Barty Crouch laughed fit to bursting, caught his breath, and laughed again. Damn spunky, these kids. He’d almost intervened when the auror had come along, but the little brats had fried the guy almost effortlessly—and took a member of the Order out of the action for a while to boot! He’d like to prosecute the guy for attempting Hadrian’s life, but the boys had already framed him conveniently, and he hated to undo a job well done.

A short popping noise, and Barty Crouch was gone.

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That night, Dad clattered in more late than usual, and he heard his father slump against a chair. Mom rushed immediately to his side, and he could see her brushing back his father’s unruly black bangs.

"Oh, honey. What the heck happened to you?"

Dad said one terse word. "Whiskey."

The crystal clanked, and the chairs creaked, and they settled down, and Mom repeated the question. Dad groaned.

"Hell’s bells, Lily-heart. Do you ever hear the news, witch? It’s been over the radios all day. " He put up his feet. "Remember Timon Prewett?"

"The new member of the Order," Lily answered instantly, snapping her fingers. "One of your auror trainees, wasn’t he? Joined up right after Hogwarts. Not a bad chap, although a little too brash if you’d ask me. What about him?"

James’ voice raised in incredulity. "What about him? Lily-girl!"

"Well I’ve been working with the ER patients from that awful illegal dragon farm by Cambridge, not to mention the goblins who were torn apart by whatever was trying to break into Gringotts a few weeks back. And then Severus needed my input on some new wards he’s adapting for Spinner’s End. And then—"

"Oh, girl, will you ever change?" he muttered in exasperation. "Magical Law Enforcement caught Timon Prewett raiding the graves of Charles and Philomela Potter!"

"What a foolish thing for an auror to be caught at. What was he doing there? I thought he was on business for Dumbledore up in the Orkneys this week!"

"Apparently not. Foolish indeed—the man didn’t even know the simple counters to skeletal animations, even though they’ve been in the books now for thirty years. He’d been messing with the graves, obviously. They found him with Philomela’s hands wound about his throat and tools scattered all around the gravesite. The MLE has the area roped off to check for clues. Not as if it’s going to help them though. Whoever tipped them off must have told the rest of Hogsmeade too, ‘cause I swear the whole village tracked through everything—the grave, the coffins, we even had to tear a foot bone off some teenager with sticky fingers who tried to get at a toering. I swear, this has been the most humiliating day of my life."

"Do you think it was really Timon?"

"No idea. He claimed some teenagers were raiding the graves, and he caught them while visiting his cousins’ graves. Doesn’t explain though why the teenagers didn’t have those hands hung round their necks though. And scared teens don’t throw bones and set aurors on fire. They run like hell." Dad knocked back the liquor. "Pretty nasty teens if they were that. I’d say more like someone was after something, and Timon was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"What could they possibly be after?"

"The only thing missing were the wands—Timon’s, and my great-grandparents’. They weren’t worth anything though—powerful wands, sure, but wands being so individualized, what teenager wouldn’t just buy his own? Even if he was strapped for funds! I don’t know one parent who wouldn’t provide his child with a wand if it was needed! Damn pity though—no wand, no evidence. We can’t verify what Tim was throwing at them. Heck though, I thought an auror of mine could handle a couple of kids anyday."

Harry had heard enough. He willed his arms to heal, and settled down to sleep.

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It was a short two weeks before the start of term. Harry and Sirius squared off with their wands at every available moment. Elspeth was altogether too eager to watch and offer advice, all which went unheeded. The Potter boys also started up a small business smuggling wizard booze out to the Muggles, for which they gained a few dollars to stuff away for sundry stuff. Sirius, in particular, was looking forward to using his share on a book of homemade explosives at the bookshop. Harry, less adept with potions and busy with the books he already owned, had nothing in particular to spend it on and hoarded it at the bottom of his chest.

Another useful source of income came from their burgeoning skill as team in break and enter and pickpocketing. Along with Bernie Montague, a rather rumpled little squib who had a knack for going unseen in a crowd, they could fleece a fair with admirable speed. Out of caution, they always avoided the red-robed Aurors or the Order’s Grey Cloaks, and usually avoided trouble this way.

Though they had one unfortunate incident.

A week after their grave-robbery came the Corn Festival, a fair held out near Ottery St. Catchpole. Dad and Mom considered this an excellent opportunity for family bonding and excited the kids with promises of cotton candy, chocolate frogs and pony rides for a whole week. Dad and Mom didn’t reckon that by the time a whole week passed, they’d have another job tacked onto their busy schedule. Dad and Mom screwed up.

Though Harry and Sirius could care less (they hoped to systematically rob every business in Hogsmeade, progressing from the easiest to the most difficult, and were avidly plotting a raid on the Hog’s Head), Elspeth was mad. Elspeth had a first class tantrum, and only her solemn promise to Harry NEVER to show the wand mitigated the damage. Though Sirius rarely had accidental magic, Els tended to blow up half the house in a rage. The nursery was in shambles by the end, and like any well-meaning but hapless parents, James and Lily rewarded her by promising to send her off with her brothers and Uncle Severus.

Mom, unfortunately, forgot to inform Uncle Severus—much to the boys’ delight. Their uncle might kick ass, but he was way more in the know than Mom would ever be and supervised them scrupulously when asked.

Perhaps his careful attention was merited given what he’d seen during his surveillance duty. Then, he did his best to quietly discourage the boys without allowing them to know he knew about their illicit activities. When they arrived at Hogwarts, his territory, he could intimate absolute knowledge of their whereabouts—as he did with other troublemakers—to persuade them to discontinue. Now? Let Harry even suspect he was being followed, and the brat would try to manoevre around his guard. The kid liked his privacy.

Although, the other Death Eaters on detail would probably enjoy the challenge...

