at Hogwarts?”

Hermione blinked in surprise, which seemed to amuse the old wizard. Chuckling, he explained: “About a hundred years ago, when movies were invented, some wizards suspected a breach in the Statute of Secrecy, believing moving muggle pictures were magical in nature. When that was disproven, there was a brief craze about movies in Wizarding Britain. I remember attending a number of the early screenings myself. Though the black-and-white silent films of the time did not hold the attention of wizards for long, and the matter was dismissed. I have kept up with technological progress in that field somewhat, over the years, if not as diligently as I had wanted.”

Hermione was once again reminded that Dumbledore was both older than any living muggle and more open-minded than most wizards half his age. “Yes, Sir. I am planning to watch a few movies with my friends. It would be more like television though, not a cinematic experience.” Though now she couldn’t help but imagining a big screen in the Great Hall, and hundreds of wizards and witches watching a big Hollywood blockbuster.

The Headmaster nodded. “Such novel things might best be introduced in small doses to such an old school.”

And there went that dream. Hermione nodded. “Of course, Sir.”

“I will grant you permission to conduct your experiment. I am sure you will responsible enough not to abuse the trust shown.”

Yes! “Thank you, Sir! I will not disappoint you!” Hermione had to fight not to scream with glee. This was her big break-through. Once this was working, it would allow her to work far more efficiently.

The Headmaster leaned back in his seat. “This is a truly excellent example of what muggleborns can give to Wizarding Britain. New ideas, new magic, and new insights.”

Hermione opened her mouth - that had hit a nerve - then hesitated. Should she comment on this remark? Risk an argument?

“Yes, Miss Granger?”

Merlin, she was a Gryffindor! Hermione trusted her chin up and met the older wizard’s eyes. “I think there would be more such examples, if the Patrons of muggleborns were a bit more open-minded, and not primarily concerned with ensuring that a muggleborn learns her place.”

“As unfortunate as it is, the older wizards and witches get, the more conservative they generally are.” Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes were serious. “But surely you have not suffered from such a mindset, with your Patron being the youngest in recorded history.”

“It’s not the age, but the fact that Harry was raised in the muggle world that makes him different. He knows both worlds, and he is not trying to make me forget my roots.”

“But isn’t the desire to stick to one’s roots a foible similar to the conservative mindset among Patrons that you criticize? The Patron system was created to make sure muggleborns found a place in the Magical World, to help them integrate in a society they were not born into. Staying in the muggle world runs counter to that goal.”

“That would be a better argument if we’d actually were accepted in the Magical World. As it is we are expected and ‘encouraged’ to abandon our culture in order to become third-class citizens in the Magical World.” Hermione couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “It’s not exactly a fair trade.”

“You are an intelligent witch, Miss Granger. You must be aware that the lives of muggleborns in Britain are barely different from those of half-bloods and purebloods. You’d be hard-pressed to know their status on sight.” Dumbledore’s tone let the teacher he had been shine through, correcting a student’s mistake.

Hermione wasn’t about to admit to a mistake. “Again, that would be true - if you do not count the marriage limits, and the Wizengamot. Two rather important parts of life.”

Dumbledore couldn’t really counter the marriage limits muggleborns were faced with. He tried it anyway. “As your Patron’s parents have proven, love will find a way around the limits of law. Do you truly care so much about the legal aspects?”

“It’s the principle of the thing. Being told by the law that I am not worth as much as others simply due to the circumstances of my birth, is an insult not borne lightly. The insult is doubled by the fact that even though I am among the most talented witches of this school, I have fewer prospects after graduation than any pureblood.” Hermione was almost baring her teeth when she had finished and took a deep breath to calm down again.

“That’s a theoretical limit in your case. I am quite sure you will achieve whatever you want, with your Patron’s full support, even though the exact ways you will use to do so might differ from those of a pureblood.”

“I am aware of what I can be in private as long as I am minding my place in public.” The young muggleborn witch smiled cynically. She had her pride, and playing second fiddle to anyone in public was not something she liked. Besides, she was not about to share Harry. Not even if it was just for appearance’s sake.

“I would have been surprised if you had been ignorant of that.”

“And yet there are limits I cannot overcome, not even in private. The Wizengamot, for example.”

“There are very few among the purebloods who can expect to become a member of that body. You are hardly unique in that. And there are ways to exert some influence on the Wizengamot without being a member.”

Lobbying, or rather, bribes, Hermione thought cynically. “That doesn’t make it right, Headmaster.”

“I am not saying that is right, or fair. But life is seldom fair. All we can do is to strive to make it better. And your planned Movie Night will be a step towards that.”

“Hopefully, Sir.” And the things she would be able to do with a working electronic calculator, or even a computer, later, at Hogwarts would be another, bigger step. She didn’t say that though.

“Indeed. The older I grow, the more I realize that we cannot predict the future with any certainty - certain oracles and prophecies exempted, of course.” The Headmaster stood up and conjured a small cup. “I’ll need a bit of your blood, to give you access to the wards.”

Hermione took the cup. She hadn’t really expected him to let her know where the central runes that powered and directed the wards of the school were located, but she had still hoped to see them. Wincing, she hesitated a few seconds, before using a cutting hex to slice into her palm. She hissed at the sudden pain while she let blood drop into the cup.

“That should be enough, Miss Granger. I am sorry for the pain you had to suffer through, but certain magics require a small sacrifice, as unpleasant as it may be.”

Hermione closed the wound with another spell, nodding. Certain magics required far larger sacrifices, of course.

“You should be able to do your experiments tomorrow evening. I am looking forward to seeing the results.”

“Will you be present yourself, Sir?” Hermione was a bit taken aback. She considered those experiments hers, and hers alone, and to have the Headmaster there felt a bit like if he would be holding her hand.

“I think that it would be prudent. As you said, the wards of this school are very powerful, and very old. I do not think there is a significant risk of a catastrophic failure, but my presence will ensure your and everyone else’s safety.”

“Indeed, Sir.” On the other hand, he had a good point. A mistake while drawing on those wards would be something she’d rather avoid.

“Good evening then, Miss Granger. It has been a pleasure to discuss with you. I do hope we will have another talk in the future.” The door to the office opened soundlessly at a gesture from Dumbledore.

“Good evening, Headmaster.” Hermione bowed, gathered her notes with a flick of her wand, then left. When the gargoyle had moved to block the entrance behind her again, her torc grew warm and she noticed a figure stepping out from an alcove. Harry.

“How did it go?”

“I got permission.”

“Great!” The beaming smile on Harry’s face, and the hug he gathered Hermione in, drove away the lingering resentment the discussion about muggleborns with the Headmaster had caused.

*****​

“Bertram! I haven’t seen you in a while. How are things in Magical Creatures?”

Arthur Weasley smiled at Bertram Fickleton, a Hufflepuff of his year at Hogwarts, falling in next to the corpulent wizard on his way to the floos after a day at the Ministry.

“Arthur! The department’s very busy, at least my division. We’ve been buried under requests for reports from various Wizengamot members.” Bertram slowed down a bit as he started talking, and a hurried-looking obliviator passed both of them with a mumbled apology for bumping into the other wizard.

“Oh? I wasn’t aware there’s legislature in the works, especially not for the Beings Division.” Arthur was not that well-connected, but he did have friends all over the Ministry, and he liked to keep abreast of any new law, if only to make sure that it wouldn’t impact his own work.

“Nothing is official yet, but the grapevine claims that we’re looking at another reclassification effort.” Bertram sighed.

“Another attempt to persuade the centaurs and merpeople?” Arthur knew both species had refused to be classified as beings because they did not want to be thrown in with species like hags and vampires, and therefore were classified as beasts by default. From time to time a new, idealistic Ministry employe would try to make them see reason, usually without any success, sometimes ending up in St. Mungo’s as a result if they caught the centaurs on a day where Mars was bright.

“I wish! We’d know how to handle that. No, this is coming from the Wizengamot, and involves reclassifying some magical creatures as beasts. Such a thing hasn’t happened in decades, so we’ve all pretty much been caught on the wrong foot and have to make up things as we go.” Bertram had the long-suffering expression of a bureaucrat forced to leave his comfort zone.

“Which creature do they want to reclassify as beasts?” Arthur hadn’t heard of any incident that would make a Wizengamot member try to claim a species was, like Acromantulas, too lethal and violent to be a magical being, no matter their intelligence. The last giant rampage in Britain had been centuries ago, and Greyback’s atrocities during the last war had been overshadowed by the exploits of the Death Eaters.

“We’ve been compiling reports about Veelas, werewolves, hags, vampires and giants.”

“What? That’s just about every magical being!”

“Yes! The division would be reduced to the Goblin Liaison Office and the Office for House-Elf Relocation!” Bertram shook his head in apparent shock. “Everyone of us is working as hard as possible to prevent this.”

“I bet. Who came up with this nonsense?”

“I don’t know - the requests came from different members.” Bertram shrugged. “We cannot exactly ask them - Wizengamot members are a bit prickly when one insinuates they might be working for someone else.”

“Oh, yes.” Arthur chuckled, but he had to force himself to, waving while Bertram took the floo to his home. Then he sighed. Such a piece of legislation would damage the relations to all those species, even if it failed. And it was certain it would fail. The Wizengamot was not as foolish as the Ministry employees liked to claim after a few pints in the Leaky Cauldron.

He muttered a curse Molly would scold him for. His family would be directly affected - Bill was serious about Fleur, and this would have a big impact on their relationship; namely where they would be living after marriage, maybe even on their marriage itself. Fleur already was not fond of the fact she was considered a hal-blood in Britain. If she heard the Wizengamot was debating whether she was to be classified as a beast… He was sure that that would cause fireballs to fly.

Whoever was behind this was likely planning to stir up trouble, and that pointed at those wizards the Headmaster was worried about. He’d have to meet Bertram for a chat tomorrow, in his office, and see if he could take a look at the requests from the Wizengamot. Maybe Arthur could recognize the style.

He checked his watch, then nodded. Percy would still be working. His son hadn’t been visiting the Burrow as often as Molly would have liked since he had moved out into a flat of his own, and inviting him for dinner would be a good cover for informing him about this ploy. Percy had his own contacts in the Ministry, and a good relationship with Barty Crouch. He might find out more about this as well. In times like these, family had to stick together.

*****​

Harry Potter told himself that it was for the best, that Hermione was much safer this way, that it was just the smart thing to do, and that it wasn’t as if there was any other choice. It did not help - he still didn’t like the Headmaster assisting Hermione with her experiment.

This was their private room. They had picked it, furnished it, enchanted it together. They had invited friends, of course, but above all it had been theirs. Many evenings the two of them had been sitting there, talking, snogging, and sharing their dreams. Well, not all of their dreams. Some of the dreams he had had, usually after a talk with his godfather, he’d not tell anyone, least of all Hermione. He forced his thoughts away from those guilty pleasures. He still felt like the Headmaster was intruding on them in their home. It couldn’t be helped though - Hogwarts was Dumbledore’s castle, after all. Harry summoned a can of cola for himself and took a sip, watching his Hermione go over the rune array in the radio with the old wizard.

“Feels almost like a lesson, doesn’t it, mate?” Ron whispered behind him, then slid over the couch and fell into the seat next to Harry. A bottle of butterbeer followed him, floating next to his head. “Weird that it’s not Hermione doing the lecturing.”

Harry frowned, then nodded. “Weird.” Maybe that was why Hermione was taking this much better than he had expected when she first told him that the Headmaster would be attending the experiment. If she saw it not as an intrusion, but a special lesson… he took another sip from his can, watching Hermione nod eagerly at Dumbledore complimenting her rune arrays.

“If that was Lockhart I’d be concerned in your place.” Ron chuckled.

Harry laughed. Ron’s joke still stung a bit, but only a bit. The thought of Albus Dumbledore as a romantic rival for the affections of his retainer was absurd. Lockhart, of course, would be a different matter - most of the girls had had a crush on the handsome author in their second year. Hermione too, now that he thought of it. “It’s not Lockhart though.” He knew Hermione loved him. He was still glad it was not Lockhart here with them.

“Speaking of, my dad told me that the last rider on the Basilisk Bill was removed, and it’s expected to pass at the next session. We’ll get our money, only two years late.” Ron grinned widely.

“Better late than never. And it’s not as we’re hurting for gold.” Not at all. Even if Hermione still felt guilty for ‘wasting’ Harry’s money on her projects. He would have to convince her that it wasn’t wasted at all, as long as it made her happy. The compensation for the basilisk they had killed together with Lockhart would help with that, hopefully. Even though her not getting a cut of her own, but only through him, would vex her. Harry frowned. Life wasn’t fair for muggleborns.

“We’re about to test it!” Hermione’s excited voice shook him from his gloomy thoughts. The witch was beaming and pointing at the radio standing in the middle of the stone table. Ron ducked and shielded his face jokingly, and Harry was sure that if Dumbledore hadn’t been there, Ron would have been dodging a jinx or two right now, which Hermione would later excuse as ‘extra defense training’.

Hermione frowned instead, and glared at Ron, who was entirely unimpressed. He should know better than to tweak Hermione’s nose like this, Harry thought - Sirius had been a bad influence on her. Then again, Ron had grown up with Fred and George. He was used to getting pranked. Or hexed. Ginny had a rather nasty temper too, when she was riled up.

“I think we are ready, Miss Granger.”

Hermione beamed again, took a deep breath, then pushed a button on the radio. Harry heard a crackling sound and for a moment was sure the experiment had failed. Then a pop song’s lyrics filled the room and he realized it had just been the usual static until the correct frequency had been found. Harry didn’t recognize the song or singer.

Hermione was staring at the radio, biting her lower lip and pulling on a strand of her hair that had escaped her styling spell. The song ended - according to the radio moderator it had been Michael Jackson’s ‘You Are Not Alone’ - and ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ took its place. The radio still didn’t spontaneously combust.

“Ah, Music. Magical in all its appearances.” Dumbledore was smiling widely. Hermione was still staring at the radio, and checking her watch. Harry stepped up and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He knew better than to congratulate her, it would only trigger a small rant about proper procedure in testing, and how it could still fail. She leaned into him, her head touching his shoulder.

The Headmaster waved his wand over the radio. “I do not detect any degradation of the wards, or the runes.”

“It’s still a bit early.” Hermione stated, but she was smiling now. It figured that Dumbledore could call it, Harry thought.

“Indeed. But I think we can start on your Video Cassette Player now.”

“Oh, Yes!” And with that, Hermione’s full attention was on the next step of her planned experiment. Harry wasn’t sure she even noticed that he had returned to the couch, where Ron was still seated.

“Mental, mate.”

“She’s been working towards this for years.” Harry defended his retainer.

“I know, but you should have seen your face.” His redheaded friend chuckled again, finishing his bottle. “Dumped for a muggle artefact, how tragic. Hey - that sounds kind of kinky.”

Harry decided that he’d help Hermione with whatever she would do to get back at Ron. And maybe ask Sirius for ideas.

*****​

“This looks like the remains of a Defense O.W.L. examination day,” Kenneth Fenbrick stated, waving his wand and staring at the busted shop at the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Debris was strewn around the entrance, and inside, all over the place. The sign, proclaiming it to be ‘Dan’s Trusty Trinkets’, had been torn off and banished through the window. “Reducto, Confringo, Bombarda, Incendio a few times. Aguamenti too - some moron probably set himself on fire by accident and had to douse himself.” It had happened to a classmate of his, at his O.W.L. exam.

“Are you suggesting that a group of students went overboard while revising?” Bertha Limmington, Kenneth’s partner, sounded as if she was doubting him. Or mocking him. It was hard to tell with her deadpan delivery.

