Entry One: The Last Day of Summer

Spoiler

Nostalgia/Melancholia/Loss

They met in the park, the one that was just outside one of the boys’ houses. It didn’t matter which boy, didn’t matter which city. The park mattered, the park needed to have some battered old swings in it and a closed, badly graffitied ice-cream kiosk and a copse of trees the boys could smoke under. The season mattered too; it was always summer. Never a normal summer’s day, though. There was a heat wave on, or maybe for a change it had been raining all day and the trampled grass was steaming with that otherworldly summer mist once evening loomed its shadowy face over their little gang.

One of the boys always coughed when lighting up, he never got used to it. Not this year, not this summer. One of them had a way of flinging himself down on the grass, lithe limbs landing too perfectly not to be a pose. One of the boys was embarrassed about his weight and there would always be someone in their gang who sensed it. Someone needed to be made fun of for their group to function.

Elbows scrubbed on the dry grass by the time one of the boys showed the plastic bottle he’d brought from home. Half his mother’s gin bottle now contained water, but she’d never know he reassured them. Who wanted the first sip?

They talked about girls, but almost never the one someone in their group had a crush on. One of them had done everything under the sun, including the sun once he drank. Another had a knowing, secretive smile when the topic came up. The others never thought to ask.

Maybe they talked about football, maybe they talked about quidditch.

Once they were chased away by some pensioners bearing sticks and umbrellas; they threatened to tell their parents they were smoking. And had the boys seen the state of the ice cream kiosk? Rude words everywhere, no wonder none of the small children used their playpark anymore.

Once they found porn underneath a bush, but the next time they checked, the magazine was gone. Once one of their number couldn’t make it because he’d fallen out of a tree and had to go to hospital. Once, their little gang thought they spotted that dirty, weird black-haired kid hiding behind the fence. Eavesdropping would get him nowhere.

The last time they all met, there was a fight. A split in beliefs, never before apparent, or perhaps they just didn’t used to care. Maybe it was a tiny thing. Maybe someone had made a pass on someone else’s girl. Maybe they were at that age when things had turned political. Or maybe it was a clash of personalities that had lurked behind the surface for years, only to emerge in a splatter of words that could never again be unsaid. The quiet one raised his voice like he never had before. Someone was shoved so hard their backside hit the singed, worn grass and someone else left at a jog, holding their bloodied nose.

Some things weren’t built to survive into adulthood. The next time they set foot in that park, vital pieces were missing. Maybe they’d all tried to quit smoking, or maybe some of them had died before they ever thought to try. Maybe they didn’t get to tell each other they were sorry.

The city didn’t matter. Maybe it was in the southeast somewhere or maybe it was Wiltshire. Maybe some of them used to illegally apparate there, maybe they’d come on bikes. Maybe one of them carried a racing broomstick around like girls carried handbags.

Maybe the next time they thought to steer their legs over that tired old grass, heads bent, staring at the fagends some other kids had trampled once before, maybe they were no longer them, then. Maybe he was alone. Maybe not him, but someone was. Someone had died alone, died fighting, died in a burning inferno, been locked up someplace worse than death. Some just disappeared. Maybe that was worst of all. The unknown.

“Where’s Big D?”

“I’ve not seen him since Friday.”

“I went past the house and it’s empty. The entire family is gone, Mr and Mrs Dursley too.”

Piers was trying not to sound too emotional, because Malcom’s face was still bruised from Dudley’s fist. Dudley was his oldest friend, his closest confidant. They used to agree on everything, their entire gang used to. Dudley’s outburst on Friday had come out of nowhere.

The empty house had rattled Piers badly. Gordon looked as troubled as he felt, though.

“What about Harry?” Gordon’s voice dropped an octave at the name and he didn’t dare look at Malcolm.

Malcom’s hand flew up to his face like a bad reflex.

“The entire family’s gone,” Piers repeated dully, despite Malcom’s renewed flinch. Piers and Dudley went way back, and Piers had decided he was ready to accommodate any new direction Dudley might take in life. “Reckon we should go to the police?”

The others looked at him like that was a dirty word.

“Let’s go to their house again first. Maybe they’ve just gone on vacation.”

“Dudley would’ve told me,” Piers said decisively. “He would’ve told me where he was going no matter what.”

A new briskness to their step, the old gang left the park. They didn’t say goodbye, but goodbye it was.

Entry Two:

Spoiler

disconcerting. unsettled. despair.

“I’ll let you kill me. Just — Just let them go!”

Voldemort’s hand fell away from Hermione’s face, his lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so devoid of warmth. His followers snickered, a discordant chorus that grated against Harry’s nerves.

“You will allow me to kill you, Harry?” Voldemort’s tone mocked, gentle yet razor-edged. “Do you think I, Lord Voldemort, require your permission? If I wished you dead, you would be.”

“What do you want?” Harry asked desperately. Hermione’s struggles had faded. The small stream of blood continued down her chest unabating.

Voldemort tilted his head, examining him like a puzzle missing a piece. “I was too hasty in my assessment of you, believing you were merely a child, fortunate, bold, and, above all, lucky. Yet, when our wands met, I glimpsed something. Potential. Power. A mirror of what I was, of what we could become.”

“You—” His throat closed around the word. “Are you trying to recruit me?”

“I am presenting you with a chance at reconciliation,” said Voldemort, “A chance to embrace what you are—and what you could be.”

Harry barked a laugh, bitter and sharp. “You killed my parents. You killed Cedric. You’ve hunted me since I was a baby, and now you think you can come here, hurt my friends and suddenly I’ll want to join you? That I would want to go against everything I’ve fought for? You’re mad.”

“Mad?” Voldemort echoed, as if tasting the word. “No, Harry. I am accustomed to getting what I want. And you—” his gaze swept Harry, penetrating, all-seeing—“will join me.”

Harry shook his head, fists clenched. “Never.”

Rather than being angered, Voldemort seemed to be amused.

“So, you say,” he conceded wryly, “Still, the fact remains that your friends are wandless, and at my mercy. Do not forget, Harry... while I reward those who aid me... those who stand against me will be punished. I have seen, Harry, that you have a remarkable tolerance for pain. Perhaps you would be more motivated if it were your friends who suffered...”

The Dark Lord let the words linger in the air for a moment, before shifting Hermione into his arms, and sliding his wand down her chest.

“All it would take is one simple spell, and her little innocent heart would stop,” commented Voldemort, his voice dropping a notch. “Is this what you wish to see, Harry? Her death?”

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Harry, his voice cracking. “You’ve wanted to kill me for so long. What’s changed?”

“You, a boy of fourteen, eluded me for the third time,” hissed Voldemort, almost affectionate.

“I became curious,” continued Voldemort. “How was it that a mere boy had defeated me yet again? I demanded to know everything about you.”

“Imagine my surprise when Lucius told me of your second year and interacting with my diary. Not only were you able to find the Chamber of Secrets, you neutralised the diary while defeating the famed Basilisk with nothing but a sword. I could not help but be impressed, even if it cost me something priceless in return.”

