Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Book 1

Contessa stood on the edge of the beach like an indecisive baby turtle. She’d slung her jacket over her shoulder and tilted her hat up. The wind teased her hair and ruffled her undershirt as the crest of the tide brushed the tip of her shoes.

Thirty years had passed almost as quickly as her village had collapsed. The experiments, the planning, building networks of contacts, working with the Doctor; all of it felt so recent. So fresh. But it was over now, and it was time for her to move on.

Everything had been arranged. The portal, the body, the supplies scavenged from Cranial and Bonesaw's old workshops. She looked down at the Tinkertech device in her palm. On the surface were knobs and screws and buttons that she couldn’t make sense of, but her power could. She flipped two switches and cranked a dial all the way to the right. It thrummed in her hand and she felt as though she'd pulled the pin of a live grenade.

“The saltwater will destroy your extremely expensive custom leather shoes.”

“No,” Contessa replied, pocketing the tech. Behind her, the speaker strode across the loose sand. “It won’t.”

“We could have had this conversation somewhere easier to get to,” said the Number Man as he finally reached her at the water's edge. He had rolled up his pants legs like a dork and was holding his shoes and socks in one hand, also like a dork. “I had to cancel a lunch date with Jeanne. I trust that you called me out here for something more important than catching up.”

Her power told her to wait another few seconds in silence before continuing the conversation. “I’m leaving.”

“We’ve got e-mail now. You could have sent one. ‘Dear Kurt, bye. Please watch over my fern. Love, Contessa.’ It would have been simpler than camping out on a beach on another earth.”

“As someone with a Dali in his office, you should understand clumsy symbolic gestures.”

“Fine.” The Number Man wiped his glasses on the shirt. They weren't dirty; the adjustment was a subconscious acknowledgement he'd lost the conversation. “When will you be back?”

“I’m leaving.”

He ceased his fidgeting. “Ah.”

“And I would never give you custody of Cato. I wouldn’t want him to pick up your bad taste or abominable sense of fashion.”

“Am I to assume that I’m the only person you’ve decided to inform?”

Contessa stayed silent and Number Man sighed to himself.

“You know that no one is going to be happy about this,” he said.

She knew he was already thinking of the arguments that were going to erupt the moment he revealed the woman who could do anything had chosen to abandon them.

“Won’t they?” she asked. “It seems to me the powers that be don’t want my help, they want me under their control or dead. Legend whines about ‘containing’ me to the Wardens at their directors’ meeting every month. Dragon has programs running to keep an eye on me. There are four major organizations that plan to kill or capture me in the next week, and Teacher—”

Number Man pounced on this. “Jeanne and I are concerned about Teacher and the problem he poses for future stability.”

“Teacher has been dealt with,” she said, using her power to keep her voice perfectly neutral.

“And the students?”

Contessa adjusted her hat. “I suggest you inform the Wardens of Teacher’s demise so they may deal with the cleanup.”

Number Man sighed again.

She knew he was dreading having to tell Jeanne and Chevalier, how he would have to field complaints about her desertion for months to come. “Tell them over breakfast,” she suggested. “If you time it correctly, Legend will choke and get coffee up his nose.”

“I suppose it would be an appropriate ‘goodbye’ from you to give Legend one final headache to deal with.”

“Nothing worse than what he gave me when he found out Cauldron wasn’t skipping around planting flowers and saving puppies.”

She waited for him to mount his objections. He would, despite understanding the futility of arguing with her.

“I’m not going to try to talk you out of it,” Number Man said diplomatically, preparing to do precisely that. “I want you to know that Jeanne and I intend to see this through. Continue Cauldron’s work. If you stayed, we'd back you to the hilt.”

“Thank you. Your feelings are noted.”

Contessa allowed the dismissal to fully sink in, then continued, “Scion is gone. The world is getting better and will get even better under Jeanne's guidance. I am no longer necessary.”

“I understand why you’re doing this,” he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “But we will have some very awkward conversations with the Wardens for the next year.”

“It will be awkward, but I deemed this the least troublesome way to tell everyone.” She paused. “Thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll just say you decided to nap on a beach for the foreseeable future,” he said, and reaffixed his glasses. “Although I doubt this will keep anyone from trying to find you.”

“They can try. They'll fail.”

“And were you planning on telling me how exactly you’re doing this?”

Contessa mentally stumbled. She consulted her power. It let her know that she would not put Number Man or Citrine in real danger if she shared the minor details of her plot with him. The only person insane enough to fight a heavily fortified city and simultaneously destabilize the financial markets of all earths at once for a hint at her whereabouts was dead in a pool of his own piss. Anybody else he told wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“There are still worlds left unaccounted for. Worlds Scion didn’t even touch. Safe havens where humanity was kept completely clueless about what was happening. One girl among billions won’t stick out. And I am very good at avoiding notice.”

“One girl?”

“One woman.”

The awkward little shuffle that accompanied her words didn't convince him it was a slip of the tongue.

“That would explain Panacea’s recent trips from her father’s territory.”

Contessa didn't deign to comment on his speculation, and he didn't provide more. She checked and Number Man was silently imagining how she would look and act as a child. She managed to contain the urge to deck him.

Number Man waited an appropriate amount of time before ruining the conversation. “The world could still use someone like you.”

“Perhaps I don't want to be used.”

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But perhaps you believe another world could use someone like you more.”

She scowled at the sea. “I plan to have a normal childhood this time.”

“Whatever it is you plan on doing, enjoy it. You’ve more than earned it.” Number Man turned to her for the first time in the conversation, his mouth set in a frown and his eyes dull even as he offered a hand. “I suppose this is goodbye.”

She took his hand, pulling him towards her. He reluctantly put one arm around her, and she grabbed his other arm and forced him to give her a proper hug. “Goodbye, Kurt.”

“Goodbye, Contessa. Good luck, wherever you may find yourself.”

“Have a nice life.”

She released him and watched him go, heading up over the dunes until he disappeared behind one. Her fingers traced the device in her pocket.

"Good luck," she murmured.

Contessa pressed the final button and everything went black.

--------

Fortuna woke up.

She lay in bed staring at the wall, somewhat conscious but lacking the will to actually get up. It had been one of those dreams again. Herself and a man, talking. Fragments stuck out to her: the water on her shoes, her irritation, the hug at the end. The harder she tried to remember, the faster the memory faded: the man’s appearance grew fuzzy and the conversation dissolved into white noise. Eventually, it was gone, leaving only the vaguest sense a dream had occurred.

The only memories that ever stayed were the bad ones.

Her roommate, Ash, had gone downstairs already. She rolled out from under the sheets and fell over the side of her bed, landing in a crouch. It had only taken one time landing on Ash that she checked with her power every time before doing it.

The attic was cramped, occupied by a bunk bed, two cabinets, a hanging rack, and four stacks of boxes. The Simmonses hadn’t cleaned anything out when they’d put their first orphan up there, and had deemed it good enough for their second as well. It was tight living, but not painfully so.

She checked what she needed to know right now. Her family was awake, breakfast wasn’t ready, and there was a strange woman visiting today. Fortuna asked and found that, yes, it would be fine to wear her Princess Luna hand-me-down sweater and faded black pajama pants. She grabbed her hat from the bedpost and was putting it on when one of her foster brothers, Max, poked his head in.

“You up? Mr. Simmons says there’s someone downstairs for you.”

“Okay.”

As he disappeared down the ladder, she straightened her fedora in the mirror. The hat was crisp and clean, without the usual creases and tears that blemished the hand-me-down clothes she and her siblings wore. Once she was satisfied, she touched her pocket knife. It had never left her side and never would; it was better to be safe than sorry.

She popped the attic door open and climbed down the ladder onto the second floor. The Simmonses’ house was a mess of bodies, furniture, and possessions. They had adopted seven orphans over the years in a house that was barely big enough for four and had accumulated the belongings and clutter of ten. The hallway was lined with doors, some open, some shut, but all filled to the brim.

Fortuna weaved between Sam and Kris, the two seven-year olds who were the latest additions to their family, playing tag in the hallway, and skipped over piles of discarded toys and dirty laundry. When she reached the staircase, she could see her foster father making conversation with an older woman at the bottom.

Fortuna clasped the handrail and launched herself over to land gracefully on the floor below.

Mr. Simmons was a man with a body like a bowling ball and a head like a bowling pin. His face was bright red most days from running after children to keep them out of trouble. It was bright red now, as he startled at her sudden appearance.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” he told her for what must have been the hundredth time.

Fortuna didn’t respond, instead looking expectantly between the two adults.

He shook his head and gave up that battle. “Fortuna, this woman works at a boarding school in Scotland. They noticed your test scores and think you'd be a good fit.”

It came as no surprise that her academics had garnered interest—she’d been getting straight As in her classes ever since that first teacher had put that first pencil in her hand and asked her to shade bubbles. She’d understood only half of the questions, but her power had filled in the rest.

“Good morning, Miss Floris. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Professor McGonagall, one of the teachers at Hogwarts.”

This woman was tall, even for an adult. She looked like an extra on Downton Abbey, one whose prolonged exposure to subpar storytelling had worn her down like sandpaper. She had the type of dress that looked forty years out of style—but with how old she appeared, may have just been bought when it was fashionable.

McGonagall extended her hand and Fortuna gave it a firm shake. It was important to make a good first impression. McGonagall reached into her pocket and produced a thick envelope sealed with wax and handed it to her.

Fortuna looked down at the address.

Ms. F Floris. The Attic. 107 Bassett Street. Fulbourn. Cambridgeshire.

They knew that she lived in the attic? Fortuna glanced up at the Professor, who had a reserved smile on her face.

“Hogwarts has produced some of the greatest talents of this generation, Ms. Floris, and it would be a pleasure to have you grace our halls in September. I’m hoping you’ll allow me to discuss what Hogwarts could offer someone with your talents.”

“Sounds like a great opportunity,” Mr. Simmons butted in. He paused. “It would be good to have the extra space and one less mouth to feed. Oh, but I don’t want to be the one making that decision for you.”

She could take a hint.

A crash came from upstairs, and Mr. Simmons winced. “It’s all up to you,” he emphasized.

“If there’s something you need to take care of, I would be happy to speak alone with Ms. Floris,” McGonagall said. “We’ll need to discuss some of the things that make Hogwarts unique, as well as why she was chosen and what her studies would cover. It’s a big decision to be made at her age and it will take some time to go over everything.”

With a hasty thank you, Mr. Simmons hurried away, and the two women were left alone. Fortuna had barely noticed the end of that conversation. She’d asked three questions after being handed the letter. What did the school teach? Magic. Really? Yes. Would she be happy if she went?

Yes.

“Would you like to move somewhere more comfortable?" McGonagall asked.

“Yes,” Fortuna said, “I would like that very much.”

Chapter Text

The Simmonses were apologetic but clear: they didn’t have the time to take her to King's Cross. Mrs. Simmons gave her a crumpled five-pound note for the bus and a pat on the head for good luck, and Mr. Simmons moved her belongings to the front porch before Fortuna could point out that five pounds would not take her the sixty miles to London.

Max, Kris, and Sam were sitting on the worn-out couch watching television as she followed their guardian out. 

“Where are you going?”  Sam asked. The others' heads turned towards her.

“I’m leaving for school," she said. After a moment, she added, "I'm not going to come back for a while."

“Oh, okay.” 

They all turned back to the TV. Fortuna stood waiting for them to say goodbye and only moved after Mr. Simmons asked, “Did you forget something?”

The door shut behind her and she stood on the porch, surrounded by all her worldly belongings. She used her power to balance a duffel bag on top of a pet carrier sitting on her trunk without spilling it all and tottered to the end of the sidewalk before turning back for one final look. 

The house was a hideous off-white, with paint peeling off the side panels and long-forgotten toys peeking out of the patches of overgrown weeds. She felt as much of a stranger here as when she had arrived three years ago, soaking wet in the rain and utterly alone. 

There was a bus stop down the street, and she had to get there early in case there were any issues with the notoriously unreliable public transit system and her lack of funds. When she placed her baggage on the ground by the sign, she found that the bus schedules posted were a confusing, jumbled mess of numbers and times, so she asked herself for the quickest bus to the train station. 

One step: hold out her wand.

The magic bus that came trundling down the road was a surprise, but a welcome one. The inside was a little odd, filled with tables and chairs instead of benches, but at least the people inside weren’t any different from non-magic ones. Vagrants sat around muttering to themselves, men in dress clothes ignored everything except their papers, and the driver sat at the front driving haphazardly and jabbering away.

The difference was in the details. When the vagrants talked to themselves, something answered. The men wore robes instead of suits, and the papers had pictures that moved about like the television. This driver didn’t bother the paying passengers and instead traded quips with a talking head that hung from the mirror. 

Then the bus took off, careening its way through the countryside, and Fortuna had to use her power to stay put in her seat. This didn't stop her kitten from waking up and yowling his displeasure, and several of the other passengers shot her dirty looks. 

She ignored them and reached through the bars of the carrier to scritch his ears. The Hogwarts orphaned witches fund had only enough to cover what she needed without any frivolous extras, but while walking past the pet store, she’d just happened to catch sight of a little gray kitten looking out of the window. 

There had been plenty of other kittens, but they were sleeping snuggled up together or playing with each other. This one had been sitting by itself off to one side. When they’d made eye contact, the kitty had stood up, wobbling on unsure legs, and flattened its nose against the glass. 

Fortuna had forced McGonagall to stop while she argued with her power. She'd asked if she should get a cat and the answer was no. The second, slightly modified question told her the same. The third, fourth, and fifth were no different. It was the ninth question that had finally yielded a yes, with dozens of extra steps than she’d have followed otherwise.

One of the steps was buying a cheap used trunk, slightly too small for Hogwarts’ extensive list of books and potion materials, so she could afford the kitten. In fact, the only new thing she'd purchased was her wand—beech, dragon heartstring, eight inches long, reasonably supple. Ollivander had called it a wand of great power and artistry, but warned that it could easily be turned to dark magic. His words had made her uneasy, so she decided to put the wand in the same category as the other weapon she carried. It was too long to fit in the same pocket as her knife, so she stuck it in the back pocket of her slacks.

Looking out the window was a recipe for motion sickness, so she devoted her attention to soothing her cat. When they arrived at King's Cross, she thanked the driver sincerely when she got off and he smiled, laughed, and told her to come back any time.

She promised she would as soon as she got the opportunity, though she wasn't sure that was altogether true.

The train station had no Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. It did have trolleys, so Fortuna wheeled her stuff around to avoid looking like an overburdened porter. She led herself to a solid, brick wall and asked if it was really a good idea to run face-first into it. Instead of suffering a permanent brain injury, she went straight through and found herself in a hidden station, with a red train sitting dormant on the tracks. 

She was the only person there besides a man sweeping away rubbish. He gave her a strange look and went back to his work. Fortuna asked where everyone else was and realized it was only eight o’clock. She'd arrived several hours too early. 

She went on board and got a compartment for herself—the best one, no one was there to say no. Once she placed her kitty-carrier to her side and secured her trunk in the luggage rack, she dove into her duffel to retrieve one of the medieval mystery novels she'd crammed among her clothes and other non-magical belongings.

A Morbid Taste for Bones was second-hand, and the pages were worn and yellowed. She had gotten halfway through before Ash had told her to "turn that bloody light off." Her mind had been awhirl all through the night and during breakfast, and it had taken a monumental effort not to cheat and ask her power who'd done it.

By the time she reached the end, the first groups of people had begun to trickle onto the platform, all of them in bunches—happy families with proud parents and kids excited to start another year of schooling. She used her power to check on her foster family and discovered that Lee had occupied her bunk within fifteen minutes of her departure.

When she was thirty pages into One Corpse Too Many , a boy her age opened the door. His hair was sandy and elegantly styled, and he wore glasses a bit too large for his face. He sat down across from her and introduced himself.

“Candidus,” he said, presenting his hand. “Candidus Craven.” 

She finished her paragraph before returning his greeting. He settled back and started going through a book of his own, and they amicably ignored each other. 

It didn’t take long before the door opened again and a girl poked her head in.

“Hey, you bagging that seat?” she asked, gesturing to the empty space next to Candidus, who set his book down.

"Be my guest," Candidus said.

“Cheers!”

The girl hefted a heavy trunk into the carriage. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a neon green scrunchie, and the sleeves on her bright orange tracksuit were rolled back to show off her prominent muscles. Despite its weight, she lifted the trunk with ease and set it on one of the racks above them, before addressing Fortuna.

“Jesus Christ, you alright? You look paler than a mother in a morgue.”

“What?” Fortuna asked, working through the girl’s comment. 

“Hah! Just having a laugh, mate. Name’s Jessica,” she said, turning to Candidus and patting his shoulder a bit too roughly.

“Candidus,” the boy replied with a grimace, wiping where she had touched him.

Jessica turned to Fortuna. “And you?”

“I’m For—”

The door shot open and a harried girl stood in the entrance. “Got room for one more?”

Jessica nodded and the girl scurried in, slamming the door shut. Candidus winced at the sound, but she was too occupied shoving her truck into a corner to notice. She flopped down next to Fortuna, who barely had enough time to pull her kitty carrier onto her lap. 

“Sorry!” she exclaimed. “Everywhere else is just packed! But at least you’re the first group of people I’ve seen not wearing something ridiculous. Angelique, by the way.” 

“I’m Candidus, Candidus Craven,” the boy said with a mock-bow.

“You can call me Jessica,” Jessica said, shaking the girl’s hand and the rest of her with it.

“Wow," Angelique gushed, "you’re pretty strong!” 

“Strong enough to whack a sailor!” Jessica said with a hearty laugh. 

Angelique stood up and started squeezing the larger girl's arm. "What's the story there?"

“My pop’s a bodybuilder, right? He makes sure I don’t slack off." She deepened her voice in obvious imitation of the man. "‘I don’t care if you’re a bird or not, you’re gonna learn to lift a weight.’” 

“I can see that! Do you think you could carry someone?” 

As a matter of fact, Jessica thought that she could. She sprang up and the smaller girl latched onto her arm, swinging around like a monkey. Fortuna asked herself if she should be doing that and received a firm no in reply. She lunged forward and blocked Angelique from kicking Candidus in the face. 

Angelique groaned in disappointment as Jessica set her down, then blinked when she realized she didn’t recognize who had swatted her foot. “Where did you come from!”

“Here,” Fortuna said.

“Oh my goodness," Angelique said, flopping down in her seat, "I’m so sorry! I didn’t even realize you were there.” 

Fortuna sat back down and hugged her cat's carrier to her chest. “I’m Fortuna.”

Angelique leaned forward and looked around the carriage with conspiratorial eyes. “So, are you all… you know, normal?” 

Jessica’s smile hitched at the comment and Candidus had a sour look on his face. 

“My foster parents have never thought so,” Fortuna replied.

The atmosphere in the car suddenly became tense. Fortuna looked from person to person, but they were all avoiding her eyes. 

Except for Angelique. She sprang up to hug Fortuna but just as her feet hit the floor, the train lurched. Angelique squeaked as she tumbled sideways into Jessica.

“Oh!" she said, scrambling off of her. "I’m so sorry!”

“I’m fine,” Jessica said. She rubbed her own ribs gingerly. “These bones could dent steel.” 

She stood up and helped the excitable girl to her feet. The gesture was partly kindness and partly to hide the tears forming in her eyes. 

Angelique sat down and refocused the conversation. “What I meant was, is your family magical?” 

Fortuna thought about it. Only a few brief moments had managed to weather the event that had taken the majority of her memories and made her an orphan. Her mother’s face smiling down at her. Her father teaching her how to milk a goat. A small cottage with a garden. “No, I don’t think they were,” she replied.

“Mine neither,” Jessica said. 

“My family's magical line can be traced fairly far back," Candidus said. "Not that it matters," he added before launching into a tale about how his grandfather was the minister of magic over a hundred years ago and all the wonderful things he had done.

Candidus apparently had an entire encyclopedia of wizarding government trivia memorized, which he shared until interrupted by a woman selling candy. Fortuna didn't bother looking up from the book she'd discreetly picked up about three minutes into the impromptu lecture; forgoing the cash to buy sweets was one of the prices her kitten came with.

As Candidus’s story wound down, she finished the last few pages and stashed her book away in the duffel bag. The others had been so caught up in his tale, they hadn’t even noticed her reading. 

Angelique started cooing at her kitten. 

“Aren’t you a sweet little kitty? Yes you are, yes you are. What’s your name?”

“Harbinger,” Fortuna said with a frown. Harbinger was much too dignified to be spoken to in a baby voice.

Angelique squinted at her. “Harbinger is a silly name for a cat.”

“It isn't,” Fortuna said, booping him on the nose. 

He swatted at the offending finger, but she pulled away before he could scratch her. 

“My mother never let me have a pet.” Angelique held her own fingers out for Harbinger to sniff. “She’s always worried about it peeing all over her rug, or getting hair on her clothes, or eating her expensive earrings.” 

"My owl will meet me at Hogwarts," Candidus said. The three of them looked expectantly at Jessica.

"I've got a toad," Jessica said, leaning forward as though she were about to share a secret. "I call her 'mum.'"

Angelique didn't get the joke, and changed the subject. "Let Harby out," she demanded, brandishing a box of sweets in Fortuna's face. "I want to see him chase these sugar mice.”

After checking with her power to make sure Harbinger would be okay, Fortuna placed the carrier on the floor and released him. 

Instead of evincing any interest in the candy Angelique spilled over the floor, he jumped into Fortuna's lap and fell asleep.

Angelique grumbled. Sugar mice squeaked and scuttled around her shoes.

“It's because you called him Harby,” Fortuna said. 

“Well, that was a disappointment. And a waste of good sweets.” Candidus reached into his bookbag and withdrew a decorated wooden box. "Chess, anyone?" 

Jessica took him up on the challenge, and the game commenced. Angelique chattered the entire time, alternating between commentary and embellished recounts of every game she'd lost, which was also every game she'd ever played. 

Fortuna watched in silence as Candidus won three games. "Castle queen's side," she advised Jessica a few moves into their fourth game. With a few well-timed tips— don't sacrifice that pawn , take that bishop with your knight , move your queen there —she guided Jessica to victory.  

“Easy to sit back and give advice," Candidus said resentfully, as his king threw down his crown at the feet of Jessica's rook. "How about you play? Unless you’re afraid of losing.”

Fortuna passed Harbinger’s carrier over to Angelique and pulled the chessboard between herself and Candidus. He offered her first and she took it happily. Knight out first, then pawn, then rook. As the midgame developed, it became clear Candidus was trying to take her queen, so she let him. He sacrificed a castle, both knights and a bishop just for her queen and set himself completely out of position. She had him in checkmate eight moves later.

Then, when she tried to return to her books, he demanded a rematch. The pieces reset themselves and this time he claimed white as ‘loser's right.’ This game was longer, as he sat for minutes at a time thinking through every one of his moves. She checked every now and then to be sure that he was actually planning and not just trying to annoy her.

At some point during the second game, a prefect came by to advise them to change into their robes. Angelique fell asleep halfway through their fourth game. She probably should have eased up on him, but he had called her a coward. 

Finally, after his sixth consecutive defeat, Candidus slumped back. "How are you doing this?"

“I see what move you’re going to make, then I make a move to counter it before you do it,” Fortuna replied. “Then when you counter the move I made, I counter the counter to the move until you don’t have any more pieces on the board. And then, you lose.”

Candidus crossed his arms and turned to the window, sulking. 

“I don’t get it either, but you’re dead talented,” Jessica said.

“Thank you,” Fortuna said. She glanced at Candidus. “But Candidus is a great player. I’m just lucky that he isn’t noticing the patterns I use.”

“Thanks,” Candidus said, unbending a little. “Sorry, I just play chess with my dad all the time and even he can’t beat me this bad.” 

“Maybe I’m just using different techniques.”

“Maybe.”

The train shook as it began to slow down. 

“Hey, Angelique, wake up. I think we’re getting close,” Jessica said, tapping the small girl with her shoe.

“Huh? Already?” Angelique looked around, confused.

Suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing Fortuna back in her seat, Angelique into Jessica, Candidus into a trunk, and set all their belongings shaking where they were stashed. Harbinger woke up and began meowing, clearly offended at the interruption. 

Angelique peered out the window from her new position on the floor. “So… are we there yet?”

Fortuna asked her power. “No, we aren’t.”

“Then what’s going on?”

Her power informed her that the train was letting on guards that had been assigned by the government, and that they would all be searched. She spent a few seconds trying to think of how to explain what was happening and how she knew what was happening before responding. “I don’t know.”

The torches inside the train dimmed. They couldn’t see anything through the windows. The sky was a murky sea of black, and their carriage was silent save for the relentless drumming of rain on glass. The air quickly became cold, so cold that rain turned to sleet and the windows frosted over and their breath emerged in clouds. 

Angelique startled at a shape she saw through the train window, and Fortuna leapt to her feet as someone started screaming.

"Who is doing that?” she asked.

Everyone looked at her, too afraid to respond. 

She pulled her knife. I want to know— 

The compartment door slid open. A shadow shrouded in rags leaned in, suspended in midair. It turned to her. She watched, transfixed, as it slowly lifted its rotting fingers and peeled its hood back.

Beneath it was the bloody, dead-eyed face of her mother. A glob of skin and muscle slipped loose from her cheek and slopped down the front of its robes.

“No,” Fortuna whispered. "No, no—"

"No!" Her mother shoved her towards the back of the house. "Get out of here. Run." 

She couldn't move. A creature, a tumor in the shape of a man—fleshy and gelatinous, with deformed limbs protruding at random from its mass and diseased yellow boils sprouting from its arms, legs and face—stood in what remained of their doorway. Her father was trying to beat it back with a staff, but it didn't seem to even notice the blows.

It lunged forward, puncturing her father's throat with one swipe of a talon. A splash of blood slapped against her face. Its metallic taste filled her mouth. 

Fortuna recoiled from the creature in rags, but there wasn't anywhere to go. "I want to escape," she thought, but her power failed her for the first time in her life. An alien gray fog billowed across her sight.

Her mother finally seized her arm and pulled her away. She blinked her father's blood out of her eyes in time to see his legs being ripped from his torso. Her mother opened the back door, hurrying Fortuna out, but another monster smashed into them.

Her mother tumbled almost halfway down the slope. Fortuna skidded across the grass, stopping only a few yards away. The monster that had hit them lurched forward on five disjointed limbs. Its body, long and narrow like stretched dough, was covered in chitinous scales. Viscous slime oozed and dripped from the cracks, sizzling when it hit the ground.

“What am I seeing?” Fortuna asked herself urgently, willing the fog to clear. “What is this?”

“Forta,” her mother begged as she dragged her broken body across the ground. “Please, Forta, run.” 

The beast advanced on her mother, but Fortuna remained still. She lay watching as it reared over her mother and disgorged a torrent of slime over her prone body. The air soon burned with the sulfurous reek of rancid meat. Her mother started screaming a second later. She thrashed violently as the goo liquefied fabric, flesh and bone, but the creature pinned her down. 

Fortuna’s chest tightened and she breathed faster and faster, unable to get enough air. I want to make this stop. Her power continued to be useless. 

Two hands grabbed her from behind. 

“Fortuna! We have to go!” her uncle yelled, shaking her. 

When she didn’t get up, he hauled her up himself and slung her over his shoulder. He stumbled forward, trying to put distance between them and the beast even with his game leg. She could only watch as her mother dissolved into an unrecognizable welter.

Her mother’s shrieks turned to gurgles. The beast hinged its jaw and locked eyes with Fortuna.

She recognized the face that stared back, underneath the chitin and frenzy. It was the face of her best friend. The tears trickling down her cheeks drew valleys in her parents’ blood.

Fortuna leaned against the door, her breath coming out in labored gasps. She smashed a hand against the window, unsure if it was really there. “Mama,” she whispered. 

“Fortuna?” 

She spun on her heel and pointed her knife, asking her power how to disable the threat. The fog finally dissipated, revealing one step: listen .

“Oi, you nutty bint. Put that thing away before you shiv someone,” something yelled at her, waving its arms.

She took a second to recognize the faces that surrounded her belonged to scared children, and another to recognize them as her classmates. 

Fortuna grabbed the empty cat carrier from the floor and thrust it between her and the rest of the compartment, dodging Angelique's flailing attempts at a hug. She threw herself into the corner between the edge of her seat and the wall beneath the window, pulled her legs to her chest, and sobbed.

Chapter Text

I want to find my uncle. 

I want to know where my uncle is.

I want to know if I have an uncle.

I want to know if I had an uncle.

I want to identify and locate the man with the bad leg who took me away from my parents' house the day I let them die.

Fortuna sneezed into Harbinger, who had vacated his spot on the floor and crawled into her lap at some point. He was squeezed tightly to her chest in a death grip and his fur was wet from where it was soaking up her tears. He bore these indignities with total equanimity. She matched her breathing to his purrs to ease the knot of tension in her gut.

"They're called Dementors. They guard Azkaban, you know. That’s the wizarding prison, where Dark wizards and murderers go. They feed off of happiness. I’m guessing they were searching for Sirius Black, who is the first person in history to escape."

“Do they make everyone else go proper fucking mental?”

"Well, sometimes people with a weak or sensitive disposition find them harder to bear, but it's nothing some chocolate can't clear up. Just don't go to prison, heh heh.”

I want to know why my friend hurt my mother.

I want to know what happened to my friend.

I want to know why my friend became a monster.

I want to know if my friend is still alive.

I want to know where my friend died.

“Fortuna, I told you to eat the chocolate. You need something to help make yourself feel better.”

The compartment door crashed open. “Guys! I found something better than a prefect. It's our Defense Professor.”

“I heard someone here had a bad reaction to the Dementors?”

“A professor? Oh, thank Merlin. Yes, sir, it’s Fortuna here. She hasn’t been talking to us since the Dementors showed up. Is there anything you can do?”

“Has she had any chocolate yet?”

“Yes, professor! Well—no, professor! I’ve read up on Dementors before and tried to give some to her, but she just knocked it away. She has a knife.”

I want to know what my parents' names were.

I want to know what my parents were like.

I want to know if I loved my parents.

I want to remember why I didn't save them.

“Ah," the newcomer said. "This might require a tad more than chocolate to fix. Dementors don't just suck the happiness out of you. They can also bring forth your worst thoughts, or feelings, or—”

“Your worst memories, professor?” Candidus, again.

“Precisely.”

Fortuna lifted her head from Harbinger's matted fur. There was a man in their compartment, shabby, wearing patched robes over an ugly black tweed suit. Angelique was standing just outside the door, staring down at her with wide eyes.

“What did you say?” she asked.

Candidus, Jessica, and the professor turned to look at her.

“I’m sorry?” the man asked.

“What did you say?”

He lowered his voice a little in an attempt to sound more soothing. “I'm Professor Lupin. The Dementors suck the happiness from you, but with that all that’s left is the worst of you. Your sorrow, your fears, your most vulnerable and tragic moments. Now, Miss…?” 

“Her name’s Fortuna, sir,” Candidus butted in. “And be careful, she has a knife.” 

"Floris, sir," Fortuna said.

“Miss Floris.” Lupin crouched on the floor beside her. “I'm sorry these creatures were your first introduction to the magical world. I hope this won’t sour your impression of Hogwarts. You’re safe now, I can assure you that the Dementors are gone and they won’t be bothering you anymore. The man they've been assigned to search for is not on this train. What’s important is that you’re feeling alright. We’re all worried about you. ”

Fortuna allowed him to place a hand on her shoulder. He pressed a piece of chocolate into her palm.

“See, it’s going to be okay,” he said softly, his gaze level with hers. “You have your cat, you have your friends, you’re off to a school of magic. Put this unpleasantness behind you. Have some chocolate. It will help. Now, are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, using her power to make it sound convincing. She needed to get them off her back and take time to think.

“Good. I’d like to have you speak with Madam Pomfrey, but… no, you will have to be Sorted first. Perhaps after the feast then. If you still aren’t feeling well, please tell a prefect or your head of house. They’ll take you straight to her, and there isn't a thing she can't fix. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go check on another student.”

Once the professor had left, Fortuna continued to stroke Harbinger as she played back everything he'd said. Dementors made people relive their worst memories, the worst moments that had ever happened to them.

That meant that what she saw had been real , and that meant she had watched her parents die. For someone with her abilities, that was the same thing as killing them.

“Fortuna," Candidus said testily, deciding to deliver the lecture the professor hadn't, "will you please just eat the chocolate? If not for your sake, then at the very least for ours. And what were you playing at, waving that knife around? You shouldn’t even be carrying weapons.”

She wondered what he thought a wand was.

Angelique gestured encouragingly at the chocolate in Fortuna’s hand. “You’ll feel better. I know I did!”

What if I don’t want to feel better? Fortuna considered dropping the chocolate on the floor.

Instead, she asked for a way to make everyone stop worrying about her. Her power had her eat the chocolate—which irritatingly did make her feel better—and push herself to her feet. She straightened her back, wiped her face, and steadied her voice.

As soon as she was back on her feet, Angelique moved out of the doorway and swooped in for a hug. Fortuna accidentally swiveled Harbinger's carrier in between the two of them as she sat back down. “Thanks,” Fortuna said, “for helping me out.”

“You’re welcome,” Candidus said with a wave. “You were just overreacting a bit, with the knife and everything. Dementors are bad, but they aren’t that bad . I knew someone older would help sort you out.”

“Yes.” Her power etched a calm smile on her face. “Maybe you’re right.”

The others began chattering again, charged with excitement. Everyone had their own theory as to the likely whereabouts of the wanted man, who was apparently a dangerous and unhinged fugitive. Fortuna participated at first, but gradually dropped out of the conversation, only speaking when her power nudged her to. 

“Fortuna,” Angelique said, watching Fortuna sniffle into Harbinger’s fur, “maybe you should put Harby down for a while? I can hold him for you.”

Fortuna sneezed violently. Her kitten twitched in her lap. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

“Looks like you’re a mite allergic,” Jessica observed.

"I would not get a pet I’m allergic to," Fortuna said, and rubbed her itchy eyes with the back of her hand. 

The rain had only gotten worse since their sudden stop, and by the time they rolled into Hogwarts station and clambered out onto the platform, it was a veritable monsoon outside. The rain came down in sheets so thick that she couldn't see more than a meter or two in front of herself. The students poured off the train, splitting off into streams heading every which way. She resorted to letting her power pick her way through the crowd. 

“First years, over here!” a voice yelled to their right. A bearded giant gestured down a muddy trail where students were already slipping and sliding to god-knows-where.

“They can’t really expect us to go down there, can they?” Candidus yelled over the roar of the rain and din of other students. 

Fortuna judged the danger. Jessica would get down fine on her own and Candidus could figure something out. Angelique, though, would trip over a pit in the dark and hurt herself. Fortuna grabbed Angelique’s hands and gave Jessica a nod. “See you at the bottom,” she said.

“What, was your grandpa a goat?” Jessica asked. “How the hell are you getting down this?”

Fortuna dragged Angelique behind her, and the other girl followed her without question. 

Only Candidus realized what she was about to do. “Knives can’t cut rain, Fortuna. Don’t—”

Fortuna took one step forward and slid down the slope. Angelique squealed the entire way down, the pitch changing as she alternated between fear and excitement. Fortuna swerved around jutting rocks, errant roots and toppled children, until she finally reached the bottom and stopped herself by propping one foot up on the dock.

Angelique stopped screaming and started clapping. “Oh my goodness, can we do that again?! That was a ma zing.” 

Fortuna looked up, barely able to make out the form of Jessica stomping her way down the slope, carrying an embarrassed Candidus in her arms.

“Bloody hell, Tony Hawk, where'd you learn to do that!?”

Fortuna shook her shoes over the water, getting the worst of the mud off. A professor would remove the rest on their arrival. “Let’s go,” she said. 

As the storm raged around them, the four of them got into one of the rickety boats that was rocking ominously in the waves. Slowly, the rest of the muddy, weary first years made their way down to the dock and packed the rinky-dink vessels, desperately fighting to stay warm in the wind. The giant looked them over, counting the tightly packed huddles in each dinghy on his fingers.

“Right, that’s all of you. We’re off.” 

He climbed into a boat of his own, which Fortuna deduced that was buoyed by magic. He set off at a decent clip despite the rain, and the rest of the boats followed behind him like columns of ducklings.

“I’m gonna be cream crackered after all this,” Jessica shouted so her voice carried over the storm.

“You’re going to be a lot worse than that if the boat tips over,” Candidus shouted back at her.

Between the cold and rain, Fortuna could fake trying to stay warm to get out of the conversation.

I want to know why I can’t remember anything.

Again, fog. Why? 

Why couldn’t she remember? Why had she done nothing but stare? There was nothing she couldn’t do. If she wanted to right now, she could steal Jessica’s scrunchie and tie Candidus’s hair in a pigtail without anyone noticing. Thirteen steps. Easy. Everything was easy. 

Her power had always been able to tell her what she wanted to know. She could answer any question, solve any puzzle, uncover any secret with a thought. And now it refused to work for her. They were her own thoughts and feelings, and she was completely blind to them.