“No. I’m just saying that this was the work of an uncoordinated bunch of thugs using basic spells. Not a team of wands for hire.”

“Or they wanted to make it look like it was a group of untrained thugs.” Bertha crouched down and poked a melted lamp with her wand. The thing was still floating, despite being half-destroyed. That was some strong spellwork there.

“It was a second-hand shop for trinkets. Not usually the kind of shop that would rate such attention. And if it did, it’d have had better defenses. What did the owner say?” Kenneth stepped around the shattered and still smoking remains of the counter. The fire wards had held, since the building was still standing, so someone had been trying very hard to get a fire going. Dumb and stubborn.

“That he has no idea why anyone would attack his shop. No one asked for protection money, apparently, and he doesn’t remember any enemies.” Bertha stood up, stretching slightly, and Kenneth once again wished she was a bit more fun.

“Do you believe him?”

“I believe we need to investigate this further.” Bertha stated in her usual, careful manner, refusing to answer him. Kenneth was sure if he asked her how the weather was, she’d say something like ‘I think it looks like it’s currently sunny’ or something.

“That’s the second shop in the area that was hit like this. First ‘Carol’s Clothes’, now this one. I think someone’s got plans for this area. Maybe a gang.” Kenneth was more inclined to trust his gut, even without hard evidence. And his gut told him that this was not just the work of some drunk idiots blowing off steam.

“We cannot rule out any explanation at this point.”

“Maybe it’s a plot from a warding firm. To create demand for better security.” Kenneth speculated.

Bertha gave him a look that said that contrary to her words, she was ruling out this explanation. Kenneth knew as well as his partner that the kind of firm that those shops would contract would not risk hiring thugs in Knockturn Alley, for fear of getting blackmailed as a result. But some people were just dumb enough to do it anyway.

“Both shopkeepers were muggleborn.” Bertha stated as the two left the ruined shop.

Kenneth knew what she was hinting at. “Most of the shopkeepers around this part are muggleborns.” Only the really poor purebloods would start a business that close to Knockturn Alley.

Bertha nodded, acknowledging the point. Kenneth didn’t mention that he had thought about that as well. Some things one didn’t mention though, the war was still fresh in people’s minds, and the attack on the World Cup a year ago hadn’t helped. “Did they increase the foot patrols in the area?”

Bertha shook her head. “No. The brass said there was no need for that since it was just some vandalism.”

“I wonder what they’ll say when the first shop owner gets wrecked along with his shop.”

Bertha didn’t answer that. Kenneth hadn’t expected her to either.

*****​

“Mister Longbottom, were you born this stupid, or did someone curse you? If you are as inept with your wand as you are with your cauldron, the latter seems quite plausible. That’s by far the worst attempt at a Pepper-Up potion I have ever seen in my entire career!”

Neville cringed, and Hermione winced in sympathy. The Potion Master had been far nastier this term than in the years before. What used to be biting sarcasm was now bordering on verbal abuse more often than not. Crossing over a few times, even. Everyone, even Slytherins, suffered from his sharp tongue at the slightest provocation, but Neville had it the worst. Her friend was not talented in Potions - Hermione, the default tutor in their dorm knew that better than anyone else - and he tended to attract the lion’s share of Snape’s ire and venom.

“I would ask you to drink it so you would finally learn to pay more attention to your teachers, but I think it would just shock you into a coma by wrecking your tiny brain, and St. Mungo’s should not be burdened with you when there are other, not self-inflicted cases to treat.” The Professor sneered and vanished Neville’s potion before turning away.

Hermione gasped at the cruel comment. Bringing up Neville’s parents like this… she was certain Snape knew about their fate, and had done that deliberately to hurt the Gryffindor. Neville himself was trembling, tears - of anguish or anger, or both, she couldn’t say - forming in his eyes.

Snape smiled faintly and addressed the class. “Those who, like Mister Longbottom, seem determined to waste valuable ingredients to produce failed potions that would do more harm than good should anyone be so foolish as to imbibe them, would do well to study their books again until the next lesson. While I have no doubt that our resident menace to cauldrons will fail his O.W.L.s, some of you dunderheads might still achieve a passing grade with hard work. If you even know what hard work means, spoiled as you are. Now clean your cauldrons and get out!”

Hermione was trembling with anger herself when she left the classroom. How could a teacher be so vile? Harry too looked incensed, and Ron was muttering words Mrs Weasley would scourgify his mouth for under his breath. Neville meanwhile seemed to have shrunk, his shoulders hunched and his gate fixated on the floor, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Malfoy sneered at the him while walking past. “That lout’s a menace. One of those days he’ll kill us all with a cauldron explosion. We can just hope the blast will be contained by his fellow Gryffindors!” He loudly complained to Parkinson, who looked slightly uncomfortable. Did the brainless witch really think Neville would kill them by accident? He had melted two cauldrons, but that had been in their first year!

Everyone of the students exiting the room had heard the words of the blond Slytherin, as he no doubt had intended. Hermione saw Neville tense up and draw his wand. The Gryffindor might even have done something violent, if not for Harry and Ron grabbing his arms and pulling him away. Hermione glared at Malfoy and Parkinson before following the boys. She kept her wand ready though, and an eye on the couple - if they tried to hex Harry in the back they’d be cursed before they could lift their wands.

A few minutes later they were in what everyone now knew as their room, and Neville was blasting at stone animals conjured by Ron and Harry. “Curse that git! I hope he dies from one of his potions!” The normally calm and friendly student was ranting, shaking with rage as his spells hit the floor and walls as often as the animals. Hermione was very glad she had reinforced the room with spells, back when she started using it for spell crafting, testing, and other experiments.

After a few minutes, Neville seemed to run out of steam and collapsed on a couch. He hid his face with his hands while his shoulders shook. No one said anything, but when he stopped and wiped his face, Ron handed him a butterbeer with a nod.

Hermione took a drink of her own - a sugar free diet coke - and sat down next to Harry. “We need to file a complaint. The Potion Master was far out of line.”

“If my Gran heard of this, she’d duel him. She’s good, but Snape’s nasty. I don’t want to risk her getting hurt, or…” Neville took a deep breath, fighting to keep his composure again. Hermione’s heart went out to him.

“Mate, hate to say it, but even if we do not tell anyone, this will get out. Malfoy’s probably laughing all the way to their dorm, and you can bet that this kind of news spreads fast.” Ron patted Neville’s shoulder.

“If the school takes action your grandmother won’t duel him.” Hermione hoped so, in any case - if a grievance was handled by the law, it was very uncommon to end in a duel. These days, at least. Duels were still tolerated even though they were technically illegal.

Neville slowly nodded. “I guess I don’t have a choice then.”

“OK, let’s write down what happened then, so there’s no doubt about it!” Hermione summoned a few sheets of parchment from her stack in the room, followed by quills and pens. It didn’t take long until they had a detailed report ready. Hermione duplicated the parchment a few times and handed two copies off to Neville. She’d have offered to fill out his complaint form for him as well, if that had not been a faux pas bordering on an insult. She wasn’t his retainer, after all. Just his friend.

True to Ron’s prediction, Ginny arrived then, having heard of the incident from the other Gryffindors of their year, and another round of drinks was summoned. Hermione made a mental note to restock their private pantry next week. While food could be gotten from the house elves in the kitchen easily, drinks other than pumpkin juice had to be bought elsewhere, especially muggle soft drinks.

“So, I heard you finished your muggle ‘player’. What exactly does it do?” Neville was obviously wanting to talk about anything but Snape’s vitriol if he was asking about Hermione’s experiments, since he had not shown any interest in them so far. The young witch was only too happy to oblige him though.

“It’s a Video Cassette Player. Together with a television we can watch muggle movies here at Hogwarts.” Hermione showed the group the player and the screen, both standing in a corner in the room. Then she had to explain what movies were, though she was not certain if Neville truly had no idea, or simply wanted to make sure they’d not talk about the incident in Potions again.

“We need to decide what kind of movies we’ll be watching though - I have to order them from my parents.” Hermione stated after she had finished explaining. There was no telling what kind of movies Sirius would send them, if they asked him. Or Nymphadora.

“Star Wars!” Harry said at once.

“It’s a great movie, and a classic.” Hermione admitted. It might be a bit much for purebloods, but if it was just them and their close friends, Hermione was sure she could explain the concept of Science Fiction to the purebloods. “I was thinking of a movie set in our time first though. Maybe a comedy.”

“It would have to be a rather blunt comedy. Most of the humor of the more sophisticated ones would require constant explanations. And that kills the experience.” Harry countered.

“Yes.” Hermione sighed. The first movie night with Nymphadora had been quite tiring, almost stressful even for her. She couldn’t enjoy a movie if she had to explain every scene. The young witch frowned. There should be a movie that was both classy and easy to understand. Then it hit her.

“We could watch an animated Disney movie!”

Of course then she had to explain what an animated movie was, and what Disney was about. At least by the time she had explained that the Magic Kingdom was not an American wizard enclave, at least not to her knowledge, she had convinced the others to watch ‘‘The Lion King’ at the first Hogwarts Movie Night.

*****​

“Oh, you fought in the Intervention? You must be really brave and powerful!” Mathilda Miller was laying it on thick, probably too thick. But her mark was drunk, and what wits the fire whiskey had left him were busy trying to picture her naked judging by his leering expression. Not that the robes she was wearing at the moment made that feat particularly difficult. A few floating strips of fabric and illusionary wisps of smoke didn’t conceal much of her body.

Seducing a drunken wand for hire who was dumb enough to boast of having taken part in an operation that happened before he was born was almost beneath her. Mathilda had been trained by the best courtesans of the French Court, after all. But Aberforth had asked her to help him, and she owed the old man too much to refuse. Even if he was acting on behalf of his brother. Former brother, she corrected herself. If not for Aberforth, her sister would have ended up a Janissary. And Mathilda herself would have gotten killed trying to rescue her.

And so she was sitting in a dive in Knockturn Alley, flirting with a lout named Gerald Tuckle, who might know more about the latest hiring wave among the bottom feeders of Wizarding Britain by virtue of belonging to the ranks of said bottom feeders. At least no one here would recognize her thanks to a few other spells and muggle makeup.

“Oh, yes. I am the best wand in the alley.”

“You must be rich too then - the best is paid the most.” Long practise kept Mathilda smiling and her giggle when the wizard pulled her on his lap convincingly surprised sounding.

“Oh, yes. I just got paid!” The wizard shook a purse, as if in the age of expansion charms anyone could still tell how much gold a wizard carried.

“Oh, so you are looking for work again?” Mathilda ran a hand through her mark’s beard. Well groomed, if not too bright or handsome.

“No, I am paid a tidy sum just for not hiring on with anyone else!” The wizard’s hand - his left, he kept his wand hand free - was starting to wander while he boasted.

“Your boss must be smart then - and rich.”

“That he is.”

Mathilda gently but firmly grabbed the wizard’s hand before it could get too far. “Maybe we should retire to a private room? This is hardly the place for an intimate discussion,” she whispered into his ear.

As expected the mercenary readily agreed - she had taken care to appear just a cut above the other women plying their trade in the dive. Not enough to look out of place, but enough to stand out. Casting advanced privacy spells in public could alert whoever was hiring those lowlives. A private room, with a few more spells layered on, would be a much better place to use legilimency on a drunk and exhausted wizard.

*****​

Sirius, wearing his best robes, bowed to the four lovely girls who had just arrived by floo. Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and Valérie, the shy one. Or so he thought he remembered her as. His memory was a bit fuzzy when it came to the nights spent in Chateau d’Aigle. But they were happy memories. They had to be happy memories. No one could be less than perfectly happy with so many charming veela. Straightening up, the wizard declared: “I offer you the hospitality of my home.”

Chantal, the eldest veela and default leader of the group, bowed, followed by her cousins. “We accept your ‘ospitality.”

With the formalities over, Sirius grinned widely, and winked at the veela. “Welcome to No 12, Grimmauld Place! Ancestral home of the Black Family, and once the most cursed building in London.”

As expected, that caused the girls to giggle, though a bit nervously. Curses were a serious matter, after all. Or were supposed to be - a lot of curses were quite funny, if they happened to the right person. Sirius could think of a number of people who’d fit that bill. Laure was eyeing the floo powder bowl as if it might sprout teeth and leap at her any moment. Though that curse had been one of the first that had been taken care of, of course.

He smiled at her. “Rest assured, the best curse-breakers gold could hire cleared the house. It’s perfectly safe now.” It never hurt to subtly mention that he was rich. People were so much more tolerant and friendly if they knew one had money. “Safe from curses and dark magic, at least. Some of my less gifted friends would consider me a danger to beautiful witches.”

Chantal giggled. “Why would they think that? You are, after all, a perfect gentleman.” Why, yes, he was - for a certain definition of ‘perfect’, of course.

“Jealousy, no doubt. Now let me show you your rooms.” He offered his arms to Chantal and Laure, and led the group upstairs, to the guest rooms, pointing at a few portraits on the walls. It felt good to have more guests in the house. With his family off at Hogwarts, the house was too lonely. Remus was visiting often, but he wasn’t enough. Neither was Viktor.

“Those four rooms have been prepared for you, feel free to use them as long as you wish.” He pointed to the last four doors in the hallway on the first floor, then at the first door. “This room is occupied by Viktor Krum. He’s spending a few weeks here. He’s currently sightseeing in London with Nymphadora, but he will be back for dinner.”

“Ah!” Eugénie smirked. “Nymphadora ‘as an amant then?”

Sirius suspected the seeker fancied his cousin quite a bit, for joining her on her expeditions into muggle London, but it wouldn’t do to gossip about close family. Unless it was Narcissa. “I would never pry into the private life of my cousin,” he stated, with as much honesty as he could muster.

“We can always ask them at dinner, can’t we?” Laure smiled innocently, but her eyes shone with mirth. A witch after his own heart, Sirius thought.

“Of course.” Dinner would be entertaining. Especially if Remus would stay after his “walk” through Muggle London. Why his old friend suddenly had decided to explore the muggle part of the town Sirius couldn’t fathom, but at least he hadn’t tried to tag along with Nymphadora and Viktor. “Once you’re settled in your rooms I’ll show you the rest of the house. We’ll skip the dungeons in the cellar, of course.”

“Dungeons, Sirius?” Eugénie asked.

“Dungeons.” Sirius nodded. Clearing the curses from those areas had been interesting.

“That sounds interesting.” Valérie spoke up, for the first time since arriving.

Sirius blinked in surprise at the shy one, but quickly smiled. “If you wish to see them I will of course comply with your request, though I’ve to warn you: my ancestors had some peculiar tastes.”

“Oh, those sort of dungeons?” She blushed in a quite fetching manner.

“Yes.” There were the other sorts of dungeons as well. His family’s reputation had been well-deserved, after all. But those rooms he had personally wrecked and sealed off. He had no intention to let them be used ever again.

Chantal giggled, drawing his attention back to her. “I ‘ave to thank you again, Sirius, for your generous invitation.” She paused just long enough for him to open his mouth to answer, then continued: “Later tonight.”

That caused another round of giggles and comments. Sirius kissed her hand. “Only a cad would refuse this, mademoiselle.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand before releasing it, and was pleased to see her smile widen in response.

The four witches disappeared into their rooms to freshen up, and Sirius went downstairs. One of the portraits of his ancestors frowned at him disapprovingly, but he ignored it. There was no reason to feel guilty, or bad. None at all. He had four lovely witches in his house, he had to be happy. Anyone in his place would be happy.

He didn’t know why he changed into a dog for a nap, but Padfoot was not questioning it.