His diary’s destruction must have enraged Voldemort, as he lost his airy tone.

“Dementors at thirteen, the Triwizard Tournament at fourteen, and yet you beat them all. Against all odds, you prospered.”
Voldemort stepped forward, his tone almost respecting.

“You are a survivor, Harry. Each time we meet, you push the boundaries of your endurance, your mind, and magic itself to live another day. Spells can be learned, knowledge memorised, but the desire to fight, to win, cannot be taught. It is what drives wizards like us and empowers us to do the incredible. Last year, with your escape, I saw who you were, and what you will become.”

“Yet, none of that compared to what happened this year,” murmured Voldemort, not bothering to spare Hermione a glance as she whimpered weakly. The whole of his attention focused on Harry. He strode forward until only a few feet separated the two. Voldemort studied him, like a scientist contemplating an animal he was about to dissect.

Slowly, he raised his wand, and with a single flick, the three of them stood in the centre of a thundering waterfall.

“I felt you in my mind,” said Voldemort softly. “I saw you in Nagini.”

Harry couldn’t breathe, let alone reply. His thoughts turned to the times Harry had seen from Voldemort’s eyes. The summer before Voldemort’s rebirth, the flashes of emotion, of images. When Harry was the snake, lunging at Arthur.

“I am the greatest Legilimens the world has ever seen, and yet you can slither your way into my mind with not a hint of training,” said Voldemort. “You can speak Parseltongue, yet you are not descended from Slytherin. And our wands...”

Harry’s stomach dropped as Voldemort studied the wand Harry carried carefully.

“Your wand, it calls as if it were a long-lost brother. Strange, is it not? Most wands will refuse to cooperate within another’s hands unless you overpower the bond. Yet, I have done nothing, and your wand sings.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, breathing fast.

“It seems on the night I gave you that scar, I also gave you something more. Something greater,” whispered Voldemort. “I created you, and everything you are.”

The blood pounded in Harry’s ears, overwhelming any other sounds. His hands shook, his feet tingled. His clear vision disfigured, as if he was looking through the waterfall at Voldemort. He had to get away. He couldn’t listen to the next words.

“Have you not realised how similar we are? Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. The only two known Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts in the last hundred years and wielding brother wands. We can see in each other’s minds, no matter the distance, and know the emotions of the other. We even look somewhat alike... that is, when I was younger.” His voice was like silk, wrapping itself around Harry, worming its way into every corner of his mind.

Harry was drowning in the sea of his biggest fears. He was contaminated, as if his whole life he had been carrying some deadly curse, ready to infect anyone he encountered. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

“No,” he whispered. “You’re wrong.”

Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes twinkling with glee.

“Are you telling me, or merely trying to convince yourself of the sweetened lie Albus has told you?” At Harry’s look of despair, his grin widened. “You went to him before, haven’t you? Did he tell you it is your actions that matter more than our similarities? That it is our choices that define us?”

Voldemort chuckled.

“Of course he did. Yet, he told you only a fraction of the truth. What would you have been you without me? Every year of your life has revolved around me. From your parents’ deaths, the Philosopher’s Stone, to last night in the Graveyard. Do you not see Harry? We are entwined... destined to be by each other, to be alike. I made you.”

Entry Three: Silence at Number 5

Spoiler

Loneliness

Harry Potter sat cross-legged on the living room floor of Number Four, Privet Drive, staring blankly at the television. It wasn’t turned on, of course. Uncle Vernon had taken the remote with him, as he always did when they went out.

Not that there was much to watch. The Dursleys only ever tuned in to the news or the sort of game shows where people shouted answers to questions Harry didn’t understand. Still, watching something would have been bett er than the silence that now filled the house.

It was their anniversary. Aunt Petunia had spent hours getting ready, fussing with her hair and complaining about Dudley’s lack of enthusiasm for dressing up. Harry had stood in the hall as they left, his arms still damp from scrubbing the kitchen sink, and watched them pile into the car, Dudley squeezing his considerable bulk into the backseat. He hadn't been invited, of course. Not that he wanted to sit through a meal with Dudley wolfing down various meals and Vernon guffawing loudly..

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. He’d already done his chores for the day: the sink was spotless, the hedges trimmed to Aunt Petunia’s satisfaction but more importantly his, and Dudley’s discarded trainers had been picked up and stashed in his old room. There was nothing left to do but sit here and wait for them to come back.

For a moment, he considered heading over to Mrs. Figg’s. Her house smelled funny, and she talked about her cats as though they were her children, but at least she didn’t mind Harry hanging about. But Mrs. Figg was out visiting a niece, she even took her cats with her. So much for that.

Harry shifted, the rug scratching against his legs. The Dursleys didn’t have many books and Harry had read all of them anyway, even the dull ones about drills and household management.

His eyes wandered to the family photos on the mantelpiece. Dudley beamed out of most of them, a younger version of his piggy face smiling proudly as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stood on either side of him. There wasn’t a single photograph of Harry.

He wondered, not for the first time, what it might have been like if his parents had lived for a bit longer. He didn’t know much about them, only what little Aunt Petunia had grudgingly let slip, and even that was usually followed by a scathing comment about freakishness.

But sometimes Harry liked to imagine.

Maybe they would have had another baby before they died. A brother, perhaps, someone younger who would have looked up to Harry. He could almost picture it: a boy with wild black hair and glasses too big for his face, asking endless questions and following Harry around , pestering him wherever he went.

Or a sister. He’d have liked a sister, Harry thought. Someone smaller, someone he could protect. He’d make sure she never felt the way he did now.

He frowned, shaking his head like an animal to clear the cloying daydream scene. The image blurred and faded. It wasn’t real.

Outside, the street lights flickered on, casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere down the road, a car rumbled past, and Harry listened to the sound until it disappeared.

He got up and wandered into the kitchen. The cupboards were mostly bare, and he wasn’t hungry anyway. He poured himself a glass of water and stood by the window, staring out at the quiet street. The houses were all the same, neat and orderly, their curtains drawn tight against the evening light.

Harry pressed his forehead to the cool glass and closed his eyes. He liked to do that whenever he was alone in the kitchen, the glass was always clean and nice to the touch.

He wished, with everything he had, for something to break the silence. For someone to talk to. For someone to be there.

The clock ticked on, loud and unrelenting, as the empty house settled around him.

Entry Four: Fucking divination

Spoiler

amusement, joy

“It’s been a pleasure to watch you grow, Harry,” Ron said, holding a glass of red wine, which was evidently called Nebulous, but was heavy like a tar, anything but uncertain. “To watch you grow from a little knobby-kneed boy, one wearing horrible cast-offs, yet would gladly share his sweets with me.”

Harry returned his smile, wondering where this sudden nostalgia was coming from, and felt his eyes start to mist.

“To watch you grow into this tall, young lad—you’re almost as tall as I am, these days—but, especially, to watch you grow into somebody who would call me his manager, just so you could take me from one posh place to another! And the food! It’s been a great pleasure, truly.”