Voldemort didn’t dare tell his followers that he’d essentially made himself an heir, since assassination from ambitious Dark wizards would assuredly follow. He’d told the truth solely to Severus and Barty. The others had a watered down version—Harry’s scar was a modified Dark Mark, Voldemort was quietly influencing the boy and they hoped to use him to eliminate the First General or at least generate some familial discord. Since the First General was universally hated amongst the Death Eaters, accordingly, this plan, and Harry, were universally loved. Headquarters at Little Hangleton had a board (in front of the cubicles as you entered the Nursery, or Department of Covert Operations) dedicated to Harry. Cheerful declarations of "Harry Potter defeats Voldemort!" and "First General’s Son, Found!’ featured prominently, along with the odd snapshots they’d managed to take while on-duty. These latter never stayed on the board long, however, as they were coveted as personal desk decor. Only after using a permanent sticking charm to his photos of Sirius, who had also become popular with the Death Eaters, did Severus quit losing his photos.

His lips had twisted wry to the memory of seeing Bellatrix pasting pictures of Elspeth Potter flicking sparks at her brothers. Ah, the irony... she who had started snarling at the birth of another Potter bitch to hunt down had turned almost an maternal eye on Elspeth’s knack for blackmail and began to wonder if she’d be available for apprenticing in a few years...

Given then, the kids’ sudden celebrity among the Death Eaters, to James’ shock Lily was quite unperturbed at allowing them off to the fairgrounds alone upon learning their uncle unavailable. Of course, Lily had been thoroughly informed of the situation in Little Hangleton, since Severus couldn’t enjoy the irony with anyone else. And while Lily herself had a rather touchy relationship with the Dark witches (attempting to kill each other while sharing love spells can strain the best of friendships), she saw no reason her children shouldn’t benefit from it.

After all, Bellatrix Lestrange was a respectable public figure, a competent through erstwhile defence instructor and a deft foreign negotiator, even if she did have that nasty habit of hunting muggles by nights. If it weren’t for her occasional stays in the Mental Health Ward of St. Mungo’s, she might have considered Elspeth’s apprenticeship more seriously...

So, she packed them off to the fair under the dubious care of unseen and unknown Death Eaters, with a few knuts each for fun, and told them to be back for supper.

Harry, who saw this as a wonderful opportunity for adding to their nest egg, figured they’d leave Elspeth with the ponies and try some pockets. Elspeth would have none of it.

Thankfully, Molly Weasley had come along. Upon their earnest explanation that they wanted to go to a Mugglesque patriotic slide show on the First War barred to children under seven, they’d left a fuming Elspeth behind. Molly, had of course seen them to the tent—but after wasting three knuts to admission, they made it back from pilfering a purse or two left unattended. Though there was one edgy instant where anti-theft teeth nearly bit off Sirius' fingers, Silver slipped into the sackel’s mouth and became a rigid silver ring. In retribution for the near miss, Sirius swiped half of what was in there before beckoning the snake back to his hand. The boys crawled out under tent flaps before the show ended, certain their marks hadn’t seen their faces in the dark, and decided to try the crowd.

They started a game of trying to up the ante every time they had a successful snatch. Start with the drunken boor coming from the cider shed, and move onto that fine witch with the pouch tucked inside her belt. They’d grabbed the pouch after jostling her in a crowd by the live theatre production of the Muggle classic "Sex in the City", and were currently eyeing up a middle-aged man with scruffy blond hair and a rather careless expression on his face. He didn’t really seem to know what he wanted to do, and was inspecting a brochere and glancing up every two seconds, as though waiting for someone.

Not a good mark, Harry could say that. He was too aware of what was going on and the people weren’t dense enough here. Still, if Sirius were game to try it...

"Tag, you’re it!" Sirius whooped, screaming as he ran away, Harry in pursuit. He turned his head back as he ran, as though not really sure where he was going... and ran smack into the man. He listened for the jingling of coin—there was something in the guy’s vest pocket. Frick. No way he was going to get at that. He signalled the location to Harry anyways, twice shaking his head right.

"Easy, boy—" the man started, and then hissed a word, drawing his wand and driving forwards, throwing Sirius sideways. Harry, bent on his mark and watching for Sirius’ signal, missed the knife that seemed to come from nowhere...

Their mark hit the knife, slapping it out of the way, and barked irately to the knifethrower.

"What the hell do you think you’re up to, Pringle?"

Harry, shielded for a moment by the man’s body, made to get up, his hands brushing into the half-open shirt. His hands felt metal and tugged something loose a moment before the man stood to face the knifethrower, incensed as a teased rottweiler.

"Sorry about that, Barty," the knifethrower said, a little abashed. "Bit of a mistake, you know. Showing off my hobby to all these fine young gents and gels, and—"

"Tried to make it clear how in practice you were by skinning the eyes off this kid, eh?" He put Harry forward, glaring at the man, and then looked at Harry, eyes piercing. The kid did the smart thing and slipped back behind the guy.

"Well, it wasn’t exactly intentional or anything like that—"

"Pringle," Barty cut the man off. "I’ve known you for, what, since fifth form? And since then, how many times have you accidentally hit the wrong thing?"

The man stayed silent, his playful demeanor gone watchful.

"Once." Barty answered for him. "When you were using that idiot Fielder for a dummy and thought’d be fun to lop off his balls."

Harry turned green as Barty went forward to seize the man by the neck collar. Though shorter than the other guy, he was built square and strong.

"You’re going to go with me to the Ministry, and you’re going to explain why you were practicing here today without a license."

"But Barty, that’s a minor fine—is there any reason, really—"

"Or you can get taken in for reckless use of ritual weapons—those daggers are 10 carat silver, are they not—"

The man straightened, and suddenly looked dangerous.