*****​

Remus Lupin was scowling while he was walking through London. He didn’t see the appeal of the muggle town at all. Muggle city, whatever. Too many people, too many cars, too many unfamiliar things. No magic at all. Why would anyone want to spend time here, instead of in Wizarding Britain? Well, he knew why Krum was doing it - the boy was trying to get into Nymphadora’s pants. Or had succeeded already.

Remus was not fond of the relationship that seemed to be forming between the Bulgarian and Sirius’s cousin. Even if the star seeker was not just abusing his fame to score with an impressionable young witch, or simply wanted to try out how a metamorphmagus was in bed, how long could a relationship last when one partner was an auror, working long hours in Britain, and the other a professional Quidditch player from Bulgaria?

The werewolf couldn’t understand why Sirius was not concerned. Nymphadora was his family, after all. By blood. Sure, Krum had fought at their side, but so had Peter, once.

The cursed wizard stopped, closing his eyes for a moment. What was he thinking? Krum was no Pettigrew. And Nymphadora was no student of his, nor a former student. There was no reason to be that worked up. None at all.

Angry at himself, he lengthened his strides, stalking through the streets, no longer paying attention to the muggles, who were avoiding him. Until he saw a werewolf in a shop.

He almost drew his wand before he realized it was but a life-sized picture. And there was no full moon anyway, or he’d not be here. Why would muggles have such a thing in their shop? Did anyone break the Statute of Secrecy? He gasped. If a werewolf had deliberately exposed himself to muggles, the repercussions for all other werewolves would be worse than after Greyback’s rampages in the last war. He had to investigate!

With that thought he entered the ‘video shop’, passing a sign that announced a ‘horror movie sale’. Upon closer examination, the werewolf was not as lifelike as he had feared. The dimensions were wrong, and a werewolf could not stand like this. Unless of course it was a foreign variant he was not familiar with. Though, the Quibbler’s claims notwithstanding, he doubted such a thing existed.

“Do you like werewolves?” A perky voice interrupted his study of the picture.

“What?” He turned around and saw the sales girl was smiling at him.

“You’ve been looking at the cutout for minute. Are you interested in werewolves? We’ve got all the werewolf movies ever made on sale. Well, all the good ones at least.”

There were werewolf movies? Why hadn’t anyone ever told him that? He was a bit sensitive about his curse, yes, but he’d have expected Hermione at least to tell him about such things. “Yes, please.”

“There are all on this shelf here. The classics, and the goofy ones, like Teen Wolf.”

“Teen Wolf?”

The sales girl pointed to a small box depicting a boy with furry hands and weird clothes. On the back there was a picture of a brown yeti in weirder clothes. “That’s supposed to be a werewolf?”

“Well, it’s a comedy.”

“A comedy? About a werewolf?” It took all of his self-control not to set the box on fire. To make light of the terrible curse that had ruined his life, to turn it into entertainment … at least he knew why it was called a horror movie.

*****​

Voldemort was watching as six of his latest potential recruits approached the small house in one of London’s sprawling suburbs. It belonged to Brian Smith, a mudblood working at ‘Calderson’s’, a shop owned by a blood traitor. A good target to test the resolve of the wands he had hired. He himself was polyjuiced into Finnegan Greenbrand and wearing his customary hood, and had hidden under a disillusion charm as well, just in case anyone witnessed this - and lived to tell the tale.

He watched with a critical eye as they threw up anti-apparition wards, anti-muggle wards, and blocked floo travel. Slow, and a bit sloppy, but not as bad as he had feared. But the real trick was breaking the wards on the house. They were not particularly strong, a far cry from the wards on the home of an old pureblood family, but if they bungled it up, the backlash might alert the obliviators. And kill them, if their shields were as sloppy as their wandwork.

They didn’t bungle it, though they came close. So close actually, that he had been tempted to hex the lot and do it himself. But that would have defeated the purpose of this exercise. Smith must have noticed the attack by now, but he hadn’t shown himself. He either was cowering, paralyzed with fright, trying to hide, or was preparing an ambush.

One thug blew the door open with a reducto and charged in. Sloppy. Should have at least cast a shield first, or sent a few more spells inside. Or gone through a window. Before the rest of the wizards could follow, spells flashed inside the house, and the first thug’s body flew out through the window. Smith had been waiting for them then. Quite a strong banishment spell, but the thug would live.

More spells followed, forcing the rest of the attackers to take cover, and Smith shot out of the window on a broom. For a moment, Voldemort was tempted to let him escape. He had taught the rabble a lesson or two, after all, which they’d not soon forget. And the desire to avenge that slight would motivate them further. But then, it was a mudblood, and he had other plans. A flick of his wand sent a few spells at the fleeing wizard, causing him to crash when his broom ceased to function.

Smith was hurt, dazed from the impact, and still he managed to get his wand up and shield himself. But ganging up on a single, wounded target was what the thugs were good at. And so Smith got the worst possible outcome - he couldn’t escape, but didn’t die quickly either.

Voldemort made a note of the various spells and enthusiasm shown by the group, then went into the house to hide a few stolen items inside. That should convince the aurors investigating it that Smith had been a thief and this attack was just criminals settling accounts among themselves. And it would damage the reputation of the mudblood’s employer and Patron as well.

*****​

It had been supposed to be just Harry, herself, and their close friends, Ron, Neville, Ginny, Luna and Aicha, at the first Movie Night at Hogwarts. But of course, Ron had to invite Padma as well. Susan had invited herself, at least in Hermione’s opinion, as soon as she had heard of it - they couldn’t refuse her when she asked if she could come as well, that would have been an insult. And the redhead had brought her best friend Hannah Abbot. No one had invited Fred and George, but to send them away would have meant pranks disturbing the event. And the twins had brought the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team as well as their friend Lee.

All in all there were about three times the number of people attending than expected. Hermione wouldn’t have minded that much - Sirius had bought the largest display possible, which meant it could handle that number - if not for the event turning public enough so she’d have to be Harry’s retainer, instead of his friend. Distributing snacks and drinks, handling the furniture - well, she’d have done that anyway, she wanted her big triumph to be perfect after all - and explaining what an animated movie was.

But when she unveiled the television display and put the cassette into the player, when she dimmed the lights in the room and started the movie, all that was forgotten. She had made history! She had proven a widespread assumption wrong! She had brought muggle movies to Hogwarts!

It was a very proud and happy witch that snuggled up to her boyfriend while on the screen Simba was introduced to his future subjects, and the magic of Walt Disney started to affect the wizards and witches watching the movie with rapt attention, enthralled by a magic they hadn’t known before.


Chapter 18: Grave News

 

Chapter 18: Grave News

When Simba’s and Nala’s cub was presented to the other animals, and the closing song was starting, many of the watching wizards and witches were still spellbound. A number even had tears in their eyes, Hermione Granger noted.

“Wow.” Susan Bones summed up the most common reaction. “So that’s Disney.”

“Do muggle animals talk and sing like that?” Luna, of course, was focusing on something else. “A sphynx could do both, I think.”

“No, Luna, it’s an animated movie. Animals, I mean, muggle animals, do not really talk like that.” Hermione briefly struggled with the temptation to start lecturing about the movie’s background, the similarities to the ‘Kimba the White Lion’ TV series, and the voice actors chosen for the roles, but managed not to. It would have detracted from the impact of the work of art. “They invented the story, the characters and the music for this movie.”

“I didn’t know muggles could do something like that. Gran told me she saw a few muggle movies, but they were all back and white, and had no sound.” Neville commented.

“That’s how they started. They soon added music, and later sound. Then color, about 50 years ago. Since then they also added 3D effects, though those require special glasses, and are not too common.” Hermione couldn’t help expanding on the technical history.

“That was just a tv screen. Imagine watching that movie in a theatre, on a big screen!” Harry put in, helpfully.

“Oh, can we do that?” Luna piped up. “Would the Great Hall be big enough for the screen?”

Hermione frowned at her patron before answering that. “It would, but we can’t really put a cinema into Hogwarts. Well, one could maybe acquire a projector, but it would be quite the project. Simply enlarging the tv picture with a lens would not work well.” Sirius might, if asked, buy a video projector. But a real cinema projector? Even if she managed to get one of those, and shield it, Hermione wasn’t certain if one could acquire movies for it as a private citizen. Not without some record fudging with magic, at least. And creating a fake cinema seemed a bit too complicated. On the other hand, they would get access to all the newest movies...

“How did they make the pictures move without magic?” George asked, interrupting her train of thoughts. He and his brother had stuck their heads together for a while.

Hermione happily started to explain how animated movies worked. It was not too easy for a magical to understand though, as she found out. If only she had thought of getting or making a flip-book!

“The pictures are not moving, but they fool our eyes to make us think they are moving? How is that possible without magic?”

Hermione’s smile became a bit forced as she delved into how eyes worked, which led to a brief excurse into biology. Which attracted Luna, who apparently felt that biology was close enough to magizoology to require further study.

By the time Hermione was trying to explain that the “trick” animators used to make the spectators think the pictures were moving couldn’t be used by Snorkacks to fool hunters her boyfriend and their best friend were openly smirking from where they were talking about the movie’s story and music with the rest of their friends. Traitors!

Thank God they hadn’t shown Star Wars. If they ever did, Harry would be fielding all those questions. And maybe she’d ask a few of her own, just to see him sweat! She’d need something else to get back at Ron, though.

*****​

News of the Movie Night spread quickly, Harry Potter thought after getting up in the morning. Shortly after he and his friends had returned to the Gryffindor dorms last night, right before curfew, everyone inside had heard of the event. He was certain even those among his fellow students who had professed to have no interest in ‘muggle contraptions’ had been jealous of those who had managed to attend. Hermione, smirking, had even bet him that Lavender and Parvati would ask to attend the next Movie Night. He hadn’t asked his girlfriend if she planned to turn them down, or graciously allow them to come. Sometimes it was a bit scary to see how well Hermione could hold a grudge.

Harry sent a flock of birds to circle around the head of Ron, who was still sleeping, or trying to, so his friend wouldn’t have to rush through breakfast, then descended to the common room. Hermione wasn’t there yet, which was unusual - but maybe she was held back by her dorm mates hogging the bathroom. She had complained a few times about that.

“There he is!” Harry’s attention was torn away from the stairs leading to the girls’ rooms to the gaggle of kids slowly, hesitantly surrounding him. First years, all of them, he realized - he had counted them often enough at the start of the year to make sure no one got lost. Smiling, he greeted them. “Good morning, everyone. What’s up?”

Mary-Ann Smitherson, the closest to a leader the first years had, swallowed, and took a step forward - or rather, from the way she glared back over her shoulder, she had been pushed forward by the students behind her. Smiling nervously, she faced him again. “Ah, Mister Potter, we, ah, we wanted to know if we could attend the next Movie Night!”

The little girl smiled at him with pleading, hopeful eyes, together with the rest of her yearmates. Only a heartless grump could have refused them. Harry wasn’t like Snape. “Of course you can.” He smiled at them, and when they started to cheer and hug each other, he felt great. What a way to start a day, making so many children happy!

“Mister Potter?” A shy, hesitant question made him look to his side. There was the smallest, youngest second year in Gryffindor, Lisbeth Brown.

“Yes, Lisbeth?” He wasn’t about to tell her she should call him ‘just Harry’. That would have been a faux pas, implying far too much familiarity with someone not even in his year and classes.

“Can I and a few friends of mine attend too? I mean, I’d understand if that would be too many…” She trailed off, eyes downcast, lips pouting and trembling, and Harry just knew she’d go to her room and cry if he turned her down.

“Of course. Everyone who wants to come can come!”

“Thank you!” Lisbeth cheered up at once, beamed at him, then turned around and rushed to her older sister, Lavender, who apparently had just come down from her room. “He said everyone can come!” More cheering followed that declaration, and Lavender shot him a wide smile too.

“And I was wondering why Lavender and Parvati didn’t ask me about the Movie Night, but still hogged the bathroom longer than usual.” Hermione must have come down herself while he had been talking to the kids, and contrary to everyone, she didn’t look very happy. Oh, she was smiling, but he could see it was rather forced. He didn’t understand for a moment, then he noticed the first and second years surrounding Lavender and Parvati.

“Oh.” He had been played.

“Yes, ‘Oh’.” His girlfriend’s eyes bored into his. “Would you care to tell me how we will manage to show a movie to the entire school with just a single tv?”

Harry was very glad that they were in public, and would remain so for several hours, more if he played it right, so Hermione couldn’t hex him. “Ah… I think I’ll write Sirius. Right after breakfast. What kind of equipment do you think we’ll need?”

The look she shot him made it clear that she was not about to forget this, but compiling a list - he was sure she had thought about it already - would let her calm down until they were in private. Hopefully.

*****​

Albus Dumbledore looked over the latest reports from Aberforth. His brother in blood, if not by law. Not anymore. He didn’t dwell on that, not now. Aberforth’s friends had made some headway, identifying a recruiter for Voldemort, Finnegan Greenbrand. The wizard had recruited so many of the local thugs, a number of people apparently thought he was planning to take over parts of Knockturn Alley. Mundungus had told him of rumors to that effect. Albus didn’t think Voldemort was planning that, but he might use the opportunity to sow a bit more chaos to hide his activities from the law, and keep more aurors busy. On the other hand, if some of the regulars in the alley felt threatened, they might fight Tom’s minions, putting a dent into his new recruits. They’d also season the surviving ones, but that would happen anyway with how they had been striking at shops.

More worrying was the report about a murder of a muggleborn in his home. The DMLE thought it was a thief who had stolen from the wrong person, but Mundungus hadn’t heard anything about someone hunting a thief down, and Albus’s friend paid a lot of attention to such rumors, lest he ended up dead himself at the hands of a vengeful victim. The old wizard wondered if the killers had been aware of the real reasons for the murder, or if they too had been told that this was revenge against a thief. The latter would indicate that Tom still didn’t feel secure enough to announce his real agenda to his new recruits.

The Headmaster shook his head. He couldn’t tell what was true, not yet. Not without more information. And there was that foolish law proposal Arthur had heard of. Nothing official yet, fortunately. He’d have to squash that proposal before it became public knowledge, or it would anger a lot of magical beings, and drive some of them into the waiting arms of Voldemort.

At least there was good news as well. Miss Granger, who was also - justified, to a degree - unhappy with the way Wizarding Britain worked, had been quite uncomfortable with donating her blood so he could set the wards. She had done it anyway, of course, as he had known the determined young witch would do. But he had seen no signs of her being familiar with the act, or used to it. That was a good thing. Many practitioners of the Dark Arts started with self-sacrificing rituals, getting used to hurt themselves for power, before starting to sacrificing others. Muggleborns seldom went down that particular path, but Miss Granger certainly was talented and driven enough to delve into the Dark Arts, and she hadn’t been raised in the magical World, and would not be aware of the true danger, of the allure of such magics. She wouldn’t be the first witch or wizard to think she could master what had led so many others to their doom. Albus knew that only too well.

And her Patron, Harry, was certainly not well-suited to teach her the dangers of that magic, having been raised in ignorance of such limits himself. Not for the first time, Albus wished Lily had chosen someone else to raise her son than her sister. Someone magical. Sirius, having been raised by and then having rebelled against his family, might have taught Harry and Miss Granger since his exoneration. Might. Albus would have to talk to Remus, to subtly raise his concerns about the Dark Arts, to make certain Miss Granger and Harry himself knew what spells and arts to stay away from.

