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bouwrites · 1 year

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Argo: Year 6

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Burg Nurmengard. The Hound is not easily intimidated, and old Austrian castles are hardly unfamiliar, but… Burg Nurmengard is a beast of an entirely different sort.

Not because of its location or construction, but because there’s not a witch or wizard who doesn’t hear about Gellert Grindelwald and his lifelong prison. The high, dark walls of the fortress loom with his legend.

Above the gate, where the guard stops him, the Hound reads the inscription. “Für das größere Wohl.” The Hound scoffs, then mutters, “und Arbeit macht frei.”

Karkaroff really does pull through for them. There is some doubt that he’ll manage it, but at the end of the day, the Hound is walking uncontested into Burg Nurmengard, so Laelaps is quite pleased indeed.

And the filthy coward earns a blind eye. For now.

The Hound huffs, shakes his head, then, once the guards are finished patting him down and take his wand from him, he slips his mask on.

In the topmost cell of the highest tower, a small room with a narrow window too small for a man to leave or enter, Grindelwald waits. He sits on a hard bed, over his thin, threadbare blanket, meditating, jaded but unable to fight back the curiosity about just what will happen today.

A visitor. It is so rare that Grindelwald receives visitors. In fact, the only people who ever visit are his great aunt Batty and Albus Dumbledore, and neither come by for quite some time. Several years, at least, but time is hard to tell all alone in this cell.

The man who appears before the bars is tall, stands proud – good, a good wizard should always stand that way – but his form is obscured in plain black robes and his face is covered by a stylized dog mask.

“The Hound of Laelaps,” Grindelwald murmurs, finally opening his eyes to look at the man properly.

The Hound doesn’t move an inch. No fear in the face of Gellert Grindelwald? Not that Grindelwald is very dangerous these days, but still. “Gellert Grindelwald,” he says. Grindelwald allows his curious brow to raise, hearing the voice. There’s no modification spell that Grindelwald can detect, but there is an accent. It’s all but confirmed when the Hound continues speaking in German. “You have heard of Laelaps? I underestimated how much news reaches you.”

The accent. Bayrisch? Or, he could be a Berliner. Maybe someone from Bavaria that lives in Berlin, or the other way around.

Well, that doesn’t say much. Pretty much everyone in Germany despises Grindelwald. (Pretty much everyone everywhere despises Grindelwald.) He should assume that this Hound is here to kill him. Or find the elder wand. Or both. Likely both. Grindelwald isn’t too bothered about the first option, and the Hound isn’t going to succeed on the second. Not from Grindelwald, at least.

That he’s not British is interesting though, since Laelaps is believed to be British.

It’s also admittedly nice to speak German again. It’s nice to speak to anyone, but even when Dumbledore and Bathilda visit, they’re both British.

Grindelwald smiles. His missing teeth and years of imprisonment do much to dispel his charm, but he will always still be himself. “I get The Daily Prophet sometimes,” he says, “for good behavior.” The mask is a little annoying. Grindelwald will have to get the Hound to react with his whole body if he wants to see anything at all. “Tell me, Hündchen, how’s Dumbledore doing these days?”

“The Prophet will tell you all about him,” replies the Hound, unfazed. “But you know better than anyone, I’m sure.”

Grindelwald rolls his eyes. “You talked to my great aunt.”

The Hound nods.

“Well. I have to admit, the moment anyone other than her or Albus visited me, I expected it to be Voldemort.”

And still no reaction. Hm.

The Hound asks, “You say his name?”

“I have no fear of Voldemort, Hündchen.”

“I suppose not,” says the Hound. “Though I can’t help but wonder why, powerless as you are in this cell. Your magic is taken; your body is weak. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could kill you with a thought.”

Grindelwald laughs. “Let me be clearer then,” he says, leaning closer to the bars. “I have no fear of death.” As an aside, he adds, “Or anything else anyone can inflict upon me.”

“I see.”

“Do you, boy? Do you?” Grindelwald just keeps laughing. He sits back, mocking the Hound, until eventually he pulls himself together and changes the topic. “So, if Albus is still an old coot. How’s dear aunt Batty? I assumed she died.”

“No, she’s still alive,” the Hound answers carefully. “Just a bit old for international travel these days, so she can’t come around so much.”

“Good,” Grindelwald says, and he actually means it. “And the lovely Madam Prewett?”

“Still best friends. They have tea at least once a week.”

“Good, good.” Grindelwald softly sighs. He is glad his great aunt is doing well. Despite everything, she was good to him.

(And she’s battier than a cave in daytime, which means she’s more fun than just about anyone else. Grindelwald has to admit, it’s clever of Laelaps and his hound to get on her good side. Alongside the services of Muriel Prewett, she dominates the British rumor mill. They want a good image? Or if they want dirt on someone? They’ve got their in.)

The Hound is surprisingly patient. Especially for a German wizard talking to Grindelwald. The guards never have this much patience with him. They still haven’t even gotten to why the Hound is here in the first place.

“Well,” says Grindelwald. “I suppose you’ve indulged me long enough. One last question then, then you go ahead and ask whatever brought you here.”

The Hound’s head tilts. “I’m listening.”

“Voldemort. No way he’s dead is there? What do you know?”

The Hound takes a moment to respond, seemingly considering his answer. “He made horcruxes,” is the eventual answer.

Grindelwald isn’t just messing with the Hound when he pulls back slightly in shock. A horcrux isn’t a huge deal to Grindelwald. It comes with a cost he certainly never would pay, but a dark wizard more focused on himself than his purpose would find it appealing.

In fact, Grindelwald considers a horcrux ever since he hears about the disappearances, and especially the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, all those signs that point to Voldemort’s return.

But never once does Grindelwald consider multiple horcruxes. A miscalculation that he is disappointed with himself for. “Seven?” Grindelwald asks.

The Hound’s head tilts back, the dog mask angles just right so that it seems as if it is smiling. “Two. Remaining.”

Two remaining. Grindelwald barks a laugh just a smidge too undignified for his taste, but he can’t be bothered to care in the moment. So, Laelaps has already tracked down and destroyed five of Voldemort’s horcruxes.

It appears he is truly living up to his name. It’s a shame he doesn’t come here himself. Grindelwald would like to meet him.

“So,” Grindelwald says, grasping the bars of his cell. “What could possibly make someone like Laelaps come after me?”

The Hound answers smoothly, “You said you expected Voldemort. Why would he divert his campaign in Britain to come after you?”

Grindelwald grins. “Because he is afraid.”

Afraid of Death. And Grindelwald is known, in some circles which Voldemort will definitely have access to, to have gone after the Deathly Hallows.

Grindelwald’s interest lies mostly in the Elder Wand. The cloak would have been a useful tool, and he thinks he can make use of the stone as well, but the wand is the one he cares about the most for his purposes.

Voldemort is no doubt covetous of the wand, but his fear must drive him to seek out all the Hallows. To become the rumored Master of Death. He likely believes that owning all the Hallows will grant him immortality.

The Hound’s muzzle dips slightly, then lifts back to Grindelwald. “You actually found one of the Deathly Hallows?” he asks. “We knew you searched for them, but…”

Grindelwald laughs. “Do I need to have found one?” he asks. “Just knowing I’ve searched for them would have Voldemort coming to kill me.”

Again that mask tilts. Not down, but up. Into that smile. “No, you found one,” the Hound says with confidence. “But if you had the wand, how did-” A sharp gasp. “Dumbledore has the Elder Wand.”

“I never had it,” Grindelwald chuckles. “If I did, would I have lost that duel with Albus?”

“But you didn’t lose, did you?” the Hound says. Grindelwald bites his tongue. “You gave up. There are rumors that you came to regret what you did. That wasn’t from sitting in this cell, was it? Dumbledore talked you down.”

“You’re reaching. Grasping for straws.”

“No, I don’t think I am,” says the Hound darkly. Something in his body language shifts. He leans closer, grabs the bars. “What are you afraid of?” The words come out gently, nearly coaxing. Grindelwald is not fool enough to fall for that. “Do you really still care for him? After all this time, after being put here by him… you’re Dumbledore’s man?”

Grindelwald falls back onto his thin mattress and laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs until he can scarcely breathe and must fight hard to keep tears from his eyes.

Because what else can he do here in this cell?

How much does Grindelwald give? Is he slipping so much? He’s not afraid of death, but Voldemort would seek him because Voldemort is. If the Hound is familiar with the Deathly Hallows and their legend, then he sees where the connection is made.

How he’s so certain that Grindelwald actually possesses a Hallow isn’t as clear, but given that assumption the wand is the obvious choice for which one he would most desire, but it’s also the only one that there is a good argument for him not possessing. Unless Laelaps already knows where the other two Hallows are.

Grindelwald can only laugh. To be accused of being Dumbledore’s man! Albus is right about one thing. Kids these days are truly brilliant. Dumbledore’s man indeed.

“Well, that changes things,” murmurs the Hound. “I had intended to ask you for information on him.”

“On Albus?” Grindelwald asks. He’s well and truly curious now. “What did you want to know? And what do you want to do to him?”

“Dumbledore is…” the Hound hums in thought, “well-meaning. But he doesn’t handle power well. I think even he knows that. And yet he is easily the most powerful wizard in Britain. One of the most powerful in the world. Possessing the Elder Wand as well…” he huffs, shaking his head. “You’re familiar, I assume, with Dumbledore’s many positions? Laelaps intends, eventually, to relieve him of some of them.”

“I see,” says Grindelwald. And he does. “How?”

“As peaceably as Dumbledore will allow,” responds the Hound. “He may not be our ally, but he is also not our enemy. We simply don’t trust him with that much power. We don’t wish him harm.”

“And what positions exactly do you intend to let him keep?”

“Ideally his position in the Wizengamot,” says the Hound with a small sigh. “Practically, it’s going to be easiest to get him out of office and simply leave him as the Hogwarts Headmaster. Depending on what else is going on when and if we have to take action, that may be the best compromise.”

“You tell me all this freely? Even though you believe I’m Dumbledore’s man?”

The dog mask smiles again. “We don’t care if Dumbledore knows these plans,” he says. “When the time comes, there won’t be anything he can do to stop it.” The Hound crosses his arms to lean against the stone opposite the cell. “So, I’m curious. What do you think? You know better than anyone how vulnerable Dumbledore is to power. We don’t believe he is corrupt, per se, but neither is he immune to it. He’s neglected his duties to the students of his school, he’s failed in his position in the British Ministry, and I think you know well that he’s done hardly anything at all in his position in the ICW.”

“He never wanted that position,” Grindelwald admits. “He was offered once, many years ago, and turned it down then. He knew better, then.” Will he help this Hound? The Albus that Grindelwald knew was too afraid of power to take so much of it. The question becomes, then, whether Dumbledore in his old age is simply better at resisting his own nature, or if he’s finally given into it.

The answer to that, even with Dumbledore’s rare visits, even Grindelwald doesn’t know.

Rolf leans back in his tall armchair, frowning over his steepled fingers at the newest applicant.

Masteries aren’t common in the wizarding world, and people who pursue mastery in multiple subjects even less so. People like Rolf’s brother Argo with two apprenticeships are rare, and even he is only on track for a second mastery due to a circumstance and some lucky connections.

So, when Rolf sees that this applicant wants to pursue a teaching career, the mastery goal makes sense, but that he wants to pursue both magizoology and defense… honestly makes Rolf suspicious that they’ll just lose him as soon as he finds an opportunity for apprenticeship elsewhere.

And given he’s Harry Potter, Rolf has no doubt that people will be chomping at the bit to have him as an apprentice, whether he deserves it or not.

To Harry’s credit, he applies for the proper position. That is, he applies for a summer job as an assistant caretaker on the reserve and not for apprenticeship proper. Potter’s grades are acceptable, but not enough to accept him as an apprentice without any real work experience.

Apprenticeships are hard to get, typically, because they are very much a professional position. Apprentices, despite their name, are not usually considered novices by any means. They’re held to the same standards as masters. The only difference is that they have their masters to fall back on as a safety net if they’re unsure or make a mistake. Outside of their relationship with their own master, they’re expected to be treated as any other professional, and that includes giving them no slack in the workplace for lack of experience or knowledge.

Even so, that Harry Potter wants to, eventually, pursue mastery in magizoology… Rolf shouldn’t let personal feelings affect hiring decisions, especially so soon after taking over for their old hiring manager, but… it’s suspicious.

There’s no way that this has nothing to do with Argo. Harry Potter seeking a defense mastery, even seeking a teaching career, that all makes sense. But Harry coming all the way to America to work at a reserve? Him pursuing a magizoology mastery as well?

Rolf smells shenanigans.

Harry fidgets nervously in his chair as the silence stretches on.

Finally, Rolf slowly says, “This says your goal is to earn a mastery in Defense to become a teacher. Why go so far out of your way for a subject unrelated to that?”

“I want experience, sir.” Harry sighs. He looks away like he knows he’s admitting so something he shouldn’t for an interview like this. “It’s true that I don’t know yet whether I want to teach Defense or Creatures. But that’s why I want to work here this summer. I want to get experience here with the creatures, so that I’ll be better able to decide which path is right for me.”

Rolf hums, “I see,” and, unimpressed, scratches a quick note onto the parchment he has in front of him.

Harry withers a little, even more nervous now.

“Well, Mr. Potter,” says Rolf. “Before we get any further, I think it would be best if we address the erumpent in the room. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Harry winces. “Yes, sir. Argo has already made it clear that he doesn’t see me as a brother. I won’t deny that I’d like to be closer than we are, but I can promise that it won’t affect my work. You can check with him if you don’t believe me. We’re both members of the Hogwarts Student Defense Association Circle, so we’re used to working together and our relationship hasn’t interfered there, so we can act professionally here, too.”

Rolf purses his lips and makes another note, watching how Harry wriggles uncomfortably in the spotlight.

After another just-too-long pause, Rolf finally says, “I do have one remaining concern.”

“Yes, sir?”

Smirking, Rolf says, “You should really be applying to be an assistant educator, not a caretaker.”

Harry blinks, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’d work directly with the creatures less – but mostly that only means less cleaning enclosures. Most of your time would actually be spent researching the creatures and putting together informative boards, or creating and giving presentations for the public. Have you actually looked around the reserve, yet?”

“N-no, sir, I haven’t had the chance.”

“You’ve been to a muggle zoo?”

“Once, yes.”

Rolf nods. “Grandpa Newt spent years travelling the world researching the creatures. Naturally, he visited a lot of muggle zoos in the process. This reserve is inspired by those zoos, as our grandpa thought they were wonderful means to make the public excited about the creatures. We’ve copied a lot of their ideas, including regular presentations to give visitors a closer look and more in-depth information on certain safer creatures. It’s a lot like having a public Care of Magical Creatures class.”

“I didn’t know you did that,” Harry says breathlessly. “That’s amazing.”

“Your experience teaching with the Defense Association makes you a good candidate for the role. You’d still be hands-on with the creatures. You’d just mostly handle the safer ones. Under a caretaker’s supervision, you may on occasion be asked to help out with other tasks involving the more dangerous creatures, especially the venomous reptiles given you’re a parselmouth – remind me to introduce you to Harper Rowe, she oversees the reptiles here – but the bulk of your work would be focused on how to educate visitors about them rather than attending to their daily needs.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Harry gasps.

“You think so?” Rolf grins. He stands and holds out a hand to shake. “Then congratulations Mr. Potter. I’ll shift you over to education. I can give you a tour today and introduce you to your supervisor, but from then on you’ll be arranging things with her – she’ll be in charge of you. Your shifts, the details of your duties, it should all be taken up with her first. Understand?”

“You mean- you mean you’ll take me?” Harry asks. “I’ve got the job?”

Rolf snickers. “I have to admit, Mr. Potter, when I saw your application, I thought you only made it to me because of your name, but I suppose I need to give Evelyn more credit.” Rolf doesn’t doubt for a second. Evelyn is a very thorough worker and has been screening applicants for them almost as long as Rolf has been alive. She even leaves a note on Harry’s application that he should be put into education rather than caretaking, she just evidently leaves it to Rolf to bring it up with Harry himself.

Which, to be fair, is kind of his job. But he’s going to tell his grandpa to just promote Evelyn. The only reason Rolf is filling in now is because their old hiring manager’s departure is rather sudden, so the slot is still technically vacant. It’s usually the family who takes over to fill in, when that happens, until other arrangements can be made.

(It’s not like he is ever actually going to go against Evelyn’s recommendation. He just wants to make Harry sweat a little.)

“I look forward to working with you, Mr. Potter” Rolf says, meaning every word, as Harry finally takes his hand in a firm grip. “But if Go-go asks, Evelyn hired you.”

Harry nods blankly, in a daze, until all at once he blinks and stammers, “Go-go?”

“Something must be done!”

“If you have an idea,” Laelaps growls, “share it.” He glares down Avery, refusing to give an inch. The man has good reason to be upset, but complaining won’t bring about results. “No one’s seen the Teumessian Fox. We don’t even know if they’re a man or a woman, or if there’s more than one of them. There hasn’t been a shred of evidence at any scene thus far. So, please, if you know how to catch them, say so!”

All the gathered former Death Eaters grit their teeth silently, unable to come up with any constructive response.

“We could lay a trap…” Lucius offers slowly.

“We’d need some sort of pattern,” Argo says, shaking his head. “There can’t be a trap if we can’t lure them in, and we have no clue what they’re going to target next.”

“Then find one!” snaps Avery. “We cannot allow this Fox to get away with this!”

“No, we can’t,” Argo agrees. “And it sounds like we have a volunteer. Avery, would you like to investigate the Teumessian Fox for us?”

Avery slams his hands on the table, leaning threateningly forward, and hisses, “Gladly. I’ll find your pattern.”

Beneath Avery’s large hand, slightly crumpled against the table, is a copy of The Daily Prophet with the headline, “The Teumessian Fox Strikes Again!”

(For a place with such a cowardly man hiding in it, the defenses around Avery’s manor are pitifully easy to bypass.

The Teumessian Fox crouches low in the shadows, watching and waiting. It’s sad, really. Laelaps can put up better wards than this. He really should take care of his Hounds better.

Driven by a cue that only the Fox themself sees, they disillusion themself and dart out of cover.)

“What do we know of them?” asks Nott.

Laelaps sighs. “They must be exceptionally gifted with security charms – probably some kind of curse-breaking training as well. Even Ministry security didn’t register them, and there was no sign of tampering.”

“Is that possible?” Lucius asks. “Ministry security is-”

“It’s very much possible,” says Laelaps. “Most would say that what I can do with tracking spells is impossible. The Teumessian Fox is obviously very clever, and I imagine if they name themselves after something that could never be caught, they have good reason to be confident in their skills.”

“But your tracking spells,” says Avery. “Can’t they find them? At least identify them?”

Laelaps shakes his head. “I can’t hunt them if I can’t catch their scent, and the Teumessian Fox is obviously at least passingly familiar with my skills. I’m not surprised, if they’re putting themselves against me like this. They leave no identifiable magical signature. Every location I’ve investigated, I’ve found a concentration of magic, but that magic is indistinguishable from the ambient magic found anywhere in the world. There’s nothing to track.”

“That can’t be,” says Macnair. “You can’t erase your magical signature! Any spell you cast to attempt to do so would just leave more traces!”

“That is true, under normal circumstances,” Laelaps admits. “But that doesn’t change what we’re observing now with the Fox. I can normally track any magical person or creature who so much as passes through an area, so long as not enough time has passed. Yet aside from an increase in the ambient magic, which under normal circumstances would be passed off as an entirely natural happenstance as these things do fluctuate quite often, there is no indication at all that anyone who shouldn’t be there was present.”

“Do you have any ideas?” asks Lucius. “A way to erase traces of your magical signature?”

Argo hums. “One or two. I think magic is involved. Possibly an artefact. I think what’s happening is that the traces of the Teumessian Fox’s magic they’re leaving behind is either scattering at an extraordinary rate, or actually being… ‘converted’ for lack of a better word. The magic itself is still there as the extra ambient magic, but the identifying marks that link it to the Fox are gone.”

“This could be the effects of an artefact?” asks Nott.

“Could be,” says Argo. “Using an artefact would likely make it easier not to leave behind traces of whatever eradication spell goes into getting rid of the rest of the traces in the first place, since the magic has a middleman of sorts to go through. But I’m still not sure what manner of spells and enchantments could allow this outcome at all, so it’s hard to say with any certainty.”

(Papers rustle quietly as the Teumessian Fox digs, looking for their target. Avery’s grand, fancy desk is just asking to be plundered. It really is amazing what people will just leave out when they think they’re safe.

People should really be more careful with things they don’t wish to lose. Like priceless family heirlooms, for example.

Dexterous fingers find the hidden rune slipped onto the underside of one of the desk’s many drawers, and the Teumessian Fox smiles.

This desk has been in the Avery family’s possession almost as long as the artefact the Teumessian Fox is looking for. If Avery were clever and less cowardly, he’d hide the thing somewhere original. Alas, it seems this will be yet another bore.

Honestly, when will the Teumessian Fox find something worth stealing?)

“We need to recover it!” Avery shouts. “Without that, my family is ruined!”

“Focus on finding a wife and securing an heir before you cry about your family, Avery,” says Macnair.

“Enough!” Laelaps puts an end to the Death Eater’s inane argument. “This relic is of particular importance to the Avery family, so naturally, we will do everything in our power to recover it. We are allies.” He sighs. “I can’t track the Fox, but I’ll look into trying to track the artefact itself. The rest of you should increase security around your homes just in case. Now that the Teumessian Fox has shown their willingness to break into private homes, I must urge you all to double-check and secure whatever you hold most dear.”

“You think the Teumessian Fox will target us?” asks Lucius.

“I can’t begin to guess the thoughts of this person, but I believe it’s safe enough to say that they intend to have something to do with me,” says Laelaps. “Avery might be a coincidence, but I’m reluctant to simply believe that. Every one of us should be careful until we know more.”

“But what do they want?” Nott asks. “Are they set against us, even though you have ensured we’ve done nothing illegal?”

“Possibly,” admits Laelaps. “That’s one option of many. Without any pattern, we can’t discern a goal, and without a goal, we have no motivation. Without motivation, we may as well ask a flobberworm to tell us about them.” He huffs, growling at the table. “We’re running blind.”

(The Teumessian Fox reaches into the open drawer, where the hidden panel has vanished, revealing a rectangular box. The top, polished crystal glass, reveals the contents within. A quill. A quality quill, but visually nothing breathtaking. Just a nice, sturdy, eagle-feather quill.

It takes a lot of digging to even learn of this quill, and more to discover its owner, but here it is ripe for the taking.

The Teumessian Fox carefully removes the quill from the box, turns it in hand, pulls a piece of blank parchment from another drawer in the desk and writes their calling card in Avery’s own hand.

It amazes even the Teumessian Fox when they see the quill’s enchantments in action. They write just as they would write anything else, but their hand somehow moves slightly differently, guided by the magic, changing the shape of their letters to exact replicas of Avery’s.

It can’t work from nothing, of course. The Teumessian Fox suspects mind-magics at the core of it. Likely the quill’s enchantments look for memories and use those to replicate the handwriting, since the writer needs to have seen a sample before the quill will work. Even if the writer can’t recall the details of the handwriting, their intention brings those memories to the surface for the enchantments to do their work with.

The results are better than expected. Oh, they’ll have fun with this.

Slipping the quill away, the Teumessian Fox replaces everything else exactly as they find it initially, then sneaks back out of the manor and across the garden.

At the end of the garden, just at the edge of the wards, the Teumessian Fox reaches into their pocket to withdraw a small, carved, wooden cube. It floats over their palm, responding to their magic, as they patiently watch the wards.

Then it shifts. Half of one face slides diagonally, and another juts out. The cube folds in on itself and inside out, shifting over and over again until finally it is a cube once more, and one face is open.

The Teumessian Fox glances once over their shoulder at the manor and grins.)

“My lord,” Lucius says slowly. “Do you think, the Teumessian Fox… could they be one of his?”

Laelaps takes a long time to answer, slowly considering every angle of the question. In the end, he has to shake his head in defeat. “Who can know?” he says. “If they really want to stop us from destroying Riddle, then they’re taking a very circuitous path to that goal. So far, they haven’t interfered with your search for the horcrux entrusted to Bellatrix, have they?”

“Not obviously, my lord, but neither have I made any progress.”

“The woman is mad as a hatter,” Nott says. “How cleverly could she have hidden the thing?”

“The Dark Lord entrusted it to her for a reason,” says Lucius calmly. “Do not underestimate her.”

“And what of the seventh?” asks Macnair. “The Dark Lord wouldn’t have stopped at six. Have you found any leads at all towards the last?”

Laelaps sighs. “I’m investigating that one personally. It’s only the thinnest of threads so far, not worth putting any of your considerable resources towards. You needn’t worry about it. I’ll call on you if you can help with it. You just focus on your own role. Don’t forget to check your wards, though, and secure your valuables.”

There’s a general air of frustration in the room when the response comes. “Yes, my lord.”

The Resurrection Stone turns over in Argo’s hand. Once. Twice. Stop.

Argo closes his eyes, holds the stone tight in both hands, and sighs.

Once. Twice. Thrice. Simple as that. Double-check that Shiloh isn’t here to see it.

Argo opens his eyes. “James,” he says, as unsure as he is determined. “How far are you willing to go to protect your son?”

James Potter’s eyes widen just a little, surprised, perhaps, at being summoned, or the unprompted question. But his countenance hardens, understanding that Argo is not asking lightly. “However far it takes,” he answers.

(It’s the first time Argo hears James’ voice. Argo almost wishes he’d stay silent, though if he understands James Potter correctly, that was never going to be possible.)

James asks, “What are you planning?”

Argo can’t answer right away. He doesn’t know the words. But James is patient and steady and he gives Argo the time he needs without complaint.

Finally, Argo says, “Riddle has two more horcruxes out there.”

“Right,” James responds slowly. “Hufflepuff’s cup, is it? And that Lestrange woman has it?”

“Mm.” Argo shakes his head. “It’ll be hard to get to. We’re exhausting places to look.”

“I wish I could help. I can’t see past the veil anywhere that gives any hints. Trust me, I’ve looked.”

“There’s always the chance it’s in Gringotts,” Argo says clinically. “It’s hard to say if the goblins would even care, if it is.”

James holds a hand to his head. “You’re thinking of stealing from Gringotts?”

“No. That’d be mad.”

“If you could get that Fox to-”

“No.” Argo takes a fortifying breath, then shakes his head. “No, I have favor with the goblins and Reynard is related to the Lestranges. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

James frowns, not convinced, but he doesn’t argue so that’s good enough for Argo. “Okay,” he says gently. “Argo… you’d know I’d love it if you did, but you wouldn’t summon me for no reason. If not that, then… the other horcrux? I thought we didn’t have confirmation of a seventh?”

“I thought so, too,” Argo whispers. “Then, I heard the prophecy.”

“The prophecy? What in blazes does the prophecy have to do with-” James’ voice cuts out suddenly, like he’s been knocked over by an erumpent. “No. No, not Harry. Not Harry!”

Argo doesn’t look at James. He watches only the floor.

“Tell me you have a plan!”

Argo winces.

“Argo, you wouldn’t have summoned me if you didn’t have anything. Tell me what I can do.”

Argo hugs himself tight. “It’s not really so much what you can do,” he mumbles, “but whether I ought to try it.”

“If it can save Harry’s life…”

“You know the story of Icarus?” Argo’s throat is tight. “I…” He shakes his head. “This could just be hubris. It could go horribly wrong.”

James grows silent. “…How dangerous?” he asks dangerously. It sounds almost as if he cares. “Argo… Argo, you are my son, too. I know I’ve no right to order you to do anything, but if there’s any shred of authority I have as your father, I forbid you from doing anything reckless.”

Argo finally looks up. James really does look exactly like Harry. Even the glasses, which is stupid because James is a pureblood from a reasonably well-off family and Harry literally gets his out of the bin. Almost like fate decides it for them.

(And Argo looks nothing like them. All he has is Lily’s hair. Her head. Sometimes, he wishes for less.)

A watery smile manages to worm onto Argo’s lips. “That’s rich. You, telling someone not to be reckless?”

James barks a laugh. “Fatherhood does strange things to a person, it seems. Even if they’re dead.” A breathless breath passes between them. “Argo, please, just out with it. What are you planning?”

Argo swallows thickly. “When I talked to Lily, she told me about how you can see through the veil around certain things, as if the veil is thinner there, where you have a special connection to this world.”

“That’s true,” James says softly. “It’s always thinnest for us around you and Harry.”

Argo slowly nods. “I had the thought at the time, but never followed it to any practical purpose. That the veil… whatever is between you on the other side and us here… is malleable.”

James’ eyes go impossibly wide. “You mean to… to tamper with the veil?”

“I mean… to investigate how feasible it is,” says Argo.

James gulps. “And… and if it works. You can use that to save Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Argo admits. “If I can manipulate the veil, there’s every chance I could send a horcrux through it. But I’d have to find a way to sever the connection with Harry to stop him from going through with it. But what I can use it for is to affect you. Anyone I summon with the Resurrection Stone.”

James frowns. “Argo…”

Argo says nothing, but he does flick his wand, casting the tracking spell, eyeing curiously James’ form as the gold dust of the tracking spell settles. “It’s not comfortable, is it?” Argo asks. “Being here. If there is a veil between you and us, you haven’t been pulled through it. Not really. The stone just pulls it so tightly around you that it becomes so thin that even this side can see past it. Like stretched elastic forming to whatever presses through it.”

“Something like that,” James admits reluctantly. “It keeps trying to pull me back. It compresses like it’s too tight all over. It’s worth it to be able to speak with you, but… in moderation. Too long might drive someone mad.”

“I don’t think I can safely try to form the veil myself,” says Argo, “but if I can pull it tighter-”

“You’d torture us.”

“I could make Cygnus Black talk.” Argo looks up at James, pleading, though he doesn’t know for what. “About his daughter. What she might have done with Hufflepuff’s Cup. About her vault, if necessary.”

“Argo, please.” James’ heart breaks for the boy in front of him. He feels like such a failure of a father. To lose him, to be so helpless that his own son is forced to do things like… this. “I know you’ve had to do bad things, but you’re talking about torturing the dead for information!”

“I know what I’m proposing!” Argo snaps. “But don’t you understand the stakes? How far are you willing to go?”

“There’s got to be another way,” James says gently. “A better way.”

“And how much help will that better way be when Riddle figures out how to use that horcrux in Harry’s scar? Can you imagine? He already tried once to send messages through legilimency. What’s to stop the horcrux from allowing Riddle to possess him? Take him over completely, even? For all we know, all Riddle needs is a sufficiently powerful ritual and bam. No more Harry. Voldemort would return in Harry’s body. Is that what you want?”

“Of course that’s not what I want!” James shouts, affronted.

“Then we can’t afford to waste time!”

“Even so!” James says. “Even so, I don’t believe preventing you from making a terrible mistake would be a waste of time!”

Argo reels back.

“You’re a good kid, Argo. Lily and I are so proud of you. Don’t do this. Don’t meddle with the veil. Don’t risk your life like that. And don’t make yourself a torturer. Please.”

Argo bows his head, chastised. “I could summon someone else to test on.”

“You could,” says James. “Will you?”

Argo closes his eyes. The Resurrection Stone turns over in his hand. Once. Twice. Stop. It comes up as his head drops, his hands tightly clasped together around the ring bump his forehead.

He answers, “No. I’ll… consider it more, first.”

“You said yourself that tampering with the veil might just be hubris,” James reminds him. “Consider that.”

Argo gulps. He nods.

“And Argo… I love you, son. Remember that it’s okay. Even if Harry doesn’t always understand, even if no one does, it’s okay if you don’t fit. You fit wherever Argo fits.”

Wherever Argo fits. Not Thomas.

He lets go of the stone, and James vanishes.

“Niklas!”

Upon seeing his old friend (and sort-of crush? Argo guesses? It’s weird.), Argo does the only sensible thing to do when seeing someone he adores after an extended length of time apart and jumps bodily into his arms.

Niklas’ eyes go wide. “Argo, wait, you- oof!” He staggers, but somehow manages to stay on his feet, grunting under the strain of Argo actually jumping on him. Niklas thought he was joking in those letters. “You… are…” Niklas grunts. He heaves with all his might, righting Argo (who is cackling) onto his own feet to take the weight off of him. “Massive,” Niklas finishes.

Niklas can’t forget the Argo of just a year and some change ago, when they say goodbye at Hogwarts. It’s burned into his memory, mostly because that’s when Argo kisses him. (On the cheek, but he counts it.) Funny thing is, Niklas distinctly remembers Argo going up on his tiptoes to reach. He remembers Argo snuggling against his chest, how he can tuck his chin atop Argo’s head.

Now, it’s the exact opposite. Niklas is looking up at him, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that. It’s definitely doing something to his heart, seeing Argo all big and broad and that beard that really is nearly full now…

“Who said you could get so big?” Niklas asks, only half teasing.

Argo smirks mischievously. “Magic, I guess? I’m pretty sure it’s bleed-over from becoming an animagus. I am a bear.”

Niklas’ eyes trail down, taking in Argo’s body appreciatively. “In more ways than one.”

Argo flushes. “Niklas! Really!”

“What? I like it.” Niklas smiles, but it falls quickly to match Argo’s frown. “What’s wrong? You really don’t like being that big?”

Argo’s cheeks only redden further. He sighs, the rubs a hand down his face. “No, it’s useful sometimes. I appreciate the advantages of being tall.”

“And built like a draft horse,” murmurs Niklas. Argo glares weakly at him. “What? You’re sixteen now, don’t tell me I can’t even look!”

“Still a minor, technically,” says Argo, though he doesn’t seem that bothered by it. “And anyway, that’s not the point. The size and muscles are nice sometimes, but… I don’t know. I guess I’m just used to being the baby.”

“Right,” says Niklas. “You’re the youngest in your family.”

Argo hums. “I’m always the big one now. Sometimes… I miss being held.”

Niklas stares at him, blinks dumbly, then bursts into laughter.

“What? What’s so funny about that?” Argo pouts.

“Sorry, sorry,” Niklas giggles. “I know what you mean. It’s just a funny image.” He steps forward boldly to wrap his arms around Argo. “Big boys deserve to be held, too.”

Argo huffs, cheeks ever pink, and looks away. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

“Not at all! Come on. It’s been a while, but you know I’m happy to cuddle. If you want to be held, you only need to ask.”

That is way more tempting than it should be. If there’s one bad thing about growing so much recently, it’s that all his cuddle dynamics have suddenly shifted. Unfortunately, now just isn’t the time for a cuddle pile.

…He might be able to sneak a little bit in, though. With a big, happy smile, he grabs Niklas to drag him to a more secluded place where they won’t be bothered until they’re needed.

Niklas sits down against the trunk of a large, dense, shadowy tree, and Argo contentedly fits himself in front of him, between his legs, and lays back onto Niklas as Niklas wraps him up in his arms and rests his head on Argo’s shoulder.

“You know,” Niklas hums gently, “I’m always happy to do this, of course, but there is another solution when I’m not around.”

“Hm?”

Niklas snickers. “Shiloh and Sunspark are shapeshifters, aren’t they? If you really want to be the small one every once in a while, can’t they just make themselves bigger?”

That is… a very good point. Why doesn’t Argo ever think of that before? Although, “Shiloh likes being little,” he says, “and Rolf’s officially an adult now. He needs his time with his boyfriend alone.”

Niklas chuckles. “Just every now and then. You don’t have to hog them. I just think, if you mentioned it to them, they’d probably be willing.”

Probably. It’s hard to imagine Shiloh as the big one, though. That said, that cognitive dissonance doesn’t exist at all for Sunspark, whose default form is an enormous horse. It’s worth asking.

“So how is it going?” asks Niklas. “You mentioned Harry is working at the reserve now?”

“As an educator. We don’t see each other as much as you’d think,” says Argo. “It’s one of the largest reserves in the world, with a lot of staff, and Harry’s work mostly confines him to the classrooms or a few stations around the guest paths. Liz tells me he’s doing well, though. There is some trouble with people recognizing him, but he’s actually fairly good at turning that attention to the creatures and using it to his advantage.”

“Good for him. Guess he learned how to manage the fame since we met.”

Argo closes his eyes, snuggling into Niklas’ warm embrace. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Daphne has been helping him with that. After the tournament – especially after winning the tournament, he needed help managing his image. His guardian apparently stepped up, but I don’t know much about that part. I do know that our employees are going to be sad when he leaves. Harper especially – she’s in charge of reptiles here, so having a parselmouth on staff, even in a different department, is a blessing. We do have contact with other parselmouths, but they’re not employed by my grandpa, just brought in to advise when necessary.”

Niklas chuckles lowly, hot in Argo’s ear. “Well, I’m happy for him, but… I was really wondering how you were doing.”

“What, because Harry’s working here?”

Niklas hums. “I know you’re doing better now, but that year I was at Hogwarts, you two didn’t exactly get along.”

Argo bites his lip. He takes a moment to consider, then answers. “I’m alright. Like I said, we don’t actually see each other that often. I’ve been keeping an eye on him, but he hasn’t ever needed me to step in, so… I’ve mostly been focused on my own work.”

“Reserve work or school work?”

“Independent study, I suppose.”

“What’re you studying?”

Argo smiles. “The usual. Stuff for the DA, stuff for my apprenticeship with Penny, a few personal projects here and there.”

Niklas perks up a little. “What does Penny have you working on? Vati’s been obsessed recently with things that explode. I’m a little worried he’s actually just making bombs.”

“He’s not stupid, he wouldn’t do that.”

“…You have met him, yes?”

Argo snickers. “Okay, yeah, I’m sure he loves the explosions. But I doubt he’s just deliberately trying to make bombs. As for me,” he says, “I’m actually playing with preservation potions.”

“Preservation potions? That’s what they use for potion ingredients, right?”

“Some can be kept in one, yeah. The problem is that some ingredients react with the potion itself, or traces of the potion can affect the potion you’re trying to brew, so I’m working on making one that’s even more stable, more neutral, so it’ll be able to be used in more places.”

“Keeping ingredients viable for longer would make a lot of potioneers love you.”

Argo hums a quiet agreement, then asks, “So, how’s it going with Diego? You see Léo around pretty often, too, right?”

“Yeah! They’re both great! Diego’s teaching me to dance, and Léo kicked my ass in last week’s duel, but don’t worry. I’ve already got a plan to get him next time.”

By the start of the new school term, Laelaps has everything prepared. The letters are sent, the agreements are made, and the whispers are spoken.

And so, Argo boards the train, with Shiloh draped over his shoulders and Jason bundled in his arms, feeling ready for his sixth year at Hogwarts. His main goal this year, he decides, is to find the horcrux entrusted to Bellatrix Lestrange. Due to the likelihood of it being an artefact of one of Hogwarts’ founders, he really wants it soon so that he can study it for himself before he gives them over to the school.

(After some digging, Reynard tracks Slytherin’s Locket back to one Hepzibah Smith, who reportedly once also owned Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup. As there are no other leads that connect to the Sword of Gryffindor, they highly suspect that the cup is their sixth horcrux.)

There’s nothing stopping him from donating them to the school after he graduates, technically, but Argo would like to see the reaction at least.

That said, while he doesn’t think it’d be a disastrous thing, he does find himself hesitant to donate them to the school while Dumbledore is in charge of it. Just handing such powerful magical artefacts to Dumbledore of all people doesn’t sit right in Argo’s gut.

If he somehow gets past the lockdown on Ravenclaw’s enchantments – even Helena says that Dumbledore might be able to break into Ravenclaw’s laboratory, after all – who knows what he could do with the diadem? And while Argo typically doesn’t see it, Dumbledore is usually considered an exceptionally clever wizard. If he can utilize the locket to its full potential…

No. No, Dumbledore needs to be out of office, or this whole thing resolved first, before Argo can risk donating these artefacts.

He’d also like to triple-check his work on those lockdown enchantments. Just in case. Maybe he should see if he can adapt them to work on the locket as well.

It’s a hard line to toe, between respecting ancient artefacts and terror at their power in the wrong hands. The diadem Helena asks him to lock down. Ghost or no, she’s the daughter of its creator and owner, so Argo doesn’t feel too bad about it. But does he have the right to do the same to the locket?

Even though he does so fear its power. (People always fear what they do not understand, and Argo struggles so much with this. Slytherin’s enchantments are like nothing he sees before, and while he can make sense of the magic underlying them, the threads that they create, he cannot for the life of him make full use of the enchantment in any practical way. He just… it doesn’t make any sense.)

How much of his desire to lock down the enchantments on Slytherin’s Locket is legitimate worry over it being misused, and how much is simple fear over how it can be misused? How many people in the world even can use the thing to effect?

If Voldemort doesn’t so carelessly cast away other relics like Ravenclaw’s Diadem or the Resurrection Stone, he’d just think Voldemort can’t use the enchantments on the locket either, but honestly? Who knows at this point. Voldemort could be handed a win button and he’d toss it in a cave somewhere to rot just because he isn’t the one that makes the damn thing.

The truth is, Argo doesn’t know Slytherin’s real intentions for that locket. The diadem’s enchantments are beautiful in a way Argo can only dream of matching, but they’re obvious and straightforward in what they’re meant to do.

That’s not to say they’re simple. It’s probably the most complicated magic he’s ever seen, even including the locket. But he knows what they’re meant for. They hone the wearer’s wisdom.

The locket, though… Argo’s mind positively races with possibilities. Its enchantment is, in principle, simple enough, but… but in application? The possibilities are terrifying.

Argo is just thankful that Slytherin takes some precaution about who can use it. The parseltongue requirement to open the locket is comforting, but only because most wizards in Britain wouldn’t attempt to learn the language. The fact that it can be learned, though, and thus that the locket isn’t barred to those with a specific birthright talent but anyone determined enough to seek out the resources… it makes Argo nervous.

He thinks Ravenclaw’s enchantment lockdown is a more reliable solution, himself, though he can acknowledge that it takes this long for anyone to actually activate the safeguard, whereas Slytherin’s Locket is protected even while Slytherin himself uses it. And he is still a little nervous that Dumbledore might be able to break through the lockdown regardless. But it’s still a better defense than allowing anyone making the right sounds and giving the right magical signals.

Argo sighs and runs a hand through his hair. His mind is filled with options and possibilities. Many of which include how to get back into Ravenclaw’s laboratory.

But he is still on the train, so his quiet contemplations can’t last too long. The door to his compartment opens, allowing Susan and Daphne inside.

The sit down opposite him, share a look, and Susan says, “So, Daphne and I were discussing the future of the DA.”

The future of the DA?

“We’re sixth years now,” says Daphne. “After next year, we’ll be graduating, and the DA will be without a Circle. And as next year is our N.E.W.T. year, I’d like to figure out what we’re going to do about it now rather than wait until then.”

Oh. Argo blinks. Sheepishly, he bites down his initial thoughts. The truth is, he expects the DA to simply disband once they graduate. The girls, though, are apparently planning how to sustain the club even after they leave.

Well, Argo isn’t going to fight them on it.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks.

“Harry’s still in the prefect’s cabin,” says Susan, “so we’ll need to discuss with him once he’s finished as well, but we essentially have two ideas.”

“Traditionally, the club’s staff sponsor would pick new Circle members,” Daphne says, frowning. “Thank goodness ours is Flitwick rather than whoever happens to be the Defense teacher at the time, but we both still thought it’d be better to keep things in-house.”

In-house? Yeah, Argo agrees. The less involved the teachers are, the better. He likes Flitwick, but the entire point of the DA from the start was to make up for a teacher’s shortcomings. (Well, the point that made it grow. It was actually just about teaching Harry to defend himself, but there’s a very good reason everyone else started showing up and made it into an actual club.) It doesn’t feel right to hand the power of choosing the DA’s Circle right back to the teachers.

“So the first option,” says Susan, “is a simple election. Every club member can vote on who they believe should be in the Circle.”

“Sounds like chaos,” Argo murmurs.

“True,” Daphne says. “But mostly we worry about that because of what happened with you. You’re the founder and the best instructor, but because people didn’t like you for something that wasn’t even your fault, if we went by election, you would have been kicked out.”

Argo would have stepped down if he needed to. He never wanted to lead a club like this in the first place. It all just sort of happened to him. But going into the future… he can see the problem.

“We were also thinking of measures to ensure every house remains represented. In a simple election without strict rules for the candidates, it’s only too easy to imagine Slytherin being excluded,” Susan sighs.

“Your solution?” asks Argo.

Daphne leans in. “Are you planning on leaving much for your apprenticeships?”

N.E.W.T. level students are given special permissions to leave Hogwarts grounds for work and are usually no longer restricted in visiting Hogsmeade as well. That’s why most students cut down to so few classes. Even though true apprenticeships are rare, many choose to pursue some work experience and find a job somewhere nearby.

“Not too much,” Argo responds. “My potions work can mostly be done at the castle, and even with allowance to leave for work, I can’t travel internationally so easily so I won’t be going home to the reserve very often. Mostly, if I leave, it’ll be for consultation with more local creature sanctuaries.”

“That’s what I figured,” says Daphne. “Susan and I will be assisting our relatives at the ministry from time to time. Do you know Harry’s plans?”

“Not in detail, but he wants to be a professor, so if he is working, he’d probably just assist one of the teachers.”

Daphne nods, accepting that. “Well,” she says, “Susan and I had the thought to take apprentices of our own.”

Argo’s brow raises. “For the club?”

“Mm. Pick a first or second year, so that when we graduate, they’ll be third or fourth, which is reasonable enough, we started at third year, after all, and they’ll be much better prepared, then mentor them and prepare them to lead the DA when we’re gone. Each of us could pick someone from our own house.”

Argo doesn’t really want a firstie following him around, but… “It’s not a bad idea. What kind of rules are you thinking?”

“I’m drafting up a charter,” says Susan cheerily. “But mostly it’s up to you. We will be leaving in some checks just in case, including a way for the club to veto a pick before they can actually take their place in the Circle, but those are all details we’re hoping to work out this year.”

“They’ll also be helpful while we’re bogged down with N.E.W.T.s,” says Daphne, smirking. “Probably by necessity they’ll take a more active role in leading the club next year. But we’ll still be here to help them.”

“What do you think?” asks Susan. “Is this something you’re willing to do?”

Argo bites his lip. “Sure, I’m good for it.”

“Great!” Susan chirps. “Remember, it’s not just about working with their mentors, but also with each other. I had some ideas about how to get our apprentices to bond. Firstly, with the spellbook. How will the enchantments on that handle apprentices, or new formal members?”

Argo brings the problem of needing to choose a first or second year apprentice to replace him in the DA Circle to Anthony almost immediately. As one of the Ravenclaw prefects, Anthony talks with the younger students in their house much more frequently than Argo does.

On a whim, Argo also brings it up with Flitwick, curious what he thinks of the idea.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Flitwick is enthusiastic. “An in-house mentorship!” he squeaks. “A brilliant idea! Oh, there is so much they can learn from you, Mr. Scamander!”

“Did you have any thoughts as to who would be a good choice?”

Flitwick taps his chin for a moment, then offers, “Time will tell on the first years, but Mr. Hernandez starting his second year is always helping his fellow students, and is such a bright presence. That said… he is rather poor with charms. Professor McGonagall speaks very highly of him – so much so that it reminds me of how she spoke about you! And his Defense scores are currently at ‘Outstanding’. He attended the DA all last year as well. But something about my class just doesn’t seem to click with him. I’d appreciate you taking him under your wing. But, of course, the choice is yours.”

Argo mulls that over. “I’ll talk to him,” he promises.

Hernandez, huh? Anthony also mentions a David Hernandez, and Argo does remember the name in the club registry last year.