And indeed, Harry and Ron, now laughing, were sitting in a private lounge for competitors in a duelling hall called Perla di Piemonte, one of the finest Italy had. It was all marble this, and crystal that, and a single massive window covering the whole outer wall showed the Alps in all their magnificence.

“Marble on the walls, marble on the plate, heh,” Ron said, just as the waiter popped away with a piece of steak so deliriously luxurious it was unveiled for you, raw on a golden plate, before it was cooked.

Harry chuckled and leaned back, relaxing.

“What’s new? Three weeks since we’ve seen each other, has anything interesting happened in Britain?”

“Oh yeah, two weeks ago, just when you had that exhibition match with the… Russian, I think, some posh purebloods tried to introduce some stupid law or another. Hermione just said Harry Potter will be interested in this law, I can tell. I’ll be sure to get his opinion when it was her turn for opinion. Then next day, after the Prophet printed an article about your win—you sure did a number on him—came out, we had no less than six owls before the breakfast, loudly proclaiming there was no need to bother you, because they would be definitely voting against the law.”

“That’s…”

“…not the best part! During breakfast, Hermione was all pleased as a punch, smugly spreading her jam and sipping tea, and I said: Harry will be delighted by your exemplary exploitation of his illustriousness, surely. You should have seen her face!”

Harry chocked on his water, laughing.

“Exemplary exploitation of his illustriousness?”

“Haven’t I mentioned? I bought a thesaurus, and every time Hermione gets a bit too pleased for herself, I think about my reply, and replace the words with the most ridiculous synonyms I can find. It’s always so bloody funny to see her all confused, prideful and shocked.”

They laughed so hard, tears sprang in Harry’s eyes. Just imagining her face, frozen in between three different grimaces sent them laughing again.

Just as they finished their lunches and ordered an espresso after, the duel down below concluded. The man, a young newcomer hoping to break into the exhibition pool, stood victorious, while his opponent laid crumbled under the stage, her hand forced into an awkward position. They now had thirty minutes before Harry would meet him in the finals.

“You? Did Rumiana finally say yes? Or did her crystal ball came up with another ridiculous reason why she can’t be your girlfriend? What was it last time?”

Harry’s face was such a mix of sourness, confusion and happiness, Ron had to take a deep breath to not start laughing again.

“My Veela part sings, when I’m with you, Harry, but the fortune tells me it’s not yet our time.” Harry said, adopting a horrible approximation of Rumiana’s Bulgarian accent.

Ron couldn’t hold it in, then, and just burst out laughing. Harry sighed, and Ron laughed even harder.

“But that’s not the worst. Just yesterday, she drew bones, and evidently, the stars told her that she’s finally ready, but I must first find her counterpart.” Harry palmed his face. “She refused to clarify what ‘her counterpart’ means.”

“She’s a Bulgarian Veela. She’s hot. Perhaps you need to find someone hideously ugly? Blonde maybe, since she’s dark haired?” Ron considered. “She’s also a woman, so perhaps she’ll become your girlfriend the day you hook up with Malfoy.”

Before Harry could reply to that fantastic idea, however, the doors to the lounge flew open with a bang, and the losing duellist from the semifinals came storming in. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and Ron could feel the cracking of the ice in his bones. She ordered a whiskey, neat, and sat down by the bar. The chair squeaked.

She was angry, muttering to herself, and kept tossing her hair around. It was white, like a freshly fallen snow, and threw blue highlights as it caught the light. She downed the whiskey, order another one, and gradually calmed herself down.

She looked at them, deep in thought, and Ron looked away, not wanting to be caught ogling her willowy body, showing as much as it did, considering how singed her robes were. A bead of sweat formed on his neck when she stood up. Perhaps he didn’t look away fast enough.

She walked to their table, and Ron thought she walked the same way some aurors he’d known did. Perhaps it was true that duellists made for good fighters, even the most showy ones.

“Sit down, sit down,” Harry said, “Thea, this is Ron Weasley, my best mate, and, er, official manager. Ron, this is Thea Björklund, currently the fourth top-rated exhibition duellist. Too bad about your loss, Thea.”

They sat down, and Thea, now calmed down, conjured two cubes of ice in her drink with a tap on the glass.

“Loss? That was no loss, that was a humiliation!” The calm was only a temporary, brittle thing, then, and there was an undercurrent of violent snowstorm. “He has no style, only brawn! Not one transfiguration, not one interesting charm! It was all punch, punch, shield, punch! And as if that was not enough, he still uses spell chains when he’s pressured. Spell chains!”

“Er…”

“What are spell chains?” Ron asked.

Thea looked at him, breathing deeply and unbelieving, and Harry had to jump to his defence.

“Ron isn’t a career duellist like us, Thea. He had a brief stint with aurors and now develops experimental magic with his brother in their, er, novelty shop.” Harry turned to Ron. “Spell chains are sometimes used in the junior competitions. Teenagers use them, once they can cast silently, but still rely on movements. One movement flows into the next one, and the next one, and you can throw around more magic. It’s usually discarded by the time you reach proper duels.”

“Because purely jinxes and curses don’t really win you matches, right, I understand now. And this guy still uses them?”

“Ja! He’s very fast, and his spells are surprisingly powerful,” Thea said, took a deep breath, a sip of her whiskey, and the storm in the air calmed down. “Which is why I’m here. He and his ridiculous approach can’t be allowed into the exhibition pool. I was planning to ask you out for a dinner before, but I’ve changed my mind. Show the world that he can’t bully his way into elites. Stop him in a noteworthy way, and it won’t be a dinner we’ll be having, but a breakfast.”

Harry sat, agape and stupefied, and it seemed that it was once again time to lean on the thesaurus and bring out the ‘Ron the well-spoken’.

“My lady, Harry Potter is as mesmerised by your magnificence, as he’s amazed by your stupendous daring. He accepts your challenge.”

Thea looked at him, looked at Harry, and stood up. She smiled, and Ron could swear he smelled the heaven that was a fireplace in the winter.

“Underbar! I will go and prepare myself for your inevitable win, then. In case you haven’t been watching, his go-to chain is The Last Word In.”

She left, and Ron enjoyed her walking away. Harry still didn’t move. Probably still shocked at the challenge, Ron thought, and calmly sipped his wine.

“Fucking divination!”

Perhaps it wasn’t just the challenge, then.

“What?”

“I like Rumiana, I do, but I always thought her frequent use of divination for everything was a bit sus. My dark, beautiful, and surprisingly calm and level-headed lover—for a Balkan anyway—tells me I need to find ‘her counterpart’. And who comes in?”

“Oh… A bright-haired, passionate Scandinavian witch. I see. Well, at least she’s not ugly…”

“And I was so sure all divination was a load of bollocks. Now I’ll have to beg Rumiana for forgiveness,” Harry bemoaned his life, “and worse, she’ll now no doubt insist on periodic palm readings, and whatever else she could come up with.”

“Stop trying to make me jealous, and focus on the duel. What’s the plan? And what’s The Last Word In?”