Harry, Miss Granger and Mister Weasley were progressing well with their lessons in Occlumency, which was a mixed blessing. It meant the secret of Harry’s link to Voldemort, and the information gained through it, would be safe, and Harry would be protected from getting influenced by it, but at the same time, it would be hard to tell if the young couple was about to tread on paths one should avoid. It also raised the question whether or not Albus should tell Harry of the prophecy that had shaped his life so cruelly. Until now Albus had the excuse of not being able to risk that secret, but with Harry’s mind protected against intrusions, that was no longer valid. Did he have the right to keep this from the young man? Harry had already been forced to grow up more than anyone of his peers, save Miss Granger. Shouldn’t he be allowed to enjoy his last years at Hogwarts as carefree as possible? Ignorance was not always bliss.

At least the Movie Night had been an unqualified success, from what he had heard. The children were impressed and enamored of the movie. To see some of the best things muggle culture had to offer would do a lot to counter Tom’s propaganda. It wasn’t that much, but it was something.

*****​

Pansy Parkinson felt torn between scorn and envy. Mostly envy though. Envy for the coup Potter had managed to land with his ‘Movie Night’, which was the topic every student was talking about, and almost every student wanted to attend next time, which had pushed Potter’s popularity at Hogwarts to new heights. Envy for those who had been at the first ‘Movie Night’ - judging by the snippets of information Pansy had overheard from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, it had been a truly impressive experience. And envy for Susan Bones, who had managed to get quite close to Potter and his mudblood. If the gossip was correct she had even arranged for a ménage à trois already. And of course Pansy felt quite the envy for those students who would be attending the next ‘Movie Night’, since it didn’t seem as if she would be able to. Not without alienating her own house.

And that was where the scorn she was feeling came from. Most of the Slytherins were outdoing each other in sneering at ‘muggle imitations of wizard pictures’ or at those students ’with such unrefined tastes as to enjoy such things’ - which, she expected, would cover the other three quarters of the school. And that haughty attitude meant that any Slytherin who was actually curious about those ‘movies’, like herself, couldn’t attend the next event without becoming a pariah in their own house. If it had just been Draco and his usual hanger-ons scorning this Pansy would have considered attending just to get a pretext to dump him earlier than planned, but as it was, she’d commit social suicide.

And yet… she was a Slytherin. There had to be a way to watch a movie with the blessing of her house. She had played Draco like a fiddle for years, after all, and if he was convinced, the rest of the house would fall in line - many of them had to be curious themselves, wanted to pursue Potter, or both. She just had to think of a way to sell it. By the time dessert appeared on the table - flaming cauldron cakes, honey brooms, and animated chocolate variations - she had found it.

Grabbing one of the honey brooms slowly flying around the table, she casually remarked to her nominal boyfriend: “I still can’t believe no one noticed that the so-called ‘muggle movie’ has to be magic.”

Draco interrupted his staring balefully at his nemesis - who didn’t even notice, as far as Pansy could tell - and turned his attention to her. “What do you mean?”

Pansy bit the tip of the broom handle off, then let the honey drip onto her tongue. “Mh. I mean, muggle things do not work at Hogwarts. Everyone knows that. Granger claims she found a way to make it work, but that has to be a lie.”

Draco was nodding. “Yes. She’s but a mudblood.”

“So, I assume once Ravenclaws who are not loony or friends of Potter see the movies, they’ll easily spot the spells used for this deception, and will expose the whole lie.”

Draco was nodding again, looking pensive. Pansy finished the broom handle, and chewed the soft bristles. She could see her so-called boyfriend’s line of thoughts. He’d imagine Potter and the mudblood getting exposed as frauds. There was the smile on his face. And now the frown when he realized that someone else would expose Potter, would be the one to reap the fame.

“One cannot trust the Ravens to spot such underhanded trickery. They are mere academics, after all. No, to expose this sham one has to be cunning, like a Slytherin.” Draco claimed, gazing at the Ravenclaw table.

“No Slytherins will lower themselves to watch Potter’s latest folly.” Pansy repeated Draco’s earlier words.

“I will do it. Potter will not fool me.” Draco declared, once again sneering at the Gryffindor table.

Pansy smiled adoringly at the fool. As the dutiful girlfriend, she’d of course attend with him. And if she was not mistaken, so would quite the number of other Slytherins. Greengrass among the first - the stupid witch would likely do anything to get close to Potter, not realizing that the path to Potter’s bed led through his mudblood. And Granger wouldn’t look kindly on Slytherins who had looked down on her for years.

Unless, of course, they were victims of Draco. Pansy smiled. If she pulled off the dumping of Draco correctly, Granger would see her as a victim, or a blood traitor, or both. Pansy might even pass muster as Potter’s pureblood wife. Not that she wanted to marry Potter, of course. She was not about to give up her chances to become head of her family. But as the Patil sisters had demonstrated, Granger also was the best friend of Weasley. And he was a prize worth catching - pureblood, with a big and close and well-connected family, and quite rich thanks to the compensation for the basilisk corpse the Wizengamot had just granted. And with six siblings and not much of a family fortune, not too likely to even want to become the next head of the Weasley family. Pansy summoned a caldron cake into her hand and stole a glance over at Ron Weasley. She liked what she saw.

*****

“Those are the instructions. Don’t blow yourself up - I’d rather not have to replace another cauldron and brew more potions for the Infirmary. Begin.”

Ron Weasley thought that Potions had become both better and worse after Neville had reported Snape. Better in that Snape had been reined in by Dumbledore. The git’s remarks were back to biting sarcasm dripping with derision, instead of cruel personal attacks like those aimed at Neville. But while he didn’t say anything, his eyes were full of hatred and followed Ron and his friends, especially Harry, more often than not. In addition to that, Snape would scathingly criticize a student as soon as the slightest justification was found - and no one was spared from that. Potions was quickly becoming the single most hated subject in Hogwarts, even among Slytherins, in the weeks following Neville’s - or rather, Hermione’s - report.

As hard as it was to admit, seeing the snakes reduced to tears had quickly lost any novelty. Ron had thought for years he’d love to see the tables turned on the dungeon dwellers, but now that he had gotten his wish, it was not satisfying at all. He might even start to feel sympathy for them, due to that evil git of a teacher! Sympathy for Draco? Ron shuddered, almost messing up the next step for his potion. That would have been bad.

Snape hadn’t seen it, fortunately, he was busy criticizing Parkinson’s mise en place. The snake didn’t look like she’d start crying though, unlike Greengrass earlier. Ron caught a glance of the witch, and quickly looked away. Malfoy’s girlfriend staring at him like that gave him the creeps. Who knew what twisted thoughts went through the mind of a witch who loved Draco? He forced himself to focus on the brewing process again. He didn’t want to receive a detention from Snape, followed by a lecture from Hermione. He had plans for the evening, plans involving his girlfriend. The money for the basilisk had finally been paid out, and Ron had spent a bit of it on a nice necklace in Hogsmeade, which he had then enchanted with Hermione’s help. It wasn’t on par with the robes of his best friend, but would protect Padma from hexes - he knew competition inside Ravenclaw could get nasty. And it’d show Padma that he was no slouch at enchanting either.

Thinking of her reaction to his gift almost made him mess up another step of his potion. This time, Snape noticed.

*****​

Her mind was behind a wall. An impenetrable, indestructible wall. Nothing and no one could penetrate it. Any attack would be absorbed, its energy used to strengthen the wall. Like the Betan plasma shields that defeated the Barrayarans. Her mind was a behind a shield. A force shield. Impenetrable. Adapting to any threat, like Borgs.

Hermione felt sweat appear on her face, but grit her teeth. Her robe’s enchantments would remove it in an instant. Her head had been hurting for minute now, but she ignored the pain. She would protect her mind. Her thoughts. She’d master occlumency.

Standing in front of her with his wand trained on her head was Sirius, visiting from Grimmauld Place to help out with their lessons. “Good, good, Hermione. You’ve been making progress. You don’t broadcast your lewd thoughts as much as you did last week.”

Hermione glared at him. He was trying to make her lose her concentration. He had done so before, in earlier lessons over the summer. She’d not fall for it again. Her mind was protected by an impenetrable shield.

“Oh, wow - that’s kinky. Does Harry know you’d like him to do that to you?”

Her mind was behind a wall, fending off all attacks. Attacks made her shield stronger. She’d not falter under the assault. She’d prevail. Not even Harry’s surprised yelp or Ron’s snickering made her break her own concentration. Nor the pain in her head.

Sirius was sweating too. The older wizard was going all-out, Hermione realized. She could feel his probes growing stronger, hitting her wall, her shield, glancing off, trying to find a weakness - or creating one. She had to absorb them, neutralize them, redirect them.

With a snarl she pushed back, hitting Sirius’s shields. And caught a glimpse of utter despair. Hopelessness, desperation, and so much pain... she recoiled, hearing someone whimper. Then realized it was herself.

Suddenly the pressure was gone, the wand lowered. Sirius was still staring at her though, and she met his gaze for an instant, before looking away.

“Hermione! Are you OK? Do we need to visit Pomfrey?” Harry was at her side. Probably had broken off his own exercise with Remus - Professor Lupin. Hermione closed her eyes, breathing deeply, squeezing his hand.

“I am alright. Just a bit exhausted.” She smiled. “But I withstood him.”

Sirius, who looked as exhausted as she felt, nodded. “That you did. You’ve mastered occlumency.” He smiled, though his eyes still looked concerned. And ashamed.

“There’s always room for improvement,” their DADA teacher cut in, “but you’ve reached a level where you’ll be able to fend off any intruder long enough to notice the attack, and defend yourself.”

“That’s what I said, just without so many words.” Sirius protested.

“As long as Sirius will not be able to discover my lecherous thoughts I am happy.” Hermione quipped, smirking at the reaction that got from Harry. Her Patron was staring at her for a moment, with his mouth open.

Sirius, of course, perked up “Aha! I knew it!” She stuck her tongue out at him in response, then conjured a seat to sit down in. She needed the rest.

Harry’s godfather followed her example and summoned a bottle of water for himself. Muggle brand, Hermione noticed. The wizard had been drinking less alcoholic drinks lately, as far as she could tell. At least in their company. Who knew what he was drinking, and doing, with four veela in his home?

Ron was up against Professor Lupin now, with Harry taking a break as well. Their friend was doing well enough, or so it seemed. Much better than at the start of the term. Harry handed her a can of Diet Coke, sat down next to her and opened a regular one for himself while glaring at his godfather. Sirius didn’t seem impressed, and simply grinned back.

Hermione drank half the can, then leaned into Harry. “I wonder… will you have another vision like the one you had, now that you’ve learned occlumency?” She hoped not; it had almost cost him his life.

“I don’t know. I haven’t had such a vision since that day. And until now, my occlumency has been mostly pants. Maybe it was a fluke.” Harry rubbed his scar. They knew it was the link to Voldemort - the pain it caused him in their first and second years when he had met Voldemort’s shades had shown that clear enough.

“The Headmaster seems to think you will have more visions.” Hermione took his hand, holding it, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Dumbledore’s not infallible, but he’s right far more often than not.” Sirius commented. He didn’t say, but his tone indicated, that he hadn’t forgotten that Dumbledore had been wrong about him. Terribly wrong.

“I just wish I knew what kind of curse created this scar. A Killing Curse, as most assume it was, doesn’t leave a scar. So why would it have caused one? I think it was a backlash of whatever protection your mother had created for you.” Hermione sighed. She hated not knowing something so important.

“I wish I knew. Lily’s notes didn’t survive that night, and she had kept things very close to her chest. I am not certain that even James knew all of what she had been doing.” Sirius’s gaze seemed to get lost in his memories. Hermione suspected that whatever Lily had done had been… questionable. Effective, but probably illegal too. She didn’t voice that thought. Harry revered his mother, and Sirius sounded as if he had had a crush on the witch as well. Hermione liked to think Lily would approve of her, as a fellow true muggleborn, making her way in a pureblood society. And in love with a pureblood.

The young witch placed her hand on her boyfriend’s cheek and pulled his face towards her so she could kiss him tenderly. Sirius made wolf-whistling noises, but she ignored him. Harry was hers. She’d do anything, illegal or not, to keep Harry safe. And she was dead certain that Lily would approve of that.

*****​

Sirius Black was sitting in the kitchen in his home, staring at the cup of tea Kreacher had placed in front of him. He was up earlier than he had expected, especially after the night he had had. His French guests had settled in quite well, in his opinion. The house felt full again. He might even have to visit Remus at Hogwarts to have a bit of peace and quiet. Or get up as early as today. As lovely as his guests were, they could be rather loud, if tempers ran high. But that was to be expected from passionate witches.

And oh, they were passionate. And lovely. Sirius was the luckiest wizard in Britain, he was sure of it. Much luckier than Remus, of course. He sighed, then sipped his tea. His friend was not doing well. He could have milked his tragic history to impress the veela. Or played up his role as a teacher. Girls that age loved handsome teachers, even the overly serious ones like his friend. Laure had been clearly interested, and Eugénie probably as well. Instead Remus had talked about some muggle thing about werewolves and vampires, and moped.

Well, his loss was Sirius’s gain. Sort of. He’d be a terrible host if he let his guests be neglected, after all. And, if he said so himself, he had risen to the occasion, as usual. He truly was the luckiest wizard in Britain. So, why was he not feeling like it?

“Good morning.” A quiet greeting interrupted his thoughts. Valérie d’Aigle had gotten up as well. The veela was clad in a thin blue robe that barely reached her thighs and strained to cover her chest. Rather modest, compared to her cousins’ usual morning attire. It suited her.

“Good morning.” Sirius smiled at her, stood up up and pulled out a chair for his guest. Kreacher had already placed her favorite breakfast on the table. “I hope you slept well.” he added, with a wink.

Valérie blushed, and nodded. Quite fetching, in Sirius’s opinion. “Your cousins are still asleep I take it?”

“Yes. They rarely get up before noon, unless they ‘ave to. Like yourself.” She grinned while grabbing a croissant.

“Even a wizard such as myself needs his rest.” Sirius answered.

“And yet you’ve been up this early. Despite a rather long and exhausting night.” She lifted her cup of coffee - a French vice, as far as Sirius was concerned - and took a sip.

Truth to be told, Sirius had planned to take a nap after breakfast, as Padfoot. He slept better in his other form. A relic from Azkaban. Not that he’d tell the pretty witch that. “Exhausting, but very enjoyable. At least I like to think so.”

“You’re not wrong.” The Veela finished her croissant, then her coffee. Peeling an orange with a quick spell, she waited for Kreacher to refill her cup. “Would you mind me asking a personal question?”

“You can ask anything of me!” Sirius grinned. “But some questions I cannot answer without violating the trust of a friend, or lover.”

“Are you ‘appy?”

“Who would not be happy, surrounded by you and your cousins?” Sirius smiled at his guest, and placed his hand on hers.

“Who indeed.” Valérie smiled at him, but Sirius had the impression she didn’t think he was happy. Her next comment confirmed his hunch. “Is it your nightmares?”

“I don’t know.” Sirius didn’t know why he had said that. Azkaban was the answer everyone accepted. He would have nightmares about that hellhole for the rest of his life.

Valérie didn’t say anything, just held his hand.

“I just feel like there’s something I am missing. And I don’t know what.” Sirius said, after a minute.

The two remained like that for a while, their breakfast forgotten.

*****​

Arthur Weasley smiled after he had finished reading the parchment Percy had brought to his office. “Oh, yes. That’s the same style as in the copy of the proposal we have. Almost the same wording, actually. Where did you find this?”

His son smiled faintly. “It was buried in the archives of the Wizengamot. According to the information I got, this was a proposal that failed in the Wizengamot in 1970, after Greyback’s first public rampage.” He sighed. “I’d have found it quicker, but you told me to be very discreet, so I only searched when I had a legitimate reason to visit the archives.”