I want to know why I never asked about my parents before.

This was the most shameful part of all. She'd spent three years with a foster family and she'd never thought to ask about her own past any more than she'd thought to tell anyone about her gift. She didn’t need her power to know how much trouble showing off or standing out so egregiously she'd tip her hand would cause.

Maybe she’d been scared of knowing. Her parents had died in front of her and she had done nothing but watch. Maybe that was something she just didn’t want to remember, ever again, and so her power had drawn a curtain across it. 

If that was the case, she was even more of a coward. This was a shame she should bear.

She shifted mental gears to external circumstances. She was the only one in the world with a power like hers, but was she the only one whose parents had died to monsters like the ones the Dementors had shown her? She asked her powers if the two were connected, but saw only more fog.

Maybe there were answers in her case file?

  I want to know why no one ever told me about my parents.

This yielded an answer. First, the foster agency didn't know what had happened or where she had come from; she'd turned up unconscious outside an emergency room, seemingly out of nowhere. Second, the Simmonses hadn’t considered it to be worth talking about. Nasty business, repressed memories—best let sleeping dogs lie. Her amnesia wasn't accompanied by physical or functional impairment, the better children's psychologists were in London, and she wasn't causing problems with the other children, so they'd let it go. 

The weather raged, yet their boat remained steady on its course. Through the rain, Fortuna could make out the shining windows and rising ramparts of Hogwarts proper. 

“Watch your heads!” 

Their boat pierced a curtain of ivy. They were now beneath Hogwarts, and the waves began to flatten out as the stone overhang blocked the torrential downpour and biting wind. The cold eased as the boats docked themselves and the soggy mess of children clambered off, leaving behind a trail of puddles and dirt. 

The giant brought them up a set of stairs and down a passageway, stopping at a wide set of double doors. He opened them and looked over his shoulder. “I’ll be sure to go and get a professor then.”

A thunderous clap of the doors punctuated his exit, leaving the kids around Fortuna to point at and whisper about their surroundings. 

The humidity in the air started to evaporate most of the miserable atmosphere. Girls to her right were trying to restore order to their messy hair and boys to her left were wiping shoes against the wall to get the dirt off them.

“This place is gorgeous ,” Angelique gushed, gawking at the carved stone and vaulted ceilings that surrounded them.

“Bet you the loos are solid gold,” Jessica agreed. 

Candidus launched into an explanation on how Hogwarts came to be, the Founders and their virtues, and the quirks of the castle they'd erected—the friendly ghosts that wandered the hallways, the flights of stairs that shifted of their own accord, the talking portraits, the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall.

Fortuna stared at the doors. Her power had gotten her this far, at least for those paths it bothered to show. She had weathered her officious classmates and her well-meaning professor and the Dementor itself. Just a little longer. The feast, Lupin had said, and then bed. Two more hours. She could survive two more hours.

The doors opened and a man not much larger than the first years he was facing bustled through them. “Ah, good. I’m glad to see everyone here. I hope the little storm outside hasn’t dampened anyone’s spirits." He looked around, expecting mirth. 

Candidus guffawed.

"Here," the man said, pulling his wand and giving it a wave, "perhaps this will help.” 

The water sprang from their clothes and slithered off like snakes and the dirt that caked their robes formed clumps that hopped their way down the stairs. 

“Well, I’m hoping I see a few more smiles out of you now. I’m Filius Flitwick, the head of Ravenclaw, and I'm eagerly waiting to meet all the bright young students in my house this year. Please keep up, the Sorting awaits!”

Surprisingly quick, Flitwick hurried the group down another set of hallways and through several more doors before coming to an entranceway to put all others to shame. Flitwick pushed them open without a hint of strain, and the air shook with the roar of hundreds of excited teenagers. 

“Come now, follow me,” Flitwick said, leading the group down the rows of talking students, most eyeing them as they made their way to a hat sitting on a stool.

After a song and resounding applause, everyone grew quiet and Flitwick unrolled a parchment. “When I call your name, please come up, sit down and place the hat on your head. Amica, Louise!”

“I guess we’ll see each other after sorting.” Angelique fidgeted as she watched students proceed to the stool one by one. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were in the same house!”

“Yeah, would be good if my bunkmates weren’t a band of pillocks and tossers,” Jessica said with a smile. 

“Unlikely, but I’ll try to keep up with everyone,” Candidus lied.

Fortuna read him like a book. He did not intend to keep up with Angelique, whom he had dismissed with contempt within a few seconds of meeting. He was too set in the ways of his world and class to give Jessica an honest chance, and he intended to outright avoid her , whom he viewed as unstable. 

Fortuna's power showed them what they expected to see, which was a brief smile and a nod, while she continued to count down the minutes until she could be with herself.

Jessica was sent off to Slytherin and Candidus to Ravenclaw. By the time the Hat finally dispatched a Miss de Luce to Gryffindor, Fortuna had already removed her own hat and stepped forward. Flitwick insisted on calling her name out in full even though she was already sitting on the stool. The Hat barely brushed the top of her hair before bellowing "GRYFFINDOR!"

She chose a seat further down the Gryffindor table from where the other first years were sitting and stared intently at the reflection in her empty plate, looking up only to see Martin, Angelique sent off to Hufflepuff. Shortly after the Sorting concluded, the headmaster rose to greet them.

"Welcome! Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast. As you might be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to a few of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business."

Fortuna had been prepared to ignore his comments, but the mention of Dementors caught her attention.

"They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they were with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises—or even invisibility cloaks." 

She'd have easy access to them, then. An idea began to percolate through her thoughts. The professor went on, but Fortuna considered it unimportant. His voice faded into background noise as she refined the idea with the help of her power.

Food appeared around her, more food than she had ever seen in her entire life—certainly more than she’d ever had at the Simmons household. Fortuna helped herself to the roast mutton and some of the mashed potatoes, spooning a glob onto her plate. But her mind was elsewhere as she asked her final question. 

I want to know how to deal with Dementors.

A spell. She visualized herself performing the motions and incantation that would call forth a protector capable of driving the Dementors off. Yes, her power would eventually allow her to approach the things and extricate her safely before they could do any lasting harm.

But her path dictated patience. She couldn't use the spell, not yet. It required memories. The one thing she didn’t have. Soon , her power told her. She need only wait to create the memories required for successfully encountering the creatures again.

And she would, she swore to herself. As soon as she could, she was going to confront the Dementors and she was going to get the memories of her parents back. 

Chapter Text

The matchstick on her desk morphed into a needle. Fortuna picked it up and wiggled it a bit, testing the elasticity of the metal. Then she bent it until the ends were almost touching, before letting go and watching it spring back into shape. She set it down and changed it back into a regular matchstick. 

McGonagall had instructed her to experiment. Fortuna had started with color, then with shape, and had slowly started changing its physical properties. After a moment's thought, it became a needle again, only one crystalline and diamond-hard instead of rubberlike. Then it was a matchstick again.

Transfiguration was more than moving a wand and saying a few words, it was shaping something else's existence through precise understanding and sheer force of will. By this point, she could do it instantaneously, but she relished watching the change unfurl before her, savored the way the cobalt blue crept up the sides of the brittle wood and reformed it, sliver by sliver, into something slimmer, sharper, stronger.

Once she grasped the fundamentals, she stopped using her power.

Charms had nothing on this. Nothing had anything on this.

She took a few seconds to ponder whether a nice magenta might suit the needle better, give it some much-needed flair. 

Professor McGonagall interrupted her speculation. “That will be enough for today. Compose a foot-long essay on the theory of Transfiguration to hand in next Tuesday. And, Miss Floris, I'd like a word."

Fortuna approached her Professor's desk as everyone else packed up and left for lunch. McGonagall waited until the room was empty before speaking. “First of all, Miss Floris, I must say the rapidity with which you have picked up Transfiguration is remarkable. I can’t say that I’ve seen a student in all my years that has turned a match to a needle on their first attempt.”

Her pleasure evaporated, leaving only self-recrimination. She should have restrained herself as she'd done in Charms and avoided succeeding so quickly and so obviously. Getting perfect scores in all her classes and doing better than her peers was one thing; completely outclassing them, being noticed , was another. Measures would have to be taken.

McGonagall expected a response, and Fortuna decided to use the opportunity to show her teacher that attention made her uncomfortable. "Yes, Professor," she said stiffly.

“Well, then.” McGonagall took a step back and changed the subject. “I also needed to speak to you about last night. Professor Lupin said you were a bit shaken up by the Dementors on the train. I would like you to go see Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing to make sure there aren’t any lingering effects.”

The way she said that indicated that she wouldn’t like her to do it, she would make her do it. More attention.

Somehow McGonagall managed to sense resistance in her hesitation. “Miss Floris, this is not something to be taken lightly. I will not see a student under my watch neglect their own welfare. You have Potions with Professor Snape after lunch?”

"Yes, Professor."

"Good, you will speak to her when you’re finished.”

The steps to arguing McGonagall out of sending her to Madam Pomfrey or executing an elaborate plot to fake a visit demanded far more time than she was willing to put in. “Yes, Professor.” 

“Thank you,” McGonagall said, and Fortuna took it as a dismissal.

But, as she was halfway through the door, McGonagall spoke again. “And, Miss Floris?"

"Yes, Professor?" 

"I would advise you that your potions knife is to be used only during lesson time. I don’t want to hear about you nicking yourself in the hallways because you decided to carry it around with you for whatever reason.” 

"Yes, Professor."

As she walked to lunch, Fortuna asked herself how anyone had learned about the knife. McGonagall had heard it from Flitwick at breakfast, who’d learned it from a Ravenclaw prefect the night before, who’d heard it from Candidus, who'd been regaling the Ravenclaw common room with commentary on her behavior on the train, complete with elaborate speculation about her issues.

She'd have to deal with him. 

She thought about her problem as she ate her cucumber sandwiches, which she'd selected because she thought it was what an Enid Blyton character would have eaten in her situation, at least in the absence of treacle pudding. They were supposed to help soothe the soul, but Fortuna didn’t feel any difference.

Her first day wasn't over, but she'd already been noticed by three professors, become a topic of rumors, and done something that even a prodigy wouldn't have been able to do. If she continued like this, everyone would know about her powers before the weekend, which was unacceptable.

Yet she found herself reluctant to sabotage herself in Transfiguration and knew from experience at Muggle school that feigning incompetence in other subjects would eventually become tiresome. That was equally unacceptable.

If she didn't want to stick out by being so much better than everyone else, could she make everyone else better?

Yes. It would take some time, but Fortuna could make her year the most academically distinguished in the history of Hogwarts and ensure the others’ success couldn't be traced back to her. 

And she'd handle the fallout from the Dementors today. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws had double potions together twice a week, so she left the Great Hall at precisely the correct time to intercept Candidus on his way to the dungeons.

Once he realized he couldn't avoid her as they were going to the same place, he smiled and tried to make small talk. "How are you feeling?"

"Quite well," she said. "Considering that I must have suffered something awful from the tragic loss of my parents and being abused in the Muggle foster system. Being sorted into Gryffindor didn't do me any favors either—although where else could I have gone? I'm clearly not clever enough for Ravenclaw, and Slytherin would gobble a Muggleborn like me up. There's always Hufflepuff, but I'm a bit of a loner and far too touchy. Unstable, you know."

As she spoke, Candidus looked confused and then horrified, going white as he realized she was repeating the words he'd spoken last night in his common room. She exaggerated his cadence and inflection just enough for him to recognize his voice in hers and feel mocked. He stumbled through a mixture of apologies and justifications, but Fortuna cut him off.

“You were unkind,” she said. “You heard some older students talking about Harry Potter fainting because of the Dementors and thought you could contribute to the conversation and get some cred with your housemates if you told them about me, so you decided to be unkind.”

"I—"

“They all thought you were a git.” Fortuna gave him a sidelong glance. “That doesn't mean the gossip won't stick to me.”

She pushed the door to their potions classroom open before he could reply and headed to a spot in the far corner in accordance with her power's recommendations. As she set her workstation up, she saw some of the Ravenclaws point in her direction out of the corner of her eye. Candidus would notice them, too, and squirm.

She deliberately met his eye as she placed her potions knife (not the one in her pocket, which she was carrying and would continue to carry despite McGonagall's admonishment) down on the cutting board. He flushed and looked away. 

A Gryffindor girl with brown hair pulled back into two pigtails sat down next to her without asking. “Fortuna! How was lunch? I didn't see you after Transfiguration.”

Fortuna didn't recognize her in the slightest, but she could deduce from the house tie and familiarity that one of her roommates had caught up with her. Her power filled in the blanks for her: this was Flavia de Luce, she had seen everything Fortuna had done in Transfiguration and she was fishing for information about why McGonagall had held her back after class. There was nothing malicious in Flavia's curiosity; she assumed McGonagall had held her back for praise and wanted to know if she'd offered Fortuna additional study opportunities. 

“I got to the Great Hall a little late," Fortuna said. "Professor McGonagall wanted to see how I was settling in."

Whatever reply Flavia had been planning on making was cut off by Professor Snape's entrance. He swept in from the backroom and circled the classroom, looming and sneering and monologuing before finally directing them to brew a Forgetfulness Potion, which he expected to be perfect.

“I am quite fond of Potions,” Flavia announced, hauling her copy of their textbook out of her bag. She flipped it open to the relevant page. Despite the book being new, its pages were already filled with annotations. “One of my ancestors was enamored with them set up a private lab in one of the wings of our house. It's where I live when I'm at home."

"I'll prepare the ingredients if you prepare the potion itself," Fortuna offered, knowing it was what Flavia wanted to hear.

“Excellent!” Flavia was already starting a small fire beneath the cauldron. “A low flame will keep the potion at a simmer. If it outright boils, the drops from the River Lethe will experience rapid decomposition and the resulting anions will start reacting with each other. And then the cauldron will probably explode and we’ll wake up in the hospital wing with no memory of how we got there.” 

Fortuna diced Valerian sprigs, her hands moving under the direction of her power. 

“Would you hand me my thermometer?” Flavia asked, extending a hand without looking up. “I want to measure the temperature.”

Fortuna handed it to her and the girl affixed the tube of mercury in place. She poured in the water and watched as the red liquid began to tick up and up, before finally leveling out at two hundred and fifty degrees. Fortuna held out a pipette without being prompted, and Flavia added two drops of water from the River Lethe.

“It’s always surprised me that such a valuable mythological find is used by children learning how to make potions," Flavia remarked. "I’m sure the ancient Greeks would have something rude to say about this."

Fortuna didn't know anything about mythology, but she knew what Flavia was feeling—from experience, for once, and not her power. This girl felt about Potions the way she felt about Transfiguration.

Flavia collected a handful of the neatly diced sprig and waited, patiently counting down the seconds on the fingers of her other hand. Satisfied, she sprinkled it in, slowly letting it fall from her fingers into the bubbling liquid. Then she stirred the brew with long, rhythmic strokes before waving her wand and settling down on her stool.

“That’s everything for now,” Flavia pronounced, marking the time in her book. "All it needs now is a while to simmer, and then we can add the berries.”

Fortuna nodded. She'd crush the berries with enough time to spare.

Flavia dove into her bag and resurfaced with an hourglass. “This was my great uncle Tarquin's," she informed Fortuna. “It can count down any time you want it to, not just an hour."

Snape came over to glare at their cauldron but caught the calculated flicker of Fortuna’s eyes. He whirled around and saw Candidus crushing sprigs. Fortuna and Flavia forgotten, the professor descended upon him. “Does the word diced imply the use of a mortar and pestle to you, boy?”

Fortuna sat with her hands in her lap, while Flavia pored over the textbook. She pulled a notebook out from underneath it and began writing down everything they had done with exact comments, from the way the samples were prepared down to the direction she had stirred their potion.

“I like to keep track,” Flavia said, responding to the unasked question. “It ensures that future batches go smoother, and helps me to replicate the effects of a particularly good sample.”

Fortuna watched purple bubbles rise from the cauldron and float a few inches into the air before they popped. Flavia had worked at the potion with a familiarity that spoke of experience. Heavy experience, laws against underage magic aside, if the pages of potion-making that filled her notebook had anything to say about it.

Fortuna took a chance. “You seem to know a fair bit about potions. Do you know if there are  any that do the opposite of this? That can make people remember things?"

"Yes, there are potions that can help people remember facts more easily, but they're considered cheating if you take them before an exam."

"What about something longer term?"

"You mean like a potion to undo an Obliviation?"

Fortuna hesitated. I want to know if I have an Obliviation on me.

Fog. 

"Yes,” she said.

"No, unfortunately. Healers haven't found a way to do anything like that.” Flavia paused, then smiled, fully revealing teeth encased in braces. "Yet." 

"Do you know if there are any potions that can turn people into monsters?” 

Flavia thought about it. “My father would say alcohol, but no. Not intentionally, at least. Poorly done potions have been known to cause a variety of unintended side-effects, but not a complete transformation. They're generally reversible, too.”

“I see.”

Flavia stopped writing. She studied Fortuna’s face, her eyes intense and searching. She whispered her next words conspiratorially. “It would take very powerful dark magic to change someone into a monster. If you intend to do it, you have to promise that you’ll let me watch.”

“I’m not going to do it,” Fortuna said truthfully. She would never do anything that could lead to someone else experiencing what she had. “I was just curious.”

“Well, if you were going to do it, I'd be duty-bound as your potions partner and housemate to tell you there are much simpler ways to get rid of someone. Some of the strongest poisons on earth can be created with a few simple steps. Not even a potion—Muggle science can be just as effective, if not more. Have you ever done chemistry?”

Fortuna confessed she had only gotten a superficial introduction to the subject in her sixth-year science class, and Flavia's mouth twisted in something like pity. Then she launched into tales of the hours she'd passed synthesizing and extracting chemical compositions in the nearly abandoned wing of her family's home, often to give her an edge in the ongoing war with her sisters. She described the tiny vials she used to keep track of her different solutions, solvents, and suspensions. She spoke at length about igniting flames with water, cough syrup, and a little crystal called Potassium Permanganate. She shared the time she’d gotten distracted reading one of her books, and had left a beaker idling on the burner for so long that it blew up in her hand the instant she added water. 

By the time the sand had fully drained from the hourglass, forty minutes had elapsed and it was nearly time to take the cauldron off the fire. Fortuna reached for the mortar and pestle to crush berries while Flavia hovered over their creation, standard ingredient in hand. 

She dropped the powder in and took the pestle from Fortuna, examining the powdered berries. “You drained the liquid,” she remarked. “Well done. It’s a deliciously effective poison, but it would have melted the cauldron.”

After adding two pinches of the berries, Flavia started stirring again, gentle as a nursemaid, swirling the ingredients together. She drew her wand, waved it, and declared their work complete. She filled a vial of the orange solution out and stoppered it, waiting for inspection. Then, when she thought Fortuna was so busy cleaning their tools and clearing their workstation that she wouldn't see her, she took a few more samples and stashed them in her pockets.

As the class reached its end, Snape went around belittling his students' efforts, vanishing poor attempts and turning his rather large nose up at the not-so-poor attempts. He finally reached Fortuna’s bench.

“Acceptable," he said, in a tone that implied it was not. "The single acceptable vial here, which only speaks poorly to the abilities of this year's crop of Ravenclaws. I want a twelve inch summary on the uses of this potion and the ways in which it can fail."

He looked over the class, his eye lingering on some more than others. "Some of you should be experts on that already.”

With that, he vanished into his office and their classmates fled.

Flavia had a more positive view on their work than their professor. “Don't worry about what Snape said. Feely and Daffy—my sisters, you know—have told me he never says anything nice. An 'acceptable' from him would normally be grounds for getting a branch of study named after you."

Fortuna had already known Snape would never say a kind word to either of them but packed up her books instead of saying so.

Flavia was dancing around, hugging herself. "You were brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I’ve never managed to get the berries crushed so evenly, and the sprigs! Most people overreact and chop them too finely, but it's a dice , not a brunoise . You make such a good assistant.”

Fortuna accepted this enthusiastic praise as being commensurate with Snape's faint praise, but Flavia suddenly stopped dancing and a look of horror crossed her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean assistant as in you weren’t important. I just—”

“I understood you,” Fortuna said, “and I'm honored to be your assistant, Flavia de Luce." The words were chosen by her power, but she found her heart was in them.

Flavia’s discomfort eased noticeably, and her smile returned. "Yaroo," she said quietly. "Do you want to go to the library? We could maybe work on our Transfiguration homework . . ."

"Yes," Fortuna said, "I'll meet you there, but I'm going to the hospital wing first."

“Are you! Well, I can help you find it.”

“It’s alright. I know where it is.” 

“I’d still like to come.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, pish-posh," Flavia said, already leading the way. "Don’t worry, this isn’t an inconvenience.” 

Fortuna found her classmate's insistence on accompanying her suspicious and asked herself about it. Her power told her that Flavia intended to use the guise of a worried friend as cover to steal several medical potions and ingredients for personal use. She decided to allow it; she didn't want to go to the doctor to begin with, nor did she look forward to having to answer any questions about her experience. Some compensation was in order.

The hospital wing was less a wing and more a rather large room. Two columns of beds lined the walls, creating an aisle that led to a small office at the far end. Most of the beds were empty, but one or two had the privacy sheets pulled around them. 

Madam Pomfrey was a plump middle-aged witch who fell upon them the moment they entered. “Can I help you two with something?”

Fortuna nodded, hands clasped behind her back. “Yes, ma'am. Professor McGonagall said you wanted to speak with me.”

“Ah, the girl from the train,” Madam Pomfrey said darkly. “You aren't the first student affected by the Dementors and I’m sure you won't be the last. Can’t imagine what the Ministry was thinking when they brought those things here.”

“Is she going to need any potions, ma’am?” Flavia asked. “Maybe an injection?” 

“An injection!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed, turning to Flavia. While her back was turned, Fortuna rolled up her robe sleeve, lifted her sweater sleeve to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Harbinger had slept on her sweater the night before, leaving his dander all over it, and she'd need to produce a sneeze in order to prevent Flavia from getting caught. "Wherever did you get the idea? No, of course not. I just need to ask Miss…?”

“Floris, ma’am.”

“I just need to ask Miss Floris some questions. Come along, now.”

Fortuna obediently sat down on one of the beds nearer to the office and Madam Pomfrey pulled up a chair; Flavia maneuvered herself into her blind spot. “First things first," she said, drawing her wand so she could perform diagnostic spells. "How are you feeling physically? Aches, pains, discomfort?”

Fortuna kept her eyes trained on Madam Pomfrey, subtly encouraging the nurse to maintain eye contact as Flavia crept into the back room. She knew that if she didn't draw this out, Flavia was going to take too long to get away with it. If Pomfrey thought Fortuna was fine, she’d push her out the door with a pat on the back and some chocolate in hand, like a clinically inclined Willy Wonka. 

"No, ma'am," Fortuna said. She leaned forward, causing Madam Pomfrey to mirror her. “I’m feeling better, but...”

“But?”

Flavia had pried the cabinets open and was picking her way through the racks. 

“I’m not sure, ma’am.” Fortuna drew out the words, taking deep breaths and long pained pauses like she was psyching herself up to disclose a painful secret. “I thought it was a nightmare or a hallucination, but Professor Lupin told me Dementors can make you see things from your past...?”

Madam Pomfrey nodded along, "Yes, they can force you to relive your worst days. If you spend enough time around them, that's all you're left with." 

Fortuna let her gaze slip away from Madam Pomfrey's face, directing it towards the entrance. "I saw my parents die."

Madam Pomfrey's face grew stony. “This is what I told them would happen. Several of the children here lost family members during the War, and yet Minister Fudge pushed it through. I'm sorry, Miss Floris."

Fortuna picked at the sheet she was sitting on with one of her hands. The sneeze was building.

"If they cause you any more grief, then let me know. We can see about getting you some potions to help with sleep. Maybe if you were to talk to—”

A vial slipped out of Flavia's hands. It wouldn't shatter, but the sound of the glass striking stone would ring louder than any bell. Fortuna reared her head back and unleashed the sneeze, which nearly shook her off the bed.

“Oh Merlin,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I thought you said you were feeling well?”

“I’m sorry, ma'am,” Fortuna said. She wiped at her nose and sneezed again. “I caught a cold last week."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head and waved her wand around Fortuna's head. "It's not a cold,” she said. "You're allergic to cats. Severely."

Fortuna nearly shot off the bed. "I'm not going to give my cat up," she exclaimed. "I can't, I just got him and he's only a kitten. It wouldn’t be right and you can’t make me."

The nurse raised a hand in placation, and Fortuna settled back down. "There's no need for anything so extreme," she said soothingly. "We have a charm for this situation. It's a fifth-year spell, so you'll just have to ask an older student to recast it once a day. Pestem alligo! "

The incident with the dropped vial had spurred Flavia into speeding up, and she was hastily rifling the remaining shelves to get what she wanted. 

“I’m sorry, what were we talking about before?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“What to do if I see a Dementor.”

“Yes, well, you had best not be seeing any more of them, but, if you do, try to stay calm and get away. They’re only here to look for Sirius Black and ought to ignore you. Just speak to your head of house if you have any more questions. I’ll tell Professor McGonagall that you’re fine.”

Flavia reemerged, still in Madam Pomfrey's blindspot.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Madam Pomfrey pushed her chair back and collided with Flavia. “Oh my, I’m sorry! I forgot you were there.” 

Flavia waved it off as an accident and Madam Pomfrey sent them on their way with a chocolate frog and an admonition to avoid the Dementors.

“So," Fortuna said once they were halfway to the library, "Did you get anything good?”

“Get anything good from where?” Flavia played it off well for the most part, but the red rising up her neck gave away her nervousness. 

“I distracted Madam Pomfrey for you,” Fortuna said. “At least tell me if you nabbed anything worth the risk.”

Flavia's pride was clearly injured, and Fortuna let her sulk it off. After a few minutes, her classmate's scowl morphed into a grin. “Your parents must have been fishermen in the Arctic. No one else could keep their cool like that."

Must have been . Flavia had heard what she'd told Madam Pomfrey.

"I wouldn’t have guessed you were putting her on if you hadn’t told me. Your sneeze was so perfectly timed.”

“I ran out of things to talk about.”

Flavia looked around the hallway, making sure it was empty before she pulled open her bag and revealed a small but impressive assortment of tinctures and herbs stashed in her cauldron. She rattled off their names and Fortuna’s power explained to her what each did.

“How did you know what I was doing?” she asked, sealing her bag. “I was sure I had you both fooled.”

“You thought I wouldn't notice you sneak off?”

Flavia digested this. “You are a very interesting person, Fortuna," she said at last. Then she seemed to come to a decision and surged forward, hurrying towards the library with renewed motivation. "There were a lot of things I had been planning to do myself, but it’s always better to have company.”

Behind her, Fortuna smiled.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts library was a massive maze of wood and parchment. Bookshelves were packed so tightly from floor to ceiling that students could barely pass each other in an aisle. The only space free of them was a wide path that curved around the room, and it was here that students could take up residence in a stuffed leather armchair or around a table or an individual study nook away from the prying eyes of the librarian.

The two of them had demarcated one end of a table with a wall of books and hunkered down behind it. This was largely for aesthetic purposes, Flavia said, reasoning that it was best to do your thinking surrounded by the thoughts of others. Fortuna was skeptical, but the chairs were soft enough to fall asleep in and the comforting smell of books hung thick in the air. She wouldn't object.

Flavia's promise to bring Fortuna in on her scheming had quickly broken down into complaints about not having a proper place to think things out properly. “This will do for now, but I wish I had my lab here. It’s where I do my best thinking, and it's impossible to refine one's nefarious stratagems in a less than intimate space.”

Fortuna’s hand wrote out her essay for Potions even as she paid rapt attention to the young chemist. She had calculated this carefully: if the essay were too perfect, Snape would accuse her of copying off of Flavia, but if it were too imperfect, he would give her an Acceptable instead of an Exceeds Expectations. She settled for keeping all the information correct, but sprinkled the essay with particularly egregious spelling errors that would give him the excuse necessary to stop her from getting an Outstanding, a grade he reserved for Slytherins (she could already foresee that Flavia would explode next Thursday).

“We can work over the first steps and find someplace better to work out the greater details. There isn’t even a place for me to brew potions! At least, not one that we won't be interrupted in. If Feely finds us in a classroom, she'll ruin everything and take fifteen points off Gryffindor just to spite me. We’ll have to find somewhere private to set up.”

“Set up for what?” Fortuna asked her.

“Right, sorry, I haven’t gotten into the meat of it yet. You see, I’m planning to—”

“Fortuna, excuse me, could I have a moment of your time?”

Flavia scowled and Fortuna swiveled her chair around to face Candidus. The boy stood a little too far away and was holding his book bag protectively in front of him.

“Could we speak alone?” he asked.

“No,” Fortuna replied, “we couldn’t.”

Candidus dithered, weighing whether it was better to let the problem fester and try again later or defuse the tension now but accept further humiliation in front of Flavia. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “I wanted to apologize for my actions. It wasn’t befitting someone of my station to speak like that, and I’m sorry if you were offended.”

Fortuna nodded. "It's a start. I accept that you know what you did was wrong."

“Well, that’s good then,” Candidus said, unsure how to end the conversation.

“Oi,” someone called from somewhere off in the bookstacks. Jessica strutted up with Angelique following behind her like a lost puppy. “Thought I heard you slags mouthing off in here.” 

“Hi Fortuna. Hi Candidus,” Angelique said with a wave.

“Just got through with planting and this bird needed a meet with her mates. Figured you boffins would be camped out in here like flies on a pile.”

Jessica pulled up a seat and slid Fortuna's stack of books to one side to get a better look at her. Angelique grabbed a seat next to her and Candius, after shooting a longing glance at the library entrance, took a chair himself. He sat opposite Jessica but didn't move Flavia's books, ensuring that he didn’t have to look directly at Fortuna. 

Flavia did not look happy.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Angelique said, “but what were you two talking about?”

Candidus tried to brush it off. “Oh, it was nothing really, just—just—” 

“Are you two enjoying your houses?” Fortuna asked, preventing Candidus from choking on his feet.

Angelique nodded like her neck had turned to jelly, while Jessica leaned back and propped her feet up on the table. “Yeah, they’re alright. The third years are such bloody gits. Bunch of  knob-heads and arsemongers. That lot is dead from the neck up, but the rest of the snakes are choice.“

Candidus found common ground here and pounced on it. “I know what you mean. My housemates are mostly well and good, but there is this girl the year above me who is a complete loon. She—” He trailed off, doubtlessly remembering the conversation outside the Potions classroom. He finished with a lame, “Yeah, they’re alright.”

“And who are you? I’m sorry we got in the way, we just wanted to say hi,” Angelique asked, gesturing towards Flavia.

“I’m Flavia de Luce,” she said and offered nothing else.

"De Luce? Like, Ophelia de Luce? The bloody Head Girl?" Jessica asked. 

"Yes," Flavia said, shortly. "My eldest sister."

"She took us to our dorms and laid into us like a bobby last night. Fat lot of good though, that feast had half of us done out like deadmen before we even hit the bed,” she said with an odd sense of pride.

“Yes, that does sound like her. Feely likes to think she’s an inspirational figure to all and sundry.”

Candidus opened his mouth.

"And yes, Daphne's in Ravenclaw, though I'm surprised she showed herself long enough for you to notice. She's always surrounded by books, barely remembers to come out to feed." Flavia stretched, apparently oblivious to the fact she was surrounded by books. " I think she's an inferius, bent on consuming the brains of the already dead."

“Speaking of brains,” Jessica said, and turned to Fortuna, “you going to explain how you got to know your onions in Transfig?” 

Flavia suddenly started paying attention—though she was trying to pretend she had started working on her paper—and Angelique and Candidus dialed in on Jessica's words, both interested in knowing what she was talking about. 

“The key is to turn something into something else,” Fortuna replied.

“Thanks, you git, now are you gonna explain or will I be wrestling it out of you?” she asked, already standing up to get her in a chokehold.

“What do you mean? Did Tuna do well in class today?” Angelique asked.

Fortuna felt the back of her neck heat up like an oil fire. “My name is Fortuna, nothing else. If you don't like it, call me Floris.”

Angelique smiled indulgently, like she'd just been growled at by a dachshund puppy.

Jessica, still standing up, pointed at Fortuna. “The girl was going in on that matchstick like an arsonist. Had the bloody thing change on her first try. She had more needles than a porcupine, mate. Even the professor looked spooked by it.” 

She didn’t need Jessica overblowing the whole thing like this and risking people asking the wrong kind of questions, such as “should a first-year be that good at magic?” or “how exactly did you know how to do that?” 

“I didn’t have much to do this summer besides read my books, while lying around my house,” Fortuna told them. “Some of the books go into great detail on how a spell works and what to do. Charms was a good introduction, but Transfiguration was where it all clicked together.”

A lie was always better with a helping of truth ladled over it. They bought it, or at least bought it enough to not push any farther. Jessica had her doubts but was more concerned with getting help, while Flavia was curious, but wouldn’t press around so many people. 

She was actually quite peeved at the moment and it took another use of her power for Fortuna to realize she was upset that she hadn’t gotten to express all her plans for the school year and wouldn't get to until everyone left. Still, she finally moved her books aside so she could get a proper look,

“Ugh, are you saying magic is all based in your head?” Angelique asked, tapping hers.

Candidus smirked. “That would explain why you’re having difficulties.”

Fortuna kicked him in the ankle.

He looked off to the side meekly. Message received.

Fortuna recalled the plan she'd considered at lunchtime. She had a student from each house, here, each of whom had their own strengths. They could form the nexus of her study group. “Have you tried visualization?” she asked.

“Well… no,” Angelique said, not knowing what ‘visualization’ meant. “I mean, I just try to turn something into something else?”

Fortuna didn't have a matchstick, but she did have a quill. She put it in the middle of the table, checked with her power to make sure this wouldn't get back to a teacher, and pulled out her wand. Using her power to make the transformation from quill to knitting needle take place in extremely slow motion, Fortuna spoke.

“It’s not getting the final result, it’s about the process. You need to see the object moving from quill to needle, or matchstick to pin. You need to understand how it is changing, not just that it changes. The best way to do that is to picture it in your head.”

“Huh,” Jessica said, leaning back in her chair after the quick demonstration. Then she took out one of her own quills and tried; the end result was both feathery and pointy, but she was evidently satisfied. As the other three students followed suit, Fortuna casually said something about how sometimes it only took a little bit of work outside of class.

It clicked.

"I know!" Angelique said. "We should form a study group! We could work together, teach each other and help each other practice. I’m sure there’s a few older students who might be willing to help, for some bribes. Candy usually works, right?”

Jessica was enthusiastic, Candidus (more open to the idea after having been berated by Snape) was thoughtful, Flavia said nothing, and Fortuna confirmed that she'd be willing to contribute Transfiguration expertise. Her power told her that Angelique, the only one of them with any sort of social ability, would start asking older students tonight if any would be willing to help them with studying. A fourth year Hufflepuff would be kind enough to take them up on their questions in exchange for a few chocolate frogs, and things would begin to pick up steam.

“Well, perfect,” Jessica decided, “Then for now, Miss Visualization can help us out with our essays."

✶✶✶

It was late at night when Flavia threw back the curtain Fortuna had drawn around her bed to shield herself from the prying eyes and questions of her other roommates. Harbinger, who was nestled in between Fortuna's knees, startled and tried to leap away. Flavia intercepted, gathering him into her arms as she sat, and applied head scritches until he settled down in her lap to purr himself to sleep.

“I’m going to find Sirius Black,” she said, not in a whisper but softly enough her voice wouldn't carry her words to the other girls. “He was a traitor during the War. He's going to finish off Harry Potter for the enemy if we don't stop him.” 

Fortuna let Monk's Hood fall to her chest while she pondered this. It was difficult to imagine that Sirius Black was walking around Hogwarts right now, considering term had started and the castle was full of students and surrounded by Dementors. Dementors that would stay in place as long as he was at large. Dementors that she could use to pry the secrets to her past from her mind, given enough time.

Flavia shifted to an appeal to emotion. She pointed at the small bedside bookshelf Fortuna had filled with her Muggle books. “Sayers, Crispin, Christie, Peters. You checked six books out from the library today and four of them were murder mysteries.” 

She nodded, still considering. She’d heard Black's name mentioned on the train and she'd heard Harry Potter's name from her own mouth when she'd reprimanded Candidus. Black had glanced off her attention, but Harry Potter had been upset by the Dementors, too. She'd asked after him and learned from her power he was also an orphan who had witnessed his parents' death. 

A death, Flavia had just told her, that Sirius Black had engineered.

Fortuna hesitated, suspended between equally compelling options, and listened to her friend. 

Flavia spoke every word with complete self-assurance, almost as though she were the one with the one with the power to do everything. “What do you like about them? The puzzle, seeing all the pieces come together? Or the justice, using truth to turn a wrong right? Either way, this is your chance. Solve a mystery where others have failed, right a wrong.”