As Argo doesn’t ever actually go to the common room, he doesn’t see the younger Ravenclaws very often, and has even fewer opportunities to actually speak with them. He’s unaware of his reputation among the lower years as a sort of cryptid, showing up in the forest sometimes taking care of the creatures, or to help them find their way to class, and then vanishing. The famous name, the famous brother, and the fact that he’s never found in the common room all sort of compound. And of course, no students don’t know what happens to Ronald Weasley when he threatens Argo’s niffler. Even at mealtimes, if he’s present at all, he's as likely to sit with any other table than with his own house.

That’s why there isn’t much that can shock a small group of second-year students more than Argo Scamander hopping into the seat across from them at breakfast.

Some of them fear for their lives – their first impression of Argo is, after all, the rumors and him throwing a prefect off the grand staircase, but not David. Where some of the other second-years are too afraid last year to join the DA, David is curious and frankly hopeful that it’ll help his charms work. Argo isn’t the primary teacher (though some of the older students mention that he used to be, and compare his and Harry Potter’s teaching) but he’s around enough that David knows he’s not some wild dark wizard.

(He is massive, though. It’s a lot like facing down Hagrid.)

God only knows what leads to him throwing a prefect off the grand staircase, but David is pretty sure that the prefect deserves it. Argo seems so level-headed, so David has a hard time imagining him just snapping like that.

Argo looks each of them in the face, narrowing his eyes slightly, trying to pin who is who. “David Hernandez?” he asks.

David’s friends scoot a little away from him, eager to get out of the older student’s way.

Argo’s eyes narrow further, scrutinizing David, until finally he straightens with recognition and snaps his fingers, saying, “Oh! Legs!”

David’s friends laugh. He feels his cheeks burn.

“You’re the one that gave that nose-biting teacup legs and set it loose in the club room!”

“I didn’t mean to!” David protests. “It just… got away from me.”

Argo snorts. “Enleggened things tend to do that. Don’t worry. No harm, no foul. But that’s impressive magic for a first year.”

“You think?” David shoots up, eager again. “I’m pretty good at transfiguration.”

“Clearly,” says Argo. After another moment of looking him over, Argo says, “Follow me.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” says Argo. “Come on.”

David shares a nervous look with his friends, but none of them know how to deny their very large, very skilled, extremely intimidating upper classman.

And David is curious, besides. Why does Argo come looking for him? He says a quick goodbye to his friends and stumbles up from the bench and takes off after Argo, jogging to catch up to Argo’s long stride until Argo notices and slows down for him.

“So,” says Argo, “how’s the DA treating you?”

David shakes nervously. He feels as if he’s vibrating from the chest out as they walk. “It’s great!” he says. “Professor Moody was an excellent teacher, but I still don’t think I’d have done half as well if I didn’t go to the club. Plus, you teach us a bunch that the teachers don’t, and I want to learn everything.”

Argo’s lips curl up into a smile. “Everything, huh? Well, we don’t teach you everything. But if that’s how you feel, you might be interested in what I’ve got to say today.”

Oh? Well, David is certainly intrigued. “What is it?” he asks excitedly.

Argo smirks. “Duel me first and find out.”

Duel? David, duel Argo Scamander? Uh… David would really rather not die.

Argo rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you. Come on, just show me what you’ve got.”

They make it to the DA club room. David gulps when he sets his eyes on the dueling arena. Dueling any sixth year is stupid, but Argo Scamander? Is this some sort of hazing?

Argo notes everyone present, and smiles when he sees he’s not the only one getting a head start on the apprentice idea. Susan is here as well, beaming at what must be the grumpiest, most dour face he’s ever seen in Hufflepuff robes.

Adorable.

Wasting no time, Argo ruffles his own little underclassman’s curly hair and guides him gently to the dueling ring.

He knows he’s scaring the daylights out of the poor kid, but what else is he supposed to do? He has to see where David is at, and if he has potential, before telling him all about maybe being part of the Circle in the future.

David stands opposite him in the arena. Argo feels kind of bad at how badly the kid’s wand is shaking.

Susan, with her little Hufflepuff in tow, agrees to referee. “Bow to your opponent. We’ll be using street rules,” she says. “Ready?”

Argo nods calmly. David a little less so.

“Begin!”

“Titillando!” Argo shouts. He’s got the first spell, as usual. David yelps as the ribbon-like hands streak towards him, but somehow manages to shield in time. “Good reaction time!” Argo says. For a second-year, but he’s not going to say that to David’s face. “Shield charm can use some work, though.”

The hands of his tickling spell grope and grasp through the air, until they catch on an invisible barrier and yank. David exclaims in surprise when his shield shatters.

“Uh,” he stammers. “Flipendo!” Argo doesn’t even bother blocking. He just turns so the spell whishes right past him. “Incendio!”

Oh? Most twelve-year-olds wouldn’t resort to fire. That’s dangerous.

Well, it’s dangerous if they’re not facing a sixteen-year-old N.E.W.T. student, anyway. Argo flicks his wand, shielding from the flames, noting idly that the stream of fire against his shield blocks his vision. He wonders if David will capitalize on that.

Argo hisses suddenly when he feels a sharp pain in his leg. Looking down to investigate, he finds a nose-biting teacup latched onto his ankle, its ugly little legs flailing madly as it chomps down with all its tiny little ornery might.

“Good one!” Argo calls. “A prank like this won’t do much damage, though, so you have to be ready to follow up!”

“Who says I’m not?” comes David’s smug reply, much closer than it should be.

Argo’s eyes go wide and he steps aside just in time to dodge the fist aimed at him.

Did this kid just try to punch him in the middle of a wizard’s duel? Argo blinks dumbly for a moment, then breaks into a wide grin. “Oh, I like you, kid,” he says. “That totally would’ve got me, too, if you’d kept your mouth shut. Not sure you can punch hard enough for me to feel it, though.”

David’s cheeks darken as he admits that yeah, probably he isn’t strong enough. Argo is a big guy, with a lot of muscle. And David is… adorable, but not what Argo would call a physical threat.

And then David reaches into his pocket. Argo relaxes his muscles, ready to spring to action.

David takes out a bar of frog-spawn soap and chucks it at Argo, who just catches the thing, eyeing David incredulously.

David lifts his wand and cries, “Aguamenti!”

For a split second, Argo’s wand starts to rise to shield it, but then he thinks, well why not? Why not see what’ll happen? And in some flash of morbid curiosity, Argo stays his wand, allowing himself to get drenched by the harmless stream of water.

He lifts an eyebrow in David’s direction.

David shuffles nervously from foot to foot. “I ran out of ideas,” he says quietly.

Susan groans, “Oh, no,” and the bar of soap in Argo’s hand suddenly erupts into a cascade of tadpoles, and soon after they hit the floor, just too many frogs.

Argo laughs. After a moment of nervously checking to see if he’s in trouble or not, David starts laughing, too. Argo hooks him around the shoulders and says, “Yeah, alright, I’ve seen enough. I guess I should tell you what this is all about, then, huh?”

“You haven’t told him?” Susan asks as she vanishes some frogs.

Argo shrugs. “I wanted to know if he was worth it.”

Susan rolls her eyes disapprovingly. “You know, you can tell people more than just what they need to know. You always do this.” To David, she says, “I’m so sorry about him. You see, we in the DA Circle are looking for younger students to mentor, in hopes that when we graduate after next year, you’ll be able to take over as the new Circle and keep the club going.”

Argo makes an odd noise in his throat. “You tell me off and then don’t even let me tell him?”

But David’s eyes are comically large, blown wide as saucers. “You mean-” he says. “I can be Argo Scamander’s apprentice?” He gasps, turning those huge dark eyes to Argo. Already excitement brews and threatens to make him bounce right out of the room. “Will you teach me to be an animagus?”

Argo chuckles. “I made a promise not to share the ritual, so while I definitely can prepare you for it, you’d still need Professor McGonagall to approve.”

David immediately pouts.

“But…” says Argo tantalizingly. “I can teach you to talk to animals.”

The uproar is immediate. “You can talk to animals!” David shouts. “That’s amazing! You’ll really teach me?”

“Oh, there’s a lot I can teach you, kid.”

“It only costs your soul,” adds Susan.

Thankfully, David snickers, evidently not taking that seriously.

Still, Argo pouts and clarifies, “Actually, it only costs a commitment to the DA. Like Susan said, we’re looking for students who’ll take over our places in the Circle when we graduate. I can teach you all manner of things, including quite a lot outside the Hogwarts curriculum, and even outside what we do in the DA, like talking to animals. I’m even willing to help you research whatever you like, if I don’t know it already. But I’ll only do so if you’re willing to put in the work.”

“Uh,” David says, “yeah. Where do I sign? Of course, I want to be your apprentice! I’ll happily take over the DA, too, in a couple years. I’m so glad the club was here in my first year. It’d be an honor to keep it going after you guys graduate.”

Argo laughs. His large hand finds its way back to David’s curls, mussing them up affectionately. “Then welcome aboard, kid. We’ll talk details soon, and your first classes. I’ll show you my lab, then, as well.”

“You have a laboratory?” David asks breathlessly, looking at Argo with stars in his eyes.

“I do,” Argo says. “Found the room when I was your age. I’ve been using it as a research room since. And since I’m taking you under my wing, you’re welcome to use it. Responsibly.”

Argo isn’t sure what to expect from his first Alchemy lesson. It’s a unique course in that only N.E.W.T. level students are allowed to take the elective at all, and there’s no real formal exam like the O.W.L. or even the N.E.W.T. for it. Not in Great Britain, anyway. (Argo is considering asking Anita for the exam they take at Uagadou, if only to see how well he can do)

Because of that, it’s also not a very popular class. With no exam to give them credentials at the end and the fact that they have to give up very valuable time to study it rather than something that’ll actually help them find a career, it’s understandably a small class.

Although, when Argo enters the room and sees only five desks arranged in a semi-circle, not including the larger teacher’s desk at the flat end, much like the potions symposium, so they can all see each other and talk easily without turning around in their seats, he’s surprised at just how small this class is.

The only other person to have arrived yet nods to him. “Scamander.”

Argo nods back. “Zabini.”

The other thing restricting how many students are here is the simple fact that Alchemy requires an “O” on both the Potions and Transfigurations O.W.L.s. N.E.W.T. level potions classes are already small because of that requirement, but getting top scores in both notoriously difficult classes is a bit prohibitive for anyone wishing to take Alchemy.

(Argo doesn’t know why. Uagadou starts teaching Alchemy in third year, and practices precursor skills for it from first year. Nicholas Flamel, his grandpa’s friend, teaches Argo the basics years ago as well.)

Argo and Blaise Zabini don’t talk. They aren’t friendly, and don’t particularly know each other well. Argo knows of him quite well, but he’s not in a position to either interfere with or aid Argo’s machinations, nor has he attempted to become friends, so they’re just classmates for now.

The next in the room is, somewhat unsurprisingly, Hermione Granger. Argo greets her warmly and invites her to sit next to him. Then Daphne enters and takes the spot on Argo’s other side. She smiles as she passes him, putting a hand on his shoulder when she’s close enough to do so, but moves on without stopping to her seat. Last to enter is another that Argo doesn’t know very well, Morag MacDougal, another Ravenclaw.

All the students present, they await their professor. Argo… isn’t too eager about this, but the professor should have a lot to teach them, at least.

When the door opens once more, none other than Headmaster Albus Dumbledore strolls in, smiling genially at each of them in turn with a twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Allow me to say first,” says Dumbledore, “that I am so glad to see each one of you in my class. As I’m sure you know, the schedule for Alchemy students is slightly different from other classes at your level. We meet only once a week, for a three-hour block. This is because of my other duties as headmaster of the school, I, alas, cannot spare more time in the classroom. That being said, our classes are longer so that you have time to ask any questions you may have, as well as to facilitate discussion within the classroom.”

Yeah, all pretty self-explanatory.

“Now, to begin,” Dumbledore says. “There are many in the wizarding world who believe Alchemy is simply a branch of Potions. And indeed, Alchemy often involves brewing substances, but who can tell me what the main differences between the two studies are?” Predictably, Hermione’s hand is in the air before Dumbledore even finishes speaking. “Yes, Ms. Granger?”

Hermione swallows thickly, takes a deep breath, a common sight before a lecture. “It would be more accurate to say that Potions is a branch of Alchemy,” she begins. “However the largest practical difference between the two as we know them today is that Potions focuses on organic compounds as reagents, like pieces of plants and animals, whereas Alchemy focuses much more on inorganic reagents such as minerals and water.”

Dumbledore nods, pleased. “Very good Ms. Granger. Five points for your explanation. Can anyone else tell me a difference?”

Argo eyes the others, but when no one raises their hand, he sucks it up and does so himself.

“Mister Scamander?”

“Alchemy was, at one point in English history, referred to as the Squib’s Art,” Argo says. The other students’ eyes widen. “That’s around when Potions started to replace it in common use. The name comes from the fact that, unlike Potions which requires a wizard to instinctually channel their magic into the brew, Alchemy can be done, and was in fact invented, by squibs. Parts of it were even adopted by the no-maj, since it not only typically doesn’t require magic, but often requires strict limits, or no magic at all, to turn out successfully.” He pauses. “It’s much more based in chemistry than magic, though magical alchemy, in contrast to the non-magic version, does focus on not only the chemical makeup of reagents, but their magical properties, much like Potions does.”

“An excellent explanation. Thank you, Mr. Scamander. Five points for you.” To the class, Dumbledore says, “As Mr. Scamander explained, Alchemy can be extraordinarily sensitive to magic. Part of the reason the Hogwarts curriculum only offers this class to N.E.W.T. level students is that younger students often don’t have the control necessary to prevent their magic from influencing their creation. Other schools take a different approach, but even in Uagadou where they focus heavily on the subject, they spend the first two years teaching their students fine magical control before they enter true practical Alchemy lessons.

“This sensitivity to magic is also why there are very few ways to speed up reactions, some of which can occur very slowly. For this reason, you may sometimes be required to come in outside of class to work on a project, depending on time and whether it can be allowed to sit until the next class.

“On the topic of the history of Alchemy, however, there is a very famous alchemist from this very school. Does anyone know who I’m referring to?”

Hermione’s hand starts to shoot up, but she apparently realizes something and snatches it down, screwing up her face in thought. MacDougal slowly raises her hand instead. “Er… Nicholas Flamel?”

Dumbledore smiles. “I’m afraid not. While Nicholas Flamel is quite the famous alchemist indeed, the only known maker of what is often considered the ultimate goal of Alchemy – the Philosopher’s Stone – he in fact attended Beauxbatons, as he’s a Frenchman himself. No, the one I’m referring to is even older. Anyone?”

“Salazar Slytherin?” says Argo. He already sees what Dumbledore is doing, but in this case he sort-of agrees with the intent, so he’ll play along.

“But Slytherin was a potions master,” protests Zabini, not outraged, thank Merlin, but confused.

“Actually,” says Dumbledore knowingly, his twinkling eyes lingering on Argo for just a moment to long. Argo reaches into his robe to stroke Jason. “Mr. Scamander is correct. Potions as we know it today didn’t branch off from Alchemy until well into the sixteenth century, some time before Muggles created their own Chemistry, itself derived from Alchemy in many ways. While we know Salazar Slytherin today as an expert Potioneer, he would have, in fact, been an Alchemist given the time he lived in.”

“You’re saying,” Zabini stammers, piecing it together in his head. “Slytherin practiced the Squib’s Art?”

Dumbledore smiles, something proud in his eyes. (Argo fleetingly wishes Jason might be interested in those twinkling eyes, if only so that he’d steal them out of Dumbledore’s conniving head. But he can hardly be upset with someone for conniving, can he? He bites down his exasperation.)

“It appears to be the case, yes,” Dumbledore says. “However, Alchemy never gained that name until the sixteenth century when Potions began to increase in popularity. You must understand, at the time, squibs were still considered magical. While Slytherin reportedly had issues with muggleborns attending Hogwarts, within the context of his time, Slytherin would have been against those coming from non-magic culture, those unfamiliar with magic, who grew up not knowing even of its existence. That is to say, he had problems with the blending of our two cultures. He would have made no distinction between those capable of magic or not, and indeed as Mr. Scamander pointed out, at the time the squib populace, being part of the magical world in a way they’re outcast from today, made their own contributions in their own ways, one of the most famous being the school of Alchemy.”

Hermione’s quill is scratching so fast Argo worries it’ll burst into flames, but the purebloods of the room, that is, everyone except for Hermione and Argo (who already knows all this from Nicky’s lessons), just sit dumbfounded.

It’s admittedly a surprising thing. Argo had to take a moment when he first put the pieces together as well. Most likely wouldn’t think of it as remarkable only because they don’t understand just how unmagical Alchemy can be, but in the context of the later naming and with the knowledge that it was invented by squibs, it really doesn’t make sense to the modern perception that Slytherin would be an Alchemist.

But Potions didn’t exist at the time. Or rather, no true distinction was made that lasts to this day. Any master potioneer of Slytherin’s day would have also been a master Alchemist. It was the same art, with the more familiar potions component simply added onto what the squibs had developed – and were developing.

Dumbledore continues talking in much the same manner as he might chat about the weather. “The Squib’s Art as a title given to the practice of Alchemy, and I believe the separation of Potions and Alchemy as separate disciplines, evolved from the culture of that time beginning the estrangement of the squibs from magical culture as a whole. As debate between magical and non-magical culture shifted to magical and non-magical people, the squibs were delegated to the same class as muggles, and conversely the muggleborns adopted in their place.

“This is merely my personal theory,” he says like he’s sharing a secret, “but I believe Slytherin became known as a Potioneer rather than an Alchemist during this time because magical folk, especially those in the anti-muggle side of things, saw him as an authority and wanted to use his name for their own arguments. Allowing him to remain famous for his skills in Alchemy while simultaneously rebranding Alchemy as inferior would have been counterproductive. Thus, the narrative changed.”

“Mr. Scamander,” says Dumbledore, making Argo immediately narrow his eyes. “Would you please assist me with a demonstration?”

Argo stands, carefully making his way around his desk to the center of the circle the desks face.

“Now,” Dumbledore says after directing Argo in front of the professor’s desk, behind himself and out of the way of view of the rest of the students. “Unfortunately, we won’t begin practical Alchemy today, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have a practical component in this first class. Don’t be alarmed if it takes you some time to master – as I mentioned, Uagadou spends two years with its younger students practicing this very thing. But what we’re learning today is how to slow the flow of magic out of your body.”

“Isn’t that dangerous, sir?” asks Daphne.

“It can be, yes,” says Dumbledore. “That’s another reason why Hogwarts elects to teach the subject to only N.E.W.T. level students. Improper suppression of magic can lead to many complications, including, in extreme cases, the formation of an obscurial.”

Hermione’s hand straight in the air. “What’s an obscurial?” she asks.

Dumbledore chuckles. “Not relevant to today’s lesson, I’m afraid, but perhaps Mister Scamander can give a brief summary?”

Argo sighs. “Magical suppression can also be used by disciplined wizards to build up power, store it, so to speak, for an upcoming magically-intensive spell or ritual. An obscurial is that taken to the extreme. That built up power just builds and builds – it’s most often accidental, in children who are abused for their magic and suppress it without realizing what they’re doing – until eventually it… explodes. That mass of magic that’s been built up is called an obscurial.”

“Very good, Mister Scamander,” says Dumbledore with a nod. Bastard knows Argo’s grandpa Newt studies the things and makes Argo answer for no reason. “As he rightfully pointed out, used carefully and used well, magical suppression can actually be a very useful tool not only for practices such as Alchemy, which require little magical interference, but also if you find you don’t have quite enough power for a spell or ritual you wish to perform. It’s difficult to suppress your magic consistently in this way, but you can learn to build a sort of backup reserve in anticipation of a big spell, allowing you to pull off feats of magic beyond your ordinary abilities.”

Very serious now, Dumbledore stares down all five students. “Do be careful, however. While no known adult wizard has ever successfully developed an obscurial, it remains a danger to anyone building up power this way. An obscurial will not merely destroy anyone and anything around you, but will kill you just as quickly. That’s not even to begin on the other myriad health complications that can come from an excess buildup of magic within the body. In this class, we will not, under any circumstances, store magic for an extraordinary feat. I will also expect each of you to cast a draining spell at the end of every session, both in class and on your own time, to prevent this magical buildup. If you intend to store magic for some feat and want to know how to do so safely, please speak with me after class – though please know I will require you to attend regular checkups with Madam Pomfrey for as long as you continue the suppression.”

Now that his students sufficiently understand the dangers of what they’re doing, Dumbledore turns to Argo. “Now, you’re quite skilled with the tracking spell, I believe.”

Ah. Argo nods. “You’re going to use it to contrast?”

“Indeed.” He turns to the seated students. “If any of you are unfamiliar with the tracking spell, it is a delightful tool, developed by wizarding naturalists, to track magical creatures in the wild. It does this by showing remnants of magic left behind, which any magical creature will do instinctually, including wizards. My natural state – that is, the natural emission of my magic – looks under the tracking spell, like this. If you would, Mr. Scamander.”

Argo lifts his wand. “Appare Vestigium.”

As the gold dust leaves his wand and envelops the room, it gathers around the people in it. Knowing what Dumbledore is intending, Argo manipulates it some to show only the most recent “memory” left in the room, thus the spell just focuses on where everyone already is.

Dumbledore smiles and walks across the open circle, leaving a brightly glittering version of himself where he stood, and little trails following after him as he turns to face himself.

“I have, perhaps, somewhat more power than the average wizard,” says Dumbledore (Daphne snorts.), “but you can see for yourselves the magic that I give off merely by existing. Now, if I suppress my magic…”

Argo twirls his wand, dissipating the gold-dust Dumbledore so that the tracking spell is only picking up the current magical ambiance.

Dumbledore strides right back to his original spot, but what he leaves behind this time is only a very, very faint shimmery outline. Enough for Argo to track him, certainly (which is interesting – is this the limit of Dumbledore’s suppression, or can he truly evade Argo’s tracking spell and is merely not showing that card to Argo’s face? There are other methods of tracking without the magical traces that the tracking spell will reveal, but… It is Dumbledore.) but faint enough that MacDougal claims she can’t see anything at all.a

“Thank you, Mr. Scamander.” Dumbledore nods to him, permission to cancel the spell. “I believe you’re already practiced with this, under my teacher, Mr. Flamel’s instruction?”

Hermione just about bolts out of her seat at that revelation, but the others likewise sit up in shock. Except Daphne, who just rolls her eyes because this is honestly very typical for him.

“Yes, sir,” says Argo.

“Then we’ll begin with you, and one by one all of you will step through the tracking spell and we will practice safe suppression of your magic.”

The class goes by quickly after that. A long lecture on technique and limits of magical suppression, then some practice. Argo does this with Nicky before, so his first attempt through the tracking spell leaves so little behind that only Dumbledore can see anything there at all. (But Argo is also not as powerful as Dumbledore, so he needs less skill to suppress his magic – it’s an interesting and delicate balance, and therefore not a good way to compare them at all, even if the other students are very impressed.)

Hermione and Daphne pick it up quickly, too, as one of Argo’s biggest focus points in the DA is magical control, which prepares them quite nicely for this, but Zabini and MacDougal aren’t far behind. As they are older and been practicing magic for some time now, every one of them already has familiarity with holding spells back and controlling output. This is just another version of that.

Then in no time at all the class is over. Dumbledore dismisses them, and says, “Mr. Scamander, would you please stay a moment?”

Argo shares a look with Daphne, but reluctantly does. Once the others are gone, Dumbledore says, “Your previous experience with my own teacher in this subject means you’re quite a bit ahead of your classmates already. I thought, therefore, to offer you an accelerated program like Professors McGonagall and Snape had you on previously.”

Advanced study? Argo bites his lip. It’s tempting, truly, but… he shakes his head. “I appreciate that, Professor,” he says. “Really. But the whole reason I’m taking this class now instead of just studying through correspondence with Nicky is that I’m not confident in my ability to self-study as yet in Alchemy. You’ll be quite busy with Headmaster duties, so it’s not like I can bother you at any time like I do Flitwick sometimes.

“Besides,” he says, “I’ve got so many other things to study that I’m alright taking this one slow.”

“I see,” says Dumbledore, smiling enigmatically at him. It’s not at all the response Dumbledore expects. He expects Argo to jump at the chance for advanced study (and for it to give him more time with Argo as a result) but… Argo has a well-reasoned, very mature excuse to deny it. And Dumbledore knows better by now than to push, even if it were a flimsy reason. “It’s very wise to know one’s limits. If that’s your decision, then you’re free to go. Have a wonderful dinner, Mr. Scamander.”

“You too, Professor. Excuse me.”

“Long since disconnected from eyes, ears, and fingers,” Argo reads, hugging Jason close with one arm and holding the book with the other, “it had never fallen prey to beauty, or to a musical voice, to the feel of silken skin. The maiden was terrified by the sight of it, for the heart was shrunken and covered in long black hair.”

Jason chitters, then covers his face with his paws. Argo chuckles. “‘Oh, what have you done?’ she lamented. ‘Put it back where it belongs, I beseech you!’

“Seeing that this was necessary to please her, the warlock drew his wand, unlocked the crystal casket, sliced open his own breast, and replaced the hairy heart in the empty cavity it had once occupied.

“‘Now you are healed and will know true love!’ cried the maiden, and she embraced him.

“The touch of her soft white arms, the sound of her breath in his ear, the scent of her heavy gold hair: All pierced the newly awakened heart like spears.” Argo gently runs his fingers down Jason’s back, digging into his soft fur. “But it had grown strange during its long exile, blind and savage in the darkness to which it had been condemned, and its appetites had grown powerful and perverse.”

“Oi, quit bad-mouthing me to Jason.”

Argo giggles, snickering as he looks up to his guest.

Anthony rolls his eyes playfully. “Jason’s the only one who doesn’t say I have a hairy heart these days. Don’t get him started, too.”

Argo pointedly turns back the page and reads, “There once was a handsome, rich, and talented young warlock-”

“Well thank you, I’m glad someone’s noticed.”

“who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love, gamboling and preening, losing their appetites and their dignity.”

“That’s assuming they had any dignity to lose, but discounting you, Cousin, that’s pretty much true.”

Argo sticks out his tongue.

Anthony smiles, finally breaking into a small laugh. “Honestly, I never liked that story,” he admits, rubbing his neck with new awkwardness. “And the older I get, the closer to home it hits. I’m not surprised people say what they do.”

Now it’s Argo’s turn to roll his eyes. “They’re just jealous,” he says simply.

“I… really don’t think Mandy was jealous.” Anthony shakes his head in defeat. “I’m just glad Padma’s got a decent head on her shoulders.” Suddenly, his eyes go wide and he pales. “Oh no. What’s going to happen if she falls in love, too?”

“You’ll always have your favorite cousin?” Argo offers. “What happened with Mandy?”

Anthony’s cheeks burn. “She asked me out. Almost right when we got back.”

“No way.”

“I mean, obviously I told her no.”

“Really, what was she expecting? And she calls herself a Ravenclaw?”

“That’s what I thought!” Anthony groans. He sits next to Argo, close but not close enough to touch. Argo’s instinct is to hug him and drag him into his lap to nuzzle, but this is Anthony time and Anthony will be better with… not that. “But- ngh. Sometimes it does feel as if something’s wrong with me. I mean, everyone is looking for love now. Even you’re all… you.”

“I will cuddle you, and that is a threat.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Anthony sighs.

Argo frowns, rubbing Jason’s fur idly, and bites his lip. This really does bother Anthony? Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Argo has his own problems in that sphere that usually he doesn’t think about but do, sometimes, rear a quite ugly head.

(Like when Shiloh so casually says, in a way not at all accusatory but still feels a bit like calling him out, “…he’s not really a boyfriend kind of guy.” It’s… sort of true, but also sort of not? It’s complicated.)

“Anthony,” Argo says seriously, “you are one of the top students in our year. You’re a prefect. You’re an active part of the DA. And yes, Cousin, you’re a handsome bloke. It’s only to be expected that you’d have people interested in you.”

Anthony flushes, and protests, “That’s not the part that-”

“There’s nothing wrong with not looking for love,” Argo says. “Everyone isn’t a prefect. Everyone isn’t an incredibly talented and reliable wizard.” He nudges him gently, just a bump of their shoulders. “Everyone isn’t you. I don’t care what everyone is looking for. And what’s wrong with not looking for love, anyway? There are plenty of other ways to occupy one’s time than making out in the corridor.”

A snort. “I guess so. How would I get all my studying done with a girlfriend, anyway?”

Argo chuckles. After a moment of thinking, he asks, “Are you just not looking, or are you actually uninterested completely?”

Anthony rubs his neck again. “I guess the nice way to put it is… I can’t ever see myself being happy like that. I’d end up hating it after a while, even if it’s nice at first.”

“Is it nice at first?”

“No, it’s pretty gross and annoying from the start.”

Argo giggles. “Yeah, I thought so. That’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Anthony smiles up at him. “You don’t think I have a hairy heart?”

“Nah,” says Argo. “Maybe you’re not into romance, but you’ll never convince me you don’t love me.”

Anthony snorts. “Sometimes, I wonder.” With a roll of his eyes, he adds, “We’re family. Course I love you.”

“And I love you, Cousin. Hair and all.”

“Says Scamander. Never met a furball he doesn’t love.”

“So, what’s the difference between the levitation charm and the levitation spell?” David asks, scowling at his notes.

“The levitation spell is slightly more advanced for novice wizards,” answers Argo without looking up from his own work. “Although that’s only because it’s a simplified version of the same spell. You can think of it as a sort of half-step to silent and point-casting.”

“Oh,” says David, sounding disappointed by that. “So, they aren’t actually any different?”

“No, they’re just variations of the same thing. The levitation spell originally wasn’t separated from the levitation charm, as it’s really just a shorthand that wizards ended up using because the full incantation is a bit of a mouthful.”

“So, if I were to use the levitation spell on my test rather than the levitation charm…”

“Be prepared to prove that you’re using the same spell, but Flitwick would accept it, so long as you can show your reasoning.”

“Rad.”

“Unless, of course, your test is specifically on the incantation and wand movement rather than the spell itself. But you should be past that as a second-year, yeah?”

David groans. “Darn. It is. We’re still early in the term so we’re reviewing first-year material.”

“Ha, well, you better learn. You can get away with using the levitation spell in practical tests, usually, but even on the O.W.L. there were questions about first year wand movements and incantations in the written portion. Best just to memorize them. They stop being so specific in second year, when it’s assumed you know how those things work, so it’s really just the first-year curriculum you have to worry about that stuff with.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Argo!” The door to his study room bursts open suddenly as Susan and her dour-faced firstie strut right on in. “Oh, good!” Susan says. “David’s here, too. Scooch, I’m taking the cuddle couch.”

David grumbles, but sits up and shuffles over to make room for Susan to flop onto the sofa. “Cuddle couch?” David asks, ignoring Susan’s feet landing in his lap.

“Why else do you think it’s here?” Susan asks. “Although, Cedric and the twins graduated, and Anthony isn’t a cuddler, so… so do you even use this anymore, Argo? Are you okay? Do we need cuddle time?”

“I’d appreciate it!” Argo chirps. “I think you’re the only one left that’s not scared of me. But I’ve got Jason and Shiloh, at least. They make for great cuddles. And I do sometimes torture Anthony with them, if he’s up to it.”

Susan narrows her eyes. “For you? That’s not enough. Come here, you’re behind me.”

Ooh! Cuddle time! Argo stops his work quickly, eagerly lifting Susan to replace her on the sofa, letting her settle back down on top of him.

Susan is a rare cuddle. Like she says, Argo’s human cuddle buddies are mostly Cedric and the twins, and even that wanes quite a lot when Cedric starts dating Harry and Argo attacks the twins’ brother. This year, they’re just plain not here anymore, so Argo has to make do with Shiloh (who is an awesome cuddler, but can only be more than an ordinary cat when they’re safely in the Come and Go Room) and Jason.

It's still early in the year, so he’s not feeling it too badly just yet, but he already knows he’s going to be starved for cuddles later on. Shiloh and Jason are awesome, but Jason is still a niffler and Shiloh is only one person.

Susan’s firstie, whose name is Ross, takes Argo’s vacated spot at the desk. At the same time, Shiloh jumps up onto Argo’s shoulders, then meanders down to curl up in Susan’s lap.

David snickers. “My friends would never believe how clingy you are.”

“Want to join?” Argo asks, reaching out to his kid.

After a moment of deliberation, David shrugs, tosses his notes aside, and tips over on top of Susan, who just huffs and manhandles him into a more comfortable position.

“Ross?” Argo offers. “There’s always room on the cuddle couch.”

“Not a cuddler,” Susan answers for him.

“Suit yourself.”

“Anyway,” says Susan. “I just got done talking to Daphne. She’s got her eye on a second-year, but she has to be all Slytherin about approaching her so it might be a little bit before we can arrange to involve her. And Harry’s still clueless, so for now it’s just our boys.”

“But you wanted to start some kind of joint training anyway?” Argo guesses.

Susan hums. “Let’s call it a group project.”

“I’m interested,” David says eagerly. He grins at Ross’ grim expression. “You and me, Hufflepuff. So, what’re we doing?”

Susan matches David’s grin. “You’re arranging a bounce duel tournament for the younger students.”

“Rad!” David laughs. “What’s a bounce duel?”

Argo groans. “Susan. I thought we agreed this was a terrible idea.”

“No,” says Susan. “You said it was a terrible idea. I said we need safety precautions. It’s a great way to get the younger students some practical, fun experience.”

Jason climbs onto David, then tumbles down to Shiloh, but trills excitedly the whole way.

“Jason agrees with me,” says Susan smugly.

She doesn’t know that! Even though Jason absolutely is agreeing with her.

Argo covers his face. “Someone’s going to break their neck.”

“And if they do, it’ll our little apprentices’ fault!”

“I’m sorry,” says David. “What?”

Susan shrugs. “You’re the ones arranging it. You need to remember to arrange all the safety measures, too.”

“Right, and what is a bounce duel, again?”

With a snicker, Susan explains, “We use an empty room, cover literally everything with cushioning and softening charms, then go absolutely wild. We’ll be limiting you guys to only the knockback jinx, but when we did it last year, we allowed the seize and pull spell as well.”

David looks equal parts excited and terrified. “That sounds awesome,” he says. “You did that last year?”

“It wasn’t a club event,” Argo says. “Just us in the Circle. We were actually testing the idea to see if it’s reasonable as a club event.”

“And?”

Argo sighs. “There’s a reason we’re banning the seize and pull spell. Just… be careful. And I’ll work with you both on some healing spells, I think, in the meantime.”

There’s a long moment of silence before David says, “You guys are so cool.”

Argo’s study room has never been a private location. It’s out of the way and hard to find, yes, but it’s not exactly a secret. It’s on the Maruauder’s Map, for one, which means that some people (only Harry, anymore) can find him whenever they like, and by now even if his most frequent visitors have graduated, the rest of the DA Circle are very familiar with its location. And now, Argo is giving David free access to it.

All that means that when Argo has more sensitive, secret things to work on, that study room isn’t an ideal place. Even if he’s mostly alone, there, the chance of being interrupted and someone peeking at his work is too high.

But there are advantages to using that room. Mostly for appearances sake. The Come and Go Room won’t let him back into Ravenclaw’s laboratory, but the secret laboratory it does let him into is pretty nice. Definitely better equipped. But having a public laboratory is good for perception.

After all, no one suspects he’s working on anything else if he has his mostly-hidden laboratory right there. It’s already mostly secret, though sort of an open one, so why have another, even more secret place to experiment and study?

Argo can’t do much about anyone noticing that he vanishes from time to time, but given how much time he still spends out on the grounds with the creatures and the simple fact that no one is aware where he sleeps anyway means not being able to find him for some time is expected and normal and not a cause for concern.

Argo keeps everything related to Laelaps locked away in his secret laboratory, or if it’s especially important, in his room where he knows only he, Shiloh, and Helena can enter. School projects or personal interests go in the public laboratory, so people know he’s busy. Anything involving the Deathly Hallows (which Argo is still only passingly interested in, and then mostly by coincidence – the Master of Death thing if he gathers all the Hallows doesn’t logically follow, in his opinion, he has his doubts about the rumors of the Elder Wand’s power anyway, and the cloak, if it is indeed the cloak, is better off in Harry’s hands than Argo’s. He already has the stone and frankly is struggling to find any use for it) is locked tight in his room, in the safest place, as is anything involving the seventh horcrux.

But ministry records, certain less sensitive plans, and the darker of his school-related endeavors all find themselves in the secret laboratory. Argo is definitely going to make those Gryffindors he knows are picking on David for being a know-it-all regret it, as soon as Shiloh reports that they’ve gone too far or David comes to him for help, whichever comes first. (They back off for now, David’s position with Argo watching over him enough to intimidate them, but Argo knows that unless he starts hovering over David, which he refuses to do, they’ll be back eventually.) But also included here, in this laboratory, and what Argo is currently working on, is everything he has on blood maledictions.

…He needs a blood sample. He can’t believe he doesn’t take some blood before now. Probably it would be best to get a sample from both Daphne and Astoria, but depending on how the malediction truly works, either one might be enough.

Given he doesn’t know how it works, he thinks he’ll need both. How does one ask a Slytherin for their blood? He knows they can be sensitive about that kind of thing.

Eh, Daphne’s his friend. She knows him, and she knows he’s looking for a cure for Astoria’s blood malediction. Direct should be best.

So Argo rises from his desk, summons the Marauder’s Map, and sets out into the castle determined to find Daphne.

He clicks his tongue when he finds her name on the map. She’s in the Slytherin Common Room.

He can wait until dinner, or breakfast tomorrow, and try to catch her then… Or, he can just ask a Slytherin to get her for him.

Not caring enough to maintain the façade of not knowing exactly where the Slytherin Common Room is, Argo’s decision is made for him. He heads down, loiters for a while, and soon enough the door appears and opens.

And the Slytherin coming out of the common room freezes at the sight of him. Argo grins. “Hi! Do you have time to pop back in and tell Daphne Greengrass that I want to talk to her?”

Slowly, the guy nods. “How did you know where our common room is?” he asks.

Argo blinks. “Am I not supposed to know? I thought everyone knew.”

“Everyone certainly does not know.”

Argo frowns. “Well, why would your common room be hidden? Ravenclaw’s is in Ravenclaw Tower. We have a giant eagle knocker out front. If other houses aren’t supposed to know where that is…”

“That’s Ravenclaw,” says the guy. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Argo tilts his head thoughtfully. “I mean, Gryffindor is in Gryffindor Tower. It’s not like it’s just Ravenclaw.”

“That’s Gryffindor,” the guy scoffs. “Slytherin and Hufflepuff are hidden.”

“Hufflepuff’s hidden?” Argo asks. He’s mostly teasing about the Slytherin one, because of course Slytherins would hide their common room, but he’s legitimately dumbfounded this time. “They’re literally right next to the kitchens.”

The Slytherin works his jaw, attempting to form words as he narrows his eyes helplessly at Argo, but ultimately gives up and shakes his head in defeat. “I’ll just tell Greengrass you’re waiting for her.”

Oh. He’s gone. Well. Are the common rooms really supposed to be hidden? Argo knows the passcode is supposed to be secret, so other houses shouldn’t be able to get inside (Not that Argo doesn’t learn the Hufflepuff tap-code ages ago, or keep track of both Gryffindor and Slytherin’s passwords.), but he didn’t think the locations of the common rooms themselves is a secret.

“Argo?” asks Daphne, coming out of the newly reappeared door. “What are you doing here.”

Argo has real business to discuss, but still the first thing out of his mouth is, “Are the common rooms actually supposed to be hidden?”

Daphne rolls her eyes. “To normal students, yes. I wish I could be surprised that you know where ours is, but honestly? Not in the slightest. So, what did you need?”

“Oh,” Argo says dumbly, blinking away his distracted thoughts, “uh. Blood.”

Daphne crosses her arms, fixing him with a look.

He holds up his hands defensively, saying, “It’s for your thing.”

Understanding quickly schools her expression. She nods firmly and gestures with her head. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. I actually have something I want to talk to you about regarding that.”

Really now? Argo is intrigued. Any lead is welcome at this point. Argo isn’t optimistic about their chances from the start, but the longer he works at this, the more he understands just why these kinds of curses haven’t been broken yet.

“David should be in class right now, so my lab should be clear,” says Argo. Shiloh might be there, but Daphne has no idea he’s sentient and also he already knows about the blood malediction issue anyway. (Argo doesn’t go out of his way to tell him, really, he just does a lot of his studying in his room before he realizes he can just ask the Come and Go Room for another lab to separate that stuff into, so Shiloh is there to see it.)

As they walk, Argo asks, “How’s the apprentice search coming, anyway?”

Daphne smiles. “I’ve almost got things arranged. Camille is definitely interested, so it shouldn’t be long now. Have you heard from Harry? How’s he doing on the search?”

“Yeah, just yesterday,” says Argo. “He’s not sure yet, but I think he’s set on this first-year girl. I don’t know anything about her, yet, but he kept going back to her when he was talking about it. I know he hasn’t approached her.”

“One would think Gryffindors would be brave enough to talk to their housemates,” Daphne snorts.

Argo laughs. “Or do as little talking as possible and just drag them into a duel. Susan is still on about that.”

“I’m just surprised David went along with it. He must have been terrified, the poor kid.”

Argo flushes. “He… was too scared to say no. In my defense, I am not a scary person.”

Daphne lifts her brow. “Argo, you’re about as close to Hagrid’s size someone without giant blood can get.” She pokes him pointedly. “And a lot of it’s muscle.”

Argo pouts. “Yes,” says Argo. “You have a point. But have you considered: I’m the baby.”

“Outside of the Scamander household where you probably consider basilisks to be innocent little beans, you are about the furthest thing from a baby there is.”

“Well, that’s just unfair! And for the record, our basilisk is not an innocent little bean. She’s literally killed people.”

“It is not unfair.” Daphne shakes her head, exasperated. “You’re like a mountain. You have a beard and you’re still sixteen. You sometimes turn into a grizzly bear.”

“I don’t see how any of that disqualifies me from being the baby.”

Daphe rolls her eyes. “Not to mention last year was David’s first year. What happened in probably the very first time he saw you?”

Last year? The first time David would notice Argo would be… Oh. The Grand Staircase. Throwing Ron off the Grand Staircase. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Daphne asks. “Did you not realize that all the second years are terrified of you?”

“I don’t usually talk to the second years. I knew people were afraid of me, but I didn’t stop to think about the demographics.”

Daphne rolls her eyes. “You are so brilliant, but sometimes you can be so clueless.”

Argo pouts as he opens the door for her, then follows her inside. “So,” he says, closing the door behind him. Shiloh is indeed here, curled up on the cuddle couch peering over the side to an open book on the floor. Seeing Daphne, he feigns disinterest in the book, as if it’s just left out and he barely notices it. “Blood?”

Daphne pulls back her sleeve, exposing her arm, and sits at the desk. “If it’ll help you figure out this malediction, take it.”

“Is the blood-letting spell okay?” Daphne nods. Argo hurries to grab some clean vials. “If I could get Astoria’s, too…”

Daphne’s jaw tightens. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says. “But more importantly, I’ve made progress of my own.”

“Yeah, you mentioned you had something. What is it?”

As Argo comes to her, vials and wand in hand, Daphne asks, “Have you heard of Ethelred the Ever-Ready?”

It takes Argo a moment to place it. “Is that the dark wizard who went around cursing innocent people for no reason?”

“He was paranoid as anything, imagining insults left and right. He took offense at everything and would curse people in his perceived retaliation.”

“Right,” says Argo. “He’s from… the Middle Ages?”

Daphne nods. “I heard that he cursed some women with blood maledictions. Which means he might’ve known how to create the curse.”

“If he could start it, then we can use that to figure out how the malediction is interwoven into the blood-”

“Then we can remove it,” says Daphne. “That’s the idea.”

“Great! But how are we going to get that information from him? Did he write it down?” Argo can summon him, probably, with the Resurrection Stone, but given Ethelred’s infamous disposition, Argo sincerely doubts anything will come of that. He also can’t tell Daphne that he can summon the guy, so he needs some other plan anyway.

Daphne’s confidence falters. “Maybe,” she says, cringing slightly. “He was educated, and it seems he created many of the curses he used, so the chances he kept a spellbook are fairly high. If it’s anywhere, it’s probably entombed with him.”

Oh. “Where’s he buried?”

“London.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad.”

Daphne winces. “In the Murk.”

“In the Murk?”

“I know, but he was a dark wizard. That’s what they did with them, then.”

Argo stares hard at her. “You want to break into the Murk?”

Her eyes can’t find his as she pleads. “Argo, I’m begging you. You’re the most talented wizard I know. And Father forbids me from investigating; you’re the only one I can ask. I have no one else to turn to – please.”

Argo bites his lip. The Murk is an old wizarding prison, but it’s a prison in name only. Dark wizards were thrown into those crypts at the drop of a hat, once, but it was never a place where they were meant to be incarcerated. It’s a place meant to kill them.

An old crypt, maze-like tunnels, who knows how many traps and dangers laid either to kill the dark wizards sent down there, or created by the dark wizards themselves before they succumbed. Not to mention the phenomenon it’s named after.

The true name of the place is lost to time, but people call it the Murk because of the heavy black miasma within the place. There are all kinds of rumors about it, and it’s impossible to tell what’s true and what’s legend. Anything from it sapping magic to leave one powerless like a muggle to it being a literal poison that kills one slowly as they breathe it in. The only thing consistent about the tales is that they’re unpleasant.

Argo is positive there will be inferi. The dark wizards trapped down there would definitely have summoned some at some point, and those things don’t die with time. If they’re really unlucky… it’s a perfect home for dementors. Argo can hold up against dementors, but he’s not scared of dementors. Sure, they have that magical air about them that drains happiness, but Argo being intrinsically unafraid of the things means he’s not surprised he doesn’t struggle with the patronus charm in the presence of one.

He’s not counting on his own patronus being viable if he delves into what might ostensibly be a dementor nest. He hopes he’ll manage it, but he’s not going to go in there without other options.

And he can’t very well deny Daphne, can he? He promises to help cure her sister, and this might be what they need to do that. Not to mention what else they might find down there. Ethelred surely isn’t the only learned dark wizard in the Murk. The potential contents of the spellbooks preserved in there is limitless.

After a long deliberation, Argo asks, “How’s your patronus charm?”

Daphne grimaces again. “I can make a shield.”

“Not good enough,” he says firmly. “The Murk would be a paradise for dementors. Maybe even a spawning ground. I’ll go with you, but under a few conditions.”

“I need to make a full-bodied patronus?” Daphne asks, already perking up. It’s a difficult task to accomplish, but it’s a firm goal.

“Yes, that’s one,” says Argo. “We also will need to bring Susan and Harry.” Daphne immediately makes a face. Argo explains before she can complain. “The two of us alone isn’t enough. You know that. I know you don’t want to involve anyone else, but we need them if we hope to accomplish anything there.”

“…I hate it when you’re right. Fine.” Daphne sighs. “I’ll talk to them, and I’ll work on my patronus.”

“Make sure Susan masters the patronus, too.”

She nods. “Argo… thanks. And don’t mention this to them. Let me handle all the arrangements.”

Argo eyes Daphne carefully, then nods in return. “Let me know when everything’s ready.”

The Hound enters the delightfully garish home, smelling already fresh cake and tea. Awaiting him on a plush chair sporting a truly remarkable print, sits the owner of the home, and just the person the Hound is here to see.

Rhinestoned glasses, with a heavy jaw under suspiciously rigid blonde curls. Who else, but Rita Skeeter?