“It’s a particularly nasty chain. It’s two exploding curses to break down the shield or solid defence, a disarming and a stunning charm, and then, when your opponent is presumably out cold, you hit them with a Reductor. The Last Word In.”

“Ah…” Ron said, for a lack of words, shocked that there could be a teenager throwing this stuff around in a competition where the goal was as much a good show as winning was. Harry seemed to be losing a dispute with himself, so before he had to go on stage, Ron ordered them both a tea.

Harry drained the cup, turned it three times in his right hand, then switched it to his left hand, and pointed the handle away from him. He was looking into it, considering.

“Fucking Divination.” He sighed, stood up, and left for the match.

Ron looked into the cup and squinted. He didn’t understand what a pile of seaweeds with a large stone in it had to do with anything.

A short while later, Ron found himself sitting in the VIP section close to the stage, just as the challenger strutted to his position. Harry, on the other hand, didn’t do anything of the sort, and neither did he do any of his usual flashy entrance magic. He just disinterestedly—and how can one even walk disinterestedly?—found his position, where he stood slouched, and ignored the world with a passion.

Te crowd murmured, and the referee started the duel, and Harry still didn’t move. Even as the curses flew at him, he just stood there, bored, his wand twitching. Then the first curse fizzled out. And the second. Third was redirected, somehow, as was the fourth.

Ron recalled then, what Harry considered his most embarrassing defeat. Not one of his first duels, when Harry just found duelling and wouldn’t know showmanship if it bit him in the ass, but the fight with Snape on the night Dumbledore died.

Snape was fleeing then, and Harry pursued, and nothing he did would even come close to Snape, some spells not even leaving his wand. That was what he was doing now, just standing there.

And then two blasting curses left his opponent’s wand, and his gaze sharpened. A wide sweep left, and the first one lit up the barrier on the side opposite of Ron. A wide sweep right, and Ron saw it head for him, before the barrier stopped it with a bright flash. Two twitches, and both the expelliarmus and the stupefy were slapped down.

And then, when the last word in came, Harry cast a first obvious spell of the duel.

“Protego!,” he cried aloud, and his voice cut through the noise of the arena.

The shield materialised not two feet away from the curse, big, thick and glowing with magic. The reductor was returned, twice as fast, and the opponent was catapulted from the stage in a blink of an eye, and hit the seats behind his position with thunderous crunch.

“Winner, Harry Potter!,” the referee announced, and Harry waited for a couple of seconds, before a white blur swept him off his feet, and with a loud pop, both him and Thea were gone.

Ron stood up, intent on actually doing something as Harry’s official manager, for once. He made his way to where the press and duelling officials convened, and directed his gaze to one of them, a weedy middle-aged official.

“Mr. Weasley, my name is Henry Cellier, and I work for the duelling archive. This is the first time we have seen a match where one of the duellists used only one spell—and shield at that—and the technique has no name. Do you know what Mr. Potter named it?”

Ron knew what his best mate would choose; he was still as forgiving as ever, and even with all the shit Snape pulled, he considered him a hero. He would put the credit where it was due, and would probably call it something ridiculous like ’Snape’s Stalwart Shielding’.

Well, Ron Weasley wasn’t Harry Potter.

“It’s called ‘The Snivellous’ Denial’, Mr. Cellier.” He then turned to the reporters. “I am sure Harry will be most delighted if you print the name of this technique in your articles, he spent not inconsiderable time developing it.”

He answered a couple more question, and with a nod left the duelling hall.

The morning found Ron in the dining room of a luxurious hotel in Turin. For once, he picked continental breakfast instead of his favoured Full English. He especially enjoyed the slightly earthy ham, whatever the truffles were. The paper on the table had a large ‘Harry Potter and The Snivellous’ Denial!’ above the fold and the sweetness of the situation put the idea of a follow-up pastry in his mind.

With a pop, Harry apparated in. Dishevelled and slightly crumpled as he was, even a blind person could spot his relaxed manner and a beaming smile.

“Good night?”

“Thea makes wonderful eggs in the morning.”

“Hm.”

The air changed slightly then, and Ron could tell Harry spotted the paper. His eyebrows shot up, and he turned to Ron.

“What…?”

“Oh yeah, since you’ve left early, the committee asked me—as your faithful manager—to answer some questions. So it fell to me to name the technique you’ve spent months perfecting. I, of course, picked something you would.” Ron said with a nod, and poured himself and Harry some tea. Drained the cup, turned, switched hands and pointed the handle outwards. “I think I see a wand and another crossing it, but it doesn’t quite look like a fight. What do you think it means?”

A Patronus materialised out of the wall, a swan of some kind, and Harry and Ron froze.

“Harry, I have just read the papers. The match is getting an entry in The Almanac as the first-ever duel won without a single offensive spell, and I find my previous reward wanting. Let’s have a holiday together, if you’re available.”

The swan honked, then bowed and dissolved into motes of light falling to the ground like snowflakes. Harry looked at where it stood, then turned and pointedly looked at Ron’s cup.

“Fucking divination,” he said. “Cancel the match next Thursday, please. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

And with a pop, he was gone again.

Entry Five: Episkey

Spoiler

Grief

The kitchen felt as small as ever, but it was crowded now with what was missing.

George sat stiffly in the chair by the window, his shoulders brushing against the edge of the cabinet that had always been too close to the table. The corner of his sleeve caught on the handle of a drawer—the one Fred had once filled with mismatched sugar quills and fizzing whizzbees he’d nicked from Zonko’s. George looked away quickly.

“Hold still,” Molly said, her voice brisk but not unkind, and George froze. She bent toward him, her hands brushing against his cheek with the same care she’d used to brush biscuit crumbs off their chins when they were boys. He could still see the scuffed greenish spot on the floorboards where Fred had dropped the cauldron during their first attempt at portable swamps.

She muttered, “Episkey,” her wand drawing a familiar arc in the air, but the charm didn’t take.

“Hmm,” she frowned. “It’s not closing up. Typical. We’ll do this the old way, then. Honestly, George, you should be more careful.”

Her hands, warm and deliberate, moved to his face, tracing the shallow cut that ran from his cheekbone to his brow. There was no judgement in her touch, only care, the kind she’d lavished on them since they were small. They’d spent a lifetime enduring scraped knees and singed eyebrows from pranks gone wrong, got in a thousand brotherly brawls and duels —the duels weren’t nearly as fun with Ron—, but somewhere along the way, they'd learned the spells, the potions. They moved out, they’d grown up..

He. He had grown up.

The thought lingered, unwelcome.

He held still as her fingers worked, her touch a familiar mixture of roughness and gentleness, though tougher now than it had been before the war. Her thumb brushed over a speck of dandruff on his brow. It should have been an ordinary moment, as ordinary as her fussing ever was, but it wasn’t.

Her hands faltered, just slightly, as if something unseen had caught her. Her fingers lingered on his cheek, the way they used to linger on Fred’s, her thumb grazing the spot where his identical birthmark had been. She was looking at him, but not truly.