Fortuna found herself drawn in. She could picture the two of them solving the mystery of where was Sirius Black and stopping him before he killed Harry Potter. Just one question and—

No. She stopped herself. When had she ever allowed herself to skip a mystery, to rush to the end and speed through the search that made it worth doing? What was the point of joining with Flavia to solve a mystery if she went and did the entire thing by herself in the space of a thought? 

Instead, she'd just do a quick check to make sure they'd stay safe even without her power's guidance. Would they be hurt or killed if they looked for him? Would Black get to Harry Potter first?

No. 

Fortuna stuck her hand out for Flavia to shake. As Flavia leaned forward to take it, she scrunched Harbinger between her belly and calf, eliciting a disapproving yowl.

“Oh, will you two just shut up!” one of their roommates shouted from her bed across the room. “Are you going to go at this all night or just until I call a professor?”

The two of them beat a hasty retreat from the hostile atmosphere of the first year girls' room, leaving Harbinger to sulk and Romilda Vane to sleep, and regrouped on a couch in the common room. There were a few groups of older students lounging by the fire, mostly chatting and playing games, and one girl studying by herself in the corner. 

“We’ll start first thing in the morning,” Flavia announced, clasping her hands together. “But we’re going to need a place to hold our meetings and run tests. Plotting is best done by candlelight beneath a full moon, but actually thinking requires a space of its own.”

Fortuna decided to form a path forward before Flavia got back into how much she wished she had her lab.

I want to know the best place to go to build a base in our quest to find Sirius Black.

Her power told her to go to the Shrieking Shack. It took four more questions to figure out what that was, where that was, how to get there, and how to craft a suitable explanation for how she knew about it. 

“I heard the Weasley twins mention a place at breakfast this morning,” she whispered to Flavia. “A place away from everyone else. They were talking about ways to sneak into Hogsmeade past the Dementors, and they've found two secret passages Filch doesn't know about. One of them leads from the castle to a candy store, but one of them leads to an abandoned house from underneath that tree that attacks everyone who goes by it.”

Flavia looked outraged. “You knew there were secret passages and you didn't tell me? "

“I didn't have time to let you know," Fortuna said with appropriate contrition. “Sorry.”

"I should have known they'd have already found all the secret passages," Flavia said. Her eyes drifted over to two red-haired boys Fortuna hadn't ever seen. "They get into all sorts of trouble and some of the things Feely says they've done could not be done without a good way of sneaking around."

She sounded jealous, and she watched the boys, presumably the Weasley twins, laughing by the fire for a few contemplative moments.

"Well," she said, "Did they mention a way to get past the tree?"

“There's a knot you can hit with a long stick. I don't know which knot, but . . ."

"There have to be a limited number of knots. We can deduce which one it is by hitting them one at a time until we find one that works! Right, let’s get going then.”

Fortuna frowned. “This late? It's almost curfew.”

“What better time than now?” Flavia asked. “We can get there and back before anyone notices. And I'll make sure nobody notices we're going.”

She drew her wand and surreptitiously pointed it at the girl in the corner. With a swish, flick, and a whispered wingardium leviosa , the girl's book pile collapsed onto the floor. Everyone turned to look to see what caused the noise, and Flavia grabbed Fortuna's arm and hauled her out through the portrait while the other students were distracted.

Flavia started out ahead, but Fortuna prodded and hinted until she was leading the way through the rest of the castle. They scurried down staircases and along hallways, hid from a poltergeist behind a suit of armor, and snuck into a classroom by the main entrance. They waited a few moments for the caretaker to pass by before scuttling out of the castle. 

The lawn was brilliantly illuminated by a full moon, and they made their way across the field to the massive tree that stood alone without difficulty. The tree was less cooperative than the light; it snapped the first three of their sticks, and the next three as well. 

"We have to get closer," Flavia said.

Fortuna held up a hand to get her to hold back—no easy task—and dove forward. She dodged the tree's massive limbs as they smashed into the earth where she'd stood a few moments before, darted around them as they snapped out to intercept her, and finally slid to a halt at the base of the tree, where her hand reached out and poked a root. The tree calmed down and Flavia hurried to follow her. 

"What was that? Have you thought about being a Chaser?" 

"We're already chasing a criminal," Fortuna replied, and crawled into a hole that was almost impossible to see, buried amongst the tree’s roots. 

Flavia slid down behind her. " Lumos ," she said, and the light at the end of her wand revealed a cramped, narrow dirt passageway. The ceiling was so low that, even at their height, they were forced to crouch the entire way to Hogsmeade. 

“It isn’t the easiest place to get to,” Flavia proclaimed, once they'd resurfaced in a dilapidated house, “but that just means we won’t have anyone finding us.” 

Fortuna surveyed her surroundings. Paint was peeling off the walls, every piece of furniture in the room had been broken apart, and a layer of dust coated most everything. In a word, the place was a dump. 

“This is perfect,” Flavia declared. “We’ll need to clean everything up and fix a few things, but it's perfect . Oh, if only Dogger were here, he could help. But I think with the both of us it shouldn’t take too long.”

Fortuna silently let her power figure out the best way to fix up the place. They would have to transfigure the furniture, commandeer supplies from the Hogwarts dungeons, use some spells to get the dust off, raid the kitchens for ample food, and—

Flavia's head snapped around. "What—"

Activating her power on instinct, Fortuna thrust herself in front of Flavia before she realized she'd done it, and her wand was up, brandished in front of her.

"Is that?" 

Something was stirring in the shadows. Something that Flavia's keen hearing had picked up while Fortuna had been preoccupied by her own thoughts. The shape expanded, and its eyes glittered in the meager light of Flavia’s wand as it rose to its full height.

A large, shaggy black dog stepped forward.

Chapter Text

The dog slowly advanced, its eyes flicking between the two of them. The light from Flavia's wand glinted off its jagged white teeth, and its entire body was tense, like it had been hooked up to a battery and was waiting for the shock. 

There was no cover in the shack. Anything that may have once been useful had been smashed to splinters or torn to shreds long ago. There were no places to hide and the exit was slightly too far away to reach before the dog could get to them. Their best chance was to fight it. 

It stopped inches from Fortuna's wandtip.

“Flavia, I want you to run,” Fortuna told her in a calm whisper. “I’ll distract it, get out and get help."

“Absolutely not,” Flavia said, standing still as a statue under the dog’s gaze.

The dog slowly lowered itself to the floor and rested its head on its paws. The meaning was universal: not a threat. Capitulation.

Flavia handed her wand to Fortuna and knelt, heedless of the potential danger, the dog's dirtied state, and—were those fleas? She cast Lumos herself. Yes, those were fleas. And Flavia was sinking her fingers into the dog's mangy coat so she could rake its back.

“He seems to be intelligent." Flavia was confident in her assessment although all it had done was accept her ministrations. "He must have been a wizard’s dog. Not a guard dog, unless they picked him off his size without getting to know him. In any event, he wasn't left here to guard this place. It's been forgotten for a while.”

"It probably dug its way in," Fortuna said, knowing it had. "We'll have to block up the hole."

“With him inside," Flavia said decisively. "We may have someone to help keep our lair safe now."

The dog whined.

"Yes, of course we'll feed you. Do you think we have time to get food now?"

Fortuna thought about it. The kitchens were still open, preparing breakfast and parts of lunch for the next day, but they were on the far side of the castle. It would take the better part of four hours to trek there, collect the food, bring it back here, and sneak into the castle again. It was already edging towards one in the morning, they had class tomorrow at ten, and Fortuna wanted to make breakfast this time.

“Not tonight," she said. "We can come back tomorrow with food for it and supplies for us."

"Don't call him it. " 

“What should it be called, then?”

Flavia paced for a while, then snapped her fingers. She grabbed a chair leg which had been broken off what must have once been once an incredibly fancy seat, lifted her staff, and gently set it on the dog’s head. “I crown you... King George the Fluff.”

Fortuna shuddered. “I won’t allow you to name anyone that.”

“Why?” Flavia looked hurt. “What’s wrong with it? King George is a respectable figure!” 

“Why the Fluff ?”

“ The Fifth is already taken.” 

“We can’t call him something so twee. He needs a dignified name, like Alexander.” 

“How is Alexander more dignified than King George the Fluff?” 

“Alexander is the name of a conqueror. Something proud, something to aspire to. Fluff is just ridiculous."

"Why don't we let him choose?" Flavia asked. She stood up, collected her wand from Fortuna, and walked over to the other side of the room. "Let's both call him. See who he goes to. My liege, King George the Fluff, will you grace me with your presence?"

"Alexander," Fortuna said authoritatively. "Stay here."

The dog looked at her and, after a moment, pushed himself to his feet, turned his back on her, and slouched over to Flavia. “I’m glad to see we are in agreement, Your Majesty,” she said smugly, scratching between his ears. 

Fortuna gave up; it didn't matter what the dog was called, or that it preferred Flavia. Harbinger had the advantages of felininity, class, sobriety, and cleanliness. 

Flavia was already talking about illumination strategies. Candles, jars of portable fire (once she learned how to make them), torches, lanterns, lamps hooked up to a portable generator (which she believed she could build, with the right tools, though petrol was another concern), and anything else that didn't need constant holding.

"We'll need blackout curtains to make sure we can't be seen," Fortuna said. "We can get spare bed curtains from our dorm, transfigure them a little."

"You mean you can transfigure them a little," Flavia said. " I can stand by and cheer you on. Do you know reparo ?"

Fortuna shook her head. "You can show me tomorrow."

As they explored the house—aside from its dilapidated state, it wasn't really a shack—they each took note of what they had to work with and what they wanted to bring. Fortuna paid more attention to the surroundings and possible security risks, while Flavia expounded on her desire for potions equipment. She seemed adamant they wouldn’t be able to do half as much without it. The books, the furniture, the carpet—everything else was secondary.

“Do you know much about Sirius Black?” 

“No. How do you feel about using this room for your potions lab?" Fortuna asked as they reached the second storey landing.

Flavia nodded, and continued, “Father isn’t keen on speaking of his time in the war, but he did make sure to warn us before he sent Feely, Daffy, and me off to Hogwarts. ‘He’s a dangerous man, don’t do anything stupid.’ He was really speaking to me, and those two made sure I knew it.” 

"Why is he dangerous?"

"What have you heard about the War?"

"Mostly that it happened."

"There are wizards who don't think we should allow anyone from a Muggle family to go to Hogwarts or participate in our society. About twenty years ago, they rallied around You-Know-Who—a Dark Wizard—and tried to take over. He disappeared after he attacked the Potters, but some of his servants stayed."

"Including Sirius Black," said Fortuna, who did not know who You-Know-Who was.

"Yes," Flavia said, throwing open the door to what might charitably be called a bedroom. Alexander nudged past her and jumped up on the tattered bed, turned around three times, and settled down to stare at Flavia. "He killed twelve Muggles and a wizard by blowing up an entire street, supposedly using one curse."

"Is that unusual?" Fortuna asked. "Muggles can kill that many people at once."

"It is theoretically possible, but I think he might have hit a gas main—maybe by accident, because a lot of Purebloods don't know anything about Muggles. Same with the Aurors, they often don't know enough to take Muggle or chemical considerations into account."

Fortuna carefully suppressed her power and allowed herself to speculate. “If he survived, he probably didn't hit a gas main or he protected himself before he did. It would have been intentional, not an accident."

Flavia sighed. “You're right. We can think about it more tomorrow—later today, I suppose. It must be well past the witching hour by now, and we should leave before people start to get up. And we’ll come with something for you, won’t we?” Flavia said, rubbing her hands through Alexander's matted fur.

They drifted back downstairs and went down into the tunnel. “It’s not as if we need to set everything up at once,” Flavia said, “but it’s something to aspire towards. I don’t know where we could manage to get the supplies and glassware for a proper potions lab, after all.”

Fortuna consulted herself. Most of the things Flavia would find useful could be found within the castle and acquired with only a bit of sneaking. “I’ll see if I can think of something,” she told her.

They made their way back from Hogsmeade in silence, and only the moon witnessed them sneak back inside the castle. 

It was past three in the morning when they arrived back at Gryffindor Tower. "You're out past curfew," the Fat Lady said reprovingly.

"Yes, we are," Fortuna said, "but if you let us in, we won't be."

"I won't let you in without the password."

Fortuna compressed her lips.

“Fortuna Major,” Flavia said with a smile.

The common room was empty save for the girl still doing homework. She didn’t look up as the two of them tiptoed past her and back up to bed. 

“Next time we’ll get back at a reasonable hour,” Flavia said in a whisper. “But don’t worry, tomorrow won’t be too bad.”

She was wrong. Fortuna slept poorly and woke up sweating. Like so many other times before, only bits of her nightmare—the glimpse of something through a gap in the trees, the sound of a snarl, the sense of being chased—remained with her. 

She pushed it out of her mind and was left groggy, irritable, and completely unable to engage with the breakfast she'd been looking forward to. She failed to appreciate the marmalade spread across the toast, the spoon crackling the crust, the jammy mixture catching and mingling with the melted butter.  She shoveled it into her mouth as efficiently as possible, with as little effort as possible. 

She sawed pieces off the kipper with her fork, and the smoky bronze fish obligingly fell apart. She pushed it into the yolk, dragging the fork there too, the gold bleeding into the white, before scooping up the blend of undoubtedly tasty food, chewing, and swallowing. 

A double period of Herbology with the Ravenclaws only exacerbated her problems. Her breakfast conspired with the heat of the greenhouse and the calming plants they were potting to make her exhaustion more acute. She had to rely on her power to keep herself awake.

By the time noon was within sight, Fortuna wanted to punch somebody. Unfortunately, Candidus had behaved himself throughout class, even helping others with their potting. It made sense that he could connect better with plants more than he could connect with people, but it left her bereft of a target.

Until she remembered Professor Snape. Flavia wanted potions supplies, and his personal store in his office was by far the best place in the castle to find them. The cabinets in that room had been filled over the years with tattered books, partially melted cauldrons, and enough glassware to build a replica of Hogwarts. Some of these would be useful, but the ingredients were what she was really after. The Potions Master would immediately notice, but he would blame others.

A hand was on her shoulder, shaking her back to reality. 

“Fortuna, are you still there?” Flavia asked. 

The kitchens were located behind a picture of fruit that opened when the pear was tickled. Flavia wouldn’t need any more coaching than that; the elves there were more than happy to help a first year asking for a picnic. She’d get a feast good enough for royalty and leave with nary an issue.

“Yes,” Fortuna said. “I just want to know if you could do something for me.”

✶

As Fortuna descended several sets of stairs to the dungeons,  the marble and granite walls of the upper floors gave way to dingy, damp gray stone. The dungeons were cold and wet, a mess of tunnels that led to who-knew-where and housed who-knew-what. She traced the potential paths with her power, saw that if she went this way she would run into a wall, and if she went that way she would end atop a cliff that jutted out over a lake. Her power told her most of the things she saw along the way weren’t dangerous, but their existence may have been why the Potions classroom was so close to the surface.

Professor Snape was skulking in the backroom with one of his students. She opened the door slowly and edged her way inside without allowing the hinges to squeak. The classroom looked just the same as it had yesterday, only barren and motionless. Without the sound of students working, it almost felt like a crypt. 

Fortuna crept over to a far cabinet and popped open a door, revealing a haphazard assortment of containers, condensers, and setups for extraction. A few threatened to tumble out, but she stopped them with precisely timed grabs. She stowed several important pieces in her satchel, but left far more than she took. 

The ingredients were a different story. Flavia felt she needed a wide variety to work with; she wasn’t sure what potions she needed to make until she had to make it. Fortuna took some of everything, from snake fangs to slugs. If it could fit in the bag, it went in the bag. She pinched relatively small amounts, but she had no doubt Professor Snape would detect the loss immediately; he was the type of man to take issue if his quill had rolled three inches to the right.

Her power told her to stash herself in the lower shelf of the cabinet she was currently digging through, so she did, quietly closing the door behind her. A few seconds later, Professor Snape burst from the backroom with the student following behind him, mid-conversation.

“Professor, you and I both know that the Hogwarts nurse can mend a scratch in less than twenty-four hours."

"Miss de Luce, do not presume to comment on what I know."   

De Luce?

That would be Ophelia, Flavia's older sister and Head Girl.

"Sir, he is making our House look ridiculous. You're the only one who can lean on him."

Their muttering became quieter and quieter as they left the room. The door shut with a thud behind them. Fortuna waited five seconds for them to proceed down the hall before opening the door again and rolling out. Professor Snape would be gone for the next few minutes. She grabbed a few more things from the classroom shelves before going into his office to raid his private stores. 

Fortuna had never pictured what a dungeon of a gloomy Potions Master would look like, but it fit Professor Snape perfectly. Eyeballs in jars turned to stare, embalmed animals floated in strangely hued fluids, and the dim lighting made it hard to tell what anything was. Cauldrons were either bubbling away with potions or hung up to dry for later use. Sheaves of parchment lay waiting atop Snape's desk. Fortuna noticed that there was only one chair; Professor Snape preferred to have his guests stand. Cabinets lined the walls, and she knew that was where she would find the most exotic and hazardous ingredients. 

Her power led her to a drawer filled with gloves. She donned a pair and got to looting. As she tucked handful after handful into her bag, she realized this was about more than Sirius Black. Flavia just wanted to try out some potions her father had expressly banned her from attempting in their house or that she wasn't yet skilled enough to make but wanted to try.

Suddenly, her power told her to run. The command came so quickly that Fortuna hadn’t realized that she’d finished before her feet started smacking stone. She was guided back through the classroom and out the door, turning away into an alcove and holding her breath. 

Professor Snape passed her position a second later and disappeared into his sanctum. Fortuna exhaled and moved, hurrying up the stairs and into her dorm room (timing it so she could follow someone else and escape having to say the password), where she took a nap.

She opened her eyes twenty minutes before flying class, much more refreshed and less on edge. Flavia was there, stuffing a picnic basket underneath her bed. The food inside was enchanted to stay warm, and they discussed their plans for the evening as they made their way to the pitch.

“You’ll love flying,” Flavia told her, once she had done up her tie and pulled her robes on. “I think you’ve got just what it takes to be a Chaser.”

“You’ve said,” Fortuna replied, and finally asked her power what that meant. It was a position in a game called Quidditch, played on broomsticks, involving throwing balls through hoops to score points.

“Maybe you’ll make the team next year. My mother played as a Keeper. It's brill.” 

The student body seemed to agree. By the time they arrived, most of their classmates were visibly shaking with anticipation at the chance to get on a broomstick. Jessica was a distance away from them with a small blond girl whose robe was scorched in a few places, complaining loudly about the state of athletics at Hogwarts. 

“This is what they call gym? Sitting on your arse and jerking a broom around. Bloody mental. No wonder these blokes are walking around with my nan’s body.”

The Slytherins and Gryffindors formed small clusters that reminded her of most foster children she had known—all bunched up together but hardly interacting. That wouldn't do for Fortuna's plan, so she nudged Flavia and went over to talk to Jessica and the other girl, who proved to be one Astoria Greengrass.

"I see you had charms before this class,” Flavia commented, probably noting the odd burn mark and smell of smoke. 

The girl smiled a little wanly. "Yes. I didn't know feathers could blow up."

They milled around attempting to make small talk, until Madam Hooch came out and rounded everyone up like a sheepdog. Her voice was almost as shrill as her whistle, but it was a weapon she wielded to get students’ attention: Stand next to the broom. Call it up. Between your knees. Now push.

A breeze brushed against Fortuna as she lifted off the ground and fell back down on it. An electrifying buzz spread from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

“Good,” Madam Hooch said, “Everyone take off.”

Fortuna took off into the air like a dolphin leaping through the waves, realizing for the first time that there was a different world once you breached the surface. The ground shrank below them as they took careful laps around the quad. The slow pace Madam Hooch had them moving at was not enough, but it would have to do.

For now.

Far too soon, they were asked to come down and sent back into the castle. Flavia and Fortuna completed all their homework for the weekend in between class and bedtime, and then camped out in the Gryffindor common room reading until nearly everyone else went to bed. Fortuna perused the book on the history of Transfiguration that she'd checked out.

Again they snuck out of Hogwarts and again they made their way into the Shrieking Shack. Alexander was waiting for them, and it became apparent to Fortuna he was more interested in the picnic basket than in either of them. 

“I promised, didn’t I?" Flavia said, once they'd lit enough candles to see by. "Here, the elves packed us all some sandwiches.” 

She opened the top and the whole thing unfurled into a blast of food and blanket. The sandwiches, accompaniments, and tea shot up into the air and gently touched down into a perfect arrangement.

“Well, dig in,” Flavia said, giving Alexander a turkey sandwich. 

Fortuna grabbed a sandwich of her own and bit into it.

Her eyes opened. There were levels of roast beef. She had only known the sad, generic cold cuts Mrs. Simmons bought from the deli, and now she could see that they were about as close to meat as sawdust was to wood. They came from the same phylum, but they'd stopped calling each other a long while back.

This sandwich was a transcendent experience. Horseradish, lettuce, the fragrance of garlic and sage, the peppery crust—it made her mouth water. Two thick slices of sourdough around it, the outside a crust that would rattle a knife, the inside an unhealthy bit of toast, crisped by the same beef fat. The slices were uneven, some thicker than others, but none so thick that they would prevent easy chewing—not that it would have been a problem with the meat, as pink and tender as it was.

Flavia emptied out a bowl of soup and filled it with water for Alexander. “Well, come on then, let’s see what you got us,” she said, gesturing towards the bag.

Fortuna opened the pouch. Flavia wiped her hands on the front of her robe and started pulling out bottles and flasks, lining the little glass bundles before her like a general inspecting his formations.

“Fortuna,” Flavia said, her eyes bright with glee, “you won’t believe the things I can manage with these. Sirius Black won’t know what’s coming to him. But what should I do first? There are so many options. I had no idea you'd get this much.” 

"I just grabbed a little of everything while Professor Snape was out of his office," Fortuna said. 

“I can’t imagine he's happy.” 

Alexander looked up, and Fortuna passed him a second sandwich. “Not at all.”

Abruptly, Flavia did a handstand. “Well, it’s fine. He can cool his head over the weekend and hopefully take out whatever’s left on Monday’s students. Poor Hufflepuff."

Fortuna blinked. “Why are you standing on your head?”

“It helps with blood flow to the brain and lets you think better.”

Fortuna accepted this with a shrug. 

"And I've been thinking," Flavia continued, her left elbow wobbling a little before she shifted her weight, "we don't know where Black is, but if he's going to come to Hogwarts, he'll have to make it on foot. If we track him properly, we should have an idea of when he'll arrive. And when he does show up, we'll be ready for him."

Fortuna munched on a scone. The flavour hinted at apricot while the clotted cream was draped over the top like a cold duvet. Each bite had traces of sweetness, but none were particularly strong. She felt a vague disappointment. 

Perhaps this was how scones were supposed to taste. Baking had never been an interest of hers.

"Why can't he just steal a Muggle car and drive up here?" Fortuna asked. "He could actually already be here, lurking around and waiting for the chance to get into the castle."

"Confound it," Flavia said. She let out a frustrated huff, teetering on her hands, then readjusted her stance firmly. "The reports are all we have to go on at the moment, unless we just want to follow Harry Potter around and wait for Black to spring out of the bushes at him. King George, would you care to assist me?”

Obediently, Alexander stood up and bounded over to Flavia. He caught her as she tumbled forward, turning what would have been a nasty spill into a gentle fall onto a shag rug. She strode over to a wall and pinned up a map that she pulled out of her pocket, dotting the locations with red pins.

"You said something about reparo this morning?" Fortuna asked, eyeing the last turkey sandwich. She was quite full, but she definitely had room.

"Yes! Let's start with that."

Flavia walked Fortuna through the steps necessary to cast the spell, and then she apologized to her own wand before casting it herself on a table.

"Is that part of the spell?" Fortuna asked.

"No, sycamore wands tend to explode if they get bored, and this one belonged to my Great Uncle Tarquin. I've been using it for a year, and every time I ask it to do something exceptionally quotidian—Daffy's word —I try to let it know that it won't be long before we can do really impressive things."

“Ah," Fortuna said, and was surprised when her power confirmed Flavia's assertion. "Would you like to have a bookshelf here?” 

There had been a bookshelf there once, but was a pile of splinters now. Flavia pulled out her wand. With a quick reparo, the pieces began to fling themselves together and meld, until the shelf was returned to its former glory. 

Flavia beamed and rubbed her hands. "Right, let's work on setting up the lab tonight. Regardless of where Sirius Black is, we need to be ready before he gets here. Lucky we have a guard dog here to protect our place from him. Isn’t that right, King George?” 

Fortuna looked over at the picnic blanket. The dog had stolen her sandwich.

Chapter Text

There were only so many times a person could ask the same question without result before falling into despair. Fortuna wasn't there yet, but she felt she was getting close. She asked her power to compare her persistence with the average person's, and learned that most people would have stopped trying twenty-six questions ago.

She rubbed her eyes, as though doing so could clear the fog in her mind's eye, and wrote down the words she and her mother and her uncle had spoken. Then she carefully stopped thinking about her family and asked herself where she could find people who spoke the language written on the parchment in front of her. 

Nobody on the entire planet did. There were plenty of people who could understand it because it was close to Latin, but she wouldn't be able to find a native speaker or a community where it was used. 

How did a language come to be not only forgotten, but eliminated from memory? She'd understood it when she'd remembered it, and she understood the words now as she read them, but she couldn't formulate new sentences or conjure additional vocabulary on her own. 

Perhaps there were others who simply didn't know because they also couldn't remember.

But if that were true, what did it mean? She didn't think anyone could go around destroying people's memories en masse in some sort of world-spanning language removal conspiracy.

Well . . . she could. But she wouldn't. That would be pointless.

Unless the language were dangerous, somehow? 

Or she got very bored.

She slumped back in the overstuffed armchair she'd claimed for herself in the empty Gryffindor common room and glared at the parchment. The words stared up at her, mockingly worthless. Not a hint among them, nothing to grasp onto or use. 

Useless. 

Nobody was around to question her sudden proficiency in Charms, so she pointed her wand at her latest failure and said " Incendio ." She’d woken up before everyone else on Sunday just to have some time alone to think about this, but now she wanted a distraction.  

Fresh air would do. 

It was just late enough that students were allowed to wander the halls without fear of detention, but early enough she wouldn't see anybody else; there was not a student in the world who’d be waking up at the crack of dawn the first weekend after classes started. Even though she knew that was the case, she still automatically checked her appearance for neatness before she left: tie straightened, shirt tucked, sweater smoothed down.

Strictly speaking, uniforms weren't required on the weekends, but she wasn't keen on wearing her Muggle hand-me-downs when she had something new and snazzy and more socially acceptable on hand. Besides, she liked the aesthetic and she'd rather get a reputation for unnecessary formality than poverty.

As she'd anticipated, Fortuna's walk down the stairs, across the grounds, and to the Quidditch stadium went unchallenged. Hogwarts kept a repository of brooms locked up in a cupboard for use during flying lessons, so she jimmied the door open and claimed the best one of the bunch to take for a spin.

Without Madam Hooch's instructions and others' eyes to hold her back, she leapt into the air, taking the broom ten times as high as she'd been allowed to on Friday. She hovered for a moment to scan her surroundings. The courtyard was empty, save for an animal or two. She twisted around and fell back down to earth in a screeching dive, levelling out inches from the ground. Then she cruised from grass to water, twisting patterns over the lake as she let her speed burn off.

Even as she swam circles through the air, her mind inevitably returned to her problems. It stood to reason that there were others; an entire language didn't evolve and vanish overnight. There had been an entire community implied in her memory, and it was unlikely she was the only survivor; someone had brought her to the hospital. But if there were others like her, how could she find them when she didn't remember them and they didn't remember her?

There were plenty of people in Britain who didn't remember their families, and she ran down the first ten or so on the list: dementia, dementia, dementia, brain damage, dementia. She thought about going one by one through every person without family in Britain, but there were tens of thousands on that list. And if she looked for people who looked like her—well, that number was so large, she was only able to comprehend it using her power.

The Hogwarts grounds could almost have been dreary. All of the colors were muted: dark greens, greys, and blacks beneath mist. Yet Fortuna would not have been able to find a single person who described it as anything but spectacular. The view was all natural, and nature didn’t need to justify itself with light or cheery colors. The rolling hills and thriving fauna spoke for themselves.

I want to know where I can find the hills that match the hills I saw when I encountered the Dementor .

Nowhere.

I want to know where I can find scenery like the hills I saw when I encountered the Dementor .

Northern Italy, southern France, Corsica, Sardinia. What?

I want to know where I'm from.

Fog.

The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced magic was involved. Memories, languages, and now entire landscapes stricken from existence? What but magic could be more powerful? What but magic could explain her symptoms?

Amnesia just didn't manifest the way hers did. None of the normal ways someone lost their memory could possibly explain everything she had experienced. Most importantly, normal memory loss didn’t warp people to the point where they didn't even think to question why their lives were missing. She had simply accepted she remembered her name but not the people who had given it to her, that she could read and speak English without remembering who had taught her, and that she had lived eight years without remembering who had spent them with her.

And now she had her first clue: Memory Charms .

Flying higher and higher, she set her eye on the Quidditch Stadium standing tall on the northern grounds of Hogwarts. She flew into the wooden structure, dodging and weaving between the stands, before flying over the pitch, to rest in mid-air.

She'd spent much of yesterday in her bed reading the detective stories she'd checked out of the library on Thursday. Memory charms were to magical mystery books as divine revelation, feminine intuition, mumbo-jumbo, jiggery-pokery, coincidence, and the Act of God were to Golden Age detective novels. It seemed to be considered bad sport, at least if the authors of The Blighted Bludger , Delivery by Cross-Eyed Owl , and Spellbound Death  were anything to go by.

It was easy to see why. "Obliviate" was simply too convenient to make for a compelling puzzle. It could eliminate any witnesses, generate any alibi, destroy any case, frustrate any detective. Novelists avoided using it as a gimmick because the real thing was too powerful, and her power—which could supply her with information about Memory Charms so long as she didn't apply the concept to herself—agreed with this conclusion.

Lobotomization was not a word Fortuna threw around, but it was something that described the process of a Memory Charm gone bad. Not all gone, not all there, forced to operate off what pieces of themselves were left behind. Even minor uses of the spell struck her as immoral, and major uses seemed to leave their victims little more than blocks of Swiss cheese. 

She didn't want to feel like a block of Swiss cheese. 

This wasn’t helping. She banked left from where she’d been looping around and flew back towards the broom cabinet. 

There was a small crowd below, a group of students bedecked in red and gold, and the first one to notice her flew up to shout at her.  “We have the pitch reserved. You have to get off.”

Fortuna swiveled to face him, stopping on a dime. “What?” she asked.

“You have to get out of here," he blustered. "We have the pitch reserved. You can’t just come out here and play around! We have some serious training to do.” 

She thought about responding insolently for a moment, but decided against returning his sass with interest. She was above such childish actions, and she'd already planned to wrap up anyway.

“All right," she said, and immediately flew down to land in front of the other students. If she joined the team next year as Flavia had suggested, this moment was the first impression her teammates would get of her flying, so she made the landing neat and sharp.

She didn't look at them to see their reactions; instead, she checked with her power as she sauntered past them.

Nobody had noticed. 

The intense man who had shouted at her had gone off to inspect the goal posts at the other end of the field, which he evidently thought might have changed over the summer. The Beaters and Chasers were definitely not paying attention to her, preoccupied as they were with a puzzling conversation they were having amongst themselves. Each Weasley twin was focused on one of the girls, but pretending not to be so the girls wouldn't notice; the girls had noticed, but were pretending not to have so the boys wouldn't know they'd tipped their hand so easily. On the surface, it was small talk about the summer holiday and classes so far; beneath the surface, it was was a tangled knot of plays, counterplays, wariness, insecurity, confusion, and hope. All five were fully on to each other and all five knew it, but they were keeping up the pretense because—her power made it very clear what all this was about, and she mentally flinched away. 

The only one left was Harry Potter, and he hadn't witnessed her landing because he'd pushed his fingers up beneath his glasses to rub the sleep out of his eyes. She turned her head over her shoulder to see this other orphan for herself. He was closer to her own age and height than the others, and the fact he was thinking about breakfast instead of kissing endeared him to her.

She turned away so he wouldn't catch her staring. 

Once Fortuna had returned the broom, she headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. She thought about her next steps while she helped herself to waffles artfully draped in glossy red preserves, with fresh samples of the same fruit atop that. Some sort of thickly whipped cream was smeared over in generous quantities.

She jabbed her fork down, securing the waffles, and cut them neatly into thirds with her knife. One quick turn of the plate, two more sawing motions, and it was in neat ninths, perfect bite-sized pieces.  

The Simmonses had never provided anything half so good. She knew they received money from the government to subsidize the cost of feeding seven children, and she also knew that they never spent more than a third of it.

Another thing she hadn't bothered questioning.

The crisp waffle piece crunched in her mouth and she speared another and similarly dealt with it. The corner pieces went first as she saved the best for last, and the side pieces met their demise by being used to mop up the juices. She left only smears of pink on the plate before placing those sponges of flavor into her mouth.

The center, she stared at for a moment as she mulled her options over. The bottom one went first, and then the top, the center of it glutted with now pink cream and lingonberry mixture. She scooped it up with a spoon, cautious of spilling the bounty onto the plate. Into her mouth it went, and she was done.

Thus accomplished, Fortuna stopped off at Gryffindor Tower to shower and change, and when she left again it was for the library. She'd use the pretext of returning her mysteries and checking out more to engineer a meeting with someone who could answer questions without spreading around the fact she was asking them.

Step one was to avoid Madam Pince's detection by staying away from the path of her patrol. Step two was to select nine books, and step three was to make her way to one particular intersection between shelves. The stack teetered and tottered in her hands, but never came close to actually falling. 

She hid amongst the stacks and waited. When her power told her to, she stepped out in front of a student. The other girl’s nose was buried deep in a book, so much so that she didn’t notice Fortuna. They collided. Fortuna landed a little ways away, safe, while the older girl cried out as she was pelted by falling mystery novels and tomes on mind magic.

“Oh no, I'm so sorry,” the girl said, frazzled. Her hair was frizzy and there were bags under her eyes; she looked like she desperately needed sleep. It took a second for Fortuna to recognize her as the girl whose books they had knocked over three nights ago. 

“No, I’m sorry,” Fortuna said, brushing herself off. “It's my fault. I grabbed all those books without being able to see over them. I guess I didn't expect to see anyone else here on a Sunday morning. I'm so thoughtless.”

“Oh, no, I should have watched where I was going. Madam Pince didn’t see, did she?” 

The girl ducked her head around a bookshelf, but the librarian was preoccupied chastising some older students about their volume. She breathed a sigh of relief. “We’re fine. Good, I couldn’t be banned from the library. I’m in the middle of two projects and if she kicked me out—oh, what am I saying. Here, let me help.”

She started grabbing at books, but didn't even try to stop herself from reading each title before she stuck it on the growing pile in Fortuna’s hands. 

“Memory Charms? Are they teaching you that this early in the year? That can’t be right, I’ve only heard of it in Defense. I suppose I can see how it would be useful—”

Fortuna cut her off before her speculation could run wild.

“It’s not really for class,” she said. “It's just something I was a little interested in and, well, Professor Flitwick told me I could write a couple of feet for extra credit. I’m worried I might not be doing well enough for the first few days, being a Muggle-born…”

The other girl’s eyes lit up. She hurried to retrieve the last of the books and Fortuna used her power to follow the girl to one of the tables without spilling  the books again.

“Well, if that's what you're worried about, I’d be happy to help,” she said, waiting patiently for Fortuna to drop the leaning tower of texts before reaching for a handshake. “I’m Hermione Granger.” 

“Fortuna Floris. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“So, what are you looking for?” Hermione asked, sorting the books into neat piles based on topic, focus, and level, in that order.

“How to restore people’s memories once they've been Obliviated. I understand what happens when the spell takes hold, but I want to know what to do when you want to get your memories back.”

“I don't think that's possible,” Hermione told her. “Well, it’s… there aren’t really spells to do that. The last Defense teacher had to be moved to St. Mungos, that’s the Wizarding hospital, because they couldn’t get his memories back after a, uhm, accident made him lose them. Being Obliviated is a one-way street.”

"So what happens in cases like that, when there's a mistake?" Fortuna asked. "What if someone lost their memories who shouldn’t have. Or who wanted to get them back? What then?”

"There shouldn't be mistakes. The Defense Professor was a—" Hermione paused as her cheeks darkened. "A con-artist. A criminal who accidentally cast the spell on himself. The Ministry has a team of Wizards who are qualified to use it safely when they find it crucial for keeping the Wizarding world safe.”

“Oh,” Fortuna replied, her power forcing her body to shrink into itself, “so it’s pointless then? I was going to center my whole report around this.” 

“No, not exactly. There's no spell or potion or other guaranteed way to get the memories back, but that doesn’t mean that people always lose their memories permanently," Hermione said, lapsing into a lecture as she flipped through one of the books Fortuna had grabbed. “There aren’t enough cases to form a conclusive theory, but there has certainly been a trend you could base an essay on.”