“Come in!” she says warmly, truly welcoming. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to some tea or cake – though I suppose eating must be difficult with that adorable mask, hm? No matter, no matter. It’s not a problem at all. I’m sure someone will eat this delightful pound cake I’ve made.”

The Hound chuckles politely, taking his seat in a matching chair just across from the little side table the treats are placed on. “No indeed,” he replies, matching her tone perfectly. “It must a be a great regret of mine, but alas, professionalism in this case requires the mask stay on. The tea and cake both smell delightful, though.”

“Well, thank you.” Skeeter smooths out her already pristine skirt and fixes a much more calculating gaze on the Hound. “I’m sure a very busy man, Hound of Laelaps and all that, so I’m sure you’d appreciate getting right to the point. What does Laelaps want from me?”

The Hound’s mask tilts up, giving the impression of a smile. Skeeter smiles brilliantly in return, showing off her three gold teeth. “First,” says the Hound, “allow me to express our congratulations and our delight that your year-long hiatus has finally come to an end. It is truly refreshing to see your name in the paper again.”

Skeeter blinks owlishly. Her hiatus? …It’s nothing. It must be nothing. She has been gone from the paper because of that rotten Granger girl, but all Laelaps can know of it is just that – that she was absent for some time and has now returned. Nothing to do with her animagus abilities. What’s common knowledge is more than enough to make a statement like that. So, she grins. “I’m so pleased you’re fans,” she says. “And I assure you, my break was very fruitful. I have so much more inspiration these days.”

“Definitely worth the time, then,” the Hound chuckles. “And to business, we hope you’ll be willing to use that inspiration for a story we’re offering to you.”

A story? Of course, it can only be a story. But what kind of story could someone like Laelaps be seeking Rita Skeeter personally for? “Oh?” She’s not fool enough to believe the Hound will give up the details without an agreement, but she can’t agree with nothing to go on. “And what can you tell me before I make this decision?”

From his plain black robes, the Hound produces a thin file, which he places carefully on the table next to the tea and cake.

Wonderful. Skeeter is practically buzzing with excitement as she snatches the thing up. And opening it… oh it is juicy indeed. Still, she maintains her cool demeanor. Arching her brow inquisitively, she asks, “Dumbledore?”

The Hound does that grinning thing again. Skeeter has to admit – she likes it. “Since I’m sure you’re interested regardless, I suppose there’s no need to be coy. Laelaps believes that Dumbledore has too much power. He intends to distribute that power, that new thought might check and balance each other in those positions.”

“Distribute to whom?”

The Hound’s muzzle tips down. “No one in particular. We have plans in place, of course, and we have good ideas of who may take what roles Dumbledore will be stepping down from, but we intend to let the structure in place determine the next leaders fairly. No machinations. I promise.”

Ha. Like Skeeter is ever going to believe that rubbish. That said… does she care? Revealing half of this about Dumbledore is going to cause uproar, and this is only what the Hound is willing to hand her without even an agreement on her part to do anything. Without even an agreement not to run to Dumbledore and rat them out. What else does he have hidden away on the old coot?

Whoever Laelaps replaces Dumbledore with, the sensation her stories will cause… Ooh, that’s worth it.

This says Dumbledore was close to Grindelwald. Merlin, spun the right way, if she uses the right words… the anticipation sends a pleasurable shiver down her spine.

“And if I agree…” says Skeeter, still pretending to be coy.

“We would ask you to prepare your biography – or article, as it may be – and hold for our letter. Delightful as it would be to put this out there in a vacuum, it wouldn’t end up accomplishing much without preparation.”

“Preparation that you and Laelaps will be taking care of?” Skeeter asks, batting her eyelashes.

The Hound nods. “It shouldn’t take long. Once things begin moving, it will move swiftly. That said, Miss Skeeter, you are the first and last step of Laelaps’ plan. We want to give you time to make your… book? Make it perfect, and in the meantime, we will set the stage.”

“And why shouldn’t I just publish as soon as it’s ready?”

That mask tips up again, that grin that delights Skeeter so. “Because, Miss Skeeter. You know better than anyone that even the most remarkable article published at an inopportune moment, can amount to little but a drop in a pond. The same article at the right moment… That can cause waves. And if there’s one thing we believe to be true about you, Miss Skeeter, it’s that you enjoy making waves.”

…She does enjoy making waves, she’ll give him that. “And you wish for me to discredit Dumbledore?” she asks. “If I’m doing this, we should be perfectly clear on what’s expected of me. I’d hate to disappoint, after all.”

If he just admits it, then Skeeter can use it as evidence in case it all goes sideways. It’s Laelaps who is attacking the great Albus Dumbledore’s reputation. Not Skeeter.

But the Hound smiles again and laughs. Skeeter knows immediately that he’s caught on to her game. “Miss Skeeter,” he says, “All that Laelaps wishes is for the truth to be known. The truth alone is all we need, after all. So, you just do what you do best, and don’t you worry about disappointing anyone.”

That clever rascal. Well, assurance or not, Skeeter can hardly let an opportunity like this pass her by. She’s thinking… The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Edition one, of course. Rare for her to write a biography about someone still living, but she’s willing to update it as time passes until the old geezer finally kicks the bucket.

And assuming Laelaps does his part, Dumbledore won’t be in a position to fight against what she reports. Even so, she should probably stick to mostly truths for this one, just in case. Even Dumbledore can’t protest what isn’t actually false.

“Fine,” she says. Her grin is truly predatory. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

David is so excited. He has… acquaintances, like who he sits with at mealtimes on occasion, who are with him when Argo first approaches him, but David never really manages to make… friends.

He’s told he’s a little overbearing. Which isn’t true at all! He’s just friendly!

But Ross likes him! He thinks. Argo definitely likes him. Ever since he agrees to become Argo’s apprentice, friends just seem to keep popping up and it’s wonderful! And today, he gets word that another potential friend is waiting for him! Daphne got her apprentice to agree, so now he needs to bring her up to speed on their plans for the bounce duel later this year.

David grins giddily as he skips down the hall, looking for the meeting place. It should be just around-

David stops short, instinctively ducks his head. Oh, boy. Finley. David would recognize that smug Gryffindor anywhere.

No sooner does Finley spot him trying to sneak by than David’s books are scattered on the floor. David sighs. How typical.

Finley starts talking, mocking him, but David doesn’t really pay attention. Argo says meditation can help control the urge to fight back (which he should do if Finley raises his wand, or otherwise threatens someone he cares about, which basically amounts to the rest of the DA Circle and apprentices now) and simultaneously helps with occlumency – which will also help control that temper.

It’s David’s first chance to use it in a practical sense, but he’s always been a fast learner.

(If the subject isn’t Charms, anyway.)

He keeps his head down and his eyes up, watching for any threatening movement, but otherwise retreats into his mind, tuning out all of the insults. There’s something about him being an insufferable know-it-all, and about his poor performance in charms, which is really old news at this point. Nothing he doesn’t hear before.

Realizing that his words aren’t having any effect, Finley eventually gives up. With a rough shove, forcing David into the hard stone wall, Finley prowls away.

David sighs. For a while, Finley leaves him alone. David is pretty sure it’s because he’s scared of Argo, so when David becomes Argo’s apprentice, it’s enough to intimidate him. Until now. Now, he’s back at it.

David kneels down, slowly gathering his books, carefully checking each one for damage. He sucks kind of hard at the Reparo charm, so he’ll have to ask Argo to help if anything is torn.

A gentle meow makes him jump. David turns to see a very familiar cat padding up to him, then rubbing against his legs, purring.

Despite Finley rearing his ugly mug again, David can’t help but smile. “Hey, Shiloh,” he murmurs, sparing a hand from gathering his stack of books to pet the cat.

Shiloh looks up at him, all big eyes, and seems to ask if he’s okay.

David still isn’t as good at it as Argo, but Argo does teach him to communicate with animals. Shiloh and Jason obviously being the primary test subjects, so Shiloh is one David is more familiar with and can understand a little better than most.

It’s so interesting, this magical component of speech. David admits he’s a little disappointed that it’s not true speech, like parselmouths have with snakes, but the mechanics of how it works are so fascinating that he can’t be upset about this new thing to study.

With a rub of Shiloh’s fuzzy head, David says, “Yeah, I’m fine.” Muted, he shakes his head. “I just hoped… I hoped he wouldn’t start bothering me again. But- but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Promise. Especially with everything Argo is teaching me.” He smiles, though it’s a little put upon. “Did you see? I did what he said to! Finley didn’t get any reaction at all! Maybe if I keep it up he’ll get bored…”

Can be, Shiloh seems to say. Or maybe he’ll get more determined.

Yeah, that’s a good point. David groans quietly, not looking forward to that.

Argo will help either way, Shiloh assures him with all the confidence of a pet who can depend on his owner for literally anything.

Although… David thinks Shiloh is right. His smile turns a little more genuine. Ever since he meets Argo… things change so much for the better. Argo is like a big brother – actually, he’s a lot like David’s big brother, at least in how he’s always keeping an eye on him, helping him wherever he needs it, protecting him…

(Personality-wise, they’re not that similar, though. Argo is much more… calculating. Although David thinks that’s so cool. He reminds David of a mastermind in a detective novel. His actual big brother is more of a class clown. Which David also thinks is cool.)

Which – it’s nice, to have something like his family at Hogwarts. Most of his family still hasn’t gotten past the whole “magic is from the devil” thing. Thanks for that, Abuela. David doesn’t realize how much he misses that, even the casual affection that Argo is so comfortable with, ruffling his hair or just having a hand on his shoulder, until Argo finds him and gives all that back to him.

It makes petty bullies like Finley seem like less of a hurdle.

Sharp, clicking footsteps echo through the hall, fast approaching before David even manages to collect all of his books.

David’s cheeks warm when the newcomer stops by him. Because of course someone sees him on his knees picking up his things like this.

“David Hernandez?”

The voice is clearly a girl, smooth and feminine and proper in a way David can never be. The green on her robes implies to David that she’s probably filthy rich, and her clear tone comes from society, which Daphne attempts to explain to him once but David is thoroughly not cut out for.

He looks up. His breath catches in his throat.

Because woah. That girl is stunning. David isn’t really interested in romance (Yet? He’s not even thirteen for Christ’s sake.) but even now he can acknowledge that this girl, when they’re older, is going to be so annoyed by people trying to ask her out.

She kneels as well, reaching out to grab the last of his books, then stack them neatly onto the pile in his arms. “My name is Camille Lebeau,” she says, smiling vaguely. “Just call me Camille. I’m Daphne Greengrass’ new apprentice. I was told you’ll be giving me the details on our project.” Her dark eyes flicker past him, and are overtaken by a… much scarier expression. “Was that Finley that did that to you?”

David squeaks. “Er… You know Finley? I-”

“Wait here.”

Just like that, Camille is storming off in the direction Finley goes, leaving David gaping helplessly with Shiloh still purring at his feet. Actually, Shiloh sits on his feet, so he can’t move even if he wants to.

“Ow! Bloody hell! Let go of me you slimy snake! What do you think you’re doing?” Finley’s loud, loud protests echo through the hall. David, unable to move at all, just flinches. Oh, he’s going to be so mad. He appreciates what Camille is trying to do, but God, this is going to make everything so much worse. Now he’ll be the guy who had to be defended by a girl. And maybe worse, at least in the mind of a Gryffindor like Finley, by a Slytherin.

When Camille returns around the corner of the corridor, dragging Finley kicking and screaming by the ear, David can’t believe his eyes. How the… How does she just manhandle Finley like this?

“Apologize.”

Camille’s icy tone leaves no room for argument, but Finley somehow still tries. “Like hell!”

Camille pointedly twists his ear, earning a flustered, girly yelp. “Apologize,” she hisses. “Don’t make me ask a third time.”

Finley growls. “I’ll apologize when Hernandez does my homework for me.”

“Too stupid to do it yourself?” Camille mocks. “Don’t answer that. We know you are.”

“Oi!”

“Now,” Camille says.

“Never,” replies Finley.

“Guys, come on,” David pleads weakly. “This isn’t necessary-”

“Shut up, mud-”

Finley can’t even finish the insult before Camille literally washes his mouth out with soap. It’s… kind of amazing, actually. With a flick of her wand – so fast on the draw! – sudsy soap bubbles suddenly fill his mouth and begin pouring out onto the front of his robes.

Camille clicks her tongue threateningly. “And here I thought blood bigotry was supposed to be a Slytherin thing. Didn’t your superior upbringing teach you better than useless name-calling? And what would Professor McGonagall say if she heard one of her lions say something like that?”

Finley’s eyes go wide. He whimpers softly behind the bubbles still filling his mouth.

Still holding him tight by the ear, with her wand pointed at his head, Camille say lowly, “Here’s what’s going to happen.” Her eyes flick over to David for just a moment, but in that moment, her lips curl into a smile. “You and David are going to duel.” They’re what? “A proper wizard’s duel, tournament rules.” Oh, no. “And you, as a respectable pureblooded wizard, will resolve your petty dispute there, and leave it there, as you’re supposed to.”

Is that how pureblood society works? David is still just floundering at the idea of having to duel Finley.

“I’m David’s second, of course. It’d hardly be fair if Argo took the role, after all.” Finley whimpers again at the reminder of just who he stands to piss off. “So you will go find your second and meet us in the DA club room where you’ll have your duel. If you win, then we won’t tell Professor McGonagall about everything you’ve been doing behind her back. If we win, then you will apologize and leave whatever your issues with David are behind you. Are we clear?”

Finley nods vigorously.

Camille takes her wand away, and the suds in Finley’s mouth clear out just as quickly. “Good,” she says. “See you there.”

She winks, turns on her heel, grabs David by the arm, and hauls him, Shiloh trailing behind, to their club room.

“Uh,” David stammers, “Camille, I don’t think-”

“Oh, please.” Camille rolls her eyes. “You’re apprentice to Argo Scamander. The DA Circle are the best duelists in this school. Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m uh,” he mumbles. He can’t exactly say he’s scared now, even though he absolutely is. What he does end up saying, which comes out as more of a question, is, “I’m better at street rules?”

Camille snorts. “Good.” She sighs quietly and slows a little, taking some time to think about her words and look earnestly at David. “Look, I know you didn’t agree to this, but this is the only way to make him stop for good. Finley is a pureblood. We have rules and customs.” She hums, a little uncomfortably. “A lot of which probably seem dated or silly to you, but the fact is that if you beat him in a proclaimed wizard’s duel, then his reputation hinges on honoring the agreement. As does yours, but all you need to do in the case that you lose is not rat him out to McGonagall – we’ll still find another way to deal with him.”

David feels like his chest is buzzing, and butterflies destroy his stomach. “If I win,” he says slowly, “Finley has to leave me alone? For good?”

Camille tilts her head. Her long, silky black hair cascades down. “Unless you give him a real, genuine reason to retaliate at you, yes. It’s not an unbreakable vow or anything, so he can still pick on you, but if he does then one word and every pureblood in the school – and that’s not just the Slytherins, mind, that’s everyone – will know he’s a liar and that his word means nothing. He’ll be outcast, and he’d disgrace his family. I doubt he’s willing to do that.”

“Oh,” says David. “Okay.”

“And I’m not worried, anyway. Finley isn’t a bad duelist, I’ll admit, but you’re better.”

“You really think so?”

“I know it.” There’s no doubt at all. David warms. “Come on, we can’t let Finley get there before us.”

David follows helplessly. Camille drags him all the way to the DA room, where she employs sixth-year Gryffindor prefect Hermione Granger, who David only knows as Harry’s friend, to be the referee, as she says any of the Circle will open the possibility of an accusation of biased judging, given their positions, and a prefect, especially a Gryffindor prefect, will nip that right in the bud. Finley will have no cause to protest.

It admittedly takes some fighting on Camille’s part to stop Hermione from just reporting the issue outright. It’s not until Argo interrupts and asks Hermione to let this play out that she begrudgingly agrees. David doesn’t know whether to be upset that Argo is making him follow through with this duel (Though, Argo is raised pureblood, too, and the challenge is already issued. Camille says backing out now would make him look a coward, which personally he’d be fine with, but as Argo’s apprentice, David’s actions reflect on him, too. David can’t back out without affecting Argo’s reputation, which is the primary reason he sucks it up and solidifies his resolve to just do this thing.) or flattered that Argo is so confident things will work out in his favor.

Then Finley arrives, with another Gryffindor second year as his second, and they take their places in the dueling ring, with Hermione on the side as a judge and their seconds behind them just outside the wards, and all of the DA Circle and Ross, too, watching closely from the seats nearby.

David can’t stop his wand hand from trembling. Great, he’s already starting off pitifully.

“Remember,” says Hermione, “we normally do street rules here, but this match is with tournament rules. I expect everyone to respect each other and honor the terms of the duel. Are both sides ready?”

Finley nods once, unflinching. David shakily does so as well.

“Then face your opponent. Wands up.” David holds his wand vertically, mirroring Finley, then bows on Hermione’s cue. Finley just kind of jerks his head. “To your accepted combative positions.”

They both turn their backs on each other, each taking deliberate steps down the dueling line, then turn, brandishing their wands at the ready.

“Three,” says Hermione. “Two. One.”

“Tarantallegra!” David learns from the best, after all, and something of Argo’s style definitely bleeds through to David even so soon into his apprenticeship. He strikes as fast as possible, not giving any time for Finley to prepare.

Unfortunately, some combination of it being tournament rules, with a countdown instead of a sudden start, and Finley actually being a decent duelist, allows him to get a shield up in time to block the spell. He counters with a jelly-leg jinx, which David sidesteps before firing off his own full body-bind.

With just a flick of his wand, Finley sends David’s spell soaring wide, fizzling against the ward around their arena. With a fierce expression, Finley sends a flurry of hexes David’s way.

It’s all David can do to block them. He loses ground, backing up, shielding frantically as each incoming spell pressures him more and more.

What can he do? David isn’t actually a great duelist. He’s okay with street rules because he depends on unconventional methods. Even now his free hand itches towards his robes, wanting to use some prank item to throw Finley off his guard. David isn’t a skilled enough wizard, much less experienced enough, to fight a pureblood who probably practices at home during all the breaks.

Finley is stronger than him. David can tell by how his shields are fracturing one by one, by how he has to keep casting the charm, rather than just maintaining a standing shield.

But his best weapon is creativity. Even in a tournament duel, he can use something. But what?

Wait… restrictive rules, something he knows, and most importantly, something that’ll slip right past Finley’s defense… of course. Bounce duel!

Newly determined, finally with an idea, David times it very carefully. Just when Finley lightens up on his assault, David counters, aiming his wand not at Finley where a shield might make his spell useless, but the ground beneath his feet. “Spongify!” David shouts.

It’s a transfiguration despite it being called the softening charm. It’s something David is good at, and something he’s been practicing a lot in preparation for their upcoming bounce duel event. Immediately, the ring below Finley’s feet softens into a bouncy elastic.

While Finley’s balance is thrown, David follows up quick as he can with a sharp, downward slash of his wand. “Descendo!”

As Finley is already on the ground, the spell ordinarily wouldn’t do much, but in this case it pushes him into the elastic floor.

Which trampolines him high into the air. Finley’s screams of fright are music to David’s ears. “I can’t believe that worked,” David mutters. “Uh, Expelliarmus!” As he’s currently flailing helplessly several meters in the air, and rapidly descending, Finley isn’t in any position to fight back. At just about the same time Finley hits the still-softened ground, and bounces right back into the air, his wand lands in David’s free hand.

David winces as Finley bounces twice more. “Er… Arresto Momentum. Duro.”

Finley’s screaming descent slows to a halt, and the ground hardens back to normal just before he drops into a groaning heap onto it.

David… can see now how a bounce duel might get out of control. He should review those healing spells that Argo teaches him. They probably can’t get hurt on the softened and cushioned ground and walls, but if there’s more than one person bouncing at any given time, collisions might become… He’s going to really review those spells. Arresto Momentum, too. Another spell beyond his level that Argo is very insistent that he learns.

“The winner, by disarming, is David,” Hermione announces. Finley rises on unsteady feet. Hermione, from her expression, has no pity for him. (Based on Argo’s howling laughter in the background, neither does he.) “Bow to your opponent before exiting the ring.”

Finley definitely isn’t happy about this, that’s for sure. The pure hatred in his eyes makes David curl in on himself. Nonetheless, he proves Camille right and doesn’t say a word. He only glowers, snatches his wand back when David offers it to him, bows (a real one this time, lower than David’s bow, even, no matter the expression on his face making it look physically painful for him to do so) and storms out of the room entirely, slamming the door behind him.

A large hand falls into David’s curly hair. “Great job, kid,” Argo says. The pride in his voice makes David melt a little. David hesitates only a moment before diving in, wrapping his arms tight around Argo, burying his head in Argo’s chest.

Good Lord, that was stressful.

Argo just chuckles, the deep rumbling vibrating David as well. “That was you,” Argo says.

It’s all David, getting rid of his bully. David can tell, partially because he knows at least this much about Argo by now, that Argo is ready to do something about Finley if he needs to. Argo is always ready to protect his own. (Wow, David realizes he’s included in that.) But he doesn’t have to. Whatever plans Argo prepares are unnecessary because David solves the problem himself.

Well… Camille does a lot of it.

Her hand finds his back. Her lilting laughter rings as she rubs his back gently. “All you, David. Told you you’d win.”

David doesn’t know what rich purebloods like for Christmas, but he’s going to find a way to get Camille the best Christmas gift for this.

Cedric is having tea with Fleur and Viktor, catching up and wishing Harry were here, when he gets an unexpected knock at his front door.

Not thinking anything of it, aside from vague suspicion at the timing, with the other Triwizard Champions who aren’t stuck at school happening to be over today, Cedric leaves his guests (welcome like family, at this point, really) to answer it.

And nearly slams the door the moment he opens it.

“Wait!” Ludo Bagman cries, shoving a crumpled note through the opening before Cedric can fully close him out. “Read this, please!”

Holding his tongue for the moment, Cedric snatches the paper, sticks his foot behind the door so it can’t open any further – not nearly wide enough for Bagman to slip inside, and glances down at the parchment.

Cedric’s throat goes dry. He’d recognize Reynard’s handwriting anywhere. The note isn’t long, just a simple message.

“He’s working for us now. Please hear him out.”

It’s signed with the symbol of the Circle of Khanna. Bagman working for the Circle? Has Reynard lost his mind? Still. Cedric sighs. If Reynard wants this, Cedric can hardly refuse. He owes it to Reynard to at least hear what Bagman has to say.

Reluctantly, Cedric removes his foot from behind the door, letting it swing open. With narrowed eyes, Cedric says, “Talk fast.”

And Bagman does. He starts off with quite a banger, too. “The Triwizard Tournament was a mistake!” Bagman says. “But the Ministry and ICW have written it off as a resounding success. If you help me, we can stop them from planning the next one.”

Cedric eyes him incredulously. Bagman, the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports is saying that he wants to prevent the next Triwizard Tournament from happening? It’s due to come up in two years – the year after Harry graduates, thank Merlin – but it’s true that even without Harry at Hogwarts Cedric isn’t trilled about more students being put through that.

But how is he supposed to believe that Bagman of all people is on his side about stopping the tournament?

So, Cedric asks, “How?”

Bagman deflates, relieved at having any sort of chance at all here. He looks frantically over his shoulder, for any lingering ears, then leans in close to hiss, “Laelaps has a plan.”

Laelaps? It’s a name Cedric hears from time to time. A major donor to St. Mungo’s, especially for researching new treatment methods. The master healer Cedric is apprenticing with calls Laelaps reckless for some of his ideas, but on paper Cedric thinks they could make a big difference.

But there’s something else… something in his gut, deep inside of him that feels like Laelaps is bad news. It’s a confusing feeling because another part of him trusts Laelaps, despite never meeting him and Laelaps doing all business through his Hound, Cedric just has the feeling that Laelaps knows what he’s doing and even if it’s esoteric and Cedric doesn’t understand himself, Laelaps must have good reason, and probably has good intentions, too.

But he also feels like Laelaps is dangerous. Cedric has no idea where it comes from. It’s vague, like a forgotten memory, but Cedric also recalls stories of Voldemort gaining power before his war using similar methods – charm, finances, and popping up in just the right places. And Cedric finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Cedric’s jaw tightens, but he steps aside, gesturing for Bagman to enter. Nervously fussing with his necktie, Bagman does, following Cedric back to the sitting room where Fleur and Viktor immediately straighten into guarded stances.

“What are you doing here?” growls Viktor.

“Relax,” says Cedric, no happier about it than Viktor is, but Reynard’s assurance goes a long way. “He’s here to stop the next Triwizard Tournament.”

“Stop it?” Fleur asks. “And how does he intend to do that? The ICW will not listen, and the British Ministry is even worse.”

“I still have contacts in the ICW,” Bagman says quickly. “I can make them listen. That’s why I was chosen to do this, you know.” He wrings his necktie even tighter, glancing between Viktor’s dark glare, Cedric’s imposing presence just beside him, and Fleur’s wand twirling between her fingers.

“Why?” asks Viktor. “You were the biggest supporter.”

Bagman clears his throat. “That- ah, yes, well, I was… wrong. About that. The fact of the matter is… erm…” he leans in closer as if to tell a secret, “Laelaps bought out my debt. I’ve no choice but to do what he says, or he’ll have the goblins enforce our contract.”

“So, you’re being forced into this,” concludes Cedric. “That makes more sense.” Cedric might even feel bad for him if Bagman weren’t such a horrible human being. Trying to rig the tournament to benefit himself… Cedric knows Bagman has a part to play in the tasks they had to face back then.

But if Laelaps orders him to stop the next Triwizard Tournament from happening and the goblins are enforcing the contract binding him to obey… then Cedric can be assured that that’s exactly what Bagman is trying to do. There’s no weaseling out of that kind of deal, not with goblins involved.

Viktor and Fleur realize that as well, sharing looks between the three of them. At least insofar as Bagman’s ultimate goal here, they can trust him for now.

“What do you want from us?” Fleur asks.

“Just an interview,” says Bagman. “I’ve got-” he rummages through his robes, finally finding another crumpled parchment, “I’ve got here a list of questions. You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to, even just writing it down is good enough. Then I’ll take your answers back to the ICW and start turning some wheels. I- I think Laelaps is planning to use it for something similar in the Ministry – but he’s using someone else for that, so I don’t know much. All I know is that he wants everyone responsible for what happened before to be punished for it.”

The ICW, the Ministry… if Laelaps is really taking this approach to cancelling the tournament, he likely has someone within the French and German Ministries as well. And if he attacks all of them, all at once… he just might force them into doing something.

Alright, then. If that’s what it takes to make sure that horrible tournament doesn’t return, then that’s what it takes. Cedric takes the list of questions from Bagman, looks them over, and kindly boots the man out of his home.

He knows Bagman is on his side for now (if under duress) but he still can’t stand that guy.

As the three champions sit with their tea, all of them examining the list of questions in turn, Fleur asks, “What should we do?”

Viktor grunts, tossing the list onto the coffee table. “None of this is anything we have not already said. They cannot be trying to trick us into saying something we do not mean.”

“I had the same thought,” murmurs Cedric. “I guess… we have nothing to lose. He’s not asking us for anything we haven’t proven we’re willing to give. Maybe we should give Laelaps’ plan a shot.”

“Agreed,” Viktor hums. “This Laelaps, he is known in Bulgaria as well. He has connections everywhere. He could be a valuable ally. If anyone could stop the tournament…”

“I’ve heard of him in France as well,” says Fleur. “He is mysterious, but he seems to be doing good. I suppose he is our best chance.”

“Then we’ll write our answers and send them to Bagman,” Cedric says. He nods firmly, choice made. “And then… see what happens.”

They don’t wait long. They send out their letters, and Bagman receives them. Bagman shudders in relief, wondering what might happen to him if he doesn’t succeed here. But his job isn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot.

He takes the letters he receives from the champions and sets out. Whatever public outcry comes down on him for this… it’s better than what Laelaps will do to him if he fails. Hopefully the people will be kind and see him as the one who brings everything to light, not one of those most guilty of it all.

So he reads aloud the letters to select contacts within the ICW.

“We would not have survived if we had not chosen from before the very first task to work together,” writes Cedric.

“That this tournament did not end in tragedy,” writes Viktor, “was only because we recognized from the moment that Harry was entered that we were being lied to.”

The accusation doesn’t go over well. No one likes to be called a liar, but luckily Bagman knows better and chooses people not quite directly involved in the planning of the tournament. They listen.

“The tournament was cancelled before because the death toll was too high,” writes Fleur. “We were told that this tournament was safer, that precautions were taken. And yet, when an underage boy was entered against his will, no one did a thing to prevent him from being killed.”

“If not for recognizing that someone was obviously trying to kill Harry,” Cedric continues, “We likely would have entered the competition as everyone expected us to; as competitors. But with a vulnerable, underage student at risk, and the revelation of the first task being possibly one of the most deadly things that could be arranged, what else were we to do, when no one who should have stepped up, did?”

From Viktor, “It was no tournament. We only survived because we realized that early on. The tasks were designed to kill us – or, more specifically, to kill Harry.”

“If not for Harry being there, we may not have realized anything was amiss,” Fleur writes. “We only came together because we had someone to protect. Someone who did not volunteer, and who should never have been allowed to participate even if he had. Were we not brought together for that reason, our pride may have led to our deaths in that wicked trap that was set up for us.”

“Everyone in that Tournament Circle should be ashamed of themselves. My fellow champions and I have been saying that since the moment the tournament ended,” writes Cedric.

Viktor. “Ludo Bagman,” Bagman winces at being called out – first, no less – but, yes, his part to play is in this, as well. “Cornelius Fudge, and their counterparts in the French and German Ministries, as well as Igor Karkaroff, Olympe Maxime, and Albus Dumbledore. Every one of them is responsible. It is in spite of them and their plans that students from every participating school, including myself, did not die.”

“It disgusts every one of us,” writes Fleur, “that these wicked people are still allowed to plot the deaths of their own students and citizenry. That not a single one was punished, except for Bartemius Crouch Snr., who was under the influence of the Imperius Curse, despite everything wrong with the tournament arising from the group decision, is perhaps the grossest miscarriage of justice I have ever seen.”

One of the gathered members stops him. “What about Mister Potter?” they ask, desperate for something to counter what Bagman is presenting.

Bagman reaches shakily into his robes to pull out yet another letter. “If you thought the other three were scathing,” he says, “then I’m afraid Mister Potter is… several shades angrier.”

(He’s incandescent. The moment Harry reads the questions, he originally intends to toss it into the fireplace. It’s only the attached note from Cedric asking him to go through with it – and to just tell the truth – that stays his hand. But Harry tells the truth, alright, and nothing but.)

“What can be done?”

“Replace the tournament,” says Bagman. It’s Laelaps’ idea, but even Bagman thinks it’s actually not a bad one. “Overhaul it completely. One of Hogwarts’ school clubs held an event that year, a dueling gauntlet. After interviewing students from all three schools, a startling number of them reported that event as one of their favorite moments of the year. If we want to promote international magical cooperation, we should have the schools meet to cooperate. Even these champions took that lesson to heart.”

Another grumbles. “You may be on to something. The tournament kept getting cancelled because it’s a travesty. And the paperwork when one of those students die! Absurd! Reforming the tournament not just to make it safer, but to restructure it as a whole may be the best way forward.”

“Starting with allowing everyone to participate,” says another. “I saw those statistics about the club event, as well. The time for school champions may be over. Or perhaps a small group of champions, and events outside of the normal tasks that the rest of the student body can participate in?”

“Putting the champions directly against each other should minimize risk of accidental death, if there’s no wild beasts like dragons to worry about.”

“Now, let’s not discount beasts entirely…”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Bagman croons, demanding the room once more. “You all have brilliant ideas, and we should work on this in preparation for the next tournament – perhaps a rebranding as well? – but unfortunately it’s all a moot point because no one is going to trust us to plan another tournament at all until those responsible for this last one are punished appropriately.”

“And you count yourself among that number, Ludo?” asks one of his guests.

Bagman grimaces. “I accept that I was a member of that tournament planning committee, yes, so I will naturally accept any punishment deemed fit.”

“How gracious.”

Bagman does his best not to let his apprehension show on his face. “Before we start planning anything else, I ask every one of you this question. How are the people responsible for putting Harry Potter’s life at risk, not to mention international students, going to be punished for what they’ve done?”

Mr. Greengrass finds himself, even as he stands before representatives of both Hogwarts Board of Governors and the Wizengamot itself, thinking about his daughter. He is surprised, to say the least, when she asks him to do this. He understands it’s a favor for Mr. Scamander, but…

Well, if Mr. Scamander is helping them find a way to save his little Astoria, then Mr. Greengrass will take on the whole of wizarding Britain, if that’s what it takes. He knows – oh he knows that Daphne has it in her head to do something stupid and reckless and likely to get her killed. He can’t under any circumstances endorse it. But… if anyone can help her, then Laelaps with his considerable resources… maybe this stupid, reckless thing will be just what they need. Maybe… maybe, maybe.

All Mr. Greengrass really needs to know is that Daphne considers Scamander an ally of House Greengrass. Daphne is hardly so young and naïve anymore that he won’t trust her word on that much. Not to mention, the times he meets the young man leave very favorable impressions on the whole.

Still, to go after Dumbeldore… If part of him didn’t think it’s about time someone does, Mr. Greengrass isn’t sure he’d be brave enough.

But, anything for his daughters. And he’s not so blind that he doesn’t see the way the wind is blowing. He sees Laelaps’ light hand behind it all, but the wind is unmistakable. Mr. Greengrass’ contribution today will only be another stepping stone, he thinks, but he trusts, implicitly, in his daughter and her friends’ plan. The finishing blow will come when it is sure to strike true. In the meantime, it is his to prepare for it.

“Thank you all for meeting with me,” he says to the gathered representatives. As a member of the Wizengamot himself, it’s not difficult to arrange this meeting. But the topic is a delicate one. “I’d like to raise with you fine folks some concerns about some illustrious members of our august bodies.”

The gathered representatives share looks. There are many on the Hogwarts Board of Governors who also are members of the Wizengamot, so they don’t know immediately who he’s referring to.

“Chiefly,” says Mr. Greengrass, “with one Albus Dumbledore.”

And the muttering begins. Greengrass carefully controls himself, patient and steady, waiting for the opportune time to continue.

“When my eldest daughter entered her first year at Hogwarts,” Greengrass says, “I was confident, as I’m sure every one of you with children attending that school were, that she would be safe so long as she remains within those halls. Especially with a wizard like Dumbledore as the headmaster, I was assured that no harm could possibly come to her.

“And, thank Merlin, none has. Unfortunately, that’s not for lack of trying. In her first year alone, part of the third-floor corridor of the castle was out of bounds for students. These teenagers and pre-teens were warned only that entering the corridor risks them dying a most painful death. This is because, of course, the adolescent cerberus that Dumbledore put there as just the first in a series of trials designed to keep safe what’s known as the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“The Philosopher’s Stone?” asks one of the representatives. “I’d heard about the cerberus, but I had no idea there was more in there!”

“Indeed,” Greengrass says. “In fact, the troll that escaped into the castle on Halloween night, which likely would have killed three first-year Gryffindor students if not for the brave intervention of a prefect, came from that very corridor. One of the defenses, you see, was a room with trolls inside it.”

“Why was the Philosopher’s stone in Hogwarts to begin with?” asks another representative.

“That’s a very good question,” answers Greengrass. “One that I would like the answer to, myself. The stone has been kept safe for over six hundred years by it’s creator Nicholas Flamel. It’s well known that Flamel and Dumbledore are friends, but I don’t see any reason why the stone would need to be moved to Hogwarts to protect it. Even if a dark wizard were after it, it’s not as if Flamel’s protections haven’t worked until that point.”

Another representative hums. “And I’m sure you’re going to bring up the basilisk, next.”

“Indeed I am,” Greengrass says. “A little more than fifty years ago, the Chamber of Secrets was opened for the first time. Dumbledore was working at Hogwarts as the Transfiguration teacher at the time. A girl died. Her name was Myrtle Warren. In my daughter’s second year at Hogwarts, the chamber was opened again. Two students were petrified. At no point after the first incident did any investigation turn out, and at no point after the chamber was opened again did Headmaster Dumbledore manage any true progress. It’s only thanks to the intervention of the Scamander family, especially their youngest son Argo who called them to the school, that the basilisk was found and safely removed from the school.”

“Hold a moment there,” says a representative. “It was not Dumbledore who asked Scamander to find the beast? It was a student who intervened?”

“That’s right,” Greengrass confirms. “My daughter, as you know, is part of the Hogwarts Student Defense Association Circle alongside Argo Scamander. They’re good friends. He even told me about the incident himself when he was over for dinner once.”

“I don’t believe it,” the representative spits. “We know he hired investigators, but to overlook Newt Scamander as an option when Scamander’s own grandson attends the school…”

“That’s not even the end of it,” says Greengrass. “Now, how about we talk about my daughter’s third year?”

“Merlin, this is the one with Sirius Black, isn’t it?”

“It is. For the presence of dementors, which Black had already demonstrated the ability to sneak past, in a school, the blame lies solely with Minister Fudge. This is one of those instances where the proper blame actually lies more with the Ministry than with Dumbledore. That said, as Dumbledore is Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, there is truly no excuse for the dismal and frankly dangerous approach to security that was taken that year.”

“Sirius Black ended up being innocent, though, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but Peter Pettigrew wasn’t. And either way, at the time Black was a wanted criminal who managed to break into Hogwarts Castle twice. I don’t even want to think how many times he made it inside the grounds. And Pettigrew had been hiding there as a student’s pet for no less than seven years, first as Percy Weasley’s rat, then as Ronald’s. Again, Dumbledore’s efforts to find Black proved fruitless, and he remained completely ignorant to Pettigrew, but a student together with some friends made a plan, contacted Amelia Bones of the DMLE, and not only drew Black out of hiding, but also found Pettigrew and the necessary evidence to force a trial that proved Black’s innocence!”

“A student!” a representative cries. “Why is it that we’re told of these events, but never who performs them? We’ve been assuming this whole time that Dumbledore and the staff were responsible!”

Greengrass breathes deeply. His case is nearly sold. At the very least, these people will be wary enough of Dumbledore after this to take Laelaps’ finishing blow, whatever it is, for the truth instead of staying in blind faith of the headmaster.

“In Daphne’s fourth year,” Greengrass continues.

“Merlin, there’s more!”

Greengrass doesn’t let the interruption shake him. He instead produces the four letters, one from each of the Triwizard Champions, and with a tap of his wand sends them around the table. “In my daughter’s fourth year, I can’t say anything better than the students who suffered themselves have. On my honor, these are untampered copies – the originals being with the man who interviewed the champions to gather them in the first place.

He pauses to give everyone time to absorb the contents and for their outrage to build.

Once things begin settling down once again, he finishes. “And finally, thank Merlin very little happened last year, but I’m still concerned about something my daughter told me happened early on in their Defense Against the Dark Arts class.”

“Taught by Alastor Moody at the time, yes?”

“Yes. In their very first lesson,” Greengrass says slowly, “Professor Moody, under direct orders from Headmaster Dumbledore, performed all three of the unforgivable curses on spiders in front of all his classes years four and above.”

“The unforgivable curses!”

“Professor Moody later, in conjunction with Amelia Bones of the DMLE and the Hogwarts Student Defense Association hosted a pair of seminars in which he put students who volunteered for it under the Imperius Curse in order to teach them how to fight it, but unlike those seminars, his performance of the curses in the classroom were not under Ministry supervision, were not voluntary lessons, and most importantly, was not reported to the DMLE by Dumbledore. Professor Moody did so himself, after a time, but as Dumbledore is the one who requested the lesson and as headmaster of the school, it is his responsibility to receive permission for these kinds of things before enacting them.”

“Did he say why he would ask Mad-Eye to do such a thing?”

Greengrass just shakes his head. “All I’ve heard is that Dumbledore believes the students need to know what they might face outside of Hogwarts.”

“What, like You-Know-Who is sneaking around the corner in Diagon Alley?” a representative scoffs. “He’s mad! There’s no other explanation!”

As the representatives shout over each other, equal shock and outrage reflecting all across the room, Mr. Greengrass gathers his notes and, looking down at them to hide his face, smiles.

Dumbledore is surprised, to say the least, when he receives a letter from someone who very rarely can write him. When he reads it, he’s filled with a sort of nostalgic frustration which is unfortunately no surprise if Grindelwald takes the time and effort to contact him.

The man does so love to gloat. Dumbledore has no doubt that his atrocious timing is carefully chosen as well, because there’s no way that what Grindelwald writes him about is a recent development.

The letter arrives, after all, just as Dumbledore comes under investigation by the school board and the DMLE, and as he’s fighting a whisper campaign against him in the ICW.

It all happens so suddenly. One moment everything is secure, the next the ICW is pushing back against him (and not just him, but Karkaroff and Maxime as well – all three of them are pulling out grey hairs trying to extinguish the embers even as mutterings behind their back continue to stoke the flames), and the next the school board is in his office with Percy Weasley from the DMLE demanding information on practically his entire tenure as Headmaster.

So, when Dumbledore gets a letter from Grindelwald of all people, he knows that something bigger is afoot, and he knows that, somehow, Grindelwald must be involved.

“My dear Albus,

I do miss your visits. Aunt Batty is getting too old to come by, you know, so I can get rather lonely.

Luckily for me, however, I recently had the pleasure of entertaining a new guest. You might have heard of him; the Hound of Laelaps? Delightful company. A bit young, though. I’m afraid I just can’t relate to children these days.

But the Hound asked me some interesting questions, Albus. Questions about you. He had no problem telling me outright that Laelaps believes you’ve gathered too much power for a single person, or that Laelaps simply doesn’t trust you.

Putting aside the pleasantries, something he said did inspire me to contact you. Namely, to ask this: do you truly believe you are to be trusted with that power? Do you truly believe that you have overcome your own nature?

I did not purposefully help the Hound in his and Laelaps’ mission to remove you from power, but I cannot say that I do not find anything suspicious about your positions, either. You are just like me, Albus, and it took losing everything for me to come to my senses. We both know what would happen if I was so powerful and beloved as you are.

Either way, Laelaps’ Hound was confident that even you knowing what’s happening won’t stop it. I’m inclined to agree. Say what you will about the man, but Laelaps has chosen competent help. That makes him far more dangerous than Voldemort ever was.

One dark lord, no matter how powerful, can and will be taken down by those who rally against them. If Laelaps’ other followers are half as competent as the Hound, though, he will be an extraordinary foe for you, indeed.

I have to respect the man for that. No matter his personal skill – which if I hear correctly is vast – his prudence in choosing those to assist him is ultimately, I think, his greatest ability, and the greatest threat to his enemies.

I do not believe he has any plans to harm you, merely to remove you from power. For the greater good, you might say. As I am in no position to interfere with his plots, I will be watching from my prison with bated breath.

Good luck, Albus. However it turns out, this will be entertaining for me.

Yours,

Gellert”

Just beneath his signature, to Dumbledore’s alarm, Grindelwald sketches the symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

Laelaps. Of course. Dumbledore collapses in his chair, runs a hand down his face. So Laelaps is finally making his move, is he? Dumbledore suspects he’ll come under fire at some point. Laelaps hates him too much, believes too strongly in the role of proper caretakers, to allow Dumbledore to remain long where he is.

Grindelwald is mocking him, sending this too late for Dumbledore to prepare for what Laelaps already sets in motion, but Grindelwald is also an extraordinarily intelligent man, and Dumbledore cannot ignore him.

For one, in just one meeting with the Hound, Grindelwald sees what Dumbledore sees. That Laelaps is capable of far more than perhaps anyone else in Britain at the moment. If he wants to destroy the wizarding world, Dumbledore is afraid that even he could do little to stop him.

Because Laelaps does not rely on power, he does not rely on fear or even his exemplary cleverness. He chooses the right people for every job. That ability to pick just who is capable of what he needs is perhaps the most dangerous thing about him.

In short, as Grindelwald so aptly puts it, instead of relying solely on loyal followers who dare not disobey him and struggle to achieve with their unique skills everything he needs to be done, Laelaps simply chooses competent help. What’s more, he’s capable of manipulating things such that even those unaligned with him assist him in his goals – like the champions protesting the Triwizard Tournament blowing up spectacularly all of a sudden – perhaps without even realizing they’re cooperating with him, and definitely whether they agree with him or not. He uses people, guides them to do as they do best, as their passions dictate, and simply nudges things along so that everything happens just when and how he needs them to.

Dumbledore must admit, he respects that, too. No matter Laelaps’ alignment, his ability is something to respect and to fear.

And even discounting Laelaps’ extraordinary ability to manipulate the narrative, Laelaps himself and the Circle of Khanna… Competent is an understatement. Every member, to a man, is exceptional. Each with their own talents, of course, each a savant in their own field, but Laelaps, and indeed Reynard Gage in Laelaps’ absence, can make use of those myriad talents with terrifying efficiency.

Most don’t remember the others as well, during Reynard and the Circle of Khanna’s time at Hogwarts, because Reynard is the one who gained the vast majority of the accolades, but Reynard couldn’t have achieved half of what he did without his friends. But most couldn’t have used those friends as wisely as Reynard. It’s that same strength of knowing when to rely on others and who to rely on.

Now that Laelaps is targeting Dumbledore… Dumbledore truly isn’t sure he’s up to the task of fighting back. But he should, sometime soon, find a way to chat with Laelaps himself. Perhaps they can come to some understanding. They share an enemy, after all, in Voldemort, so Dumbledore has hope that, especially if he’s removed from some of his positions of power, Laelaps may be willing to work with him.

It is his position, after all, which causes Laelaps’ great disdain for him. Perhaps, outside of those positions, he can guide the poor boy to a better path. Perhaps he will be willing to listen, if Dumbledore proves to be… competent help.

(If he knows where the other Hallows are – if he knows where the Resurrection Stone is…)

And truthfully, on the matter of losing his positions, on losing his titles – Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock… Dumbledore fights with himself. Grindelwald isn’t incorrect there, either. He is right, as Laelaps is right, to question Dumbledore’s ability to resist the temptation of power.

After all of Dumbledore’s most horrible mistakes… he proves time and time again that too much power is not good for him. Dumbledore considers himself well in control of his darker urges in his old age, believes he has the perspective to accept his power and not seek more, but… can one ever truly overcome their own nature? Can he?

The question rattles in Dumbledore’s head and in his heart, and Dumbledore cannot settle it peacefully.

(Far away in a hidden home, a disfigured, lumpy mound of flesh writhes. Some time passes now, since Voldemort’s unexpected encounter with Laelaps. Time enough for him to think.

That damn dog… he steals Voldemort’s Death Eaters, ruins his resurrection, destroys his horcruxes, and now has the nerve to go after his greatest enemy, as well?

He is an interloper. A distraction. One that Voldemort will eliminate soon.

The problem remains… this ugly body of his. Perhaps the single thing about this upstart that legitimately frightens Voldemort – though he’d never admit it. A transfiguration should not last this long. Voldemort should be reverted to his previous form, and for lacking Nagini’s milk to sustain him, this body of his should die.

Voldemort spends a long time pondering the problem – he needs a new body, and Laelaps is kind enough to grant him one. A mocking, hideous disgrace of one, but a stable one nonetheless, which Voldemort is not able to do on his own.

How does he do it? Even Barty’s attempts to re-transfigure him into something more presentable don’t affect Laelaps’ changes. Laelaps sticks him this way, and it’s infuriating that Voldemort cannot decipher the means.

He has his suspicions, of course, he’s well versed in transfiguration – surely much more so than Laelaps is – but alas, with only Barty at his side and himself so considerably weakened, even if he is correct, they lack the power to do anything about it.

For now.