"Do that," he growled, "and I’ll show all of them exactly what’s on your left arm," he whispered—too low for anyone to hear, except for the little snake thoughtfully lisping verbatim into Harry’s ear.

Barty let go of the man, smiling unpleasantly.

"You wouldn’t do that, because then we’d have to act openly," he murmured, "and there’s just as many who’d side with WIP as with the Ministry and Order."

"Might as well be open," the man muttered, more loudly now. "Everyone knows what you are."

The onlookers had started to whisper amongst themselves, and Harry awaited with interest the rest of the conversation, when he was aware of someone approaching. He turned to find Molly Weasley, accompanied by her red-haired children.

"There you are!" she began triumphantly. "I’ve been looking all over for you, I thought I told you to find us girls over at the ponies right after the show was done—oh, by the way, children, this is Harry and Sirius—"

"Hi," the boys responded weakly.

"—boys, this is Ginny, Ron, Fred—George? George??? Good heavens, where have those boys—"

A fireball from the swordswallower’s display derailed this train of thought as she glanced to see the twins spit salamanders to the crowd’s accolades. Barty, observing the boys closely shepherded by that arch-fiend Weasley witch, gave them no more thought as he squared off with the young Phoenix, before disapparating to Headquarters.

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"... And I swear those boys have a death wish," Barty finished to the applause of his cronies, who topped up his shotglass. "Honest, though, I wouldn’t have interfered if it hadn’t have definitely been a lethal strike," he muttered, examining the vodka in the lamplight. "A little more caution would do the idiots some good. Never thought Dumbledore would try three strikes in a month—good show, by the way Amycus, on getting that poisoned letter that we were supposed to have sent—"

Amycus Carrow grinned his thanks.

"Still, they did well for themselves today! Can’t believe how negligent that Lily is though—given all the trouble they get up to, surely she must want to keep a better eye on them..."

"She knows what we’re up to," Elias Pince responded, tipping back a glass. "Severus can’t keep his mouth shut around her. But who’s she going to tell anyways? She’d die for those kids, and she’s dark anyways. Really, someone’s been letting slip with recruitment."

"We’ve been over that. No Mudbloods, ‘cept for pleasure," grumbled Yatesley.

"Which is why your Mudblood goes to bed and Muggle-baiting with you."

"She’s dedicated," Yatesley swigged back another shot. "Predictable. Not like the Potter witch."

"We’re getting aside. We can’t keep as good an eye on the kid in Hogwarts. Severus says the old wards in the castle minimize damage to the brats, but how many times have we caught them sneaking out this summer? Harry will get into the Forbidden Forest, mark me, and it’d be way too easy for Dumbledore to set a centaur on him. We need someone to track him while he’s in school—"

"Which is where I come in," came a tired voice. "No. Absolutely not."

"Regulus, you knew you’d be required to make certain compromises when you joined. Consider this one of those compromises."

"I can’t—"

"Sure you can."

"I can’t show my face."

"Who said anything about your face? You’re an animagus, aren’t you?"

Regulus squirmed uncomfortably. "Only under pressure. What if I have to change back in a hurry?"

"So we tell Severus you’re around, and he’ll change you back when necessary."

Regulus, who had only become accustomed with his animagus form when his older brother decided to victimize him, was noticeably less than happy with this. Sure, he could keep his cool as a cat. Which couldn’t be said of Severus, who made a nasty shrike, or Yatesley, the lascivious monkey, both changed as a punishment during the past few decades. But transforming back and forth was entirely beyond him! Asides, what about...

"McGonagall?" he offered as a weak excuse.

"McGonagall won’t even see you. You’ll be in the dorms, mostly. Now," Barty put his hand to his vest, "I need to give Lord Voldemort back the key to the Order’s vault so that Quirrell can slip it back into Dumbledore’s office before its absence is noticed..."

He felt for it. A conspicuous absence.

And recalled sheltering Harry against the wizards.

"Damn it!"

And they all drank another round to sneaky young wizards, while Barty tried to figure out how to ask Severus to retrieve the key for vault 913 and avoid becoming the laughingstock of his department.

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Harry stood at the platform with Sirius. Both boys were slouching and scowling a la Uncle Snape.

Why were they doing this?

Because for some reason the Venerable, Aged Author does not deign to understand, teens think this is cool. So do stressed academics, avid fans of Silverstein and old men who have read one too many detective stories. What this says about the mental age of these subgroups of the population is something the V.A.A. will not conjecture.

They also had another reason though. Summer term was over, and they both had to go back to school. While Harry was kind of excited about going to Wizarding School, he wasn’t that thrilled about getting more equations jammed into his head. And he was even less happy about leaving Sirius. The kid had potential. Sort of.

While Sirius couldn’t light a fire wandlessly like Harry, and had never smashed up a room pulling a tantrum like Elspeth, he had guts. If Harry swiped a suger quill under the clerk’s nose, Sirius would try to snick a sickle from the till. If Harry lit him on fire during a duel (out in the Forbidden Forest, while Alecto Carrow hung in a tree vaping mosquitoes with her wand), Sirius would work for hours at ‘Aguamente’. If Harry stole Dad’s broomstick and snuck out at midnight, Sirius was right behind him.

What resulted from the friendly competition was for the first time in his life, Harry wasn’t slacking and Sirius was doing more than listening to emo rock. Lily and James, only seeing their younger son increasingly ‘studious’ (a byword used when children are hiding in their room, making no noise, and no mess is to be seen afterwards, regardless of what they were actually doing), decided Harry was a good influence. In consequence, they increased curfew to 9:00 PM (a needless gesture, since they snuck out the window

on a nightly basis), and told the boys to enjoy themselves.