She set the open book down on the table in front of Fortuna, who looked down to see two pages covered in annotated graphs. “This is some data from Saint Mungo's. There's some indication that lost memories resurface after exposure to trauma, but there aren't a lot of case studies.”

Blood in her mouth. Her mother screaming. Not moving as she watched her parents die.

“I see," Fortuna said. Hermione was thinking of torture, but exposing herself to Dementors was the same general neighborhood, and she would be able to control that eventually. “I just have one more question. When someone takes memories away, do they put fake ones in?”

“Well, yes, Memory Charms are often used in tandem with implanting false memories to throw people off the fact something has been altered.” 

“How real does that feel from the inside?" Fortuna asked, thinking about the fragments of her dreams she could remember. A beach, a white hallway, a woman in a lab coat. "Can the false memories change a person's feelings or alter dreams? Or show up in dreams at all?” 

Hermione looked confused. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like that before. The false memories would be the ones that they can remember when consciously trying to think about it.”

Fortuna thought about it. If her dreams represented implanted memories, then she should be able to remember them. If she couldn't, then why would someone have implanted these memories in her? And what she could remember from her dreams didn't line up with what an eight year old could logically have experienced, so they couldn't be her original memories. It didn't make any sense, and she said so aloud.

“Well," Hermione said, a little huffily, "That's what the books say, and the books are what you need to write your paper. I’m sorry, I need to get back to what I was doing. It was nice meeting you.”

"Thank you," Fortuna said automatically. "You too, Hermione."

Hermione left to go get her books, while Fortuna stared down at hers. Hermione hadn’t been wrong; the books corroborated what she had said. 

That some people had recovered parts of their memory and that she had done the same confirmed the theory that memories weren't actually destroyed by the spell. Some parts of them remained. 

She looked at the graphs Hermione had showed her, case studies of people who had partially overcome Memory Charms. She asked herself about them, and found a dozen of them were still alive and in Britain. She could Owl them, though she'd have to use her power to persuade them to open up about their experience to a strange child via post.

The books were no longer necessary, so she left the stack of nonfiction, checked out her mysteries, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower. Flavia would be waking up soon and Fortuna could owl her leads and consider the problem of the lost language later.

Something snagged on her thoughts. 

Hadn't she just been introduced to something else that wasn't Latin but sounded like it?

Incendio, reparo, lumos. 

She asked herself more questions. Wizards didn't know where magic came from and they didn't understand how or why it worked. They were content to operate within the system, but they didn't know who had set it up or why it was the way it was. At some point that knowledge had gotten lost, and here she had stumbled upon a lost country, a lost language, and a lost people. 

Was there a connection?

Fog.

She suspected that meant she was on the right track.

Who to go to for help?

Again, teachers were out; they'd notice . Most of the student body didn't know enough to be useful. Daphne de Luce was a possibility, but she'd be suspicious of Fortuna's motivations and would be actively unhelpful once she realized her interrogator was friends with Flavia.

So she rushed to catch up with Hermione, who was simply happy to show off her knowledge, and who wouldn't question why anyone else would want that knowledge.

But when Fortuna found the older girl, she wasn't alone. Her books had been spilled all over the floor, again, and three other boys were standing nearby, laughing. Two of them were burly nonentities, and the blond one in the middle screamed posh in all the wrong ways for Fortuna and she couldn’t help but compare him to a dyed, more insufferable Candidus. Her power identified him as the one who'd started this by knocking Hermione's books out of her hands.

Fortuna automatically shrank back, preparing to steal away. This wasn’t her problem, and she could always run Hermione down and pick her brains later. 

But was that what she wanted to do?

Hermione interrupted their laughter. "Why am I not surprised you have nothing better to do than get in the way of other people doing actual work, Malfoy?"

"Too bad all the work in the world won't make up for who you are, Granger. It's why you do it, isn't it?" asked the blond. He looked at the others. "She's trying to compensate, isn't she?" 

The goons laughed, and Fortuna knew that the taunt had stung.

No, Fortuna decided. No, it was not. She slid unobtrusively behind Hermione and picked her pocket while she was collecting her books.

Then she threw the stolen bronze Knut at Malfoy, striking him between his eyes.

"Ow!" he exclaimed. “What?"

Fortuna stepped forward, putting herself in between Hermione and the others. "Shut up," she said. 

All attention turned to her.

Chapter Text

Fortuna took a moment to assess the situation. The blond Slytherin was pressing the fingers of his left hand—his right arm was in a sling—to the nasty red mark rising on his forehead. She had a few seconds to think; he was too taken aback to act and his lackeys weren't proactive enough to do anything but stare at their stunned boss. 

She looked ahead to the next five minutes. There was going to be a fight. A couple dozen spells would get cast, the noise and shouting would draw the attention of a professor, and everyone would get detention.

Including her.

That was unacceptable. She couldn't afford even one black mark on her record. 

Hermione straightened up, but she'd missed Fortuna's attack and didn't know why Malfoy had shouted. "She's right, Malfoy," she said. "You should shut up."

Malfoy lowered his hand, ignoring Hermione's words. “That was a mistake,” he said. He drew his wand from his left pocket, awkwardly transferred it to his right hand, and pointed it at Fortuna. "What do you think you’re doing?" 

He'd meant his question to be rhetorical, but it was dumb enough to be given an answer. She made her decision and her power mapped out the way forward. “Leaving,” she said. “Come on, Hermione.”

Hermione didn't move. Her eyes darted between the three Slytherins as she assessed the situation, and her hand moved in the direction of the pocket of her robes.

"No!" Malfoy said. "You attacked me and I'm not about to let you get away with that."

"No she didn't," Hermione said indignantly. "Her wand's not even out!"

"Not with magic, of course, because she doesn't know any." He turned his attention back to Fortuna, looking down his nose at her. It was an unimpressive feat; she was short. "Muggleborn, are you?"

Fortuna shrugged. "Most likely."

"Muggleborn and a bastard, then," he sneered. "Well, I know who my father is and you ought to learn. I'll do you a favor and help you start your career at Hogwarts out right by teaching you a lesson about how our world works."

He continued in that vein for a while, and Fortuna considered the tone, inflection, and cadence of his voice while the professor she was relying on got closer and closer. He sounded like Candidus—or Flavia, she had to admit, especially when she was excited. Coming from Flavia, it sounded like a natural and unconscious self-assurance. Coming from Malfoy, it sounded like inbreeding. 

" Flipendo ,” Malfoy said, when at last he'd finished.

She'd already lowered her shoulder by the half-inch necessary to dodge the jinx.

"It's against the rules to use magic in the corridors, Malfoy," Hermione said, already working through spells in her own head. By now her hand was gripping her own wand, though she hadn't yet drawn it.

"Then don't use any, Granger." He shrugged his hand out of its sling and cast the spell again. " Flipendo! "

Fortuna, having moved slightly while his attention had been on Hermione, simply wasn't where he'd aimed. The other two Slytherins decided to get on board with their leader's plan and started trying to hit Fortuna with knock-back jinxes of their own. Hermione would have drawn then, but Fortuna stumbled into her wand arm as she avoided the spells with a series of unnecessarily showy dodges.

" Tarantallegra! "

Fortuna had already recovered and started to leap back before he'd finished the word. The jinx hit a suit of armor and its legs began to jerk spasmodically. She nudged one of Hermione's books into one of the suit's sollerets, which redirected it into the path of the goons' next spells, where it conveniently shielded Hermione and flew to pieces.

The girls avoided being struck by the hail of spaulders, poleyns, and gauntlets because Fortuna had already tripped into Hermione, knocking her over. Half the floor must have heard the clatter, but the only one who mattered was the Professor of Ancient Runes. She stopped in her tracks, sighed, cursed her decision to become a teacher, and began power-walking towards them.

After a few more seconds of Fortuna evading the Slytherins' oncoming spells in just such a way that her overblown flailing knocked Hermione's assorted limbs clear of the attacks, the professor finally arrived.

“Mr. Malfoy!" The professor's shout reverberated throughout the hallway. "What do you think you are doing?”

Her voice echoed, and her question repeated itself in the silence that followed her arrival. 

There was no good answer, either—no reason why an older boy was threatening two unarmed girls who were lying on the floor amidst a pile of books and a tumble of armor. Malfoy looked at the professor and then back to Hermione, before stuffing his wand into his robes.

“Professor—”

“Detention for using magic in the corridors, Mr. Malfoy. A week of detention for the three of you.” 

“Professor, she started this,” Draco said, pointing a finger right at Fortuna.

“A first year?” the professor said, a little sarcastically. She was far an impartial judge. Hermione was already shaping up to be the star pupil of her Ancient Runes class, and her interest in the professor's subject had earned a measure of goodwill that did not extend to Malfoy and his cronies. She turned to Fortuna, who was helping Hermione up, and gave her a hard look. "You are a first year, aren't you?"

Fortuna said she was. She broke eye contact and looked at her feet, like she was worried she had done something wrong by being a first year in front of a professor.

"Where's your wand?"

"In my back pocket, Professor."

"Did you attack Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, Professor. I did…" She broke off and let her voice waver a little. "I did tell him to shut up."

If Fortuna hadn't known to look for it, she would have missed the twitch of the professor's lips.

“They knocked my books all over, Professor Marchbourne,” Hermione interjected. “Then they started insulting me. It’s what started this.”

“Thank you, Miss Granger. Do you need any help? Are you hurt?” 

"No," Hermione said hotly, "And neither is he . He's pretending his arm's been seriously injured by Buckbeak, but it isn't. He's faking to get Hagrid in trouble."

"Liar," Malfoy spat. “And that girl threw something at me, a coin or something small like that. I had to defend myself, even though I'm injured."

Fortuna thought that if he'd thought to point at his own forehead, he might have had a  more convincing case. She further thought that he was lucky she hadn’t been given the option to pelt him in the face with a steel greave. 

The professor sized her up again, and found nothing in her face or stance to indicate she was anything other than an innocent eleven year-old scared that she was going to get in trouble at her new school. "So you had to defend yourself against a wandless first year who's been at Hogwarts less than four days. Is that what you're saying, Mr. Malfoy?" 

The boy turned pink and began to stammer.

“A likely story," the Professor said. "Show me the coin she threw at you, would you, Mr. Malfoy?”

The Slytherins eyed the ground like a flock of magpies, but aside from the scattered pieces of Arthurian armorment, there was nothing small that could have been used by a projectile, let alone a coin. The professor scoffed and led them off to discuss the particulars of their detention. 

After the trio of boys had been pulled away, she began, once again, to help Hermione pick her things off the floor. “Thank you for coming to help me," the older girl said, "But I could have handled them myself.”

Fortuna felt a brief spike of annoyance at the other girl’s condescension, but she quashed it once she realized Hermione was simply concerned about a younger student involving herself in trouble. She schooled her features into an appropriately repentant look. “I'm sorry about all the fuss, but I wanted to ask you another question.”

Hermione's forehead wrinkled. “Ask me another question?”

“Like we discussed in the library. Just now, before all this.”

There was an awkward pause, then a look of comprehension flooded Hermione’s face. “Oh, right. In the library, yes! Of course. Sorry, I have so much going on—everything's so confused—Malfoy made me forget—what were we talking about?”

"Memory Charms," Fortuna said slowly. She was seized by a sudden concern that her amnesia was contagious—but no, that was stupid. Something else was wrong with this picture, and she asked herself what it was.

"Right," Hermione said, scrabbling for mental purchase. Her brisk nod did not convince Fortuna she knew what was going on. "Right. Of course. Sorry, and what about them?"

Her power explained that her past was in Hermione's future. This Hermione was about to travel back into time in order to study—and two hours in her future, ten minutes in Fortuna's past, she would meet Fortuna. The Hermione she had just spoken to had gone the opposite direction to the groundskeeper's cottage.

The phrase time turner came to mind. Interesting, but not immediately useful for someone in her shoes. She needed answers about something that had happened considerably more than six hours in the past. It was a possibility to bear in mind, but it wasn't presently relevant.

"You gave me a good starting point, not to worry. I was wondering about something else—something about the history of magic. But we could talk about it later."

"Of course, but really I think Professor Binns would be more useful for you—to begin with, I mean. Have you had his class yet?"

Fortuna shook her head, and Hermione bustled off, leaving her standing in a pile of armor. The professor hadn't bothered putting it back together, so she did, using her power to identify and cast the spell. The knight's return to its dais revealed the errant knut lying on the ground, where it had been concealed from the professor's view by a handguard. She picked it up and considered it. 

She would, of course, restore the money to its rightful owner. Hermione wouldn't notice the coin's absence, nor would she notice its return. In a few weeks, she would spend it on candy at Hogsmeade. A few days after that, it would find its way into the hands of a bartender, who would give it as change to a man called Fetters, who'd send it to his niece in Cheshire, who...

She cut herself off.

As a rule, she didn't interfere with money. She was young, and a child who suddenly acquired wealth would be noticed. Besides, other people needed it in a way she did not; she could get whatever she might want via other means.

And right now, what she wanted was to exact a little revenge for what Draco Malfoy had said about her family. It was true that she had baited him, that she had more or less chosen for him to say what he had—but her power wouldn't have given her that option if he hadn't really felt that way.

As she walked back to Gryffindor Tower, walking a little more slowly than usual so that she could conveniently arrive at the same time as someone else and thereby avoid having to say the password, Fortuna asked herself how the Malfoy family had acquired and retained their wealth. 

Some balancing of the scales might be due.

✶✶✶

There were few things Fortuna hated more than History, and dealing with it was a task she'd delegated to her power within the first minute of the first time she'd been told to open her social studies textbook. She never asked her power to tell her what actually had or had not happened—she asked it to write the expected answers on her tests without bothering to consider any of the twaddle her hand might scrawl. 

Of course there were reasons people said history was relevant, but they were all bunk. She'd heard that those who did not remember the past were doomed to repeat it, but she knew that people did not avoid mistakes even if they'd memorized a load of dates and "facts" that were not, her power assured her, usually facts at all. She knew what the actual facts were, to wit: that history class always was a complete waste of time, that history class always had been a waste of time, and that history class always would be a waste of time.

The student body at Hogwarts seemed to agree. When one of the first year boys said their first class that morning was History of Magic, the older Gryffindors said that having to deal with Professor Binns on a Monday morning was hard luck. As they took their seats, Flavia mentioned that neither of her sisters had anything positive to say about the class or their professor, whom they bemoaned as dull and oblivious. Fortuna suggested that, when it came to history classes, listening to a dead guy drone on and on was really just cutting out the middle-man.

Luckily for her, even dead professors still allowed the student body to harass them after class with questions. Professor Binns didn’t get nearly so much of it—being a boring man who taught a boring subject boringly helped with that—so Fortuna had a clear shot at him before he could phase through a wall.

“Professor, if I could have a word with you.”

He looked around, confused, and finally he noticed the girl in front of him. He adjusted his spectacles as he focused on her. “Can I help you, Miss...?” 

“Floris, sir. I wanted to ask you a question about something not covered in the lecture material.”

“Very well,” Professor Binns said. He sounded disinterested and clearly wished he were elsewhere, as though he had anything to do besides haunt the staffroom. 

“I wanted to ask some questions on the history of magic," Fortuna said. "Specifically where magic comes from. Are there any generally accepted theories on who created it or where they were from?”

The ghost scowled. “Miss—" He faltered as he'd already forgotten her name. "Young lady, I do not teach myths or legends in this class, only cold, hard facts. 'Atlantis' does not exist and never did, and our craft was certainly not gifted to us by extraterrestrials . If you wish to indulge in idle, baseless speculation, I suggest you take out a subscription to the Quibbler. I will not countenance such prattle, if I see anything of that bent in your essays, I will mark you down. If that is all."

Not waiting for a response, the ghost turned away and swept through the nearest wall. He didn't even glance back as he disappeared. 

Whatever Fortuna had expected, it hadn't been that . Apparently she'd touched a nerve. She consulted her power. Evidently the topic was a sore spot among historians. Nobody knew where magic had come from, and the handful of explanations presented were less theories and more fairy tales.

So much for mainstream history. Was there anything behind the theories that might be found in whatever the "Quibbler" was? No, not at all. It was a one-man tabloid run by someone who was completely barking. 

Then she asked herself about "Atlantis." No fog there: it wasn't a real place and it hadn't ever been a real place. Nor were the legends about it founded in fact at all; it was a metaphor a Greek Muggle had created when he was talking about philosophy.

As for aliens granting special powers to humans? Absurd. What she'd seen had nothing to do with aliens; the monsters were twisted humans and the land she'd seen had been earth. And it seemed that if she wanted to know where that land and its people had gone, she would have to do her own work.

Standing around as the classroom filled up with the next period’s students wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Fortuna followed her professor's example and departed, fuming slightly, once she'd grabbed something that wouldn't be missed. The one time in her life she had a question that historians should be able to answer was the one time they couldn't. It seemed she would have to do their job for them, and she couldn't think of anything more annoying.

“Hey! Fortuna! Hey!” 

Angelique. The voice had started from down the hall, but it was getting closer and closer with every word. Fortuna suppressed the temptation to increase her pace. Today was an important step in implementing her plan to stay unnoticed, and Angelique was a critical part of that. The key, even.

Angelique tried to grab her shoulder, but Fortuna dodged the overly familiar greeting by turning to face the smiling Hufflepuff encroachment.

“It looked like you were going to make a run for it. Didn’t you hear me?”

Fortuna shook her head and smiled ruefully. "I was lost in thought."

"I know what you mean," Angelique said. "I think I might be dreaming. I know I fell asleep in class, but I don't know if I've woken up yet."

"You didn't fall asleep," Fortuna said. "You just wanted to."

Angelique burbled on without taking note of this interjection. "I've got a bunch of people meeting in the library in fifteen minutes. Can you bring Flavia?"

"She's already on the way to the library," said Fortuna. "I had to stay behind to ask a question."

The other girl beamed. "Already hard at work?" She continued without waiting for an answer, "Henry is going to help us kickstart our study group, but he can't start until next week."

She didn't identify Henry, so Fortuna got her power to do it for her. He was a fifth-year whose eagerness to help anyone and work ethic would counterbalance his only slightly above average grades. He was also vulnerable to candy; all Angelique had done to recruit him was drop one hint that chocolate frogs might be on the table, and his hand signed that metaphorical contract.

Meanwhile, Angelique was still talking. "I asked Jessica and Candidus at breakfast, so they should already be there."

They were, Fortuna knew, but she didn't say so. Instead, she let herself endure the small talk and introductions to two other Hufflepuffs, Zachary Bangbourne and Derek Oakthorn. They were both brown-haired, round, and eager, and Fortuna had difficulty telling them apart.

Not that she needed to. Her power would do it for her.

When she got to the library, she split off from the Hufflepuffs so she could go round up Flavia. Her partner in crime had seized a table in a corner remote enough that Fortuna wouldn't have been able to find her on her own.

Flavia did not want to join the study group and said so. She said she didn't think she would get any academic value out of it—her actual thought process was much blunter about her classmates' intellectual capabilities—and Fortuna knew full well that she was correct.

"I believe I could get good marks without help as well," Fortuna said. "But there are other considerations. Friendship, connections, simply enjoying school as such."

It was a weak argument, but it was only her first. She was going to persuade Flavia, but it wouldn't be through the logic of a specific argument; it would be through the way she said it, the way she would advance so many arguments so quickly. Flavia would pay less heed to the words and more to the fact Fortuna would brook no refusal. In the end, her friend would concede simply to make her happy.

"I doubt it would be any better than just studying on our own. Socializing might actually be a distraction.”

"It would help the others," Fortuna continued. “A variety of different perspectives and strengths will provide insights and understanding impossible to achieve on their own."

Flavia seemed preoccupied with her ink bottle. "You could join on your own," she said. "I wouldn't be upset."

Not completely true, but she believed it was.

"But it just wouldn't be the same without you," Fortuna said. "I need help in potions as much as anyone who isn't you."

"I've been immune to flattery ever since our chef said I'd make nearly as good a cook as her one day," Flavia said grumpily. But her grumpiness didn't quite sound convincing.

"And do you really think someone like Professor Snape should determine our classmates' entire experience with Potions? Do you think he deserves that kind of influence?" 

Flavia threw up her hands. "Pax," she said. "Stop. No more. I concede. I will join your study group." She began to pack up her things. "You really want to do this."

“I've read mysteries set in boarding schools.” Fortuna shrugged. “Now that I'm actually here…There is a way things should be, if you know what I mean. Ordinary students by day, rogue detectives by night."

Flavia chewed her lip in order to suppress a smile. "Rogue potioneers . I suppose it could provide some cover." 

"Precisely."

✶✶✶

Counting the two Gryffindor girls, Angelique had corralled seven first years into her study group. Candidus had come by himself because his efforts at making friends in his own house had thus far been fruitless for reasons known only to Fortuna and everyone he'd approached, while Jessica had brought the blonde girl Fortuna had noticed with her during flying class. She introduced herself as Astoria Greengrass and everyone took their seats.

"So," Angelique said, "What's everyone been up to?"

“I’d say a hair under five foot,” Jessica said with a pointed glance at the Gryffindors.

“I’m surprised you can still see us from all the way up there,” Flavia said coolly, though not as coolly as she'd intended, before turning her attention back to the Hufflepuff. “Nothing much. We've just been settling in.”

“I don’t know if I’d call annoying Draco Malfoy 'nothing much,'” Astoria commented, looking at Fortuna. "That was you, wasn't it?"

It seemed the Slytherins were a little more gossipy than she would have preferred, and she was a little surprised to learn that Malfoy had shared anything. In his place, Fortuna would have found the experience humiliating and kept quiet about it. But no, her power confirmed; this scion of one of the proudest and most prominent families in his society possessed so little dignity that he'd spent the majority of the previous day stalking about the Slytherin common room and vowing revenge on the feral Mudblood who had assaulted him. 

She put on a show of total bewilderment. "I don't think so," she said. 

"He said a first-year Gryffindor girl attacked him, which gives us five possibilities." Astoria lifted her left hand, all five fingers outstretched to indicate said possibilities. 

"Oh, that definitely wasn't me," Fortuna said. She made herself sound relieved, as though the possibility of being in Draco Malfoy's bad books was very intimidating and she was glad to have ruled herself out. "I didn't attack anyone."

"Well, he said someone did." She lowered her pinky and ring finger. "Not de Luce and not Blackstone, he would have recognized them."

"Odd," Flavia remarked, in an uncharacteristically snooty voice that Fortuna recognized as an imitation of her oldest sister's. " I wouldn't have recognized him ."

She was lying, and Astoria knew it, but she didn't try to argue. Instead, she refocused on Fortuna and lowered her middle finger as she continued talking. "He said it was someone with black hair, which puts Amica out—she could be mistaken for a Weasley."

Fortuna regarded Astoria, wondering where she was going with this. An opportunist, she judged. The Slytherin had come here to see what the fuss was about and to decide whether she'd try to gain standing with her peers by warning Fortuna, or to try to curry favor with her older housemates by reporting on Gryffindor antics to Malfoy. 

"That leaves you and Romilda Vane. But he also said it was a M—Muggle-born and   Romilda's a Pureblood." She raised her now solitary thumb for emphasis. "The person who attacked him must have been you."

Flavia snorted. "A logically compelling argument, if you accept your premises. But you've overlooked the obvious possibilities, which is that he was lying or wrong."

"I think he must be lying," Fortuna said slowly. "I did run into three Slytherin boys in the halls yesterday, but they attacked me . Tried to jinx me and a teacher stepped in before I could get hurt." 

Astoria nodded sagely, as though she'd suspected that had been the case all along. It seemed that Draco’s dramatic antics weren’t confined to hallway standoffs, and Fortuna's account rang more true than Draco's tale. The scales tipped slightly in her favor; Astoria believed her and felt a little sympathy.

That sympathy wouldn't stop Astoria from trying to play both sides and she'd definitely be reporting that Flavia de Luce had publicly thrown her support behind his attacker, but it was a start. He wouldn't forget his grudge, but he would be smarter—or at least quieter—about acting on it. For a while, anyway. When he thought the Head Girl wouldn't notice.

“Draco...” Jessica rubbed her chin. “That'd be the blond tosser always walking around the common room and talking about himself?”

Astoria was scandalized, both by Jessica's dismissal of a member of the ruling class and the fact she was sharing intrahouse drama with people outside of Slytherin. “ Draco Malfoy is the son of a very important man and it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be spreading rumors about him, or worse, insulting him.”

“Fuck him,” Jessica said.

Flavia hauled her potions textbook out of her bag. "I can't help but notice that he is spreading rumors about and insulting Fortuna ."

“Fuck him,” Jessica said again.

This was leading up to a fight that would be big enough to get them kicked out of the library and would drive Astoria out of the study group. Jessica wouldn't back down and Astoria would work herself up into a self-righteous rage about treating the older Slytherins with respect, particularly in public. The Hufflepuff boys and Candidus wouldn’t be of any help, and Angelique was already wringing her hands over everyone not just getting along.

Fortuna nudged Flavia, who nodded a little and cut off the brewing battle by slamming her book on the table so hard it shook a little.

Jessica whistled. "You smashed that harder than I smashed your mum last night."

Everyone else looked baffled by this comment, which redirected some of the tension into confusion. The truth was that not even Jessica knew what the phrase she'd said meant, but Fortuna suddenly did, wished she didn't, and allowed some of her irritation to show. “ If we could focus on why we're here, we have a potions assignment due tomorrow. I believe that will be everyone’s worst class.”

The mood turned damp as a marsh and everyone was scowls and frowns as they opened their potions textbooks. All except for Flavia, who started drumming her fingers on her open textbook to release some of her excitement, and Astoria, who was casting baleful glances at the other members of the group. She felt as though her classmates' attitude was a condemnation of Snape—and she was right.

"So," Flavia said, once everyone had opened their books and gotten over their initial sulk. “Professor Snape couldn’t teach Zygmunt Budge how to brew a cure for boils, so we're going to learn it ourselves.” 

“Professor Snape is competent," Astoria said defensively. "If you have any issues with him, you can bring them to him. He's very fair."

The Hufflepuff boys immediately started to grumble. "You were there," one of them, Bangbourne, said. "You saw him vanish half our house's potions and none of yours! And he took a point away from Derek for not knowing an answer and called it cheek!"

Angelique stayed quiet because it was her policy not to say anything at all if she couldn't say anything nice, but she nodded when Oakthorn added that Snape wasn't as harsh on the Slytherins. 

"Numerous sources have informed me that Snape is predisposed to thinking better of his own students than others," Candidus announced. "I've heard about him, and his behavior last week does nothing to make me think the reports I've heard are wrong."

“He knows a lot more than you do, or you'd be teaching potions," Astoria snapped. "Being intimidating and no-nonsense doesn't mean he's ignorant or biased . Maybe he was hard on you because you were wrong and getting potions wrong is dangerous!"

Things started to heat up again, and Fortuna knocked over Candidus's gargantuan copy of An Unabridged Compendium of Helpful Herbs. It fell to the table like a toppled building. 

"That's my book," Candidus complained, annoyed at her touching it even though he could recite all of it from memory.

Madam Pince poked her vulture-like head around a corner and glared at them. The students settled down and were completely silent until she moved on.

"Candidus might be wrong," Flavia said. "But he’s right that Snape was horrid about it. He'll ruin potions for everyone, and that's just unjust . Page twelve?"

Flavia took them all through the assigned material with ease, with the Hufflepuffs interrupting frequently to ask questions. Jessica was scribbling down notes as fast as Flavia could talk and Candidus even managed to add something about a herb from time to time that made some sense.

Astoria alone was recalcitrant. “This doesn’t make any sense," she said. "Stirring in that pattern isn’t what the book says to do.”

“The book teaches you how to make a potion that's good enough for a first year,” Flavia responded. “But there are ways to refine it. Quills work better if they're turned clockwise, because going from east to west emulates the solar cycle."

“Professor Snape would have mentioned it if it was something we needed to know," Astoria argued. ''Otherwise, it's just a useless piece of knowledge to make yourself try and look smarter than you really are.”

Flavia hauled a much older book out of her bag and shoved her it in front of Astoria, which showed a diagram of a man stirring porcupine quills in a silvery broth in a clockwise motion. “You'll look exactly as stupid as you are when your potion turns purple instead of indigo.” 

“You keep mouthing off and you’re gonna be the one turning purple,” Jessica said with a grin. 

“Miss de Luce is right,” Candidus said. “But my sources say Professor Snape would never accept an answer he didn’t tell us, even if it is the correct answer.” 

"Sources?” Jessica chortled. “Where the blooming hell are you finding them? A bloody dealer by the loo? You don't have sources , you don't even have friends."

“My cousin ,” he pressed on, glaring at her, “informed me that it's better to leave something out than to be marked wrong for including a fact he didn’t cover.”

Astoria wanted to protest the unfair characterization of her head of house, but settled for silent grimacing. Flavia outwardly accepted his attempt at peacemaking, but Fortuna knew she was internally fantasizing about poisoning Astoria as revenge for calling her pretentious. Fortuna would have to thank her friend for helping everyone later in spite of the indignities.

Paper piled up as notes were taken and essays were hashed out, with some requiring a little more attention than others. After an hour, Jessica threw herself back in her chair and groaned. 

“I had a better time at my grandpa’s funeral," she announced. "I thought magic would be about fireballs, turning people into toads, the choice stuff. Can’t we just skip to that? Let's blow something up.”

"Would you like to be the one to tell Headmaster Dumbledore how his classes should be going?" Astoria asked. "At least we have Defense Against the Dark Arts later. That should be interesting."

Candidus took it upon himself to inform everybody that Defense Against the Dark Arts was completely unpredictable, due to the fact the teacher changed every year. It could be positively stellar or it could be shamefully atrocious , and who could say in advance? Nobody, he averred.

Fortuna could, but she didn't care. “It can’t be as bad as History," she said, as she finished packing her things.

This was a point that stood uncontested.

"You're leaving?" Flavia asked, a little sharply. She didn't say "me with these people?" but she didn't have to.

Fortuna smiled at her, acknowledging the unspoken half of the sentence. "I have something very important I need to do.”

“And what’s that?” Jessica asked.

“Nap,” Fortuna said. Flavia would understand being abandoned for a few hours if she said she was going to sleep; they'd stayed up until three finishing setting up their potions lab in the Shrieking Shack.

"But it's lunchtime," Angelique said.

"It is," Fortuna said over her shoulder. Her brisk walk cleared four bookshelves before anyone could manage to get a word in and by that point she was free. No one was going to risk Madam Pince’s wrath by yelling in the library. 

Her exit had been abrupt, but she wasn’t leaving just to slack off. She wanted to spend some time in the owlery without anyone noticing she'd gone, which meant she'd have to be done and asleep before Flavia finished lunch and got back to Gryffindor Tower.

Draco Malfoy was a problem—or, rather, he would become a problem if he were allowed to continue on his current path. He was wealthy, connected, and had an obsessive streak a mile wide. She'd drawn his attention by choosing to intervene on Hermione's behalf, a choice she couldn't bring herself to wholly regret, and now she would have to expend time to dealing with the consequences. The sooner she acted, the less time managing him would require.

She could cut him off from his peers, beginning with the youngest, before he even realized he was losing them. Some of the groundwork had been laid with the study group; Astoria had stayed despite her discomfort and students from the other houses now had an impression of Malfoy as a liar. 

There was another line of attack open to her, one that meshed with the thoughts she'd had about money the day before. Draco's power at school, petty as it was, existed because his father was an influential figure in wizarding politics. It followed that if his father were less influential, he would command less respect among his classmates.

She wrote three letters in three different styles of handwriting. One invited its recipient to tea on Thursday, one declared that the family wasn't interested in selling after all, and the last one simply said "I'm watching." in red ink. 

Satisfied, she dispatched them via different but equally unmemorable owls. 

She would do nothing drastic, nothing overt. She could nudge things here and there without taking up too much time, engineer a series of coincidences—a bit of good luck for a rival, a member of his network distracted at a key time, an occasional petty quarrel—that would gradually and unnoticeably erode his power base. By the time his heir came of age, Malfoy's would be one name among many.

In the meantime, she could just use her power to evade any run-ins.

She concluded her business in the owlery by dispatching letters to each of the thirteen people her power had identified as having recovered their memories post-Obliviation. There was no reason for her to do everything herself on that front; as they replied one by one over the next two or three weeks, she'd put them in touch with each other so they could compare notes. Perhaps their discussion would produce something she could use.

While she was waiting for those results, she'd pursue another avenue. Once Fortuna had unpacked her bookbag back in her dorm room, she ran a hand across the cover of the leatherbound notebook she'd acquired from the oblivious Professor Binns.

Hermione had hinted that the dreams she was having might include memories. She evidently couldn't use her power to access them, but that didn't mean she was helpless. Memories or not, she was going to record the fragments she could remember every morning and piece together whatever might be kicking around in the recesses of her mind.

There was only one way she was getting some answers to her questions and that was to investigate.

Chapter Text

Alexander thumped his tail on the ground when Fortuna pushed open the door to the Shrieking Shack. He wasn't a very lively or demonstrative dog, but he'd learned their presence meant food and had taken to waiting for them every evening.

"It's undignified," she said, stepping out of the way and around the dog so Flavia could follow her in. 

Flavia cast the spell that lit the torches on the first floor, then resumed their conversation. "More undignified than loitering outside the portrait waiting for someone else to say two words?" she asked. "Just how long did you plan on standing in the corridor?"

Fortuna set her bag down on the table, which she'd repaired a few days ago and spruced up—as in, turned into spruce—using transfiguration. "Precisely as long as I did," she said, and started unpacking their supplies.

"And what if I hadn't been the one to find you? Anyone else would have thought you were stupid enough to forget a password with your name in it, which is surely less dignified than having your name in the password to begin with."

"Perhaps I simply wished to see you and knew you'd be along presently."

"If a girl says 'fortuna major' in an empty corridor and nobody hears her, does she still lose face?"

"I would hear it," Fortuna said. "And the Fat Lady would hear it. And it would be undignified."

"You said that about nicknaming Harbinger," Flavia said. "While he was licking his arse on your bed."

"Cleanliness is dignified," Fortuna countered. "Harbinger is a fastidious young man who deserves respect."

"You let him lick your hand less than two minutes later," Flavia said as she extended her own hand for Alexander's inspection. 

Having neither a ready comeback nor a willingness to use her power to generate one, Fortuna busied herself with presenting an entire cottage pie to their dog. It was one of three she'd brought for the evening, and she anticipated getting to eat a quarter of one.

He was clean now, too, thanks to the combined efforts of herself, Flavia, and a very large bucket of soapy water. He'd submitted to the bath but had fled when Flavia had broken out a comb, which put him well below Harbinger's standards of grooming. Nonetheless, Fortuna was pleased with the improvement.

"It could be worse," Flavia said. "It could be 'fortuna minor .'"

Fortuna sniffed. "It could also be anything else. Such as 'The Word Flavia Means Blonde but Flavia de Luce Isn't Blonde.'"

"And you don't think you're major?" 

"It doesn't make any sense ," Fortuna said, finally giving vent to a week and a half of pent-up annoyance. "'Major' means 'bigger.' A bigger fortune? Why is that a password? Unless fortuna is in the ablative, in which case it would be 'bigger than fortuna.' But that's just..."

Flavia burst out laughing and Fortuna stopped talking. It dawned on her that she was being ribbed . This was also undignified, but she didn't counterattack.

Her friend's laughter eventually subsided and she caught her breath. "I think you should enjoy it while it lasts, which shouldn't be too long. View it as a title. Revel in the fact that every Gryffindor must acknowledge your greatness if they wish to enter your domain."

"I don't need a title."

"You said that about His Majesty," Flavia said. "And you were wrong." 

The two of them considered Alexander. He was looking up at them, panting a little. His eyes were bright and his head cocked to one side, and—unusually for him—he wasn't eating.

Flavia reached down to scritch between his eyes. “I think we need to vary King George's diet," she said thoughtfully. "He hasn't touched his pie."

"Perhaps he's feeling ill from eating our entire case of chocolate frogs last night. I'm surprised he isn't dead."

“He’s a wizard dog," Flavia returned. “The chocolate is probably normal for his breed.”

"His breed," said Fortuna, who hadn't forgiven the loss of the frogs, "is mutt."

And with that, they went upstairs to their potions lab and got to work. 

They had transformed the Shrieking Shack from a run-down wreck to a homely haven—or at least a haven that Fortuna's power thought was homely—since their first journey. Dust and debris had been swept from the hardwood floor and the tattered remains of decades old wallpaper had been removed and replaced with wood paneling and tapestries. 

They'd redone the bedroom using sheets unwittingly donated by Romilda Vane and easy chairs snuck out from an empty classroom with levitating charms. What little space left had been claimed by Alexander’s bed—a gratuitously large and abrasively green pillow taken from a Slytherin upperclassman who may, or may not, have been related to Flavia—and the potions lab. 