Because soon, very soon, he’ll be back one way or another. His solution isn’t ideal, especially with him being down to his last horcrux, since it requires using the thing, but this ritual will return him to full power. Full power. And in that stare, even Dumbledore will struggle to stand against him. Voldemort will have to be proactive in finding another means of maintaining his immortality, but he can at least put down this wild dog with delusions of grandeur.

Oh, yes. Laelaps will pay for this insult. And the rest of the world will bow.

Soon.)

Harry doesn’t like the idea of taking on an apprentice.

He agrees, of course, with the Circle’s reasoning for doing so, and so he doesn’t protest having to do it, but… It’s different, for them and for him. He’s The-Boy-Who-Lived. Daphne helps him a lot with managing that fame he never wants from the start, but any apprentice of his will inevitably be caught up in it.

(It’s part of the reason why Argo hides that they’re brothers for their first three years. He doesn’t want to be part of that stupid fame. And when he was outed, that stupid fame turned him into a pariah – it was completely outside of Harry’s control. It hurt his brother, badly, and there was nothing he could do about it.)

Harry can’t do that to some poor kid. But at the same time, he needs to have someone there to take his place in the Circle when he graduates. He already agrees to find someone.

That’s why it’s no surprise when, when he does find his apprentice, she kind of just… falls into the role without him even meaning for her to.

(If he meant for it, he’d probably have driven her away.)

It starts with a question. A little first-year girl, mousy and nervous but nonetheless showing she’s a Gryffindor by summoning the courage to approach him in the common room and ask him, as a prefect and a member of the DA Circle, for advice, as she’s struggling with her basic shield charm.

Because he is a prefect, and the primary public teacher for the DA (in that he does most of the lessons in the large meetings – the others still do a lot of individual tutoring, or small groups), and admittedly because he’s The-Boy-Who-Lived and everyone is still on about that, Harry is quite used to younger students especially coming to him first for help with their practicals.

So Harry walks her through it and practices with her a little until she can just about manage it and she, beaming, twirls away to get back to the rest of her work, and Harry doesn’t give any more thought to the encounter at all.

He sees her in the common room again, hardly even recognizes her but realizes she’s pronouncing the incantation for the levitation charm wrong, and he stops a moment to correct her.

She smiles and thanks him and her feather shoots up to bounce against the ceiling.

When he catches her butting heads with a Slytherin in the hallway, he’s quick to intervene. It all reminds him a little too much of himself with Malfoy – before Malfoy befriended Argo and seemed to settle down a bit – and he doesn’t punish either of them but he does give them both a stern talking to that he hopes will discourage any more of… this.

She doesn’t smile at him, but she doesn’t argue with him, either. She listens and she considers and she sighs.

After that, Harry keeps a closer eye on her. He usually does for students he catches getting into those kinds of arguments, since he knows from experience how easily they can escalate. It takes a long time, during which she’s a little lazy with her work unless she’s behind somewhere, but after a while he’s convinced there won’t be more problem.

A few days later, he sees her laughing with that very same Slytherin, walking down the hall to class side by side.

He grins, and his heart swells. He’s proud of her. To not only put it behind her, but befriend her old rival… she’s far better than he was at her age, that’s for sure.

And Harry can just about pinpoint the moment he stops being so in-house isolated, but he can’t quite name the moment that making friends, having connection, between houses became something important to him. He thinks they should encourage that more. He thinks that’s one thing the DA is doing that isn’t happening much in most other places around the school.

He keeps his eye on her. He helps her where he can. Soon, when she’s more comfortable with him, he suddenly realizes that she’s often around. Asking him about one spell or another, or for studying advice. By no means is she a hanger-on, she doesn’t follow him like Colin Creevy or anything, but she’s a regular part of Harry’s schedule here now without him even realizing how it gets that way.

And from there… it’s kind of obvious. He’s already her mentor, sort of, so when he’s working with her on the disarming spell in the DA club room he just realizes that she’s his apprentice.

His thoughts must show on his face, because she asks if he’s alright when they’re resting after their training.

“Yeah,” he says. “Say, Elsie… you know how the other Circle members found apprentices to take over for them in a couple years?”

Elsie tilts her head. “Yeah.”

Harry chuckles. Despite not wanting an apprentice in the first place, he… does like teaching. It’s nice to watch his students improve, and Elsie goes above most. “How would you feel about taking my place in the Circle when I graduate?”

Elsie sucks in a breath. “You want me to be your apprentice? But- But I’m-” She shakes away her insecurity in a moment, under Harry’s gentle smile, and grins right back. “I’d be happy to,” she declares. “I’ll make you proud, Harry.”

She already does. That’s kind of how he realizes she’s the one in the first place.

Introducing her to the others goes well, as expected. Harry’s friends tease him a little for taking so long, but David and Camille, both very outgoing and bold, take to Elsie eagerly and start talking with her and Ross about their bounce duel project. Now that they have their final member, they can start getting into the final plans and preparations.

The older students just fondly watch over them as they go about their own business.

“Expecto Patronum,” says Susan. Harry doesn’t have to pretend to be impressed when the silver wisps from her wand start taking shape into something four-legged. It doesn’t quite make it there, not entirely, and falls apart instead, but Susan isn’t discouraged. She just tries again, still practicing.

The reason she’s practicing that spell… Harry isn’t too sure about it. It sounds dangerous to go to this place where dementors may be lurking and dig around for dark magic, but… Harry has also done much more dangerous things for much worse reasons. If there’s a chance the cure to Astoria’s sickness is there, he has to help.

Just remembering Daphne’s face when she explains it all to him and Susan lights determination anew within him. And at the rate Susan and Daphne are progressing, it shouldn’t be long before it’s time for them to go to London and carry out their plan.

Hopefully, it shouldn’t be long before none of the Greengrasses have to worry about that sickness anymore.

Meanwhile, Argo is playing some elaborate game of keep away with Jason, dodging and jumping and even blocking him, trying not to let him past, to prevent Jason from getting his paws on a shiny silver sickle that Harry is reasonably sure is specifically for their game and not just something Jason decides he wants today.

Harry himself is working on the blackboard-writing charm, the one some of their teachers use to enchant chalk to write notes for them on the blackboards for the students to copy during lectures, while also keeping an eye on the apprentices explaining the slowing charm to their newest member.

Just an average day in the DA.

There’s a sudden crash. Argo is on the floor with Jason triumphantly standing on his head and brandishing the shiny sickle before shoving it into his pouch smugly. Argo just snorts in amusement and swipes Jason into his arms to hug him close and start tickling the niffler.

Jason squeals, makes a ruckus, really, but even Harry can tell that it’s all in delight. Harry smiles at the pair until Argo finally relents and lets Jason down to wander around, sniffing at the floor like a tracking dog, meandering mostly just in squiggly circles around him.

“So,” says Argo addressing the room as a whole. “What’re y’all doing for the holidays?”

“I’m going home, of course,” Daphne answers first.

“Me too,” says Susan. “I’ll probably spend some time shadowing my aunt at the Ministry, or another auror who’s around, but we’ll have Christmas together like always.”

Harry, who still can’t believe that he has a real home to go back to, can’t keep the wonder from his voice when he agrees, reporting that he’ll be going back to Sirius and Remus. He wishes he could spend the holiday with Argo, too, honestly, but… even if they were closer like actual brothers, Argo would still want to spend the holidays with his own family. Harry wouldn’t want to leave Sirius or Remus behind to spend time with the other Scamanders, no matter how much he might want to spend time with the Scamanders, so he understands better than anyone that asking Argo to do the same thing in reverse is ridiculous.

Argo hums. “Kids?”

“I’m staying,” reports Camille. “So’s Ross. We’ve actually got a few plans we want to work on over the break.”

“I’m going home,” Elsie says quietly. “I miss my parents.”

That only leaves David, who hesitates. “I’m, uh… staying, I guess. My family still hasn’t accepted the magic thing, so it’ll probably be better to stay this year.”

It’s no secret, David is always open about his family’s less than stellar acceptance of his magic. Harry in particular aches to do something to help, if only he had any idea how. At least, according to David, his family are no Dursleys. They love him, they want the best for him, and they’d never hurt him, they just don’t understand magic and are afraid that it’ll lead him down a path that will cause him pain.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t cause problems. Hence his decision here.

Argo frowns. “Why don’t you come celebrate Yule with me and my family, then?”

Immediately, David perks up. Unlike Camille or Ross, who as Harry understands it, aren’t super thrilled about family holidays in the first place and who apparently have other plans for things they want to do here anyway, David would be exceptionally lonely having to spend Christmas by himself here at the castle.

“Really?” David asks. “You’re sure that’s okay?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Argo says gently. “You’re welcome if you want to come.”

David’s eyes sparkle, looking up to Argo like he hangs the stars in the sky. “Yeah! I’d… really appreciate that. Thanks.”

It’s good of Argo to invite David. Really, it is. But Harry’s gut twists anyway as an unfortunately familiar feeling rears its head once more.

He wonders if he’ll see Argo at all during the holidays. Probably not.

Shiloh blinks up at an imposing, snow-white building that towers over everything around. In strict lettering above the doorway, it reads, “Gringotts Bank.”

He shuffles on his feet a little, curls his tails around himself, but looks around elsewhere. He learns to pay attention to things in these dreams. It’s not always this clear, like he’s present in the room. Sometimes it’s just flashes and feelings. Most visions are closer to this than that, but Shiloh takes the detail wherever he can find it. The newspaper stand nearby, for instance. He wanders over to peek. The front page is dated 14 June, 1997.

Shiloh gulps. Cautiously, he returns to Gringotts. He pushes past the door. There are goblins all around, at their stations doing their work, but few customers. One of those customers impatiently taps her foot, checking her watch as she stands in front of an empty desk – it must be taking a while to get whatever she needs. With nothing else of interest, Shiloh heads in her direction. When she drops her arm, he can get a look at her wristwatch. 6:27. Judging by the sky outside and the few people he sees so far, Shiloh assumes it must be in the morning.

Then, coming out of a deeper room in the bank, Shiloh sees a woman with thick, shining dark hair, long eyelashes and heavily hooded eyes, but more importantly, his breath catches when he sees her stowing into a bag a small golden cup, two handles, with a badger engraved on the side.

For a moment, it’s like everything freezes. Shiloh fixates on that cup, realizing the significance of what he’s seeing, then as his breath escapes him, flames creep into the edges of his vision.

He doesn’t know where he is anymore. The bank is gone, the woman with Hufflepuff’s cup is gone, but Argo is here.

Argo and flames.

Shiloh screws his eyes tightly shut. He doesn’t want to see this again. He hates the idea of Argo like this – he doesn’t want to see it. It’s the same as the first time, when he sees the prophecy. Shiloh doesn’t know anything about it except that it’s still going to happen.

And suddenly, it’s hot. Shiloh opens his eyes again, scared and shaking, but all he sees in the dim silvery light is a rippling shadow along a dank cave wall.

He jerks, awake, panting, heart racing and head pounding. Argo’s strong hand smooths out his fur, but Shiloh’s plaintive mewls are all he can summon for quite some time.

“Shh…” Argo hums softly, rocking him gently, petting down his fur rhythmically, comforting. “Shh… It’s okay. It was a dream.”

That’s what makes it scary. When it’s Shiloh who dreams it…

“Tell me.”

Shiloh shoves his head under Argo’s chin, nuzzles into his neck, and does.

Hufflepuff’s Cup. They know where to find it now, and when, that’s good. The woman who gets it… that’s less good. Why she’s retrieving it, even less good than that. Plus two strange, incomplete visions that don’t give much of anything at all, but nonetheless terrify Shiloh.

Their Yule break clearly isn’t going to be as quiet as they hope.

Argo isn’t ashamed to admit that he adopts family as readily as he adopts pets. Being a Scamander, it’s basically the same thing, anyway. The dynamics are different, obviously, because while family should be able to rely on each other for anything, they shouldn’t be dependent on each other (except when they should, like a child depending on the parent) but Argo considers all the creatures family to some extent, so in the end it’s not a huge difference.

But there’s probably something to be said about Rolf meeting David for the very first time, ruffling his curly hair exactly the same way that Argo does, and saying, “Hello, newest little brother,” and no one, not even David himself, saying a thing about it.

Something. Argo doesn’t know what, but there’s definitely, probably, something to be said about that.

But David fits into their family wonderfully. Not that Argo expects any different, but it’s nice for them all to just be together and be happy. He does reveal Shiloh to David, because he can’t stand the thought of making Shiloh pretend to be an ordinary cat at home, too, but even that David takes in stride and swears he won’t share with anyone.

They’re all sitting together as a family, Argo snuggling with Shiloh, David on the floor playing exploding snap with Rolf, both of them half distracted by having to stop Jason from “playing” with them. Then the news comes over the radio.

A breakout. From Azkaban. Rolf stills, Shiloh shares a wide-eyed look with Argo, David catches Jason before he gets too close to a card that explodes a second later.

Argo closes his eyes. He buries himself in Shiloh’s fur and just listens.

Ten. Ten Death Eaters, all escaped. Voldemort thankfully still doesn’t have the numbers he would if Argo hadn’t taken half of them when he stopped the resurrection, but even so… Even Argo doesn’t suspect that Voldemort in the state he was in and his one follower in Barty Crouch Junior would be able to stage a mass breakout from Azkaban.

That’s what he gets for underestimating his opponent.

No matter. It doesn’t make a difference. Argo leaves Voldemort free partially because he suspects this might need to happen. Not a mass breakout, admittedly, but Shiloh’s vision only proves him right about the substance. Argo can’t get into a private vault in Gringotts. To try would be stupid of the highest magnitude. But Voldemort is moving his horcrux. That means there’s a moment when it’ll be vulnerable. That’s the time to strike.

As Bellatrix leaves Gringotts with the cup, Laelaps and his Hounds will need to be there to take it from her. As for Bellatrix herself, and the other Death Eaters…

Well, if they’ve taken Riddle’s side, then they’ll be hunted just as Argo says from the beginning. They’ll return to prison soon enough. A few extra Death Eaters isn’t enough to disrupt Argo’s plans.

“This is your fault!” Nott roars. “It’s your information!”

“My information,” Laelaps snaps, “is still safe and secure. The first thing I did when I heard the news was check myself. The Teumessian Fox did not learn this from me.”

“Impossible! I made sure no one could find that again!”

“I’ve told you all before; don’t underestimate the Teumessian Fox.” Argo sighs. “And now with Riddle having his maddest followers back, things just got even more complicated.”

“Things can’t possibly get more complicated,” Avery pouts. “My family’s reputation is ruined.”

“Yours?” Nott scoffs. “My family is worse than ruined!”

“Your half-blood family?” Avery responds.

Laelaps sometimes truly regrets putting up with these people at all. “Enough!” he shouts.

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight are in shambles,” Nott says. “I don’t know where the Fox got that information about my father, but releasing it publicly like they did has cast the very idea of pure blood into doubt.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Lucius Malfoy. “The Malfoys remain pure. Just because some of us mix with dirty blood and lie about it…”

Honestly, it’s like no one here remembers that Laelaps himself is a half-blood.

“It’s more than that, Malfoy,” Laelaps says. “The Sacred Twenty-Eight are largely powerful families. At least, many of Britain’s most powerful families – like yours – publicly pride themselves on being members. Now that it’s been revealed as a lie, families like the Weasleys who have always claimed it to be rubbish are validated, and families who stood by it are made to seem as guilty of lying as the Notts.”

“I am not concerned,” says Malfoy. “I see it as an opportunity.”

“Oh? Do enlighten us.”

Malfoy carefully inclines his head. “It’s… true that certain families will face more trouble than others. Nott certainly won’t be recovering anytime soon. But some families, if we play our cards right, can use this to improve our positions. The Wizengamot is filled with purebloods. It is in turmoil over this news. Careful application of pressure can influence things against those who are… lesser prepared.”

Nott is still upset – he is the scapegoat, after all – but the others stop to consider what Lucius is saying.

Laelaps, of course, considers this point from the moment he gets the information to threaten Nott with in the first place, long before the news hits. In fact, he already sends a letter to Daphne’s father detailing just how he believes the Greengrasses can come out on top of this all (and in the process, take Dumbledore down a few pegs) and he has confirmation from Daphne that her family is going to be okay.

“It sounds like you’ll be fine, then,” Laelaps says. “I’d appreciate it if you’d help Avery along as well. There’s not going to be much we can do for Nott’s short-term reputation, but if you assist, Avery should be spared. We’ll find something else that Nott can do to buoy his family again and we’ll all get past this.”

“Yes, my lord,” says Malfoy with a bow and a calculating glace to Avery.

If Laelaps plays this right, even though his are the pureblood elites, they might still be able to gain an advantage from this. They just have to play the discord well enough to land on top when things settle.

“If Malfoy can handle that much,” says Macnair, “then what are we going to do about the escaped Death Eaters? They all know who we are – they all know we betrayed the Dark Lord.”

“But you also know who they are,” Laelaps says simply. “Macnair, Nott, I want you two on them. Take Crabbe and Goyle as well. While Malfoy and Avery make sure we don’t lose too much power from the Teumessian Fox’s ploy, you all take care of any of the escaped Death Eaters that you can.”

Nott and Macnair, both brutes in their own ways, both especially vicious, especially when angered, are quite happy with the hunting assignment. As Laelaps thinks they will be.

“But leave Bellatrix Lestrange,” Laelaps says.

Nott frowns. “My lord, we are more than capable of defeating-”

“Perhaps,” says Laelaps. “Perhaps not. But while I’m happy if you can take them out, I don’t want you to take unnecessary risks. Harass them, threaten them. Make them paranoid so they have no idea where the next attack is coming from. Just don’t let them rally and organize – that’s what matters. And besides that, I have something… special in mind for Bellatrix.”

“…As you say. It will be done.”

“Then go, we can waste no time.”

Dumbledore cannot afford to hesitate any longer, it seems. Despite the unrelenting attacks from Laelaps in the ICW, the Wizengamot, and the school board, the headline of the paper means that Dumbledore must have higher priorities than his own positions.

Ten Death Eaters. The maddest and most violent of them all. There can be no denying that, even if he is not returned to full strength just yet, Voldemort is well and truly back. Only he can turn the dementor guard and allow those Death Eaters to escape.

All this time, Dumbledore is scrambling to play defense under Laelaps’ accusations, but he can no longer afford to waste time focusing on that. He needs to focus on Voldemort. Gathering a new Order of the Phoenix, figure out how to stop Voldemort before it’s too late. And perhaps most importantly of all, prepare Harry for what is inevitable to come.

But that doesn’t mean he can ignore Laelaps entirely. On the contrary. Now that Voldemort is showing his hand again, now is the moment for Dumbledore to reach out.

He organizes his Order, puts out feelers for who might be willing to join, then with a clever tongue and the right connections, sends a letter to Laelaps to ask for a meeting. It is to some surprise that Dumbledore reads, when he gets his reply, that Laelaps agrees, and is sending his Hound to meet Dumbledore at the new headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

Dumbledore doesn’t put Number Twelve Grimmauld Place under the fidelius charm just yet, admittedly, but he also doesn’t officially reform the Order yet, so the only one aside from Dumbledore himself to know about either of those things is Sirius Black who he asks as the owner of the home. So that Laelaps knows not only what Dumbledore is doing but where is… quite unsettling indeed. Even knowing that Laelaps is Argo, even knowing his myriad connections, Dumbledore has no idea how that boy learns of this.

A part of him is, he admits, quite proud. Argo is still a student of his, and he is so very, very clever. If only Dumbledore can convince him to fight alongside Harry, on his side, rather than continue this foolish campaign as Laelaps, then maybe, just maybe, that unfathomable mind might be the key to victory and Dumbledore can save Argo from this dark path all in one fell swoop.

A sharp rapping on the door, and Dumbledore rises to answer it. There stands the Hound, large and broad, a true beast of a man in muscle and size alone. “Ah, please, come in,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, making way for him. “I’m delighted you could make it. Tea?”

The Hound enters, shuts the door behind him, and shakes his head.

“Come now, Mr. Scamander,” says Dumbledore. “Or, Laelaps, perhaps? I’ve already ensured there are no portraits, watching eyes, or eager ears. You needn’t deny yourself the simple pleasure of a nice cup of tea.”

To make his point, Dumbledore sits down in a plush chair and enjoys a sip from his own cup.

Argo, Laelaps, circles the other chair, across the table with the tea and turned, like Dumbledore’s, to face the crackling fire, and sits. After just a moment longer of silence, his hand comes up, grasps that fascinating dog mask, and lifts it from his head.

“So,” Laelaps says. His voice is cold, as cold as Argo’s ever is with Dumbledore, but much more imperious. Older. “You wished to meet with me.”

“I did,” says Dumbledore. “Though I admit I am surprised you came yourself. I heard you only do business through your Hound.”

Laelaps snorts. He flicks his wand – his own wand, so he doesn’t prepare another to fool Dumbledore (he expects to be caught all along?) – at his teacup, to check for poisons, then stashes it and reaches out to actually drink his tea.

Cautious. Interesting, but not surprising.

Laelaps takes his time, lets the tea burn on his tongue, simmers in the taste before he swallows and sets down the cup. “Given the circumstances,” he says, “I thought I’d make an exception.”

Ah. Wonderful that finally all the half-truths and denials can be stripped away. He’s actually admitting it. That Argo Scamander is Laelaps. Dumbledore is truly unsure until now that this day will ever come.

“To business, then?” says Laelaps. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

The impatience of youth. But yes, perhaps getting on with it is for the best. Dumbledore considers carefully what he will say, his plan thrown just slightly by Laelaps unexpectedly showing up himself rather than using his Hound, and eventually ends up with, “What is it that you want, Laelaps?”

“What do I want?” Laelaps echoes. “What does anybody want? I want to live in peace, knowing that my family is safe and whole. Everything I have ever done is for that.”

“I see.”

“And what do you want, Dumbledore?”

Dumbledore doesn’t know how he can possibly say this in a way that will truly reach Argo Scamander, so all he has is, “My boy, I want exactly the same thing.”

Laelaps fixes him with a calculating hazel stare. His distrust is obvious, not buying Dumbledore’s words for a second. “You can’t lie to me,” he says, still soft, still calm. “I know.”

Dumbledore turns his eyes to the fire. Does he? He does, at one point, contact even Grindelwald. Perhaps… Dumbledore sighs. “I do want that,” Dumbledore says. “But perhaps what I want even more is to be able to be content with that.”

Just a small hum. “That is, maybe, the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

It just might be. Dumbledore focuses for a moment on his tea. “My boy,” he says, looking once more to Laelaps – to Argo. “You are one of the brightest wizards I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. You have an understanding of magic which I daresay rivals, or even surpasses, my own. The only other student I have seen in all my years who rivals your ability is Tom Riddle.”

Laelaps’ lips quirk down. “And that scares you,” he concludes.

“Of course, it does,” Dumbledore admits. “It frightens me very much. I think you know that I am familiar with the kind of temptations a mind like that can lay before you, and what kind of temptations the power that your cleverness grants you puts in your path. I have seen time and time again as great potential has fallen to those temptations. It is only natural, I think, that I am terrified for you. And for the world should you give in to them.”

Laelaps’ eyes are downturned, thoughtful, and he is in no rush to reply. He takes his time, and Dumbledore lets him, to gather his response.

Finally, those eyes lift again and Laelaps says, “It terrifies you because you cannot imagine not falling prey to the temptations of power, or not being tempted at all. But… Professor, that just proves that you still don’t understand me.”

Dumbledore’s head sinks. Likely… he doesn’t. Argo is always such a difficult student for him.

Laelaps slowly swishes his tea in his cup idly, frowning at the liquid brushing the brim, barely not spilling over. “I’m not an ambitious person, Professor. I have no grand goals or supreme ideals. I only want to live in peace with my family. I want to enjoy learning, and use what I learn to help my family. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

“But at the same time… I will stop at nothing if it means keeping my family safe. Don’t you understand?” Dumbledore dares to think that, about that, at least, he does. “It’s not about power. Ideally, I’d have little need for it. And I can’t stand fame, it’s only a distraction from what I actually care about. In the end, it’s never been about me.”

“It’s about your family,” says Dumbledore.

Laelaps nods. “Whether they approve or not, whether they even like me at the end of it all or not… All that matters to me is that they’re safe. And to that end, I will lie, cheat, and steal all that I need to. And there is not a thing you or anyone else can do to make me feel guilty about that.”

He sighs, looking back to his tea. After a moment, Laelaps says, “And maybe that makes me a dark wizard. I won’t deny that I’m willing to use dark magic, if that’s what it comes to. Maybe that even makes me a dark lord. But… I believe I’ve always been constant enough to say for sure that anyone who is no threat to my family has nothing to fear from me. I’m not the next Tom Riddle, Professor. Unless it’s the world that threatens them, the world doesn’t need to worry about me.”

Dumbledore thinks on that for a long, long time. “And so why, then,” he asks, eventually, “target me?”

Laelaps closes his eyes, takes another sip of tea. “Because you were a threat to my family. And I’m sorry, Professor, but I’ll be following through with that until the end.”

“Do you mean Harry?”

Laelaps tilts his head. His red hair is a bit shaggy, and bounces with the movement. And he says, “To an extent. But I think you’ve already figured that part out.”

Has he? Dumbledore hums. When Argo first comes to Hogwarts, he is the first to rely on the authorities of the school. The first to report to a prefect, or to a teacher.

But then the school fails him. Dumbledore fails him. Him and all of the other students. He steps in with the basilisk, and perhaps that can be forgiven – it is his role to tend to beasts, after all. He is the specialist that Dumbledore should be calling in to handle that situation.

Then he steps in with Black, and things take a rapid turn downhill. This is not his problem, but it is made his problem when the threat Black poses threatens his family (Anthony, Jason, probably Cedric, Fred, and George) and so he has to step in when the school fails him yet again.

And then the Triwizard Tournament. In hindsight, Dumbledore thinks that’s the breaking point. The tournament is, above all else, sanctioned. When Argo realizes that the school, and the Ministry, are not just negligent, but an active threat of their own, when he realizes that they lie to him and more importantly to the champions and put those champions at risk…

That is the moment that Argo decides that Hogwarts, and all the students in it by extension, though perhaps not on the individual basis, are under his protection. Because he is, above all else, a caretaker, and it was made abundantly clear that no one else was caring for them.

“I am sorry,” Dumbledore says. He would like to collapse where he is. Argo is right, after all. All of it is his failure. And that crushes him. “I did try.”

“I know you did,” Laelaps says. “I know what I’m doing is damaging and probably painful for you, but I truly don’t mean you any harm. I’m only going as hard as I need to to ensure that you are no longer a threat. …I know you mean well. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean my family is safe from you until I make them safe.”

His family. It takes Dumbledore far too long to realize it, but family to Argo is not parents, grandparents, cousins, and siblings. It is everyone under his protection. Everyone who he chooses to care for and look after.

And especially those who look after him in turn.

“I’m sorry, too, Professor. You know that I’m not done, don’t you?”

Oh, yes. As harsh as his campaign against Dumbledore has been thus far, it has not been fatal to Dumbledore’s power and reputation. A protector like Argo would never stop until the threat is gone completely. The finishing blow still hangs over Dumbledore’s head like the sword of Damocles, a swinging pendulum waiting to fall.

Dumbledore fears he deserves it.

But he will not protest his metaphorical death at Laelaps’ hand. No, at this point, even if Dumbledore had strength left to resist, he would simply be overwhelmed and destroyed regardless. It is far too late to stop anything or to save himself.

But he must ask, “And what of after?”

“After?” Laelaps echoes. “After you’re removed from power?”

“Indeed. You know of the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort has broken his followers out of Azkaban. He is making his move once again. You know I intend to oppose him.”

Laelaps’ eyes are shadowed as he turns his gaze away. “I’m so close,” he whispers. “There’s only a little more to go, then I can kill him for good.”

Dumbledore debates for a moment, but in the end decides the only way to reason with Laelaps is to play this card. “My boy,” Dumbledore says. “If you are intent on defeating Voldemort, you must know there is a prophecy…”

“I know,” Laelaps says. Dumbledore blinks, recoiling just a little. He knows? He truly, already knows? “I heard it,” Laelaps admits. “Near the end of last year, once Harry had gotten better with his occlumency, I took him to the Ministry so he could apply to listen to any prophecies regarding him. We both heard the whole thing.”

“Then you know that you cannot-”

“I know that I am not involving Harry in a fight he doesn’t want,” Argo growls. His dark expression fixes in the firelight. “I know that he’s a brave, stupid boy who cares too much and wants to protect me, so he’s going to try to fulfil his part anyway. And I know I probably can’t do anything to stop it. That doesn’t mean that Harry has to kill Riddle alone.”

Ah, so they are already working together. Or at least, Laelaps is planning for Harry to be there at the end, to fulfil the letter of the prophecy. Dumbledore supposes he should not expect any less from Laelaps. “Well said. I am so glad that he has you at his side.”

Somehow, the shadows on Laelaps deepen even further. “I’m not sure he will be, when he finds out what I’ve done. But at least he’ll be alive.”

Dumbledore realizes now that he misjudges Argo greatly. More than he ever imagines. “Love is a powerful thing,” he says. “I find there are few transgressions that it cannot forgive. Sometimes, this is necessary and wonderful. Often people call it foolish, and sometimes it is, yet even they often succumb to that folly themselves.”

A quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Maybe,” says Laelaps.

“I think, when he learns all that you have truly done for his sake, he will see how much you love him.”

Laelaps turns his eyes Dumbledore’s way, brow raised in a question he doesn’t ask.

But Dumbledore answers anyway. “It truly does amaze me, what you’ve accomplished. I am as impressed by what you’ve achieved as I am heartbroken at how much you’ve sacrificed.”

Laelaps’ hazel eyes drift away, unable to keep watching.

“It was your plan from the beginning, wasn’t it?” Dumbledore asks.

Laelaps asks, “What was?”

“Why, everything, of course.”

The smile that touches Laelaps’ lips isn’t smug or proud or anything of the sort. It’s something closer to shy.

“It was during the Triwizard Tournament, I believe,” Dumbledore says, returning to his tea, “when you decided to become Laelaps. Before or after the first task?”

“I had the idea before. Hadn’t decided for sure to follow through until later.”

“Hm. Everything the other students were saying about you, all the abuse they put you through… you never really tried to stop it. You needed people to hate you, because you needed to be seen as Dark. All so that when you made your debut, the Death Eaters wouldn’t doubt you.”

“I wouldn’t say I had it all planned out,” Laelaps admits. “I had to adapt a lot, and quickly, as I learned more about what was going on. Without all the information, I was floundering a little.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that. You didn’t know all the details, perhaps, but you had the broad strokes mapped out from the start. You knew from the moment Harry was entered into that tournament that someone was plotting something. And you knew from the moment the Dark Mark appeared at the Quidditch World Cup that Voldemort was stirring. I suspected the same thing, that it was Voldemort who entered Harry, somehow. I also suspected from the beginning that Voldemort had planned to resurrect himself.

“But you not only planned to stop Voldemort, but you also conspired to bring the champions together, to assist them and give them reason to assist each other, so that every one of them made it through the tournament unharmed. And as Laelaps… using Ronald Weasley as an example to both the school and the former Death Eaters, all the connections you’ve made both within and beyond Hogwarts… You bought out Bagman’s debt all that time ago to use him against everyone involved in planning the Triwizard Tournament – yes, after all, I am not the only one facing ruin at the moment, am I? – and even a great many things I cannot begin to fathom the reason for. You planned for all of it.”

Laelaps hums. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his eyes harden at the fire. “So, what?”

“Nothing at all, my boy,” Dumbledore says jovially. “Just that I’ve never known a mind like yours.”

Laelaps stares for a while, at the fire, before he finally responds. “Why did you really ask to meet me?”

Dumbledore’s smile falls. “Because… in order to defeat Voldemort… I fear I will need your help.”

Laelaps’ eyes fall to the floor, then set on Dumbledore, then roll down to his tea. “That’s the funny thing, though, Professor. I don’t need yours.” He shakes his head. “You want me to join the Order of the Phoenix.”

“I had hoped, with you accomplishing your goal of eliminating me and a common enemy, we might put our differences aside and work together.”

Laelaps barks at that, a sharp laugh. But when he speaks, it’s just bitter. “Yeah. Right.” A deep breath. “Sorry Professor, but I decline.”

That is… unfortunate.

“Because you know…” Laelaps says, “one of your worst habits is interfering. You stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong, all while neglecting the places where you should be putting effort in. That’s what I hate about you.”

Dumbledore lowers his head once more. So, that’s how it is.

“I don’t intend to be your enemy, but if you are insisting on this Order of the Phoenix idea, then I should warn you.” Laelaps’ eyes are made of winter, the coldest expression yet, when he meets Dumbledore’s gaze. “If you and yours get in my way, I will not hold back.”

Argo is enjoying his time with his family, delighting in the routine of wake up-tend to creatures-cuddle with creatures-cuddle with family-sleep that is basically his bedrock, and it’s even better to see David get immersed in it as well.

It’s just about the end of the holiday, and they’re wrapping up with the mooncalves when Rolf declares, “We should stop by the aethonians next. Ready to go, little brother?”

David, still starry-eyed at just about everything, eagerly follows along, already chattering about the aethonians and bouncing practically out of his shoes.

They’re passing through the family room when they hear granny Tina’s raucous laughter. Investigating, Argo is very satisfied to see her holding a thick book entitled, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore.

“What’s that?” Rolf asks.

Granny’s wicked smirk tells of blood in the water. “Rita Skeeter released a new book.”

Rolf makes a face.

“I know,” says Granny. “Me too. But as far as I can tell, she didn’t even lie in this one.”

“That’s possible for her?” Rolf asks. “Let me see.”

Argo snickers. Isn’t it wonderful when plans come together?

Across an ocean in Great Britain, the book is everywhere, all at once. One day there’s no hint of it and overnight, just like that, its flying off the shelves. Albus Dumbledore, with a copy on his desk, feels the noose tighten around his neck. Mr. Greengrass in the Wizengamot, together with Malfoy, Avery, and others that they have talked to behind the scenes, call for a vote of no confidence in Albus Dumbledore in his position of Supreme Mugwump.

(And though Laelaps does not ask them too – though Lucius swears later that he hints heavily at it – Lucius Malfoy also calls for a vote of no confidence in Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, taking advantage of the discontent of the pureblood elite and the common populace alike.)

The vote is overwhelming. Dumbledore (and with clever manipulations, Fudge as well) is forced to step down.

In the chambers of the ICW, none are more furious than the German Minister. Dumbledore’s association with Grindelwald, no matter his role in Grindelwald’s downfall, is a strike on his character. Grindelwald is, after all, the German Ministry’ greatest shame. There is not a German witch or wizard alive who does not feel guilt for allowing Grindelwald on the world. Even the children of today, those far too young to have been around at the time, feel the shame and the pressure to show the wizarding world beyond their borders that they are more than Grindelwald’s legacy.

It is a generational trauma that no one under the German Ministry’s purview can forgive, so when they discover that the words emblazoned so proudly over the gate of Grindelwald’s own keep (and now prison), which he used as a motto in all his darkness, are Dumbledore’s words…

There is no other way it can end.

For though the German representatives lead the charge, the rest of the world feels the ripples of Grindelwald’s war. The German representatives are not in any way without allies in this. And so Dumbledore is pressured to resign from his post as Chief Warlock, which he regretfully does without complaint.

And in Scotland, in a room within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, teachers and parents gather around a large table. The school board faces more argument, several teachers fight fiercely on Dumbledore’s behalf, though he does not argue for himself.

But it is not Grindelwald which drives the parents today, though it is the catalyst. It is the past five years, and more, of mistakes. The Philosopher’s Stone, the basilisk, Sirius Black, the Triwizard Tournament, and there is some pity taken, for few are willing to take the Defense post, but Dumbledore’s hiring decisions – two teachers who ended up attacking students, and one who performed the Unforgiveable Curses in front of them on Dumbledore’s orders – cannot be overlooked.

And that is only recently. Need they look back at the Cursed Vaults, Professor Rakepick, and poor Rowan Khanna?

Enough is enough, the parents demand. The teachers cannot argue these points. Dumbledore is removed from his position as headmaster.

Out of respect for him, and quietly, for convenience, as the paperwork and struggle to fill empty positions at this time of year would be a nightmare, they do not ban him from teaching. He and Professor McGonagall essentially swap places. She takes over as headmistress, and he fills in as the Transfiguration teacher, as he was so long ago, so that she has time to focus on her new duties. Dumbledore continues to teach Alchemy, as always.

And as Dumbledore organizes his new office – the headmaster’s office now occupied by McGonagall – he reflects on how swiftly the blade falls. He recognizes above all else, that everything -everything from the very beginning, from the moment Argo chooses to adopt Hogwarts as his responsibility, goes precisely according to Argo’s plans.

And even a man a decorated and powerful as Dumbledore, as wise and learned, has no idea until it is too late and there is not a thing left for him to do to stop it.

Dumbledore sits in his much smaller office, and it is like the walls shrink around him. They enclose and entrap, and it is all of Argo’s design.

He wonders if, perhaps, this time… if with Voldemort stirring once more… he really needn’t do anything at all. He wonders if, perhaps, this time… he will not be needed to save the world, or to guide it.

He wonders if that is a relief, or if it is a curse. He wonders if he truly can be content as a teacher and nothing else. If he can truly trust the world to his students, and for his part, find happiness with only his pride in their progress and a nice, thick pair of woolen socks.

As he sits in his meditation, no answer comes to him.

(In another part of Great Britain, Auror Nymphadora Tonks, member of the Circle of Khanna, takes special pleasure in announcing a particularly nasty shock to a particularly nasty woman.

Because, after all, Dumbledore, Fudge, Maxime, Karkaroff… they are not the only ones who need to be punished for what happens during the Triwizard Tournament. And Argo cannot abide loose ends.

Rita Skeeter never knows who leaks her animagus abilities to the DMLE. Given the timing, she assumes its Dumbledore. She can’t imagine why Laelaps would out her now, nor does she know for sure that Laelaps even knows. But she has no warning, no time to investigate, before she is hauled away and sentenced to five years in Azkaban prison. A heavy sentence, to be sure, for the crime, but Rita Skeeter makes many enemies in her time, and the Council of Magical Law which presides over her case remember well just who they are dealing with. With something concrete to finally punish her for, they take advantage shamelessly, and punish her to the fullest extent they can possibly excuse.

Argo says from the moment she reveals his history in the paper that he will be the end of her, and he is as good as his word. It’s better than she deserves.)

Argo stirs slowly, a weak murmur leaves his lips, forming no true words. In his arms, Shiloh’s warm, furry body wiggles even closer.

Overcome by just how adorable he is, Shiloh smiles and affectionately licks his cheek. A very cat gesture, but he knows Argo likes it even when Shiloh shows affection in inhuman ways.

Argo grumbles, scrunching up his face briefly. He really doesn’t want to open his eyes. Instead, he buries his head into Shiloh.

“Classes start today,” Shiloh says softly. “You got to get up if you want to check on the creatures before first period.”

“Don’ want to,” Argo mumbles, pressing harder into his companion.

There’s an amused giggle. “Or we can stay here for a while?”

“Mm.” Despite his best intentions, Argo is awake now. He’s too used to waking up before even the sun to get all the way down to the grounds and make his rounds before he has to go to class. Even the holiday doesn’t shake him of it, because his mornings still usually involve checking on the creatures, just at home instead of Hogwarts.

“You know…” says Shiloh carefully, nuzzling, “Professor Kettleburn doesn’t need your help. It’s the first day back from holidays… he probably expects you to sleep in.”

Yeah… he probably does. Argo doesn’t really think about that, though. The truth is, he’s not really thinking of the creatures at all. So, when he answers, what he says is, “I missed this.”

Shiloh’s chest flutters. He does too.

“I love David,” Argo says, still barely half-asleep. Awake enough he’s not tipping back over the precipice, but still slow and not thinking enough to filter his words “Sharing my room with him was…” he chuckles. “Interesting. Fun. But… I missed this.” Shiloh gulps when Argo nuzzles him. His head bumps Shiloh’s up, slotting under his chin, then he twists, rubbing into Shiloh’s fur, and right at the end, presses his lips against the underside of Shiloh’s jaw. “Us,” says Argo. “Just us.”

It’s not like they don’t cuddle at home. It’s not like they don’t share the bed at home. It’s not like having company stops them. It’s not like they don’t tell David and Shiloh has to pretend to be a normal cat the whole time. Having David around really, truly, doesn’t change their dynamic hardly at all. The only real difference is that they have to be more careful about what they say, with the number of secrets between just the two of them that a twelve-year-old has absolutely no business in.

But… “Me too,” Shiloh admits.

But it is different. It’s good, and fun, and Shiloh loves David and sharing space with David as much as Argo does, but it’s different. And Shiloh does miss this. Just the two of them. It’s been a year and a half and a great deal of it has this constant anchor of… who, at the end of the day, they’ll be coming back to.

A lot of days, these days, now that Shiloh knows more about magic and is more capable of studying on his own, he hardly even sees Argo during the day. Their schoolwork just keeps them busy, not to mention all of Argo’s duties with the creatures or other many, many irons in the fire. But when they come to bed, they come to each other, and that means everything.

“For a while, here,” Argo murmurs. He still doesn’t open his eyes. He still revels in the early fugue of waking. “at Hogwarts, I mean. My only home was… my heartbeat.” Another idle rub into Shiloh’s silky fur. Another kiss, this time on his throat. “It was the only thing that… fit.”

Argo makes a soft sort of murmur, but snuggles closer. “Now, there’s you.”

Shiloh loves Argo with everything that he is. He has loved Argo since Argo was nothing but a nameless dream. And what he learns over the year since they meet, last year at Hogwarts, when he finally has the chance to get to know Argo in more than just glimpses and moments and scenes is that despite everything, despite how blessed he is…

He never really feels like he fits.

It’s why Shiloh tells him what he does last year, before Argo summons Lily. It’s why Shiloh tries so hard not to push anything, not to put any expectation on him despite his continuing dreams and his own full-to-bursting heart.

Shiloh thinks it’s why fate brings them together, why he has these dreams of Argo in the first place, why it’s him instead of George or Niklas or anyone else. Because Shiloh can see it: the chafing, the guilt. Shiloh can see that Argo knows he is not the man the people he loves want him to be. And even if they would – even though they will – accept him and love him as they always have, even though Argo won’t deny his nature to appease what he believes everyone wants from him, there’s still just the dissonance of not quite fitting into place.

Argo lies to everyone. He keeps secrets from everyone. Even his family. Maybe especially his family. Even Shiloh. And Shiloh is under no delusions that even much of what he is told is only shared with him because of the chance he’ll just see it anyway in one of his dreams. If Argo feels like he can keep a secret, there’s a decent chance he will.

But Shiloh knows why. It’s the face, the persona. It’s because he feels like if he shows his true nature, everyone he loves will feel the way that he does – like he doesn’t fit. So, he lies in order to keep his place among his family.

When Shiloh meets Argo, he wants to date him. He wants to make Argo fall in love with him and live happily ever after. But once he really, truly, gets to know Argo… All Shiloh wants is to be a place where Argo fits.

They don’t need to date. They don’t need to kiss or make love, or anything else. They don’t even need to cuddle like they do. None of that matters. Boyfriend, best friend, cuddle buddy, brother… it doesn’t matter what Argo labels him as. It doesn’t matter what they do together.

Because for Shiloh… Argo is the one who takes him to the other side of the world just because he asks. Argo is the one who puts aside the most important of tasks to giggle at Shiloh chasing his own tail. Argo is the one who teaches Shiloh how magical the world is.

Argo is the one who, after Shiloh dies and loses any sense of who he is, after he pretends and tries so hard to be that old housecat only to give in to his true nature at the end, gives Shiloh home. A place to fit. All Shiloh wants now is to be that for Argo, too. Because he loves Argo, and because he knows what it’s like not to know where he fits.

And fitting… fitting isn’t grand gestures and speeches and cuddles and kisses and titles. Fitting is quiet, and it’s still. It’s just being together and feeling right.

Shiloh stares at Argo, at what he admits with his scrunchy eyes, sleepy tongue, and bedhead. Shiloh’s mouth hangs open slightly in wonder, and then he gulps, adjusts his position, and touches his nose to Argo’s. And rubs back and forth, grinning like a loon.

Argo opens his eyes. He runs a hand down from Shiloh’s cheek, trailing his fingers down his neck, cutting through the fur on his chest and down still until he has to stop or turn those fingers downward to continue its adventure.

(Shiloh isn’t about to complain, either way.)

It slides right back up, then around, and hooks the back of Shiloh’s head. And Argo, already nose-to-nose, tilts his head ever so slightly, slips past the intrusive distance, and touches his lips to Shiloh’s.

It’s only a moment, but for Shiloh, it’s heaven.

For Argo, it’s a little strange. It’s not like he never kisses creatures before, so he’s probably better prepared for the feeling of kissing lips on a muzzle than any of the human kind. Shiloh’s stiff whiskers poke him.

But all the same… it’s good. It fits.

Argo separates them. Shiloh wouldn’t dare to even if he had anywhere to retreat with Argo cupping his head. Argo laughs. Breathlessly, helplessly. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess that was kind of out of nowhere, huh?”

Maybe. It’s not like today is special. It’s an ordinary day. They just wake up, still sleepy and wanting more cuddles. It’s every day at Hogwarts for the past year and a half. And nothing really happens, either. There’s no grand inspiration aside from maybe it being the first time they’re really alone since the crowded holidays.

There’s no reason for it to be today, now. No good reason at all. But it fits, anyway.

Shiloh’s breath comes thick – he worries he might actually be panting. But he asks, “So… does this mean I can kiss you outside of my dreams, now?”

Argo snickers, ducks his head, nuzzles in. His bedraggled hair tickles at Shiloh’s nose. “You know,” he says. His breath warms Shiloh’s chest. “I think I’d like that.”

“Merlin’s balls…” Charlie breathes, wide-eyes. “Every time I see you, you get three times bigger!”

Argo laughs, grinning down at his host. “Good to see you too, Charlie.”

At that, Charlie Weasley breaks into laughs too. “Yeah, thanks for coming, mate.” He purses his lips and narrows his eyes just a little, still examining Argo in detail now that he’s past the sheer size of him. “You look a whole lot happier than last I saw you.” A wicked smirk. “I’d go so far as to say you’re glowing. Are you old enough to be shagging?”

“Not old enough to shag you, old man,” Argo counters without missing a beat.

“Honestly, should have seen that one coming.”

Argo snorts. “I’m sixteen. And I’m not shagging anyone, anyway.”

Charlie eyes him doubtfully. “Don’t forget,” he says, “I’m great friends with Penny Haywood. I know most people think I’ve only got dragons for brains, but I see gossip where it can be found.”

“Gossip and dragons. You’re a true renaissance man, Charlie.”

“Oi! I don’t remember you having such a mouth on you.” He groans exaggeratedly for effect. “What happened to the polite little boy I knew and loved?”

Argo snickers. “Yeah, yeah, alright. And if you need gossip to bring back to Penny, it’s definitely not shagging. …Just maybe some snogging.”

“No way!” Charlie grins wide. “That’s great! Good for you, Argo! Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Boy. His name is Shiloh.”

“Isn’t that your cat’s name?”

Argo grins. “Not a cat.”

“Of course, he isn’t.” Charlie rolls his eyes. Argo doesn’t even need to explain. Charlie knows enough about Shiloh and creatures in general to at least have an idea of what he is. And it goes without saying that Charlie understands why Shiloh is pretending to be a cat, at least to anyone at Hogwarts. “You and Rolf both, I swear. I’m just lucky my creature-obsessed friends didn’t go out and find cat-boys to snog.”