George didn’t flinch, though he wanted to.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. It probably wouldn’t be the last. But it hurt, every time, seeing the way her eyes drifted past him, like she could almost see him, his twin standing there beside him, grinning with slightly more teeth than George

He coughed, trying to pull her back. “I’m fine, Mum. Just forgot to cut my nails, that’s all.”

She raised her eyebrows at the lie—Episkey would’ve fixed something that mundane—and her lips quirked in a knowing smile. “Silly of you, dearie. I always said: nails on Saturday, hair on Sunday. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

“Not enough, clearly.”

He grinned, and she huffed, half-laughed as she dabbed salve onto his cut with the tip of her wand.

“Stop fidgeting!” she said, though there was no real scolding in her tone. “You don’t want it to scar, do you?”

She reached into her wand pocket—a bottomless trove of herbs, spices, and other odds and ends—and pulled out a bay leaf, dabbing it against her lips before pressing it lightly to the wound.

That usually skeeved him out, but today he didn’t mind as much.

"Ewwww mum, gross"

Appearances had to be kept. She just shushed him.

George rolled his eyes theatrically. “That’s it. I’m doomed. When this scar turns green and I sprout yucky wet bay leaves, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

“Then you’ll finally be useful in the kitchen,” Molly replied.

Her smile was soft as she wrapped a bandage around his head, her hands lingering a moment longer than necessary.

George didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Letting her fuss over him felt indulgent, a bit embarrassing, like something he ought to have outgrown.

She was done with her ministrations now that she bandaged the cut, but he leaned into her warm touch nonetheless, grateful for her presence and her care, embarrassed but willing himself to let her mother him, to let her comfort him in a way that only she could.

George hugged his mother, tight and warm, and felt her arms rubbing his back like they always did—in the shape of a half-crescent moon. An old wives' tale, she believed that it helped protect them from evil.

He let go before she did. They needed to go check on the kids. She hung on for a second longer.

“All right, take the leaf off in a minute and you’ll be right as rain Georgie.”

“Handsome as ever, wouldn’t you say?” He said.

She smiled, a brilliant thing, and slapped his cheek playfully. “Indeed.”

For a moment, they stood there, silent but together, and George felt a little more like himself. Or at least, whoever he was meant to be now.

Entry Six: Her Last

Spoiler

that combination of wistfulness and nostalgia you get when you are doing something you love for the final time and you're very aware of it

A tawny screech owl swooped in through the window, dropped an envelope of stiff paper, and straightaway winged out the opposite window.

Alicia plucked the envelope out of the air.

“Good to see someone kept in practice,” said Angelina, glaring at Katie and waving a fork in her direction.

The younger chaser dropped her hands onto the table. “Angie, it was the first practice,” whined Katie. “After a whole year!” She glanced at Alicia beseechingly. Alicia missed the plea, for she was focused on tapping the envelope with her wand.

“Some support,” sighed Katie. She poked at her pie.

Katie was right, though. The Tournament last year had blunted their edge. The Slytherins’ taunts didn’t help. Angelina regretted her harsh words in this final year with Katie. “Sorry, you’re right.”

Katie accepted with a quick smile.

“How’s your nose Katie?” asked Angelina worriedly. Katie had taken a hard pass earlier that day. Fred made matters worse with a Blisterpod, and the practice stopped to get Pomfrey’s help.

Angelina loved the absurdity that were the twins, but they had gone too far — losing Katie would have been costly. She had yelled at Fred until it had grown awkward.

Katie tapped her nose and snapped a salute. “All fine, Captain!”

The soft murmuring of voices, the clanking of knives and forks, the gentle beams of the candles, the aroma only a Hogwarts dinner could offer, and the soothing warmth kindled by years of camaraderie … Angelina yearned to freeze the moment for all of eternity.

She would definitely not miss exams and captaining the quidditch team. She knew she was flying off the handle where before she would have laughed.

“All clear!” cried Alicia, whipping her cashmere gloves off her hands and turning over the envelope.

“Golly Alice, why would anyone try to curse us?” choked out Katie, between stuffing herself with more of the divine pie.

Alicia tutted. “You-Know-Who is back.” Katie caught Angelina’s look of morbid fascination and gulped with a guilty smile.

“The envelope’s for you, Angie,” continued Alicia.

Angelina tore the envelope open. A sheaf of notes and records, each annotated in black, messy writing, fluttered out. She whipped them into order with a jab of her wand and stashed them in the pockets of her robes.

“Oliver?” asked Alicia with a shrewd grin.

Angelina nodded. “He’s a master at planning plays. Reckoned he’d know even more with his time at Puddlemere. I’m a practical girl, but all that theory in sixth year —”

Katie moaned piteously.

“ — is really saving my butt this year. I thought it’d be worth a look — I’m responsible for you lot now.”

“We trust you,” said Alicia solemnly. Katie nodded vigorously, her ponytail lashing her cheeks.

Angelina would have thought they were taking the mickey, but these were her girls. She felt touched nevertheless, that they would support her in spite of her unbecoming outbursts.

Katie jerked straight in her seat. “Alice, Angie, if sixth year is more theory than practice, how is seventh year DADA —”

Angelina grimaced. Even Alicia couldn’t keep a turn of her lips from showing.

Katie stretched her lips into a silent O. “You too?”

Angelina was anxious about DADA. Going into experimental creature breeding demanded high standards in Defence. She had to sneak in some practice, rules or not.

The trio finished their meals in pregnant silence.

*

Angelina was still deliberating locations as she tidied her books at midnight.

“Angie,” called out Alicia. Grey eyes pinned Angelina.

“Ssssshhhh,” hissed Patricia Stimpson fiercely. She returned to reading Starring the future.

Angelina tip-toed across to Alicia, giving the bed hangings a wide berth. “What is it?” she whispered.

“Let me know when you find a spot,” said Alicia.

Angelina should have acclimatized to being ambushed by Alicia’s disconcerting percipience, yet still the girl stupefied her. She patted her acceptance and slid back to her bed.

Sunday was frittered on a four dozen inch essay on effects of cypress in potions.

Monday delivered unpleasant news. “She’s an Inquisitor?” said Angelina, aghast.

Fred And George claimed a seat on either side of her. They leaned over and peered at the newspaper in synchrony.

“Dear me — looks like the resident toad has a promotion,” said Fred.

“Harry is going to break out the old singing voice again,” predicted George.

Angelina’s heart sank. Why didn’t Harry wait Umbridge out? Prefects and other quidditch captains had noticed Umbridge, the treatment meted out to him, and were either mum or toadying to her. Angelina fervently wished for DADA’s jinx to hurry up already.

She found out next morning that the prat had won himself another week of detentions. She wondered uncharitably if he had taken one too many knocks to the head.

The following three weeks passed in a haze of practices, NEWT homework, and classes. A stream of conductors directed her — she dove with hippocampi; apprehended nutrition — Flitwick guided her wand through twirls; McGonagall steered her wand along waves; Umbridge escorted her wand into her pocket.

Angelina flung herself into a squishy armchair in the common room one Friday evening. Chatter of the Hogsmeade weekend wafted around her. Laughter and snaps echoed. Angelina exhaled contentedly as she looked at the lit roof…

“Pssst …”

Angelina jerked awake. The room was deserted, save for Alicia.