The lab had started to gain the sheen of a mad scientist's lair, which was the aesthetic Fortuna suspected Flavia was going for in spite of her vehement denials. She could have neatly organized things as Fortuna could have transfigured any storage container she desired, but instead everything was in full display. Vials full of multicolored solutions lined layers of shelves and vine-like strings of chemical tubing wound all over the desk and between flasks. Perpetually chilling reflux condensers, magically powered rotary evaporators, and painfully normal erlenmeyer flasks stood at the ready. 

It was the best setup Fortuna could provide with the resources of Hogwarts at her power's disposal, and Flavia could not have been happier with it. She surveyed the largess and connected the thought back to one of the items on her agenda. “Do you think Professor Snape’s been angry lately because he lost so many ingredients?" she asked, knowing what Flavia's reaction would be.

" Severus Snape ," Flavia spat, slamming a library book down on her tabletop more harshly than it deserved, “does not belong in the position of Potions Professor at Hogwarts. He doesn't deserve the privilege of looking at the parchment upon which my essays are written, let alone reading the words I have set down thereon. The insolent assumption he is qualified to assign them numerical value is not to be borne. Why that presumptuous cretin is allowed to teach at this school is so far beyond what I could imagine that, that—" She broke off, trying to find a way to vocalize her the full extent of her disdain.

Alexander, who had occupied the pillow and was watching them, growled. 

"Clever boy," Flavia said to Alexander, and gave him a sugar mouse. Then she resumed her ranting. "He has done nothing but ruin potions for an entire generation of witches and wizards. How many students have given up on the field or decided to forego their dreams to avoid his classes? How many undeserving pupils have passed on due to his favoritism? He has pushed back the very forces of magical and scientific progress. It’s gross negligence and I would be better off teaching that class myself than to continue going to it.”

"You are teaching that class yourself," Fortuna said. "And you've done well so far." 

In fact, everyone had done well over the past week.  In Tuesday's Charms class, Angelique had drawn Professor Flitwick's praise by correctly casting a spell on her first try. Professor Flitwick, overjoyed at a new student pulling off an incantation so quickly, had asked her how she had managed to overcome the ineptitude she'd shown in her first week—not in so many words, of course. Angelique had excitedly described the study group.

The Professor awarded ten points to Hufflepuff for good spellmanship and teamwork, and this had inspired other students to join. Their Wednesday meeting included twelve people, and Fortuna knew that two other groups had started since then. Competition was now inevitable, and that competition would drive overall improvement. Fortuna Floris would soon be one bright student among many.

Her other problem had been resolved as well. On Thursday, Astoria's mother had traveled to Malfoy Manor in response to an invitation to tea from Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy had sent no such invitation and did not take well to her afternoon being disrupted. They muddled through, but the incident had left both women feeling angry and humiliated.

On Friday, both Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Greengrass had owled their children asking for any insight into the fiasco they might provide, and by Saturday, Astoria had stopped viewing the study group as an opportunity to spy on others of her year in order to gain standing with Draco Malfoy. Without her poking and prodding, Fortuna would be able to fade into the background in the coming weeks. 

She just had to solidify Flavia's enrollment. The study group had grown on her over the past week, especially once Snape had offended her, but she still doubted that she was going to get anything out of the time she devoted to it. It would take her a few months to fully appreciate how much she could enjoy helping others. 

So Fortuna continued to press the point. She started to tick off the members of the study group on her fingers. "The 91 you got was the highest grade in our class. I got an 87, Candidus got an 84, the Hufflepuffs got 80s and 81s."

"And Coleman and Greengrass got 86s despite having the same quality essay as the Hufflepuffs. House bias at work." 

"True. But you said it yourself. The point isn't the grades, it's that you're getting people to learn and understand ." 

Not one to be deterred from a righteous rage, Flavia ignored this. “And none of those answers on any of our essays were wrong and he knows it. Marking me down was retaliation. He was just looking for an excuse to get back at me for proving one of his points wrong in class.”

"I don't think that what you said matters to him. I think the fact you're a Gryffindor does. And he's in a bad mood because he lost his ingredients and probably blames Gryffindors, even if he doesn't know which Gryffindors are behind it."

Flavia huffed, then turned back to her book. "We should steal more, then." 

"We will."

Flavia accepted this point with a begrudging grumble and turned back to her book. "There's a new moon on Thursday," she said, while flipping through the pages. "We'll have to brew the Veritaserum then, but we can crush moonstone and prepare some of the other ingredients tonight."

"Veritaserum?" Fortuna asked, because she wasn't supposed to know the answer. 

"A potion that encourages people to tell the truth. It's not foolproof, but the ability to resist it is rare. We'll dangle Harry Potter as bait, ambush Black, and get him to spill his guts.

"How do we dangle someone else?"

"Well, I don't suppose we have to," Flavia said. "Black knowing he's at Hogwarts will do, and he should know that. If he was still able to escape Azkaban after twelve years of Dementors, he should still be able to do basic arithmetic."

Something occurred to her and she turned her power off before asking the question. "Why," she said slowly, "did he not immediately escape Azkaban?"

The question gave Flavia pause. "You're right," she said. "If he had been able to do it when he arrived there, he would have done it then instead of waiting twelve years with dementors."

"Something must have changed this summer. Someone from the outside made contact and helped him."

“Perhaps," Flavia said. "Or perhaps he completed something big while inside. It may have taken him some time, but it could be possible. After all, Joseph Gay-Lussac spent nearly a decade formulating Charles's Law, despite deducing the principles behind it seven years earlier.”

The idea of a prisoner deducing some hidden secret about the inner workings of Azkaban or inventing some kind of wandless magic after twelve years around the Dementors seemed ludicrous, even taking Flavia’s metaphor into account. No, a person on the outside with connections could more easily have gotten him out. 

She decided to allow herself a test.

If I had to help a prisoner escape from Azkaban, how would I do it?

Her mind practically exploded with possibilities. Human guards could be bribed, dementors could be distracted, walls could be broken through, people could be disappeared. 

If I were a wandless prisoner who'd spent twelve years in Azkaban and didn't have my power, how would I escape by myself?

No options. Telling.

"It seems more likely that someone from You-Know-Who's side of the war helped him out," she ventured.

"Like Lucius Malfoy?" Flavia snorted. "He hasn't got the guts."

Alexander wheezed and Fortuna checked him over to make sure he wasn't actually dying from excess of chocolate frog, even if he did deserve to.

"I overheard my father talking about the war one night, and he thinks people like Malfoy want people like Black to stay in prison because that's where people like Malfoy belong and people like Black know that people like Malfoy aren't in there with them."

Fortuna took a moment to think that sentence through.

“What’s important is that he's out now and that we focus on getting the jump on him when he does arrive. I was kidnapped before the school year started and I do not intend on having it happen again. We will need to—”

“You were what ,” Fortuna interrupted.

“Oh," Flavia said, a little flummoxed. "I didn't explain that, did I?"

"You did not."

"Well one morning I found a body in our cucumbers," she said with glee in her eyes. "It was an old school friend of my father's."

Flavia's desire for her to ask more was about as subtle as a secondary schoolboy's crush, but Fortuna was happy to let her brag.

“I assume you got yourself involved immediately,” Fortuna said.

“Of course! The police force was completely baffled. I spent days tracking back through the man’s belongings, digging through newspaper archives, speaking with my father's old associates, and finally uncovering the truth of the matter."

She preened a little.

"Kidnapping," Fortuna said, pointedly.

"Oh, the killer realized I figured out what he'd done before I could get away. He tied me up and threw me in a cellar, for all the good it did him. Dogger came along and clocked him one good. Drove Harriet’s car right through the library wall. It’s quite a long story.” 

“I’d be interested in hearing it sometime,” Fortuna said. "Sometime before we evaluate your ideas on how to trap Sirius Black."

“Yes, well, I was caught unaware then, but be sure that this time I will not be so flat-footed. I think we should research intruder detection charms in the library tomorrow. I'm mostly worried about Black showing up before next month, when the Veritaserum will be done.”

Fortuna held herself back from any questions on the potion. Flavia’s normal exuberance had faded after talk of the kidnapping, leaving quiet contemplation. She had been speaking as if she was barely paying attention to what came out of her mouth. 

She let the silence that followed to linger before asking, “Is there something wrong?”

“Not really. The murder was hectic—they arrested Father at first—and a lot of things came out. I found out that the financial situation my family currently finds itself in is less than favourable. There is a chance that we will have to sell Buckshaw, our home."

No, there isn't , Fortuna decided.

"It would be nice to solve a mystery without any shattering revelations. At least here we know who did it and why, and all we have to do is catch him and shake him down to find out everything about his friends.”

Fortuna let the silence hang, but she could feel the expectation that Flavia's confidences be repaid. 

“I spent the past three and a half years in a foster home with six other children at any given time,” she said. “I hardly remember anything from before that."

Flavia shifted. Fortuna asked herself why, and saw that Flavia had just understood why she'd asked about memory potions that first day.

"I only just remembered losing my parents because of the dementor on the train. So I understand the pain of shattering revelations.”

Flavia reached out to put a hand on Fortuna's shoulder. She let her do it. "Is that what the book is for?" she asked. "Remembering things?"

"Yes," Fortuna admitted. Of course Flavia had noticed Fortuna writing in the journal every morning, but she hadn't commented on it until now. "But it's not working."

Even primed to use her power to write the moment she woke up, her dreams slipped away from her. There were snatches of things that slipped away faster the harder she tried to them down. What she had been able to gather over several nights was an impression of sterile white hallways, and there wasn't much she could do with that.

"I think I must have been in a hospital after my parents died, but I don't know . No hospital—I mean, no hospital I know about—has any record of me. There's a part of me lost in the past, and it's somewhere I can’t reach.”

Flavia was quiet for a while longer. Then she said, “I know what you mean. People act like I’m Harriet, my mother. But the only parts of her left are in a locked room, sitting to rot or be taken away, or—or sold off. We don't even have a body.”

Alexander whined and put his head in Flavia's lap. She scratched away at his ears. “I often wonder what it would have been like,” she said. “If that hadn’t happened.”

What would she have been if her parents hadn’t been killed? Where would she be? Would her family have been happy with her? Would she be with Flavia now, going to Hogwarts? 

“So do I,” she said.

✶✶✶

Professor Lupin paced in front of the classroom as the last of his first year Gryffindors and Slytherins trickled in. Fortuna had quickly grown to respect him despite his inexperience. He was a competent man who wanted to teach and, if the stories from upperclassmen were to be believed, those were two crucial traits that had been missing from the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for some time.

He immediately began to speak once they'd taken their seats. "As I said on the first day, this will not be a class like Charms or Transfiguration. You will not be learning spells and judged on that, though you will learn spells. You will be judged on how you use the spells. Can you identify the creature you come across and apply the right spell in time?"

He directed the class's attention to a large cabinet in the front of the room. 

"The faculty and I have been collecting boggarts for students to practice on, and we have trapped one here. Can anyone tell us what a boggart is? Yes, Mr. Goggin?"

A brawny Slytherin put his hand down. "Sir, a boggart is a monster that turns into whatever you think is scariest."

"Quite right. One point to Slytherin. The spell to banish it is simple, but you have to think of a way to make what you fear humorous."

He walked them through the incantation and wand movements and gave them a few minutes to think about their fear and how they'd face it. Chairs scraped and shoes pounded as the student body got situated in a crude half-circle, whispering amongst themselves. Jessica left her fellow Slytherins to come bother Flavia and Fortuna. 

“Whaddya expect to get?” she asked.

“I imagine it will be Ophelia coming to pinch my cheeks and call me cute pet names,” Flavia answered. “There’s nothing more terrifying than Feely when she is pretending to be friendly. How about yourself?”

“Probably that study group," Jessica lied. "Nothing more frightening than being stuck reading books with you lot forever. What about—”

“Miss Floris, would you like to be our first attempt?” Lupin asked with a smile.

Fortuna did not, in fact, want to be the first one to try, but refusing a direct request from a professor would be more noticeable than going first. She walked to the center of the circle, conscious of her classmates' eyes boring into her back.

This was hard for her. What did she have to fear? Boredom? Someone discovering the nature of her abilities? 

No. Too abstract for a monster in a cabinet that turned into spiders and mummies for a living. She asked herself and saw the fog.

Which made sense. The Dementor had cracked open some container inside of her and the fog had spilled out. It was the only thing she’d found yet that completely blocked her ability to see using her power. Her biggest weakness and the obstruction to every question she had about herself. The unknown, after all, was far more frightening than any movie monster.

The boggart would seize on that, and she could turn it into a shower of glitter. Everybody would be too preoccupied picking it out of their hair and rubbing it out of their eyes to wonder why she was afraid of clouds.

The door creaked open.

Her power was prepped to cast the spell—three steps. Visualize glitter, swish her wand, shout a word. 

But the boggart took its time. 

The first thing that came out was a black leather shoe polished to mirror brightness. 

Fortuna mentally faltered.

A pale hand wrapped itself around the edge of the door and pushed it open, revealing the woman within. She stepped out, rising to her full height. Her hands went to smooth nonexistent creases out of her sharp black slacks and the tailored black jacket she wore over a starched white button-up shirt, then up to adjust a slim black tie secured with the same even knot Fortuna used.

I want to know who that is.

But fog swept across her foresight, cutting her off from her power. All she could do was stare.

She recognized the face that stared back. It was her mother's face, pretty and neatly framed by dark, not quite curly hair—but hard-edged and implacable, stripped of kindness, warmth, everything that had made her Mama. Seeing that face like this was somehow more chilling, more unbearable than watching it dissolve in acid.

The woman surveyed the classroom with her dark eyes, dispassionately taking the measure of each of her classmates and the professor. She seemed to conclude that they were all irrelevant, and finally turned the full force of her gaze onto Fortuna.

“Hello, Fortuna,” said the woman in the suit. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like my body back.”

Chapter Text

There were distant alarm bells ringing in her head, and she couldn't bring herself to move, but Fortuna didn't feel scared. Her mind couldn't quite wrap itself around what she was seeing. 

She asked her power for help. Only fog responded. 

Professor Lupin peeked out from his position on the other side of the armoire. He was whispering frantically about laughter, but Fortuna decided to ignore his instructions in the pursuit of answers.

“Who are you?” she asked. 

"The future,” the woman in the suit said. “The future you will inevitably accept, and the future you will regret postponing."

The future? She’d assumed the boggart had taken the form of her mother, but her mother was dead. There was no future left for her.

"I'm curious." The woman stepped forward casually, her hands behind her back. "Both about why you are trying to hide from me, and why you think you can. Are you a coward, or are you merely selfish?"

Fortuna recognized the slight tilt of the head when stating a fact, the pause between sentences as though gathering thoughts, and the level stare while making sure the point was delivered in full. They were all tics. Her own tics. 

Not her mother.

Me.

The fear set in. It started with her wand hand, steadily paralyzing her, spreading like a fungus up her arm and through her chest until it lodged itself in her brain.

The woman drew a little knife, identical to the one Fortuna had in her back pocket, and idly began to clean her fingernails. "Observe the facts. You know what you are, and you know what they are to you. You can’t be here under anything other than false pretenses. What are you playing at?" 

 Out of the corner of her eye, Fortuna saw Professor Lupin approach.

The woman in the suit turned her head to look at him. “Werewolf.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. The class looked confused, but Fortuna understood. The woman was showing off what she could do with the power she wielded—how easily she could expose any secret, destroy any life. 

The power Fortuna wielded.

She turned back to Fortuna, advancing on her at a slow, calculated pace. "Your family would be appalled by your shameless egotism. Yet you eschew your responsibilities in favor of playing pretend with dolls.” She leaned in. “What makes you think you deserve to squander such potential on yourself, you selfish, self-indulgent child?"

Resentment welled up from deep within Fortuna, its intensity taking her by surprise. She squeezed her eyes shut. It's not fair. I never asked for this. Leave me alone.  

She raised her wand, then. Her voice shook. "Riddikulus."

The woman remained standing, unchanged and unfazed. "The only acceptable reason to abdicate your duties was to turn yourself over to the ones you wronged. Yet you chose to run rather than face your crimes. Your victims. Your failures." 

She threw the knife. The blade embedded itself in the floor at Fortuna's feet.

Fortuna looked down at the black handle sticking up between her shoes. Her vision blurred.

"You will continue to fail,” the woman said. “Again and again. You will eventually realize that your inaction is evil, and you will feel nothing but shame when you finally yield. No matter how long or how far you run, your path will take you to nothing but me.”

A hand grabbed her shoulder and threw her out of the way, where she fell heavily onto her wrist. A bolt of white-hot pain shot up her arm from where her hand had cracked onto the floor. Fortuna clutched at it and looked up. 

Flavia stood facing the boggart, which had started to morph from the woman in the suit into an older man. If his face was anything to go by, the passage of years had worn him down like sandpaper. 

"I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but the truth must come out.” The man shook his head. “You aren’t my daughter. You never were. We found the true Flavia and will be sending you off soon, back to where you belong. Your sisters will be so pleased—”

“Riddikulus,” Flavia said, not even hesitating.

The man abruptly straightened. He took a compact out of his pocket and opened it. Examining himself in the little mirror, he started speaking in the shrill falsetto of Ophelia de Luce.

“Oh, the things boys do to catch the eye of a beautiful girl," he said, fluttering his eyelashes. “I do so love getting stale chocolates from Ned Cropper. It makes me feel like I'm the tastiest pie at the whole church potluck.”

Everyone laughed, and the boggart recoiled.

“Wonderful work, Miss de Luce! Miss Coleman, would you take the floor?"

As Jessica stepped forward, Professor Lupin hurried over to Fortuna. He stooped beside her and murmured, "Miss Floris, are you all right?"

Fortuna didn’t respond. She noticed she was crying, and wiped her cheeks with the back of her unhurt hand. Professor Lupin carefully tugged her other arm away from her chest to check her wrist.

Behind him, the boggart morphed into a tall, sneering woman who began to berate Jessica for failing out of Hogwarts. 

“It looks like you may have sprained your wrist. You should go—”

“I’ll take her to Madam Pomfrey,” Flavia butted in, before the professor could even think of sending Fortuna alone.

"Don't you worry, darling.” A lilting voice floated out from behind the professor. “It’s no burden at all to have to feed and clothe you until you're eighteen. We knew you'd never survive at that school anyway. Did you really believe you were going to make it with those posh children? Now you're here, right back where you belong."

Professor Lupin glanced over his shoulder at the boggart, then turned back and smiled. Not an ounce of tension left his face. “Thank you, Miss de Luce. That’s very kind.”

Jessica jabbed her wand at the boggart. “Riddikulus.”

The woman twisted, contorting into a giant frog that was still wearing the same tacky clothing as before. She opened her mouth to continue her assault, but all that came out was a loud ribbit . Every time she croaked, she got smaller.

As peals of laughter rang out, Flavia helped Fortuna to her feet and began steering her towards the door.

Professor Lupin addressed the class. “Now, is there anyone here who isn’t going to see their parents?”

Flavia took Fortuna along the hallways at a slower than necessary walk, gently holding the other girl’s hand. It took only a few corridors before the guiding pull became an annoying tug at Fortuna’s sense of worth. 

“My brain wasn’t injured,” Fortuna said, removing her hand from Flavia’s grasp. “I don’t need to be led around like a dog.”

Flavia studied her, not quite believing that. “Are you all right?” 

Fortuna thought for a moment. She decided that the blunt truth was the best way to do this. “No,” she said, “I am not, and your throwing skills leave much to be desired.”

"I think your falling skills are what's lacking," Flavia snapped. She'd been expecting gratitude and was stung by the criticism. 

Rage flared inside her, at Flavia’s arrogance, her presumption. In an instant she saw every single one of the other girl's flaws and insecurities as plainly as she could see her face. She saw just how trivial it would be to wedge a knife into each faultline and shatter her beyond repair. 

Playing pretend with dolls.

The anger left as quickly as it came, leaving only shame. Fortuna took a deep breath. Other people were usually innocent, and she had to control herself even when they weren't. 

"Thank you," she said evenly. "I'm glad you stepped in." 

"Does it really hurt that much?" Flavia looked down at her wrist with sympathy.

Did it? Fortuna couldn't say. She didn't get hurt. She wasn't clumsy, never accidentally bit her tongue or stubbed her toe or walked into a doorframe. She didn't eat anything that would make her sick or get headaches. This was a new experience, one she had herself to blame for. 

"Fuck," she said. 

Flavia winced. “I really am sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have thrown you, but I was worried. Seeing your mother like that must have been—”

Fortuna whipped around with such speed that she jarred her wrist. “That was not my mother.”

“No, of course it wasn’t,” Flavia said, placating her. “But I thought you needed help and I was the only one who could give it. Dogger, our gardener, gets the same way. Everyone else looked like they were going to stand around gawking until the woman had her hands around your throat.” 

The other students. What were they thinking about her? 

Nothing much, she was relieved to learn. It turned out that a majority had deep-seated familial issues, and they assumed that Fortuna was being taken to task by a relative. In fact, only Flavia was mulling over the scene in depth. She should have just let her think it was her mother.

Some of her classmates did think a little less of a Gryffindor who was unable to face a fear, but she had to admit that their judgment was fair. She hadn't reacted well, or at all. Because the fucking fog had shown up again.

Fortuna pushed open the doors to the medical bay and was halfway to Pomfrey’s office before the woman poked her head out to see who was there.

“Back so soon?” Madam Pomfrey asked. “I hope this wasn’t the Dementors again.”

“I was injured in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Broken wrist,” Fortuna said, offering her arm for examination.

The nurse tsk ed and led Fortuna to a bed for examination, with Flavia following closely behind. 

Madam Pomfrey tilted Fortuna’s arm this way and that, then cast a spell. “Scaphoid fracture," she announced. “Nothing a drop of Knight's Bone-Knitting Brew can't take care of. Wait here."

She departed in a hurry, leaving the two alone with each other. Flavia shot furtive glances towards Fortuna. Her power informed her that the other girl was planning the best way to start a conversation about what she had seen in Defense class.

Fortuna decided to cut that off before it got started. “I need some time to think," she said, shooting a power-crafted pleading glance at her friend. 

Flavia didn’t argue. “I understand," she said. She stepped out the door. "I need to be alone to do my best thinking as well. See you later.”

The wait wasn’t long before Madam Pomfrey was already hurrying back over to with a potion in each hand. “Did your friend already leave?”

Fortuna nodded. 

“It looks like your recovery will take longer than usual,” the nurse said. “Someone snuck into our potions room recently and stole some of my ingredients. The shipments on some have been a bit delayed, so we will have to go with a different, longer cure.”

She placed two potions on the bedside table, one deep green and the other a vibrant magenta. 

“Drink both as soon as you can. I would like you to stay here for the night, at least until it has taken effect. I’d like to get a look in the morning, just to be sure nothing unusual pops up.”

Fortuna didn’t argue. She wasn’t interested in seeing anyone else today, and there wouldn’t be another injury at Hogwarts until tomorrow morning when a second year in Hufflepuff would get burns on a third of his body in potions. Snape's fault.

Madam Pomfrey asked a few questions, but Fortuna deflected and distracted her until she returned to her office. She wouldn’t bother her from here on out.

She drew the curtains. Then she downed the green potion, which would fix her wrist. The taste was more bitter than anything she’d ever had before and it went down like oil, but she managed to choke it down. Soon all that was left was an unpleasant aftertaste. 

Fortuna held off on taking the magenta sleeping potion. Instead she lay down on her side and stared at the inside of the off-white clinical curtains surrounding her bed.

She felt nauseated. She'd never seriously considered using her power on the scale the boggart had implied, and now that she tried to dwell on it, she found it unthinkable. It took effort to focus, like she was deliberately forcing herself to hold her palm to a hot stovetop.

What failures had her other self talked about? Letting her parents die? Were there more crimes, maybe even worse ones behind the veil of fog? Was the fog there to shield her from that knowledge?

She turned her attention to the rest of the accusations the boggart had laid at her feet. That she was shirking her duties and simply play-acting, using others as props to amuse herself.

It was true she could assert immense power over anyone else— everyone else. Breaking, controlling, and molding people would be as easy as everything else she did, but she wasn't interested in doing any of that. Did the simple fact that potential existed mean she should live by herself without ever interacting with anyone? Or did it mean that she should be using it to change the world for the benefit of humankind, whatever it cost herself?

You selfish, self-indulgent child.

She knew how others would use her power if they had it—specifically, they would use it—and she knew that was why it was good that she had it and they did not. 

Wherever her power had come from, it was a one-off fluke, an anomaly that needn't be revealed or applied on a large scale. It didn't define her and it would not determine her path. She was Fortuna. That was all she should and would be. Not a tool. Never a tool.

No matter how long or how far you run, your path will take you to nothing but me.

Thinking about those words made her feel something else. A dread, mixed with the weight of inevitability. As though that woman had cursed her, doomed her. 

If she started using her power like that, where would it end? She could see that road open up before her, and she saw what spending her life subordinate to the needs of others and dictates of her power would lead to. Emptiness, sadness, isolation. 

The thought made her want to vomit, and she knew it wasn't the potion at work. She reached for the sleeping draught.

✶✶✶

When Fortuna woke up, there was a wand in her ear. 

Without moving her head, she looked to her side. The only source of light was a sliver of a crescent moon, but the night was cloudless and the hospital wing's curtains were pulled back. She could clearly see Flavia standing on the other end of the wand.

"Why," Fortuna said. 

"Practice," Flavia replied briskly, withdrawing the wand but otherwise not reacting to having been caught. "I need to be able to deduce what potions my subjects have recently ingested simply from observation."

She rubbed her ear. "And what have you deduced from prodding my eardrum?"

"Nothing," she admitted. "I know that you must have taken either Knight's Bone-Knitting Brew or Lickety Splint simply because that's what I left in the cupboard and the other potions that would cure a broken wrist take more than twelve days to brew, but I can't tell which. And you took a sleeping potion, but I only know that because I've been in and out since dinner and you just woke up." 

Fortuna checked the time with her power. It was half-past one. "I woke up because you stuck a wand in my ear."

"Which was it? I think it must have been the Bone-Knitting Brew due to residual heat in your wrist, but it's been too long to say for sure."

"Lickety Splint," Fortuna said, untruthfully and a little sourly.

Flavia wasn't fooled. She preened for a moment. Then she scooped up a pillow from another bed and tossed it to Fortuna. "Move.”

Fortuna shuffled to the side, giving her room.

Once she had settled in, Flavia sighed. "My methodology needs refining," she said. "I need more test subjects, and I don't suppose Madam Pomfrey would volunteer her patients. Vexatious."

"If you intend to gather them by breaking their bones and then sneaking up on them in their sleep, I doubt you will get many volunteers."

Flavia began to outline alternative strategies for ensnaring sick wizards, but she hadn't really come to the hospital wing to practice or talk about potions diagnostics, so she tapered off. Her silence left a vacuum that she expected Fortuna to fill. 

It was very well-done, Fortuna had to admit. Everything about this conversation was calculated. She'd allowed time to pass, tested Fortuna's mood, allowed her to feel comfortable, and then given her an opening to talk. Silence was an interrogation technique she'd picked up from a detective in her village, and she was self-consciously employing for the first time.

Even knowing the setup, Fortuna felt herself respond to that expectation. "Do you think that you should do something just because you can?"

Flavia huddled closer. "What do you mean?" 

"Say…” Fortuna paused, letting her power assemble the explanation. “Say you could be the best Seeker that ever was and ever would be. You would always find the Snitch, no matter how fast it was or where it went, and you would always find it first. You would never lose track of it and you would never lose a game. Nobody could beat you. Your team would always win just because you showed up and got on a broom. Would you do it, just because you could?"

"That would get boring," Flavia said. "For you and everybody who watches Quidditch."

"Raise the stakes.” Fortuna sat up. "The potion I took. There are fourteen more in that room. Should we steal them, get on a broom, and deliver them to fourteen Muggles with broken bones?"

"The Statute of Secrecy—" 

"Memory charms," Fortuna said with a dismissive flick of her uninjured wrist. "Or just trick them into drinking alcohol. The law isn't an obstacle to helping, just an excuse for not."

Flavia frowned. 

"There are billions of Muggles. There are a few million of us. Why should only a few people get to be so lucky? Shouldn't we stop everything we are doing and help them?"

Flavia was silent for a long while as two contradictory sets of cultural conditioning went to war with each other: mandated secrecy versus thirty-four generations of noblesse oblige. Of course people who could be helped for their own good should be helped for their own good, but there were good reasons to follow the dictates and norms of Wizarding society. The struggle finally resolved into a determination to acquire more information— clues , as she was thinking of Fortuna's statements.

"What is it," she said at last, "that you think you can do?"

"Take over the world and enslave the wizarding population for everyone's good."

Flavia stared at her. Fortuna waited.

"You're afraid you'll become the next Dark Lord," Flavia said. Awe tinged her voice. "You're actually afraid of it. More than anything." 

Of course Flavia didn't believe she could do any such thing, but she admired the scale on which Fortuna thought about operating and the strength of her conviction, and accordingly revised her estimation of Fortuna upwards several notches.

"Are you saying I can't?" Fortuna asked, flat. 

She could hear the gears turning in Flavia’s head as she reevaluated her companion in light of the day's events. They ground through a mental catalogue of conversations and observations, and came to rest on the decision to solve Fortuna like a murder.

Flavia decided to play it off as a joke, concealing the conclusion that she'd reached. "I'd never doubt your capabilities," she said. "I'm not saying you couldn't, I'm saying you shouldn't. Where would I fit in? I don't think I would make a good second-in-command."

"I could take over the world and enslave the wizarding population for everyone's good in your name ," Fortuna offered. "Flavia Regina Ingeniosa."

"Queen Flavia the Brilliant," Flavia said, testing the sound of the title in her mouth. She couldn't quite suppress an excited wriggle. "I like it."

"I'll bear your preferences in mind."

"Thank you," Flavia said solemnly. She unhinged her jaw in a yawn so exaggerated it would have rung false even if Fortuna hadn't been using her power. "You," she finished, injecting a palpably exhausted note into her voice, "shall be my grand vizier."

And with that, Flavia pretended to fall asleep. She rolled over, taking the blanket with her on the assumption that leaving Fortuna with only a quarter of a blanket would sell her lie better. After all, would anybody awake deliberately strip someone else of warmth and coziness? Of course not; she must be unconscious.

Fortuna played along. She tucked the remaining sliver of hogged blanket around Flavia and slipped out of bed to grab another, just as she would have done if her bunkmate had actually been sleeping. 

Chapter Text

As Fortuna rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, she got her bearings. It was nearly four, still two hours before curfew ended, and a man—Professor Lupin—was shaking her, demanding she wake up.

His words came out in sharp bursts and gasps. Obviously winded, he looked even more out of sorts than usual. 

“Miss Floris! Glad you're safe. Is Miss de Luce in here with you? We’ve searched everywhere and—"

Flavia, who had been deep asleep and did not have a superpower to orient herself, muzzily emerged from her cocoon of stolen blankets and gaped.

"There you are," he wheezed, massaging his chest. He clearly needed to run laps around the castle more often. He turned to a red-headed boy who was standing slightly behind him. "Mr. Weasley, can you tell Minerva that Miss de Luce is safe in the hospital wing?"

"Yes, sir," the boy said, and ran back out the door. The professor turned back to the two of them. 

"Safe?" Flavia asked. Then her eyes sharpened. "From what?" 

Fortuna had a suspicion and didn't ask her power.

Professor Lupin grimaced. "There was a break-in at Gryffindor Tower. We took roll call and when you weren't anywhere to be found, I remembered that your friend was staying the night here."

"A break-in? Why? Who?"

Professor Lupin's face darkened. "Sirius Black." 

The jolt of excitement that shot through Flavia at that announcement was palpable. She didn't quite manage to tamp it down before their professor noticed.

"Which," he said, speaking rapidly so as to preempt whatever Flavia was about to say, "Is precisely why you cannot be out past curfew. It is dangerous."

A pause, as Flavia considered her options. "I'm sorry, sir," she said in a small, pathetic voice, drooping her head and looking like penitence itself. "I was worried about Fortuna—" 

Fortuna made her decision. "The boggart scared me," she interjected.

"And I just couldn't help but go looking for her," Flavia continued.

"I asked her to stay. I didn't want to be alone."

"I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"I didn't think anyone would notice she was missing. Please, sir, it's my fault."

They were laying it on a bit thick, and Professor Lupin was only partially mollified. "I won't take house points away," he said. "But rules exist for a reason. You, Miss de Luce, could have been seriously hurt—or worse. And you, Miss Floris, should not have encouraged her. Detention for the both of you."

Flavia let out a sharp little huff, but didn't argue, and Fortuna accepted his judgment. She hadn't wanted this at all, but the alternative had been abandoning Flavia. 

"There's something else I need to tell you, Miss Floris. Miss de Luce, if you would please return to your house? The head girl has been kind enough to agree to walk you back." 

Head girl? Fortuna blinked, then looked behind Professor Lupin. A girl—woman—had been standing in the room this entire time, quiet and still enough to escape all notice by its bleary-eyed occupants. 

She was beautiful, and she clearly knew it and she just as clearly cultivated it. Nobody, not even the sort of woman crowned queen by adoring masses and carried around on golden pedestals for all to bow before, woke up in the dead of night and looked that presentable. She'd obviously put effort into selecting her robes and arranging her hair, even at three in the morning during an emergency.

Ophelia de Luce ran a pale hand through her long hair and tucked a curl behind her ear, before responding. “Of course, Professor. I would like the opportunity to speak with my sister anyway." 

Flavia tensed up like a frightened porcupine, but there was no room for escape. She wormed her way out of the covers and plopped onto the floor before trudging towards her sister like a man set to be hanged. Fortuna was a little surprised; there had been hints of animosity between Flavia and her sisters, but it seemed she’d downplayed its severity.

Flavia left without saying goodbye.

Which left Fortuna alone with Professor Lupin, who was still half-supporting himself on the bed's railing.

She watched him as he continued to catch his breath. However acute his mind was, not even being a werewolf had kept him in shape.

“Headmaster Dumbledore would like to have a word with you, whenever you believe you are ready,” Professor Lupin said at last. 

“Yes, sir,” Fortuna replied, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Between the fact her power hadn't been able to anticipate everything magic threw her way and the choices she'd made to intervene instead of staying quiet, too many notable things had happened to her. She hadn't even made it a month before catching the Headmaster's eye.

She would have to manage the meeting very carefully, then aggressively control future events to prevent things from getting out of control. She was reluctant to start looking ahead very far, as she'd never been particularly interested in forming longer-term plans. Considering more than one specific question at a time would make it too easy to get lost in her power, too easy to start living in the future at the cost of the present.

Still. Doing damage control after the fact was getting to be irritating.

As was staring at Professor Lupin, who was trying to figure out how to ask her how she'd known he was a werewolf without using those exact words.

No.

“Professor," she said, "would you mind if I catch up with Flavia? I'm doing better and I'd feel safer back in the Gryffindor common room.”

“Oh," he said, floundering a little. "Well, yes, I suppose, but hurry! I don’t want you running around the halls alone.” 

The "yes" was all Fortuna needed to hear. She was out of her bed and dashing towards the door before Professor Lupin had finished speaking. She made quick work of the two corridors between her and the de Luces, only slowing when she could see them. 

"Sneaking around the castle at night, skulking about—Daphne and I never did anything like this.  Eight combined years at Hogwarts and not a single house point lost, not a single detention, not a single complaint from a single teacher. You odious, heedless, tapioca-brained beast!" 

"Quit talking to yourself in public, Feely," Flavia drawled. "You'll make your suitors fear for the stability of your genes."

"Why should you care? It's not like we're related." Ophelia paused, decided that her point wasn't explicit enough, and continued. "Our genes are completely different."

A switch flipped. Suddenly Flavia was furious, fists balled and face knotted up. “No they aren’t! Take that back!”

“Just you wait," Ophelia went on, voice sickly sweet. It had been funnier coming from the Boggart. "When I tell Father what you've done, he'll realize what a terrible mistake he made and have you shipped back to the Muggle orphanage you came from. Ha, then you’ll be sorry you caused so much trouble.”

“You take that back! Father wouldn't do that. Harriet wouldn't have done that! Say you’re lying! Say I’m your sister, you pinch-faced bandicoot!” 

Fortuna had never heard Flavia respond like that before. She was used to hearing her friend speak with confidence—perhaps with more confidence than was always warranted—but now she floundered like a child. Fortuna could almost swear she was holding back tears. 

She wasn’t sure how Ophelia’s words had wounded Flavia so deeply, but she was going to rectify this situation.

“I'm an orphan."

The argument came to an abrupt end as both wheeled to face Fortuna, standing a few meters away down the hall. 

“I've had to live in a foster home ever since my parents were murdered. Three and a half years. It's not the best, but it's safe and warm and I don't have anywhere else. It isn’t right to mock children for having to live that way.” 

Flavia seemed to regain her bearings, but Ophelia was too chagrined to muster an immediate reply. She stammered a bit as she tried to come up with an apology that would be adequate but not give an inch to her little sister.