“You did well, Percy. We know now that Dolores Umbridge is behind this insane proposal. That will make it easier to bury it before the press gets wind of it.” Arthur smirked. “According to scuttlebutt the woman had an affair with Fudge 10 years ago, and our dear Minister’s wife took offense. Fudge was so eager to disprove the rumors, he moved Umbridge from his own office to Broom Regulatory Control.”

“That’s a dead end job.” Percy whistled. “And she was working closely with him before that?”

“About to become his new Undersecretary, actually, if the grapevine was correct. I heard she was so mad at Fudge and his wife, they had an extra auror team as security for a month.”

“A witch scorned…” Percy trailed off. “Did she actually have an affair with Fudge, or did he destroy her career just to appease his wife?”

“I don’t know. But once he hears that Umbridge is behind this, he’ll see just how dangerous and disruptive the proposal is.” Arthur smiled cynically. Fudge would see reason because he feared his wife more than he craved Malfoy’s gold. Wizarding Britain truly had an outstanding Minister for Magic these days. He dreaded what would happen should another Dark Lord rise instead of the Death Eater remnants trying to cause trouble again. He pushed those dark thoughts away and grinned at his son. “You did well, Percy. I’ll inform the Headmaster, and then let’s celebrate with a pint or two. My treat.”

*****

Lord Voldemort studied the small, brown house at the corner of the road. For the residence of Ebenezer Renquirt, the Ministry’s foremost expert on dementors, it looked rather drab. Appearances were deceiving, though - with expansion charms, a mansion’s worth of rooms could be hidden behind the facade of a tiny hut, after all. His own safe house had been enhanced like that by now.

The Dark Lord was more focused on finding out where the guards were hiding than architecture though. A wizard that was the key to Azkaban’s feared guards was certain to have better security than just wards, even if they were decently strong. He didn’t spot anyone suspicious though, and he had not detected any disillusionment spells or invisibility cloaks in the area. That meant they were likely inside. Macnair would be able to tell him, after his visit. The Executioner would be asking for more information about dementors, in his professional capacity. As a pretext, of course - but any obscure information about the weaknesses and capabilities of dementors could be very useful, should negotiations with the demons fail. Voldemort didn’t expect that to be the case, but it was better to be prepared for that outcome..

He passed the house and ducked into a side alley before apparating away, despite being disillusioned himself. It wouldn’t do to become careless now. Back in his safe house he sat down in his most comfortable chair. He knew he had to be cautious, even with his biggest enemy ignorant of his return, he knew he had to be patient, to avoid making mistakes that could doom his plans. He knew that once he broke his most faithful followers out of Azkaban, Dumbledore would be aware of his return.

And yet he wished he could right now free his most loyal Death Eaters, those who stood in defiance to the Ministry to the end, instead of leaving them imprisoned, suffering at the hands of inhuman creatures. If not for his mark they would have been broken, lost their minds and died there already. Even Bella, the strongest witch he knew.

Bella… how she had suffered, wasting away in a damp, cold cell, seeing her body, her beauty, decay, dying a bit more each day. And to think Wizarding Britain condemned him for his actions during the war!

He summoned a dark grimoire he had collected in his earlier travels. Once he had freed his followers, they’d need a lot of help to recover from their ordeal. Fortunately, this little gem contained rituals that would restore their strength, their health, and, in Bella’s case, their youth. If possible he’d take the wizards and witches guarding the prisoners with him - having them be sacrificed in those rituals would be a fitting punishment for their crimes.

*****​

“Remus looks like he’s about to bite someone.”

Hermione Granger mumbled “Professor Lupin” out of reflex in response to Harry’s remark, even before she looked up at the Staff table in the Great Hall. Her boyfriend had been correct - the teacher looked so angry, the teachers sitting next to him seemed to hurry up their breakfast to get away without giving offense. And it wasn’t even close to the full moon yet.

“What’s up with him? Is he really that jealous of Viktor?” Ron’s tone made it clear that he didn’t believe in the notion that Professor Lupin was in love with Nymphadora. Hermione agreed with her friend - it seemed far-fetched. The teacher was far older than the young auror, and Sirius, who had proclaimed this, was not the most reliable source, with his love of pranks. In her opinion the reason for the wizard’s ire was quite clear. As was the target.

“Look at the front page of the ‘Daily Prophet’. A Ministry employee was fired for trying to rile up all magical beings in an attempt to cause trouble for the Minister after he had refused her advances.” Harry pointed at the article in question, which showed a witch leaving the Ministry, escorted by two aurors.

Ron craned his neck. “Doesn’t look that bad. Better than his wife I’d say.” When Hermione glared at him he shrugged. “What? I am just saying, if he refused her, then it was because he knew she was not right in the head. Trying to cause a riot for getting scorned? That’s crazy!”

“Judging by how angry Remus looks, riots might still happen.” Harry commented. “He’s not exactly a hothead, and if he’s that furious…”

“Do you think that if Snape insults him now, Remus will hex him into a puddle?” Ron sounded hopeful, though the Potion Master was absent from the meal, as was often the case this year.

Hermione shook her head and renewed the privacy spell on their little corner. “I doubt it. And only werewolves who were outed would be likely to expose themselves by protesting or rioting.”

“There’s hags, vampires and goblins though. Merlin! If the Goblins revolt…” Ron read the article. “She was fired and fined. Maybe that’ll be enough to placate the money-grubbing little fiends.”

Hermione glared at him again. He was correct in that goblins openly admitted to crave gold, but there were less insulting ways to state that. “It’s quite unlikely that this will lead to a rebellion. All the rebellions in the past started after tensions had been high for quite some time, and with more important issues at stake.”

“Bill probably will have to dodge a few fireballs anyway. Fleur’s got a temper, and she already hated that she was not considered a pureblood in Britain.” Ron summoned a floating sausage and cut it into small pieces with a flick of his wand before it had reached his plate. “Do you think Sirius is in danger? He’s got four veela in the house.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think they’d harm him. They seem quite fond of him.”

“Unless of course some of them think he is leading them on.” Hermione added.

“Sirius wouldn’t do that!” Harry defended his godfather.

“They’ve been ‘visiting’ for weeks now, and do not seem to plan on returning to France anytime soon.” Hermione noted.

Ron nodded. “Yeah. It looks pretty serious.”

Hermione and Harry groaned at the pun, intentional or not, Ron just had made. They were far, far too familiar with it.

“As long as he’s happy it’s alright.” Harry stated. “He deserves to be happy.”

Hermione swallowed what she had been about to say about that particular arrangement. She changed the topic instead. “I’ve gotten the generator Sirius sent set up. Once we finish the seating arrangements, we are good to go with the next Movie Night.” She glared slightly at Harry. “After Harry invited the whole school, we’ll have to creatively use expansion charms to make sure everyone has a seat close enough to the screen.” Figuring a way to achieve that had gotten her extra-credit in charms. Flitwick had been very impressed.

“Only a monster could have refused the eyes of those kids.” Harry muttered in response to her look. “Besides, you’d love the idea to show the whole school what muggles can do, if we hadn’t been tricked into it by your dorm mates.”

Hermione huffed. “Them tricking you caused a lot of work for me.”

“You like that sort of work.” Harry was smiling at her, and patting her knee. Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. She might like the challenge, but to have been outplayed by the gossip twins still smarted.

*****​

Kenneth Fenbrick studied the corpse in front of him carefully. The witch, Vivian Jenkins, had been tortured to death. Violated in her own home. That was the third case in two months. He ran his wand over the body, trying to catalogue the different curses used. More than two dozen different ones. Most of them more exotic and more brutal than the ones used on Brian Smith, the first victim of what the brass deemed a Knockturn Alley power struggle between thieves.

Kenneth himself wasn’t quite convinced that was the case. Sure, they had found stolen goods hidden in all three flats, but none of the victims had had prior convictions nor known ties to other criminals. It was not impossible that they had been very skilled thieves, evading the DMLE’s attention until a competitor caught up with them, but something felt off there. He just couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong with the case.

Bertha Limmington, his partner, was currently showing a rookie auror the ropes of analyzing a crime scene. The rookie was cute witch, he noticed, and she had not lost her breakfast upon seeing the corpse. Tougher than most new kids.

He stood up and walked over to them, smiling widely. “Hi there. I am Kenneth Fenbrick, Bertha’s partner.”

“Nymphadora Black-Tonks.”

Kenneth recognized the name. No wonder she was not shaken up by the sight of a corpse, not after fighting in a small war in Bulgaria and seeing dozens of corpses. Probably killed a number herself. Almost a veteran. Almost but not quite. Aurors were more than hit-wizards. The auror smiled and gestured to the corpse. “Check it out, then give us your impression.”

The rookie shot him a glance that showed she knew what he was doing, but she went and knelt down next to the body, and ran her wand over it. After a few minutes, she got up again. Kenneth had expected her to look at least a bit paler but she looked exactly the same as before.

“At least six different wands were used, and two dozen different curses, none of them fatal. Died due to internal bleeding and shock from having much of her skin burned off.” Her voice wavered a bit - so she wasn’t quite as numbed to such sights than the old guard who had lived through the last war. Good pokerface though.

Bertha took it from there and corrected the witch on a number of points, but Kenneth flashed her a smile. “Good work for your first time. Most vomit over the body.” The answering smile was grateful, but not that grateful as to suggest there was a chance to get to know each other better.

Not a big deal - there were plenty of witches who were fond of Kenneth. Some even might know a bit more about what was going on in the Alleys these days.

*****​

Draco Malfoy carefully kept his expression from showing anything but boredom, even though he was outraged at seeing barbaric muggle contraptions in Hogwarts and eager to expose Potter as a fraud. But he was a Malfoy, a born politician, and Malfoys did not announce their plans before their curses had hit their enemy in the back.

This so-called ‘Movie-Night’ was held in an old classroom, not in the Great Hall, as Draco had feared when it had been announced. To defile the Great Hall like that… As they got closer he noticed that Weasley served as a door guard - a fitting task for the lout. The redheaded blood traitor was glaring at Draco as soon as he spotted them, and even drew his wand. As if a Malfoy would lower himself to brawl like a mudblood in the hallways. As disgusting as it was, this was a social occasion, and Draco knew his manners.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Weasley stared at him, and at the other Slytherins behind Draco.

“We’re here to ‘watch a movie’, isn’t it obvious?” Draco raised his eyebrow in mock-surprise. Pansy nodded, a bit too eagerly and enthusiastic, in Draco’s opinion, but he couldn’t chide her in public.

“Make any trouble, and you’ll get thrown out. We won’t let you ruin the event for everyone.” With that arrogant pronouncement, the blood traitor let them pass. Draco didn’t like turning his back to any Weasley - their tempers were stronger than their manners, no self-control to speak of - but Vincent and Gregory would cover his back soon enough.

The interior of the classroom had been expanded with charms - a lot. Potter must have asked Dumbledore himself to help him fit so many students into the room. One side of the room had not been expanded though, so everyone ended up sitting quite close to the linen sheet Potter’s mudblood had used to cover that wall. He didn’t detect any spells on it so far, but they’d do that once the lights dimmed, so their tricks were harder to spot. He knew Potter’s father and godfather had been infamous for their pranks and other attacks against Draco’s house, and had seldom been caught, so Potter would be hard to catch as well. Blood would tell, after all.

Snacks and drinks started to float by the seats, and Draco grabbed a couple for himself, and for Pansy. He skipped the weird white things, but Pansy tried some of that ‘popcorn’. His girlfriend really was losing her touch lately, to try such questionable food in public. He’d have to make sure no one would spread rumors about her having a fondness for muggle filth after that - it would damage his own reputation.

The former classroom was filling up quickly. Most of the students seemed to be present, or so Draco guessed. Among them were a surprisingly large number from his own house, his own year even. Greengrass was no surprise, everyone knew she hoped to marry Potter, and where she went, her friends would follow. But the others? Draco would have to find out why exactly some of them were here. Nott and Zabini, for example. Would either of them try to upstage Draco? They’d fail, of course, but they could hinder his own plans.

Potter standing up in front of the sheet - the ‘screen’, as he called it - interrupted Draco’s thoughts. His rival was explaining what an ‘animated movie’ was - a crude copy of wizarding pictures, as Draco had known already - and how long it would take, and that the movie was fictional. Draco didn’t really pay that much attention to the Gryffindor, he was trying to spot the magic Potter would be using. Then the lights dimmed, and the movie started.

90 minutes later, Draco realized he had been so distracted by this… display… that he had failed to note just what magical trickery was behind it. But the story of a lion cub reclaiming the birthright that had been stolen from him had just been too enthralling. If he didn’t know better, and wasn’t wearing his enchanted robes, he’d assume he had been the victim of a spell. It must have been a kind of magic though - everyone knew muggle technology didn’t work at Hogwarts, and no one could do something like this without magic.

“Wasn’t that great, Draco?” Pansy gushed. A bit earlier she had even cried. Cried over a muggle animal picture. Draco was taken aback, and even more so when he realized that even Vincent and Gregory had been affected in a similar way.

“I suppose it was not quite as awful as I had feared.” Draco stated. “but I’ll have to study the next ‘movie’ more carefully, to find out how they are doing this.”

*****​

“You wanted to talk to us, Headmaster?” Harry asked, after he, Hermione and Ron had sat down in Dumbledore’s office.

“Yes, I did, Harry.” Dumbledore sounded and looked quite serious - concerned. Harry exchanged a brief look with Hermione.

“Were there complaints about the Movie Night? We’ve shown ‘The Lion King’ again so no one would feel left out, and it’s a good movie, so watching it twice shouldn’t have been a problem for those who had already seen it.”

“Its not about that, rest assured. It was a wonderful movie, by the way. I enjoyed it very much.” Dumbledore smiled at the three teenagers. Harry didn’t remember seeing the Headmaster among the spectators, but it would have been easy for him to slip inside undetected.

“Thank you, Sir. We hope “Star Wars” will have an equally good reception. He ignored the “Who’s this ‘we’ you mean?” whisper from Hermione and smiled at the old wizard.

Dumbledore nodded, but sighed again. “I’ve called you here for something else though. Something of the utmost importance - and secrecy. It’s only the fact that you have learned occlumency that allows me to divulge this secret to you without risking far too much.”

“Sir, if it is so important, wouldn’t it be better if you kept it to yourself?” Ron spoke earnestly.

Hermione, as expected, looked like she was about to disagree with Ron’s opinion. Vehemently. Fortunately, Harry’s girlfriend wouldn’t make a scene in front of Dumbledore. Or not too much of a scene. Before she could voice her thoughts though Dumbledore answered Ron.

“It might be safer, and easier for everyone here if you were left in ignorance, but it wouldn’t be right.” Dumbledore stated, with conviction evident in his tone. “I am talking about the real reason for Voldemort’s attack on you and your family, Harry.”

Hermione and Ron gasped, and Harry held his breath. This was the first time he heard of this. All he had known so far was that Voldemort had attacked his parents because they had been fighting him, and very effectively.

“Before you were born, Harry, a prophecy was made, foretelling that a boy would be born with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. A spy overheard part of the prophecy and informed Voldemort. The Dark Lord decided to kill the two boys the prophecy fit - you and Neville Longbottom. That was why your parents went into hiding under the Fidelius, and why Voldemort attacked them and you, after Pettigrew had betrayed them.”

Neither Harry nor his friends were saying anything. All three of them were listening, almost frozen in their seats. Hermione had gripped Harry’s hand and was squeezing it in a silent attempt to support him. It didn’t help that much.