All this freedom to be exchanged for the dubious joys of a boarding school known for its strict adherence to academic excellence (trans. no free time) and large faculty (maximal supervision).

Still, Harry gave a gloomy goodbye to Sirius and boarded the train with the Weasley boys. They were alright, but all they could talk about was the stupid war. I mean, Harry was as interested in Grey Cloaks and Death Eaters as the next kid, but he’d heard enough of it during attempts to eavesdrop on his parents. These were always aborted, more due to boredom than necessity.

And, since there are many people who haven’t read Harry Potter on this site, I have to tell you that they passed an unremarkable train ride, although Harry did punch out some blond prat who’d called his mother a slutty nightshade. From Sirius’ debriefings, he knew this meant a ‘prurient healer of dubious magical affinities and skills’. He’d gotten the definition from some old book he’d ‘borrowed’ from Dad’s school stuff. This encouraged them as to Hogwarts’ educational agenda, though he was displeased the words had been applied to his sweet, oblivious Mom.

Upon reaching the school, Harry disembarked and attempted to sneak off to his room as to beat the crowds, before a giant of a man caught him and pronounced him Hadrian Potter. Anonymity removed, Harry stared back expressionlessly at anyone who gaped. Pity he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head.

And then, the endless Sorting. Really, why wasn’t his last name Abercrombie so that he could just go to the tables and sit down after a whole day of walking. He was on the point of sitting on the ground when his name was called.

"Potter, Hadrian."

"Hufflepuff!"

He took the hat off, slouched to his table next to a shy, smiling girl, and proceeded to eat his meal in silence.

The responses to this news in the following days may be predicted by the reader:

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"He’s in Hufflepuff?" James started, looking at the letter Harry had written. Sirius shrugged, refusing to lose his cool, just like his Uncle Severus. Like, whatever. You had to go somewhere, right? And unfortunately, that somewhere was twelve miles of carnivorous trees between home and Hogwarts.

"Your mother was in Hufflepuff," Lily commented mildly, looking up from her knitting. She’d heard the news and immediately approved it, indulging a rare spurt of domesticity. Though James had bought wool in Gryfinndor colours in false anticipation, she had plenty of black on hand to work with the gold. Which left the problem of what to do with the red. Though James favoured the colour from a juvenile House loyalty, wearing scarlet was like painting a target sign on your forehead. Having no idea why they retained that shade for the regular aurors, she burnt all James’ red the day he achieved Grey Cloak.

"I fail to comprehend why his Sorting matters at all," Severus interjected drily, privately a little miffed that the Hat shuffled the boy to Hufflepuff. It would be just that much more difficult to keep an eye on the kid. He’d walk all over Pomona Sprout. The motherly old witch wouldn’t even notice.

But really, maybe he should be thankful. The Hufflepuffs were uniformly so good-natured and rule-abiding, maybe they’d be a good influence on Harry, induce him to "Save the Giant Land Crab", "Stop Ogrecide", and—

Yeah. Like that’d ever happen.

Well, at least the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff classes wouldn’t be as uniformly boring as usual.

Returning to matters at hand though, James was indignant at his nonchalence. "Why sorting matters? He’ll meet all his friends for the next, I don’t know how many years in there..."

Severus tuned this out. He’d already heard various interpretations of Harry’s Sorting, ranging from Albus’ essential "He TRICKED the hat—OMG, it’s Voldemort’s Mini-Me! Where’s my assassins?" to Voldemort’s "Excellent. He tricked the hat. Carry on as before," to Minerva’s joking "YOU tricked the hat so that he wouldn’t be in my house!" Honestly, he didn’t understand what the big deal was. Except, maybe that Harry’d be in considerably nicer living quarters than the Slytherin dungeons. Hufflepuff House was on the south side of campus and unusually sunny. The dungeons, despite all of Severus’ attempts to refurbish them with UV lights to prevent SAD and other consequences of living underground, remained unpleasant. He’d been campaigning for his 17 years as professor for a change in location, but to no avail. The old purebloods would not have it.

He mentally penned a note of congratulations to Harry on his excellent location, and started figuring out how he’d phrase his next request to move Slytherin House. Perhaps a flood in the dungeons was in order...

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Hogwarts sucked.

Granted, Harry hadn’t expected boarding school to be as great as Swinetrail, but he’d hoped for better. But his first month had been nothing but detention after detention.

Professor Sprout, despite the facade of charming obliviousness she displayed before the other professors, was more student-savvy than she seemed. No sooner did he arrive in the Common Room than she whisked out of her bedroom, ample figure stuffed into a fuzzy bathrobe, and whapped him upside the head with a scroll containing his schedule and list of detentions to date.

He couldn’t seem to avoid the profs. They were everywhere. No sooner had he beaned this overgrown gorilla of a boy for taking a swipe at him than Uncle Severus had taken them both aside for detention. Whenever he thought he’d finally get a chance to practice some magic not taught in classes—reading through medieval lore on the Wickerman spell, for instance, a rather nasty-looking offensive fire that burnt only human flesh, or teasing lightning between his fingers for ‘Fulminatio’—Dumbledore would come in to politely interfere, or he’d be dodging Sprout again.

Even with Sprout residing in Hufflepuff House—something apparently none of the other Heads did—he’d expected some privacy in his room for ‘independent studies’.

He hadn’t expected Ernie MacMillan, Alan Devries and Justin Finch-Fletchley.

The other Hufflepuff boys were insufferable. Ernie called the prefect on him for just staying up past lights out the first night, when he knew for a fact Ron Weasley had been up half the night with the Gryfinndor guys. Chumming with Weasley was made more difficult since they were in different houses, and the Hufflepuffs had way less classes with the Gryfinndors. The Ravenclaws he usually paired with were too busy for any fun.

He was bored out of his freaking wits.