“I hate to break it to you Charlie, but you’re the creature-obsessed one in your friend group.” Argo leans in close. “You’re not snogging the dragons, are you?”

Charlie snorts. “If only I could get away with it. And Liz is just as bad.”

Argo hums, pretending suspicion. “I don’t know. Considering why you asked me here I think you might have ulterior motives.”

With absolutely no hesitation and the utmost seriousness, Charlie says, “Mate, if learning to talk to the dragons lets me get close enough to kiss them, I’m going to be snogging you.”

“I hope you know I’m taking that as a promise,” says Argo. “I mean, I’ve thought you were the coolest person alive since the moment I saw you. I am absolutely down.”

Charlie chokes on something between a gasp, a barking laugh, and a squeak. “Wha- Give it another year first, kid.” Then he stops, actually looks Argo top to bottom, rolls his eyes at Argo’s smug smirk, and says, “And worry about whether this with the dragons will actually work, first, as well.”

Argo’s grin only widens, because Charlie very clearly doesn’t say no.

Huh. Argo’s only teasing him, but… if this does work… well, if he’s honest with himself, he’s probably going to tease Charlie with it until he does snog the daylights out of him, or until they die. Whichever comes first. Not because Argo is at all invested in making out with Charlie, but because actually following through on it will be the only way for Charlie to make it not funny anymore.

Not that Argo is against it, either… But that’s not the point.

(And actually… even though there isn’t and won’t ever be any more to it, Argo thinks George probably won’t appreciate Argo making out with his older brother. Or, if he has the whole story, would he find it funny? Hm.)

Argo shakes his head. “Speaking of. I guess we can’t banter all day, can we? I mean, I can. McGonagall doesn’t know what I do outside the grounds.”

Charlie snorts. “No, but my boss will tan our hides. Come on. I’ll show you around, then you can show me how this talking with creatures things works.”

Charlie turns, leading the way out of the small cabin Argo floos into. Argo chuckles and follows along.

He’s here, after corresponding with both Charlie and Charlie’s boss, the head of the Romanian dragon sanctuary, because Charlie hears through the grapevine about Argo’s ability to talk to animals.

And, according to Charlie, that he finally figures out that it’s more than just talking at them and generally knowing the creature he’s talking to like all magizoologists, and pet owners, do.

Beast-tongue is well documented. Or, perhaps not well, but definitely documented. Parseltongue is perhaps the most famous in the British Isles and America because of Slytherin and later, Voldemort, but there are other variants as well that allow a wizard seamless speech with a particular kind of animal. These wizards are always highly valued by those who work with those animals.

The problem is, there is no known instance of someone speaking a dragon tongue, so dragon tamers are out of luck in that regard.

Now, Argo hasn’t ever tried to talk to a dragon, but he does understand them when he helps in the Forbidden Forest during the Triwizard Tournament, so he knows it works. The problem then is that, even though he does start teaching David the secret, the simple fact that David is the only one past his grandpa and brother that he teaches the technique to tells exactly how much Argo wants to go spreading that ability around.

It’s not that Argo doesn’t want to let other wizards talk to creatures, of course not. If that were all it was, he’d be teaching anyone who approaches him, spreading the information like wildfire.

But there’s a catch. A dangerous aspect of it that Argo only realizes after several months and a lot of training at paying attention to the magical portion of people’s speech in addition to the words themselves. The magical part of speech has a lot to do with feeling and intention and so, as far as Argo can tell, it can’t lie. If someone tries lying to him, he gets that intention in the magic of the words clear as day, once he’s skilled enough to recognize it. It even works on someone like Dumbledore, who Argo is certain is a brilliant liar.

And for all that that doesn’t matter with the talking to animals portion of the skill, and that Argo is fairly certain it’s something only those who get really good at it will be able to do, he’s not all that eager to put a way to pinpoint even the smallest of lies into the common sphere of knowledge. It seems safer, overall, to keep that to himself, especially while he’s still deep in the business of trying to destroy Voldemort.

But honestly? Even after. Little white lies would come out left and right and it’d cause so much unnecessary tension between so many people.

So, with Argo reluctant to share his technique, Charlie’s boss has to do some convincing. The deal they eventually come to is that Argo will just teach Charlie, and he insists on only Charlie, no matter who Charlie’s boss recommends, because Charlie is a member of the Circle of Khanna and someone Argo personally trusts will not be spreading it to the other tamers without Argo’s permission no matter his own feelings on the matter. One person who can talk to the dragons on the reserve is a million and one times better than no people who can talk to the dragons, so Charlie’s boss is more than happy with that.

“Are you sure you want to learn this, Charlie?” Argo asks, following him to a little circle of huts they have here, which Charlie introduces as the tamers’ living quarters, and down the road to a larger administration building. “Not being able to be lied to sounds great in theory, but…”

“I know what I’m getting into, Argo,” Charlie says with an easy smile. “You were very clear in your letters. But if it works with dragons, then even if I’m the only one, it’ll be so worth it. Every one of us here will be safer, and our work might be a lot easier. And with how dangerous this job is, any advantage we can get, right?”

Yeah. That’s the only reason Argo agrees at all. “It’s not going to change that much,” says Argo. “The dragons already understand you as much as they’re going to. It’s only going to be you who understands them better. You’re not going to be going out there striking up chats with them, or talking them down if they’re angry. You might get better at sending signals to them once you understand what signals you’re sending, but…”

Charlie’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “I know, Argo. But I think it’ll change more than you think. At your reserve, you mostly work with fairly tame creatures, don’t you? But how valuable is understanding the creatures’ signals and signaling back appropriately in keeping them calm when you need them to do something uncomfortable?”

Argo bites his lip. Charlie is right. With the creatures that are more of a problem in general, understanding them makes more and more of a difference. It helps Argo to not set them off, and to keep them calm. Dragons are just on the very extreme end of that scale.

“You know well that the key to working with any creature is to learn how to understand what it’s telling you,” says Charlie, rubbing his neck. “With docile creatures, you have a lot of opportunity to learn, so this kind of more advanced understanding isn’t as important since you can understand them just fine after some time working with them. But with creatures like dragons… unfortunately, we just don’t know much about them. It’s hard to get them calm enough to try to communicate with them, then you mess up something somewhere and they try to flame you anyway.”

Argo sighs. “Alright, alright. I get you’re committed. Let’s see how much it even helps first, then I guess we go back to your place and you can start learning on Jason.”

Charlie nods, determined. “Alright. So, I think my boss mentioned what you’d be doing today?”

“Injured Green, right?”

Charlie hums an affirmative, taking Argo down a long, long patch that leads to a heavily warded quarantine enclosure. “Common Welsh Greens are some of the more docile dragons, and she’s right about typical, but no dragon likes having their wing bandaged. Been in a foul mood since we bound it. Now, we have to check it, and replace the bandage, without getting our heads bitten off.”

“Just us?”

“If it looks like we’re going to need help, I can bring in some of the others, but otherwise, yes, just us.”

“Simple enough,” says Argo. “This is good, actually. That’s something I’ve done before with my grandpa. On a Green, too. Of course, he put her to sleep when we changed the bandage, but…”

“Mm, yeah. That’s the common practice here, too. And that’s why my boss isn’t worried about us doing it without backup. If she does end up causing trouble, I can put her to sleep pretty quickly. But that’s only if you can’t keep her calm with talking.”

They’re both quiet for a while on the long walk down the path. Argo takes in the sights. There aren’t any dragons in view, which is to be expected, but the forest is quiet and peaceful. It’s a lovely day, despite the chill.

“So,” says Charlie. “Sixteen, huh? They have the apparition class after the winter holidays, right? Are you learning now?”

“They started it last week, yeah,” says Argo, “but I’m not bothering with it.”

“Really? You don’t want to learn how to apparate? Or, do you just intend to do it next year when you can actually take the test?”

“I already know how.” Argo shrugs. “I’m not going to waste my money on a class I don’t need.”

After a moment, Charlie sighs. “I shouldn’t be surprised. How’d you learn?”

“Dad taught me.” He wrings his hands. “He, uh… is a little nervous about letting Rolf and I go off on expeditions with Grandpa all the time. He trusts Grandpa Newt to keep us safe, obviously, but you know. Out in the wild, no way to contact anyone, things happen. And my grandpa isn’t exactly young anymore. So, basically as soon as we were old enough to learn, he took us aside and taught us how, so we’d be able to just apparate back to camp if we got lost. I’ve never had to, thank goodness, but yeah, I’ve known how for… a couple years, year and a half?”

“Any good at it?” Charlie asks. “My first time, I ended up five miles away from where I was supposed to go and landed on an old lady doing her shopping.”

Argo snickers. “Just about the same, actually,” he admits. “I went halfway across the reserve and landed on Rolf.”

“Good job you didn’t land in the enclosures.”

“Honestly? Probably only didn’t because of the wards. But I got the hang of it. Got a provisional license, too.”

Charlie blinks. “What’s a provisional license? Don’t you need to be seventeen?”

Argo grins. “In Britain, yes. In America, you can get a provisional license at fifteen. It means I am allowed to apparate, just not,” he makes air quotes, “with impunity.”

Charlie’s nose wrinkles up. “What does that mean?”

“In theory? There are all sorts of rules about maximum distance, line of sight, all that stuff. But since there’s no way to actually track that,” Argo explains, “basically, so long as I don’t get in trouble, I’m fine.”

“Course,” says Charlie, shaking his head. “Got to love the ‘just don’t get caught’ clause. Oh, hold up, we’re coming up on the ward.”

Argo feels what might be one of the heaviest wards he’s ever encountered just in front of him, and stops short. “Woah,” he says. Fondling his wand, he looks to Charlie. “Can I…?”

“If you’re quick, yeah. Just don’t mess with anything.”

Hell yeah. Argo immediately sets about using every identification and examination spell he can think of, just getting a real good look at what they’ve got set up here.

Argo deals with wards to keep creatures contained all the time. It’s like, practically ninety-nine percent of his experience with these kinds of semi-permeable containment wards. But he’s never seen one before that feels like an actual concrete wall dropped in place. Compared to most of the wards back on his own reserve, which at most feel like going through a wall of static honey.

Then there are the Hogwarts wards, which Argo is convinced Rowena Ravenclaw has a hand in mostly on account of the ward within the Come and Go Room that Helena uses to shield the diadem having much the same feel to it. Those are actually light. Airy, even, like stepping through a gust of clean air.

“What makes it…?”

“So heavy?” Charlie hums. “Bill could tell you better than I can. I’m not that great with them myself. All the wards around here are like that, though, so I assume it’s something targeting the dragons. Or maybe just a quirk of our warder.”

Argo hums, still staring at the ward. “I wish Susan were here,” he murmurs.

“She’s your ward expert?” asks Charlie.

“More like security expert,” answers Argo. “Her last name is Bones.”

“Right, with you in your club Circle, yeah? Her aunt is the head of the DMLE? Guess she would be good with security spells.”

“I’m better with runic wards,” says Argo, finally giving up his distraction. He’ll mull what he sees here over some more later, but he thinks he’s got them mostly figured out. Comparative ward work is a bitch, though, so he’ll have to do that when he has more time. “But this is interesting. Never seen one quite like that.”

They pass through the ward. It actually stops Argo for a moment, surprising him by taking real physical strength to push past. Most wards feel a certain way, but they don’t actually resist if you’re allowed through them. These are heavy-duty as all hell.

But then, Argo supposes little else will keep a dragon contained.

Continuing on cautiously, as they now know there is a dragon nearby, chatter between the two halts as they creep forward through the enclosure.

It’s not hard to find her sunning herself in a clearing just at the end of the path. Smooth emerald scales glisten in the sun as her long, serpentine body shifts, noticing their arrival. Her head lifts. Golden eyes fix them in place, as if daring them to come closer.

“She’s beautiful,” Argo murmurs.

“Isn’t she?” says Charlie with equal awe, but also pride in his charge.

The dragon watches them from across the clearing for the moment. Argo makes no move towards her, and at this moment onward Charlie is following Argo’s lead, so he doesn’t either. But Welsh Greens, though by no means docile creatures, earn their reputation as one of the most docile dragons. She doesn’t yet warn them off.

Argo looks for the bandage. It’s large, binding the wing tight to her body to prevent her from moving it while it heals. Okay… okay, he can do this.

It’s Argo’s first time taking the lead with a dragon, but he sees his grandpa do this before and he helps with the dragons at the tournament once, so he can do this.

He straightens his back, lifts his chin, and meets the dragon’s eyes. Slowly, he lifts his hands, open in front of him, and inches forward.

Her eyes don’t leave him for a moment. When she decides he’s come close enough, a low hiss begins to fill the air.

“You’re okay,” Argo says firmly, gently. What he learns from his grandpa and that night in the forest about dragons is that they respond best to confidence. They don’t need to be comforted or placated. Talking to one softly and coaxingly as one might talk to a crup will only backfire.

But Merlin, he better remember his respect. Don’t give an inch, but don’t overstep. Either spells a bad end to this.

“You’re okay,” Argo repeats, another step closer.

The dragon moves her head slightly closer, leaning in. She seems-

A searing stream of flame fills the distance between Argo and the dragon. Charlie jumps back with a muffled, “Bloody hell!” but Argo doesn’t move a muscle.

Because she seems curious. He knows she’s not hostile. She wants to test him. Argo only pulls his hands back slightly and allows the heat wave to wash over him. It stings his eyes, makes him cringe, but the fire doesn’t reach him. He is not burned.

“Yeah, I know,” says Argo. He doesn’t move any closer. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

No, you bloody damn well won’t, the dragon seems to say with its fierce hiss.

“I’ll wait here,” Argo says. “And when you’re ready, you come to me, and I’ll free your wing.”

The hiss slowly peters out. After a long staring contest, the dragon seems to ask, I can fly again?

“I have to check first. I don’t think it should be healed enough for that, yet,” Argo admits. “I may have to rebind it.”

I will not be bound, says the dragon’s roar.

“You will be bound,” says Argo, “or you will never fly again.”

The hiss rises once more, a threat.

Argo shakes his head. “If you do not heal patiently, you will damage your wing permanently. That is not us doing that to you. That’s how healing works.”

Luckily, the dragon understands that much, and her warning hiss quiets once more.

“We are going to make sure you fly again. But it takes time, and you’ll need to trust us just a little.”

Charlie, a step behind Argo, holds his breath as he watches the scene. Sometimes the dragon vocalizes, sometimes she doesn’t, but Argo just carries on a one-sided conversation. Under normal circumstances, Charlie wouldn’t be this close without more backup on hand, and he certainly would be trying to restrain her after she uses her flames.

Argo’s approach is fascinating. Charlie’s taking mental notes. They’re just outside range of her flames, which is still considered way too close by most dragonologists, and Charlie thinks the “safe” distance probably depends a lot on the individual, given Argo only stops when he gets a reaction.

Even how he’s talking to her – his tone is so different than how he talks to Charlie.

There’s so much going on! Charlie wants to know everything.

But Argo doesn’t spare him a thought. All his focus is on the dragon and the dragon, seeing that Charlie is making no move, either, focuses on the one talking to her.

The dragon rumbles deeply, considering them, and seems to say, you will come to me.

So, Argo walks forward. He does not rush, but neither does he hesitate. He strides, slow and purposeful, towards the Green, only stopping when he’s close enough to reach out and touch her scales.

Charlie’s heart nearly bursts seeing Argo go so recklessly ahead, then nearly laughs when the dragon allows it. Only his good sense and years of working with dragons keep him quietly where he stands.

Now, free me, the dragon demands.

Argo smiles to himself. “You won’t stretch your wing too quickly,” he says warningly. “I can guide you to stretch it safely, once I vanish the bindings.”

The dragon eyes him for another long moment (during which Charlie fears she’ll snap at him) but eventually seems to agree.

So with a quick flick of his wand, Argo vanishes the bandages. The Green stays perfectly still, heeding his warning not to stretch, until Argo steps to her injured side to get a close look at the injury.

It’s a bad one, but mostly healed. She has a bad encounter with another of her kind, which is normal enough, but in their tussle she ends up breaking one of the bones in her wing.

Charlie does all the work long before today to set the bone right and make sure everything will heal correctly, so he’s pleased that it looks okay from where he stands. The superficial wound is pretty much gone, and there’s no obvious deformity in the bone.

Argo runs his hand down the length of the bone, feeling it. Unfortunately, magic doesn’t work well on dragonhide, so by feel is usually the only way they can tell if something’s off internally. Still… seeing someone – anyone – do that to a dragon that’s still conscious…

But she sits quietly, watching – always watching – but not attacking, as Argo feels along her broken bone. It must hurt, the bone isn’t healed entirely yet, but no one would know it by looking at her. She stays still as Argo helps remove some shed that was stuck beneath the bandaging – she must shed between her last bandage change and now, then, when Argo drops the last of the shed skin and returns once more to the wing, she allows Argo to grab onto it and slowly stretch it out, and work her through some gentle flexing to get blood flow back in there.

Merlin, Charlie thinks, if only it were always this easy. How much faster would the dragons heal if they can work with them on getting proper exercise? Just ensuring blood flow will speed up the process so much, but under normal circumstances, if they let the dragon be awake without the wing bound, she’d stretch it out too suddenly and give herself a shock.

Worst case scenario, she might even rebreak something if it’s still fragile.

But she lets Argo guide her, his hand on the fore of her wing and only extending it as far and as quickly as he lets her, despite having more than enough strength to simply push through him.

“Good,” Argo murmurs. “Better?”

Much, the dragon seems to say. I must be bound again.

“Yes,” Argo says. “It’s not there yet, and the way to make sure nothing happens in the meantime is to bind it again. This will be the last time. Next time they come off, then you can fly.”

The dragon folds up her wings once more, still with Argo’s careful help on the injured one, and eyes Argo.

He works confidently. Still slowly, never making any sudden or unexpected moves, but never hesitant even when he is right next to her maw.

Charlie is in awe when the new bandages are put on and Argo is still unharmed.

You will return to unbind me? The dragon seems to ask.

Argo, halfway back to Charlie with some of the dragon’s discarded shed in his hands, shakes his head. “Charlie will do it.”

The dragon, for the first time, turns her gaze to Charlie. He does not understand as you do, she seems to say.

“I will teach him.”

Good. She huffs, lays down, resting her head on the grass.

Charlie barely manages to keep his mouth shut until they’re past the wards on the way back. “Merlin,” he breathes. “And you didn’t think it’d make that big of a difference. I’ve never seen a dragon respond like that.”

Argo scoffs, or maybe snickers. “Does that mean you’re going to snog me?”

After seeing Argo like that with a dragon? “I’m thinking about it,” says Charlie. He’s only half-joking.

“Well,” says Argo, “if the other dragonologists here are anything like you, then I guess you’re going to be very popular soon. I hope you don’t get too busy snogging to take care of the dragons.”

Charlie can only laugh. The sad thing? He can see that happening. He’s going to be the most popular, and most envied, man in the entire dragonologist community if he can get the hang of this. “Come on,” he says, “I need to learn that, fast. Let’s get to my place. I’ll feed you.”

“Ooh, yes, I could use some lunch.”

Charlie hooks Argo’s neck, pulling him down as they walk the path, then eventually nods to the shed still in Argo’s hands. “What’re you planning with that? Not much you can do with shed, you know.”

“I know,” says Argo. “I’m going to study it, I think, if it’s alright that I take it. I’m curious about the ancient magic that makes dragonskin so resistant to spells.”

“Huh.” Charlie hums thoughtfully. “To what end?”

Argo shrugs. “No end, really. I’m just curious. Maybe there’s a way past it, so you can use healing spells on the dragons. Maybe there’s a way to effectively mimic it in an enchantment to protect us. Mostly I just want to know how it works.”

“Well, if you figure anything out, let me know. Either of those options sounds like another lifesaver for my job.”

Argo grins. “Then I suppose you’ll owe me more than just some snogging.”

Charlie snorts. “Yeah, yeah. You want me, you earn it.”

“You really need to be more careful with what you promise, Charlie.”

Charlie suddenly cringes and drops his head into his hands. “You’re going to discover something amazing just to tease me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

Ross and Camille are dangerous, David decides when their bounce duel event is finally underway.

Taking inspiration from their mentors’ dueling gauntlet event before they all start at Hogwarts, the apprentices set up not just one on one duels, but team duels as well, and enter in pairs just like their predecessors.

But good God, Ross and Camille are dangerous. David and Elsie share a nervous look as their friends send their opponents pinballing faster and faster.

“Should we stop them…?” Elsie asks nervously.

“…They know how much the enchantments can take,” says David to reassure her. “I think.”

He winces when one of the poor guys dueling them knocks into the wall just next to David at what must be just about the speed of sound.

“That’s my girl!” Daphne roars, howling with approving laughter.

“No mercy!” shouts Susan.

David shrinks into himself, fighting his equal embarrassment and exasperation. Cheering them on is one thing, David does a lot of that himself, but the girls are baring their fangs for all to see right now. They should be showing their support, not their thirst for blood.

At least David and Elsie’s mentors are more restrained.

David cringes, remembering his and Elsie’s own duel. Well, at least Elsie’s mentor is more restrained.

Is ruthlessness something he’s going to have to inherit to lead the DA? Because sweet baby Jesus he knows well before now, obviously, that the older students are like that, but they really are just shameless about it, aren’t they?

“Look at what you put together,” Harry’s voice distracts the pair of them as he comes up behind Elsie and puts a hand on her shoulder. “You should be proud.”

Elsie blushes. “David and Ross did most of it. I didn’t even join the planning until late.”

“Nonsense,” says David quickly. “That just means you had half the time to learn the softening and slowing charms, and most of that,” he gestures to the arena, “is you. Not to mention, you’re the one that found the spell to make the barrier that lets us watch without worrying someone’s going to bounce into us.”

Between them and the duelists, an invisible barrier, bouncy just like the walls, floor, and ceiling, makes up the fourth wall for the arena, so that other students can pack in on the other side and watch safely. Having a way to watch without risk of someone bouncing into the crowd is a huge problem in the planning phase for a long time.

Elsie ducks her head. “But Harry had to cast it.”

Harry chuckles. “I didn’t expect you to be able to cast that spell. It’s at least at the fifth-year level. And that’s what we’re here for, anyway. To help whenever you need it.”

“Yeah,” says Argo, somehow popping up out of nowhere despite being twice as large as the next biggest one present. “Don’t you know you can rely on us?” He grins, then sighs, shaking his head. “And now I’m having flashbacks. I should tell Anita I’m officially old.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Harry says while the kids laugh. “The longer I teach DA lessons the more I feel like I’m turning into Moony. An apprentice really isn’t helping.”

Argo snickers. “Anyway,” he says, putting both hands on David’s shoulders, standing behind him to watch the increasing velocity of Camille and Ross’ victims. “Harry’s right. You should all be proud of what you did. This is a successful event, and look at everyone smiling.”

The kids, do, both warm and swelling when they see that everyone is having fun.

Argo ruffles David’s hair, then kisses the top of his head. “Excellent work, little brother.”

David ducks his head and wraps his robe tight around him, but his smile, and the darkening of his cheeks, is still clear to see.

Argo leaves them, then, to move on through the crowd to continue handling the event, and David quickly follows. Harry smiles and sends Elsie off, too. It’s her event, and she’s needed to keep it running.

But Harry himself takes the opportunity to quietly escape, and slowly walks down the hall away from the room they’re hosting the event in.

He doesn’t want to show it. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene or bring down the mood at Elsie’s event. All of the apprentices put in a lot of work to make this happen, and they deserve their day.

But Harry feels a bit like he’s been punched in the gut, so he runs away. It stokes something hot within him, an anger that he knows better than to let out, so he has to take time for himself to stamp it down.

Because it’s been not even three-quarters of a year and Argo is already calling David “little brother.” Meanwhile, Harry, his actual brother, still barely gets friendship after more than five years of knowing each other.

Harry tries to force himself to be okay with it. He knows it’s unfair to ask Argo for more than he’s willing to give. He hates it, too, when people assume they have some kind of relationship with him because of his fame. He knows that if he does push it, Argo will shut him out again.

But it hurts, hearing Argo call someone else brother. Rolf is one thing – Harry is fine with Rolf. Harry likes Rolf, and he knows that Rolf is the brother that Argo grows up with so of course he calls him his brother. But David? Why can Argo just pick up this kid and treat him like a brother, when he’s so adamant about keeping Harry away?

It’s not fair!

It’s like… like Argo’s problem isn’t the overfamiliarity at all. It’s like there’s just something wrong with Harry.

“They’re going to miss you, you know,” a high, boyish voice startles Harry into jumping, turning to see where it comes from.

Harry is very surprised, though he shouldn’t be because he does recognize that voice, to see the cream-colored cat sitting primly right in the middle of the corridor.

Shiloh tilts his head, and his eyes somehow seem to stare right through Harry. “I thought this might happen,” he murmurs, finally dropping his gaze. “I guess they can miss you a little longer. Come with me.”

“Huh?” Harry stammers, not knowing what’s happening or what to do. He trails after the cat like a duckling, baffled at the direction this turns. “Shiloh? Where- why are you here? Why aren’t you with Argo?”

Shiloh glances back. “We don’t spend all day together, you know. I can’t do the bounce duel anyway, so I stayed back in our room to study, but… I figured this would happen sooner or later, so I thought I’d come check on things.”

“On me?”

Shiloh grins, an odd expression on his cat face. “Yes, on you. You’re family.”

Family. Shiloh… Harry blinks, breathless, unable to process it all.

“I mean,” says Shiloh. “You’re Argo’s brother, aren’t you? Doesn’t that make you family?”

…Yes, Harry would desperately like for it to mean that. But, “He doesn’t see it that way.”

Shiloh hums, not agreement nor disagreement, and bounds suddenly off through a door to another corridor. He doesn’t talk – there are portraits in this hallway, so Harry doesn’t expect him to – but he keeps going all the way back to Argo’s laboratory. Empty now, with its two inhabitants busy at the bounce duel.

When Harry enters, Shiloh shifts, standing on two legs and growing to just about Harry’s size. With a gentle smile, he shuts the door behind Harry and locks it with a wave of his hand.

Harry feels… a little awkward with Shiloh watching him like this. Being alone with who is essentially his brother’s boyfriend isn’t high on Harry’s list of things he likes to do, though he likes Shiloh well enough. (He thinks. Even though he is let in on the secret, this is still one of the only times he’s ever seen Shiloh as anything other than a normal cat.)

Shiloh jumps without hesitation, onto Argo’s cuddle couch, sprawling out and grinning, patting the small space of cushion he’s not taking up in invitation.

Now, Harry gets his fair share of cuddles from Cedric (which he misses dearly) and Padfoot likes to curl up with him sometimes as a dog, but Harry still hesitates, and thinks it’s quite awkward, to jump on the cuddle couch with Shiloh of all people. “Er,” he says slowly, “aren’t you and Argo…”

Shiloh giggles. “I just want to talk to you. Come on.”

Okay. That’s alright, then. Harry quietly makes his way to the couch and perches, barely, on the very end of it, careful not to touch Shiloh.

A surprisingly strong furry arm snakes around Harry’s waist and yanks him back, making him fall into Shiloh. Harry yelps in surprise and has no means of escape when Shiloh, still giggling, flips him over so they’re face to face. He scoots back a little, pressing into the back of the sofa, so that Harry has a little more room, but there just isn’t enough space to put any real distance between them.

With a cheeky smile, Shiloh reaches up to take off Harry’s glasses, skewed from being crushed when he sets his head on the cushion. He folds them carefully and stretches, reaching over to place them on the top of the bookshelf right next to the sofa.

With that, Shiloh reaches out to Harry, pulls him just a little closer, and settles in, closing his eyes peacefully, utterly content just sharing the sofa like this, even without being wrapped up tightly in each other like he always is with Argo. Or like Harry is with Cedric.

(Actually, Harry reflects, awkward as it is to him, Argo probably won’t think twice about this. If he ever hears about Shiloh doing this. After all, how many times does Argo cuddle with Cedric after Harry and Cedric start dating? And Harry remembers they do hug each other much closer than this. Shiloh is probably only this far away out of respect for Harry, not Argo.

Harry is still kind of jealous of just how easy it all is for him. Kissing David’s head, cuddling with anyone and everyone – except Harry, of course, not that Harry is comfortable enough anyway. Shoulder touches, casual hugs, holding hands… Harry’s not very good at that kind of thing. Argo never stops with it.)

“It’s David, right?” Shiloh asks quietly, to not break the moment. He doesn’t open his eyes, he just says what he needs to there, comfortable and at rest. “You’re jealous that Argo calls him his little brother.”

Harry burns. Shame and anger both mix hotly in his chest and on his face. “Yeah,” Harry admits. “A bit.”

Shiloh hums. “It started over the holiday. Rolf did it first. It’s sort of a joke? Kind of teasing, you know, but… we all think of David as part of our family, anyway.”

Harry swallows hard over the lump in his throat.

“But, you know,” says Shiloh, “despite what happened with David, Argo isn’t that great at… telling people things. Even important things. He has… he has his own things he’s trying to do, and he can sometimes be a bit ignorant to things he doesn’t view as important to those goals. Even things that are very important to him, personally.”

Yeah. Argo is very good at keeping secrets. Harry still doesn’t know anything he does most of the time.

“So, you probably haven’t noticed, because I doubt he’s actually told you,” Shiloh continues gently, “but you’re part of his family, too.”

Harry can’t help but scoff. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” says Shiloh. His voice is firm and his eyes open once more to meet Harry’s seriously. “Family isn’t… Argo doesn’t see family the same way you do. Family is people who find each other. Who look out for each other and who can rely on each other.”

Harry can… sort of see how Argo looks out for him. If through distant means, usually. The moment in the Department of Mysteries when Argo declares that he’ll defend Harry from the prophecy springs to mind as the most obvious of it, but Harry knows, now, that Argo puts a lot of effort into making sure that all the champions, Harry included, survive the Triwizard Tournement.

But since when does Argo ever rely on Harry? Harry can’t imagine Argo needing to rely on him for anything. Argo’s so… He’s such an amazing wizard.

“You know,” says Shiloh, “Argo is the one who told Daphne that they need you and Susan along to investigate the Murk. He wants you there to watch their backs.”

That was Argo’s idea? Harry’s breath catches. “That was him?”

“Mhm. Argo decided a long time ago that you’re someone he’s going to protect. That makes you family,” Shiloh says. “But… he just has a bad habit of not always saying when he’s decided to adopt someone. That doesn’t mean you’re not an important person that he’s going to protect anyway.”

Shiloh laughs. His breath tickles across Harry’s neck. “Trust me,” Shiloh says, “I know why you’re scared to be a little bolder with him. He didn’t take it well last time, and it led to a long argument that you’re still recovering from. You’re probably wondering what makes you different from David.”

He is. That exact thought consumes him.

“And the truth is, even if Argo tries to pretend it doesn’t matter, the fact that you’re related by blood really does make a big difference.”

“I knew it,” Harry mutters.

“It’s because…” Shiloh trails off, closing his eyes again as he thinks about his words. Harry leans in closer. Why is it? If he can only answer why, then… “It’s because,” says Shiloh, “he’s scared.”

He’s scared? Harry is supposed to believe that Argo is scared of him? It’s laughable. Argo is everything Harry wishes he can be and more. Harry doesn’t measure up next to him in the slightest. It’s Harry who’s afraid, because he knows he’s not good enough to have a brother like Argo. What in the world does Argo have to fear? He’s not afraid of anything except lethifolds.

“When Argo gets close to David, they just get to know each other and… fit however they fit together. When he gets close to you, and you say you want to be brothers then… the potential to… not fit – or at least not fit right…”

“You’re saying,” stammers Harry, “he’s afraid I’ll reject him?”

Shiloh screws up his brow and huffs. “I’m saying he’s afraid… that he can’t be what you need him to be. When Argo died… everything changed for him. Don’t you know that?”

When he died… Harry can only imagine that Shiloh means when he was lost before he was picked up by the Scamanders. “Everything changed for me, too,” Harry murmurs.

Shiloh shocks Harry, though, by shaking his head. He smiles gently and says, “Hearts don’t wither, Harry. They don’t break. Losing someone can’t kill you.” Shiloh eyes him curiously for a moment, then says, “But you have died before, too, haven’t you?” His eyes flick up to Harry’s scar. Harry’s breath catches.

Does he mean…?

“You don’t die because you lose something,” Shiloh murmurs. “You die when this…” he presses his furry hand to Harry’s chest, just over his heart, “is changed completely. Not lacking something, but a different whole entirely.” He trails his finger there, tracing the line of Harry’s uniform. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t scars, but…”

“I think I understand,” says Harry. It’s like… it’s huge, losing a brother, but in the end, he’s still Harry just… with that loss, isn’t he? What killed him was losing everything. His parents. Probably moreso… he died when he lived. Surviving the killing curse… it turned Harry from Just Harry to the Boy-Who-Lived, whether he likes it or not. It’s not the fame that’s important there, not really. It’s that where before he was the kid of a brilliant and kind witch and a tenacious and daring auror, now he’s part in parcel with Voldemort.

It's the moment Harry went from an ordinary kid to someone whose own heart, in the end, will ensure that he faces Voldemort before it’s all over.

Even though Harry would love to be an ordinary wizard, he can’t deny his nature. He’ll face Voldemort, willingly, because that’s who he is. Because he is tied to Voldemort in some way. Not through prophecy, but through his own heart. If Voldemort never attacked that day. Honestly, even if Voldemort had attacked but just left him alive and didn’t try to kill him, didn’t mark him with this scar… would that be who Harry is?

Would Harry fit somewhere else?

He thinks… probably. In that way, he supposes he did die, back then. For the current version of him to be born.

Shiloh hums. “I think you do,” he says. “So you know… when you die, you need to find a new place to fit. Argo found it with a family whose whole role is to provide that place for lost and wounded creatures. He loves his family, and he loves his role. He loves his life. But… he still knows this isn’t his first life. He knows he had to die to get here. Do you sort of get it?”

Harry mulls it all over. It’s still confusing, and a little opaque, but Harry says, “He’s… afraid of Thomas? Of his old life?”

“He’s afraid that he’ll let you down,” says Shiloh. “Because he knows he isn’t Thomas, and because that’s really important to him. And because… he really isn’t very good at fitting into a mold. Even if he can be your brother, he’s terrified he can’t be your brother in the way that you want him to be. It’s better to go into it without expectations and just see how you fit together. Even if it’s what he would have done anyway, if you tell him what to be… then it just feels like acting.”

“Oh.”

“Did you know… for most of his life… Argo thought your parents abandoned him?”

Harry jerks. “What? They would never-!”

“He didn’t know,” Shiloh says, voice small, shaking his head slowly. “He didn’t know anything about how he was lost. All he knew was that sometime before they were attacked and killed, they got rid of him. I don’t think he ever really regretted that they didn’t keep him, or wondered what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed a Potter, but he did believe that his birth parents just didn’t want him. And even if he’s perfectly happy with the life he has… that still hurts.”

Harry closes his own eyes. Just imagining… how many times did he, as a kid, have that realization? That his relatives just didn’t want him, and wouldn’t no matter what he does? Harry sniffs through the ache in his chest.

“Argo is very protective of his family, but… I think he’s also doing everything he can to please them and keep them ignorant of anything he thinks they’ll disapprove of. Because… because if he does something that makes him not fit with them, anymore… they’ll get rid of him, too.”

Oh. Does he really…? The Scamanders aren’t that kind of family. Even Harry knows that. They’d never get rid of him. Not under any circumstances. But… even if he knows that, that doesn’t make it possible to forget that such a thing does happen.

“He loves you, Harry,” Shiloh says softly. “He really does. But he’s not going to say it first because he still doesn’t know how to fit with you. So take it from me; if you want your relationship to be like you picture it, you need to take those steps yourself. Argo’s doing a lot. He’s got a lot on his mind. And sometimes he doesn’t communicate with everyone. But you’re good. I think you know, now, anyway, what fits and what doesn’t.”

A brilliant smile, and Shiloh finishes with, “So, don’t be afraid of it, okay? And don’t look so down. Your family is big, and full of people who love you.”

His family… Harry can’t help it. All he ever wants is a family who loves him. To be told so confidently just that…

As tears start falling, Shiloh carefully pulls him close. Harry buries his face in Shiloh’s silky fur.

Gentle, loving purring fills the room.

Argo’s whim to pick up a piece of that dragon’s shed to study is good instincts on his part. Not because he’s made any sort of tangible result at all, but because he can study this damn thing for hours.

Literally days of entertainment.

Merlin’s Beard, there’s really nothing not fascinating about it. The ancient magic lingering on it is just an exquisite study. Argo spends a lot of his free time these days holed up in his laboratory working on the thing.

He thinks he’s just about got what makes the ancient magic so special compared to the kind wizards see every day. Argo knows there’s similar magic around Hogwarts, too, and will probably be looking for it soon to investigate further, but if he can figure out how to match it, then that’ll open up all sorts of new options for him.

He has ideas.

But he thinks, it’s either going to take much longer to get the results he’s looking for, or he’s going to need the equipment in Rowena Ravenclaw’s laboratory. Argo has no proof, only a suspicion, but he thinks that, given the ancient magic strewn throughout the school, the founders had some knowledge of it.

And if they had knowledge on it, if it’s not just a phenomenon that happens to their school, then Rowena Ravenclaw surely has a way to study it. He should look and see if she’s got journals on the subject, too, now that he thinks about it.

(He still can’t even access them, but it still irritates him to no end to know that, even if he does get his hands on them, he can’t read them. He’s trying to learn Old English in preparation but…

The language is fucking ridiculous, frankly.)

Argo sighs, reluctantly pushing the shed skin away from him before he rubs at his tired eyes. There’s only so long a man can stare at something before he sees all he’s going to see. Argo just feels like there’s something there, some connection he needs to make to have his breakthrough.

Bah, it continues to evade him.

Jason climbs into his lap, a welcome, and very efficient, distraction. Argo spends some time just holding Jason’s front paws, moving them up and down in a little dance.

Then his door opens. Daphne Greengrass walks in. The look on her face dispels all notions in Argo’s mind of retreating to the cuddle couch.

She says, “We’re ready.”

Argo says, “When are we leaving?”

“Saturday,” Daphne says. “Just after breakfast, so we have all day. Wear street robes; we don’t want anyone questioning us when we get to London.”

Right. Hogwarts students their age leaving the grounds is normal enough, and more than a few head back to London regularly, but Hogwarts robes can stand out. Honestly, most likely no one will notice, but still, it’s safer to just look like normal, faceless Londoners.

If it does come up, people are less likely to recall them. Random passersby are less distinct than Hogwarts students, after all. They’ll have to take measures with Harry, too, for it to matter. “That works for me,” says Argo. “You’ve got the patronus charm down?”

Daphne nods. She manages it last month, Argo remembers, but she keeps diligently practicing it so it should be fairly reliable now. “Susan too. And I already told her and Harry when we’re leaving.”

“Good,” says Argo. “Saturday, then.”

With a confident nod and a grateful smile, Daphne retreats from the room.

Saturday. Then they’re going to break into the Murk. This has got to be the stupidest thing Argo has ever done. He’ll have to double-check his pocket supplies. Can’t afford to go in ill-prepared, can he?

Two days of rigorous preparation and tense anticipation later, the four members of the DA Circle meet at breakfast. They all sit together at the Slytherin table, with Daphne, and with icy glares she dares any of her housemates to say something about Harry Potter of all Gryffindors and a Hufflepuff at their table.

(No one does. While it’s false to say that Slytherin as a whole likes Harry, the animosity that Malfoy exemplars in their early years is largely gone. Mostly due to the fact that Harry teaches a lot of them Defense, and more importantly that he’s demonstrated that he’s willing to work with them on equal terms, most notably with Daphne but also even just how respectful he is, generally, when he works with them in the DA.)

Surrounded by the other students, they naturally don’t mention today’s plans, but they share looks, Argo encourages Harry to eat a little more, Susan nudges Daphne reassuringly, and Harry whispers Charms advice to Astoria just next to them.

Then, when they are fed and watered and ready to depart, the four of them rise as one and walk to the floo the students are supposed to use to get to leave the grounds and come back. It is monitored by the teachers, of course, but given it’s a weekend and they’re all N.E.W.T. students, popping down to Diagon Alley for the day is perfectly within the rules.

Susan and Harry initially want to be more covert about it, since they know they’re going someplace they aren’t meant to be, but Argo and Daphne convince them that hiding in plain sight is better. Just pretend that they’re going on a normal outing, or even justify it as a club Circle thing. A research trip, going to Flourish and Blotts for Defense books, or something, then a stop for ice cream at Fortescue’s.

Since they aren’t doing anything wrong, there’s nothing suspicious.

They floo to the Leaky Cauldron, thank Tom the barman for letting them through, and head out into Diagon Alley.

Heads tall and strides purposeful, the group ducks into a corner, tosses Harry’s invisibility cloak over him, just in case, then proceeds down to break off into Knockturn Alley.

The street is fairly quiet. A nasty looking witch gives them the stink-eye, but shuffles along. Argo grabs Daphne’s hand, allows Susan and invisible Harry to grab his other arm, and disapparates from that dingy alley where no one will care, if they even notice.

The group lands hard. Argo doubles over, but he’s still a sight better than Susan and Harry, both immediately dashing off to wretch in the closest bush.

Daphne is easily in the best state of them, but she’s still green and doesn’t dare speak.

“I hate apparition,” Argo groans.

“Couldn’t you have warned us?” Susan moans through the bile in her mouth.

“You try it with three tagalongs,” Argo counters weakly. “I’ve only ever brought Rolf before. That was harder than I thought it would be.”

“Are you going to be able to get us back?” asks Daphne.

Argo winces. “Can’t promise it’ll be any smoother, but I’ll be fine. Speaking of: is everyone alright? Got all your bits? You’re intact enough to whine, so I assume no one got splinched. Harry?”

“I’m in one piece,” Harry responds piteously from the bush.

“Great,” says Argo. He shakes the nausea away and straightens up.

They stand in the shadow of an old white brick church. The brick is strong, but overgrowth creeps up the sides and moss stains the lower parts green. Thick plants tangle up their feet, overgrown and uncared for. The gate, tall iron, is locked behind them.

They’re in muggle London, but this church is in disrepair. There are actually wards to keep the muggles away, put in place after the Murk – that is, the actual phenomenon – expands out of the magical portion of the catacombs beneath and overtakes the muggle side as well. The Ministry can’t let innocent muggles accidentally wander in there, and the best way to do that is to just close it off entirely.

Argo knows from those reports that the catacombs should be in two sections. The magical side of the catacombs, and what is formerly the muggle side before the Murk overtakes it. They’ll have to navigate the muggle side and find the magical part before they can even hope to start looking for anything of significance in there.

And that, the navigation, that is, is naturally Argo’s job. He even has to come all the way out here by conventional means months ago to prepare so that he knows where to apparate to.

Argo can’t say he’s looking forward to navigating a catacomb famous for its pitch-dark murk, but he also feels better doing it himself than relying on anyone else to guide him.

Daphne leads them all around the side of the church building to what might’ve been a garden in better days. Just past the bend, the same white bricks of the church begin to extend down into the earth, carving out a narrow ramp that the four of them march down.

When they’re deep enough they can no longer see above the wall, they finally reach the large, boarded up, old wooden doors.

“Susan,” says Daphne.

“Yeah,” Susan answers. “I’ve got it.”

The other three stand back to let her work.

Susan, examining for the first time what she’s dealing with, what she needs to dismantle to get through this door, whistles lowly. “Someone really doesn’t want anyone getting in.”

“Or getting out,” adds Argo helpfully.

“This thing is locked up tighter than the Ministry,” Susan says. “I don’t think even my Aunt’s office has as protections like this.”

Daphne wrings her hands. Her eyes are fixed on the door, as if seeing beyond it. “Can you get past it?”

“Course I can,” Susan says with a small huff, as if it’s offensive to even consider she might be stumped. “But it’s extremely layered, and a lot of these layers are extremely complex. It’ll take a while.”

“Right,” says Argo. “In that case, can you work and eat? I’ve got some light snacks with me. Susan, you and Harry threw up your breakfast, right? You should get something in you.”

“Good idea,” Daphne says. “And Argo, are you ready to figure out what the Murk actually is?”

“Unfortunately, there’s not much to prepare,” Argo says. “I’m ready whenever Susan gets past the door. In the meantime, while Susan works, we should try to meditate. Calm our nerves. Going in tense isn’t going to help anyone.”

Daphne, coiled tight like she’s going to spring, slowly untenses. “Yes. You’re right. I’ll do that, too.”

Argo smiles gently at her, digs some snacks out of his expanded pocket to distribute to Harry and Susan, and then joins Daphne in sitting, back to the wall, and closes his eyes.

Deep breaths. Argo always feels that double-heartbeat that is such a comfort to him

Argo can’t say how long it takes. They all sit there waiting, doing all they can to make the wait a calming one rather than a tense, anticipating one, until eventually Susan shouts, “Got it!”

Daphne is on her feet in an instant. With a shared look, Argo and Harry rise at a more sedate pace to join her at Susan’s back.

“Okay,” says Daphne. “Now, according to the reports, the Murk should extend all the way up to this door.”

“There are wards to keep the door itself practically airtight,” Susan says. “I didn’t tamper with those, just the ones that would stop us from opening it.”

“So,” Harry hums, “when we open these, the Murk will be there?”

“Most likely,” says Daphne. “That means it’s Argo’s turn, and some more waiting for us.”

“Great,” says Harry.

Argo shakes out his muscles, tight from sitting still for so long. His time to shine, huh? Since they don’t know what the Murk is, they deem it too dangerous to just dive into it. So, it’s Argo’s job to identify it. Or, at least determine whether it’s safe to even stand inside, and what might be necessary to go in it anyway.

“Ready?” Susan asks.

Argo double-checks that Daphne and Harry are well up the ramp, then nods.

Susan slowly opens the door.

The slow creak is agonizing, but Argo is watching sharply for any hint of the infamous Murk. The moment he sees it, a strange back cloud starting to spill from the crack, he traps some of it in a bubble ward and nods to Susan to shut the door safely once more.

Just in case. If it’s caustic or something, they don’t want it spreading down here where they’re standing until they figure out how to deal with it.

Argo takes his bubble with the dark substance within and starts poking at it, examining it closely from every angle.

The first thought in seeing that black… stuff is something like smoke, but doesn’t behave exactly like smoke. It’s definitely carried on the air, whatever it is, but it’s sort of… fibrous, like raw cotton pulled apart. Filaments make webs of more opaque blackness within the miasma that string menacingly through it.

Everyone takes a moment to gawk at the stuff, but ultimately they settle in for another wait.

“Fucking hell!”

Argo’s scream startles all three to their feet, already rushing in to help however they can – but the bubble is still contained, the sun is still bright overhead… nothing seems amiss except for Argo looking white as a ghost with his back pressed flat against the brick and Jason, feeling Argo’s distress, poking his head out of his robes to chitter softly.

“What?” demands Daphne. “What is it?”

Argo’s breath comes short, uneven. It sputters and stops. Harry worries he’s going to pass out. He rushes forward to his brother to put his hand on his shoulder, not knowing how else to comfort him.

“I- I- I can’t. Daphne, I can’t- I’m not- I won’t-”

What? What in the world can possibly do this to him? The girls share a nervous look, but Harry feels his own breath quicken. “Argo,” he tries slowly. “Argo, what is it?”

Argo flinches violently. “It’s a reproductive cloud.”

All three of them blink. “A what?” asks Susan, already reeling back.

“A reproductive cloud,” Argo answers, as if that explains his great distress. “Daphne, we can’t go in there. Please, I know you’re counting on this, but we can’t.”