“I know it must be a shock to you, and I had considered not telling you, but with Voldemort having returned, I do not think you would be happy if you were left in ignorance.” Dumbledore slowly stood and turned to the door leading to his quarters. “I’ve prepared a memory in my pensieve, showing the full prophecy.”

*****​

Lord Voldemort, in his disguise as Finnegan Greenbrand, was not quite as familiar with the disreputable bar he was currently in as most of its regulars. However thanks to frequent visits he knew the faces of those regulars themselves quite well, and when they started to disappear and the scantily-clad waitresses and waiters started to take breaks en masse, he knew something was up. It didn’t take a genius such as him much to see the differences between those wands for hire who were carousing, and those who just faked it. He didn’t know if they were here for him or for someone else, but he would have to assume he was the target.

Dropping a few sickles on the table, he got up as well and started for the door. He hadn’t even reached it before four wizards and a witch at another table pulled out money themselves. Amateurs. That they didn’t start cursing in the bar itself, where apparition was not possible due to the wards, told him there was an ambush ahead. For an instant he considered simply continuing outside, and lay waste to whoever dared to waylay him. It had been too long since he had unleashed his might in battle, and annihilated his enemies. For too long had he been reduced to skulking around in shadows.

But he controlled himself. His vengeance would come, in due time. If he gave this bunch of thugs who dared attacking him the death they deserved, he’d have to eliminate all witnesses if he wanted to keep Greenbrand from becoming known as a very powerful wizard - and such an act would attract a lot of attention from the DMLE. So instead of opening the door, he sealed it and the windows with a flick of his wand, then turned around, his cruel smile briefly freezing the five cowards behind him. It was enough to let him turn to the table where a group of wizards he had previously hired and put on retainer were drinking. Their leader, a young man from an impoverished pureblood family, met his eyes and Voldemort noticed he had his wand out already. Promising indeed.

Pointing at the five ambushers, now standing in the middle of the room, and just realizing they had been caught, he stated “Double the standard rate, alive.”

The fight that followed didn’t take longer than a minute, not with Voldemort destroying the protections on the assailants’ robes with a few silent spells while appearing to simply take cover.
Standing up and making a slight show of dusting himself off, he smiled, dropping gold on the table. “There’s bound to be a few more ruffians outside, gentlemen, likely ready to storm inside. I do not need those alive, just taught a lesson.”

Drunk on their success, the thugs rushed to the door almost faster than he could cancel his sealing spell. The first to rush out was the first to go down, but the smarter wands in the pub had used his unwitting sacrifice to spot the positions of the attackers and started to curse them from the windows. Voldemort used the time to tear down the anti-portkey wards on the place - the owner would blame the attackers - and then drop a portkey on the captives.

They disappeared at once and he noticed an older witch standing up from where she had taken cover behind the bar during the battle. Noticed, and recognized her. Not many witches wore robes that were designed to show such scars. It had to be Lucrecia Browtuckle, a veteran from the Grindelwald War. He met her eyes, then looked at the door, where a few wizards were starting to get ready for a sally. The witch laughed at his silent offer. “Lad, I do not take part in the brawls of boys and girls whose parents were not even born when I was earning my first scars in war.” She filled a glass with the bar’s finest whiskey and toasted him with a smirk before tossing the liquor back.

Voldemort bowed in response. Both he and Greenbrand could respect that.


Chapter 19: Yuletide

 

Chapter 19: Yuletide

After watching Trelawney sprout the Prophecy, Harry Potter pulled his head out of the pensieve and shook his head. He felt like jumping up and pacing. Or hitting something. Hermione ran her hand over his back in circles, and leaned into his side. It helped, a bit, and he took a deep breath.

“So that’s how she sounds when she makes a prophecy.” Hermione mused.

Dumbledore nodded at Harry’s girlfriend. “Yes. I gather she is quite different when she teaches divination.”

“She told us that divination gave vague results, hunches and hints, not predictions of the future.” Hermione looked at the Headmaster, not quite stating her question outright. She had abandoned the course, Harry knew, the less than precise nature of the discipline not agreeing with her nature, but she remembered the lessons well, as one could expect her to.

“She made a prophecy, which is while somewhat similar, not part of divination. A prophecy is always true, although it may be somewhat ambiguous.” Dumbledore explained.

“Somewhat. All it states is that Harry has the power to kill Voldemort.” Hermione sounded calm, but Harry knew she was tense, agitated even, under that facade.

“And that he and Voldemort are destined to fight.”

“Which was a given after Harry defeated him as a baby. No Dark Lord can let such a defeat stand.” Hermione’s arm around Harry’s waist tightened, possessively. It felt good.

“Indeed, Miss Granger. As soon as Voldemort decided to attack the Potters, the prophecy had become true, in a certain way. If James and Lily had defeated Voldemort, they would have qualified as the power the Dark Lord knew not. If Harry had died it would have been impossible to prove or disprove that he could have defeated Voldemort. And now, with both alive, and Harry being famous as Voldemort’s vanquisher, a new confrontation, direct or not, is all but inevitable.” Dumbledore led them back to his office, past the still slightly disconcerting view of his magical quarters with a seemingly endless display of floating books and knick-knacks - or artifacts. “One might say he already started it, with his attacks during the tournament.”

Harry had felt Hermione twitch and pull him even closer to her when Dumbledore had mentioned his possible death at the hands of Voldemort, just as he knew he had tensed when his parents’ deaths had come up. He pulled the young witch into his lap when he sat down in front of the Headmaster’s desk again. He still didn’t know how he felt, how he should react to this revelation. To be fated to face the Dark Lord…

“Why would the prophecy still matter, if Voldemort will attack Harry anyway to avenge his first defeat?”

“He doesn’t know the full prophecy. As long as he remains ignorant of the second part, he will wonder and worry about it.” Dumbledore summoned a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk, then frowned at Fawkes, who seemed to act particularly innocent.

“So, it’s merely bait, and a tool in psychological and information warfare then?” Hermione asked, in a way that told Harry she really wanted Dumbledore to say yes. He wanted the same - he could deal with Voldemort wanting to kill him. But to be the subject of a prophecy, a puppet of fate? That was something truly disturbing.

“I wish I could say yes, Miss Granger, but prophecies are more than that. Often not much more - but the Department of Mysteries collects them all, in the aptly named ‘Hall of Prophecies’, where they are waiting to be revealed to those they concern and address.”

Harry closed his eyes. He was his own man, not a tool of whatever power was responsible for this prophecy. It was just a vague self-fulfilling proclamation anyway. He would decide his fate himself.

He opened his eyes. Hermione and Dumbledore hadn’t said anything else, waiting for him to finally say something, react in any way, he realized. Neither seemed about to ask how he felt though, not here in any case. Hermione would of course, once it was just the two of them. “If he should not hear about the prophecy, wouldn’t it be best to destroy the recordings of it?”

“I wish it was possible, Harry. The extracted memory of it is easily vanished - and retrieved from my mind, should we need it. But the recording in the Hall of Prophecies is protected. The hall was built with the goal to prevent people from suppressing a prophecy in an attempt to manipulate events.” Dumbledore spread his hands. “Of course, by controlling who has access to the hall, one controls who knows of a prophecy. A fact certainly taken into due consideration when the Hall was built.”

“Would it really be impossible to destroy the recording there?” Harry asked, his scepticism obvious to everyone.

“Not impossible, but the effort needed would be daunting. It would be more advisable to set a trap for anyone going after the recording there. Only those mentioned in the prophecy can access it, so Voldemort would have to visit the department in person.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Dumbledore held up one hand to stop her. “The Department of Mysteries is well protected against the means he can use to disguise himself. Even better than Gringotts, Miss Granger.”

Harry’s retainer wasn’t about to concede the point so easily though. “He found ways around the security of the tournament too.”

“Indeed, he did. But we’ve learned our lessons as well, and I will take more strident measures to improve the security of the Hall of Prophecies.”

“Will you be working with the Unspeakables?” Hermione couldn’t keep the fascination from her question. Harry knew she had been intrigued by the rumors of what exactly that Department did, and what its halls contained. It was no surprise, given her great love of knowledge.

“Of course.” From the small smile playing over the Headmaster’s face, he too knew of Hermione’s desires.

The young witch merely nodded, not asking further. Harry could feel her squirming though, and tense up - the thought of so much knowledge hidden away in an attempt to control it, if one trusted the rumors, made her mad.

“Thank you for trusting us with this, Headmaster. I will need some time to come to terms with what you have revealed.” Harry stated, gently pushing Hermione off his lap. The witch slid off at once, no doubt as eager as he was to discuss the topic in private.

“Of course, Harry. I am sorry to heap this burden on you, but I felt you deserved to know.”

“You are right, Headmaster.” Harry bowed slightly, then left the office with Hermione in tow.

*****​

As soon as the two had reached ‘their room’, Hermione sealed the door and cast a series of privacy spells while Harry summoned two cans of cola. The young witch was more shaken by the revelation of the Prophecy than she had let on, or hoped she had let on. To think that there might be something like fate, destiny, or even worse, a timeline that could not be changed… the implications were horrifying. She grabbed her can as it floated over, and sat down next to Harry.

“How do you feel about this?” Harry asked right before she could ask him and opened his own can.

“I don’t know,” she answered, truthfully. “I can’t really imagine that you can predict the future like this. Or rather, I do not want to imagine that.”

Harry didn’t look surprised by her words. “I know. It’s one thing to fight the fucker, it’s another to be fated to.”

“Yes. If there is such a thing as destiny, or a timeline set in stone, what is with free will?” Why bother to struggle, to learn, if you’re just following the rails laid down by time? Hermione didn’t want to, but couldn’t help ask herself that.

“What would the Doctor say?” Harry asked. He looked calm, but after four years with him, hermione could spot the signs betraying his emotions.

“The pattern can be changed.” It was just a tv series, although a good one.

“That’s not what the Greeks thought about prophecies.” It figured that he remembered that part.

“Most of their prophecies were very vague. Like ours.” She looked at him, daring him to claim this was not their, but his burden to bear. He didn’t.

“I’d say ‘neither can live while the other survives’ is not that vague.” Harry finished his can and crumpled it, then threw it up in the air. He had drawn his wand and vanished it before it reached the ground.

“It’s rather vague, open to many interpretations. What does ‘living’ and ‘surviving’ mean in this context?” Hermione shrugged. “As the Headmaster said, it could already have been fulfilled. And he said that prophecies are often not much more than words given context by others.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“It’s what he meant.” Hermione finished her own drink. She would pay for it later, with troubles falling asleep, but then - after today’s events, she’d have trouble sleeping anyway. At least they’d have a patrol, which would tire her out a bit.

“I think he hinted at it being a bit more than just a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Harry wasn’t giving up. Just like herself, Hermione knew, he couldn’t let go of a problem and accept the comforting semi-truth, or straight lie.

“Maybe a prophecy is just a form of divination, the result of some insight into the subjects of the prophecy. Trelawney subconsciously realized that Voldemort would attack any such threat, and therefore it would be coming true.” She was reaching, Hermione knew, but she wanted an explanation that would not tear at her worldview of humans being self-determined.

“That means someone is able to see into our minds, no matter our occlumency.”

“Someone, or something.” Magic, Hermione thought, but didn’t say it.

“I could live with Magic being able to read minds and souls, and forming prophecies from such insight.” Harry reached out to her, and Hermione slid into his lap, leaning against him. His idea didn’t feel right, or not completely correct, but maybe this time, she and Harry would settle for the comforting half-truth or hypothesis.

After a while spent simply being there for each other, Harry’s watch started ringing softly. “It’s time for the patrol,” he stated with a wry smile.

Hermione sighed, but got up. While her robe straightened itself, she ran a cleaning spell over the room, watching as dust was gathered in a small ball, which she then vanished.

“Parvati asked in the latest prefect meeting if ‘non-prefects’ are allowed to come along on patrols.” Harry said a bit too casually.

Hermione grinned. If the stupid witch thought she could spend hours alone with Harry, trying her charms-enhanced wiles on him, just because she was a prefect, then she had to think again. “I checked the rules. It’s all covered.”

“That’s what I said, and what the head boy and girl agreed with.” Harry started towards the door.

“I bet she sulked for the entire meeting.” Hermione looked around a last time, to make sure her spell had not missed anything, then joined him.

“You know her. Better than I do.” Harry let her open the door as her Patron.

“Yes.” And Hermione’s presence, walking a step behind the two, behind Parvati, on those patrols would make sure that would not change. Just like she liked it.

*****​

Voldemort withdrew his mental probes and let the wizard he had been holding up with a levitation spell drop to the ground. A silencing spell cut off the man’s whimpering. The Dark Lord had wrecked his captive’s mind, as he had done with the minds of the others who had tried to ambush him, but he had gained the information he had sought. The man behind this attack was not Dumbledore, but Darrin Stanson, a low-life delusional enough to think he was the ruler of Knockturn Alley.

Voldemort looked at the drooling, trembling remains of his captives, all laid out on the floor in the cellar of his safehouse. If those were the best Stanson could muster, then he was not even an annoyance, but a mere nuisance. And yet such a slight had to be answered. No one could attack the Dark Lord and get away with it!

He drew his wand and ended the lives of his captives with five quick killing curses, then vanished the corpses before returning to his study. Dealing with Stanson would be another fine test for his hopefuls, and would cement the DMLE’s impression that this was just a struggle between criminals. With a bit of planning it would appear that at least a few of Stanson’s men escaped, which would make it possible to keep the gang war cover up a bit longer. And it would serve to weed out the kind of weak fools like the ones he had just disposed of from his own forces. Or at least identify them, so he’d not trust them with anything important.

If only he had more of the experienced mercenaries at his disposal. Like Lucrecia Browtuckle. But witches and wizards like her were cunning, and wouldn’t join at the rates Greenbrand could offer, at least not the rates he could offer without tipping people off that he was more than a criminal with some ambitions. But once the war was about to begin in earnest… he’d have to look Browtuckle, and others like her, up. If they would not hire on with him, then he’d have to make sure they’d not join his enemies.

But that was a matter for another day. He had a more pressing, more important task to achieve. Macnair would have met Renquirt. The executioner had been tasked with finding found out all of the protections of the home of the Ministry expert on dementors.

Smiling cruelly, the Dark Lord settled down to wait for Macnair to contact him. He’d not tolerate failure.

*****​

“My friend identified the wizard who has been hiring wands as Finnegan Greenbrand. He apparently tries to downplay his skills, but he was observed sealing a tavern off while casting silently. He’s a powerful wizard.”

Meeting Aberforth in Albus’s own office was less aggravating than in the Hog’s Head, the Headmaster thought. Less costly too. It was not less painful though. With some people, Albus would have loved if they stuck to the topic of a meeting. With his brother, the complete absence of any small talk hurt. “Thank you. Do you know who tried to kill him?”

“Those fools were hired by Darrin Stanson, the owner of the ‘Dancing Mermaid’. A brothel.”

Albus summoned a lemon drop for himself. There were fewer left than there should be. He knew Aberforth would not take anything from him, so Fawkes must had gotten around the spells on his bowl again. Sometimes the phoenix’s ability to travel through all sorts of wards and spells was not as much of a boon as it seemed to. “Was Greenbrand moving against Stanson?”

Aberforth shook his head. “Not to my friends’ knowledge. But he’ll be paying him back for the attack. He’s that kind of wizard.”

“Like…”

“Yes.”

He could test that, Albus knew. If it was not Tom, he’d be easy to handle. And if it was, he might still get surprised. On the other hand, the Dark Lord would be expecting another attack, and if Dumbledore was involved, Tom would know he was compromised. And if Dumbledore was not involved, it would just lead to a lot of good wizards and witches dying.