Fortuna chose to offer her no help. 

"I apologize," Ophelia said at last. "That was insensitive of me, and I shouldn't have said it. Please follow me back to your common room, since you are now both breaking curfew."

Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls as they progressed through the longest ten minutes of silence the three of them had ever experienced. With Ophelia chastised, Flavia cooling off, and Fortuna determined to be anodyne, nobody advanced a topic for conversation. When the Gryffindor common room finally came into sight, it was like discovering a waterhole in the desert.

“Your password has been changed to 'bulrush,'” Opehlia informed them, and the Fat Lady's portrait opened at the word. “And I will be writing to Father about your behavior.”

Fortuna hustled a nearly vibrating Flavia into the common room. Her friend's flare of temper had passed she was rearing to investigate the hallway for any signs of Black, but that couldn't be done in front of Ophelia.

“Did you hear!" Flavia erupted as soon as the portrait hole had closed. "Sirius Black has attacked our own common room! Our quarry stood in this very spot less than an hour ago, and we weren't here to see it. It just had to happen on the day that we weren't here."

Flavia began to pace around the room in a huff, going in circles around the couches. "Damn," she exclaimed. "Double damn. Oh, of all the days to leave. If we'd gone to the Shrieking Shack tonight, we might have run into him on our way back."

"I don't think so," Fortuna said. "We typically come back before one on school nights, and Black must have arrived here at around three-thirty."

"That's assuming he got caught as soon as he came in. Maybe he came here earlier but had trouble getting into the common room, or maybe he was here for a while before somebody noticed."

Flavia’s eyes began darting around the room as she made her case, desperately searching for anything that appeared out of place. She was convinced that there was something that the teachers had missed, and accordingly she pushed tables around and rummaged under couches, looking for any clues.

“The Fat Lady’s Portrait wasn’t harmed, which means he must have found another way in,” Fortuna said.

“Or he had the password,” Flavia said, tiptoeing around an end table and inspecting every scuff mark across it as though looking for fingerprints. "We'll have to ask her, once the coast is clear. Maybe during dinner."

While Flavia made her rounds, bending and twisting to try and look at the room from every angle, Fortuna decided to stand by the door. If Black had entered via the portrait, what would he have seen?

A tidy enough room—assuming he'd arrived after the house elves would have cleaned around two—and nothing else save the staircases leading up to the dorms. He had gotten past the Dementors, the teachers, the ghosts, and the Fat Lady. There was nothing to slow him down; it should have been a straight shot from the entrance to the boys' dorms. Perhaps the Boy-Who Lived's room was splattered with blood, but somehow Fortuna doubted it. 

"My question," Fortuna said, "is why he did not immediately go to the boys' bedrooms and attack Harry Potter."

Flavia straightened up to see what Fortuna was looking at. She saw—or rather, she understood what she wasn't seeing, to wit: a reason Sirius Black shouldn't have butchered Harry Potter in his sleep—and frowned. 

“Someone must have seen him," Fortuna said, "And he ran. But why? Why would someone who can kill a dozen people with a word have considered a house elf or an underage student to be so threatening he had to abandon his mission?"

"House elves have their own kinds of magic. And even students have wands. He might have had to run."

"If he has the connections to escape from Azkaban and get the password to our common room, he surely has the connections to get a wand."

Fortuna considered that thought as Flavia dug her way into the space behind two plush armchairs. An accomplice made the most sense, but who? There was only one obvious answer that came to mind: a professor. Who else would have that level of access and knowledge about Hogwarts? It was difficult to imagine any of the strange characters that found their employment at Hogwarts allowing a convicted criminal in to kill a child, but if not them, then who? 

“Aha!” Flavia yelled with unbridled glee. She leapt to her feet and brandished a small little ball of fuzz at Fortuna.

“It’s dust,” Fortuna said, a little peeved her thoughts had been disrupted for a clump of detritus.

Flavia thrust her closed fist into the air. “It’s hair," she proclaimed.

Fortuna gave the dust bunny another disdainful look.

“It’s hair," Flavia went on, "But it’s not human hair. There has to be something here that would give away something. Perhaps Black is sleeping with horses or hiding with rats, or—"

"How do you know Black left it?"

"Because everything else is clean, obviously."

This was obvious, and Fortuna kicked herself.

"We'll have to interview the house elves, too, to help us pinpoint the time of entry."

“But who could be helping him?”

“Whoever it is,” Flavia responded with a smile, “I’m sure we’re going to find out.”

***

Fortuna’s power led her through the rest of the morning, and she was only half-aware as her teachers and classmates came and went like so much white noise. The threat presented by the meeting with Headmaster Dumbeldore occupied much of her attention.

For one thing, there was who she was. A pale-faced, black-haired, and scrupulously polite and neat orphan would rub him the wrong way, and he would be left with a vague sense that something was not quite right about her.

This was annoying. It was not her fault that her actual personality aligned with the false one presented by a megalomaniac fifty years ago. 

There was also the ornate instrument with a lot of fiddly bits that would react when she came near it. When she asked herself why, she learned that the device detected unusual things. Something unusual would spark the Headmaster's curiosity—she wouldn't be a priority, but he'd start to keep a mental file on her, and anything she did that at Hogwarts for the next seven years would be catalogued in it. 

All because a convoluted and wholly unnecessary contraption was going to make a phweee noise at her. It would have to go.

And she would lie, of course, adopt a false persona to get her through the meeting. She'd go with something that would make her seem harmless, a little endearing, and ultimately below consideration. Not just forgettable, but dismissible.

Transfiguration was immediately before lunch, and Professor McGonagall once again asked her to stay back. She followed up on Professor Lupin's lecture regarding rule-breaking and danger, then advised Fortuna on how to get to Headmaster Dumbledore's office.

Fortuna yes professored her way through the conversation, and stopped off at a bathroom near her destination to prepare the impression she wanted to give her interrogator. She undid her tie and redid it sloppily. Then she released her hair from its ponytail and teased it until it was a tangled nest.

Not unlike Angelique or Hermione, she thought, as she rearranged her neatly packed bookbag into a disaster. She half-zipped it, leaving parchment, quills, and books sticking out at odd angles, then slung it over her shoulder and examined the effect in the mirror. A harried, scatter-brained child stared anxiously back at her.

Perfect.

"Mars Bar," she told the gargoyle. It stepped aside and she followed a spiral staircase up a storey, where she faced a closed door. She gave it a calculatedly tentative tap, just loud enough for the office's occupant to hear.

"Come in," he said.

She pushed the door slightly open and peeked around its edge, as though she were terrified of what she might find on the other side. 

"Welcome, Miss Floris." 

She shoved the door fully open, and came face to face with the headmaster. 

He was difficult to see through the busy chaos of his office. Gadgets moved, people came and went from portraits, and a live bird examined her closely. She could hardly focus; the twirling, twinkling, whirling, and feathered clutter drew her eyes from one oddity to another until she was disoriented, confused, and (in spite of herself) just a little bit excited. If there were any method to the madness, Fortuna would have to ask her power. She wouldn’t be surprised if it came up empty. 

As for the Headmaster, he was an imposing man, though not in a way that made her feel unsafe—not that anything made her feel unsafe. No, he was more like a grandfather, someone who commanded respect with his very presence, but kindly and benign. It was calculated; familiar as she was with how much body language and nonverbal signals could convey, she could recognize a master. 

She was impressed.

“Ah, Miss Floris,” Professor Dumbledore said. “Please have a seat."

As Fortuna made her way towards his desk, she tripped on some aggressive lint, and crashed into the assortment of noisy oddments on his desk.

Her bookbag exploded. Stacks of parchment collapsed. The bird squawked as it took flight and fluttered about the office. Her target—the instrument that would have detected "something unusual" about her—was smashed to bits as it fell to the floor.

Fortuna stammered a dozen different apologies, but the Headmaster graciously waved them all aside, saying that he would repair it once their meeting was completed.

He was lying to spare what he imagined to be her feelings; the witch who had invented it was long dead and had only made the one. It was irreplaceable, unless Fortuna herself wished to use her power to repair it, and she did not.

Good riddance.

She hastily crammed everything back into her bag and collapsed into one of the plush chairs Professor Dumbledore had arranged in front of his desk. From this angle, she was only able to see the man through a trench of parchment on one side and agitated (but intact) accoutrements on the other.

“Now," he said, reorganizing the scattered papers with his wand. "I would like to apologize myself. I heard you were injured but I didn't ask how you were doing. I’m glad you have recovered so quickly and admirably."

"Uh," Fortuna said. "Erm. Yes, er, sir."

She marveled at the idiocy coming out of her mouth. Her power had never led her down such an insufferable path before. 

Too bad. If she hadn't wanted this, she should have exercised more caution and thought her way around the fog.

“How are you finding Hogwarts?” he asked pleasantly.

“Amazing, sir.” She made her eyes wide and bright. “I never imagined anything like this before.” 

“I know the transition from a non-magical world to, well, all of this—” He gestured at his office, whose decor was still spinning and emitting puffs of smoke. “—can be bewildering.”

The casual statement was in fact a probing question. There were many different answers that could be provided to such a simple observation, and he'd draw conclusions from whatever she offered.

“It still is, sir. But I’m adjusting quickly, or at least I hope so. A lot of my classmates are working together to make sure we all understand our lessons, and the things we're learning are just incredible."

“Marvelous. Nothing warms an old professor's heart more.” The Headmaster beamed at her. "Professor McGonagall informs me you are proving to be quite adept at Transfiguration." 

"I love it," she gushed. "It's so fascinating! Er, it's so fascinating, sir."

His blue eyes twinkled, and surely that was a magical effect generated by his spectacles. "I'm partial to the subject myself," he went on. "I taught it for many years before I took this position. In fact, Professor McGonagall was one of my students, and she says you are a natural."

"O-oh. She wrung her hands. "Oh, that can't be right, sir. My classmates are all so talented, and they've been helping me ever so much."

"I'm glad you're adapting so quickly," he said. He leaned forward onto his desk, and his smile grew still more tender. "You grew up with a Muggle foster family, I understand."

"Yessir.” Then she looked up at him fearfully, like she'd just answered a test question and was afraid she'd gotten it wrong. When she received nothing but calm attentiveness in return, she went on. "My parents died when I was eight."

"And—ah—perhaps they were not as kind as they could have been."

A vile untruth, she was sure. The two or three surviving shreds of her memory were happy, and she now knew her parents had died defending her. She had been loved.

I'm sorry, she thought, as her body language lied. Hunched shoulders, downward glance, no verbal answer. All to indicate his guesses about her homelife—and the identity of her Boggart—were accurate.

I'm so sorry.

"Unhappy familial arrangements are common, as your classmates largely demonstrated yesterday."

At least her power spared her from having to answer that.

"But Professor Lupin told me that a classmate quite literally leapt to your defense. One of the greatest triumphs of the human spirit is that we are not alone in our fears. There will always be another ready to stand behind us."

Fortuna rubbed at the wrist she had broken, while nodding along with the headmaster’s words. “I'm so happy that everyone here is so friendly.”

“True friendship is the most precious gift in this world. I’m glad you could find it at such a young age.” The Headmaster’s smile faded from his lips, and he lowered his voice. “Now, Miss Floris, I do have to ask something of you. You aren’t in any trouble so please do not worry—this will not be going onto any record. I must ask for the sake of a friend.”

Fortuna nodded.

"Remus also told me that your Boggart called him a werewolf."

Here it was, the true reason he'd called her in. He wanted to know how his professor's secret had gotten out.

"It said—it said a lot of horrible things. And it all happened so fast."

"Do you have any idea how the Boggart came to identify Professor Lupin as a werewolf?"

"Because it was scary? Werewolves aren't real. She just said whatever sounded awful."

"It," he said. "Not she. Identifying and naming your fears is the first step to conquering them."

Not it. Me.

"I know," she said.

Professor Dumbledore leaned back into his armchair, pondering. A Boggart successfully focusing on two targets was unheard of, so he would have to reconcile what had happened with what he saw in front of him.

And what he saw in front of him was a girl who—poor child—was utterly and indiscriminately terrified by authority figures. Someone who likely believed that a cruel parent would know every possible secret, and use that knowledge to undermine, silence, injure. The boggart had simply shown her what she'd expected.

This was not a case of someone deducing the truth about the Defense professor so early in the year (and Fortuna made a mental note to ask herself about that phrasing and the assumptions behind it later), but instead a case of a monster run amok.

"Werewolves do exist in our world," he said, once he had arrived at his conclusion. "It is a terrible, incurable affliction, and one that is often misunderstood. There are those who wish to exclude wizards who are werewolves, just as there are those who wish to exclude witches who were born to Muggle parents."

She saw the threads of manipulation. They were less threads than they were ropes; he did not think she was very clever, which was both insulting and precisely what she'd meant him to think. He was equating her teacher's condition to her being Muggleborn, drawing an alliance between the two, ensuring she would not speak.

He needn't have bothered. She wouldn't ever use someone's wounds against them. She wasn't that woman. 

Professor Dumbledore continued. "I have complete faith and trust in Professor Lupin, but there are those who would use his—call it an illness—as a pretext to ostracize him. I would ask you keep the secret, as it is not rightfully yours to share."

She nodded so vigorously she was nearly worried her power might snap her head off to better sell the ruse. "Of course, sir."

The Headmaster smiled. “Then thank you for your time. I know it can be hard to make the trek up here, but it is good to see a new face every now and then. Seeing new students gives these old bones some life.” 

Fortuna giggled vapidly, bobbling her head. He dismissed her, and she practically scampered out of his office.

Once she was safely out of range, she dropped the smile and readjusted her robes. She reclaimed herself before she reached the bottom of the spiral staircase.

Except for her hair. She still needed to brush it.

Then she would solve a mystery.

Chapter Text

"Eureka!"

Startled, Fortuna nearly pitched forward into the grand piano she was perched on.

Flavia was framed in the doorway to the stairwell of the Shrieking Shack, holding a beaker of electric blue liquid aloft in both hands.

"Eureka," she said again, reverently lowering the container. "What are you doing?"

"Tuning the piano without—" She caught herself. "Magic. With a wrench."

"But nothing to tell you what pitch you're hitting?"

Fortuna looked down at the piano's insides, at the parchment jammed between two of the strings that were responsible for middle C. She'd been at it for twenty minutes. "I'm starting to think I may be tone deaf," she said reflectively. 

"I'll ask Feely for a spell that will keep it tuned," Flavia said. "She won't tell me willingly, so I'll poison her and hold the antidote hostage. Do you play?"

"No, but I'd be good at it if I learned, so we should make sure it works." Fortuna gestured at the beaker. "What did you find?"

Flavia raised her discovery once more. "The substance we discovered in the Gryffindor common room on Tuesday morning is dog hair. Since students may only have an owl or a rat or a cat or a toad, we can deduce it wasn't left by a student. Who was in the common room that wasn't a student? Sirius Black."

"But what can it mean, Holmes?"

"It means, Watson, that Sirius Black—" Flavia consciously paused for dramatic effect. "Has a dog."

"We have a dog," Fortuna said. 

Behind her, the sound of Alexander devouring his fourth steak and kidney pie of the evening stopped.

The two girls looked at him. Noticing their stares, he started wagging his tail.                                                                                                                                       

But even canine antics couldn't distract Flavia from the disappointment. She groaned. "We do have a dog, and this is just his hair."

Fortuna sympathized. It had been too much to hope that everything was going to fall into place with the simple application of a few gray cells, but their complete lack of progress was dispiriting. Four days had elapsed since Sirius Black's brief appearance, and their only real clue had just proved to be a red herring. She'd known better than to actually believe they would find secret passages hidden within every cupboard, that leggy dames who knew too much would walk into their office, or that a priceless treasure hidden in an ordinary statue would fall into her lap, but she had expected a little bit of progress by now.

"We could make a list of suspects," Fortuna suggested.

"Using what evidence?" Flavia asked, sounding morose. 

"Well, we know it's someone at Hogwarts because the Fat Lady confirmed that he knew the password," Fortuna said. "That narrows the suspect pool down from 'anyone in Wizarding Britain.'"

Flavia agreed, and they went upstairs to their lab. Fortuna suggested they brainstorm and transfigured part of a wall into a chalkboard.

The first name Flavia wrote was that of Professor Binns. 

"The obvious suspect," she declared. 

Fortuna arched her eyebrows. "There's no evidence to say that he did it."

"Precisely," Flavia returned. "As a ghost, he leaves no evidence anywhere at all."

"That's logically unsound," Fortuna said.

"Well, perhaps, but we can't rule him out. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, at least not when the absence is the evidence. Besides, it's never the obvious suspect."

Fortuna doubted this was logically sound, either, but didn't feel like untangling it. It wasn't as though she knew enough to truly rule anyone out. Still, surely there were more likely suspects? 

"Remus Lupin," she suggested. If he was concealing something that the majority of people thought should get him fired, what else might he be capable of hiding? 

She had spoken without thinking, and found herself wondering how she could justify her suggestion without breaking her promise not to reveal that he was a werewolf. 

But Flavia didn't even hesitate. "Excellent," she said. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts position is supposedly cursed, so people who aren't desperate or stupid or evil don't take the job. One of them was actually You-Know-Who in disguise, or something like that. It was Daffy's first year and the rumors were hard to sort out."

"Cursed?" Fortuna asked. "And nobody's broken the curse?"

“It wouldn’t be a cursed position if someone had broken the curse.”

Unlike her analysis of their History of Magic professor's guilt, this was logically sound. “Has anyone tried to break the curse, then?”

“Well, I suppose someone must have tried before. The Board wouldn't just let a teaching position be cursed for years if they could help it. And Dumbledore is a very powerful magician in his own right—if he could have fixed it, I'm sure he would have by now."

Idly, Fortuna wondered what the headmaster had missed.

A cursed object, hidden by You-Know-Who in a room accessible only to those who were desperate to hide evidence. A shabby tiara, openly placed among tens of thousands of abandoned things, exposed only on occasion to people in a hurry to get rid of something and get away.

Hiding in plain sight. 

Fortuna thought about her strategy with the study group.

Dumbledore wouldn't find out, and he'd continue to lose defense professors to scandal, injury, illness, and death. It was possible for her to stop it, though she felt annoyed with herself for even considering the possibility. It was his job, not hers.

But what about the people affected? Did Professor Lupin deserve to suffer a possibly deadly mishap because he'd taken the only job he could get? Did Angelique deserve to grow up without someone to teach her how to fend off basic magical household pests? Did she want to deal with the disruption to her plans for her classmates that the inconsistency of teaching quality would cause?

There was only one answer.

“Well, in that case, we’ll have to keep a closer eye on him,” she said, mentally resolving to break the curse when she got back to the castle. If they made it back by four, she'd have enough time.

"And Minverva McGonagall," Flavia added. "Nobody would question her presence in Gryffindor Tower, and she was the first teacher on the scene."

Severus Snape naturally followed. It was easy to cast the slick-haired professor as a villain, as he was exactly the kind of dodgy person who would cavort with cloaked individuals in shady bars. The mere mention of his name roused Alexander’s hackles, another sure sign their professor was somehow involved.

Flavia rounded out the first column with "Another Professor." A bit generic, but it captured the fact that every professor had the means to assist a serial killer breaking into Hogwarts.

She hesitated a moment, then wrote down the names of Ophelia and Daphne de Luce.

Fortuna folded her arms.

“What? You saw how Feely was that night! They’re both menaces. You don’t know them like I do. They’re like crazed badgers.”

Fortuna allowed her friend’s rant to wear itself out before she got back to the list, adding Filch and Hermione Granger.

"Not Filch. He's the butler, can't have done it. That cat of his, though…” Flavia trailed off. “Who's Hermione Granger?"

"Aside from the fact she's a Gryffindor and is therefore the only student on our list who could have let Black in, she's one of Harry Potter's friends and could provide access to him."

Flavia considered this argument, then wrote Candidus Craven beneath Hermione's name.

Fortuna agreed. If anyone in their friend group harbored traitorous intentions, it was definitely Candidus.

Schmuck.

The last names were the Weasley twins and the Fat Lady, based on the fact they were the only witnesses—the only real witnesses. Gryffindor Tower was filled to the brim with students who were eagerly boasting about their brush with death, but cursory interrogation revealed that none of them had even been aware of Black's arrival until the deputy headmistress was rallying them for a headcount. 

The Fat Lady played up her adventure as well. Evidently, spending one's existence glued to a wall did not make for entertaining fare, and she milked the tale for all it was worth. This proved not to be much; though able to perform her job out of instinct, she had been sleeping off a bottle of merlot she'd shared with a knight from the fifth floor.

Only Fred and George Weasley had managed to see the man, though they hadn't even realized who he was before he was gone. They had been working on an invention when he entered, and he'd bolted immediately on seeing them. The most they could say was that they were pretty sure he'd been wandless.

There was nothing really to go off of there, so their best bet was to tackle their list of suspects. Gather more evidence, perhaps do a little bit of stalking, ransack their rooms for clues, and figure out a plan of attack.

But not tonight, she thought, sitting down on a corner of the bed and kicking her shoes off. She was exhausted after all the detentions with Filch, an exercise in gruntwork and wasted time she hoped she would never experience again. They'd scrupulously followed the detentions with nightly trips to the Shrieking Shack, lest the Veritaserum go neglected or Alexander starve, so she hadn't gotten more than four hours of sleep a night.

Flavia had already started to drift over to her potions table, and Fortuna settled into the blankets. It was already almost one, and she'd need a nap if she wanted to destroy the tiara before Dumbledore woke up and be able to make it through their Saturday study group meeting. 

It felt like she'd been walking for hours. She was back in the hospital, walking past white rooms through white hallways under white lights. Everything bright, sterile, painful to look at. 

Finally she stopped at the foot of a girl's bed. Skin sagged off her body and the pallor of death lay over her like a blanket. The girl’s lips moved but there was no sound. Her lips slowed and her body stilled aside from labored breathing, assisted along by two tubes running up her nose. She reached forward and reached forward and— 

The girl’s face split open in a dozen different places, and bark sprang up between the cracks and spread, replacing her flesh. The transformation spread down her body and one of her arms lengthened. It slithered, vine-like, around her thighs and fused to her legs. Her other hand merged with her cheek, leaving her face half-covered.

There was no way to dislodge that hand, nothing for her to do but scream. 

Fortuna opened her eyes.

Alexander was looking at her with an expression she could only call concerned. She saw that her arm was dangling off the bed, and that he was nudging her hand. Waking her up.

She slid out of bed and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. His fur smelled like daffodils and nightshade, courtesy of the anti-flea shampoo she and Flavia had concocted.

The attack on her parents, the extinction of her native language, her memory loss: she'd subconsciously been assuming they were the result of a magical accident. If she could figure out how magic worked, she could figure out how it had happened. 

She'd been wrong.

Someone did this on purpose.

She tried to remember details from her dream, any faces or words that could give her a place to start, but all that remained was the conviction that someone had deliberately created the monsters in a controlled environment. If Alexander hadn't woken her up mid-nightmare, she wouldn't even have that.

No. No need to frame it like that. Progress was progress. Three weeks ago, she'd known nothing. Now she had a starting point and a number of clues, each pointing to something bigger and more sinister than the last. A malevolent intelligence seemed to be at work, and she would need to approach that with patience and caution. 

She could do that. She could do anything.

"Thank you," she told Alexander.

"Hm?" Flavia asked. She was bent over a cauldron.

"Nothing." Fortuna got up and went over to see what her friend was doing. "What are you working on? I thought we didn't have to do anything else for the Veritaserum."

"Poison," Flavia said, drawing out the word with relish. "For Ophelia, of course."

"Of course," Fortuna said automatically. "We should be getting back. It's past three."

Flavia rolled up her sleeve and looked at her wrist. Then she looked at Fortuna. "How do you tell time without a watch?"

"By the position of the sun," Fortuna said, preparing to take point. They'd need to avoid a prefect, Professor Burbage, two seventh-years, Mrs. Norris, Peeves, and an entire congress of ghosts to make it back without getting caught. "Come on. Maybe Black is back in our common room."

It turned out that Black was nowhere to be seen, but Flavia was tired enough she wasn't disappointed. Fortuna watched her go up the stairs to their dorm and continued to watch the stairs after she'd disappeared, waiting.

Two minutes later, Harbinger appeared. He'd come to associate Flavia's nocturnal return with hers, and he had deduced her presence down here from her absence up there.

She grinned as he trotted down to greet her, tail and head held high. He was so smart, she thought as she picked him up and ran a fingernail along his vibrating throat. He was the smartest cat in Hogwarts—

Hermione's cat was smarter. Annoyed, she prodded her power for a better, more correct answer. After a few moments, she was able to console herself with the fact that this Crookshanks was only half a cat.

And Harbinger was a whole cat, a complete cat, a perfect cat. He was undeniably the handsomest—  

Most people would agree that Kenneth Towler's calico Artemis Loudmouth was the most attractive of the Hogwarts feline population. Then there were Farfallele, a tuxedo cat who sported a white bowtie-shaped mustache, and Catacadabra, a long-haired, squash-faced Persian that people inexplicably admired despite the fact that she was a long-haired, squash-faced Persian.

As Fortuna went down the list of purebreds, tabbies, and tortoiseshells, she realized that only she had the appropriate respect and regard for sleek gray cats. In a Hogwarts beauty pageant, Harbinger would come in forty-nine of sixty-one, and he was only that high because he was still a kitten and that boosted his perceived cuteness. As an adult, he would rank fifty-three.

Deeply offended, she took her hypothetically slighted cat to a couch and contemplated the wisdom of not asking questions. He wriggled out of her arms and started sharpening his claws on the cushion next to her, indifferent to the benighted rabble that surrounded him. Fortuna commended him on his nobility and magnanimity, then rooted through a bag a second-year had left in front of the fire for a quill and piece of parchment. 

Harbinger batted at the quill and she teased him for a few minutes.

She was dithering.

She triple-checked that nobody else was around and finally brought herself to write a single sentence.

My name is Fortuna Floris and I have a superpower.

She put the quill down, folded the parchment into a little square, and tucked it in her pocket.

Now she had something that needed to be hidden.

Step two was to go to the seventh floor.

Chapter Text

The seventh floor was hardly ever occupied, as it found itself in the awkward space below the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw common rooms as well as the Astronomy Tower, but above the classrooms that were actually used. Truthfully, so much of the castle was packed with assorted wonderments that the odd empty classroom or boring hallway tended to be overlooked. It almost had Fortuna wondering how many other seemingly useless areas were containing some secret or hitherto unknown purpose, but that was an investigation for a different day.

She stopped in front of a neoclassical rendering of an awkward and ineffectual ballet lesson and began to pace, focusing on the opposite wall and clutching the note in her pocket like it was a grenade she'd pulled the pin out of but couldn't throw. Eventually the solid stone parted, forming a door, and she pushed it open.

Inside was a complete madhouse. Stacks of books towered towards the cathedral-high ceiling, and they seemed to be so haphazardly arranged that they threatened to fall. Furniture, discarded and broken, had been thrown into piles that stretched up at least four times Fortuna’s own height. Unwashed cauldrons caked with hardened, unidentifiable grime stood in rows one after the other. Strange contraptions, amalgamations of 14th century technology and magic, wheeled or fluttered about as they pleased. 

The closest frame of reference she had for comparison was the Simmonses' house. Furniture heaped together, generations of children’s toys all over, the accoutrements of last year's hobbies packed away and forgotten. The room here was considerably larger and more packed, but the similarities were there. This place was for discarded things.

She stared at the secret written on parchment for a moment, then let it go. A flick of her wand, an uttered word, and the paper burst into flames. It was ash before it hit the ground.

Once she'd vanished the ashes, she padded her way between piles of odds and ends, letting her power act as a sherpa. She was only briefly distracted by a particularly dapper hat that had been thrown onto a bedpost of a bed broken down the middle. (She pressed onward because it had been bewitched to clamp down on the eyes and ears of the wearer when in sunlight.)

At one point, a pile of empty sherry bottles blocked access to a narrow path between desks that looked like they'd gotten in the way of a duel. A swift kick to one of the load-bearing bottles opened the walkway. A storm of glass crashed down around Fortuna as she walked through the middle of the crumbling monument to alcoholism to her destination.

The source of the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position sat nestled amid a dirty pile of old textbooks. The crown was dull gray, like tarnished silverware, and almost disappointing for a work of evil that had disrupted magical education for decades. When Fortuna got closer she saw that an inscription, clear and bright, shone through its grubbiness.

Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure. 

Stupid. She knew, or could know, everything there was to know, and all that did was cause problems.

She ransacked a nearby cabinet for linen and, careful not to touch the thing itself, wrapped it up, and placed it in the pocket of her robes. Her quarry secured, she made her escape, stopping only to grab a vial of malevolently frothing liquid she was sure Flavia would appreciate. Filch would come down the hallway in eight seconds, but both she and the door would already have vanished.

The unwelcome appearance of Sirius Black had set the school itself on edge, and she had to dodge patrolling suits of armor and the watchful eyes of portraits. As she allowed her power to guide her, flowing around obstacles and weaving between pairs of prefects, she was keenly aware of how uncomfortably the diadem weighed her pocket down. 

Even wrapped in old pillow cases, it felt too close to her skin, reminding her that this was dangerous. Of course she'd worded her question to ensure that the curse on the crown wouldn't hurt her or anyone else as she destroyed it, but hadn't her power failed her before? Could she really be sure of it? 

This wasn't sensible, and it also wasn't what she wanted. She shouldn’t be doing this—interfering, letting her foreknowledge dictate her actions to the point where she betrayed her own intentions. She had told herself before that she would never use her power like this, meddling just because she could. 

She'd vowed never to let it become the thing that guided her, subsumed her—but even now, as she hopped down a flight of stairs to take a round-about path to avoid the wandering divination teacher, she felt like a passenger in her own body. 

The affairs of the greater Wizarding World didn't have to be her problem.  It wasn't her place, it was Dumbledore's. Couldn't she just tell him and let him take care of it? 

No, that was out of the question. The Headmaster would only want to know how she'd known. But there had to be another solution, one that didn't involve her taking responsibility for everyone else. She just couldn't think of it, but if this thing really could grant wisdom, perhaps she could use it. Use it to come up with a way to solve the problem without destroying yet another priceless artifact, perhaps by combining its powers with hers—

What?

No. These weren’t her thoughts.

The curse was trying to protect itself. It sensed her intentions and it didn't want to be broken. Unfortunately for it, all it had to offer her was the vague promise of power, which she had more than enough of. As for the destruction of magical gizmos, freeing Hogwarts from a curse should count as suitable repayment. She and Professor Dumbledore would be more than even.

All her apprehension was washed away like chalk in a rainstorm, and she resumed walking with fresh determination. Helping her friends, especially in a way nobody ever had to know about, could take precedence just this once. 

Fortuna had to duck behind a statue of Lorenzo the Forgetful Knight, a statue having long ago misplaced its original apparel and now clothed itself in students' old clothes while wielding  a large ladle instead of a lance, in order to avoid all four heads of house. 

Deep in the early morning, each and every one looked utterly exhausted. Perhaps it was a trick of the torchlight, but she could swear dark circles rimmed every pair of eyes and the normally well-kempt appearance of all was slipping. Even Professor Snape looked worse than he usually did, which was surely an achievement. 

“Good work the dementors did! And Fudge wants to send in more and Auror teams to boot. Aurors! You'd think he views the school as a warzone.” 

“A child could have died, Pomona,” said Professor McGonagall, “and not just any child. I understand Minister Fudge's concern, though I don't agree with the methods.”

“Perhaps if your common room had been better guarded, then Potter wouldn’t have been in any danger at all,” Snape said.

McGonagall fumed, but Flitwick intervened before she could retort. “Severus, we could enchant all the quills in the castle to come flying at the first sight of Black, but it wouldn’t do any good once he decides to blow the common room apart. If he feels threatened, he's that much more likely to do something rash. I believe that—”

The rest of their conversation was lost as they passed by, and Fortuna rushed forward to give the gargoyle statue the password and hurry up the staircase. 

The office was empty, which in and of itself made clear how seriously Professor Dumbledore took Black's incursion into his school. The Headmaster was gone, attending an early morning meeting with Minister Fudge, and had instructed the portraits and his phoenix to patrol the castle in his absence.

Here Fortuna had a choice. She could get the sword by breaking its case with a reductor curse or she could get it out of the Sorting Hat.

Fewer steps to use the curse, but...

She strode across the office over to the Hat and jammed it down around her ears.

Don't give me the sword yet, she thought. I have a block on my memory. Can you look past it?

The Hat's voice, which she hadn't gotten to hear during her Sorting, seemed to speak in her ear. "I cannot."

Frustration simmered within her, but she pushed further.

What about my power? Can you see it? 

"I cannot."

Well, is there anything you can see? 

“I can see I was spot-on as always," the Hat said, and now it sounded tired and annoyed, like she might if someone tried to make her list the kings and queens of England in order and explain why they were supposedly relevant to anything. "Sneaking out of school to have adventures, bypassing the government to catch a murder, and burglarizing the Headmaster's office to break curses, all within the first month of school… I should request a raise from Albus."

Fortuna felt vaguely offended. I don't think I'm chivalrous or bold, but you put me in Gryffindor. That means you understand parts of me that I don't. It was perfectly logical to suppose that you might know something more, but I see you think I'm just a troublemaker.

"If you don't think you're chivalrous or bold or even a troublemaker, what do you think you are?"

Fortuna's mind went blank for several seconds.

I don't know.

"I'm a thinking cap, but I won't think for you."

So she thought more.

Not a vessel for her power. 

A witch. A child. An orphan. 

Lately, a detective and a lab assistant and a friend and a tutor.

Nothing much.

"Is that so? Why am I back on your head?"

To get the sword. 

"No," the Hat said cheerily. "You aren't a Gryffindor in need, and I see that you know you could just get the sword by smashing up that case. Why are you really here?"

You just accused me of being tailor-made for Gryffindor, she mentally snapped.

"In need," the Hat repeated. "You want the sword but you don't need the sword. You don't think there's anything truly at stake, no need to call on your House's virtues."

I'm here to protect my friends from an evil curse. That's not Gryffindor enough?

"It might be if you were truly here for your friends." 

Huh?

"Not a Ravenclaw, are we?"

I'm smarter than you are, she thought; then, when the Hat started to laugh, she realized that had been a stupid thing to say. Except she hadn't said it, the Hat was simply reading her mind. Which was cheating.

"I don't mean to prick your pride, little lioness. What were you thinking when I sorted you?"

She cast her mind back. 

The Dementors? No, the Sorting had taken place before Dumbledore had given her the idea to go after them. But she'd been dead on her feet, propelling herself forward because of them… No. Because of what she'd found out because of them.

My parents. I remembered how they'd died. I was upset.

"Yet you weren't most preoccupied by shock or grief. You were ashamed because of your inaction, convinced you should have saved them all. That is what you were thinking when you put me on, and that is how you think of it still. Failure to be the hero."

And why wasn't I? Why didn't I do anything? Tell me what I was thinking. Tell me why I let something terrible happen to my parents but won't let something inconvenient happen to my friends.

"You have the only answer I can give, Gryffindor."

The pommel of the sword slammed into her head. She yelped and yanked the hat off, sending the sword clattering to the ground.

She snatched it up and hurried over to the desk. She didn’t have time to waste. The Hat's unwillingness to give direct, to-the-point answers had eaten into the time she had to get away.

She placed the diadem in the middle of the headmaster’s desk, planted her feet just so, lifted the sword above her head, and swung.

The diadem screamed as it sheared in twain, which was needlessly melodramatic, and far too noisy. The commotion would bring the portraits running and she needed to be well shot of the office before they arrived, so she left the sword embedded a good way into the desk.

As she ran, she reached into the minds of her friends and tore through their memories of their sortings. Flavia had gotten a choice between every house but Hufflepuff, and she'd chosen Gryffindor to be like her mother. Jessica had been offered Hufflepuff, but she'd craved the challenge of being Muggleborn in Slytherin. Candidus could have gotten into Slytherin if he'd really cared.

Even Angelique, who hadn't had any choice at all, had been chosen because she was something. Kind and caring and warm and persistent.

And what did she have? A shred of a memory and the conviction she'd failed. 

She'd assumed that she'd gotten into Gryffindor because of something positive inside of her, not some, some—process of elimination. Not that she wasn't good enough for the other three but still had to be shoved somewhere. Wasn't that what Candidus had said? Too stupid for Ravenclaw, too vicious for Hufflepuff, too lost for Slytherin?

Granted she wasn't ambitious, but wasn't she at least cunning? Hadn't she outmaneuvered Dumbledore and wasn't her entire year dancing to a tune of her choosing?

No, that was her power, which she needed to conceal—which needed to be concealed. Its needs superseded hers. And what were her needs? What did she really want? To sit in a clubhouse reading and eating? To live a life unbothered by others? 

Fortuna knew she didn't just lack ambition, she was its antithesis. Everything either came easily to her or was impossibly out of reach, and there hadn't been anything but a dull sense of obligation pushing her towards action. 