The only bright point had been Defense against the Dark Arts. Quirrell allowed him to stay after class and, with a patience unusual even in a prof, tutored him through some more advanced techniques. He had a natural gift for curses, Quirrell said. His office, and the defense classroom, were always open to Harry, and here, at least, no one interfered.

Here, he was busily looking up escape techniques when he was interrupted—

"Huilei muler!"

"Expelliarmus—"

He turned into the hallway, ducking back into classroom to dodge a spell, and then nearly was turned over by a girl hustling into him. Another hex followed on her heels, and Harry didn’t bite back the curse that came to his lips as he slammed the door in the faces of these unexpected assailants. He hissed a few locking spells on the door, knocked on it approvingly, and then turned to the girl, who was hyperventilating by the walrus skeleton.

"Beg pardon," he said, half-bowing and taking the girl’s hand to kiss. Good thing she was too stunned to react, or she might have slapped him out of his chivalry from some feminist reflex. "I am afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of your acquaintance as of yet, for I feel certain I would have recalled so lovely a face as your own."

The girl, whose face, a very unlovely blotchy shade of pink, began to fester over with zits from a hex, burst into tears. The stupid black cat that Harry couldn’t seem to get rid of came to her heels and started purring. She methodically picked it up and began to stroke it, crying all the while, while Harry helped her into a chair.

"So, tell me. What’s wrong with you?"

She kept crying, and Harry, bewildered at all men are at this response, figured persistance was key.

"No, really, I want to help. Were those guys trying to jump you or what?"

More sobs.

Frick.

He removed her wand from her listless hand, and tried a Priori Incantatem. Nice to finally have an oppotunity for that spell, anyways. He glanced over the smoke dispelling from her wand, and whistled approvingly. She stopped sobbing, and looked with interest.

"Priori incantatem."

"Yeah. Wow. You know some awesome spells."

"Sort of," she sniffed. "But it didn’t help. They hit me with more than I hit them with."

"Sure..." Harry started, dubiously, before glancing at her saggy chest. "Oh f***."

"Yeah," she laughed, a little too upset to do anything else. "You could say that."

"That’s, like, dirty though. Almost dark. They could totally get smoked for that. Who was it? Malfoy and his ponces?"

"Yeah," she hiccomphed, "he’s been after me these past couple of months..."

She briefly summarized her past month at Hogwarts. Little wonder Harry hadn’t met her before. Mione Granger was a studybug, spent all her time in the library and didn’t come out except to eat or sleep. From what he could figure, reading between the lines, she’d started out as a prude, alienated all her fellow Gryfinndors—to the point where even laid-back Ron was fed up with her—and attracted the malice of the Slytherins.

A Gryfinndor Mudblood was an easy target.

A certain amount of suspicion surrounded any newcomers to the Wizarding World. When you were an insular society, and everyone knew everyone’s cousin, that happened. However progressive families like the Weasleys were, Mudbloods would just seem out of the loop, or weird, or awkward to begin with. Being in an ostensibly ‘progressive’ house didn’t make matters better, because with their ‘accepting’ attitude, they failed to see how pressing it was to teach Muggleborns about a culture that had barely changed, in essence, since feudal times.

So, she’d tick off Draco Malfoy by telling Quirrell about him lighting Parvati Patil’s hair on fire, and then ask why all of Slytherin House was on her back. Gods, woman, you didn’t just insult the son of head of WIP, leading candidate for Minister of Magic Lucius Malfoy unless you were really looking for a fight.

Which Harry always was. But he was the son of First General Potter, and that made him almost Malfoy’s equal in the boys’ eyes. He’d been squabbling good-naturedly with the Slytherins since first week, and they shared a sense of mutual respect—with the notable except of Malfoy.

Mione didn’t have the credentials, the looks or the social sense to get her through the boarding school. But from the looks of those spells, she had the brains, and could get down and dirty if need be.

"Why don’t we just go see Madam Pomfrey, and she’ll fix you up?" he said gently, handing her a handkerchief (filched from Filch’s office during detention and thoughtfully cleaned by the houseelves).

She sniffled. "She’ll ask questions."

"And you can just tell her that Malfoy’s been bothering you again, just like you’ve told her and every prof a million other times," Harry said, exasperated.

"But... this isn’t like other times..."

"Why not?" Her silence confirmed him as he pressed on, "Do you think they haven’t ever seen an Etiolation Hex before?"

She sniffed harder, staring at him. "You know about that?"

"Etiolation Hex," he recited dutifully. "A dated spell that depletes the magical resources or life force of a living being in order to feed itself. Similar symptoms to the Albanian flu or magical parasites like lampies. Originally created as a weedkiller, later used in the North African Wars in 1899 in conjunction with malaria to weaken enemy troups," he sat back on his chair, and put his feet on the desk almost gleefully. "Use on humans is outlawed in Great Britain and Australia. Penal sentences vary on the length of the curse’s placement. How long did you date that one for?"

Mione squirmed uncomfortably. "I was aiming for a few years," she admitted.

"Gosh," he said admiringly. "That could almost kill the bugger. Unless you did that funky little modification to the hex that allows you to siphon off power that would normally feed back into the spell structure?"

"There’s a modification?" she sat up with interest.

"Yeah. And I don’t know it. Etiolation hexes are like, fifth year work. How the heck did you figure it out?"

"Actually, the Slytherin Prefect showed me."

"Crap."

"She seemed really sympathetic."

"Mione, Camilla Barth is like, the most vicious b**** in the school. And she hates your guts."

"I didn’t—"

"Ah, heck," Harry started, losing patience. "Listen. We’ll get you to Pomfrey to get your chest fixed first of all. Then we’ve got to get that spell off Malfoy before they catch you."

"But I don’t know how to remove it."