Aberforth interrupted his thoughts. “Will you set Stanson and Greenbrand up so they decimate each other’s forces?” His casual tone hid the accusation Albus knew was levelled against him well.

The Headmaster didn’t meet his brother’s eyes. “I would suggest your friends should not get involved in that particular conflict.” With a bit of help, the conflict could bleed both Voldemort’s forces and the kind of thugs that made Knockturn Alley such a desolate place to live in.

His brother scoffed. “You never change, do you?”

“Stubbornness runs in the family.” Albus responded with a mild voice.

The old wizard flinched. Barely, but he did. “Anything else my friends should not get involved with?”

“Dolores Umbridge.”

“No chance of that. My friends do not rub shoulders with that kind of scum. They have standards.”

Albus didn’t know if Aberforth meant the Ministry, or the kind of bigots Umbridge was now seeking out. He didn’t ask, just nodded as his brother stood up. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for those who will suffer if another of your schemes goes wrong.”

With that parting shot, the old innkeeper threw the floo powder into the fire, mumbled “Hog’s Head”, and left.

Albus stared at the fire until it returned to its natural color. He felt more alone than ever, despite Fawkes rubbing his head against the Headmaster’s cheek and trilling softly in his ear.

*****​

Nymphadora Black-Tonks, wearing the face and body of a courtesan who was currently enjoying a very spontaneous vacation in the Mediterranean with one of her gentlemen, passed through the lounge of ‘The Nightingale’. The club near Diagon Alley catered to the rich and prided itself on its discretion. Even a pariah like Dolores Umbridge would not be refused entry there - and according to rumors, she had been seen there. Rumors, of course, that came from a source very unwilling to risk their membership in said club to confirm them, so it had fallen to the young metamorphmagus to investigate.

Nymphadora had expected those kind of assignments when she applied as an auror. The DMLE was not in the habit to waste someone with her talents on assignments anyone with a wand could do. But the political aspects of her task - she had been made to understand that she was to find a reason to arrest the witch so the magical beings her proposal had riled up could be placated - didn’t sit well with her. Even though Umbridge really deserved it, for what she had caused.

Not that Nymphadora thought Umbridge would actually be found in the club. The former Ministry employee was a shrewd and connected witch, and despite some rumors, wouldn’t have been reduced to join the courtesans working in the club. Nor would she, as Nymphadora’s superior had speculated, be trying to use that as a cover to approach others she had leverage over. There were better ways to conduct blackmail. Nymphadora had said so to her superior, but she had been told that the minister had taken a personal interest in ‘the case’, and so any lead had to be looked into, no matter how implausible. At least no one would blame her when it didn’t pan out.

Nymphadora smiled at an older wizard who invited her at his table, stated that she was waiting for a gentleman, and took a seat at the bar. In a few hours an apology from the client would arrive, with the appropriate compensation. The setup meant she would be able to spend the evening in the lounge without getting bothered too much or coming under suspicion. It might even be interesting.

The metamorphmagus was quite surprised when she did spot Umbridge enter the lounge a few hours later and head to the bar. Even more so when the disgraced but at least physically attractive witch took care to greet Trevor Fickleton on the way. The esteemed member of the Wizengamot returned her greeting, and Nymphadora wondered if he was just being polite, or under some form of pressure - according to rumors, Umbridge knew a lot of secrets others did not want to be revealed. Of course, she could just be getting back at a former ally, and trying to taint his reputation by her presence.

Privacy charms prevented her from listening in to the brief conversation. Not even her enchanted earring could penetrate them. But at least she had gotten another lead.

*****​

Voldemort almost felt nostalgic, standing in the bookstore in the poorer part of Diagon Alley. He had found a number of truly rare tomes here, back when he had just graduated Hogwarts and had started his rise to power. The store lacked the selection of illegal works the stores in Knockturn Alley offered under the table, but a discerning wizard could still find exotic tomes here that the Ministry would ban in a heartbeat, were it aware of them. Like this translation of an Ottoman book on the Nizari Ismailis, the mysterious magical assassins, which he was skimming through through while waiting for Renquirt to arrive. Just another customer browsing around.

Sadly, Macnair had reported that the protections Renquirt had at his home were just a bit too good. Not good enough to stop Voldemort, of course. But good enough to make it very plausible that such an intrusion would be discovered. Fortunately, as the Dark Lord had found out, Renquirt was a connoisseur of rare books and knew this gem of a store. And he knew that walking in with an auror security detail would not be conductive to be allowed back inside, much less get informed of newly arrived books of interest - the owner was very opinionated about censorship. Not opinionated enough to move to Knockturn Alley though.

That wouldn’t mean the Ministry expert would be without guards. Just that they would not follow too closely, or too openly. Which wouldn’t prevent what Voldemort had planned.

The door chimed, and there was Renquirt. The older wizard went straight to the sales clerk. Voldemort was close enough to listen in without any magical help.

“Hello. I was informed that you have acquired an original edition of Des Moines’ ‘Of Spirits and Demons’”. Renquirt was displaying the lack of social graces so common to the more inverted Ravenclaws. Voldemort almost shook his head. Some things seemed to never change.

The clerk winced - with good cause. The Dark Lord had purchased that book earlier. Re-purchased, actually. After all, he had arranged for its sale to the shop through a straw man in the first place. It wasn’t as if Lucius had ever read the book. A minor charm had then made sure that contrary to his instructions, the clerk would not hold the book for Renquirt.

“I am sorry, sir, but the tome was already sold.” The clerk cringed even. Weak. Probably a mudblood. Easy to manipulate - it had not taken much to find out about Renquirt’s arrangement with the shop either.

“What?” Renquirt gaped at the wizard. “I had ordered to hold that tome for me!”

“Oh.” Voldemort cut in. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve purchased it, but I wasn’t told it was reserved.” He smiled, as if he was embarrassed about the whole mix-up. Renquirt turned towards him and Voldemort bowed before the expert could say anything. “Martin Steinmaur, at your service.”

“Ebenezer Renquirt. I had ordered that book, but this imbecile forget to put it aside!” The older wizard glared at the mudblood. “Would you part with it? I have been looking for that book for years.”

Voldemort smiled - he hadn’t known that, just that the book was on the long list the wizard had deposited at the shop. That would facilitate his plan. “Well, I would, but I am working on a treatise on such demons - we lack them on the continent, you know - and I believe this book might help me gain a perspective on them that is not yet covered by the standard literature available here.” It wouldn’t - he had perused it quite diligently, and had not found anything that he hadn’t known before. With a bit of fake hesitation, he went on. “But I could loan it to you, if you only need to read it once.”

The way Renquirt’s eyes lit up, he understood that this was an offer to let him break the spells on the tome that prevented its duplication. It was quite illegal, of course - if everyone did that, no publisher could stay in business and there would be no more new books released. Or so the publishers claimed, and they had convinced the Wizengamot of that. And yet, at least in Voldemort’s time, House Ravenclaw had held regular lessons in how to break such charms - and restore them afterwards, to cover up. The clerk understood the offer as well, but he was hardly in a place to protest, not after his apparent blunder.

“What a coincidence. I am the foremost experts of dementors. If you would like, I could check your work.” Renquirt smiled, although rather patronizingly.

Voldemort eagerly nodded. He was showing his real, new face, which was a bit of a risk, but he didn’t plan on doing anything illegal, and a potion had provided him with a long beard. Together with a haircolor charm and thick glasses, it should provide enough of a disguise. No one would expect the Dark Lord to be a wizard in his 20s anyway. His voice sounded eager and overjoyed as he answered. “You are? I mean, that is a very generous offer!”

A few minutes later Voldemort left the shop with an invitation to visit Renquirt. The name he had used belonged to a graduate of Durmstrang, who had turned mercenary recently enough so it wouldn’t be in his records, and so would pass the check the security detail of his future host would run. And the slightly illegal offer he had made would ensure that no auror would witness their discussion. Afterwards he would easily disappear, to hide any trace.

The Dark Lord smiled, wandering through the streets as if he truly was a visitor from the continent taking in the sights. Like so many other academics Voldemort had known, Renquirt had looked quite eager to show off his superior knowledge to a fellow scholar. Who knew - maybe he wouldn’t even have to imperius the man to find out what he needed to free his followers.

*****​

Sirius Black wished that this Umbridge was visiting his house, just so he could strangle her with her own entrails and claim self-defense. That stupid, thrice-cursed witch and her damned bigotry had almost driven his lovely guests back to France. He shivered, remembering the morning - or rather, noon - of the day the Daily Prophet had broken the story behind her proposed reclassification law.

Valérie, who had become less shy with each day as his guest, had stolen the newspaper before he had had the chance to read it, and had been browsing the society pages when she suddenly had started to curse in French, in a voice that went from melodious to furious to screeching. Then she had sprouted feathers and transformed. Sirius had been so captivated by the magnificent sight of a veela in her avian form - a truly magical moment - he had not realized the danger he was in, until the veela had dropped the newspaper and fireballs had appeared in her hands - talons. He had understood, in that moment, why James had so often been staring, enthralled, instead of running when a prank of theirs had enraged Lily and she had come for them. Valérie’s eyes had been literally blazing.

It had only been when Chantal, Eugénie and Laure had read the article as well, and had started to grow angry, that Sirius had realized just how dangerous four transformed, enraged veela could be. The newspaper had turned to ashes in Chantal’s hands in seconds. Then the chair Laure had been gripping had started to burn, and smoke had started to rise from where Eugénie’s new talons had dug into the table. For a moment, Sirius had thought of casting a flame-freezing charm, or a dozen, but then he had realized that discretion was the better part of valor in this situation, and had conducted a hasty retreat, just ahead of Kreacher.

The sight of Valérie’s thin robe, aflame, right before the house elf had slammed the door close, had stayed with him though, and signed eyebrows and robes had been a small price to pay for such an experience. At least in his opinion. Remus, ever the too-serious, had called him crazy.

Well, that was Remus, the worrywart. As far as Sirius as concerned, the whole event had turned out well enough. The four girls had been apologetic about the loss of control, the house had gotten a new kitchen, the fire prevention charms had gotten an upgrade, and Kreacher would not even dream anymore of being rude to his guests. It still had taken quite an effort to keep his guests from returning to France at once. It had been understandable, after such an insult to their race.

Sirius sighed. They would eventually return to France, to their family, their lives. He was sure they’d remember their visit fondly, as he’d remember them. But they’d not stay. Not even Valérie.

Valérie. The shy one, or so he had thought. Until that morning. Noon. Whatever. All that passion, all that magnificent fire floating around her, consuming her robe, outlining her curves… a dangerous, beautiful, passionate woman. And yet he’d miss the talks with her the most, once she’d return to France.

He was tempted to follow her, them, when they went back, but he was needed here. Harry needed him, more than ever, with the prophecy hanging over his head. Sirius had failed his godson once, he’d not fail him again.

Sighing, he tried to focus on the latest report from Gringotts, if only to withstand the temptation to turn into Padfoot for the day.

*****​

“Wards have been reinforced. Someone’s moving around inside, too - even though it’s late.”

“The target’s home then.” Keith Yennington nodded to Blasius Meister. “You and Hannah start on the wards on the house. The rest of us will be ready for reinforcements. Brendan and Hortensius will cover the backyard, me and Wulfred will be covering Blasius and Hannah as well as the front side’s most likely apparition point. If anyone tries to flee, stun them, Kill them before they can escape however. If anyone apparates, hit them before they know you’re there.”

“The mudbloods won’t know what hit them.” Blasius stated, grinning widely. The rest of the group chuckled.

“Don’t underestimate them. They’ll have support from their patron too.” Keith cautioned his group. He didn’t want to lose another wand to overconfidence and arrogance.

“Their patron should have taught them not to put on airs.” Wulfred muttered.

Keith silently agreed with the thug. The house they were assaulting was a spacious one, far nicer than the house Keith had grown up in - and Keith was a pureblood. He didn’t share the rest of the group’s hatred of mudbloods, but they should know their place, and not try to lord it over purebloods. “Go now!”

His group split up, as ordered. No backtalk - a few muttered grumblings didn’t count. They still had a way to go, but they were closer to what Keith would consider acceptable wands for hire. He’d not face Ottoman raiders with them at his side, or French border patrols, but mudblood rabble and their negligent masters they could handle.

“Apparition and floo are blocked. Disillusion as well. Working on the wards now.” Hannah reported after several minutes.

Keith could spot an owl leaving the house. He didn’t care. By the time it reached the recipient of the message, things would be over. He ran a hand over his enspelled pouch, where he carried the stolen loot he was to place in the house once they were done. It was possible that their employer could have decided it was easier to frame competitors, but Keith had stopped believing this was about thieves a while ago. He didn’t care - the gold was good, and that was all that counted for him.

A few minutes later the wards were down. “Smash the windows and set fire to the house. We’ll smoke them out.” That set his group complaining again - there would be less loot - but he shut them up with a glare. They had learned not to cross him.

Soon the living room he could see from his spot was burning brightly. Keith would have sealed the house if the goal was just to kill the targets, but their employer wanted prisoners. And Keith wanted to get his group some more practise in actual combat. Merlin knew they still needed it.

So he crouched down and had his wand ready. If the targets were smart, they’d fake a sally to the front, then flee to out the back. If they were ruthless or desperate, one or more would be sacrificed to let the others escape.

The front door was pushed open, and a figure appeared, casting wildly while running towards the wardline - and towards them. A sacrifice it was then. In the flickering light of the burning house, Keith saw it was a witch. It didn’t matter. “Keep the back covered!” he shouted, then sent a bludgeoning curse at the witch. Her shield protected her, but she staggered. Wulfred hit her with a piercer, which her shield stopped as well. She was good - for a mudblood. Maybe even a hired guard. Keith turned the floor around her into a swamp - transfiguration had been his best subject - and saw her slip and fall.

Slowed down and almost stuck in the mud, she couldn’t dodge and her shield didn’t last too long against the barrage of curses from Keith and Wulfred. Neither did her robe’s protections. Wulfred disarmed her, cackling loudly. Before he could reach her though Keith had stunned her and transfigured her into a small figurine.

“Hey!” The other wizard turned towards him, snarling. He didn’t raise his wand though. He knew better than that. Everyone knew after Keith had dealt with Warrington.

Keith glared at the wizard. “This is not the time or place for that. Spend some of the gold for this in the brothels.” He didn’t know why his employer wanted the witch - and others - kidnapped, but he wasn’t about to let some rapist jeopardize the mission.

For a second Wulfred held his gaze and Keith got ready to curse the thug, then the other looked away. “Alright boss.”

Keith nodded, but didn’t turn his back on the man while he stepped up to the burning house. He pulled the loot out, still in a bag, and threw it inside. The aurors would think the witch had tried to flee with it, then had been forced to drop the bag in her attempt to escape.

A small explosion shook the house slightly and the heat increased. The mudblood must have had a potions lab set up somewhere inside. Keith fell back. “We’re done here! Meet up at the rally spot!” he shouted, with the aid of a Sonorous.

Hopefully everyone would remember where that was, this time.

*****​

“What a mess.” Kenneth Fenbrick sighed, looking the still smoldering remains of the house over.

“Four different signatures on the fire hexes. Three on the collateral damage in the garden - one of them the signature of the missing owner of the house.” Bertha Limmington stated.

“They’re getting more organized then. No ganging up on the obvious target.” Kenneth didn’t like it when criminals grew smart. It made his job more difficult - and more dangerous. “What about the rest of the family?”

“According to her Patron, the children had been living in his mansion for the last week. Her husband is in St. Mungo’s - spell mishap.” Bertha said while examining the floor of the house.

“Lucky guy.” Kenneth ignored the glare Bertha sent to him and looked at the hole in the floor. “Lab explosion?”