“Argo,” Harry says firmly, squeezing his shoulders to hopefully ground him a little. Argo’s eyes keep darting around, to the bubble like it’ll come alive and attack them, to Daphne, true panicked pleading on his face, to past them all like he’s looking for an escape. “Argo you haven’t told us what’s in there.”

“It’s lethifolds!”

Finally getting a reaction other than concern from any of the others, Susan turns almost as white as Argo is. “No,” she says. “That doesn’t make sense. How would a lethifold get here?”

Seeing an opportunity, Harry carefully turns Argo so he’s not looking at the bubble, or at the door. He makes sure it’s only him and Daphne and Susan that Argo can see when he asks, “You’ve mentioned lethifolds before. You said they’re the only creatures you’re scared of. But I don’t know anything about them.”

“I don’t know much either,” Daphne admits. “They don’t live in Britain, so I’ve never had to worry about meeting one.”

Argo shuts his eyes tight, taking long breaths. “Lethifolds,” he says, “are native to tropical regions. They’re known as Living Shrouds because they’re membranous creatures that can look like cloaks. Black, roughly half an inch thick max, but we don’t know how big they can actually get. They like to hunt humans. Most often they attack at night while you’re sleeping, but… being awake won’t help you if it catches you. It wraps you up and suffocates you in its body, then slowly digests you.”

That’s horrific. Harry’s stomach churns at the thought.

“The only known defense is the patronus charm,” Argo continues as if he’s reading a script, not really paying attention to his words, just reciting the information he knows by heart. “It’s resistant to other forms of spells. That’s… that’s literally all we know. No one’s ever gotten close enough to a lethifold and lived who wasn’t running away screaming. No one’s ever studied them.”

“Even your grandfather?” Daphne asks.

“He thought they were too dangerous,” Argo says, hugging himself. “There is no way to study them safely, so he never managed to learn any more than the native people in those areas know. They knew that black clouds like this Murk show up where lethifolds do, but that’s it.” Argo’s chest heaves. Talking seems to calm him down, but he’s still gasping for his breath. “I- I thought it sounded similar, but I never thought someone would be stupid enough to transport a lethifold here!”

“And the Murk,” Harry says, trying to keep Argo talking more than he really wants to know. “You said it has something to do with their reproduction?”

Argo nods. He still has his eyes screwed shut and his head down, but he nods. “It’s not an uncommon method of reproduction,” he says. “They release clouds of sperm and eggs into the environment.”

The other three twist their noses in disgust, realizing with sudden clarity that they have to walk through it.

“It’s more common in animals in the water, where those clouds will remain suspended more easily or be carried by the current. A lot of plants do it on land though, relying on the wind.”

“Is it safe?” asks Daphne.

“There are lethifolds in there!”

“I mean the cloud,” Daphne says quickly. “Is the cloud safe?”

Argo shakes his head helplessly. “I mean- the… It’s not toxic, if that’s what you mean. It’s never a great idea to inhale particulates, but…”

“Could it…” Susan says slowly, with morbid curiosity. “Could we… breathe one in? Would it… hatch inside of us?”

Ew. Harry’s stomach turns in protest.

Argo just stammers, trying to find an answer. “I- I… There- there is precedent for creatures using other creatures to incubate their eggs. It’d be easy to inhale some carried by all the moisture in the air where they live in the tropics, and we’d be a ready food source for the newly-hatched young. I- I can’t say it’s impossible…”

“Wait, really?” Harry gasps.

“I don’t know!” Argo shouts. “Lethifolds aren’t well studied! All I have are educated guesses. Even that this cloud is how they fertilize eggs is new information!”

He grabs at his hair. “I don’t think that should happen?” he says. “There aren’t reports of people dying from a lethifold consuming them from the inside, but… but most lethifold victims are assumed. People just disappear. It’s rare that there’s a witness to report an attack.”

“And how would you go about safely getting in there?” asks Harry.

“I don’t,” Argo snaps. “These are lethifolds. Safe doesn’t exist! We have to seal that door tighter than ever before and find another option.”

Daphne would protest, but she struggles to find any words at all. She’s never seen Argo like this before. None of them have. Argo is always so confident and assured. He always knows what’s going on – even often when he shouldn’t. None of them can imagine him losing his composure like this.

The sight of him falling apart strings up their lungs, hanging them from a tightrope.

Still, Harry grasps Argo firmly. Still, he ensures that Argo’s sight is filled with him and their friends and Jason and not what frightens him so. “Humor me,” Harry says, trying his best to leave no argument in his tone. It’s an order, not a request. But he doesn’t want it to sound harsh, either. “What would you do to make sure you survive?”

Jason crawls out completely. Harry reaches over to let Jason perch on his hands as he reaches up to Argo and eventually climbs up onto his shoulder to nuzzle into his neck.

Argo’s eyes are somewhere else, searching a story Harry cannot see.

“I-I’d,” Argo starts, “uh… The Patronus Charm can keep a lethifold away. With the low visibility, you’d need to keep it active nearly the entire time you’re inside else you’d just get caught off guard.

“The Murk itself isn’t toxic. It shouldn’t hurt, but I’d still use a spell to purge your lungs once you leave.”

“Do you know that spell?” Harry asks calmly.

“I do,” Argo admits.

“Okay.” Daphne recovers enough to chime in, already all furrowed brows and hard thinking. “Harry’s the only one of us with the raw power to maintain a patronus for longer than an hour or so – that’s assuming we don’t have to do any other magic at all, which I’m not counting on. Conveniently, he’s also the best with his patronus. And as long as we remember to have Argo clean our lungs at the end, there’s nothing to fear from the Murk itself.”

“Probably,” stresses Argo.

“I trust your analysis,” she says simply. “We’ll take turns with the patronus. Save our strength for whatever else we might find. But Argo, you’re navigating, and Susan, I need you ready to get past any security, so you two will be taking fewer shifts than Harry and me.”

“The patronus is light, too,” says Susan. “Maybe it’ll help us see down there?”

“Hard to say,” says Argo, voice thin. “There’s a chance the cloud will react to a patronus and clear away a little.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Harry says.

“Like hell,” says Argo.

“Please, Argo,” Daphne begs, grabbing his hand carefully. “We can’t do this without you.”

“I can’t do this at all,” he whines back.

“I know you’re scared,” Harry whispers gently, “but you can do it. I know you can. You’re-”

“I’m not a Gryffindor, Harry,” Argo bites. “I can’t just get over it.”

Harry’s gaze falls. On some level… he does expect Argo to just recover like that. Argo doesn’t lose control like this. Argo isn’t afraid of anything. Even when a basilisk is attacking people in the school, Argo never so much as twitches. Even when what people think is a convicted murderer breaks into the school, Argo goes out of his way to confront the man without a shred of hesitation.

It doesn’t make sense to Harry that something like this – anything at all, really – can freeze Argo in his tracks, but… Argo’s right, too. He’s not a Gryffindor. Maybe there’s a reason for that.

(Realizing that he’s not infallible, that he really does have fears, too… it makes what Shiloh tells Harry so much more real. It makes it almost believable.)

“We’ll all be there with you,” Harry says. “We’ll protect each other. We’ve been practicing the Patronus Charm since we planned this trip. And we have a plan. This can work, can’t it?”

Argo bites his lip. He very desperately wants to deny it. To espouse the futility of it, because if it’s impossible, it’s a reason to give up. And there is no other reason that Daphne will accept. She might not even accept that.

But the truth is, when he thinks of it beyond his own terror, they are about as prepared for this as they possibly can be. Between the four of them and their unique skills, if they can’t breach the Murk, then no one can.

But Argo really, really doesn’t want to go down there.

“Argo,” says Daphne quietly. “My little sister is counting on us.”

Argo grits his teeth. Fuck. She has to say it. Because what else can he do when someone needs his help?

Jason paws at his cheek. Argo sighs, then grabs him to look him in the eyes and rub his little furry face. And Jason seems concerned, but determined. You know what to do, he says without saying.

Argo does know. And it sucks. “Fine.” He closes his eyes. Swallows hard. Everything is fragile on a knife’s edge. “Fine. I’m in.”

Daphne throws her arms around him. Her voice quiet in his ear… surprisingly sets his heart a little closer to peace. “Thank you.”

“Right,” he mutters awkwardly. “Is everyone ready? Let’s go before I grow sense.”

“Yes.” Daphne claps her hands sharply, turning to face the door once more. “I’ll take first shift with the patronus. Argo, we’re counting on you for navigation. That means Harry, Susan, you’re defense if we run into anything.”

“Got it.” Harry nods, then gets another confirming nod from Susan, who returns to the door to grasp the old iron handle once more.

She asks, “Good to go?”

Daphne gives her the signal. There is no tentative peeking, this time, no carefully letting the Murk out through a crack. This time, Susan flings open the door entirely, baring the entranceway to the bright day. Daphne immediately points her wand towards the opening and incants, “Expecto Patronum.”

The familiar silvery, wispy figure bursts forth from her wand to bounce towards the Murk, which just as Argo predicts shrinks away from it as if the little light hedgehog is pushing out strong winds from its body, blowing the threads of the Murk back.

After just a moment, during which all four teenagers swallow thickly, anticipating what is to come, Daphne says. “Well… shall we?”

She and Susan move for the door and the patronus waiting there for them. They take the first steps into the stringy, inky blackness of the Murk that any human takes in probably more than five hundred years.

But Argo stays rooted in place. His breath comes uneven. His wand hand trembles fiercely along with the rest of him. Harry puts a hand on his broad back. Finally, when the girls pause to look back, unwilling to get too deep and risk separating from the boys, Argo takes his first step.

Backwards.

Harry presses a little more firmly on his back. Argo being twice his size and probably three times as strong, there’s not much Harry can really do to force the issue, but Argo doesn’t resist, either. As Harry pushes, those feet which at first retreat slowly stumble forward.

Towards the door. Towards the Murk. They step inside together, joining the girls around their little campfire of light and happiness – the hedgehog patronus – and all at once, the four of them, turn their gazes into the crypt.

None of them, especially Argo, are eager about what comes next, but there’s no way to know the layout of this place. There’s a chance they can walk right past something devastatingly dangerous like a lethifold, or it might take an alternate route and manage to sneak up behind them, and they can’t risk something like that getting out in muggle London.

The creaking door swings shut, closing behind them with a firm bang.

For a long time, all there is is the pale silvery light of Daphne’s patronus, the encroaching shadows, and their own breath in their ears. They slowly creep down a long, long hallway lined with coffins. It’s narrow, so narrow that even in the Murk they can just about see the closest edges of the coffins on either side of them, and a few feet, if they’re lucky, of brick ahead of them.

Harry pulls at his collar. Argo periodically trails a hand along the brick, and definitely moves about the most. While Daphne takes the lead of the group, and Harry guards the rear, Argo switches almost manically with Susan, taking the right, then the left side of the passageway, then forcing everyone to stop for a moment by freezing to stare at something none of the rest of them see, then switching sides with Susan yet again.

But when they come to their first branching path, an intersection leaving them three unexplored directions to try (not including the one they come from, of course), Argo doesn’t hesitate to steer Daphne to the left.

The others are left a little in awe. Harry especially, because while he knows Argo is good at tracking and analysis, and he sees the Tracking Spell in action quite a bit by now, that’s a quite different thing altogether from what Argo does here.

None of them, really, ever witness a wizard, even Argo, explore like this. They move slowly, at Argo’s erratic pace, sometimes worrying that they might need to give him a push onward given his continued uncharacteristic trembling and shaky breath, but none of them find it in themselves to press when Argo looks, and touches, and stops just to turn slowly around, because they do not know what he is seeing, but they know and trust that he is doing what he is asked to do down here. Navigate, find the magical side of the crypt, don’t get lost.

They don’t ask how he knows to turn left here or right there. They don’t dare ask what catches his attention when he stops by a smashed coffin and just stares for a while.

Harry in particular never before sees a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and touching; but they all know quite well that bangs and smoke are more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise.

And they ask Argo to navigate precisely because he has expertise in spades.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t set their nerves on edge when he starts muttering. Nothing important (they hope?) and seemingly nothing to do with what he’s so intently focused on, sensing the magic around them and finding their way. But something filled with a lot of technical jargon that Harry thinks might be a species account of the lethifold.

He wonders if Argo is quoting something he reads before, or if he’s mentally drafting something he’s going to write.

Harry wants to shush him. Maybe cover his mouth to shut him up real fast. But Argo… isn’t a Gryffindor. He’s not like Ron, even when Ron was so much younger, going through the Forbidden Forest following the spiders, who takes facing his worst fear with just a little bit of complaining and resigned acceptance.

And isn’t it so Ravenclaw of him to find his comfort in listing all the knowledge he has? (Doesn’t Harry take advantage of exactly that to calm him down just outside the entrance to this crypt?)

So, even though the muttering only makes the tense dank more imposing, none of the others say a word about it. So long as Argo does his job and does it well, they won’t interrupt.

He shuts up right quick when they hear shuffling, though. Harry almost misses it over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, but there’s a faint, tell-tale drag of something nearby on the dusty floor.

Despite what must be a painful slamming of his jaw shut and needing to stop what he’s doing to pay closer attention for the noise, Argo is still first on the draw. Everyone grips their wands tighter, staring down the black, black path, when suddenly Argo’s wand flashes over their heads and fire erupts from the end, streaming well into the Murk for several seconds before it peters out and a thump indicates whatever his spell hits falls to the floor.

None of them are particularly surprised to find the charred remains a few steps later. Susan sucks in a breath. “Inferi.”

“We assumed they’d be down here.” Daphne purses her lips. “No way that’s the only one.”

“We’re not in the magical side, yet, are we?” Harry asks.

“Not formally,” answers Argo. “But those wards failed a long time ago. It’s not neatly separated anymore. Anything lurking down there that wanders enough can find its way up here.”

They all hesitate. “Let me take over the patronus,” says Susan, breaking the tension they feel standing over the charred corpse.

Daphne doesn’t argue. She waits for Susan to conjure her beautiful leopard patronus then gratefully relaxes her own magic, ending the spell and allowing her to rest some.

Daphne still leads the way, though. It’s like, because they’re on this expedition for her, she decides that she has to be the one out front. To lead them. Protect them, if necessary.

Argo trails behind her. They all stay in the same formation even though Susan is on patronus duty for now. He continues his exploration, examining every stone carefully, feeling and looking where no one else sees anything. After two more branching paths, finally the architecture changes. Rather than the brick archways and walls hollowed for coffins stacked on shelves, large, smooth stone spreads out before them interrupted only by tiny cells and intimidating iron bars. Cobwebs, already a problem in the muggle part of the crypt, nearly make the hall white through the black Murk.

“There aren’t-” Harry halts suddenly, seeing the thick cobwebs, “acromantulas down here, are there?”

“Ordinarily, I’d say no,” Argo murmurs. “They’re from the rainforest environments in southeast Asia. They can live a long time, but in an environment… is it hot in here, do you think? Shouldn’t it be cool underground?”

Now that he mentions it… Harry tugs again at his collar, only realizing then that he’s doing so. It’s unreasonably warm in here, like he’s sitting next to the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room rather than exploring an underground crypt.

“It’s humid, too,” Susan whispers. “Environmental wards? Not here, I don’t think, but deeper in there.”

“If there’s something like that, it should be localized,” says Daphne.

“Not if they’re rudimentary – we’ve no idea how old they are. And they might not be wards at all but simply charms to affect the environment of these tunnels. And we already know some of the wards here failed at one point, too, so…”

“Mimicking the environment of a tropical rainforest,” says Argo. “Which means acromantulas might live okay down here. It’s likely for the lethifold though – they had to have imported it. Merlin, I don’t want to know how. But I hope there are measures to the keep the bodies down here preserved. Or… actually, I hope there aren’t. Should be only bones left at this point.”

Daphne burns through the cobwebs and leads the way into the tunnel.

Argo grabs her robes and yanks her back.

Her yelp echoes through the tunnel, but is cut off immediately by grinding stone, then very quickly, a large square of the ceiling just over where Daphne was slams down, shaking the earth beneath their feet with the deafening impact as it strikes the ground.

She swallows thickly, wipes her clammy hands on her trousers, and whispers, “Thanks.”

Argo takes a few moments, just breathing quite heavily, before he lets her out of his arms.

Slowly, the protrusion from the ceiling retreats, sinking right back into place seamlessly, leaving no sign of the near-death experience via crushing trap except for some torn, floating bits of spiderweb the sudden movement detaches from the rest of the mass.

Susan gulps. “That’s only the start, isn’t it?”

Argo lets out a shuddering breath. “Wait until you hear about all the traps we’ve already avoided.”

“What?” asks Harry. “But there shouldn’t have been any in the muggle section, right?”

Argo’s grim expression tells all.

“Who could have set those up? They couldn’t have been there before the wards failed. Could they?”

“Who can say?” says Argo. “Probably not. Some of them are pretty difficult to trigger, some only trigger for magicals, but… it would have been pretty deadly for no-majs all the same. You think they still used this place after the wards failed?”

“No way.” Daphne shakes her head. “The wards failed well after wizarding Britain started using Azkaban for everything. There’s a whole thing about it if you look into the Ministry’s records on the place. They’d left it alone for a long time, then had to put all that security on the outer door because the wards in here failed, then it’s left alone again.”

They’re all left with a sinking feeling in their guts, wondering about just who sets up all these traps in the first place.

Then Daphne steps forward once more, noticeably less sure this time, but Argo directs her from just behind, and Susan and Harry take special care to follow them exactly, down to their footprints overlapping.

They creep forward this way until they reach another intersection. Argo stops them in a group, kneels down, and squints through the Murk, trying to ignore the crawling shadows the silvery light of the patronus casts through it.

Harry gently touches Susan’s shoulder. Remembering that they’ll need her for any tight security, and the several more traps Argo guides them around in that hallway alone, he offers to take over patronus duty.

“Fucking hell – Run!” Argo’s shout makes all of them jump. Argo pushes them down the closest path. Harry looks back over his shoulder, but only barely makes out a shadow that might be moving, or it might just be the movement of the patronus itself. “Expecto Patronum!”

Argo’s shout leaves only faint wisps uselessly drifting from his wand, but Harry jumps in before any of them can think about what that means. “Expecto Patronum!” he shouts in turn. His enormous stag fills half the tunnel when it appears mid-charge behind them.

(With the light now attacking what has Argo running like a bat out of hell, Harry still can’t make out much, but he hears enough today to know that the flowing black walls down the other branch of the tunnel can only be one thing. A lethifold. One big enough to cover the walls and veiling of the tunnel completely.)

“Duck!”

The four of them drop, not questioning the order in their mad dash away from the lethifold. Something whistles through the air just over their heads – Harry feels the wind of it rustle his hair – but thankfully no one loses their heads from the axe that sinks almost dejectedly back into the wall.

“Long jump!”

Oh, great.

The four of them leap. The ground is unmarked, no trace of anything they may need to jump over, but they leap anyway, desperately covering as much distance as they can. Only when they land, and Harry has to grabs Daphne to stabilize her after her foot slips, does the past several feet of earth crumble away to reveal the deadly spikes below.

Harry and Daphne share a look, then look back at the spikes, at the bones at the bottom of the pit – definitely two people, maybe even a third.

They’d collapse right there if Susan doesn’t throw her patronus right past them and make them realize the lethifold is still advancing. The tunnel behind them is nothing but black, even when the patronus bounds in there. It creeps closer to them, not fast-moving but quick enough to force them to run to outpace it.

It only just overtakes the far edge of the pit when the four of them hear shuffling footsteps from the other direction. A lot more than just one.

Every one of them stops breathing for a moment. In the silvery light, through the sinewy Murk, an inferus shambles into view. Then another. And another. A whole horde of corpses, mostly rotten but (they only realize later) thankfully not stinking, completely cut off their passage. The lethifold and the pit on the other side effectively eliminates their only other route.

“Guys…?” Argo’s voice is tight, high, more a whine than anything else.

“Harry, keep the lethifold off us!” Daphne shouts.

Harry scrambles to do so. He already has his patronus between them and the beast, but all that seems to do is slow it down. When his patronus attacks the thing, it retreats like a dementor would, but its so large that it just keeps crawling forward along another surface. When one wall is pushed back, the other creeps closer, when the ceiling is pushed back, it gets nearly past the pit.

As he struggles with that, Daphne jumps between Argo and the inferi horde. A great slash of her wand has a whip of flames shooting out like a solar flare, nearly molten as it overtakes the whole breadth of the hallway. Another flick and a pillar of fire rises straight up the center, from floor to ceiling.

Daphne shouts, “Move!” and Susan grabs Argo, nearly frozen, and Harry, still concentrating on throwing his patronus around, and, with a boy in each hand, firmly sets her back to Daphne’s.

Like she’s pushing a boulder uphill, Daphne roars, slowly marching down the hall, pushing her pillar of flame back through the inferi to clear the path for them.

They stumble, tripping over charred limbs and burnt faces, but none of the four dare look down at their feet. They just pick their boots up a little higher and advance carefully so as not to slip.

“Clear!” Daphne yells when they’re finally past the end of the inferi horde. “Run!”

All four of them take off down the tunnel. Argo puts up a shield around the next bend which catches some sort of curse they trigger accidentally, and his wand, seemingly without his input, spits out a poisonous-looking purple curse that intercepts another halfway down the next hallway, another turn to the left, then squeeze through some tightly-packed barrels, and the four of them round the next corner only to come up short.

“A dead end?” Daphne asks. She clutches at her robes, pulling them tight around her.

“Expecto Patronum!” Harry cries. His stag blasts right through the old barrels, spilling an unidentifiable liquid everywhere, to once more attack the creeping shadow that’s still on their tails. “Guys, we haven’t lost the lethifold!”

“There’s nowhere to go!” Susan shouts, her voice now truly panicked. Even as she pounds her fist on the bare stone wall ahead of them, she loses hope.

“No,” Argo says, “it’s the right way! Back up!”

Susan leaps back in a moment, like the wall might be another lethifold.

“Defodio!”

The passageway, pure stone a moment before, is carved open. The rock crumbles and fragments, tearing itself to pieces in a perfect tube, but everyone who is watching (not Harry, who is still fighting the lethifold) gasps when Argo’s spell only needs to clear out a couple feet of stone, because the tunnel continues on just past the wall.

“Go!” bellows Daphne. “Now!”

“Bubblehead charms, everyone! There’s poison gas!”

As they charge through, Argo is proven right. A faint mist, nearly invisible in the already low visibility of the black Murk, slowly fills the next passage.

“Expecto Patronum!” Argo’s voice comes out in a panicked whine. “Damn it!”

Harry physically grabs him, even as they run, forcing him to point his wand forward rather than back. “I’ve got you, Argo! I’ll handle it! Focus on the traps!”

Even if he says that, Harry isn’t totally sure he can follow through. This lethifold is determined. (They’re probably the first decent meal it ever finds down here. What else does it eat? Rats and spiders?)

They round the next corner, then almost immediately throw themselves sideways after Argo through a crumbling part of the wall. All collapsed in the dirt, Susan throws up some hasty spells, then, after a long moment, drops her head back to just lay there on the ground and breathe.

It’s still tense for several long, dark minutes. Then, finally, “Did we lose it?”

“I think so.” Susan coughs. From the dust, the poison gas her bubblehead charm hopefully protects her from, or just purely from the sprint and burning lungs, no one can say. It doesn’t sound good, though. “I put up some charms that should hide us. Hopefully. We should be safe for the moment.”

“Then catch your breath,” says Daphne, herself panting. “Argo?”

“I can feel it,” he says quietly. “This place is way bigger than the old prison.” Everyone follows his eyes into the rough cave they shelter within. The crumbling stone wall they pass through leads back to the prison, but in the other direction, in the pale light through the ever-present Murk, what looks like a natural cave slopes down.

Wet heat surrounds them. It makes their clothes stick uncomfortably to their skin. Their hair plasters down against their heads from their sweat. They wipe their faces with dirty sleeves.

“There’s something powerful in here.” Argo’s voice wavers.

“More importantly,” says Susan, “Accio Ethelred’s spellbook.”

“That’s not going to work.”

“Point Me Ethelred’s spellbook.” But Susan’s wand doesn’t so much as twitch to show her the way. She sighs. “Worth a try. How are we supposed to find it, if it even exists?”

“Point,” says Daphne carefully. “Where exactly are you leading us, anyway, Argo? You sense something, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?” Argo lifts his brow, meeting her eyes only.

Daphne gulps. She does. Somewhere in here, down in the deep dark…

Harry gasps. “It’s… dense?”

“A concentration of magic,” says Argo. “Like what might happen if, say, a large collection of powerful magical artefacts are gathered into one place. Older wizarding homes often feel the same way for the same reason.”

“I didn’t see much on the way,” says Susan. “Though I was a bit distracted. You think someone, or something… already gathered anything of interest down here?”

Argo’s expression is tight when he says, “At least it makes finding it easy.”

“Let’s keep moving.” Daphne straightens, dusting herself off. “We shouldn’t test our luck. I’ll take over patronus duty.” Argo ducks his head. “Argo?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It should be my turn.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re already doing more than your fair share.”

Argo’s fingers curl tightly into shaking fists. “I know the spell. I can do the spell. I spent so long studying it; learned it… for this. But when it matters, I-”

Harry hugs him. Argo’s breath falters a moment, for a while it’s like he doesn’t know what to do, but then he grabs tight to Harry and doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry.” A sniff. “This isn’t the time.”

“It’s okay,” says Harry gently. He knows how much time and effort Argo puts into learning the Patronus Charm. He studies the thing from before he even has a wand all so that the next time he encounters a lethifold…

Argo has no problem at all with the Patronus Charm. He’s the very first of them to master it. He uses it all the way back in third year to defend Harry and the other players during that quidditch game the dementors attacked.

But when he sees the lethifold… it doesn’t work. Harry’s gut flips. “It’s okay,” he repeats. “We’ll protect you.”

Argo is so big Harry can’t even completely wrap his arms around him, but he shakes like a leaf in Harry’s hold. Somehow, he still feels small.

Large hands ball up in Harry’s robes, then slowly push him away. “I’m alright.” Argo’s teeth grind, but his hazel eyes fix deeper into the cave. “We need to keep moving.”

Even though he’s obviously anything but alright, none of the others can argue that staying here any longer is a good idea.

Deep breaths. They follow Daphne’s hedgehog patronus down the sloping path.

If they risk getting lost in the crypt or the jail, the cave is another beast entirely. It winds and branches with no obvious structure. Some offshoots appear manmade, the same clean cuts that Argo’s Gouging Spell creates, but many more are natural, just a cavernous labyrinth beneath London.

It actually reminds Harry of the third task. Fleur at one point offers the idea of making them go treasure hunting in caves, and the traps that Argo guides them around and Harry being helplessly lost in the maze are eerily reminiscent of the actual maze task.

Hell, even the acromantulas. They find a couple as they walk, but thankfully no swarm, yet, so the four of them together have little trouble handling them.

Harry bites his lip. He knows that the tasks in the Triwizard Tournament are designed to kill him, that’s clear from the moment his name is pulled from the cup, before they even have any idea what the first task is. But it really drives home just how bad it all was when exploring an old jail meant to execute dark wizards is functionally identical to one of the tasks.

Even down to exploring it with three others who are so much stronger than him…

“Wait,” Argo says, stopping them on the edge of a perilous drop. His eyes are turned upwards rather than ahead. “Daphne… let it go dark for a moment.”

“Are you serious?”

“Just a moment. Trust me.”

Daphne frowns, but reluctantly stops the spell. Her patronus vanishes, and the cave goes pitch-dark.

Unable to see a thing, no one dares move. There is no light this deep, none at all, so even the faint shadows are-

Wait. What?

The three of them squint into the darkness, trying to make sense of the faint, faint light peeking through the fibrous Murk.

And then, slowly as their eyes adjust to the dark, the light takes shape. Like stars in the night sky, dots of blue-green light fill the cave ceiling, glittering off of hanging strings that nearly echo the look of the Murk itself.

Three soft gasps echo at once.

“Glowworms.” Argo’s voice is so quiet, like any more will startle them.

“What kind of magic…”

“Bioluminescence, actually,” Argo says. “It’s not magic. It’s a chemical reaction. But isn’t it beautiful?”

So, there’s something so breathtaking even here?

“They were probably brought here for potions,” says Argo. “Very useful, if you know what you’re doing. A dark wizard could have gotten some, then lost them down here. But these kinds are normally endemic to Australia and New Zealand.”

“Argo…” Daphne’s voice is thick. “Thanks. This was worth stopping to see.”

“…Yeah. Let’s keep going.”

It takes a lot of effort to tear their eyes away from the sight, but once Daphne conjures her patronus once more, the bright silvery light of it makes the glow of the starry worms above them nearly impossible to see. It fades once more into the Murk.

The four forge on.

Without being chased, they manage to avoid most of the traps before them. Argo or Susan dismantle them quickly, or Argo just takes them right past them without triggering them.

There are traps that will enlarge their heads, ones that’ll dismember them, ones that’ll tie them up helplessly until that lethifold finds its way to them. More crushing traps, spikes, cutting curses and swinging weapons. Ones that’ll put them to sleep – again probably to feed the lethifold – ones that flip the cave upside down (Harry remembers that from the maze and shudders), and ones that call acromantulas or inferi down on them.

It's a delightful smorgasbord of terror that leaves every single one of them beyond glad that they manage to calm Argo enough to convince him to come along. Even as frazzled as he is, even with the buzzing in his ears and heart, he’s still the one that catches nearly every trap before they blunder into them.

And they look for them, too. Harry, Susan, and Daphne pay careful attention, but the traps are simply too well hidden. Aside from the occasional lucky one that they catch, they’re running blind. But Argo has some kind of preternatural sense for them, always knowing where the next one is in the gloom.

“The same one again,” Argo murmurs. They’re close, even the others can feel it. The treasure trove of magical artefacts (probably all very dark – they’re going to need Argo to dig through them safely, they think) is just ahead.

“What’s that?” asks Daphne.

“The traps,” he answers. “The same person set them all. The magic is the same.”

“The inferi as well?” asks Susan.

Argo shakes his head. “I can’t tell without looking closer.” None of them get too close to the bodies they find, even Argo. “Most likely.”

They step into a wider cavern with a high ceiling that vanishes into the Murk. A white glow ahead of them, near the back of the cavern, draws everyone’s eye.

Wands at the ready, they approach.

The glow lingers around a pedestal, unremarkable stone perfectly chiseled into a sharp-edged box. Past it, against the far wall, a vault door towers over them. No one needs to say aloud that their goal is inside there. On the pedestal however, is a small crystal casket. They gather around to peer inside the glass, then gasp in horror at what they see.

A heart, shrunken and shriveled, covered in long, black hair.

Slow clapping echoes through the cavern. As one, the four jump, twisting through the air to train their wands on the source of the unexpected sound.

“A wizard?” Harry breathes.

“A warlock,” says Susan.

The warlock, stepping confidently out of the Murk, smiles disarmingly at them. His dark hair is long, tied back simply with a scrap of cloth, and he wears little but threadbare trousers, but he is remarkably clean and well-kempt otherwise. He steps towards them, unbothered by the warm, rocky floor on his bare feet, and spreads his arms as if to show off his broad chest.

And the curved, jagged scar that runs down his sternum and across his pale abs.

“Well done.” The warlock’s voice is smooth and dark, and it strikes terror into their hearts. “I truly did not imagine that my first guests in centuries would so cleverly evade all my traps.” Despite his words, despite his smile, his dark eyes are dead, like there’s nothing behind them. “Magic must have advanced more than I had guessed. I suppose I’ll have to keep one of you alive to learn just how far it’s come.”

“Susan,” Daphne hisses quietly. “The heart.”

“Locked tight,” she whispers back. “I need time.”

“Now, now,” says the warlock, still advancing. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

As if on cue, from another tunnel into the large chamber, rippling black shadow spreads along the walls. Argo’s breath stops in his throat.

Daphne wastes not a single second. “Harry!”

“Expecto Patronum!”

“Do not let it close, Harry!”

Sinister, unbothered laughter fills the cavern. “So, you’ve mastered the Patronus Charm. Is that common these days, or are you four special?”

Daphne throws a curse at the warlock, but he doesn’t even bother to bat it away. It fizzles out when it hits him, accomplishing nothing. Argo follows up with a chain of his own attacks, but even a blasting curse doesn’t so much as scratch him. He just keeps walking that slow, sedate pace towards them, grinning without smiling.

“Susan, get that box open,” Daphne says. “Harry, focus on the lethifold. Argo-”

Argo’s whole body shudders, but as he takes aim at the warlock, the very tip of his wand does not waver. “I’m with you.”

Together, as one, Daphne and Argo thrust their wands forward, and the duel begins.

None of their damaging spells do anything against the warlock’s pale skin, but they learn fast that force spells can knock him about. Knockback jinxes and banishing charms become their bread and butter in trying to contain the warlock, and keep him from advancing.

But the warlock doesn’t just take that lying down. He raises his own wand to counterattack. Argo shields, but yelps under the sheer power of the warlock’s spell. It’s only thanks to him knowing that he doesn’t typically have the power to shield straight on that he angles his shield enough to deflect the attack, instead of it simply shattering his defense.

When he chooses to really attack them, though… their only saving grace is that the warlock thus far seems uninterested in bothering Harry’s efforts with the lethifold, or even Susan tinkering with the crystal casket. That his attention is entirely on Daphne and Argo means they don’t have to worry as much about defending their friends and can instead worry about themselves.

Even so. A pale green curse slips right past Argo’s shield, splashing over his shoulder. When nothing seems to happen, he roars, sending off another flurry of spells to hopefully give Daphne a little room to breathe.

The same pale curse strikes Daphne in the chest a minute later, but it only pisses her off. Her face contorts with rage as she summons a tower of flame to cook the warlock alive.

The warlock steps out of the flame with not a hair out of place, looking no different than when he first arrives. Argo tries to think. Magic doesn’t work on him. But maybe…

A cutting curse breaks through Argo’s shield and slices clean through his wand arm. He cries out, almost drops his wand, and then Daphne shouts as well. When he looks over, she’s clutching the same arm, in the same place, and her own blood trickles through her fingers.

Argo’s eyes go wide.

That curse. It doesn’t do anything alone, but it ties them together. No attack hits Daphne, but the cutting curse that hits Argo cuts her all the same.

Now, that is an interesting curse.

Daphne growls darkly. An eradication spell dissipates harmlessly on the warlock’s broad chest, then, fed up with her own futile efforts, Daphne turns her wand back on herself. She draws blood from her open wound, Argo winces and nearly topples over when his own blood begins flying out of him to join hers in an undulating ball in front of her.

The warlock’s eyes widen. Daphne smirks. “Finally got a reaction out of you, huh?” She screams, then, and with a violent slash of her wand, the blood gathered in front of her flows forward, taking the shape of a cutting blade that slashes into the warlock before he can react.

That’s blood magic. Not necessarily illegal, and some blood magic is even in common use like for identification by certain offices or some traditional binding magical contracts. But it is certainly dark, and a spell like this is something that will earn wary looks from families far darker than the Greengrasses.

But Argo doesn’t have to ask where she learns such a thing. The malediction they’re here looking for a cure for is in the blood, after all. Argo wonders just how deep Daphne dives thus far into blood magic like this.

But he has no time to think. He rushes forward. While Daphne uses their shared blood to attack head on, Argo darts in.

The blood magic actually does get through the warlock’s defenses. He looks like a particularly brutal murder victim, with an enormous gash opened up in his chest, stretching over his shoulder, and blood soaking half his form.

“Flagrante!” Daphne shouts. “Relashio!”

The warlock’s wand glows white-hot, and it’s enough of a distraction for Argo to finish closing the distance. He transforms into a great bear, figuring that if conventional magic doesn’t work, maybe claws and teeth will.

And even if they don’t, a five-hundred pound bear tackling him is something even the most powerful of warlocks is helpless to stop.

The warlock, laid out in a second, drops his wand. Argo doesn’t even notice. He’s on top of the warlock, biting and tearing at anything he can reach. He rears up, then comes down on heavy paws directly atop the warlock’s sternum. He feels the man beneath him break, feels the bone shatter under his mass.

The only thing that stops him from his single-minded decimation is Susan’s sudden cry. “Got it!”

He looks back. In the flashing light (the pedestal glows, but Harry’s patronus is brighter, and the shadows it casts as he fights the lethifold fling wildly this way and that as the patronus charges about the room), he sees Susan holding the withered, hairy heart.

Not taking any chances, Daphne draws just a little more blood (it comes from Argo as well – he’s not sure if that’s a result of the curse tying them together or if she’s just using what’s already free-flowing and available). “Throw it!”

When Susan does, the Daphne flicks her wand. The blood rushes out to meet it, envelops it wholly, glows blinding – they all avert their eyes – then falls to the floor with a disgusting splash that gets on Susan’s shoes.

There is no more heart to be seen.

Argo turns his enormous head back to his victim, but there is no more warlock, either. All that remains is a pile of dusty, shattered bones.

“Now the door!” Daphne shouts. “Expecto Patronum!”

Daphne’s hedgehog joins Harry’s stag. Together they stop the lethifold’s advancement in its tracks, but it’s still not enough to push it back. Susan runs to the vault door to start working on bypassing those protections.

Argo changes back, grasps his wand tight, and shouts, “Expecto Patronum!”

The stag and hedgehog fly, combating the lethifold that encroaches on all sides. From Argo’s wand, nothing more than a thin, paltry stream of mist comes.

“Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum! Fucking shit; work, damn it! Expecto Patronum!”

Harry clenches his jaw. He can’t see Argo, can’t look away from the lethifold he’s doing the lion’s share to keep off of them, but just hearing him, how the desperation rises in his voice to a fever pitch…

Harry takes a deep breath, focuses. It needs a happy memory. The most powerful he has. When he gets the news that Sirius is cleared to be his legal caretaker, his first night in their new home, hanging out in the DA club room with Neville, how happy Neville was the first time he used the disarming spell.

Argo standing between him and Madam Bones deep in the Department of Mysteries.

“Why are you so against this prophecy?” Susan asks. “It seems pretty straightforward to me, but you’re just fighting every turn.”

Argo growls lowly. “Because I’m not allowing anyone to drag Potter into a fight he doesn’t want.” A harsh glare turns to Harry. “Not even himself. And certainly not a prophecy.”

Being protected. One way for family to show that he cares.

“Family is people who find each other. Who look out for each other and who can rely on each other.”

Harry focuses on the feeling of Argo hugging him, clinging to his robes. Argo letting Harry comfort him, protect him. It’s not even happy, exactly. It’s frightening and stressful and it makes Harry’s gut feel like he’s eaten a bad canary cream that changes only his insides, but something in Harry’s heart is… happy.

A brilliant smile, and Shiloh finishes with, “So, don’t be afraid of it, okay? And don’t look so down. Your family is big, and full of people who love you.”

Waves of brilliant light push out from Harry’s stag patronus, filling up the room and everyone’s hearts with light and warmth. The lethifold curls on itself like a slug shriveling in salt. Even the Murk burns away for the first time since they enter this dungeon.

Faster than it ever moves up until this point, the lethifold crumples, shriveling like a slug in salt, and retreats, flying out through the tunnel it enters from.

And then the cavern is clear. There’s only silvery light from the patronuses, the eerier white glow from the pedestal behind them, and their heavy breathing.

Harry looks over, meets wide hazel eyes that, after a moment, slowly turn inward. Argo’s brow furrows, his jaw tenses.

It doesn’t take knowing him as long as the rest of them have to see that he’s furious with himself.

Harry’s heart breaks. Just a little. Like someone ties it to a weight with a string, then lets it drop.

Harry’s eyes find Daphne’s – she’s watching Argo, still sitting in the dirt, as well. Then Susan, who is focused entirely on the vault door.

That breaks him out of it. Now… now isn’t the time. They still need to retrieve the spellbook they’re looking for and get out. Once they’re back safe at Hogwarts, then…

Then Harry thinks they all should have a great big cuddle pile. He doesn’t know how the girls will feel about that, and he’s still a bit uncomfortable with the thought himself, but he knows that Argo needs it.

Harry feels a tugging at his leg. He bends down to scoop up Jason – he ends up on the floor sometime around when Argo transforms. (As his clothes can shift with him, but another living creature obviously can’t.)

He walks over, strokes Jason’s soft fur, then holds Jason out to Argo. Argo blinks up at him, then slowly, carefully accepts the niffler. He kisses Jason’s head, murmurs unintelligibly into his fur, then pulls open the front of his robe to allow Jason to slip back inside.

Harry stays there, with a hand extended instead. Argo looks up, sees him. Harry can see Argo’s throat bob, then a large, rough hand takes his.

(It’s more courtesy than actually helping, but Argo doesn’t mention how he doesn’t actually pull on Harry’s hand in the slightest, even when he stumbles woozily, as Harry “helps” him to his feet. Harry might complain, until Argo stands tall again, if slightly wobbly, and Harry remembers that his brother is about twice his size and would probably just pull him down before Harry could pull him up.)

Argo shoves his hand deep in his pocket, shuffling past Harry, then pushes a small, corked vial of potion into Daphne’s hand. When he digs out another for himself, Daphne stops blinking at the vial to say, “Please tell me that’s blood-replenishing.”

Argo downs his like a shot, wincing as he swallows. “If you use blood magic like that,” he says, “you need to carry your own. Drink.”

Daphne grimaces, but does as she’s told without complaint.

“Who do you reckon that wizard was?” Harry asks quietly.

“Honestly?” Argo pants. “Who knows? He’s gone now.”

That he is.

The three of them retreat to the vault door where Susan works, all watching the empty cavern for anything new, or for the lethifold returning, but all is quiet.

There’s a reverberating thud, and the doors behind them slowly creak open.

Every one of them is tired and grim-faced when they cautiously march into the vault, and what they find makes every one of them freeze in awesome terror.

Books. Shelves and shelves of them.

It’s a tall, circular room, and every single wall is stuffed full of books. Large tomes, thin ones, most look hand-crafted and are probably hand-written as well. They raise their wands, lit with lumos, to one of the shelves, identifying a small label indicating they’re ordered by date.

Daphne immediately sets off to find the correct section where they should find anything by Ethelred the Ever-Ready, but Argo approaches a small alcove on the far wall where a lone book sits on a lectern.

There is no name, no identifying information, but after he checks it over and deems it safe, Argo flips it open to examine the neat, loopy script within.

Harry glances around him, reads just a few lines, and pales. “This is…”

“Stuff so dark that it could curl even Snape’s greasy hair,” Argo confirms, looking no more comfortable than Harry. Yet he turns the page, continuing to leaf through it curiously. “But,” he says, “there’s a lot of other interesting stuff, too. This might be that linking curse. Could be that warlock’s own spellbook.”

Argo bites his lip, glances to Harry, then shuts the book and taps it with his wand.

It shrinks. Small enough to fit into a pocket. Harry gasps. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Argo says, slipping the book into his robes.

“That’s dark magic!”

“We’re here for dark magic. You think the blood malediction is light?”

“We’re here to counter dark magic,” Harry protests.

“By learning about it, so we can devise a counter,” says Argo. He taps his pocket pointedly. “The more you know, the better prepared you can be.” He shakes his head. “Besides. No magic that can save a life should be dismissed. If Daphne hadn’t used blood magic, that warlock might’ve killed us.”

Harry worries his lip. Argo has a point. A worrying point, but a good one. Blood magic like what Daphne uses back there is undoubtedly dark, but… Harry trusts her. So… Harry trusts Argo, too. “Just be careful,” he pleads.

“Don’t worry about me. I just want to learn everything I can. I’m not going to go around cursing people. You know that.”

He does. Harry sighs. He does. He just hopes Argo knows what he’s doing.

“I think this is it.” Daphne’s voice draws the boys over to her and Susan to peek at the journal she holds. She sticks her wand in her teeth, holding the light there, then flips through the pages, quickly scanning headers and titles for what she needs.

“There!” Susan points to the parchment, interrupting Daphne’s page-turning. It’s all written in Old English, of course, but Argo recognizes enough now to have an idea of what it’s saying, and even to modern English there’s enough in common for Susan to guess this is the section they need, even if they can’t understand what it says exactly.

Daphne lets out a shuddering breath then shuts the book to hold it tight to her chest. “This is it. This is actually it.”

“Can we please get out of here, now?” Argo asks.

Daphne laughs. She sniffs, then nods. “Yeah…” Her voice wobbles. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

The way out isn’t much safer, but at least no more lethifolds show up. The four of them burst out into the sunlight, slam the door shut behind them, then ward the door to hell and back just to make sure that nothing down there can escape.

Even if they do kill the warlock in there, there are still lethifolds, inferi, acromantulas… Susan spends about thirty minutes just layering security spells over that door, and Argo spends nearly as long on every ward he can think of as well.

By the time they’re done, the door has tighter security than it has before they break in in the first place.

“Never again,” Susan pants.

“Fuck that place,” whines Argo. “Daphne, come here.”

“Hm?” She does, though her face betrays that she has no idea why.

Argo just bites his lip and frowns at her, looking closely, leaning in. To Daphne’s annoyance. Before she can snap at him, though, Argo draws his wand and makes a tapping motion in the space between them.

Silence.

“I… think that did it.”

Daphne’s eye twitches. “Did what, exactly?”

“Broke the curse that bound us together.” He indicates the deep wound on his arm, and the mirror image on Daphne’s.

“Oh.” She blinks. “Good. I wondered if that’d persist. Remember you need to clean our lungs, too. Just in case.”

“Right.” Argo sighs, then orders them all up against the wall. One by one he points his wand at their chests, then he turns it on his own. “That should do it.”

“Thanks,” says Harry. “Your turn. Show me that arm.”

Argo smiles weakly, maybe a little shyly, but allows Harry to examine his arm as Daphne does the same for Susan. “Oh, shit,” Argo mutters as Harry starts healing it. “I should’ve waited to break the curse to see if healing affects us both, too.”

“You took that warlock’s spellbook, right?” Daphne frowns. “Once you do more research on it, we can always test it later.”

“Are we going to talk about The Warlock’s Hairy Heart?” Susan asks no one in particular.

“I’m trying not to think about it, actually,” says Argo.

“Honestly… yeah. Maybe later.”

Harry worries his lip. “I don’t think I can heal this without it scarring.”

Daphne peels back her own torn sleeve to look at her wound, then clicks her tongue. “I’m not surprised. It was cursed, not to mention the dark magic I used with it. Sorry, Argo.”

“Like I care about a scar.” Argo snorts. “I’ve got enough of them. Better me than them, anyway. I’m the only one it won’t raise any questions on.”

Susan shudders. “I can never tell my aunt about this.”

“Sirius might actually lock me up and throw away the key,” Harry agrees.

Daphne grimaces. “I would’ve had to tell my parents, anyway… let’s just make sure we cure Astoria before I have to face the music.”

Susan and Harry both finish healing them, leaving a raised, starkly pale scar behind, then Argo digs through his pocket to start pulling out clean robes.

They might just burn the ones they’re wearing, if only to get rid of evidence. They’re not salvageable, either way, with all the tears and stains.

Clothes distributed and cleaning charms liberally used, the girls duck inside the church itself to change while the boys quickly do so outside.

When the girls emerge, Daphne still aggressively brushing her hair, the four of them look mostly presentable, like they spend the day shopping instead of raiding a prison/tomb.

“Alright.” Susan immediately straightens Harry’s robe, then turns to fuss with Argo’s hair. “Everyone good? Argo, how do you feel?”

“I can apparate,” he says, “but no promises that you’ll like it.”

Harry turns a little green at the thought. “Can’t we take the Knight Bus or something?”

“And leave a trail?” Daphne sighs. “I’m not looking forward to it either, but it’s just once more.”