The Hat had laughed at the idea she might be fit for Ravenclaw, but that wasn't fair, was it? Without her power...well, she'd nearly fail history of magic and get only "Acceptables" in herbology and astronomy, but she was still clever enough, and her power had nothing to do with her success in transfiguration. That was all her, and shouldn't that count?

But she knew it wouldn't, not by the Sorting Hat's measures, because she wasn't interested in learning things as such—not in hoarding facts like Candidus did or in synthesizing snatches of knowledge to create more like Flavia hoped to. She wasn't curious, didn't value knowledge for its own sake. Even her exercise with the mystery books was simply to relieve boredom. In fact, she got annoyed when she deduced the solution before the detective could reveal the killer's identity.

Wit beyond measure was not her greatest treasure.

Neither was anything that distinguished Hufflepuffs, who were by definition undistinguished. At their most remarkable, they demonstrated persistence and hard work—two things she'd never needed in her life. In their most usual state, they were simply warm and friendly, and she…wasn't.

The whole concept of even having friends was new to her; Hogwarts could have been another foster home—she could have been thrown into the first (only) group that would have accepted her, thrust into the social dynamics of a gang of unsupervised children, lost in a system that only cared so much whether she even existed, let alone what she did.

She was taking steps to prevent that, but she was forced to admit she couldn't fit into a group that was based on whatever fueled Angelique. She enjoyed her classmates and enjoyed spending time with them, but on her own terms, in her own ways. She didn’t really connect with them, didn’t like hugging or joking around, and either dominated or drifted through most conversations.

In the end, caring for them with the means she had at her disposal meant protecting them.

When she got back to Gryffindor Tower, she conjured an ice pack to hold against the bump that was rising from where the sword had hit her. 

***

Madam Pince threw them out of the library, ostensibly because they were wilder than a herd of centaurs, but actually (according to Fortuna's power) because the sight of so many children getting their grubby little hands all over her nice books had been about to give her an aneurysm.

They spilled out into the hallway, grumbling about whose fault it was. It wasn't anyone's but Madam Pince's, but Fortuna couldn't exactly share that, and her classmates bickered around her.

"You shouldn't have raised your voice," Astoria told Candidus.

"Angelique shouldn't have written her essay on the wrong goblin rebellion," he sniffed.

“Well, they’re all pretty much the same. The wizards treated the goblins like toadstools and the goblins rebelled and the wizards fought them. What else is there to it?”

“What else is there to it! Why, I would hope that you would know the difference between the 1309 rebellions over illegal galleon creation and the 1682 rebellion over the legitimacy of the goblin nation in Wizengamot law. Not to even speak of the heroic acts that you’d read about, like the works of the wizard Gerith who managed to defeat an entire rebellion with a cleverly planned rockslide or the bureaucratic wunderkind Richard Knobbledon who miraculously stopped a war through swift political plays and incomprehensibly tough to understand treatises!”

Everybody had stopped paying attention less than halfway through this, but he went on, caught up in the wave of his own enthusiasm. "The goblin nation had been ready to attack on an act of technicality, but wisely Richard leaped into action and went through the entire treatise set between goblins and humans. At the first war meeting, Richard brought along a little known sub-section which prohibited the use of thrice smelted metal into certain districts due to the proliferation of substandard and shoddy equipment. Now of course the goblins weren’t using any, but the action meant that they were the ones in violation and had to pay a—”

“Oh never mind,” Jessica decided, “Just leave the thing as it is, Angelique, that bloody ghost won’t be able to tell the difference anyway. I’ve been copying outta the book for three weeks and he marked the whole thing as fine.”

"Is that how you managed to make your paper so concise?” Candidus said, clearly unsure whether to be more offended by the cheating or the abrupt dismissal of his lecture. 

"We need an alternative to the library," Fortuna cut in. 

"There are loads of abandoned classrooms," Flavia said, taking a cue from Fortuna's subject change. "We could take one for ourselves."

The proposal enthused Jessica nearly as much as goblin rebellions had enthused Candidus. "Yeah," she exclaimed, jabbing her wand in the air. "If we didn't have that vulture breathing down our necks, we could get into combat practice! Dueling! Yuh!"

“There is no combat practice on the curriculum,” one of Angelique’s hangers-on from Hufflepuff pointed out.

“And I don’t think I’m ready for it,” Angelique said meekly.

"All the more reason to practice," Astoria said. "And it will mean we'll be ahead of everyone else when we do start learning."

Everyone else seemed to like the idea of dueling, and they immediately started squabbling over where they should start. The seventh floor had the most abandoned classrooms, but it was too far away from the Hufflepuff and Slytherin common rooms to be fair. They eventually settled on the third floor.

"This is like herding cats," Flavia muttered.

"No," Fortuna said. "Cats are cute and don't talk back."

"Cats don't need to talk back," Flavia said, then raised her voice. "Right, everyone, I'm assigning duties."

She briskly paired their classmates up and sent them off down different hallways, until only she and Fortuna remained.

“Well, that gives us plenty of time to wait,” Flavia said before sitting down on the floor and taking out a potions textbook.

“Did you really need to trick them all to do that?”

“Of course not! I was never intending to trick anyone. I was quite serious, I’m not intending to stay here all afternoon bouncing from classroom to classroom until the group falls apart out of sheer boredom. We are going to get this done as quickly as possible.”

For a moment, Fortuna considered using her power to search for a suitable location. But no, their little groups could find it easily enough. She sat down next to Flavia, opened her own backpack, and started writing letters.

"What are you doing?" Flavia asked.

"The same thing you just did," Fortuna said. "I'm tricking a bunch of people into doing my work for me." She then explained her desire to learn how to get past memory charms, and how she thought putting them in touch with each other might yield results.

"How'd you get their names?" Flavia asked.

"Uh," Fortuna said. She hadn't been expecting the question, which was her own fault.

"Uh?"

"I asked an older student," she said, deliberately evasive while she consulted her power for a way to escape. "I asked Hermione and she helped me find an old casebook. I went through and sent an owl to everyone who's still alive."

"Hermione?" Flavia considered the bait, then took it. "The Hermione from our suspect list? Why not ask a teacher?"

"The teachers are also on our suspect list," Fortuna countered. "And if Hermione thinks I'm getting too close to the truth, she can't make me go to the hospital wing and get bumped off by Madam Pomfrey."

Flavia nodded sagely. "I take it you've been reading American mystery novels?"

Fortuna reached into her bag and pulled out The Dain Curse. "Well-deduced, milord."

"It was elementary, Bunter." Flavia basked in her own cleverness and forgot about Fortuna's slipup.

Still. Careless.

She'd finished a quarter of her letters when an echoing "Ooo!" from Angelique bounced its way down the halls. 

She and Flavia packed up and hurried to the source of the sound, where they were soon joined by the other groups of explorers. 

“It looks perfect!” 

And it did. Fortuna’s power told her the classroom Angelique had claimed had once been used for the dueling club. It was large enough to fit not only their existing group, but any other people who might want to join in the future. Chairs, targets, as well as the occasional knick knacks that may have come into play for experienced duelists lined the walls, but left plenty of room in the middle. 

The study group threw bags into chairs as they piled in and searched around the room.

“Told you we’d find something,” Jessica said with a smirk.

Angelique found a box of old Quidditch supplies, including robes, in a cupboard. She emptied them onto the floor at once. "Let's make a banner with our club name!"

"We have a name?" Derek or Zachary asked.

"Sure, if we think of one," Zachary or Derek answered. "What about the First Years' Study Club?"

Astoria disagreed. "The name should reflect our values.”

"Our values?"

"Superiority," Astoria said, as though it was obvious.

"Academic superiority," Fortuna said quickly. "Achieved through hard work and friendship." 

"Superiority," Jessica said. "We should be a duelling club, too. We can be Hogwarts United."

“United against what?” Astoria asked.

Jessica shook her head disapprovingly. Then she scoffed and shook her head some more.

“How about the Hogwarts United Study Club?” Angelique said, focusing everyone back on task.

“Rubbish,” Jessica said.

“Why can’t we just call ourselves The Club?” asked Astoria. "Anyone worthy of knowing what it meant would know what it meant."

“Perhaps a literal name isn’t ideal,” Candidus said. “We should be going for something with a bit more thought put into it. How about Witches' Cauldron?” 

Fortuna felt annoyance lance through her. “Absolutely not,” she said, more harshly than she would have if she'd considered before speaking.  

When she noticed everyone staring at her, she quickly asked her power to provide her the name that would best defuse arguments. 

"Toil and Trouble?" she offered.

"Oh, like from the Scottish play!" Angelique squealed, clapping her hands together.

"You're familiar with the Bard?" Candidus asked, his surprise a little too evident.

"Are you familiar with my fists?" Jessica demanded, as Fortuna kicked him in the shin. 

Abusing him wasn't necessary to keep their group together or advance any of her other agendas, but she thought it would do him some good. 

Missing the insult to her intelligence and the others' intervention, Angelique merely answered him. "My mum's an actress. Lady Scottish Play is her favorite role, but I like Juliet better."

"Ah," Candidus said. "You know you can say her na—" 

"We know," Jessica said, cutting him off. "Now look over our herbology essays." 

He did, and Fortuna and Angelique worked on the banner while Candidus evaluated everyone's attempts at describing shrivelfig. On the whole, he felt they were insufficiently laudatory.

Angelique and Fortuna finished the banner at around the same time Candidus wrapped up his comments on each of their essays, and he and Jessica collaborated to hoist the banner over the blackboard at the front of the classroom.

The name had been done in large block lettering, with sparking wands and steaming cauldrons running across the bottom and along the sides. Perhaps it was a little silly, but Angelique was quite obviously a skilled artist and it did tie the room together. 

“It’s stupid,” Flavia whispered into her ear.

“It’s charming,” Fortuna whispered back. 

“Right," Flavia said. "Your theory that school is about frivolous clubs and childish antics." 

"I've tested the hypothesis by experimentation and I haven't falsified it."

Flavia wasn't going to give in so easily. “The Shrieking Shack is still a much better secret spot for working."

“Of course,” Fortuna agreed. "But it's just for us."

“And I’m still not entirely sold on this group in practice.”

“Of course,” Fortuna agreed. "But look, Zachary-or-Derek wants help on his potions essay."

"It's Derek," Flavia said with a sigh, and sallied forth.

Fortuna checked. Either it was Zachary, or even her power didn't care. 

She looked at the students working; the Hufflepuffs discussing Potions with Flavia, Candidus stuffing his giant herbology books into his bag, Astoria and Jessica menacing a target dummy. If Fortuna hadn’t known any better, she'd say it looked like a functional study group—a group of students whose study and understanding of threats in their world would no longer be annually disrupted. 

And that meant her intervention had been worth it, didn't it?

Chapter Text

Here indeed was a puzzle.

Albus believed the ruined crown was Ravenclaw's Diadem, and Filius agreed with him. For it to resurface only to be rendered unusable was both a tragedy and a mystery.

"Phineas, forgive me for asking you to repeat yourself…" Albus waited for an acerbic reply, but got none. That was as close to forgiveness or permission as the prickly old cynic would give him. "You said you were attracted back to this place by screaming. Can you describe it?"

"Loud. Agonized. Short. A shriek."

"Human?"

"Distinctly."

Had there been two people in his office? Or perhaps the diadem had protested its destruction? His preliminary testing revealed traces of dark magic, which could not have come from the Sword...and yet Rowena Ravenclaw would not have used anything dark in a magical creation. Some alteration had been made, one that had been dispelled by the Sword's attack.

"Intriguing," he murmured, barely cognizant that he'd said it aloud. "Most intriguing…"

"What is intriguing?"

Albus looked up. Severus had spoken, and he was understandably irritated. He had been asleep when Albus had called him, Minerva, and Filius to the office.

"I cannot say," he said. "Certain possibilities present themselves, but each collapses in self-contradiction. I am missing something, and until I can say something worthwhile I will keep my musings to myself."

Severus and Minerva exchanged exasperated glances.

The intrusion, destruction, and the lack of communication indicated a threat. Yet the use of the Sword on an item touched by something dark indicated the neutralization of a threat. Whatever the case, he wished the Sword's wielder had left some form of explanation.

It was possible he was merely supposed to think the Sword had been used for good. A simple Reparo would provide the illusion that the Sword had been pulled from the Hat and not stolen from the case.

But that brought him back to the original conundrum of who would know enough about the Hat to pretend the Sword had been claimed by a Gryffindor in need. That knowledge was only reserved for a few...He and Minerva knew. Then there was Harry, and of course anyone Harry had told...But that was a list that surely didn't contain more than two names.

He donned the Sorting Hat himself.

"Albus."

At the sound of the Hat, warmth flooded Albus as he recalled his first day at Hogwarts, how the Hat had waffled between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Nostalgia for the years before his mother had died, years before his entanglement with Gellert, and years before the terrible day that had ended their relationship.

The Hat seemed to cough politely. "You want me to tell you who else has put me on today."

If you would.

"But who else? A true Gryffindor."

Naturally, Albus thought, amused. He removed the Hat and gently restored it to its place on his shelf.

Heroic intent ruled out Tom or his agents, which put his mind at ease. This left a Gryffindor, someone who didn't want to explain himself...Or, indeed, to have a conversation at all.

Someone, perhaps, who had already entered and left without getting captured though all the school was guarded against him?

Have we misjudged you, Sirius?

Chapter Text

All Hallows' Eve was upon them and Hogwarts was more than decked out for the occasion. Pumpkins grinned from the alcoves and nooks of Hogwarts, enchanted bats fluttered their way through the corridors, and the ghosts were especially animated. 

This had led to an increase in spooked first years, though most of the phantoms weren’t intending to scare anyone. It was simply difficult to avoid because their mode of transport so frequently involved popping up through the floor.

(Difficult to avoid, that is, for anyone who was not Fortuna. She had not screamed and had not toppled over backwards when Nearly Headless Nick sprang forth from between her feet while she was on her way back from the library. She would never do such a thing.)

Most importantly, Hallowe'en was the first trip to Hogsmeade, and being two years too young would not stop either her or Flavia from going. Flavia wanted to oneup her sisters, and Fortuna, who had barely celebrated the holiday outside of accumulating a few candy bars, was eager to see what Wizards would do with it. 

She wrapped her scarf, which she'd transfigured from gold and crimson to yellow and black, around the lower half of her face. “Do you have everything you need?”

Flavia finished lacing up a set of monstrous hiking boots which, when she stood up, would add four inches to her height. “I'd prefer to do a proper Polyjuice, but this should work for now,” she responded.

Fortuna nodded and hiked up her hood. Then, as Flavia put on a pair of oversized motorcycle goggles, she lowered it so that her friend could receive the full brunt of her incredulous look.

“What?” Flavia asked. “Dogger lent them to me. I may as well use them.”

Fortuna conceded the point by pulling her hood back up. She settled back into the hollow she'd made for herself in the bush that was serving as their hiding place.

They’d gotten up so early they had to get their breakfast of buttery crepes and tayberry jam from the kitchens rather than the Great Hall, and snuck out the entrance during a convenient argument between Professor Sinistra (who had been watching the door) and Peeves. Thanks to warming potions, spells, and blankets, hiding in a bush on a moor for three hours was significantly more comfortable than it had sounded when Flavia initially pitched the idea, and they passed the time by drinking hot cocoa and discussing the important things in life.

"Alexander simply couldn't multitask," Fortuna said. "He can't be both our mascot and our guard dog. The strain would be too great for his canine mind."

“Point the first: he only answers to King George the Fluff," Flavia countered; this was annoyingly true, but it was only because he was a dog and dogs lacked sense. "Point the second: Harbinger is barely able to clean himself, let alone perform the simultaneous task of representing our nefarious organization. Therefore he cannot be our mascot, quod erat demonstrandum."

Fortuna flicked her book open with calculated disdain. "I'll have you know that Harbinger is most certainly able to clean himself. In fact, he is the cleanest cat in Gryffindor.”

That title actually belonged to Apawcolypse, but it didn’t matter. What Flavia didn't know couldn't offend Harbinger's dignity.

"Moreover, his name isn't just for show. He is what warns others of their destruction. He is a force beyond human reckoning, and that is why he must be our mascot because so are we."

Flavia was torn between claiming the title of force beyond human reckoning   and winning the argument, and drank her cocoa while she contemplated which side she'd come down on. "If anything," she finally said, after finishing it off, "Harbinger represents you , lounging around all day."

“I do not lounge,” Fortuna said, adjusting her lounge for optimal comfort. “I simply prefer to sit comfortably while I contemplate the mysteries of the universe.”

“And if by the mysteries of the universe, you mean The Secret of the Hollow Wand , whose secret is obviously that it is hollow, I—Hello. Daffy and Feely always said the carriages were horseless, but look at this."

Fortuna reluctantly abandoned her position and sat up so she could see what Flavia was talking about. Hagrid had finally (the sun was just rising) emerged from his hut, and he was making arrangements for the trip to Hogsmeade. These consisted of staging a column of carriages, each of which was pulled by a pair of bony black horses, outside the door to the main hall.

"They don't look like they'd be comfortable to fly on," Fortuna observed. This was her primary interest in things with wings, and she summarily dismissed the uncanny pegasi from consideration.

"Drat them," Flavia hissed after a couple moments. "They lied because they meant to take me by surprise...I bet Daffy screamed when she saw them and wanted me to, too." 

Fortuna hummed and returned to her book. She was far more interested in whether, once Nicosius Niceley found the real killer in time to save Chloe Clegane from the Dementor's Kiss, he would be foolish enough to propose to her.

They waited another ten minutes for the groundskeeper to finish his work with the carriages and amble off to attend to his other duties for the day. This was their cue to pack up, dash across the grounds to one of the rearmost carriages, and jump inside. The two of them kept their heads ducked low as they waited for the rest of the students to arrive so that an errant glance in their direction wouldn’t foil the entire scheme.

All told, she and Flavia spent another hour reading their respective books (Chloe turned down Nicosius, but something told Fortuna she'd be less reluctant in future installments) before the older students began to exit the castle. 

Once doors around them began to open and close, Flavia lost focus on her book. She'd brought a Charms text instead of a Potions one, thinking that her favorite subject would be too dead a giveaway.

Fortuna was more concerned that their physical characteristics would tip their hand. Remaining inconspicuous and unnoticed was a difficult prospect, considering Hogwarts wasn’t the largest school and both girls found themselves somewhere on the lower end of first year heights.

That was why she'd chosen this vehicle (Flavia had devised the plan, but Fortuna was nudging it into success). Instead of some nosy fourth years who'd ask themselves about the tiny third years sharing their space or even older students who would recognize the sibling of the Head Girl, they'd be paired off with a couple of third years who would be too engrossed in their conversation to notice them until it was too late.

A long-nosed redhead threw open the door at the last minute. “It’s rubbish that they aren’t letting him on," he complained as he hauled himself in. "You know what his aunt and uncle are like. McGonagall knows what they're like. It's not fair."

Hermione Granger joined him. She had to shoo him to one side because he'd automatically occupied the center.  “Honestly, Ron," she said, once they'd gotten situated and the carriages had started, "The rules are there for a reason. I don’t think Harry should be coming in the first place. It isn’t safe for him.”

"It isn't safe for him in our own common room, though, is it? He could do with some fun. You see it like I do, he wants to get out of the castle just like everyone else.”

“And what if something happens to him then, Ronald? Is a trip and some sweets worth him getting hurt?”

“ We're both going," Ron said defensively. "It's obviously worth something."

“Not worth encountering Sirius Black, though,” Flavia said wisely.

“I’m glad to see someone here has sense,” Hermione said, nodding absently along. She turned to her interlocutor, and whatever she'd expected to see, it wasn't two tiny, shifty Hufflepuffs.

It was interesting to track her thought process, Fortuna reflected. Hermione moved from smug satisfaction at being backed up to drawing the correct conclusion to outrage in a matter of two seconds.

"Fortuna," she said coldly. "How did your project on obliviation go?"

"I don't remember," Fortuna said, prompting Ron to laugh.

"Did you forget the rules about Hogsmeade, too?"

"What do you mean?" Flavia said. "We're fourth years. Fourth year Hufflepuffs."

They had chosen this lie based on the fact that nobody outside Hufflepuff could name a fourth-year Hufflepuff.

"Nonsense," Hermione said. "You're Gryffindor first years."

Ron squinted at them. “Yeah, you’re the de Luce kid.” 

Flavia scowled and flung her hair behind her with a wave of a hand. Some of it caught on her goggles. “I often like to consider myself the de Luce Empress, but you may call me Flavia,” she said in her haughtiest tone.

Hermione sighed and slumped back in her seat. "There's no way to stop the carriage now, is there. We'll just have to find a prefect and send you back the moment we arrive."

“We didn't think of doing this our first year," Ron said with a contemplative look. “But it's the kind of thing Fred and George would have done.”

"Don't encourage them! We just agreed that Harry can't come," Hermione hissed, "and he's in our year!"

Ron, who hadn't agreed to that at all, temporized.

"But it's dangerous for him because of Sirius Black, right?" Flavia asked, putting on her best reasonable adult voice. " We don't have anything to do with him."

Hermione hesitated, and Fortuna judged it was time to appeal to her inmost workings. "We just want Hallowe'en candy and to look at the bookstore," she added. She paused, letting Hermione take in the textbook in Flavia's lap and recall their encounter in the library. "Nothing dangerous, nothing like fighting trolls or smuggling illegal dragons."

"What—"

"How—" 

Fortuna shrugged. "Your brothers talk. Not always quietly."

"Well," Hermione said, rallying herself. “You would not believe the amount of house points we lost our first year!" 

Fortuna nudged Flavia's ankle twice.

"Two hundred," she said promptly. "If the same penalties apply and you tell on us, we'll lose one hundred. And since you were the ones who let us sneak out of Hogwarts, you'll get in trouble, too!"

"What? We did no such thing!"

Flavia let the silence hang. Fortuna folded her arms.

"That's—that's blackmail," Hermione sputtered.

"An ugly word," Flavia said, steepling her fingers (the effect was spoiled by her seasonally inappropriate, Hufflepuff-colored mittens), "and an inaccurate one. Mutually assured destruction is more applicable."

"It's not worth it," Ron said, defeated. "Everyone was so angry at us the first time." 

Hermione wavered as she watched Fortuna casually return her book to her bag. "Well," she said, biting her lip, "you know you'll get caught. You're really obvious."

"Maybe to you," Fortuna said. "But think about it. It's everyone's first time out of the castle and they'll be focused on themselves. And it's Hallowe'en, so nobody will care about us being dressed oddly. Besides, who else is going to be in the bookstore?"

Ron raised his left hand in a shielding gesture and pointed at Hermione with his right.

"I will tell a prefect if you even think about doing it again."

"And not a word about us if you get caught," Ron added.

"Of course not," Fortuna said.

"Never would I ever," Flavia said. " We aren't the ones who let Sirius Black into the common room."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ron asked with a none-too-understanding face. 

"What is he doing that he can waltz around the castle without getting caught to extract passwords from students? No, he had to have an accomplice. Someone let him into the castle and the common room. Who in Gryffindor hates Harry Potter that much?"

"Nobody," Hermione said with a none-too-happy face. "Nobody at school would do that."

"There's Malfoy," Ron said. "He was happy when the basilisk was hunting Muggleborns. He's trying to kill that bird you're so keen on just because it liked Harry better than it liked him!"

"Buckbeak, and he's a hippogriff, and you know that. But it can't be Malfoy, he's not in Gryffindor."

"So? Maybe Malfoy overheard it, or he beat up someone until they told him."

"Even if it was him, how would he have told it to Black when all the entrances are guarded?"

"How did he get in?" Ron said, then pointed at Flavia and Fortuna. "How did they get out?"

They forebore to comment.

When they arrived at Hogsmeade, Fortuna put a hand on Flavia's knee, keeping her in the carriage until the older students had disembarked. Hermione poked her head back in once Ron had gotten out of her way. "Don't think about doing this again," she said. "Perhaps this isn’t the ideal first year to start Hogwarts, but that doesn’t mean you can just disobey the rules. Right, Ron?”

The “yeah” he gave in return didn’t sound all that concerned, but Hermione seemed satisfied enough and dragged him off for a tour of the Shrieking Shack grounds...which Flavia and Fortuna had agreed to avoid, lest they connect themselves with the building. 

They kept off the main streets and wove their way through sleepy little alleys lined with croft houses, high off the combination of taking a holiday and the thrill of maybe getting caught. The candy shop seemed to have already racked up quite a lot of the students, so Fortuna and Flavia made their first stop for books.

“I just want to glance at their alchemy section,” Flavia said as they stepped in. Fortuna knew full well they'd spend three quarters of an hour here, but nodded. 

Ten minutes hadn't passed before Flavia was neck deep in the corner at one of the reading tables, her goggles perched precariously on her forehead. The shopkeep looked on with a shake of his head, likely confused at why such a young student was a) wearing heavy winter clothes and b) bothering to look through such niche texts, before returning to a book of his own. The store was otherwise empty; unsurprisingly, students weren’t interested to leave some books behind to seek out others.

Seeing that her friend was lost to the world, Fortuna wandered the stacks, digging through the novels. Strange titles, which probably would have made more sense if she'd grown up reading them, dotted the shelves. The Witches' Wardrobe , The Curious Chronicles of Walter Burningthorpe , and The Bewitched Warlock were just some that caught her eye.

When the last proved to be a romance, she hastily abandoned it and fled to the mysteries. Wizarding thrillers were interesting, particularly for the fact that she recognized so many of the plots and characters from Muggle books. The two worlds were evidently that separated, even though twenty percent of the Wizarding population was Muggleborn. 

It was that fifth, she realized, that was committing the plagiarism. 

Neat trick.

There were other, uniquely magical novels, and it was these she browsed. One book advertised itself as the search for the living head of some long-dead warlock, another purported to be the true account of a murder case that tore the world of late eighteenth century France asunder, and the list went on and she wanted all of them.

Unfortunately, stealing from a bookshop wasn't acceptable, so she had to be a little more discerning than when she was raiding a library. 

I want to know which three I'll like best and which aren't in the Hogwarts library and which can be bought for a total of less than seven sickles . 

Her hands collected three books and she went to pay for them, which more or less drained her coffers. As she went to find Flavia, she reviewed the dust jackets. One of her books was about Muggles getting kidnapped out of a wizard's countryside manor; one was about a fox, a deer, and a cat trying to find out who killed a wolf; and one was about a woman who had vanished into thin air while on camera.

“Find anything interesting?” Fortuna asked, cracking this third book open.

“Only that it appears the Hogwarts Potions curriculum is even more lackluster than I originally thought,” Flavia said. "There's so much research on combining Alchemy and Potions, and Snape won't ever touch it."

Fortuna peered over the top of her book to peep at the diagrams in Flavia's. The entire thing looked like gibberish. “And is this something else you think may help us out?”

“No, mainly personal interest,” Flavia acknowledged. "I don't expect Severus Snape to teach me much of anything, and I have to do something these next seven years."

"Aside from teach everyone else Potions and catch killers, you mean?"

Somehow this launched Flavia into a discussion on the prima materia, its relation to the hypothetical magnum opus which could conceivably be used to create a philosopher’s stone, and which only one man had ever managed to readily achieve. 

Fortuna nodded where it felt appropriate to do so, but mainly couldn't follow what was going on. At around minute six of the monologue, which ebbed and flowed with Flavia's enthusiasm, she gave in and asked her power what was going on.

It turned out that Flavia also had no idea what was going on; she'd come across a concept she had absolutely no understanding of, and was thinking aloud in order to work it out. Half of what she was saying was arrant nonsense, and half of it consisted of hypotheses she was formulating and rejecting on the fly. None of it had to do with the potion she was actually thinking about.

Fortuna allowed her attention to visibly wander. She fidgeted, looked around at the shelves, and even started drumming her fingers on the cover of her book until Flavia noticed.

"I'm boring you," she said.

"It's Greek to me," Fortuna conceded with a sheepish smile. "I didn't know that Alchemy was real until a few minutes ago, so I don't even know what things like this are."

Flavia looked down at Fortuna's finger, which had fallen, apparently at random, on one particular symbol. "Oh, that's antimony, the fifty-first element. The last time I had a lot of it, I blew it up by throwing it at—well, nevermind. I wonder what would happen if I crushed it and dropped it into an erumpent horn..." She trailed off, caught up in speculation that would resolve, Fortuna trusted, to her satisfaction. 

They left the stack of alchemy texts behind for the shop owner to deal with and continue their forbidden exploration. Flavia moved slowly, as she was wrapped in thought, hampered by her giant boots, and half-blind by her goggles, and Fortuna took in all there was to see and hear in a purely magical town.

A flighty song came from what looked to be a music shop, which was to be expected—except for the fact the lute in the window was playing itself. This was next to a magical smithy, whose owner was crafting a set of dragonhide vambraces. On the other side of that, a shop reeking of incense and sage peddled crystalline pendants and enchanted earrings. Finally, the smell of sugar and nutmeg signalled that they'd reached their second destination for the day: Honeydukes.

Bins of different confectioneries and sweets lined every available wall and surface with crudely drawn labels and prices above each one. Floating sugar balls and living frogs sat side by side with Muggle toffees and chocolates. Fortuna and Flavia shuffled around the store, grabbing and bagging small samples of anything that struck their fancy. 

Fortuna was enjoying everything until she ventured into the "Unusual Tastes" section and came face to face with a display of dark red lollipops. Why would strawberry suckers be considered an unusual taste?

Blood pops?

Her father's last seconds threw themselves into her mind, and Fortuna wretched. She consciously swallowed her gorge and tried to forget again. It didn't work particularly well and she drifted out of the store in a daze, not even objecting when Flavia insisted on paying for everything. 

The worst part of it was that she was hungry . Neither of them had eaten since four that morning, and it was inevitable that they were drawn to the smell of sizzling stew and simmering sausage emanating from the two or three restaurants the town boasted. Flavia subconsciously took the lead and steered them to the nearest pub.

It was then that Fortuna made a mistake, though she'd only know it in retrospect—not a vantagepoint she usually had to consider. She determined that the best way of putting the memory of her father's death out of her mind was to eat something hot and delicious and sweet, and allowed them to go into the Three Broomsticks.

The waitress seated them, took their order, and left them with drinks while they waited for their food. 

Fortuna seized the butterbeer and discovered that its name was completely appropriate. The amount of butter that had been incorporated in the brew to balance out the sugar was practically overpowering. 

Naturally, she drank the entire thing in one go.

When she lowered her tankard, Fortuna found herself blinking at an empty booth. It took her a moment to locate Flavia, who had been yanked out of her seat by a swotty young teenager who looked like she wanted to succeed Madam Pince. 

"I knew that was you, with those goggles you stole from Dogger!" Her authoritative tone was undermined by her needing to crane her neck to make eye contact with Flavia, who was still wearing her platform boots. "And nobody else could have such a squeaky little piccolo for a voice!”

This would be Flavia's other sister, Daphne, who had evidently decided that the best place and time to lunch with her friends was here and now . Worse, she and Flavia had removed their disguises in anticipation of eating, and the ramifications of that were fast spinning out of control. 

They'd gotten caught. Fortuna ended the transfigurations on their robes and scarves, so at least they wouldn't be punished for pretending to be Hufflepuffs on top of everything else. The difference didn't seem to make an impression on Daphne, who was still busy trying to contain Flavia.

"Let me go!"

"Oh, I don't think so. Au contraire—that means on the contrary —I'm going to go find a prefect."

Flavia wrenched her arm out of her sister's grasp. "You can't tell anyone that you saw me. Nobody will believe you. They know that you can't pull your head out of a book long enough to notice anything actually happening around you!" 

A red-headed teenager approached them. The headboy pin on the front of his robes spelled certain doom.

"Hello, ladies," he said in the most self-important way possible. "Is there an issue?"

An obsequious sort of smirk slid onto Daphne's face. “Oh thank you, Mr. Weasley. I was just attempting to tell my sister that first years are not allowed here and so flagrantly breaking the rules is especially dangerous right now. Look, two of them! My sister and...my sister's friend."

Percy's chest visibly swelled with self-importance. He grabbed each of them by a wrist and pulled them out of the shop—but not before pausing to relish in Daphne's unnecessarily effusive gratitude.

Fortuna started cycling through her remaining options, disposing quickly of each in turn. Killing the head boy was far too extreme, and she was annoyed her power even suggested it. Most of the rest of her power's suggestions entailed modifying his memory, Daphne's memory, and Flavia's memory, but she considered obliviation to be unacceptable.

To punish her for sparing his life, Percy Weasley began to talk—or, more accurately, splutter. “You should know better than to do this sort of thing, when you were expressly told not to! As a prefect I am appalled by your behavior. As a Gryffindor, I am shamed ." He inhaled deeply to steel himself for his next sentence. "I have no other choice but to take twenty—no, thirty —points from Gryffindor!"

If he'd hoped for a display of contrition, he was disappointed. Both girls walked by his side in solemn silence, Fortuna from habit and Flavia from a desire not to incriminate herself further. 

"Well," he said, when they arrived at the line of carriages. "Be honest, tell me now. Who helped you sneak out of the castle?"

"No-one, sir," Fortuna said. "We picked one of the back carriages and hid our faces."

Flavia picked up on the cue. "Girl guide's honor, sir," she added, leaving out the fact she'd been expelled from the organization with extreme prejudice. "We used only our wits and suborned none other."

That was so far over the top that a wide-eyed fawn couldn't have sold it, but the head boy was too caught up in resuming his excoriation of the deplorable crime that he had single-handedly foiled to notice.

He would not, Fortuna knew, stop until he was convinced that justice had been served; avoiding punishment would entail force of some kind. She could blackmail or threaten him; she could bamboozle him with a simulacrum of McGonagall; she could compel him to give their points back and leave them alone with magic. She pushed these thoughts aside, some more forcefully than others, and sat down.

Percy did not stop talking the entire ride. His themes were: the shameless skulduggery of first years these days, the shame they had brought on their house and Hogwarts, and how guilty he would have felt if Sirius Black had murdered them. By this point, Fortuna wished he had and turned her thoughts to pleasanter things, like what would befall them.

She saw with perfect clarity how things would unfold: the lecture from McGonagall, the confiscation of their sweets and even their books, the removal of another twenty house points, the promise of writing to their families, and the assignment of the month-long detention. 

Worse, Ron Weasley had been right about everyone else being mad at them. When all the other Gryffindors got back from Hogsmeade they'd see their hourglass short fifty rubies and they would take less enjoyment in the feast. And then Percy Weasley, being Percy Weasley, would make it known who was responsible.

Unless, of course, she used her power—but again she ran into the fact that it thought obliviation was an acceptable solution. There was another path she could take, which was to throw herself to the Dementors on their return and turn the resulting fainting spell into a medical emergency that would make McGonagall deprioritize her transgressions...

No. She wasn't ready for that yet, and she couldn't bring herself to use her parents to get out of a little trouble. The time to change the future was thirty-six minutes ago, and she'd missed it because she'd been enjoying herself. Was that so bad?

She looked for other ways to ameliorate things and found she didn't actually need to do much. Gryffindor would recover—she would arrange to pay the debt with interest, aided by the fact Flavia would be just as determined—and in the meantime their friends were all from other houses and wouldn't bear them any ill will. 

She could help things along by appearing supremely miserable about her detention in public; though Flavia would want her to appear stoic in the face of their trials, she could be persuaded to see the value in public penance so long as it did not entail discussion of her family. The part of their punishment that would actually upset her was knowing that her father would be told about her rule-breaking spree.

Fortuna thought about the Simmonses and how they'd react. They'd be befuddled by the owl, then reluctantly open the letter, then reread it to make sure they weren't in danger of having to collect her, then throw it out.

That realization stung a little, and she didn't have to fake being morose as the dark horses drew them closer to Hogwarts.

Despite the fact it was midday, coldness swept into the carriage. Flavia was finally brought out of her reverie, which had been devoted to the potential uses of lupus metallorum rather than the wisdom of Percy's remonstrances, and she drew a little closer to Fortuna. 

Dementors. Two of them, coming to inspect their vehicle. They'd been cleared out of the way when the bulk of the student body had left for Hogsmeade, but nobody had bothered to do the same for a single carriage.

Either Percy was far too busy expounding on their immorality to pay attention to the Dementors, or his way of coping with the worst memories of his life was sermonizing. 

"The Dementors," Fortuna interrupted. "I don't—" want to have to explain this . "They make me need to see Madam Pomfrey. Please."   

It took a moment for Percy to wrench himself out of his crusade-esque diatribe on rule breaking and another for him to comprehend what she had said. In that moment the dementors had drawn closer, hovering a scant few meters from their carriage, and she began to hear her mother screaming. Her hands gripped the carriage seat to stop herself from shaking. 

“Oh!” Percy said like a buffoon and leaned out of the carriage, casting a spell that directed a sickly silver mist at the Dementors. 

The creatures lurched back a bit, allowing the three of them to move on by. The Dementors watched them as they left and Fortuna watched them back, wondering if she'd ever be ready to deal with them. She tried to ignore the lingering taste of iron as the carriage moved through the gates to deliver them to their fate.