"Damn it," Harry swore. And damn my Damsel-In-Distress syndrome. "Alright, Plan B. You get your butt off to Pomfrey, and don’t get fried on your way there. I’ll take care of Malfoy. Your wand’s clean anyways... I wiped the spells."

"Thanks."

"Don’t mention it."

"Is this your cat?"

"Nope. He only thinks he is."

"Can I take him with me?"

"Keep him," Harry waved her off, thinking rapidly of what he’d need to outwit Malfoy.

"What’s his name?"

"Tickles. Begone, witch."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Now, Harry Potter didn’t have a damn clue how to work an Etiolation Hex, much less remove one—which was infallibly the more difficult half of the spell. And he was far less interested in advanced spell techniques than his disgruntled peers (who’d tired of removing his ‘Shut-the-hell-up’ spells on Ernie after the first week) would ever believe. Although he supposed Quirrell could be pressed into showing him how to modify the hexes, he supposed there was a quicker way.

"Camiillla?" he drawled, leaning against the cold stone of the corridor wall, awaiting the gaggle of Slytherin girls en route to Potions.

Camilla Barth barely stopped to glance at him as she shifted by, then did a double take. "Oh. My," she laughed, "it’s Potty-wee-Potter," she affected Peeves’ nickname, and Harry pretended not to notice. "My beaux are getting bittier by the day. Sorry, loverling, I’ve got a date tonight." She turned to move off, when Harry let drop from his palm a slender silver chain with three keys tinkling at the end. She turned, smiling, and then made a furious lunge for it. He dodged under her arm, towards the center of the hallway, and felt for his wand tucked in his sleeve.

"Not so fast, Cam."

"Give it here," she growled, stalking up on him to the tittering of her friends ("Someone’s getting feist-y!"—"Whoa, Cam, I knew you liked younger men, but isn’t this illegal?").

Harry smiled pleasantly. While Camilla didn’t appreciate this gesture now, she’d welcome an identical smile in the future as gracious forewarning of imminent catastrophe. But this was many years down the road, and for now, Camilla Barth was simply furious with the boy who’d dare to steal the keys to her diary, house and secret stash of liquor and sundry other articles.

"Now, Camilla," he began, fingering a small silver key. "I have a very interesting diary in my possession, with rather compromising information inside."

"You wouldn’t," she grit her teeth, eying him like a hawk on a snake.

"Because of all the lovely hexes on it? A charming challenge to take out. Yes, I would. I especially liked that section detailing how you and Branwell Higglebottom made out underneath the Great Table last full moon. Very romantic, though difficult to keep clean, given all the small beer spilt under Hagrid’s place—"

"Silencio—"

It had worked though, and Camilla Barth, baddest chick in school, was at a loss for words as he continued.

"—not to mention the time you and your girlfriends got a little horny after drinking, and decided to get off on each other in the caved in passageway—"

Her mouth worked furiously, and she seemed prepared to tackle him, but he wasn’t quite through.

"Or the time you stole Swishweed from Professor Snape’s closet to try to make yourself an invisibility cloak for getting into the forbidden fourth floor—"

She pointed her wand at herself, and Harry readied himself to dodge in case she pointed it at him. The fifth year finally managed to undo the Silencio—wordlessly, no less.

"I never wrote any of that, you liar!"

"Involuntary impressions," Harry said suavely, "left upon the pages. You’ve covered magical articles, haven’t you? You’re constantly leaking memories. Anyone with the right skill set could read anything you’ve touched."

She looked scornfully at him, a little uneasy now. "You’re not a Reader, kid. Hack off. There’s only been, like, two natural readers in all of history, and they were both mentally retarded. You aren’t stupid," and her eyes sneered over him, "or else I’m giving you more credit than you deserve."

Harry continued to smile pleasantly. Harry was enjoying himself. "Of course I’m not a Reader. What about that time when you tried to sneak into the guys’ showerrooms to get a glimpse of Snape—"

"Shut up, shut up," she glared, glancing balefully at her girlfriends, who had fallen silent. "Fine. Fine. I don’t know how the hell you got the hexes off my diary, but sure. I’ll do anything. Just give me back the key, and the diary."

"I’ll consider it," Harry said. "Just one little thing."

"Anything. And quick. I’m already late for class, Snape is going to kill me."

"I just need you to modify a little Etiolation Hex for me."

"Malfoy’s. Sure, whatever. What do you need?"

Harry smiled. Camilla listened, heart sinking hell-ward. Harry still smiled.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The next day, a very sunny Wednesday, Harry slipped over to the Ravenclaw table at breakfast and triumphantly drew forth a bunch of dandelion and dill blooms from thin air for Miss Mione Granger. Mione, now partially recovered from her involuntary cosmetic enhancement, received them delightedly, and Harry sat himself primly at her side.

He managed to get her chatting about the info Pomfrey had fed her on mediwitches, and glanced attentively at the door.

Right on cue. They switched voices mid sentence. Harry barely saw the look of shock cross Mione Granger’s face, before the witch stormed from the table, drew her wand, and started blasting an equally angry Malfoy quicker than he could see. Bleary-eyed Trelawny, the sole prof in the hall, seemed too hungover from last night’s stargazing to notice the action. Harry grinned at Camilla Barth, who astonishingly enough, grinned right back at him.

Minerva McGonagall swooped in.

"Students? Fighting? For shame—"

She separated them in high dudgeon. The voice-switching spell, originally expected as a mere prank, became very difficult to remove when she recognized it as being powered by an Etiolation Hex deep-rooted in Mr. Malfoy. Such a hex, she lectured, although not fatal, would surely make him a squib in a year. Although neither of the first years could possibly be expected to know such advanced spellwork, she checked their wands anyways. Clean. She threatened detention, Malfoy threatened Hermione, and Mione, mostly unmoved, murmured something about how she’d heard Camilla Barth might know something about the removal of hexes.