“Three.” Argo snickers, linking his fingers with Daphne’s and grabbing Susan’s wrist. “Two.” Harry’s eyes go wide. He lunges forward to grab Argo’s arm as well. “One.” Argo turns. With a sharp crack, the four of them disappear.

And reappear in a dark, dingy alley. Susan and Harry both immediately break off to dry heave. Argo and Susan look around for anyone who might see them.

It’s Knockturn Alley in the late afternoon, so it’s not exactly clear, but Argo’s frame and glare, along with Daphne’s obviously pureblooded aristocratic presence, warn off anyone who takes notice of them.

That said, Argo still very quickly pulls Harry’s hood over his head. As he’s heaving against a wall, no one gets a good look at his face.

“I vote ice cream,” says Argo casually. “Let’s stop by Fortescue’s on the way back.”

Daphne starts to say something, stops, then shrugs. “We’ve earned it.”

Once the other two are finished, they also agree. It’s a quick stop for some cones, and then they spend just a few minutes eating them and window shopping in Diagon Alley – faces uncovered, which does lead to a few people approaching them to shake Harry’s hand – and then they are, finally, gathering back in the Leaky Cauldron to get to the floo.

Once they’re back in the castle, every one of them breathes a little sigh of relief. Then Harry nods once to himself, looks at Argo, and to the group says, “Do you all have more time?”

Daphne bites her lip. “I wanted to get started on studying the spellbook… but I suppose there’s no rush. What do you need?”

“Come with me.”

Confused, or bemused, they follow Harry to, of all places, Argo’s laboratory. Without a word, but with a nervous glance at Argo’s curious expression, Harry gently shoves Argo onto the cuddle couch.

He summons blankets and cushions, then grabs the girls (Susan is already halfway to diving in) and squeezes into place against Argo, laying on the sofa.

“What’s this for?” Argo’s voice has an odd quality to it. Despite his question, he wraps up Harry tightly in his arms, and wriggles into a better position so that Susan can lay atop him as well. Daphne, too proper for rampant cuddling, nonetheless makes use of Harry’s conjured cushions and sits just at the foot of the couch, leaning over Susan to half-join in.

Harry has to take a moment to think about what to say. He doesn’t really prepare for that question. Actually, he expects Argo to just be happy about it and accept it because Argo loves cuddles. But… “For you,” Harry says. “I know that was… hard, for you.”

Argo doesn’t respond, but Harry is squeezed a little tighter.

“I’m sorry,” Daphne murmurs. She puts her chin on Susan to peer over her at Argo. “But… thank you. For putting up with that for me.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Susan asks.

Argo won’t look at them. Every one of them can tell he’s still angry with himself. For his cowardice, for his failure with the Patronus Charm. They wouldn’t survive without him, but he’s still angry that he couldn’t do more.

That he couldn’t do what he expects of himself.

Harry wants to say something, to reassure him that no one expects any more from him, that he already does more than enough and it’s okay that he doesn’t manage the Patronus Charm, and that even though he’s so scared he never actually holds them back.

But will Argo even hear it? Harry bites his tongue, bites down all the meaningless words he can say, in favor of pressing his cheek to Argo’s neck and hugging him a little closer.

For Argo, it’s enough. To have people he loves here, cuddling for him, because he’s the cuddler here and he knows this isn’t something the rest of them would do on their own. That they’re with him, taking care of him… means more than any words.

Then, a slow, jerky nod. “I’ll be fine. Just… can we stay here?”

The girls murmur, “Of course,” and settle in for the long haul. Daphne might already be asleep. All of them are bone tired, exhausted from the exertion and stress of the day.

Thick hands card through Harry’s hair. He gulps when Argo kisses the top of his head. Susan’s breathing quickly evens out beside him, sinking just as fast into the sweet embrace of rest. Then, just before Argo follows, he mumbles, “Thanks, Brother. I… needed this.”

Brother. Harry grins to himself, snuggles in, and drifts away into happy dreams.

“I know we aren’t thinking about the… heart,” says Susan in the morning after they all part, bathe properly, and meet up once more to actually discuss their next move to cure Astoria of her blood malediction, “but, uh… we killed a man, right?”

“I don’t think you or Harry are part of that.” Daphne shuffles uncomfortably.

“No,” says Susan, “I’m definitely part of it. Maybe not Harry, but I unlocked the chest with the heart.”

“I’ve already killed a man,” says Harry with a shrug. Everyone stares at him. “Er… You know. Quirrel? Possessed by Voldemort in our first year? Mum’s love magic disintegrated him when I touched him…”

“How did I forget about that?”

“To be fair, we only became friends later. You weren’t there.”

“Still,” says Daphne. “You seem pretty okay with that.”

Harry shrugs again. “I mean, he would’ve killed me, and it’s not like I did it on purpose. Plus, I’ve had nearly five years to come to terms with it, and it was Voldemort. And the guy who let Voldemort ride on the back of his head, but still – Voldemort.”

“True,” Argo says. “But I think turning into a bear and shattering his ribcage counts as being on purpose.”

Susan winces.

“Anyway,” Argo says, “I wouldn’t worry about it. He wasn’t… exactly a man. Sort of. And he was definitely beyond evil, and probably doesn’t legally exist, so I don’t think we could get in trouble even if anyone finds out.”

“What in the world does that mean?” Daphne asks.

“Well, you know,” says Argo. “He’s most likely from somewhere around the late middle ages? Or even earlier. I know we have the infrastructure for effective immortals like vampires, but given he was inside the Murk he was probably legally assumed dead hundreds of years ago. And also, you know, a criminal.”

Susan rubs her face, exasperated. “I think she meant the part about being not exactly a man.”

Argo blinks. “Oh, er… his heart was literally cut out of his chest.”

“…And?” Daphne groans. “I assume it’s some dark ritual to grant him immortality.”

“Yes and no.”

“You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?”

Argo rubs his neck awkwardly as his cheeks pink.

“Just tell us what was up with him.”

He clears his throat. “Well, I mean… you’ve all read The Warlock’s Hairy Heart. …Actually, Brother, have you read it? I keep forgetting you’re muggle-raised.”

“I have,” says Harry, still reeling from the change in address. Argo only calls him brother like this because he can see that it makes Harry happy, but Harry still has to take a moment to remind himself it’s real when he does. “Neville gave Hermione and me a copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard after the, like, hundredth time we didn’t understand a reference.”

“Good, then,” says Argo. “Yeah, it’s basically that. Removing the heart, as far as I can tell, is meant to remove the ability to love.”

“Isn’t that just metaphorical?” asks Daphne.

“I’m only alive because of my mum’s love. Why would someone who wants power get rid of something that strong?” asks Harry.

Argo hedges on that. “Well, you see… sort of. Love is a chemical process primarily in the brain, yeah, but that’s just, you know, the feeling. Magic relies a whole lot more on metaphor than physical processes do, and so the heart is actually very important for the magical component, which is then, obviously, intrinsically tied to and can affect, in magical beings, the physiological component as well.”

“Yeah, no,” Daphne sighs. “Skip ahead to the parts that make sense.”

Argo coughs. “Okay, well, simply put, that warlock removed his ability to love, which had the handy side effect of removing most other emotions – maybe all of them? – as well, and also of making him immortal by sort of making a faux hor- er… do you know the muggle game D&D? Does a lich sound familiar?”

“No,” says Daphne. “Obviously.”

“Fuck.”

“Language,” says Susan.

“Oh, all of yesterday, and that’s where you draw the line.”

“I thought you deserved a pass yesterday.”

“I appreciate that.”

Harry takes off his glasses so he can rub tiredly at his eyes. “So,” he says, “the warlock was immortal and also couldn’t feel.”

Argo nods. “Essentially, yes. As far as I can tell.”

“And that makes him not a man?”

“Not exactly a man,” says Argo, again hedging on specifics. “He’s… He’s a man like a bakeneko is a cat. He’s certainly not who he was before he cut out his heart. And while I wouldn’t deny he was very intelligent, there is a case to be made as to whether he was actually sentient. It’s hard to imagine sapience without sentience because naturally, it just doesn’t happen, but that warlock was anything but natural and depending on your definitions, they don’t necessarily overlap.”

“I said, the parts that make sense.” Daphne groans.

“Think of it this way, then,” says Argo. “If we didn’t kill him, he would have killed us.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Harry and Susan both gasp. “Daphne!”

“What? He tried to kill us.”

“That doesn’t make killing him back just okay!” Susan protests.

“Why not? He was evil.”

“In other words,” says Argo, stepping between them, “While he was a man, once, it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say the human was already dead. The thing we killed was probably no more sentient than a particularly dangerous flobberworm.”

Susan backs off, biting her lip. “So,” she says, “he was… sort of like an inferus?”

The way Argo immediately cuts off whatever he’s about to say makes Harry think the answer is a resounding no (Inferi are incapable of feeling anything on account of having no actual living nerves since they’re just corpses, so no, because the warlock was entirely capable of feeling pain. It’s mostly a question of how aware he was of anything, and whether he had any sense of subjective experience. But Argo doesn’t say that because saying that he’s undead is about as right as it is wrong and Argo frankly doesn’t think he can explain anything well enough to assuage Susan’s guilt. Actually, he thinks fully understanding the situation would still leave her upset over killing a… something, so in this case ignorance may be bliss.), but in the end what comes out is, “Yeah, something like that.”

Harry doesn’t buy it, but he can see how bothered Susan is and he personally already comes to terms with the fact that he might, occasionally, have to kill things that want to kill him (Quirrel, Voldemort – especially Voldemort given the prophecy that literally says he’ll have to kill him) so he takes the approach of just not thinking too much about it all and being thankful that he’s still alive.

“It’s not on you, anyway, Susan,” Daphne says firmly. “You didn’t decide to kill him. You just trusted me and did what I told you.” She ducks her head as her hand comes up to hug herself. “If… if you consider me killing him a betrayal of that trust, then fine. But it’s on me, not you.”

“It’s on us,” Argo says seriously, squeezing Daphne’s shoulder. “I agree Susan and Harry had no part in that decision, but I think I played a pretty active role in killing the warlock.”

“Are you bragging about that?”

Argo rubs his neck. “Of course, not. I’m just saying… none of us are here alone.”

The girls go suspiciously quiet. It hangs over them thickly as they process that.

“Yeah,” Susan says. She rubs her face, clearing away the doubt. “Yeah. Okay. Now, what do we do about Astoria?”

“I haven’t had the chance to look to closely at the book,” Daphne admits. “And I’m not very familiar with Old English.”

“I know someone who is,” says Argo. “She’ll be willing to help if we ask.”

Daphne deflates. “Okay. Ask her, then. In the meantime, let’s look for a safe place in the castle to do whatever we’ll need to. We might need to find some equipment, too…”

“I’ve got an idea for that, too,” Argo hums. “Why don’t we split up, look for suitable places. I’d volunteer this room, but I don’t think we want our apprentices wandering in. If we find something, we’ll report it at dinner tonight?”

“Agreed.”

“Works for me,” says Susan.

“I’m in,” says Harry. Thinking of the Marauder’s Map, he says, “Susan, why don’t you and Daphne look in the library for references on reading Old English. Argo and I can find a safe room somewhere.”

“You two do know the castle better than us.” Susan, who is aware of Argo’s map but not Harry’s, yet still knows that Harry is nearly as good at finding his way around secret passages in the castle, taps her chin. “Sounds good. Daphne?”

“It’s a plan.” Daphne smiles at each of them in turns. “Thanks. All of you.”

“Thank us when your sister is better.” Argo smiles back, already heading out first. “See you all at dinner.”

Argo wastes no time. He knows exactly who they need and where they need to be, so he doesn’t bother going anywhere else. He marches directly up to the seventh floor to the Come and Go Room and requests a place to heal Astoria of her blood malediction.

He expects a laboratory, maybe his own. Perhaps with some different equipment, but the same function. He comes alone partly because he has the feeling that it will be his own, and that he will need to clear out some of his things so that when Daphne, Astoria, and the others come for the procedure, they won’t see anything he doesn’t want them to see.

The last – the very last – thing he expects to find upon opening those doors is the high vaulted ceilings and bronze wood of a large, airy laboratory.

Ravenclaw’s laboratory.

Argo stops short. He nearly faints on the spot. Aloud, he asks blandly, “What?”

There’s no way. Not a chance in hell. What is even the criteria for this?

He doesn’t know if he’s going to break down in tears, or if he’s offended that after all that time spent trying to get in, thinking of what he has to do to earn entry, the room just… lets him in… when he’s not even trying.

He’s just about recovering from his shock when Helena floats through the wall looking… not exactly surprised, but somewhere on that side of appraising. “Well done,” she says. “You’ve gained entry into my mother’s laboratory.”

Argo has so many questions. But the most pressing of which must be, “How?” Nothing changes between now and his last attempt to get in here. In fact, his last attempt is very recent, not long before he sets off to raid the Murk, and he- he falls apart down there. There’s no way anything about that adventure is what makes him worthy now.

Helena smirks. “When Godric enchanted his sword,” Helena says, drifting serenely through the laboratory to examine the shelves, “he asked my mother for assistance in devising the enchantment he envisioned. She was the best enchanter, and the best inventor, and he insisted that the enchantment needed to be perfect.”

Argo stays quiet. He knows Helena, she’ll get to her point. So, he moves slowly, trying not to interrupt, to a chair to sit and listen.

“Together, they made and laid the enchantment, which allows those true Gryffindors to retrieve the sword under conditions of need and valour.” Helena pauses, then hums. “I never knew what the exact criteria was that Godric determined a ‘true Gryffindor’ to be, nor do I know Mother’s definition of a ‘true Ravenclaw’ but she did tell me, once, that she adapted the same enchantment for her laboratory. In order to enter, a true Ravenclaw must have real need of it, and fulfil one other condition that she deemed necessary.”

“Which is?”

“You must continue the pursuit of knowledge.” Helena smiles, shrugs. “Give to the Room; do not simply take. Leave your own knowledge here for the next true Ravenclaw who needs it.”

Simple enough. There is a lot that Argo knows that he doesn’t want to become common knowledge. His ability to tell when someone lies, a lot of what he discovers is possible while playing with tracking spells and medical diagnostic charms, probably most of that warlock’s spellbook that he’s going to be poring through for the next few weeks, and that only to pick out the things he wants to study first, and what can wait. But he thinks, leaving them in a room secured by Rowena Ravenclaw herself… it’s a good compromise. So that what he discovers does not die with him, but whoever does learn it next has the wisdom to use it properly.

So, he says, “I can do that.”

“I know.” Helena chuckles at him. “I knew from the moment you moved into the Room of Requirement that you would give back to this place. You turned that room into a home not by demanding what would make you more comfortable, but by putting your own effort into making it so. All of Hogwarts appreciates it.”

Oh. Argo gulps. Good, then? He still doesn’t like thinking about the implications of the castle liking something – it kind of hurts his brain, no matter how much he studies the surprisingly well-researched semi-sentience of ancient magical wards and structures – but at least it’s happy with him and not angry.

“I assumed you met the criteria from the start,” explains Helena. “I suppose today is simply the day that you truly need it.” She straightens, though she’s already floating with perfect posture. “So tell me, what do you need this laboratory for?”

He’s here… because he needs it?

…Fucking hell. Argo wants to hit himself for being so stupid. It’s the Room of Requirement! Not the Room of Ask and Receive! Of course, it only appears if he truly needs it! That he doesn’t realize that that’s what keeps him out until Helena points it out to him is absurd!

But here he has access to Ravenclaw’s laboratory, and Helena Ravenclaw herself asking what he needs from her. This is exactly the best-case scenario.

Argo bites down his own exasperation and frustration with himself to quickly answer. “You know Astoria Greengrass in Slytherin?”

Helena tilts her head. “She is the younger sister of your fellow Circle member Daphne, yes? I admit I don’t associate very much with students outside of Ravenclaw.”

Argo nods. “She has a blood malediction.”

Hearing this, Helena startles. “Oh dear. I see why you need this room, then. I think my mother had something on maledictions…” Immediately, she zooms away to the shelves, examining them closely.

“Anything will help,” says Argo. “We, the four of us in the Circle, also recently acquired a spellbook that once belonged to Ethelred the Ever-Ready.” Helena’s perfectly-shaped brow rises as her eyes find his. “We believe he recorded how to curse someone with a blood malediction and were hoping that examining that process might help us reverse it, but, naturally, the spellbook is written in Old English. Would you be willing to help us?”

“Of course,” says Helena immediately. “Though she is not of my house, Astoria Greengrass is a student of Hogwarts. I will do all I can to help cure her of this affliction. Bring the spellbook, and I assume Daphne and the other two, here, and we will decipher this curse together.”

“Thank you, Helena.” Argo bows. “Your help will make all the difference.”

Argo would love nothing more than to start going through all Ravenclaw’s notes immediately, but somehow manages to valiantly restrain himself. He has access to the laboratory now, and Helena is implying that it won’t be revoked. He can come back whenever he likes, now, so he has time. And if he starts down that rabbit hole now, he likely won’t make it to dinner to meet up with the others.

So, instead, he looks only at what Helena picks out for him, the small, only half-filled journal on blood magic, curses, and maledictions.

Apparently, it’s not one of Rowena Ravenclaw’s favorite subjects. Not that Argo expects much. What is here is still helpful in giving Argo a better understanding of blood magic in the academic sense. Not really anything that solves their problem, but a good foundation to work from as they examine Ethelred’s spellbook.

When the time comes, he heads down to the Great Hall to meet with the others. He’s last there, and joins them all at the Slytherin table.

The moment he sits down next to Daphne, the others catch him up to speed.

“I found a couple empty rooms,” Harry whispers, “but I don’t know if we need anything but space, so I’m not sure if they’ll work or not.”

“And we’ve got some texts to translate Old English,” Daphne reports in his ear, “but none of us are familiar enough with it. It’s going to take a while.”

“Please tell us you found something?” Susan looks at him with curious eyes.

Argo leans in, prompting the others to do so as well, and murmurs, “I’ve got a room that should be what we need and a ghost who reads Old English to help.”

Daphne roughly grabs his shoulder. “You’re joking. Can this ghost keep a secret?”

Can Helena Ravenclaw keep a secret? Merlin, if Daphne only knew. “I think we’ll be alright.” Argo chuckles. “The room is up on the seventh floor, though. Want to just grab something and eat on the way?”

“Is that enough for you?” Susan asks. “You just got here.”

Argo shrugs. “I’m expecting an all-hands-on-deck study session, so I’ve got loads of snacks in my pocket and an outstanding agreement with the house elves. I’ll eat enough.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Daphne grins.

The four of them rise as one, equally determined to see this through. If Susan or Harry have any qualms with their impending deep dive into dark blood magic, they don’t show it. They all follow Argo through the corridors, up the stairs, all the way to the seventh floor and the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

“Alright,” says Argo. “So… I admit I never intended on telling anyone about this place, although it’s not actually hard to find. Any house elf will tell you about it if you just ask.”

Harry smiles uncertainly, staring at the bare corridor wall. “And… what place is this exactly?” He knows there are things hidden in the castle, but there’s nothing here on his map. It should just be an empty corridor.

“The Come and Go Room,” says Argo simply. While the others gasp, and Harry asks Daphne what the Come and Go Room is, Argo paces the stretch of hallway three times, thinking about Ravenclaw’s laboratory, to cure Astoria.

When the door appears, he bleeds the tension he doesn’t realize builds in him. So, he can get back in. It’s actually confirmed.

Argo pauses with his hand on the door handle. “Okay.” He looks to the others. “So, seriously, be respectful. Some of the stuff in this function of the Room is… literally priceless. Like, I cannot stress this enough. And if my guests damage anything, there’s a very real chance I’ll be banned from it forever, so… be careful, please.”

Daphne rolls her eyes, but it hides a curious gleam. “We know better than to just go around poking things. But… what could be so important?”

With an anxious buzz in his chest, Argo opens the door for them all and leads the way inside. “Welcome,” he announces, “to Rowena Ravenclaw’s laboratory.”

After a very, very long moment in which the three guests simply take in the room and the equipment within, Daphne lets out perhaps the most undignified sound any of them have ever heard from her and squawks, “Who’s what now?”

“I’m…” Harry starts slowly. “Honestly? I’m not even surprised. I mean, you found the Chamber of Secrets, too, and that’s not even your founder’s secret room.”

“I think you’re the one that found the chamber, brother,” says Argo. “But you’ve got a point. We should see if Gryffindor hid some secret room around the place.”

Susan, somewhat recovering, shakes her head. “Ridiculous,” she mutters. “Utterly ridiculous. But really… I can’t say I’m surprised, either.”

Argo giggles internally, mostly because he thinks it’s hilarious that they’re all clearly assuming that he has access to this place long before now.

“But what about Hufflepuff?”

“Not sure if it counts,” says Argo, “but technically speaking, the Room of Requirement itself was opened to the school by Hufflepuff. She and Ravenclaw worked on it together. It’s only this function of the room that’s Ravenclaw’s personal room.” And maybe his bedroom? Helena says she lives there when she doesn’t live in the Ravenclaw dorms during her time at Hogwarts, so it seems to be a personal bedroom of Ravenclaw’s, though that function is obviously opened by Hufflepuff to the school at large, unlike this laboratory.

Daphne visibly centers herself while the rest of them discuss. “Argo,” she says. “You said you got a ghost to agree to help?”

“That would be me.” Helena serenely drifts in as if on cue. “Please open the book you need translated on the table and we’ll get started.”

“Is that the Grey Lady?” Susan whispers.

“Her name is Helena,” says Argo, “but yes. She helps me with my research all the time.”

Susan turns her eyes down, muttering, “I didn’t know she could talk.”

Argo chuckles. He knows that Helena treats non-Ravenclaws differently, but he very rarely gets to see her attitude change like this. Even with a lot of Ravenclaws she can be a bit distant, but with the others in the room, she’s suddenly downright frigid.

It’s a stark contrast to not an hour earlier when she was bouncing ideas around with him during his preliminary research. Not to mention the many, many hours of study on all manner of topics she assists him with throughout his school years.

(She always has a soft spot for him. She does for all Ravenclaws, but then Argo develops and proves his understanding of magic and she is far too Ravenclaw herself to not wish to see just how far he will go and learn all she can from his pursuits. Plus, after last year when Argo keeps his word and locks down the enchantments on the diadem… he’s quite firmly in her good graces.)

Daphne, ever the Slytherin, isn’t ruffled at all by the fact that they’re dealing with the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, nor Helena’s demeanor. She just does as asked and carefully sets the spellbook on the table, flipping through it to where they believe the spell they need is found. “Has Argo filled you in on what we’re looking for?”

Helena glances at her, but doesn’t respond. She just leans over to start reading. After reading through it once or twice, Helena simply starts reading aloud, translating it to modern English for the rest of them.

Daphne already has some parchment out to copy down what she says word for word.

When Helena is finished, she drifts back, hanging on the edge of the group, watching and listening, but no longer an active participant.

The four members of the Circle, however, share a heavy look and a heavy breath.

“I only understood about half of that,” Susan admits.

“Not even,” says Harry.

Argo slowly shakes his head. “We’re going to need ritual magic.”

Daphne, though, stares firmly at her parchment, reading and rereading the passage with cold intent. “Why only the women…?”

Argo’s head snaps up. He bites his lip, furrows his brow. “…Does it have to do with magical chirality?”

“That would affect any ritual we try,” says Daphne.

Argo huffs. “Could require only women… maybe only men. Hard to say. Or could even numbers of witches and wizards-”

“You can’t flip her chirality. By definition, that doesn’t work.”

“But in order to neutralize a chiral curse…”

“That’s implying the curse is present in the men, just not active.”

“Any chance we could get your father’s blood to check?”

“That’s easy. I’ll have it by tomorrow.”

“I’ll start looking at ritual runes in the meantime.”

Harry awkwardly leans closer to Susan. “Are you following this?”

Susan makes a face. “…Sort of? Have you ever been part of a ritual before?”

Harry huffs. “Er… what makes rituals special exactly?”

Susan giggles. “Ritual magic is basically just multi-step magic. Instead of waving your wand and saying an incantation and the magic happening instantaneously, you have to follow a bunch of steps that’s usually designed to… ‘charge’ the magic, so to speak, and incline it towards a certain thing.”

“Some people’s magic likes certain areas of study, you might have noticed,” Argo says, finally turning back to Harry from his conversation with Daphne. “That’s not just their own interests affecting them, though that does play a role. Their magic is actually just better suited for it than other things. Some people are good with intent-based spells, or light spells, or dark spells, or more structured spells. Then there are the herbologists, the ones who just have that sense for potions, you know, people who are excellent with wards or security spells. That kind of thing. It’s all a bit abstract, but the idea is that through ritual to ‘prime’ the magic we’re putting into a spell, we can influence it to prefer to do one thing over another.”

Daphne nods. “Ritual magic is typically a whole lot stronger because of that, but also because it often involves multiple witches and wizards performing it in tandem. A lot of healing on the level we’re planning is done with rituals, since it’s easier to adjust the magic specifically to play nice with the patient. On the broad level, that kind of thing doesn’t matter much, but once you start getting into more delicate things… even something as small as your magic’s chirality can make everything go wrong.”

“Oh.” Harry hums thoughtfully. “And chirality? I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word before.”

“It’s like left or right handedness, sort of,” Argo says. “It’s just… an aspect of magic that’s been recorded. Hard to quantify, but it is possible to record based on the magic’s behavior. In general, women and men have different chirality. The leading theory among magizoologists on why unicorns tend to prefer women actually has to do with a preference of chirality, though no one could tell you why.”

“Practically,” says Daphne, “it’s not something anyone but ritual mages and maybe the highest level duelists ever think about. Handedness is a good reference, actually. There’s nothing someone really can’t do just because they’re left-handed instead of right, but it does slightly change how they accomplish it.”

“Your magic’s chirality is just how it is.” Argo shrugs. “You’re born with it. Though everyone has the capacity to use magic of any chirality, if they know what they’re doing. Which is important because some magic is quite dependent on your chirality. Those kinds of things are few and far between, and are generally very specifically crafted with chirality in mind. Those would be what we call chiral spells.”

Susan leans in close to stage-whisper in Harry’s ear. “Don’t tell Argo, but there’s actually a neat little trick using chirality that can bypass most shield and security charms. My aunt has been bugging the Ministry to update its security ever since it was discovered.”

“Is that how you’re so good at getting through security charms?”

Susan just grins and winks.

“I know about the security bypass, Bones,” Argo snorts.

Susan snickers. “Are you sure about that, Scamander?”

Argo narrows his eyes suspiciously. Susan impishly winks again at Harry and presses a finger to her lips.

For the four of them, this project turns out to be much more than a long night of intensive study. The next several weeks are spent with the four of them largely sequestered in Ravenclaw’s laboratory, going over notes, throwing ideas around, and very, very carefully crafting their ritual.

They’re working almost from the ground up, with their only true reference point being curse-breaking rituals, of which most examples they have access to are meant to break curses on objects rather than living victims.

To most of the Hogwarts student population, the four of them seem to vanish outside of classes. Their closest friends are informed that they’re working on a project, and that it’s important, but little else. And in the meantime, it’s Susan’s idea to show their apprentices their Circle’s spellbook and ask them to plan the next club meeting (or two) while they’re focusing on the ritual.

Argo and Daphne are the best at getting the teachers to agree to let them find references in the restricted section of the library (that is, they’re the best at lying boldfaced to the teachers’ faces to get what they want, though Harry and Susan never manage to confirm that they do so) so they spend a lot of time running back and forth, sitting in symposium, or seeking out materials to use, or potentially use, for their ritual.

Meanwhile, Harry and Susan reach out to people outside of Hogwarts who might be able to give them any references they need. Since Cedric is training to be a healer, Argo is content leaving that to Harry, since if Cedric can’t help himself, he has ready access to the best healer Argo knows about, anyway (That being Chiara, also in the Circle of Khanna) and so Argo’s intervention isn’t necessary.

In what little downtime they have, Susan spends a great deal of hers arranging their notes not just so that they can come back and pick up better than where they leave off, but so that once they finish, if they’re successful, they can donate the ritual they create to St. Mungos and other wizarding hospitals around the world in the hope that they can continue the research and eventually, other witches afflicted with blood maledictions can be cured.

Argo, however, gets antsy the longer this takes. He likes to stay busy, so a lot of his own free time is devoted to studying other areas of magic, especially the dragon shed he still has and the ancient magic imbued in it. He also uses the blood magic research they’re all doing as a foundation to investigate something that piques his curiosity for a while. Lily’s sacrificial magic that protects Harry from the killing curse.

Mostly, he’s interested because… he’s still thinking about the seventh horcrux. If he can use that sacrificial protection somehow…? It’s ancient blood magic, at its core, which means if he just learns enough about it…

But more immediately, and the reason he gets more and more impatient as time goes on, is the sixth horcrux. The time for Bellatrix to retrieve it from her vault, as seen by Shiloh in his dream, approaches.

Of course, that also means their final exams are approaching as well, which admittedly does distract the team somewhat and definitely contributes to their long hours in study.

Although, luckily, sixth year exams are surprisingly stress-free, even for students who aren’t Argo. Because of the massive cut in the number of classes they take and the fact that anyone who does plan on taking more than three or four N.E.W.T.s is self-studying the extras and thus don’t actually have exams in those subjects, sixth years have easily the lightest exam schedule of any year at Hogwarts.

Really, the general consensus even among some of the teachers is that sixth year exams don’t matter at all except as a benchmark to give students an idea of how they’ll do on their N.E.W.T.s later down the line.

That doesn’t make their material any easier. O.W.L.s mark a level of general education, and N.E.W.T.s advanced, specialized education, so passing N.E.W.T. scores are essentially the equivalent of a university degree. They’re beyond what any witch or wizard is expected to know, and are now deep into specialist study. Their exams are significantly harder than before, as if to make up for the fewer classes.

It’s generally an “easy” year for them, exam-wise, but it does hammer home just how bad the N.E.W.T.s next year will be.

“Oh, hell yeah.” Argo jumps up the moment he sees the crystal in Harry’s hand. Harry just smirks and allows Argo to take it from him. “How’d you get your hands on this so fast?”

“The Blacks are incredibly rich.” Harry shrugs. “And honestly, Mum and Dad left me a lot, too, but combine that with what Sirius has, it’s frankly just kind of ridiculous. Also, Kreacher is really good at finding the best deals.”

“Huh.” Argo turns the crystal over in his hands, checking its magic as well to ensure it’ll do what they need it to in their ritual. “How is Kreacher, by the way?”

Harry grins brilliantly. “Definitely a little saner. He still doesn’t get along with Sirius very well, but I’ve been promoted from ‘filthy mudblood master’ to ‘Mister Scamander’s almost brother’ so I think he likes me. Or, at least you. He still talks back, which I’ve never seen any other elves do, but he does his job now, you know, outside of direct orders, and he does it well, and I think he’s a lot happier doing it, too.” Harry chuckles. “Sometimes, it feels like he’s just teasing me, and doesn’t actually mean any of the rude things he says.”

“Great. That’s progress. Sounds like it doesn’t really bother you even when he does talk back.”

“Not at all,” says Harry. “He never actually complains about the work I give him – not that I’d make him do anything he’s not willing to do anyway. I’m fine with him having some personality. And I’ve heard far worse. Sirius still hates it, but I’ve arranged things with him so Kreacher is basically just my elf and doesn’t deal with Sirius hardly at all. I think all of us prefer it that way.”

Harry bites his lip. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you… if you can use a house elf, Kreacher will probably appreciate some extra work. I don’t usually have much for him to do, and I don’t know what you did with him, but he seems to adore you, so I’m sure he’d answer if you called.”

Argo blinks. “Huh. I’m not used to thinking about relying on house elves. Most of the work in the reserve is specialist work so it’s just as efficient to just train a human employee than train an elf.”

“I just thought I’d let you know you can call on him if you want. He’s even asked when you’ll be by again, which is downright eager for him. I think he misses you.”

“Well.” He scratches at his beard. “I’ll think about it, I guess. I tend to prefer doing all my work myself, but I suppose I might occasionally find something for him to do.”

The door opens then, and the girls walk in carrying more stacks of books. They both immediately light up when they see what Argo has in his hand. Susan even bounces a little. And Daphne asks, “Is that it?” She looks to Harry. “You got it?”

“An absurdly large wand-quality focus crystal, yes,” says Harry proudly. “Unflawed, clear, neutral, of course. Argo’s been throwing around diagnostics this whole time. What’s the verdict?”

Argo grins. “You did great protecting it from the Hogwarts wards. We shouldn’t have to neutralize it again in the ritual room before we color it ourselves. It should be exactly what we need.”

“Yes!” Daphne shouts. “Then we can get started?”

“It’ll take all night to draw the runes.” Argo sighs, and looks at the crystal in his hand. “Maybe longer to carve this thing. Then we have to color it, then I have to draw the runes for the actual cleansing ritual, which will take at least another night. Just remember once we color it not to go into the ritual room without suppressing your magic. Actually, once we color it, don’t go into the ritual room at all. I’ll just let you know when the runes are laid and we’ll only mess with it when we’re ready to bring Astoria in.”

“Sounds good to me,” says Daphne. “I’m a little worried about the timing, though. Will it hurt her exams?”

“It’s possible. Likely she’ll be exhausted afterwards, and there’s a decent chance her immune system will be shot. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s sickly for a while. You have to stay on top of that.”

“As if that is even in question.”

“Great.” Argo grins at them all. “Then… this is the last thing we need. I think.” He gestures over his shoulder to the door deeper into the laboratory, where the Room of Requirement (or maybe Ravenclaw’s laboratory itself?) gives them the magically neutral space they need to perform their ritual. It’s a lot like the alchemy room where Argo and Daphne’s class is, specially warded to prevent the rest of the castle’s ambient magic from interfering with their alchemy. “I’ll take this in there,” he says, “and you’ll see me… tomorrow. Hopefully.”

“And there’s nothing we can do to help. You really have to do it all on your own?”

Argo smiles. “I know the runes better than any of you, and their shape guides the magic almost as much as the meaning. The handwriting needs to be consistent.”

The other three frown. None of them are delighted by the idea of Argo setting up essentially ninety-percent of the ritual all on his own. It’s not a simple thing. By his own admission it’ll take all night to write it all. They’ll all go through when he’s finished to double-check everything, but unfortunately he’s right that in a ritual as delicate as this, variance in even something as small as the handwriting the runes are written in could throw something off. And somewhat more importantly, he will be writing the runes magically, which means his own magical signature and chirality will be flooding the ritual room. They account for this, not for four competing magical signatures of varying chirality.

Still, they worry that Argo is taking on too much. He doesn’t… he still won’t talk to them about the Murk. They know he’s still frustrated with himself, but he won’t come to them about it.

He has an absurd definition of how much it takes for him to be useful, they think, but as he refuses to say anything about it, it’s hard to convince him that he’s already doing the lion’s share, or that they wouldn’t have a hope of pulling this off without him.

As he disappears into the ritual room, Daphne turns to Harry. “I will, of course, reimburse you for the cost.” They all know just how expensive that crystal is, and Daphne is easily the least comfortable accepting any such gift, especially given this is her project.

But Harry shakes his head. “Sirius and I have more money than we know what to do with. Besides… you’re my friend. I’d spend the whole Black and Potter fortune entirely it if means your family is safe.”

Daphne chokes on the lump in her throat.

“And anyway,” says Harry, “once we’re done with it, we’ll probably donate the colored crystal to St. Mungo’s, won’t we? We’ll call it that, if you can’t accept it.”

Daphne wants to protest. Having someone else spend so much money on her is a little embarrassing, as if the Greengrass family can’t afford to take care of its own health, but Harry is such a damn Gryffindor that she has to take it in the earnest manner it’s given.

She’s only saved from having to reply by Susan, who still watches the door to the ritual room. “Do you guys think he’s really okay?”

Both of them deflate. Hugging himself, Harry slowly says, “I… don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

Daphne agrees. “He’s not exactly the kind of person to rely on other people.”

“I think it’s why it hurt him so much,” Harry murmurs. “He’s a caretaker. All he ever does is tend to and protect creatures and people. But in the Murk…”

“If he wasn’t down there with us, we would’ve died to those traps a hundred times over,” Susan protests.

“That doesn’t matter.” Harry shakes his head. “It’s not about not doing enough, it’s about… not doing what was expected. We all – especially him – thought he’d be able to use his patronus. He had to rely on us to protect him from something he’d been training to defend against since he was… what, eight? It doesn’t matter if he protected us from everything else, because he still feels like it wasn’t everything he was meant to do. Not to mention, I think he’s embarrassed.”

“I get that,” Daphne murmurs. “I would be, too. I am, actually. There was stuff down there that… I never meant for any of you to see.”

“You mean the blood magic?” Susan carefully bites her lip. “Technically, using your own blood isn’t illegal… and I don’t think Argo is upset about you using his.”

“I didn’t even mean to use his.” Daphne balks at remembering the moment Argo’s blood joined hers for her spells. “That was because of that linking curse.” They all stand there in tense quiet. “…Do you really think he’s okay with it? Blood magic isn’t really…”

“You only learned it to try to cure your sister,” says Harry immediately. “And Argo told me himself that he doesn’t believe any magic that can save a life should be dismissed. He’s definitely okay with it.”

“Yeah, but it’s different just watching someone else do it – even doing it yourself – than having someone else take your blood like that.”

“I can pretty much guarantee he hasn’t even considered that,” says Harry softly. “It protected us. That’s all that matters to him.”

Daphne attempts a smile. “Maybe. That does sound like him.” What faint humor is there in her countenance quickly falls away as she eyes her two friends. “And… and you?”

“I’d probably be concerned if I didn’t know why you learned that kind of magic,” Susan admits, rubbing her neck. “But I like to think at this point that I know what kind of person you are. I trust you.”

“I…” Harry sighs. “I agree with Argo, actually. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do to protect the people you care about. Even if that means using dark magic… Dark magic doesn’t mean evil. Like anything else, it only matters how you use it. And you used it to protect us all and to save your sister. I can’t think of a better reason.”

While Daphne gives two of her best friends the biggest hug her Slytherin demeanor has ever allowed, Argo mutedly scrawls on the bare stone. Wielding his wand like a quill, he writes, pulling the phrases over brick and mortar, through imperfections in the stone, twisting and turning into the proper shape for their ritual.

In his other hand, he holds the Resurrection Stone. It turns. Once. Twice. Thrice.

“Hi, honey.”

Argo barely glances up. “Lily.” Unflinchingly, he keeps writing. “How far are you willing to go to protect your son?”

Lily eyes him for a moment with concern, but can’t help the chuckle that escapes her. “Is that a serious question?”

This is the woman who sacrifices herself, who chooses to die, so that her son might live. There’s no promise of a good life, no promise of peace, maybe not even any guarantee of success, but she does it just to give Harry a chance.

And she’s asked how far she would go to keep her son safe? What other answer is there but to laugh?

“But don’t think I’ll agree with your plan about Cygnus Black any more than James will.”

Argo shakes his head. “That plan is unnecessary now. I already have everything arranged. This actually is more directly about…” he glances to the door, “the seventh.”

Lily purses her lips. “I see. It’s about the protection, isn’t it? You want to use it?”

“I want you to teach me what you know about blood magic. If there’s any avenue that’ll help Harry, it’s going to be ancient blood magic. You invoked just that on the night you died.”

“I wasn’t exactly an expert on the subject,” Lily says carefully. “And I don’t know anything about what Voldemort did.”

“But you knew enough to use it, which is more than what I have,” Argo counters.

Lily frowns for a moment, deep in thought. With a sigh, she eventually says, “If anyone can find a way… it’s you. Very well.”

“And if you don’t mind…”

Lily smiles, then laughs. “I’ll look over your runes for you, yes. It’s very good of you to be doing this for the Greengrasses. You should know… they all appreciate it.”

Argo waves off the appreciation. All he’s doing is what any decent person would. No one in his position would ignore Daphne when she asks him for his help with this.

“And I know you’ve considered the problem before,” Lily says more hesitantly, “and this is somewhat more selfish a request of me, but… have you given thought to doing something similar for the Longbottoms?”

“Alice and Frank Longbottom aren’t cursed,” Argo says simply. “Their bodies are healed. Their problem is mental, so the only solution I can see is with mind magics. I am a legilimens, so I could try, but… that’s not something I could do without permission from the family, and I’m not going to pretend it’s any lower risk than it is. My proposal is already out there, and they’ve declined it. If they change their minds, I’ll help, but otherwise…” He shrugs.

“I’m optimistic, either way, if it makes you feel better,” he says. “There is research being done on my theoretical method, and if that turns out quantifiable results, the Longbottoms are likely to change their minds. Though, that won’t be for several years yet, at least, as the test patients remain in treatment and we gather a large enough sample size.”

On the individual level, like this ritual for Astoria or if the Longbottoms just grant him permission to work on Alice and Frank, then they could go through with the treatment now and in theory Neville can have his parents back within a few years, depending on how they respond to treatment. It could be as little as months if everything works beautifully.

There’s nothing illegal about experimental treatments performed by wizards who aren’t certified healers so long as the patients, or the ones responsible for making decisions for them, sign off on it. Understandably, however, that’s often an incredibly stupid thing to do.

So, Argo isn’t surprised in the least at the Longbottom’s choice, nor does he hold it against them. In theory, his treatment should work, but a lot can sometimes go sideways between the theory and execution. He just hopes that, in time, the Longbottoms will get the treatment they need, whether it be of his design or not, and Neville gets his parents back. Even if they can theoretically restore them sooner, there’s no shame in waiting for more research to be done just to be safe.

They decide not to tell Astoria just what room they’re using for the ritual. It’s not that they don’t trust her to keep it a secret, it’s mostly just that, without Argo, no one else will ever be able to enter, anyway.

That said, even though all they tell her about the room is that it’s a laboratory room out of the way of normal student paths through the castle, her sharp, intelligent eyes narrow at the décor.

She doesn’t say anything, of course, but Daphne shares a fond smile with her friends, thinking that Astoria definitely suspects there’s more to this place than meets the eye.

“Before we begin,” says Astoria, stopping short just outside the ritual circle, “I would like to thank you all.” She curtsies perfectly, but her sincerity breaks whatever mask she wears. “My sister told me only a little of what you’ve endured to put this together. My family owes each of you a great debt. Whether this works or not, know that the Greengrass family recognizes your aid with allyship.”

“Those are some big words there, Miss Pureblood,” Argo teases kindly. “But don’t worry. Daphne’s family, so that makes you family, too.”

At that, Astoria flushes beet-red. “O-oh, um. S-sorry. I’m meant to-”

Daphne’s hand comes down on her head to ruffle her hair. “Don’t apologize,” she says. “You did good. Exactly as you’re supposed to, considering these three are all quite notable people. Unfortunately, they’re also very unusual.”

Susan snickers. “Harry was raised muggle, so pureblood customs don’t mean much even though they should. Argo’s just the informal type.” She raises a hand to cover her mouth as she pretends to whisper, “I think it comes from growing up in the wilds.”

“I was not raised in the wild.” Argo rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” says Susan, grinning cheekily. “You’re right. You were raised in a zoo.”

Argo opens his mouth to retort, but… actually, that’s pretty much true.

“And even though my aunt is important,” says Susan, “my family is relatively new to that scene, so despite being a pureblood, I’m not actually a society girl.”

“Which my little sister already knew,” says Daphne with a smile on her face. Patting her sister’s head, she adds, “You did good, Astoria, but what can you learn from this?”

Astoria, still blushing madly and frowning at the ground, mutters, “I need to remember the specific circumstances of the people I talk to, instead of just relying on formalities?”

“Exactly that. Because you see, it’s that distinction, being able to code-switch depending on whoever you’re talking to, that separates the truly skilled from the willingly blind.”

“…My friends would call it demeaning.”

Daphne purses her lips. “We’re not inhuman, Astoria. Having someone you can be with casually is very important for your own health and happiness. Of course, the formalities are important, too, but there is nothing demeaning about casual behavior in the right circumstances. And there are some alliances that can only be made outside of formal circles. Choose those alliances carefully, and no one can find cause to protest.”

“Like you did?” Astoria asks shrewdly, eyeing Harry, Argo, and Susan.

Daphne laughs. “Yes, like I did.”

“So calculating,” Argo teases.

Susan grins. “So cold.”

Harry snorts. “And here I thought you liked me for my personality.”

All three of them share a look, roll their eyes and scoff, “Slytherins.” (But none of them manage to wipe their smiles off their faces.)

Argo shakes his head. “Have you been practicing that spell I taught you?”

Astoria nods eagerly, already dropping much of the prim decorum she holds until now. “Every day.”

“Excellent.” She’ll need it. Her immune system isn’t great as is from dealing with the effects of the malediction, and hopefully that spell will help strengthen it so she won’t be as sick in the coming weeks. “Then, are you ready to get started?”

She takes a deep, fortifying breath, and nods, determined. “I’m ready.”

Daphne gently guides her forward with a hand on her back. “Then let’s go,” she says softly. “Lay down on the pedestal.”

They pass through into the ritual room, where Astoria follows instructions, carefully tiptoeing over the runes on the floor to lay down on the stone table (itself covered in runes).

Daphne runs her fingers carefully through her sister’s hair. “I’ll put you to sleep now, okay? When you wake up… it’ll all be over.”

Astoria’s confident face falters for just a moment, but she nods and closes her eyes and Daphne uses a spell to induce sleep that she doesn’t try to resist.

Daphne takes a deep breath, kisses her sister’s head, then steps back to her place in the ritual. Her expression is stony, unrelenting whatever lies underneath. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

Wordlessly, the rest of them find their own places. All of them feel the pressure. It’s their work, their responsibility.

Daphne takes the lead. When her wand lifts to point at the crystal now attached to the ceiling, the others follow. They breathe in together. When Daphne starts chanting, the magic flows.

The ritual is long, and there is no room for error, but all four of them are determined to do their parts perfectly and see this through. An hour in, they flag. Normal magic use is in bursts. Even performing great feats of power usually won’t exhaust a wizard in just one spell. It’s only when they compound, like when Argo maintains a patronus directly after his animagus ritual, that magical exhaustion becomes a legitimate threat.

The reason they trade off who maintains the patronus down in the Murk is for precisely that reason, because maintaining powerful spells is infinitely more difficult than casting them. And this ritual, it’s a stream – the magic can’t be interrupted.

Argo and Daphne guide Harry and Susan on suppressing their magic, even, to build up reserves for this, but an hour in and Argo can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him.

The magic in the room is like electricity. It leaves everything charged, makes Argo’s hair stand on end. It’s thick and palpable. But they can’t stop, can’t break focus for even a moment.

Nearly two hours in, the four of them finally lower their wands. But that doesn’t mean that they’re done. Rituals are defined by being multi-step processes, after all.

Every step, Daphne performs with care. Sometimes, one of the others must take the role, not because Daphne is too tired – she will push through any exhaustion, even to the point of danger – to complete this ritual – just because it is necessary for the ritual itself. Otherwise, Daphne leads.

After another hour, the chanting begins again, for the last time. They all push through the aches in their wand arms and their dwindling power with the end in sight.

And then, after thirty more struggling minutes, they all slump where they stand.

“Did it work?” Daphne asks.

Argo, panting, has to support himself with his hands on his knees. He shakes his head. “I know you need to know,” he gasps. “But- Morning.”

Daphne grimaces. Susan, a little better off than Argo is, wipes the sweat from her brow and asks aloud. “This is the Room of Requirement, right? Can we… can we just sleep here?

“Should we wake…?”

Daphne shakes her head. “Let her sleep. She’ll be as exhausted as we are, and there’s nothing left to do tonight.”

“I’ll carry her into the other room,” says Harry. “Looks like I’m not as tired as the rest of you.”