Angelina groaned as she ratcheted out of the chair. “What time is it?”

“Two,” said Alicia promptly. Angelina begrudged her alertness at this late hour.

“But that’s not all I woke you up for,” continued Alicia, tugging Angelina straight. “I’ve found a solution for our Defence problem.”

“You have?” said Angelina groggily. She stretched herself, joints popping.

“Hermione Granger asked us to meet at Hog’s Head today. Said Harry would teach us,” said Alicia.

“Harry!?” exclaimed Angelina, bewildered. An image of wee Harry in his first year, innocent, green eyes framed by oversized glasses, standing with knobbly knees on a stack of books, like Flitwick, intruded on her thoughts. She snorted. “Why not take the class herself?”

Alicia trembled minutely. “Hermione says it’s all true.”

“What do you mean? The rumours? Harry slaying a basilisk? Banishing dementors?” fired Angelina. If any of them were true…

Alicia nodded mutely and climbed the stairs to the dormitory. Angelina swayed in place for a second before mirroring her. She shivered. The idea was monstrous, but so was the myth of the Boy Who Lived.

**

“Finally some real magic!” whooped Katie, smiling widely and throwing her arms in the air.

They were descending the hill upon which Hog’s head stood. The meeting was just what the mediwitch ordered.

“What has you in a tizzy, Alice?” asked Angelina. Alicia’s head snapped to her. It felt so good to fluster her for a change.

“Hermione’s made a magical contract,” said Alicia. Prompted by their gaping, she added, “We were taught those in Ancient Runes at the end of sixth year. Everyone has their individual touch, but that feeling at the end? Magical contract.”

“What feeling?” asked Angelina. The solidarity had been magical, but not magic. As Dumbledore might have said, “A magic beyond all we do.”

The Ministries could cast aspersions, but she was going to miss his sage, even if quirky, presence.

Alicia seemed at a loss for words. “It’s — ARGH — impossible to describe. We had fun tricking each other into contracts in class last year, and I began picking up on it just before exams. I figure Babbling gave me an O for that.”

Angelina stopped, unsettled. Whatever Alicia felt, Harry had too — he had looked skittish. Katie and Alicia forged ahead, arguing over Katie claiming to ‘feel’ it.

***

Monday morning pricked her buoyant mood, but it was not classes for a change.

“Organizations … disbanded … permission … re-form,” read out Angelina. Quidditch! — she needed to go now. She ran for the portrait hole.

George called out after her. “Oi, we’ve got Flitwick!”

A Weasley twin urging her to class? Angelina collected herself. It was in between charming blocks of wood impervious did she recall the Defence Club.

That evening saw her knocking at the Umbridge’s door; commanded each time to try in half an hour.

Angelina fumed. Toads could afford waiting for flies, but her transfiguration essay couldn’t. Umbridge’s saccharine voice finally poured out of her parlor. “Come in.”

Angelina marched in. “Professor Umbridge, I would like to re-form the Gryffindor Quidditch team — with your permission.”

Umbridge smiled indulgently in her chair. “I shall take note. Hem. Procedures will be followed.”

Thq quill lay untouched. “You may leave.”

Angelina had to restrain herself from slamming the door. Other clubs and teams had received permission to re-form instantly.

Angelina waylaid Professor McGonagall after dinner. “Professor McGonagall, Umbridge has disbanded the quidditch team!”

Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses, nostrils flaring. “Wait for me at my office,” she said grimly.

Although Angelina rushed, Professor McGonagall was walking down the corridor to her office from the other direction as she arrived.

Professor McGonagall said fiercely, “The Headmaster has overruled her. Johnson — the quidditch cup cannot leave my office this year.”

Angelina wouldn’t allow it anyway. “Not while I’m captain, Professor.”

****

“— can you tell Katie and Alicia?” whispered Harry at lunch.

“Sure,” said Angelina. Harry looked focused and intent, as though there was a snitch only he could see. She had half-expected the Defence club to be dropped — then again, someone who thwarted You-Know-Who twice would not back down from Umbridge. She went back to Katie and Alicia. “Girls, we meet at eight. Harry’s meeting.”

The meeting was everything she expected and more. Harry, Hermione and Ron had hustled up an admirable room (it could mold itself to wishes!) complete with dark detectors, books, and cushions. What other mysteries had they found? She wished that she had looked into Hogwarts seriously. Yet another thing she would be leaving behind.

She paired up with Katie for practising the disarming charm, while Alicia partnered with Terry Boot.

Katie was bouncing on her toes in excitement. Her enthusiasm was infectious and Angelina couldn’t help but beam back. “You first, Katie.”

Katie waved her wand dramatically. Angelina’s wand did not so much as stir.

Horror dawned on Angelina as she realized Katie’s predicament. “Umbridge has been trying to get you to learn non-verbal spells by READING?”

“Yes!” said Katie with deep feeling.

Angelina slapped her forehead in exasperation.

“There’s no trick to help. Just concentration,” said Angelina.

Katie closed her eyes for a second, and waved her wand furiously. Angelina thought she felt the wand twitch.

Harry came over. “Trying non-verbal spells?”

Katie swallowed. “Right.”

Angelina swung her wand. Katie’s wand boosted out of her hand and fell on a cushion. She scrambled to recover it.

Alicia broke away and assisted her. She lingered, standing just outside their little gathering.

“Well, this is tough,” said Harry, rubbing his forehead sheepishly. “I suppose Hermione could get it — she’s got tremendous concentration — it took me a fair bit of practising, but Moody showed me a trick.”

“Professor Moody?” asked Angelina.

Harry lit up. “Right, I met him over summer. Grumbled something about showing support, but he taught me loads.”

Harry faced Angelina and gave his wand a small twitch. Angelina couldn’t remember letting go of her wand; she heard it clatter to the floor, nonetheless.

“You needn’t concentrate —” said Harry, turning to the adjacent wall. He brought his wand level with his shoulder. “ — when you can convince yourself that your opponent is —”

A miniature but menacing figure with a blank face sprang up before him. It was covered by a cloak, with a wooden stick poking out one side.

“— out to get you. Kill you even. It does wonders for focus. The trick is to seize it for your spell —”

A red light blasted the stick from the figure.

“— and there! Give it a try.”

Katie nodded and affixed Angelina with a complex look of fear and resolve. She swiped her wand at Angelina.

Angelina’s wand jerked out of her grip and fell. Alicia hollered, “Right in the hoop, Katie!”

Angelina wouldn’t forget Katie’s yell of pure joy.

Entry Seven: Bite The Others

Spoiler

Humor

Bull’s cross was a sleepy little street on the outskirts of London. A small brook raced it down to the intersection with Oxencross. Since it was lined by small shops on one side, it bore a deserted look at this late hour. Several alleys sprang to the right, with tidy little bungalows divorced from the roads by tall hedges. The streetlights normally banished patches of dark, but a dense mist smothered them.