McGonagall checked Barth’s wand.

Barth was stripped of prefect privileges and suspended until after Christmas.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Harry, home at Lily’s request, told Sirius all about this.

Sirius was duly awed.

"You’re really a Reader though?"

"Hells no."

"Then how..."

"Bluffed my way through it. Everyone in the school knows about Branwell and Camilla making out—they just don’t mention it in front of them, since Camilla could vape anyone without a word. The other stuff?" Harry’s hand went to his snake affectionately, and she coiled about his hand, purring and undulating like a kitten. "Silver’s smart. She gets the gossip off the castle rats before she eats them. Probably knows more about what’s going on than the professors."

"Does she ever eat anyone else’s pets?"

Harry shrugged. "I think she’d eat Mione’s cat if he was big enough, and I’m pretty sure Ernie’s toad was a casualty, but when I told her not to eat any other pets, she quit."

"Wow." Sirius’ hand went to Silver, and she coiled about his hand automatically, and she purled about his fingers. "Wish I could speak Parseltongue."

Harry shrugged. "I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t. I mean, you can learn French, even if you aren’t a native speaker. And you’ve got more parselmouths on hand to practice with than most people meet in their lives."

"Yeah, but you’re never home, and Elspeth—"

"Elspeth wants to learn big evil magic, doesn’t she? Bribe her," Harry told him, and that was the end of that. Harry kicked back his heels and relaxed. Sirius, slightly less easy, started igniting fuzzy globes of dandelion seed with his wand.

"Did you even open Camilla’s diary?"

"Nope. Granger’s not the first one Camilla’s peeved. She’s been harassing a half blood in her house, Tracey Davies, since day one. I told Trace that Camilla had been fighting with her boyfriend over his possessiveness, and she’d probably break up with him if some personal article—say, her diary--was found in his possession. Oh, and that I’d personally guarantee at least a month free of Camilla if she helped. She’s thrilled with me now," Harry grinned. "Her mother’s related to the owner of Flourish and Blott’s. I’m privy to all their special offers and get an exclusive membership."

"Frick," Sirius was openly in awe now. "We might have to quit swiping from there."

"Of course. It’s not polite to do so to fellow halfbloods."

"Just one thing—Aren’t you afraid of Camilla figuring things out and coming after you when she gets back?"

Harry shrugged. "Life’s too short to worry, and Camilla’s too smart to not figure things out."

"So you’re screwed in three months."

"Essentially, yes. Hand over that book of defensive spells, will ya?"

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

‘Tickles’, out on a limb overhanging the two boys, nettled his fur irascibly before primly settling to clean under his armpits. He always retained a distinct smell of human B.O.—thanks to Sirius’ idea of a joke?—when he transformed, and as deodorant was quite difficult to apply in this form, he’d make do as he could. Normally, his mudblood mistress (his cat smile arched at the expression) would keep him shined and polished, but one, of course, could not expect any useful help from the boys.

Harry’s first two months had been dull. No attacks.

How splendidly boring. With due luck, perhaps he could live out the rest of the oncoming war as Tickles. No discussions of mass warfare. No Yatesley trying to peer pressure him into recreational magic mushrooms. No Muggle-baiting—ah, that was a pity, really. He’d hoped to get himself a bastard son by a Mudblood mistress, as Rodolphus and Yatesley had done, and the usual method—if outright seduction didn’t work—would be make them vulnerable. Allow their subnormal relations to die tragically in a car crash. Offer them comfort, gifts, financial assistance when they oh-so-unfortunately lost their positions in the Ministry due to WIP’s new insistence on cultural qualifications for employment.

Yet Number 12 Grimmauld Place, his Mudblood Mistress (he arched his back and purred at the thought of Liesel Wolfreys, a sleek blonde, joining him at the manor) and his humanity could wait.

The Mark had burnt continuously this month. Cuddled against Mione’s chest, he’d scanned the papers with her. No violent action in Britain—that would have been premature. But small changes were taking place. A Bosnian Monastery that had trained white wizards for ages—destroyed overnight, supposedly by Anton Levitsky, a nationalist of the Eastern European covens who had resorted to terrorist tactics in the past to prevent Magical or Muggle intervention in his territory. American academies closed due to the outbreak of magical illness in large urban centres. It was suggested the Quebec Shamanic Centre, the heart of Canadian wizardry, would take years to recover after the Abraxian Flu decimated the staff.

Strangely, only the pureblooded English had survived the outbreaks.

He didn’t want to go there. He wanted to squiggle back through the undergrowth the whole twelve miles, avoiding acromantulas and centaurs intent on cat stew and the lonely old hag in her gingerbread hut, and cuddle up to his Mudblood, and shred the Gryfinndor couches one seam at a time.

Voldemort could go to hell (well, he probably could without Regulus’ permission, but he was offering it nonetheless). Acting as Mione’s professional companion (yeah, that sounded messed up) beat being a Death Eater anyday.

With that, Regulus slunk back through the trees, and sometime after two A.M., and Goyle’s last stint of guard duty (he accidentally himself out on an overhanging tree limb and was nearly discovered by his large feet peeping out from an invisibility cloak), Lily dragged the boys in by their ears. They mutually decided Goyle’s feet had been splinched off some guy apparating, and decided not to tell Mom so that they could use them for Sirius’ potion stores. Human flesh was pretty hard to come by.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Can I—"

"No."

"Can I, can I please?????"

"No, Elspeth!" Lily finalized, ears smoking, hair sparking. Elspeth, unfazed by her mother’s fireworks since she was three, remained unmoved and waited patiently for her mother to recognize the error of her ways.