Argo shakes his head and forces himself to straighten. “I can do it. I’m stronger than you.”

“Physically,” Susan putters. “But you’re exhausted. Harry’s not so much.”

“I can carry a little girl into the next room.” He sighs. “I have to feed Jason and Shiloh, anyway.” As he moves to pick up Astoria, he asks, “Do you all want me to pick up some food from the kitchens on my way back?”

“I want to sleep,” Susan groans. “But we need to eat. Replenish some of that magic.”

“Let me do that, at least.” Harry is already at the door, holding it open for Argo to pass through with Astoria. “You left Jason in your lab, right? His food is there, too, I know how much to give him. Then I’ll bring him and Shiloh back with me once they’ve finished eating.”

Reluctance is clear on Argo’s face. Still, all he says is, “Shiloh’s probably waiting outside. Just let him in. He can eat with the rest of us.”

Ravenclaw’s laboratory, which they pass through to get to the ritual room, is replaced now by a simple room with a table and enormous bed for all of them. Argo smiles, thankful that it’s yet another function of the room and not his bedroom (since he has… quite a few things there that he doesn’t want to risk the others finding), and lays Astoria down on the bed.

As he predicts, the moment Harry opens the door, Shiloh slips in past his feet, immediately hopping up on the bed to nose at Astoria, as if he can tell at all whether the ritual works or not.

While the girls sit at the table next to the fireplace, Argo circles around to the other side of the bed so he won’t bother Astoria and flops down. After only a moment of blissful stillness, he reaches over to grab Shiloh and pull him close to cuddle.

After Argo kisses his head, Shiloh looks at him with curious eyes, then casts his gaze to the girls. Argo nods. It’s not like they can’t trust those two to keep a secret.

Ecstatic, Shiloh immediately changes form, getting bigger and much heavier right on top of Argo and full on kissing him on the mouth before anyone can even react.

Daphne just looks at them snogging (tiredly on Argo’s part, which softens the whole intensity of it all) and rolls her eyes, wondering quietly whether she can get some tea.

Susan’s reaction isn’t much different. She shakes her head, turns back to collapse on the table, and mutters, “…Not even surprised.”

“Oh!” Shiloh hops up, all wide grins and eagerness, and runs over to the fireplace. “I can make tea! Do you like green tea, or oolong? I don’t really like black, so I don’t have much – I usually only use it for tessomancy – but I think there’s some if you really want it.”

The room provides his own kettle, the kyusu with the hollow side handle that Shiloh prefers (“It’s so much more elegant! And much easier to pour.”) and what Argo assumes is tea from their own stores as well.

Daphne looks at Shiloh with a face that clearly reads, “You’re not British, are you?”

Susan just laughs and says, “Whatever you like. I’m not picky.”

Shiloh gets to work, humming happily as he prepares the tea.

“It’s nice to meet you, by the way. I knew you weren’t just a cat.”

Shiloh snickers. “Nice to meet you, too! I’m so glad I have more people to talk to! Not that I’ll ever complain about alone time with Argo, but sometimes we just don’t have alone time.”

“Sorry about keeping him so busy, then.” Daphne smirks. “Why pretend to be a normal cat, anyway?”

“Because I’m learning magic!” Shiloh chirps. As if to prove it, he spells the teacups and kettle to settle in front of the girls and pour itself.

Both girls frown uncertainly. “A creature like Shiloh wouldn’t be allowed a wand,” Susan murmurs.

“I’m classified as a being!” he protests. “But… yeah, I’m not allowed a wand. So, I have to learn everything without one.”

“Hogwarts would never take you as a student, so it’s… just easier to hide?” Daphne concludes.

“It’s how he gets into classes,” Susan says. “Haven’t you noticed he’s always paying attention to the teachers when Argo brings him?”

“Ah. That makes sense. You wouldn’t be allowed in class if everyone knew you weren’t just a cat.”

“Mhm!”

Daphne narrows her eyes. “Pansy said you go to Divination all the time. Argo doesn’t even have that class.”

“He’s an oneiromancer,” Argo murmurs, half-dozing. “Part of the reason I brought him here to learn in the first place is to understand his ability with divination better, but I only met him before fifth year so I had already committed to not taking the class myself.”

“That’s why you suddenly decided to take the Divination O.W.L.!” Susan exclaims.

Argo only gives her a tired, cheeky grin.

“Shiloh is in a sort of legal grey area, though.” Susan taps her chin thoughtfully. “Technically, so long as Argo doesn’t give him his wand, they’re not breaking the law, but the spirit of the law is that non-human beings shouldn’t be allowed to learn the kind of magic we do. Which is, you know, dumb, but didn’t arise entirely out of nothing but bigotry. Pretending to be a cat is for sure the best move. If people find out they might not have any solid legal standing to get Argo in trouble for it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if people tried. Given the state of our Ministry, they might even succeed,” she looks to Daphne, “or maybe not, now, with your dad taking control of the Wizengamot.”

Daphne grins cheekily, smugly.

After that, they settle back into quiet. Argo, turning down tea for the moment in favor of napping until Harry gets back with food, just lays there, soon joined by Shiloh who sees prime cuddle time available to him.

(Shiloh likes sleepy cuddles more than any other kind of cuddle. Exhaustion from overuse of magic isn’t exactly the same as the drowsy, blue hours of morning kind of sleepy, but that doesn’t mean Shiloh isn’t going to take advantage of it. And Argo certainly won’t complain.)

When Harry gets back, Jason in one hand and a bag of food provided by the house elves in the other, he goes to the bed first to let Jason down, ruffle Shiloh’s head right between his ears, and murmur, “Oh, we’re telling the girls about that now?”

“You knew?” asks Susan when Harry starts towards her to lay out dinner.

“Shiloh was the reason we even knew there was a prophecy about me to hear.” Harry shrugs. “Or rather… it’s a bit more complicated, but Shiloh was part of that whole thing. I found out about him then.”

“Huh. Well.” Susan’s eyes set on the spread that fills their table. “Let’s eat so we can sleep.”

“Argo,” Daphne calls. “You especially need to eat. Come on. You can sleep after.”

From Argo’s part of the bed, they just hear a loud groan.

Unfortunately, she’s right. It’s a herculean task, but he manages somehow to budge Shiloh off and situate Jason so that he can haul himself to his feet. A few dragging steps away, he falls into a chair, followed closely by Shiloh taking the chair next to him.

“It still surprises me just how big the gap between you two is.” Susan eyes Argo and Harry like a puzzle. “Partly because I always forget that Argo isn’t as powerful as he seems. But siblings are normally fairly equal in terms of raw power.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m the baby,” Argo says, without a hint of hesitation or humor.

Harry and Susan just look at him like he grows a second head. Daphne groans. “For the last time, Argo, no one considers you the baby. Maybe when we were first years you could get away with that.”

“And for the last time,” Argo shoots back, “turning into a grizzly bear sometimes does not disqualify me from being the baby!”

“You shattered a man’s ribcage a few weeks ago!”

“And so what? I’m still the baby.”

Harry and Susan share a look. Harry bites his lip. “I’m confused,” he says.

“Why does this sound like you have this conversation regularly?” Susan asks.

Argo huffs. “Because Daphne thinks growing up big means I’m not the baby anymore and I wholeheartedly disagree. My big brother is on my side, by the way.”

“I’ve already said Scamanders don’t count.” Daphne rolls her eyes.

“I’m a Scamander! …And I bet I can make Charlie Weasley agree with me.”

Daphne shoots him an incredulous look. “Make him agree with you? And isn’t that the one obsessed with dragons? How’s that any different than asking Rolf?”

Argo snickers. “To be fair, who isn’t obsessed with dragons?”

“Anyone who values their life?”

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to say that, Ms. ‘let’s go tomb raiding in the Murk.’”

“…You know what? I accept that.”

Harry frowns. “What does any of this have to do with magical power?”

“Good question!” Argo grins. “Susan’s right, of course, that siblings tend to be roughly equal in terms of magical power. Now I’m not an especially weak wizard – I think I’m actually somewhere around average – but you are frankly kind of ridiculous. Like, young Dumbledore levels of raw power. That’s why you’re not as tired as the rest of us.”

“Yeah, I get that,” says Harry. “But why?”

“Well, obviously there are a lot of factors that determine a wizard’s magical potential, some of which can be trained to increase that potential, and many of which aren’t very well researched, but in our case, I think there’s really a couple big ones.”

“You really aren’t very good at getting to the point, are you?” Susan giggles.

Argo huffs. “If the point were ever that simple, I would get there quicker. But this is a complex question and there’s a lot of factors that might affect it.”

Daphne snorts. “Remember, he’s a nerd.”

“I absolutely am,” says Argo firmly, “but that has nothing to do with the objective importance of nuance.”

“See, on one hand, I agree with you.” Daphne smirks. “On the other, I’m pretty sure you’re literally incapable of answering a question without waffling on the way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was perfectly clear on this question. The ‘waffling’ only happens when you ask for more details.”

“In what world is ‘I’m the baby’ a sufficient explanation for why Harry is significantly more powerful than you?”

“It’s the most concise explanation!”

“Guys, guys!” Harry sighs. “Can we just… hear the explanation? I’m actually curious.”

When it’s clear the girls are actually going to allow Argo to speak without taking the mickey out of him, he huffs and says, “So one phenomenon of magical power is that it can be trained sort of like a muscle. If you use it a lot, especially if you push it regularly, you tend to develop stronger than your peers. That phenomenon actually has a much stronger effect in children than in adults.”

“So, a kid that regularly trains their magic will grow up stronger than one who doesn’t?”

“Essentially. That’s just one reason why there’s an appearance of pureblood witches and wizards being stronger than muggleborns.”

Harry frowns. “But I didn’t use magic very much. I had some cases of accidental magic, but it’s not like I was practicing with it. By that logic, you should be the more powerful one.”

Argo inclines his head. His words slow with care. “Magic isn’t always apparating or turning someone’s hair blue, though, is it? Sometimes… it’s a bruise that heals abnormally fast.”

Harry immediately ducks his head.

“When I said I’m the baby,” Argo continues gently, “I mean, I’m the baby. I’m the youngest in my family. Everyone always looked out for me. They kept me safe, away from anything that could seriously hurt me. It didn’t entirely stop accidents, obviously. Given our work, that’s just impossible. But I’m doted on by my family. I never needed to flex my magic like that as a kid. So, yes, I trained a little in control like all purebloods do, but you definitely stressed your magic way more than I ever did.

“That’s another trend that’s been documented,” Argo murmurs softly. “Some muggleborns occasionally pop up who have abnormally large pools of power. I think you’re one of those.”

Harry’s abuse is hardly a secret. It’s all outed in the public newspapers several years ago when Harry is removed from the Dursleys and Sirius gets custody over him. Still, it’s not a topic anyone who knows Harry ever really brings up. Understandably, no one, most especially Harry himself, wants to linger on the topic.

Argo taps his fingers on the table. “That’s not to say it’s all trained,” he says with more pep in his voice. “While siblings do tend to have similar power levels, it’s not a hard rule. There are all sorts of fluctuations in the power of kids to the same parents. It’s a minor influence at best, and probably more a case of correlation rather than causation if I’m honest, but the trend is that older siblings tend to be slightly more powerful than younger ones. It’s narrow, but Fred is more powerful than George, and Padma is more powerful than Parvati, for example.”

“Fred’s the older twin?” Susan asks.

“I’m the older twin?” Harry stares at Argo uncomprehending. “How do you know?”

Argo… can’t very well tell him that Lily mentions it. And the problem with using Sirius or Remus as an excuse is that Harry talks to both of them way more than Argo does. And by way more, it’s literally the difference between living with them and never seeing them if he can help it, ever.

So, instead, Argo shares a look with Shiloh and just says, “Are you seriously questioning how I know things? At this point?”

“I would like to know someday,” hums Susan. “How you always know everything.”

Harry just shakes his head. Argo tries not to sigh, silently thankful that Harry accepts his non-answer. Sometimes, having a reputation for knowing literally everything comes in handy.

“Anyway,” says Argo. “I think you were more powerful from the start, then our upbringings exacerbated it, and now you’re a raw magic powerhouse and I have to make do with just being clever.”

“Just being clever, he says,” Susan scoffs.

Harry laughs along with her. “Everyone, including me, regularly forgets that you’re not as powerful as I am because you’re so good with magic that it doesn’t seem to matter.”

“You guys should really examine one of Ravenclaw’s enchantments sometime,” Argo muses. “Even all these years later, she makes me look like a kid scribbling with crayons. I’ve still got a long way to go.”

“That should probably sound less threatening than it does,” says Daphne.

“No, it shouldn’t.” Argo’s grin turns shark-like. “It is a threat.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Susan waves her hand dismissively. “More importantly, you’re studying Rowena Ravenclaw’s enchantments?”

Argo blinks. “We’re sitting in her room right now. How does that surprise you?”

Susan cuts off whatever she is going to say to mutter, “Oh, yeah… I think the exhaustion is getting to me.”

“Just now?”

Daphne snorts, hiding her giggles. “Bedtime, then? I guess we’re all sharing?”

“The room gives you what you need, and it only gave us one bed, so…” Argo shrugs, but still smiles together with Shiloh.

“Mhm.” Daphne rolls her eyes. She’s the first to rise, stretching before she makes her way over to the large bed. “Just don’t get up to any funny business with Shiloh while we’re all sleeping in the same bed, alright?”

Shiloh squeaks. “I am a gentleman!”

“You’re not.” Argo smacks his shoulder lightly. “But we don’t do any more than snogging anyway, so you don’t have anything to worry about. Promise. And if it makes you feel any better, that’s not our normal bed.”

“I did wonder,” says Susan.

“Besides,” Argo groans. “I’m way too tired.”

“Then come to bed!” Shiloh tugs on him, pulling him to his feet and back to the bed where they join Daphne, curling up close to Astoria, and are then joined by Susan and Harry just a moment later in one big muddle. (Argo’s definitive favorite way to cuddle.)

“How is she?” Daphne frets, hovering over both Astoria and Argo, who is still examining her.

Argo bites his lip. “Your immune system is shot,” he says to Astoria’s wide-eyed expression, “but it’s still in the realm of what we expected. Don’t go a day without redoing that spell I taught you. Daphne, you have to watch her, too.”

Daphne nods seriously. Astoria does, too.

“You’ll likely get sick soon, and badly. Don’t use pepperup potions. It’s going to suck, but you need to build up your immunity again else you’ll never get stronger. Madam Pomfrey will take care of you once that hits, and you should be fine.”

“Won’t she just give her a pepperup potion?” Daphne asks.

“She might,” says Argo. “Just mention that Astoria tends to be sickly. Or, whatever it takes to get to her examine her immune system. Madam Pomfrey will know the right steps to take so long as she knows to look for it, but honestly, I think you’ll probably be sick enough that she’ll do it on her own.”

Astoria winces. “Great. This is going to be fun.”

“Oh, not in the slightest.” Argo grins. “But you’re a tough girl. You’ll pull through.”

“And what about the malediction?” Daphne presses. “Is it gone? Did we cure it?”

At that, Argo bites his lip. “…It’s hard to say with complete certainty, but… I believe so. You and your family will need to keep an eye on her, but if it doesn’t make itself apparent within a couple years, I think she should be safe. From what I can tell by diagnostics… I can’t find any trace of it. But that’s not- a lot of the symptoms still remain, like her weakened immune system. Until she has time to recover and let everything settle, there’s no way to know for certain.”

Susan hums. “If Argo can’t find it with his diagnostics, then it must be gone.”

Daphne sinks into her relief. “Thank goodness. I can’t believe…” She wraps up Astoria in her arms and buries her head into her sister.

The rest of them hear sniffling.

Argo gulps thickly. He shifts away. Harry’s hand finds his shoulder. His questioning gaze meets Argo’s.

Argo shakes his head. Quietly, and a short distance away so the girls don’t hear, Argo whispers, “You guys have too much faith in me. Just because I can’t find it… That doesn’t mean it’s a sure thing.”

Harry frowns. That’s unfortunately true, and Argo is always very clear about that. The ritual, though it doesn’t go obviously wrong, isn’t a hundred percent sure to work. His own diagnostics, while far more accurate than any of the others’, aren’t a hundred percent, either.

Harry chews his lip for a moment. “We all know that. You did your best. You did everything you could.” He searches Argo’s face, not sure what he expects to find, but not finding it. “What more do you expect from yourself?”

Argo’s eyes are hard and cold. He doesn’t look away from Astoria when he answers, “To be right.”

“What… what does that mean?”

Argo sighs. Finally, he looks back to Harry. “If I miss something – something virulent, something dangerous – then…”

Then Astoria can die because of it. Harry understands that as well as Argo does. As well as they all do. He’s scared to death himself going into that ritual because he knows that any mistake can be disastrous. Harry thinks that, at this point, Astoria’s health is much more on Madam Pomfrey than any of them, but he does understand where Argo is coming from. He’s the one they’re relying on to say whether or not the malediction is cured.

But Harry can’t stand hearing his brother doubt himself. “Then we have to accept that it was inevitable. If you don’t see anything, I doubt even Dumbledore would.”

“I could,” Argo mutters darkly. “Just because everyone else might miss it, too, doesn’t mean I have any excuse.”

It’s really incredible how he can be so sure in his ability, and still doubt himself like this.

“Or maybe,” Harry says hesitantly, “all the research and planning we did paid off and she’ll be fine. Look at them.” He glances over to where the girls are all happily talking. Susan is sending the occasional concerned glance their way, but Harry shakes his head to warn her off. But Daphne and Astoria are in their own little world, and Shiloh, though he likewise notices Harry and Argo, purrs curled up in Astoria’s lap. “We did it. Can’t you celebrate with the rest of us?”

“No,” Argo says firmly. “Not until I know.”

Seriously, sometimes he can be so stubborn. Harry shamelessly grabs Argo’s robes, pulling at them to access the pocket he knows Jason is in.

“What- what’re you doing?”

Harry just glares at him. “You’re being ridiculous, and Shiloh’s busy, and you always feel better with an adorable fluffy creature to cuddle, so I’m drafting Jason.”

Argo barks a disbelieving laugh, but accepts Jason into his arms. Harry is… very much not wrong. Just seeing Jason, feeling him in his arms, makes him feel loads better.

“All of us did everything we could,” Harry murmurs. “And it’s not just on you. We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

“It’s my work,” Argo murmurs stubbornly. “It’s my responsibility.”

“We all worked together on the ritual. That’s all of us. Just because you’re the one casting the diagnostics afterwards doesn’t mean it’s not all of our work.”

Argo loses what remains in his lungs, slouching around Jason in his arms. Jason looks at him, reaches up to pat his cheek, and in that non-speak that only Argo understand, seems to say, you did good.

Argo quickly wipes at his eyes and straightens his back. He watches Harry consideringly.

Feeling sorry for himself won’t save anyone. He does what he can for Astoria whether, after a few years, it works out or not. If there’s any chance of recovery after a failure, he’ll be right there working with the others on it, in that case.

But there is still another puzzle to solve. It’s nearly time to grab the sixth horcrux, and the seventh…

Argo cannot afford to be idle right now. He still has so much to do.

“Oh, that is so unfair.” Reynard Gage pouts adorably when Argo arrives. (Though he can’t resist hugging back when Argo picks him up in a bear hug.) “Yeesh, I’m going to need a ladder to see your face.”

Argo chuckles. “Do you even want to be big?”

Reynard huffs. “No, but I do want a beard, and I’m very jealous of yours right now. I can’t grow anything.”

Argo grins.

“Anyway, put me down.”

“I don’t want to.”

Reynard levels an unimpressed look at him as Diego and Niklas giggle behind him.

Argo snickers. “Okay, okay, fine.” He stoops down to gently set Reynard on his feet.

The first time they meet two years ago, Argo is already quite a bit taller than Reynard, but now he’s towering over him, and even though Argo has mixed feelings in general about being the biggest one in any room without a literal giant present, he still finds this situation funny.

Even Jason gets in on it, scurrying up to the top of Argo’s head to look down on Reynard like a king turning up his nose at a filthy peasant.

Reynard, who can barely reach the top of Argo’s head, much less grab Jason from atop it, can only pout helplessly about it.

Argo smiles at him, then, after hugging Niklas and Diego as well, shifts into serious mode. “Thank you all for coming. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it.” Reynard shrugs. “Although… I could do without working with your Death Eaters.”

Argo looks to the floor. “I know. I try to keep you guys separate, but…”

“It’s the right team for the job,” Niklas says firmly. “And seriously, you don’t need to thank us. We want to get this done as much as you do.”

“Speaking of which, I haven’t met these Death Eaters, yet,” Diego says. “Where shall we meet?”

“I told them to get stationed in Diagon Alley before us,” Argo says. “Nott and Macnair are my best hunters. Which is a nice way of saying they like causing pain. But Lucius Malfoy has a good head on his shoulders. He probably knows the most about who might be around in Diagon today, and he can keep the other two in line.”

Reynard frowns. “You seriously put that much faith in Lucius Malfoy?”

“Of course, not,” Argo scoffs. “But right now, it’s in his best interest to stay on my good side. He’ll be reliable for this.”

It takes a while longer for Reynard to nod. “I suppose erasing the Dark Mark cuts them off from turning back to Riddle, doesn’t it?”

“He’s also ratted out the locations of two horcruxes now, and he was instrumental in finding the last one, so Lucius especially doesn’t have a chance of ever getting back in Riddle’s good graces. Nott is the problem, but he won’t dare turn coat today.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because if he abandons ship, there’s no one to protect him from the ongoing backlash over the Sacred Twenty-Eight scandal. Even with his other Death Eaters broken out of Azkaban, there’s nothing Riddle can do for him. I’m mitigating the worst of it. Without me, his family is well and truly ruined, and he knows it.”

Reynard eyes him warily, but there’s a brighter hint behind his eyes that looks suspiciously like admiration. “Are you sure you’re not a Slytherin?”

“Ha. Sorry to disappoint.”

“What about Macnair? How do we know he won’t cause problems?”

Argo wrinkles his nose. “That man just wants to see people hurt. Even Nott has the sense to pretend he’s civilized.” A huff. “But I’ve found that distracting him with a hunt is enough to keep him busy without something to torture. He’ll be happy with me until we off Riddle for good, then I’ll have to implement one of my plans to ‘handle’ him.”

Argo’s three friends are each stunned silent, though the range from concern to respect varies wildly. It’s Niklas who turns away first, murmuring to himself, “Why is that hot?”

That breaks Diego out of his uncharacteristic frown. “We always knew you prefer men who can break you. It’s no surprise.”

Niklas flushes. “H-hey!”

Argo laughs. “Trust me, I know how I sound. But the sad reality is that, ever since I decided to become Laelaps, I was always going to have to deal with things like that.” He sighs. “I wish I didn’t. I really do. But… if not me, then who?”

Some might say the aurors will handle it, or Dumbledore, but no one present is ignorant enough to answer in kind. No one here has that much trust in the established authority.

Things are changing, though. Laelaps makes sure of that. Reshuffling the government in one fell swoop means a lot can change very quickly. It’s simply a matter of whether those changes will be for good or ill. Argo has faith in Mr. Greengrass as the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, and time will tell on who will be elected Minister to replace Fudge (Argo is betting on Lucius, though he decides to stay out of that particular race. Lucius is his ally, yes, but Argo is clear from the beginning that he has no intention of getting in the way of democracy. The Minister for Magic, unlike the Supreme Mugwump, is democratically elected by the citizens, not appointed by the Wizengamot, so Argo puts out his propaganda like everyone else, but only to ensure that the worst options don’t have a chance. He supports Lucius, of course, but Lucius accepts his position as one that will remain effectively neutral in this.) but how the wizarding world will progress from here is still a mystery even to Argo.

And so, for that reason, no one argues with him. If not him, then who? If not them, then who will stop Riddle? The Ministry so far has failed laughably. Amelia Bones is a brilliant ally to have, but the bureaucracy and red tape that Fudge and some of the other departments put her through effectively put the aurors in a legal stranglehold.

Riddle is defeated more than fifteen years ago now, and the Ministry in its official capacity refuses to acknowledge the chance that he yet lives. And to be fair, he’s not much of a threat as he is now, but that’s because Laelaps is menacing him from the shadows at every step. Laelaps cripples him two years ago, Laelaps’ hounds are haranguing his Death Eaters, minimizing their effectiveness, and Laelaps continues to track his movements to ensure he stays that way.

But if he gets his hands on Hufflepuff’s Cup… he will have many more options available to him. Argo can count no fewer than twenty different ways he can become a legitimate threat to wizarding Britain once more. However, knowing Riddle… Argo knows exactly what he’s planning.

Argo sighs. “Let’s go,” he says. “We can’t be late.”

“Right.” Reynard nods, and the other two mirror him. He checks his watch. “She should be inside the bank. We should go now.”

Argo answers with his own nod, and the four of them disapparate at once.

A sharp crack signals their arrival in Diagon Alley. Without a word, they separate, striding casually to hidden alleys or storefronts where they won’t stand out. Laelaps stops by a newspaper stand, takes in the date, the 14th of June, 1997, checks his watch, 6:22 am, and takes cover just to the side of Gringotts Bank and, once he’s hidden, slips his mask over his face.

“My Lord,” Lucius murmurs. “Is everything prepared?”

“Yes.” Laelaps slips Jason from his robes, looks the niffler sternly in the eyes, and whispers. “We need the cup. Understand? Don’t enter the bank; just take the cup.”

Jason snorts quietly as if to say, yes, I know, you don’t have to say it a thousand times.

Laelaps smiles, then gently sets Jason down. He scurries off, his small stature quickly vanishing even in the mostly empty alley.

And now, they wait. It’s an anxious, tense game, for how short the waiting truly is. Laelaps doesn’t want to risk anyone being seen as Bellatrix enters the bank, so he only sends his Hounds in the short period of time that she should be inside. Having the Death Eaters here to observe earlier is the more dangerous option, since Bellatrix is more likely to recognize a former Death Eater, but for all their faults, they won’t fail a hunt like this.

The anticipation, the preparation… it’s far more exciting for them than simple raid orders. It’s how he keeps Macnair under his thumb.

(Plus, he trusts the Circle of Khanna with precise timing a whole lot more, if he’s honest. Apparating into the alley while Bellatrix is approaching the bank would be disastrous, as no one is capable of silencing the sound of apparition, and it would no doubt draw her attention so early in the morning.)

Laelaps closes his eyes. He breathes slowly, steadily. His double heartbeat pounds in his chest, at once racing and comforting.

He checks his watch. 6:27. Go time.

The door of Gringotts Bank opens. A woman with thick, shining, dark hair and a small handbag exits, striding purposefully away from the bank. Her hooded eyes cast furtive looks this way and that now that she is no longer safely in the legal neutral ground of Gringotts.

Laelaps steps out behind her, trailing her silently. He speeds up a little, gains ground on her. As she power walks away, he increases his pace to get close enough to reach out and-

He ducks, dodging the wand in his face. His own wand (Not his, the warlock’s, which he takes from the Murk. A wand no one will recognize, but which works for him almost concerningly well, considering its origin.) springs to his hand to fire a curse at Bellatrix, who is already screaming.

Figures begin appearing, coming out of the woodwork. Laelaps notes them but doesn’t linger on them. For every skull-faced mask that appears, a dog one does as well. As Bellatrix’ backup floods the alley, Laelaps’ own Hounds jump out to meet them.

And it is pandemonium.

Spells fire this way and that. They break glass in storefronts and dig up the earth beneath the brick street. Shopkeepers cower inside their stores, and the few patrons around this early in the morning dive into the nearest store for shelter.

Laelaps sends a flagrante curse at Bellatrix’ bag, but she counters it and sends a cruciatus curse right back at him.

Laelaps dances aside to avoid it, grits his teeth. A revulsion jinx, a summoning charm, anything he can think of to get that bag away from her. Eventually, after the back and forth increases its pace, Laelaps can’t afford to focus on the bag and not the witch.

She’s a better duelist. Laelaps isn’t surprised, but he’s also a much more talented wizard. He can do this. He sees an opening, transfigures the newspapers from the nearby, blown-up, stand into daggers that attack Death Eaters indiscriminately.

Shouts echo through the alley.

Eradication spell, gouging charm. Laelaps does not relent. His focus is solely on Bellatrix. She cannot escape. A body-bind curse, a particularly nasty transfiguration, even the warlock’s linking curse-

Laelaps turns to deflect a spell coming at him from another Death Eater. Niklas roars, jumping in to pull crushing pillars from the earth that slam into the Death Eater from either side, crushing him between them.

“What’s this?” Bellatrix’ shout grabs Laelaps’ attention again. “Get this bloody beast off me!”

She kicks, hard. Laelaps’ lungs seize when he sees Jason sail through the air to strike a hard brick storefront.

Oh, fuck no.

Laelaps lifts his wand, but can’t press the attack when another Death Eater jumps in. Laelaps wraps up his throat with an incarcerous spell, felling him.

The Death Eater is halfway to the ground when everything slows.

Bellatrix shrieks, “Avada Kedavra!”

Laelaps turns, his wand is already there, but he doesn’t have time to dodge. He’s turned away when the spell comes, so even though he jumps aside, as the world seems to move at a snail’s pace, he can see the trajectory of the spell.

He won’t get out of the way in time.

But the little lump of disheveled fur just between him and Bellatrix, which is already halfway through the air to the poison-green spell, will make it.

The Killing Curse strikes the brave creature head on, and Jason falls, limp, to the brick below.

The world around Laelaps doesn’t speed back up again. If anything, it appears even slower. His ragged breath roars with his blood in his ears. His double-heartbeat pounds a thousand times too quickly as Diagon Alley blurs in slow motion.

Jason is dead.

Laelaps stares, transfixed, at his best friend – his brother.

Belatrix’ cackling laughter pierces his soul. It fills the air like something liquid, drowning him.

When Laelaps’ eyes meet her form, he only sees red.

Oh, she tries to shield, but that neat trick with chirality that can bypass most security charms also works on shields, and Laelaps fights her long enough to identify her own magic’s chirality to respond in turn. That’s why, when he screams, “Exsangueo!” It passes straight through her defenses, striking true in her chest.

Her laughing stops. After a moment, she coughs – blood spills from her mouth.

Laelaps distantly hears the cracking of apparition, but he won’t later recall anything but the buzzing in his ears and the justified swelling in his chest just seeing Bellatrix bleed.

When she falls, choking on the blood Laelaps draws into her lungs, Laelaps takes a shaky step towards her. He stops only long enough to pick up Jason’s cooling body. He cradles it in his arm while the other hand keeps his wand steady on his victim.

The unforgivable curses, though considered advanced dark magic, aren’t truly difficult to cast. They’re fairly standard intent-based spells, after all, and though the British Ministry deems intent-based spellwork to be more difficult and less reliable, the truth is that all accidental magic is intent and emotion-based. This is the kind of spellwork that children do before they even have wands.

The only catch, especially for the unforgivable curses, is that they have to mean it.

Laelaps never means anything more.

“Crucio.”

Bellatrix can’t scream. She has no air in her lungs with which to shout. Her body convulses, an ugly, ripping seizure that’s enough to leave lesser wizards with nightmares.

Someone else screams, but his wail is cut off by the rope around his throat. Laelaps spares the glance over, and smiles coldly when he realizes that the Death Eater he has bound just off to the side is none other than Rodolphus Lestrange. Her husband.

Good. He can watch.

Within seconds, though, Bellatrix’ convulsions fade and cease. Rodolphus stares in abject, wide-eyed horror, witnessing his wife perish right in front of him.

Laelaps clicks his tongue. “Oh, no,” he growls. “No, no, no, no, no.” He stalks up to Bellatrix’ corpse, kicking it once just to check. “You think you can escape? You think that was enough?” A manic, laugh escapes him. With his wand hand – the other is still caressing Jason – he rips the Resurrection Stone from the chain around his neck. It turns, somewhat awkwardly since he’s still holding his wand, in his hand.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

Gasps fill the alley when Bellatrix, slightly translucent, appears standing over her own body. She takes in the sight for a moment, then those hooded eyes fix on him in terror.

“Did you forget who I am?” Laelaps growls lowly, stalking towards her. “I am Laelaps. There is no escape from me. Nothing, not even Death, can protect you.” He reaches out with the hand holding his wand and the stone, grasping at something invisible and intangible. “You don’t get to escape your suffering.” Bellatrix whimpers under his heady glare. “I say when it ends.”

He yanks. Bellatrix shrieks out in unimaginable pain. Even as a shade, she collapses, right next to her still-warm body, and writhes unrelenting in the dirt. Laelaps pulls the Veil ever tighter around her.

“Stop it!” Someone grabs his shoulder, yanks him around. “Laelaps! Stop it!”

Though they’re all still masked, Laelaps knows from the stature and the pleading eyes that it’s Reynard in front of him. Reynard, and all the rest of the Hounds, gasp when they see Jason in the crook of his arm. Still, Reynard steels his gaze in Laelaps’. “Please.”

Laelaps grits his teeth so fiercely they might fracture. “It’s not enough,” he mutters. Seeing Reynard, though, and Rodolphus there choking in his binds, gives Laelaps another idea. So, he releases his hold on the Veil, letting Bellatrix suck in wheezing, rattling non-breaths as she lies trembling on the stone. To Reynard, he hisses, “Where’s is Lestrange Manor?”

“Laelaps,” Reynard’s tone is warning. “You need to calm down.”

“Where is Lestrange Manor?”

“No.” Reynard grabs him roughly, but Laelaps is too much larger than him for him to stop him physically. “Laelaps, breathe. Think about what you’re doing. Don’t-”

“If you won’t tell me,” Laelaps growls, he turns his wand on Rodolphus, ignores Rodolphus’ begging, “he will.”

“We’re here for a reason! Don’t get distracted!”

Spurred on by that, Lucius Malfoy gingerly approaches Bellatrix’ corpse, reaching for her bag. Laelaps doesn’t move his wand from Rodolphus, nor does he release Bellatrix’ shade, as he watches.

Lucius reaches into the bag. He freezes. After a moment of groping helplessly, he upturns the thing.

Empty.

It’s like they’re stabbed in the heart. After all that, after the battle in a public place, after Jason…

They’re outplayed.

Laelaps turns blazing eyes to Rodolphus. “Legilimens.”

He sees it. When Hufflepuff’s cup passes hands. In the thick of the battle, Rodolphus can’t see the exact path the whole way, but when Laelaps is distracted, Bellatrix passes it off to Rodolphus, who quickly gives it to Barty Crouch Jr. before he’s caught in Laelaps’ incarcerous spell.

The rest of the Death Eaters escape. Barty Crouch has the horcrux, and he escapes. Riddle has the cup back.

Laelaps is forewarned down to the minute, and all of this is a failure.

He tears a bloody path through Rodolphus’ mind. He sees Rodolphus and Bellatrix talking about children, sees them trying, sees them arranging a nursery in the manor just in case. He sees their life together, outside of their loyalty to Riddle, and he sees that they do, actually, love each other. It doesn’t start that way. It’s an arranged marriage. But they like each other enough to tolerate each other, and eventually they do learn to love.

Good. This won’t break her if she doesn’t actually care about her husband.

Laelaps releases Rodolphus. He has what he wants. Picking up Rodolphus by the rope around his neck, Laelaps diapparates from the alley without hesitation.

His hounds all share a look and, with Reynard taking Diego and Niklas, who are the only ones who don’t know the location of Lestrange Manor, they all follow quickly.

(Reynard, Diego, and Niklas wince at the damage they leave in their wake. They would try to fix things, but Laelaps needs them now. Someone else will have to do the reparo spells.

Reynard is the only one who sees the flashing camera, and the aurors arriving just as they leave.)

The first thing Reynard says when he lands down the hill from Lestrange Manor and takes in the scene, is, “Where’s Rodolphus?”

Bellatrix is already present here and screaming again, though not in the kind of horrific pain that happened when Laelaps does… whatever it is that he does to her. No, she’s screaming for her husband, reaching out desperately, helplessly, for the manor house.

Distantly, Reynard hears a man’s voice yelling back and pounding on the large wooden doors.

Laelaps’ wand is trained on the manor. Reynard gulps. Laelaps’ eyes are winter and his heart is glacial. He calmly murmurs, “Fiendfyre.”

Reynard growls. “Nott, Macnair, to the west of the manor!” he shouts. “Malfoy, the north!” To Diego and Niklas, he glares and says, “You two to the east. Cast simultaneously – Finite!”

Though they all cast looks to Laelaps, all of them know that fiendfyre won’t restrict itself to only the manor. While the roiling flames are busy with the manor house right now, it’ll break out down the hill if they give it the chance to.

So, when Laelaps does nothing but stare darkly into the flames, they obey Reynard’s command.

Reynard’s quick acting is the only thing that spares the countryside, but the manor itself is reduced to nothing but smoldering rubble and tall, blackened, skeletal supports. Bellatrix weeps in the grass. Laelaps continues to stare impassively at the ruins.

Embers carry on the wind. Smoke and ash block his nose and sting his eyes.

His eyes water, a natural reaction to the dirty air.

He sinks to his knees, holds Jason’s body tight to his chest, and cries.

It’s like that that Reynard finds him. Reynard sighs. His chest is full of regret and pain and shame, and he cannot distract himself from the fact that Laelaps has just murdered a man in cold blood – he locks Rodolphus in the manor and burns him alive within it just to force Bellatrix to watch.

But Jason.

Reynard isn’t sure how he feels about this. He isn’t sure he can forgive Laelaps for this because this, this is too far. Even though Rodolphus is a Death Eater, this isn’t how they handle these things.

At the same time… this is the kid Reynard plans an animagus scavenger hunt with McGonagall for. This is the kid he takes under his wing all those years ago and adopts into his Circle. And more than anything else, he’s a kid mourning his family.

Reynard is struck, breathlessly and entirely, with the memory that Laelaps is still not even seventeen.

Reynard kneels down with him, carefully peels Laelaps’ wand and the Resurrection Stone from his grasp (Bellatrix vanishes, thankfully.), then wraps his arms as far around Laelaps as he can reach.

And he cries with him.

Argo doesn’t go back to school. Reynard doesn’t even try to make him. After he brings Argo home, Argo shuts himself away in Reynard’s study. After two days without seeing hide or hair of him, Reynard resolves that he’ll have to take care of Argo’s outstanding business.

Niklas stops by every day, for most of the day, but after the first hour or so never does much but sit outside the door, just waiting, there in case Argo needs something. Reynard sends him on errands sometimes, just to keep him busy, then regrets it because it means Reynard is just sitting around waiting.

Once he lets Niklas know he’s going out, Reynard sadly shakes his head in the privacy of his own room. He carefully pens a letter to Headmistress McGonagall, assuring her that, though Argo doesn’t come back to the school the past two nights, he’s still alive and being watched over. (N.E.W.T. level students get more leeway and given it’s the end of term and Argo’s exams are already over, it shouldn’t be a problem if he takes off early. But he can’t just vanish without telling anyone.)

Without details, he tells her that Argo will be staying with him for a while, and that he needs to stop by to pick up some of Argo’s things – especially Shiloh, who must be out of his mind with worry by now.

He writes another letter to the Circle of Khanna, to let them know the gist of the situation – again without details. Not every member of the circle is involved in this, and Reynard has no desire to get them involved.

And then he leaves.

Hogwarts… looks exactly as it always has. A new headmistress, all this with Voldemort, the new Ministry leadership, and the grey cloud hanging over Reynard’s own house all culminate in the feeling that everything should be different, but the castle is just like it is when he was a student here.

Well… adventure, mortal peril… Reynard may as well have never left.

“Welcome back, Mr. Gage.” McGonagall smiles at him, but Reynard knows that she knows something is horribly wrong. “Thank you for letting us know where Mr. Scamander has disappeared to. Everyone was quite worried.”

Reynard doesn’t quite trust his voice. He nods carefully, then follows McGonagall into the castle.

Her brows twitch together, but she maintains her countenance. “I’m sure you’re aware,” she says, “but Argo hasn’t slept in his dormitory for quite some time. I’m afraid I’m not up to date on where you might find his things. I trust he’s informed you where you’re to look?”

Reynard stares at the floor. “…No, ma’am. But Anthony will know, if you know where to find him. I need to pick up Shiloh, too, so I’ll need to see him, anyway.” There’s no doubt in Reynard’s mind that Anthony steps in to care for Shiloh the moment he realizes Argo isn’t around. Reynard doesn’t know Argo’s cousin personally, but he knows that’s the kind of reliable person he is.

Professor McGonagall nods. Her lips thin. “If I may ask…”

Reynard shakes his head. “I can’t give you the details,” he says. “But… Professor Flitwick should probably be informed. Is he in his office?”

“At this time, he should be.”

“I’ll go see him, then. If you could find Anthony and bring him there?”

Professor McGonagall nods sternly. As she walks away, Reynard takes a deep breath. He changes direction slightly, heading instead to the Charms office.

A knock on the door. Flitwick chirps, “Enter!”

When Flitwick sees Reynard, he nearly falls out of his chair. A million and one things race through the teacher’s mind. He’s so distracted these past couple days worrying about Argo, but he’s delighted to see a brilliant young student of his once again, but he also knows that Reynard has connections to Argo, and quickly pieces together that his visit may be regarding Argo’s disappearance.

Reynard just smiles weakly at him, lets him know that indeed he’s here about Argo, that Argo is currently safe, but that he’ll go into as much detail as he can when McGonagall and Anthony arrive.

They cannot come soon enough.

Flitwick nearly collapses with nothing but the relief of hearing that someone knows where Argo is and that he’s safe. But Reynard’s tone is anything but normal for the energetic young boy. And his bouncing knee and fidgeting fingers drive Flitwick’s anticipation through the roof.

But he knows the value of patience. One doesn’t work with children for a living without such a virtue. Flitwick waits. When Anthony steps into his office, followed closely by McGonagall, he continues to wait until Reynard is ready.

Reynard rubs at his neck. “First of all,” he says, “Argo’s okay. He’s… well… He’s having a hard time right now, but he’s not hurt or anything.”

Anthony’s eyes narrow, taking in who is speaking. Reynard isn’t fool enough to think Anthony doesn’t recognize him, but Anthony has none of the reverence or respect that most Hogwarts students of today have for his achievements. No, Anthony just glares. “What happened?”

Reynard gulps. “Jason… Jason’s dead.”

Three sharp gasps. Flitwick stammers out a fluttery, “No…”

“How?” Anthony demands, though his voice sounds significantly more raw.

Reynard shakes his head. “Argo came to help me with something, that’s why we were together. I looked away and… It was an accident. Sudden. There was nothing any of us could’ve done.”

“He was with you?” Anthony asks.

Reynard nods.

He expects the fist that meets his face.

“Mister Goldstein!”

“Why didn’t you protect him?” Anthony roars.

Reynard silently bows his head. He… doesn’t approve, at all, of what Argo does after Jason dies, but he can’t say he doesn’t understand. The truth is, as the leader of the Circle of Khanna, as Argo’s mentor, and as an older wizard who sees Argo like a little brother… Reynard asks himself the same thing.

Reynard loses enough in his own school days. Why is he still so powerless that he can’t save Argo from suffering this, too?

A punch is the least he deserves. (For Jason. For Rowan. The Resurrection Stone weighs down Reynard’s pocket, almost hot in how it burns him not to take hold of it and never let go.)

“Where is he?” demands Anthony.

“He’s at my house,” Reynard answers dully. “Niklas is there, too. I’ll take you there with me once we pick up Shiloh and his school things.”

Anthony stares at him a moment, blazing, then the fire in his eyes burns out like a match. “…Okay.”

Anthony is only seventeen, himself. Barely an adult. It takes all of Reynard’s Slytherin composure not to break down again.

“I’ll inform your parents that you won’t be going home on the Express,” Flitwick putters. “As you’re of age, you have every right to leave whenever and with whomever you wish.” Flitwick stops, looks at Anthony and Reynard both with big eyes. “Take care of him.”

Anthony only says, “He’s family.”

McGonagall sighs quietly. When Argo goes missing… he’s such an inquisitive boy, she assumes he just follows some thread. This is the last thing she expects. “I’ll let the staff know that you and Argo both won’t be here for the last week of term. Go on and collect your things. We’ll handle the paperwork.”

So, Anthony leads the way out of Professor Flitwick’s office. He takes Reynard down familiar halls to the secret club room – or the DA club room, now, he supposes – where he calls to Shiloh to follow them and murmurs to the cat that they’re going to go see Argo.

Only not being totally sure whether Anthony knows what Shiloh truly is stops Reynard from talking to the cat himself, but he still picks Shiloh up and cuddles him on the way up to the seventh floor.

Anthony stops. “I know Argo sleeps somewhere up here, but I’ve never seen the actual room.”

Shiloh immediately wiggles out of Reynard’s arms, chirps, “It’s this way,” and takes off into the hall.

Both men look at each other, but none react overtly to Shiloh talking, so both just accept that the other is in on it and move on.

Shiloh stops in front of a tapestry, then paces back and forth, and a door appears. Because of course it does.

Inside the room, a beautiful, cozy bedroom that looks so much like a home that it gets Reynard teary-eyed all over again, Shiloh transforms into his more anthropomorphic form and waves his hand, gathering a bunch of stuff scattered about that neatly packs itself away in a large trunk.

Shiloh taps the trunk with a finger, shrinking it, then hands it to Anthony to pocket the thing.

Anthony breaks first. “How much do you-”

Shiloh shakes his head firmly. “I dreamed it,” he admits. “Too late.”

There’s nothing more to say. The three of them, once Shiloh changes back into the appearance of a normal cat, leave Hogwarts.

Anthony takes up vigil outside the study door alongside Niklas. Shiloh curls up at their feet.

And there is nothing more to do.

It’s not until July that Argo finally emerges. For the past two weeks, all the others have to content themselves with is that Argo is eating, and he accepts his trunk which Shiloh says has a lot of his research things inside, so he’s probably not bored.

It’s a crowded couple weeks for Reynard, with all of Argo’s family coming and going, and Shiloh, Anthony, Niklas, and Rolf all essentially becoming his new roommates for how often they ever seem to not be there.

But when Argo leaves, he does so avoiding all of them. They catch him, of course, but Argo insists that they can’t come with him.

He’s going to meet the old Death Eaters, plan their next step. Shiloh says he’s going no matter what.

Argo barely manages to brush off the others, especially Anthony and Rolf who (as far as Reynard knows) know less about the whole situation, but he does so and vanishes with a crack, hiding a cat in his robes.

Shiloh curls up tight, small, and determines to not make any noise, but he listens. He listens to the Death Eaters greet Laelaps, listens as they lay out their concerns, and listens when Laelaps, quiet until all is said, reveals his plan.

“With his horcrux returned to him,” Laelaps says, “Voldemort can return to full power. He’ll be a threat again.”

“What do we do?” Lucius Malfoy asks.

Shiloh can feel Argo’s chest rise with a deep inhale, and slowly release all that air. “We’ve lost the luxury of time,” Argo says. “We have to eliminate the last horcrux as soon as possible, so that any confrontation with him will let us kill him for good.”

“But we don’t know anything about it!” Avery cries. “How are we meant to find it?”

“I know where it is,” Laelaps says simply.

“You do? Where, then? We’ll take care of it at once.”

Another long breath. Laelaps lifts his head to look at his followers. “The last horcrux,” he says, “is Harry Potter.”

Lucius sucks in a breath. “My lord… he’s your brother. Are you determined… that is, do you have a plan to-”

Laelaps’ wintry gaze stops him short. Lucius knows that Jason’s death will change him, but… If he is truly proposing…

“I do have a plan,” Laelaps says. “We’ll end Riddle. And to do that, Harry Potter must die.”

#write #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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