“Yes.” His partner was looking at a heap of molten and burned things on the ground.

“Do you think they were brewing illegal potions?” Kenneth knew better than to head into the remains of a lab. No one knew what kind of poison might have been left - or created - there.

“Impossible to say without a more thorough investigation.” Bertha picked up a golden cup that looked undamaged.

“What did you find?”

“A golden cup. Old and well-crafted.” Bertha levitated it in front of her to check it from all angles.

“Family heirloom?” Kenneth joked - it was far too old for a muggleborn family. It was more likely a gift from the family’s patron.

“The family coat on it doesn’t match the victim’s patron.” Bertha answered, using her wand to brush more soot away from the cup.

“Stolen loot?”

“I am rather sure it was stolen.”

“The question is, by whom?” Kenneth smiled at the glare his partner shot him. Both of them knew that this was not the work of thieves settling accounts with competitors. If there truly had been a hitherto unknown underground network of muggleborn thieves leading law-abiding lives as a cover, as the press and some Wizengamot members claimed, then the aurors would have heard of it. If not before the murders started, then soon afterwards, when the surviving members would have come to them for protection. No, those muggleborns getting murdered were not thieves - but why would anyone want them to appear as thieves?

Kenneth didn’t like the possible answers he could think of.

*****​

Remus Lupin wasn’t in a good mood, despite the upcoming Yuletide. Or maybe because of it. Krum was visiting again thanks to the lack of Quidditch matches during the holidays. Shouldn’t professional players train even during a break?

Remus stared at the essay he was supposed to be grading and dropped it on his desk. To be jealous of a kid was embarrassing. Even if said kid was an international Quidditch star and had been the Champion of Durmstrang for the latest Triwizard Tournament. And was not suffering from a curse that made a sizeable part of Britain consider them a beast. If he ever got his hands on Umbridge, he’d show her just how dangerous a werewolf could be…

The teacher stood up and began pacing in his office. The full moon was approaching. A few more days, and he’d feel his bones ache, his appetite change, and his mood grow more aggressive. And then would come the night of the full moon. The time when he would become a beast. Remus shuddered, then clenched his teeth together. He wouldn’t be a mindless beast. Not as he had been before the Wolfsbane potion had been invented. But his mind would still change. Far more emotional, far more prone to act impulsively, instinctively. Too much like a beast.

He had never talked with anyone about it. He had come close to with Sirius, one night, with both of them deep into their cups. But he had controlled himself. It was too private. Sirius was an animagus and an impulsive wizard. He wouldn’t understand how terrible it was for Remus to lose control, to change so much, each moon.

When he changed, things got too simple, too easy. He had no friends anymore, just family or acquaintances. People he wanted to defend, like Nymphadora, and people he didn’t care about. And people he wanted to rip to shreds. No matter how wrong such an action would be. Like Umbridge. Or Krum.

It was quite fortunate indeed that the full moon didn’t fall into Yuletide this year. Remus had no illusions about his chances with Nymphadora. He was old enough to be her father - well, almost old enough; he had not been as much of an ‘early bloomer’ as Sirius had been -, he suffered from the worst curse possible and his salary was not a tenth of what Krum was earning. Remus knew all that. He could even accept it, given time. But if he came to blows with the Bulgarian interloper, and it would be blows, not hexes…

He wasn’t sure what he’d fear more: Nymphadora despising him as a beast, or pitying him as a delusional old fool.

And of course there was the fact that being more emotional, more prone to act instinctively, was not a good state to be in when in the company of veela who seemed bent on enjoying their own version of the Year of Discovery while they were in Britain. Nymphadora thinking he was a dirty old man, chasing girls half his age, and only pursuing her so he could sleep with a metamorphmagus, was another thing he didn’t want to happen.

He summoned his bottle of fire whiskey, a gift from Sirius for the term. It was almost empty now, just as his friend had predicted. Maybe he’d manage to straighten himself out if Krum married Nymphadora. Thinking about that made him draw himself a double shot.

Although if Krum was really planning to marry into the family, then it was high time that he was introduced to the family tradition of pranking. Remus would have to drag Sirius away from his veela girlfriends for a bit, to properly prepare a fitting prank, of course. It was certainly better than the mutt again trying to set him up with his old girlfriends. Remus hadn’t much, but he had his pride.

*****​

Harry watched the snow-covered Scottish countryside through the window of the Hogwarts Express. Yuletide! Harry had been looking forward to the occasion for quite some time now. It would be his third Yuletide at No 12, Grimmauld Place, and with a larger crowd than the two times before. Sirius, Hermione, Remus, the Black-Tonks family, Viktor and the four veela who seemed to have moved in permanently with Sirius. Harry wasn’t sure what to think of that, actually. He had met the girls in France, but he didn’t know them. Or remember them well. There had been too many pretty blonde witches around then. And now they had spent more time in his home than Harry himself. Sometimes he wished Hogwarts was not a boarding school. He’d be able to spend more time with Sirius then.

“Thinking about your four godmothers?” Hermione asked, with a slightly teasing smile.

On the other hand, he’d be spending far less time with Hermione if Hogwarts was a day school. He shook his head. “No.” When he noticed her doubting expression, he added: “Well, partially. It’s just… they have spent more time with Sirius than I, than we have.”

“And what a time it must have been!” Ron cut in, grinning. Harry glared at him - while he wished Sirius all the happiness his godfather deserved, he didn’t need to think of how exactly that was currently being achieved.

Hermione huffed at their friend. “If Padma were here, you’d pay for that remark.”

“But she isn’t. And what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” Ron answered, unrepentant. “Four veela, Fleur’s cousins!” he shook his head in apparent admiration.

“Speaking of, how is Fleur?” Harry asked. Last he had heard, the proud veela had been incensed - literally - about the proposed reclassification law that would have made her a beast in Britain. even though it was quickly buried in the Wizengamot.

Ron frowned. “She’s still in France, with Bill. They’ll visit over Yuletide, but mum’s not happy about it at all. We’ll have some turbulent holidays.” He shivered, and Harry, knowing the temper of Molly Weasley, and of Fleur, nodded in understanding.

“It is only reasonable for a couple to live in a country where neither partner is considered a second-class citizen.” Hermione stated primly, daring Ron to disagree. He didn’t. Harry’s friend knew it was a very touchy topic for the witch - there was no magical country where she wasn’t considered a third- or second-class citizen.

The next minutes passed in silence. Ron was reading a Quidditch magazine, Hermione was studying a book about spellcrafting and Harry was staring out of the window again, thinking about his family. He couldn’t stop thinking about it though.

“Do you really think he’ll marry one of them?” Harry knew that if Sirius was to marry, things would change in his home. He wasn’t sure how.

“He cannot marry all of them, not in Britain.” Ron answered. “But wouldn’t marrying one of them make the other three jealous?”

“If he’s actually in a relationship with all four. That could be just a rumor.” Hermione added. Harry held her hand, running his thumb over her skin. She hated how everyone expected her to be the other witch, and that situation was a bit too close to her own. Ron was in rare form today, pushing Hermione’s buttons without trying.

“You’ll find out soon enough!” Ron smiled widely, and winked at them.

Harry was about to change the topic when Hermione shifted around, hooking a leg over his. “Say, Ron, did you find out why Parkinson has been watching you so intently?” She sounded a bit too smug in Harry’s opinion.

“She’s watching me so Malfoy can focus on you two. I am on to her though.” Ron answered confidently.

“Are you sure? I’ve heard rumors that she’s interested in you, if you know what I mean.” Hermione’s own grin widened.

“What? You’re joking, right?” Ron stared at her as if she had told him he had to return to Hogwarts because the rest of the Weasley family was visiting Fleur in France.

“It’s probably just a rumor. You’ll find out in Sixth Year, I guess.” Hermione smirked.

“Gah!” Ron shuddered at the thought, and both Harry and Hermione laughed until Padma returned. None of them wanted to explain what they were laughing about to Ron’s girlfriend. It was just a rumor, after all, and a baseless one too.

*****​

The rumors had been true. Hermione was convinced of that soon after her arrival at Grimmauld Place. Chantal, Eugénie, Laure and especially Valérie were just too comfortable with Sirius for this relationship not to be quite … she really didn’t want to call it ‘serious’, but it fit so well. Though the way the four veela, wearing outfits completely inappropriate for the season, were draped around and over the wizard in the salon while he was talking to Harry about the last term at Hogwarts, that had to be staged. Sirius was obviously trying to embarrass Harry and herself.

It was working too. Hermione prided herself on being open-minded and tolerant, but this blatant display… she had to remind herself that wizards didn’t share the same morals as her muggle family. That there was no gender discrimination in Britain or France. And there was nothing wrong with consenting adults doing whatever they wanted in private. Really. Harry and herself would just ignore the display, and ruin Sirius’s prank.

They would, if Harry was cooperating. He wasn’t though. Her boyfriend was distracted, staring - and not just at his godfather. Hermione felt like scowling, but kept smiling. She was better than this. She knew he loved her. And yet… the young witch slid closer to Harry, then slid into his lap and started to distract him herself. She was not a veela, but she was his girlfriend.

The talk about school soon broke down completely, replaced by giggling and French whispers, and babbling from Harry. And Sirius laughing loudly. No one got hexed though. Or burned.

*****​

“Now, you two will be alone for the evening. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Sirius winked at Harry and Hermione while he was standing next to the floo in the house, clad in resplendent dress robes in black and gold. He and his guests would be attending the Longbottom’s Yule Ball. Viktor had already gone through the floo, to get his date at the Black-Tonks’ home. The four veela were still getting ready upstairs. According to Hermione, who had been shopping with them, their robes were just shy of scandalous - even for witches. Harry wasn’t sure if he should regret the fact that he and Hermione wouldn’t attend the ball, or be glad. His girlfriend would have likely tried to match the French witches’ robes if her attitude so far was any indication, and he was not entirely sure how he felt about that. He liked her being more daring, more sure of herself, but to dress so provocatively… Not that she’d admit she was doing anything of the sort, of course.

But on the whole, he was looking forward to the evening, just the two of them. Remus was off at Hogwarts for something, the older wizard hadn’t been too clear about it. Just the two of them then, without distractions. Or interruptions. Unless of course Kreacher tried again to provide detailed suggestions to “discipline Master’s Godson’s Slave”. That elf really had it out for Hermione.

Their guests descended the stairs, and Harry had to fight not to stare or he would be looking forward to a slightly less enjoyable evening than expected. It was hard though - the four were wearing matching robes in black and gold, slit multiple times from ankles to hip, and hip to neck, tight enough to draw attention to their curves, loose enough to offer teasing glimpses. If Hermione wore such a robe… he glanced at his girlfriend, his imagination hard at work.

They smiled, waved at him, hugged Sirius and before Harry had realized it the five adults had left through the floo, leaving him alone with Hermione.

“That explains why minors are not invited.” Hermione stated after about a minute.

“Too much pressure on them before they have gone through the Year of Discovery?” Harry asked, citing the official reason.

“No, too many scandals with underage witches and wizards wearing such robes. At least that’s how this ‘tradition’ started, in my opinion” She glanced at him, then added. “Could you imagine me wearing that?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically before he caught himself. “Yes! Err...”

“Well, since you can, there’s no need for me to actually wear it, is it?” Hermione smirked at him.

“You wouldn’t wear it anyway.” Harry wasn’t pouting, at least he didn’t think he was.

“Maybe I would. But not now.” Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

“You don’t have such robes.”

“I could transfigure my clothes. Easily.” Hermione ran her wand down her robes - which seemed to fit her just a bit more snugly after that.

“And duplicate all the charms on them?”

“Yes.” His girlfriend stated full of conviction.

“That I’d like to see.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you did!”

They were still going at it when they reached the dining room, where Kreacher had prepared a five course meal. Harry was certain it would be a very enjoyable evening.

*****​

Azkaban looked as foreboding and hostile as its reputation indicated. Even more so at night. A dark island in the middle of a black sea. The only thing that stood out against the shadows and darkness were the white tops of the waves breaking against the rocky, steep shores. Voldemort thought he could spot a flickering light on top of the walls, or inside one of the towers, but it could have been a simple trick of the moonlight too. It didn’t matter - those he had come to see didn’t need or use lights.

He floated closer to the cliff. The wards of the island would have broken the charms on a broom by now, but he was flying with pure magic, and the wards were not built to counter that. They were not built for the greatest Dark Lord Britain had ever seen! As he came closer he could feel his imprisoned followers suffering behind the cold, damp walls. Waiting for him, trusting him, even after more than a decade. To know, to feel such loyalty…

As he rose to the top of the cliffside he felt colder. The warming charms on his robes would be able to deal with any weather, no matter how extreme, but this was an unnatural cold, seeping into his bones no matter what he wore and what spells he cast. The aura of the dementors, the soul-sucking guardians of Azkaban. The fiends had noticed him and were converging on his position. Lesser wizards would have fled now, or broken down. Voldemort was made of much sterner stuff, but even the Dark Lord was not immune to a dementor’s power, much less a horde of them. Not without the talisman he had taken from Renquirt, at least. The talisman the scholar hadn’t been supposed to have.

When he saw the first shadow move towards him, tattered robes floating slowly through the air, he pulled it out. A soft light spread from it, and the cold disappeared at once. The fiends stopped their advance, circling around him, their inhuman faces hidden by large cowls and hoods. The talisman both attracted them, and held them at bay - that was what it had been made for. They were eerily silent - the only sound he could hear were the wind, and the waves clashing against the rocks below. He was wearing a dark cloak with a hood himself. From afar, he’d look like a dementor.

“I have come to make a deal with the Ravenous Cold.” Voldemort stated. According to Renquirt that was what the dementors called themselves. Or what the scholar believed came close to what they thought of themselves. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had spoken the correct words of parley. The demons surrounding him drew back, all but one. That one floated closer, facing him.

The dementors did not speak, but they understood speech. That was common knowledge. And it was wrong, as Renquirt had explained when prompted under the Imperius. They understood concepts, images, memories, emotions - but not words. Quite a few of the wizards who had first attempted to deal with them had lost their souls because they had not understood that. Hadn’t understood the need to think and feel as precisely as one would word a contract. Or hadn’t have the mental discipline to achieve what they knew had to be done.

Voldemort understood, and could do it. And more importantly, he knew what the dementors had wanted, when they had made the deal that resulted in them becoming the guards of Azkaban. What they had wanted, but had not been granted by the Ministry.

His offer was simple - he concentrated and imagined one dementor, then two, then three. Breeding. The demon facing him understood, and grew agitated. Voldemort suddenly felt hunger, and he understood. He thought of food. Of eating. Added it to his offer. Breeding and Feeding. He felt more agitation, then felt constrained. Imprisoned. He shook his head. Only a fool would grant them the freedom to move and feed where they wanted. The Ministry had limited them in their deal to only be able to feed on command. Voldemort would do the same. But he would allow them to breed. The Ministry would never surpass that offer. Not before he had taken over, in any case. And afterwards… deals would be renegotiated.

Breeding and Feeding, Voldemort thought, and the demon understood, and accepted. The Dark Lord felt a tingle run through him when the deal was closed and he had gained a small army. He didn’t bother speaking, just willed them to feed on everyone outside a cell on the island, and they left to do his bidding.

While the human guards lost their souls when the inhuman guards turned on them, Voldemort floated down to the ground and started walking towards the prison. When he passed the gates, he pulled out a small bag containing small figurines. One for each of his followers imprisoned here, and a vial of polyjuice for each as well. And the figurine that was the transfigured body of Martin Steinmaur. He had come prepared.


Chapter 20: Sacrifices