"Why not? Ginny Weasley always gets to go, and her father’s not even—"

Elspeth’s attempt to reason with her mother was lost.

"Ginny just lost her big brother Charlie, and her Mom wants to keep her close by for awhile." Lily brandished the ladle as she meant to whack it expressively on the counter, but then remembered the cake batter clinging to it. Normally, she’d offer it to Elspeth, but today she wasn’t in a fit state of mind to sacrifice the yummy, calorie-ridden goo to her mouthy minx. She licked at the ladle.

Paying no attention, Elspeth chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "If Harry or Sirius get lost, can I go to Headquarters?"

"No. And quit being difficult. I mean that Charlie died, and this is no laughing matter."

"I’m not laughing. But why did Charlie die?"

"Well, Honey, maybe we should go to Church—"

"I didn’t mean it that way," Elspeth said seriously, "and Mom, I lost my faith three months ago. What I mean to say, is, why did You-Know-Who target Charlie and not the rest of the Weasleys?"

Lily, twisting lips wry at Elspeth precocious atheism, made a mental note to censor Sirius’ reading material again. She didn’t so much care if he was reading about religion—but if she caught Elspeth bad-mouthing her father one more time for his odd Anglicanisms, the kid was going to suffer through some serious Vacation Bible School. See if some time with Snookie the Smiling Jesus-Saurus would teach her respect.

Or... Lily cast a fond glance at her brat ... she could forego the bills to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad now, and bribe her into good behaviour with books from the Christian bookstore. She was young enough that she might even not notice the saccharine quality of the writing.

Or James would finally take her advice and grow a beard. Anything could happen, after all.

"Charlie was in Romania, on an internship to work with dragons. Although the official report calls what happened an accident, it’s pretty certain that Voldemort’s wizards killed him. Eastern Europe is more of a wilderness than Britain. Voldemort’s troups can actually take open action there."

Open action. Huh. That was one way of explaining it to a kid, but as much as Lily hated watering down anything for her children, there were some things she didn’t want Elspeth knowing for a few years. Sirius either. Harry, now—he’d learn it sooner or later, and he could handle anything.

The realization came suddenly, but when it did, she was unsurprised. She wasn’t worried about the boy. Even with her no-nonsense mothering attitude, she’d expected to be worried, but she wasn’t. He’d died for her eleven years ago—this extra time was something beyond clumsy piety or gratitude, or motherly preoccupation.

He was handsome, and quick, and something of his lean, famished look and the death light cornering his eyes reminded Lily of the illustrations of Fae in the books of extinct races. The Fae survived only in the veins of the wizarding peoples of the Welsh mountains, although some crackpots claimed they ran off to another planet and started a colony after the black market for their eyes hit an all-time high. Pickled Faery eyes, preserved from the 1400s, could still fetch a fortune on the market. Lily’s eyes, whatever a love-garbled James or Severus might say, were NOT fae. Harry’s, however—

Well, she thought, slightly miffed and turning the cake batter into the pan, the Slytherins were famed for interracial breeding, whatever their insistence on blood purity might have been.

"Mom!!!!!" the screen door banged open, and Lily didn’t look up from the oven to automatically remind them, "SHUT THE DOOR! Were you raised in a barn—"

"I guess that would make Mom a cow—"

"Mmm-hmm, Elspeth..."

"Mom! Harry’s hurt—"

"F***". She dropped the cake-pan and dashed out the back door.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Blood. Everywhere.

Fortunately, none of it seemed to be leaking from Harry, although the groaning and harsh breaths from the boy caught her aback. A glimpse of a black cloak caught the corner of her eye, she turned to snipe a barely legal curse automatically. The watcher gave a casual grin and side-stepped. And curtesied. And with that, Cendrella Greengrass was gone, and Lily was left to figure out what the hell happened there.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"Two broken legs. Not bad." Bellatrix opined, doing the same to the Muggle she was torturing. The kid gasped and squealed, and then the Venerable Aged Author got squeamish and relocated Bellatrix and her conversation to a more child-friendly premise than the torture room.

"I’ll say," The Venerable Aged Author murmured, not assenting. "How can you torture and interrogate all day and still coo about how wonderful the Potter kids are and how you can’t wait to train them..."

"Because I’ll be training them in torture, and the best way to teach is to try it on yourself! Have a go, it’s marvelous!"

"No thanks. I’m bored today, but not that bored. So, what’s happening next?"

"Well, we spend the next five years massacring all the Mudbloods in Eastern Europe, leaving death and carnage in our wake, and things get a lot less funny."

"Check," coughs the Venerable Aged Author, scribbling down her notes frantically, whilst trying her best not to sit back on the chair, whose seat was stained a familiar shade of red. "Lot... less... funny. You know, that’s going to be a bit of an issue," she complained, brushing back her bushy grey-brown hair while trying at the same time, and unsuccessfully, to clean out her ears unseen. Bellatrix crinkled her blood-bespattered nose in disgust and conjured a pack of Q-tips. Although these were similarly smeared with blood (like most of Bella’s personal articles), the V.A.A. accepted one graciously. Refusals of Bella’s assistance often started messy little duels, and you could find yourself ‘all over the place’ at the end of them. Quite literally.

"I really prefer comedy."

"Certainly, dearest. And what could be more amusing than these fools’ silly strategies to foil the Dark Lord’s plan?"

"Absolutely nothing," the V.A.A. deadpanned, sick with ennui, English midterms and too much time reading Baudelaire.

"Excellent. Now, come have a cuppa hemlock, and enchant those dear readers with some awful story about how Harry became a devilish Dark Wizard, and don’t forget to apply the Eye-Hex to the hypertext."

"I thought technology and magic didn’t mix!"

"Well, you know Sirius Potter. Severus put it into his mind that he could do almost anything, and now..."