A black cab rolled up to the curb. A sharp man in creased clothes stumbled out and slammed the door shut. He looked to be in his thirties, and had with him a small bag. The man popped out headphones as he watched the cab leave.

Herbert had had an exhausting day. As the Minister for Expediting Business, his office was never short of work.

He broke into a jog. The Prime Minister had promised to cut the government down to size, and he had been rather alarmed to find the man sincerely going about it after winning office. It got him plenty of work, a position in the Treasury, and businesses paid handsomely for his nephew’s ‘consultancies’. They left him feeling as guilty as sin as well.

He stopped and squinted at the mist. The dreadful thing was wet and clingy. He hoped it would clear up soon — the days were beginning to blur into harsh, bright offices, and the nights into dim, dank bars and streets. He pulled a small torch out of his bag.

It made no difference. Herbert feared the parliamentary session next week. They had cut subsidies for gas and mothballed their reserves — savings! — and this unnatural gloom had descended, as if God himself disapproved. People were dying in shelters — the press didn’t care — he felt sorry — but their supply was running out. He needed to magic some cash — tax collection had been low…something would have to give out … and soon …

The light illuminated a short man with a scraggly red beard. He was dressed in shabby robes that made it impossible to tell if he was thin or fat. Herbert thought, they’re spreading! He pretended to ignore the man, but that plan was ruined.

“Howdy mate! I’m lookin’ fer a bloke. Name’s Herbert Chorley.”

Herbert carefully kept his face turned away —

“Confundus!”

— and jogged up to the man. The man, who had looked so suspicious earlier, was really just a harmless chap, defeated by hard times. He scolded himself for judging on first appearances.

The short man smiled, showing gaps of black in the torchlight. He was pointing a beautifully crafted stick at him. “Name’s Barbour.”

“Yes, I’m Herbert Chorley, Minister for Expediting Business, Her Majesty’s Treasury,” rattled off Herbert.

“Imperio!”

Barbour pointed the stick at him and it felt amazing. All worries about next week slipped away — he was a creature of the present — he’d do anything to remain one. Well almost anything, he amended. He missed his wife very much and…

“Imperio!” exclaimed Barbour.

Herbert’s mind went blank.

Barbour’s voice instructed him. “Get me gold. All o’ it.”

Herbert nodded, he would empty the reserves of the country if asked.

The voice approved. “Righ’. If you see anyon’ like me — bite me — what wou’d a muggl’ do?”

Herbert agreed. Anything to keep this bliss. Was this what Lord Thompson felt like, when he snorted lines in the backroom?

The voice returned. “Anyon’ you see, you need to be qu — ’cking!”

A wrenching sensation tore through Herbert’s head. He yelled, falling to the ground and rolling over. He clutched his stomach as he vomited soggy half-digested buns and spewed tea.

A new, confident voice rang, this time in his ears. “He’s gotten away! Stay here muggle, you’ll get help.”

A loud noise assaulted Herbert’s ears. He had to make it right. He had to get his paradise back. What had the strange man said? Quack.

He leapt over the embankment and into the stream. He held his arms stiffly by his side, crouched and quacked.

He was dissatisfied by his performance — he began waddling to and fro.

“Blimey!” gasped out the third voice of the night. A stooped old man with fluffy white hair gawked at the spectacle. “Dark Magic! What was Dawlish thinking, sending for Misuse?” He was dressed in green robes.

Robes. Like the dealer. Herbert snarled and scrambled up the banks. The old man started. “What’s wrong with you? Merlin’s beard!”

Herbert wailed, “Bite!”

The old man seemed at his wit’s end. He turned on his foot and disappeared.

Herbert was bemused. What was he to do now? Go home? He chalked a line of weed, mud, leaves and stalks as he shambled down the street. He left himself in at the door.

A light clicked on in the entrance room. A thin, attractive woman, her black hair a crow’s nest, appeared at the corridor to their bedroom. “Is that you dear?”

“Quack!” said Herbert.

The woman blinked rapidly. She screamed and ran to him. “Herbert! Why are you wet? I told you to wear your coat dear. Are you running a cold? Speak to me.” She grabbed his face and checked his head for fever. Her cool touch was reassuring, her perfume familiar, but it paled next to heaven. She then grabbed his jaw, applying light pressure, trying to get him to speak.

Herbert loved Charlene, he really did! But this was Important. “QUACK!”

Charlene’s warm eyes looked fully awake now. She shoved him into a sofa and snatched the telephone.

She barked into the phone. “Emergency! My husband’s acting oddly — quacking. Is he mad!? No! I think it’s some of that new flu going around. You’re handing me over to another operator? Send an ambulance you nitwits!”

She met his gaze and he obliged. “Quack?”

Charlene looked ready to burst into tears. “Yes? Rapid Influenza response? What do you mean ‘apparate’?”

The doorbell rang. Charlene sprung and opened it in one motion.

A pretty young woman raised her hand in a peace sign. She had dark hair, and was dressed in dark leather clothes. A gurney lay behind her. “Hi Charlene! I’m Tonks.”

Charlene caught her shoulders and pleaded. “Help him! He doesn’t have fever, he’s wet, he’s quacking!”

“Quack,” agreed Herbert.

Tonks moved in and grabbed him by his hands. “Grab his feet.”

Charlene made to do so, but Herbert stood.

“Oh, you can walk? Good,” said Tonks. She guided Herbert down to the gurney. Charlene followed her. “Can I come?”

“No Charlene, this new disease is contagious,” said Tonks.

Charlene moaned and clutched her heart. “What about my daughters?”

“You’d better avoid contact with others until someone else with the response team shows up. You might be carrying something,” said Tonks, sympathy colouring her tone. “They’ll be quick.” She strapped Herbert in. Seeing the distraught woman continue sobbing, she added, “Don’t worry, he’s going to have the best care.”

She wheeled him into the ambulance. Herbert let out a final “quack” as Tonks shut the door.

The ambulance looked fresh off the factory line. Herbert was confused — didn’t he co-ordinate slashing the budget for these?

The ambulance started up — and the roar of the engine immediately died down.

Tonks wheeled him out. Herbert glanced around. The building appeared old, but clean. An empty portrait overlooked the ward.

The ambulance was parked askew, but more importantly, there was no road leading to the room. Herbert was confused. “Quack?”

Herbert looked closer at the room. The candles floated near the ceiling, lighting the room better than any bulb could.

“St. Mungo’s,” explained Tonks proudly on seeing him look around. She drew a sleek brown stick from her back pocket. Herbert stiffened. He had let the other one get away; he had to be strategic with this one …

Tonks prodded his shoulder and muttered, “Revelio, Salvo —”

Herbert didn’t hesitate any longer. He sank into her hand with one massive bite. The coppery taste of warm blood hit him, but he didn’t let go. The stick clattered to the floor.

Tonks yelped and strained. She closed her eyes in concentration, but Herbert saw nothing happen.

An old man, face and shoulders swamped with wild white hair, burst into the room. His beady eyes met Herbert’s as he raised another black stick — was there a new fad no one saw fit to inform him?

Herbert saw red.

Entry Eight: Knock Knock

Spoiler

Slightly sexy puzzlement. Appreciation of absurd noir as a punchline.

His office is hot, nearly sweltering, and the only sound is the rhythmic thumping of the overhead fan and the occasional sharp scratch of a quill. The soft golden glow of the setting sun illuminates the smoke in the room, painting soft swirls on the wall. There’s a sofa in the corner, a couple of overflowing file cabinets next to it.

He hears slow, measured steps from behind the entrance door. Heels. A shadow appears on the milky glass window, and slowly sharpens into the shape of a woman. Average height, slim, expensive haircut. He waits, and the shadow takes a deep breath.

Knock, knock.

------

“Potter.”

“Parkinson?”

“I need your help.”

“With…?”

“Not here. Somewhere private.”

------

“Enter,” he says, and the door opens. She is a vision; short, wavy blonde hair in a half-bob, electric blue eyes, small, slightly upturned nose and delicate, sharpish chin. Shorter than he thought–those heels look truly dangerous—and more petite. She’s wearing a blood-red suede dress with bare shoulders, ending mid-thigh and showing wonderful legs.

When she sits down and crosses her legs, she’s the very picture of poise. Her eyes narrow, nearly imperceptibly, and she sticks her chin out. He notices the slight shiver, though, so he offers a drink.

“Gin, please, if you have it.”

With a wide arc and a pull, first a bottle of gin, and then two glasses find their way to his overflow table. With a sharp flick, he banishes all his files to cabinets, which wobble slightly. He pours two drinks, and slides one in front of her.

------

“No way, Parkinson. We right stay here sit down, hands where we can see them, while Hermione weaves us a bit of privacy. No funny business.”

“Right, right. So… er… ever since the eighth year started, the school elves have it in for me. My side of the room hasn’t been cleaned at all. I can only load a bare minimum of food on my plate, anything more just vanishes. I’m sure they’ve even made me late for class, twice. I’d like you to talk to them.”

“How could I help?”

“This hallway is closed, Missy that nearly handed the Greatest Harry Potter to the bad man, the last elf told me. I was hungry, tired, and I was late to the charms class. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s been happening. The elves are making trouble for me, in your honour.”

“And why would I do anything for you? The apology letter was nice, but I don’t see how this is my problem.”

“I have information, one I guarantee you’ll be interested in. I would give you my word, but I know what’s that worth to you. I will back that information, though; calm the little beasts down for me, and it’s yours. If you decide it was not worth your time, I will give you a hundred galleons as well.”

“Hm. Let me talk to them.”

------

“You know who I am,” she says.

“I do,” he replies, and takes a puff from his cigar.

Suddenly, there’s a thin, golden cigar in her mouth, but she fumbles with the lighter. With a click of his fingers, it lights. She startles, but composes herself nearly immediately.

“A set of items has been stolen from me, and I’d like it back, Mr. Potter. No demands have been made yet, but I can’t take the risk.”

“Items?”

“Pictures.”

He narrows his eyes. “Pictures?”

A dip of chin. “Compromising.”

He feels his mouth trying to open in shock, but he pushes it away. His eyes narrow. He thinks of everything he knows of her, everything he’s heard, even the nasty little whispers that surround beautiful people. He considers.

“Viscountess Davis?”

She freezes. Mouth slightly open, eyes dilated. She swallows.

“How?”

------

“I’ve talked to the elves, Parkinson. The information?”

------

“I notice things, Duchess. It is my job. Just last week, during the dinner I’ve seen you last, she handed you a wine of glass – yet the hand lingered. Add a touch here, a profound look there, and the picture it paints is… more than clear.”

She closes her eyes. A moment of silence.

“Yes, well. I’d like the pictures back.”

“The reward?”

“Anything.” Her voice drops to whisper. “Everything.”

------

“Greengrass, she’s into you.”

“A blind man could see that. Is that the best you can do?”

“No! If you just let me finish, you’ll understand. Her parents are purebloods, but she never agreed. In the second year, Davis brought in some filthy muggle romances, Greengrass got interested, and it became her biggest hobby.”

“Some muggle books? That’s your great secret?”

“You don’t understand! It’s not just some books. It’s basically porn for women, and Greengrass inhales them whole. The more ridiculous situation or setup muggles come up with, the more she loves them. Lady in trouble seduced by a gardener? Fantastic! A nosey detective blackmailing his client with some dirt? She wishes she were that client, forced to do unspeakable acts to prevent the dirt becoming public.”

“Okay, Greengrass has a dirty hobby, and Davis might be in on it. Is that all? That might not be worth a hundred galleons.”

“You still don’t understand! She wants to relive her ridiculous fantasies. With you!”

“Maybe worth it…”

“I know they fool a bit around, her and Davis. If I overheard them last week correctly, if you give Greengrass a good showing, you might be invited.”

“That’s… good, that is. Consider us even.”

------

A drop of sweat winds down from her neck. It’s either the heat, or maybe the atmosphere. She’s stunning, just the right amount of desperation in her otherwise perfect posture. The invitation couldn’t be clearer.

He stands up, and walks behind her. Puts a hand on her bare shoulder. Trails to her slender neck, and then down her back to where the seam is. No zip, of course, no witch would ever wear a dress with a zip. His magic sparks, and the seam parts for him.

“Everything, you said?”

She nods.

“Stand up, Duchess.”

She stands up and turns, and the dress pools at her feet. His eyes feast on her, memorising every detail. She just stands there, wearing only a simple golden necklace, silken lace panties, and silver open toe heels. He takes her hand, and leads her to the couch.

“Let’s settle an advance, then.”

------

Daphne comes from the common room late one day, and as she heads for the shower, she notices the box on the bed. She opens it, confused. There’s a necklace, red velvet dress, silver heels, and a card. Her hand shakes when she reads it.

Your name is Duchess Daphne Greengrass. You need a private detective to get back something that’s been stolen from you.

If you are interested to see how this plays out, enter the door across the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh floor, this Wednesday at nine.

H.J.P.

She smiles.

------

She’s draped over the couch, sweaty, coated with no small amount of fluids, yet still exceedingly elegant. Another cigarette is lit, while she watches him dress. Their eyes meet, and he wonders what now. She steals the last word from him.

“I have a suspect in mind, Mr. Potter. My younger sister, Astoria, has always been terribly jealous of me. I was always the heir, poised to inherit the title. Her plan—however horribly thought out—is to blackmail me with those pictures. To get me to abdicate the title to her. I believe you should investigate her ro– wing, her wing of the mansion.”

With a swish and a couple of twirls of her wand, she’s clean, dressed, and heading for the door.

“Please let me know as soon as you have any information, Mr. Potter. I’ll be waiting.”

------

For the next week, Daphne, Tracy and Astoria keep whispering around, occasionally throwing him a glance. He comes to a decision, and later, double-checking the map, when he’s sure that Astoria is in Transfiguration, Harry enters her room.

He finds a box with his name, opens it, and smiles.

The pictures.

It’s time to get the rest of his reward.