Chapter Text

It would be a damn shame if his godson had turned out to be a cat person, but Sirius was worried that was the case. Harry had seen him twice, and he'd been scared both times.

He was a daring flyer, though, brilliant even (and this was absolutely not bias in favor of James, it was a simply objective fact), and now it was Sirius's fault he didn't have a broom. So he sharpened a quill with one of the potions knives his intrepid pursuers had left behind in their lab, dipped it in ink, and started writing out an order for a Firebolt, to be delivered to one Harry Potter and paid for via the Black family vault. That it would place a small but significant dent in his fortune gave him immense satisfaction.

There was still a question of logistics: how could he get it to London? He'd probably have to rely on some carelessness on the girls' part, or hope they'd bring an owl in at some point. Unfortunately, they'd been spending less time in the Shack, coming later and leaving earlier because they were suffering from another prolonged bout of detention.

Which was the right and natural place for Gryffindors, in both his opinion and experience, but they seemed to view it as a cross between an injustice and a disaster. They'd learn to accept it in time; they'd have to, as he was fairly sure by this point that they wouldn't stop getting in trouble.

He caught himself smiling, and then he caught his mouth watering. He always smelled them first - rather, he smelled the food, which he could detect from a hundred yards away, even as a human. He hid the parchment beneath "King George's" pillow bed, which he only ever used when they were around, extinguished his candle, and turned into a dog.

Then he went downstairs and waited at the passageway entrance, because he was a dog, and dogs loved food and loved the people who brought them food and they brought him food and that meant he was their dog.

Not that he had to fake the gratitude. Hogwarts food not to be underrated or slighted under any circumstances, and being even slightly less than respectful to it after eating rats on the journey north and worse in Azkaban was sacrilege.

He went to Flavia first. Fortuna had the main course(s), and by now he knew that she was the one who acquired their supplies, but Flavia was the one who had some kind of chocolate in her pocket. He hadn't been around Dementors since July, but he still craved chocolate, and his dog's nose added a fresh layer of torment whenever he couldn't get to it.

She unwrapped the single frog she had and gave it to him before resuming the conversation they'd presumably been having in the passageway. "It's been almost a month and we've seen neither hide nor hair of him," she said, reaching through his hair to scratch his hide. He laughed, trusting the sound would be mistaken happy woofs of greeting. God, but he wanted to let them in on the joke.

And he would. His initial plan to gather strength, overpower them, and use their own wands to force them into letting him into Gryffindor Tower had fallen by the wayside at some point this month. When he'd escaped, he'd had no clear plan aside from kill Peter. Now he was thinking further ahead, and somehow attacking two children who'd done nothing but help him didn't fit into his long-term plans. It would be a hell of an impression to make on Dumbledore, make him look as deranged as they said he was...as deranged as he'd been in Azkaban.

(Not telling them was no longer an option. Someone had to mentor them in the art of trouble-making, and he'd fancied himself a cool uncle since the day Lily and James had told him that Harry was on the way.)

"I'm afraid the trail has gone cold," Fortuna agreed. She set out two plates of chicken tikka masala before him, and he fell on the nearest one. He wondered if they'd ever notice they were feeding him things that were potentially toxic to dogs. "And detention isn't helping."

Flavia sighed. "We don't have enough evidence to do anything, and we do have other priorities, like poisoning all our enemies."

"And getting house points back."

"I shouldn't worry too much about that," Flavia said. "We're already thirty-two points ahead and it's only been two weeks. I predict we'll be clear by the end of the month."

Fortuna emptied her bag onto the table. Potions ingredients. "Twenty-seven," she said, separating them into neat piles. "Professor Snape took away five for cheek. And it was entirely warranted."

So was the cheek, I'm sure, Sirius thought. He had to wonder what in hell Dumbledore had been thinking, making Snivellus a professor.

"So we're more than halfway," Flavia said loudly. "And you could probably get the rest in a day or two. I notice you've been showing off more in Transfiguration. Do that a bit more and McGonagall will be forced to give Gryffindor all our points back."

"I'm not showing off. I'm just making sure not to start my work until I know Professor McGonagall will see it. Manipulation of perception, not difference in action."

"Why do you hold back in class?" Flavia asked.

Fortuna looked a little taken aback, and she turned away from Flavia, busying herself scratching Sirius behind the ears. For all her loud and frequent assertions of feline superiority, she knew exactly how to pet a dog. "It's hard to say," she temporized. "I suppose I don't want to stick out."

Based off the incredulous look Flavia shot her from behind her back, this was a wholly foreign concept to her. "I know that much," she said impatiently. "I'm asking why."

"It's dangerous."

"Not for other people, unless you're worried they'll faint from envy. For you, then? Are you worried that people noticing you're a genius will set you down the path to becoming the next Dark Lord?"

"That's certainly part of it," she said. There was no humor in her voice, and her expression made him uncomfortable.

Flavia pulled back from her inquiry and made a show of stalking about the room in contemplation. "You know, I'm not sure our suspect list still stands. Harry's friends don't think anyone in school hates Harry enough to try to get him killed, with the exception of Malfoy and we're already dealing with him."

"Wouldn't have to be hatred," Fortuna said, very quietly.

How did she learn that?

"Maybe they didn't know who he was or maybe they thought scaring the Boy Who Lived would make them famous or maybe they were scared for themselves or maybe it made them feel important...Selfishness, not hatred. Without further evidence, our suspect list is useless. Anyone could have helped him for any reason. I don't think motive will help us here."

The conversation reminded Sirius of Peter, and he tried to distance himself from it by investigating the ingredients Fortuna had brought, because smelling them was what a dog would do.

Leeches, lacewings, knotgrass...

He realized what they meant, and his heart leapt.

Chapter Text

Saturday marked the first Quidditch match of the year. Students had shown up to breakfast festooned in their house colors, partly as a show of support for their team, but mostly to fight off the growing winter chill with additional layers of clothing. Fortuna had been excited to attend and see the team she’d someday be joining in action, but detention called.

Professors Snape and McGonagall had thus far been handling their detentions (the separation was, they had been informed, part of their punishment), but no head of house was going to miss Quidditch to wrangle a pair of unruly first years. So they'd passed the honor of handling their detention to a nakedly gleeful Filch.

The curator grumbled at length about not being allowed to scourge miscreants or put them on the rack in these latter days, and begrudgingly settled on hard labor. It was the only way he could get even with students, whose very existence offended him.

Fortunately, the bathroom she and Flavia were scrubbing was warmer than the storm outside, if no drier. It was a seemingly simple task complicated by the fact a ghost had decided that a life of undeath would be best spent haunting the school's sewage system. She had also apparently decided to share her misery with others as she made a huge mess of the bathroom every time they came close to finishing. 

Fortuna could have made her leave with a sentence and driven her to seek exorcism with another three, but Flavia was interested in her so she held her tongue while her friend worked to earn the ghost's trust—with mixed results.

“And what did it feel like?" she asked. She kept her gaze fixed on her quarry while ineffectually pushing loo water around with her mop. "To die, I mean?”

The ghost, Myrtle she called herself, swelled with a self-importance that exceeded Percy's. At least she had a better haircut than he did, though it was several decades out of date. 

"It was simply dreadful ," she answered, softly, reverently. She paused for dramatic effect—not to spare anyone from the sound of her voice, but to allow fresh tears to well up. “I was just so distraught because I'd been driven to absolute misery because Olive Hornby had been mocking my glasses , and when I came in here to sob my heart out—"

Flavia's impatience got the better of her. “I did not ask you how you died, I asked you what dying felt like.” 

The interruption seemed to offend the ghost, and Flavia, sensing her misstep, hastily began to elaborate lest she flounce into the nearest U-Bend. 

“I used to enjoy lying in coffins to get a feeling for what it must be like to be dead," Flavia said. This was partially a lie; she still enjoyed lying in coffins, and Fortuna resolved to ask her about that later. "Nobody in my family has ever become a ghost, and I had to forego asking the source in favor of visualizing things by myself. So, how would you describe the process of death?”

The ghost pointedly turned her back on Flavia and melodramatically prepared to make an ostentatious nosedive back into her preferred basin. She was going to flood the bathroom again and Fortuna wasn’t keen on having to clean up the results a sixth time.

"You're the only ghost we've met who's interesting to talk to," she said, intervening with her power. "We tried with Nearly Headless Nick,  but he only drones on and on about how he doesn't fit in with all the other beheaded ghosts. I bet you can tell us something that nobody else will."

Myrtle waffled between her tantrum and their flattery before making her decision. She affected an air of great woe and sadness as she turned back to face them. “I froze ," she said. "I seized up and I was floating, floating, floating…"

"Where did you float to?" Flavia asked. She abandoned her mop to rummage in her pocket for a quill that wasn't there because she hadn't brought a notebook to detention. "Above your body?"

The ghost vaguely gestured at nothing in particular. "Away. But I came back to remind Olive Hornby that I died because of her."

The conversation continued, but Fortuna was arrested by the possibility her parents had become ghosts. Were they as stuck as Myrtle was, chained to their ruined house and condemned to forever dwell on their deaths? Her stomach lurched. The Bloody Baron and Nearly Headless Nick bore the wounds that had killed them; was her father's slashed throat perpetually spurting? Was her mother— 

She wrenched her mind away from that path, and it obliged by barrelling down a worse one. Her parents' last act had been to delay the attackers long enough to secure her escape, but they hadn't lived to confirm that she had. They wouldn't know she was safe. Would they know she could have helped them and didn't? Had they spent the last several years wondering about failure, theirs and hers?

The tendrils of fog that had been creeping in at the edges of her vision solidified, and she brought herself back to the present. Her socks were wet. She'd frozen in place while she'd been thinking and had neglected to stay out of the way of Flavia's mop. 

“It’s usually quite cold," Myrtle was saying, "But mostly what I feel is emotions. That stayed the same, though it’s hard to feel anything but sad.” 

"That's only right," Flavia said. "You've had a hard time and being sad about that makes sense. Thank you very much for helping advance scientific inquiry. I'm sure we can figure out where you went if we work on it together."

Fortuna's first impulse was to tell Flavia to work on that once she'd finished scrubbing the grout, but Filch would undoubtedly be furious at their performance no matter how much effort they put into cleaning. It was why he had chosen this bathroom, after all. 

Instead she turned on Myrtle. "I know that hanging around after you should have gone is a habit of yours, but we need to finish our work and can do without you moping around ruining things. Unless you can pick up a toothbrush and make yourself useful?” 

Myrtle wailed. Since she didn't have to breathe, she could sustain it for dozens of seconds, and it ended only with a plunge into her toilet. 

Fortuna, who hadn't deigned to watch the performance, resumed mopping with significantly more force than necessary. She could feel the weight of Flavia’s stare on her back, but continued her work.

“Why did you do that?” Flavia said at last. She spoke evenly, but her words were clipped and Fortuna could hear the underlying anger.

Fortuna faced her friend. "We were both thinking it.”

"Actually, I was thinking of what my mother experienced when she died," Flavia snapped. She took a step forward, her fists clenched and eyes blazing.  "You interrupted me just to, just to—" She cast about for the most contemptuous possible characterization of Fortuna's actions. "Just to whinge. ”

Fortuna was forced to recognize the justice of the accusation. She let out her breath, squared her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that's what you were doing." 

The attempt at placation fell flat, and Flavia advanced on her, coming close enough that Fortuna was forced to back up, and her voice began to rise as she gave vent to her fury. 

"What other reason could I possibly have had? It was my best lead, it took me hours to get that far, and you just went and ruined it.” 

She ended with a screech and was left panting in the echoes of her yell.

"I'm sorry," Fortuna said before Flavia could catch her breath. "I was thinking how unfair it is that my parents are gone and she —well. There's no excuse. I should have known you had a reason and let you work." 

Flavia's anger ebbed as abruptly as it had arisen. She frowned as she paced around the bathroom, heedless of how damp the hem of her robes was getting. Finally she leaned against the sink. "Fortuna… if your parents were anything like you, they wouldn't have ever become ghosts."

Fortuna waited, aware of the possibility her family was being insulted.

"I forget you're Muggleborn sometimes," Flavia said, unconscious of the prejudice she was betraying. She tilted her head in the direction of Myrtle's stall. "She thought her grudge was too important to give up. So she stayed here, and just look at her now that Olive Hornby's graduated."

"And all ghosts are like that? Pathetic?"

"Yes. It's part of why you can't get them to talk about it in any concrete terms. You heard the world's most flushable drama queen. Breezed right by the choice she made so she could talk about Olive Hornby."

Fortuna thought back over the conversation and remembered that Myrtle had said she'd floated away and come back. She'd wondered about it at the time, but hadn't bothered to ask her power. Now that she did, it drew a blank—but not the same kind of blank as the fog. There just wasn't an answer. "I see," she said. "Which means that there's something wrong with people who become ghosts?"

"That's what some people think. If that's true, it's why we—the  de Luces, I mean—choose not to." Flavia rolled her eyes heavenwards. "Though Feely and Daffy told me Harriet only left because I was too horrible to look upon."

Fortuna recognized the shift in tone as a signal that Flavia wanted to change the topic. She went along with it, solemnly raising a hand. "I swear by every drop of bilge water we have driven and will drive from this bathroom that I will find you another ghost, a better ghost, before the year is out."

"I'll hold you to that," Flavia said, equally solemn. But she couldn’t keep from cracking a smile.

When Filch finally arrived to unleash his disapproval, Fortuna deflected most of the metaphorical spittle (though, regrettably, hardly any of the literal spittle) with her power. She didn't want him to ask McGonagall to turn the rest of their stay in detention over to him.

The detention had worn them both out, but they still summoned some energy for a conversation on the way back to Gryffindor Tower. Both of them wanted to fill the aftermath of their fight with something else, and Flavia settled on their mission.

"We need to be more aggressive," she said. "We can send him an owl and you can steal a broom and follow it."

Fortuna considered it. It would be simple if she had the right broom, and any one of the seven Nimbus 2001s in the Slytherin dungeons would be more than up to the job in her hands. "I could," she allowed cautiously.

"But?"

"I've only read about owls being intercepted, not followed. Would the owl's magic allow it to deliver a letter if its recipient didn't want to be found?"

Flavia sighed. "I suppose if that worked, it would already have been done. 'Dear Mister You-Know-Who: I hope this letter finds you in ill health. Please accept the attached bomb. Only kidding, it has already exploded, ha ha. Yours faithfully, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.'"

The mood in the common room was as morose as the bathroom they'd just left. Fortuna gathered that the Quidditch team—which was notably absent—had lost and picked up on a few darkly humorous jibes being passed between a few of the older students. Not only had they been flattened by Hufflepuff, they had been flattened by Hufflepuff because Harry Potter had fainted instead of catching the Snitch. 

Her power guided her to follow behind Flavia while she replayed the game in her head, leading up to the point where Harry Potter was swarmed by Dementors and fell from his broom. 

She held herself back from asking about the particulars of what he'd seen and heard; she remembered from the first time she'd asked about him that he'd witnessed his parents' murder, and she knew that was personal.

Having direct access to his mind was cheating in a way, but she thought that other people should be able to remember that their world's most famous orphan was an orphan and be able to extrapolate from there.

Unfortunately it did not seem that others agreed. She spent most of that evening listening to Romilda Vane and Louisa Amica speculate about why Harry Potter was so weak. The breakfast table was filled with students gossiping about Potter's problems. Jokes were tossed around the hallways, sneers were distributed by Slytherins, and with every word, glance, and giggle Fortuna felt herself grow more intolerant. 

She stabbed into a plate of bangers and mash, violently tearing the sausage skins apart. 

"You're upset," Flavia observed, not that it required an intellect like hers to make the deduction. 

“Yes,” Fortuna said, continuing to shred her sausage. “I am.”

"Not because we lost the match?"

She turned her attention to reducing the second sausage into its constituent parts. "Because they are making fun of someone for reacting to Dementors." 

The other Gryffindors would get over it, since all they really cared about was points and there would be other Quidditch matches. But the humiliation would stick with Harry , and it was a wound that others in his year, particularly Draco Malfoy, would pick at for the next several weeks. Malfoy would be supported by a Greek chorus of Slytherins and other students who wanted to curry favor with him or see Gryffindor or the Boy Who Lived taken down a peg. 

“Flavia," she said.

"Fortuna," Flavia said.

"I require your assistance."

"I am eager to provide my assistance."

"It seems that Draco Malfoy believes taunting Harry Potter is an acceptable passe-temp . The honor of our house has been outraged and requires satisfaction."

“Shall we poison him?” Flavia asked.

Fortuna nodded. “We shall.”

******

They waited to strike until the following Monday at Fortuna’s suggestion, which she made because she meant to twist the knife. It would be simpler to slip something into Malfoy's food on a weekend, but doing it on a weekday ensured that nearly everyone in the school, including all the teachers, would be in the Great Hall to see it. Doing it on the first weekday meant that it would dominate the school's weekly gossip cycle, not to mention disrupt Malfoy's entire week. Once she and Flavia were through with him, he'd need to spend the rest of term playing catch up.

Then there was her long-term plan of rendering the Malfoy family irrelevant. Feeling that perhaps she had overreacted to the awkwardness Fortuna had engineered a few weeks ago, Narcissa Malfoy had decided to make amends. She had instructed her son to play the debonair diplomat and work to mend things with the Greengrasses junior. He and Daphne Greengrass would meet during Monday breakfast to pretend to be adults and act out some facsimile of their parents' politicking.

Allowing them to succeed this wouldn't impede her plans, which were supposed to take effect over the course of several years, but she didn't feel like giving them an inch.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Fortuna walked over to the Slytherin table to say hello to Jessica and Astoria. A vial of a bluish liquid concocted by Flavia sat like a cocked gun in her pocket. Malfoy was a few seats over from Jessica, bragging cheerfully to his cohorts about the responsibilities his father was placing on him and how pleased his father would be to hear about his inevitable success. Equidistant between the two of them was a heaping platter of cinnamon rolls.

She had considered pre-poisoning his food by going to the kitchens and tampering with the roll she knew would end up on Malfoy's plate, but had determined the act would draw too much attention—from Flavia. Her detective friend would know that Fortuna had done something somehow and would attempt to pick it apart. Better to have an obvious show of action than leave Flavia guessing until her mind struck paydirt. 

Fortuna could feel some older Slytherins' eyes on her as she strode towards her friend and Astoria, though she acted as though she were unaware of them. Behaving as though a Gryffindor socializing with Slytherins was perfectly normal went a little way to making it so.

Astoria and Jessica, on the other hand, didn't notice her until she was leaning over them. 

“Did you remember to write your Transfiguration essay this time?” Fortuna asked, palming the potion in her left hand.

Jessica pretended she wasn't embarrassed—which was easy, as she very nearly wasn't. “I forgot one paper, not the bloody Magna Carta. Don’t come over acting like I’m clueless as Candi.”

Astoria brought the cinnamon rolls closer to herself. “Socially maladroit though Candidus may be, he can at least be relied upon to complete his assigned tasks,” she observed, and selected an especially gooey bun.

“I wanted to make sure we would get work done this study session and not have it devolve into another round of dueling.” While she spoke, Fortuna casually pushed the platter back to where it had come from, letting the vial in her hand turn over one pastry in particular as she did. The liquid lost its blue color as it sank into the sugary glaze, rendering the poison indistinguishable from the rest of the icing.

“Can’t get a cob on because I'm bored out of my mind,” Jessica grumbled.

“Yes,” Fortuna said, without the faintest idea of what would constitute putting on a cob, “I can." She dismissed her vague mental image of roasting corn cobs on a grill in favor of advising Jessica not to bully Angelique with disarming spells anymore.

This accomplished, she made her way back to the Gryffindor table and sat down beside Flavia before she could attract any undue attention.

A minute or two later, Percy Weasley arrived and chose a seat nearby so he could cast baleful glares on them throughout his meal. They were firmly cemented as troublemakers in his mind, and he had selflessly taken it upon himself to preemptively reprove them at every turn. His watchfulness would seal their alibi tighter than a thirty year old bottle of port.

The Weasley twins soon entered in high spirits that dampened everyone else's. They'd lately taken to experimenting on both themselves and younger children, and their good cheer signaled danger for anyone in their vicinity. When they saw Percy, they sat at the opposite end of the table—which coincidentally faced the part of the Slytherin table that Malfoy and cronies had occupied.

Not long after they'd settled in, Draco Malfoy reached for the cinnamon rolls that she had pushed his way, seized the tainted one, and took a healthy (or unhealthy) bite out of it. True to Flavia’s word, he didn’t seem to taste the difference—though even if they had made a mistake in brewing, the sticky blanket of cinnamon and sugar would have hidden any off taste. Draco chewed his way through it, and he finished just as Daphne Greengass entered the room.

He wiped his hands off, though not so thoroughly he didn't get a flake or two of icing in his hair as he smoothed it down, and proceeded ("walked" was insufficient to the pomp of the occasion) towards the young lady. She waited for him with all the regal seriousness a thirteen year old could manage. This was important business indeed.

Fortuna caught the corners of her mouth starting to turn up and hid this betrayal of her emotions by shoving half an orange into her mouth.

The scion of the house of Malfoy bowed to the scion of the house of Greengrass and she returned it with a gesture approaching a curtsy. He drew his shoulders back arrogantly, opened his mouth, and let loose a loud “Hee-HAW!”

Daphne recoiled. Draco covered his mouth and looked around for what he imagined was an assailant with a wand. All he saw was everyone was looking at him; he didn't see that they were looking at the long velvety ears sprouting out from the sides of his head.

But even he noticed when legs turned into a donkey’s hind quarters and a layer of fur spread over his skin. All the appearance of Pan without any of the talent.  Then a long tail burst from the seat of his pants and the force of the transformation made him pitch forward. He threw his hands out in front of him to break his fall, and they turned to hooves before they hit the ground. 

There was utter silence for a few long seconds.

Then Malfoy, whose face by now fully resembled that of a donkey's, brayed again.

The twins started to laugh, which was perfect because the moment the authorities' attention turned to them, there wasn’t a chance it was going anywhere else. As the rest of the hall followed the twins' example, Fortuna could see McGonagall’s eyebrows knitting themselves a blanket for winter and Snape leapt into action. He didn't run towards Malfoy, but he moved with purpose. 

Instead of doing the sensible thing, which was to stand still and wait for the professor to examine him—or doing the natural thing, which was to flee the hall entirely—Draco ran up and down the length of the Slytherin table heeing and hawing in blind panic. 

“I don’t see the issue,” Flavia whispered, eyes gleaming at the result of her hard work. “We only revealed Draco for what he already was.”

Fortuna smiled back, finishing her partner’s joke in her head. An ass.

Chapter Text

A lunar eclipse delayed their plan to re-infiltrate Hogsmeade. Polyjuice potion required fluxweed picked by the light of the full moon, but Flavia wanted to pick the limited amount of fluxweed available in the greenhouse by the darkness of a total eclipse for experimentation rather than mischief.

The full moon being out and about during the day had another, more immediate consequence than being forced to put off the implementation of their scheme until the following term: Professor Lupin was indisposed. So while a substitute teacher's presence in their Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom came as no surprise to Fortuna, she did wish it were anybody but Professor Snape.

Impotent rage had inspired the greasy-haired man to make his ordinary levels of nastiness look like the antics of a man who had dedicated his life to spreading sunshine and happiness. The professors had naturally been unable to prove that the Weasley twins had poisoned Draco, so in the eyes of the Slytherins, Gryffindor had humiliated them and gotten off scot-free. Pettiness from their head of house was their only recourse, and he gladly rose—or descended—to the occasion. 

He glowered at every Gryffindor as they entered, and glared at Jessica and Astoria for walking with her and Flavia. A thought roughly a quarter as unpleasant as the Potions professor himself crossed her mind. Would he retaliate against the Slytherins in her study group simply for associating with Gryffindors? The answer was yes—partially. He would leave Astoria alone, she was too well-connected, but Jessica would be fair game for subtler retaliation. 

The door slammed dramatically behind them and audibly locked. "Nine points from Gryffindor," he said. "One for each of you not seated by the time class began."

There were six Slytherins also standing up. Those who noticed this did not voice their observation.

"Nine," Flavia muttered. "Where's ten?"

"Three points from Gryffindor for talking out of turn, Miss de Luce."

Fortuna nudged Flavia's ankle to smother her hot retort, and the two sat down.

A timid knock sounded at the door a few seconds later. Snape growled and opened the door with a wordless wave of his wand. Becket Holt, another Gryffindor Muggleborn, slunk in.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for tardiness," Snape said. 

Then he launched into a furious monologue about the decrepit state of Defense Against the Dark Arts education at Hogwarts. The curriculum was well out of sorts, he opined (even though he knew Headmaster Dumbledore believed the position was cursed) and he would put it back in order in exactly one day by telling them about werewolves.

Fortuna almost preferred the Boggart lesson to this. At least that had been informative. Werewolves were not supposed to be covered until their third year, but he was foisting this charade of a lesson onto every single class he had the pleasure of teaching that day. This was an obvious ploy to maximize the chances someone would deduce Professor Lupin's secret and get him fired.

Then, without actually lecturing, he began to stalk about the room quizzing them. Child by child, the professor grilled his pupils on what they had all failed to read, awarding Slytherins points for the “bountiful effort” they put into their blind guesses, and removing points from Gryffindors for the "sheer buffoonery" they displayed. 

On the plus side, their professor's antics had completely erased even the slimmest chance that any of their housemates would care about the points she and Flavia had lost. Resentment festered like a rash, and the savage pleasure at the trick Snape was attempting to obliterate grew along with that resentment. 

The professor was not only a bully, but short-sighted. Every petty injustice he doled out only increased their classmates' appreciation of and amusement derived from the prank on Draco Malfoy, and the incident was fast becoming a legend that would follow him his remaining years at Hogwarts.

Professor Snape continued on in this manner for the rest of the hour, and it was with great relief that everyone left him behind to continue his tantrum alone, oblivious to the long-term damage he was wreaking on his own agenda. 

Once they had been released to go to their study group meeting, Astoria had the decency to look ashamed. 

“Professor Snape has been dissatisfied with how affairs have been handled," she said. She spoke with a self-conscious formality, imitating the diction she had overheard from adults. "He has expressed that dissatisfaction… gracelessly."

“It's a load of shite," Jessica translated. 

"I can sympathize with the general grievance," Astoria said. Her older sister, after all, had been a prop. "It was unjust to let the Weasley twins off."

"But there was no proof they did it," Flavia said, bridling. In truth, she was bridling at having received no credit for the prank, but the Slytherins took it as a reflexive defense of Fred and George.

Fortuna cut off the budding conflict with a change of subject that stacked with her agenda for the study group. "Is it all right for you to be seen with us? By other Slytherins?" 

Jessica and Astoria exchanged glances rather than immediately responding. They had already thought of the implications of the growing feud with Gryffindor and discussed them together. Specifically, they had discussed them after Jessica had broken the nose of a second-year Slytherin boy.

“We'll be okay," Jessica said. "But the third years are frothing to do something. You should watch your back in the halls."

Flavia waved a hand airily. "Not to worry, we use Romilda and Romilda's friend as decoys."

"Do they know that?" Astoria asked.

"To the extent they can be said to know anything," Flavia said. 

Astoria pursed her lips in simultaneous disapproval and appreciation, and Jessica turned the conversation to her intention to include practical methods of defense in their study group's activities. Fortuna privately approved of the idea and let Jessica adopt it as a plan.

Everyone else had already arrived by the time they reached their club's headquarters—Snape had kept their class late to remind them that werewolves dealt with being werewolves every full moon, just like the one they had today—and they had to figure out how to integrate themselves into the existing conversation.

Derek and Zachary stood by the chalkboard talking excitedly about Draco. Angelique fluttered nervously around them trying to figure out how to draw the conversation away from something as mean-spirited as gossip. Candidus was cycling between disapproving silence and describing his nearly front-seat view of the event.

Jessica, surveying the room, noticed her discomfort and headed towards the smallest boy with a grin on her face. "How are you doing?" She asked, giving a hearty slap on the back, nearly throwing him face first into the front row of desks.

He would have recovered himself, but the other two Hufflepuffs dove to help him. The confusion sent them all stumbling into each other, ending up collapsed in a heap before Fortuna could get close enough to prevent the disaster.

Jessica grinned at them. Even without the pile of eleven years olds, her height seemed to act as an anchor for the group. "Reflexes and coordination," she said. "Looks like you need to practice your footwork before we begin dueling proper."

"Dueling?" Angelique squeaked.

Jessica extended a hand. "Sure," she said. "A bit of real life practice."

"Candidus," Astoria said, pitching her voice to carry over Jessica's, "have you finished that essay for Herbology yet?"

Fortuna, who had seated herself and was pulling her version of the essay in question out now, reflected on how the Slytherins had naturally come to lead the group. There would have been more conflict had Flavia been invested enough in the group to assert herself or had Jessica and Astoria not been willing to act as partners. This was working out perfectly.

No surprise there.

Candidus caught Fortuna's smile and thought she was laughing at him. "I'm secure in the knowledge that my paper is exemplary," he said, trying for dignity but ending up looking and sounding stuffed. "As was to be expected. It would behoove you all if you turned yours over to me for corrections."

They settled down and did so with varying degrees of meekness. Fortuna ended up with a similar stack of Transfiguration essays, Flavia with Potions, Jessica with Defense Against the Dark Arts, Astoria with Astronomy, and the Hufflepuff collective with Charms. They'd split the dreaded History of Magic evenly.

They each worked through their stack in silence. Unfortunately, the Hufflepuffs finished first, leaving them free to meander over to Fortuna.

“I was hoping we could talk some more about Transfiguration, if Tuna was willing,” Angelique informed the othe two.

Fortuna was not amused. “You will find your homework much more difficult if you refuse to call me by my name.”

Angelique clasped her hands together and kneeled down before her desk. Fortuna noticed with some annoyance the Hufflepuff wasn’t that much shorter than she currently was.

“Please, Fortuna of the Most Esteemed Line of Florises, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong with our rat to thimble spell. It's so complicated and I don’t want to hurt a little baby—”

"Let me finish these," Fortuna growled.

Angelique rose. She and the Zacharies and/or Dereks beamed down at her.

"Hullo. Can—" Flavia hesitated, wondering which one was the correct Hufflepuff boy. "You come over here to look at this?"

Neither leapt to obey the summons—not because they knew about the confusion over their names, but because they were reluctant to engage with Potions. Snape had assigned them a pair of incredibly complex potions right before Christmas holidays, with additional homework due immediately on their return. Only he was so deliberately cruel; the other professors had assigned minimal homework in the knowledge that it wouldn't be done until the train ride back.

At least that was true for most students. Fortuna would be doing hers at the start of winter vacation, clearing the rest of her free time for...what? 

"Here," she said to Angelique once she'd finished. "Where's your thimble?" 

Even with the assistance of her power, it took her more than a quarter hour to coach Angelique through the transfiguration. By the time they were done, the rest of the essays had been passed back for later revision.

“Are you going to stay at Hogwarts?” Flavia asked.

Fortuna nodded. "Hogwarts will throw a better party," she said. She left out that the Simmonses would be confused and annoyed if she showed up. "And someone has to take care of Alexander."

There were other things to do as well. Likely more reading, or perhaps more nighttime exploring. That way she could devise a legitimate excuse to tell Flavia that she'd "discovered" more secret passages or, perhaps, the room where she'd found the diadem. 

"King George requires servitors who will respect his title," Flavia said with mock solemnity. Abruptly, she switched to persuasion mode and leaned forward, eyes blazing. “You should come with me back to Buckshaw. I know you’d love it. I wouldn’t want to impede if there’s a reason you’re intending to stay, but I know you’d love to meet Dogger. Ophelia and Daphne will be a bother as usual, but you shouldn’t worry about that. Oh, but then we could work a revenge on Daffy far away from prying eyes. You’d love the view, and I could show you around Bishop's Lacey, and—"

Flavia had regaled her with tales of her exploits at Buckshaw. The people, the town, even the grisly murders. It was always a reminder that Flavia had lived a full life before even meeting her, and she found that she wanted to see it.

 “Yes,” she affirmed, “there is nothing I'd like more."

 Flavia smiled back at her. “Then, perhaps we should reconvene after our study session to discuss the finer details, Miss Floris.”

“I would love to, Miss de Luce.”

Jessica banged a fist on her desk. "I would love it if you two would do our history essay before Binns fails us!"

The two looked at each other, expressing an entire dialogue in a glance, but hurried their way over regardless.

*

The final days of school whisked by in a flurry of ink and paper. The students who boarded the Hogwarts express on a cold and snowy Saturday morning weren't exactly free, but most of them would only bother with the homework on the ride back in January.

Their compartment on the train was practically identical to the beginning of the year, with the sole addition of Flavia. 

Fortuna's side of the room was reminiscent of a tin of kippers, with Flavia packed in between her and Angelique. Harbinger was sleeping on her lap as the gentle pitching of the train rocked him like a baby in a cradle. With the addition of luggage and assorted games, there was barely space left to breathe. 

Not that that stopped Angelique or Jessica—or Candidus—from holding hours-long raucous conversations about their plans for the next fortnight.

"My mother always hosts a ball every year for my father's company," Angelique said. "Everyone will be there, and—oh, no. Everyone will be there ."

"What's wrong with that?" Candidus asked.

"All my friends," Angelique said. "They'll want to know what I've been doing the past several months and I'll have to lie because I can't tell them about magic, and…" 

She trailed off and twisted her hands in distress.

"Tell them you went on an immersion tour in Kamchatka," Fortuna said.

"Be serious," Candidus said. "The girl is clearly fretting."

Fortuna shrugged, jostling Flavia and Harbinger alike. "'The girl' is eight months older than you are, and my suggestion would work. Are you going to any balls, Candidus?"

His eyebrows climbed. "Why—no."

Jessica elbowed him in the ribs. "Couldn’t get an invitation for that swanky thing Malfoy is holding?” 

Candidus wheezed and rubbed his side by way of response.

"What about you?” Jessica asked Flavia. “Did you get one? Or did your sister?"

“For your information, my family has no intention of going to anything held by Lucius Malfoy,” Flavia said. “My father would never even consider it. We will be going to church.”

 “Church?" Jessica's nose wrinkled. "On Christmas?"

“My father is friends with the vicar. We always attend services.”

Jessica shook her head in horror. “Singing the First Nowell till Christ comes home? My family throws a blowout for the holidays. All my cousins and aunts and uncles come round. Adults get bladdered, we start fighting. Dad’ll squat five kids. Queen’s speech on the telly. Mint.”

“Muggle customs are so strange,” Candidus commented and then quickly revised at the glare he received within socking distance. “Wizards normally give gifts and have food, but nothing like speeches or church—no rigamarole." 

Everyone looked expectantly at Fortuna, but she deflected the implied question by challenging Candidus to a chess tournament. 

She did not let him win even once.

When the Hogwarts Express finally pulled into London, the group separated, saying their goodbyes and exchanging final well-wishes for Christmas. She and Flavia's good mood evaporated entirely at the sight of Flavia's sisters, waiting for them by the entrance. 

For a few uncomfortable moments they stood in silence, the older girls unsure how to respond to the addition of a fourth person in their group. It became apparent that Flavia hadn't told anyone that she'd invited Fortuna. 

Ophelia decided to accept the situation, but shot an angry look at Flavia.

Flavia walked in between them like a prisoner off to be hanged until getting to the road. As soon as Fortuna had stowed Harbinger and caught up, Ophelia raised her wand and the Knight Bus came with a snap. They boarded, the driver giving a tip of his hat to each of them, and they were off to Gloucestershire.

Now that the novelty of magic had worn off, Fortuna found she did not care for the Knight Bus. Aesthetic was the only reason not to bolt seats down, and that aesthetic was worse than bizarre; it was disruptive to the comfort of her cat. 

While she was able to keep her mug of cocoa under control, Daphne's sloshed out of her cup and landed in Fortuna's lap—or, more precisely, on Harbinger's back. 

She might as well have struck a match to a bottle rocket. Harbinger was off her lap, yowling and rushing between legs and under benches. Fortuna flung the book she’d been holding aside, making sure it would land undamaged behind her, and scurried after her feline companion through the agitated masses of wizards heading home for Christmas.

By the time she had retrieved him and soothed his dignity enough he would deign to return to their place, Fortuna had fully devised a plan to put the Knight Bus out of business by the expedient of engaging proxies to create a magical transportation company that offered the exact same service, except with furniture that didn't move. She would start that evening, in fact, once Flavia was in bed and she had a level surface to write on.

“I’m glad to see you’ve finally found a friend your size," Daphne observed, neither apologizing nor lifting her eyes from Middlemarch. "It's a pity she matches your diminutive moral stature as well."

"She's short-sighted, too," added Ophelia. "Permitting an untrained, ill-natured animal to cavort about on public transportation."

"Feely," Flavia said, "does not wear glasses because she thinks they diminish the radiant shine of her ethereal beauty. The truth is she loses that radiant beauty once she can clearly see her reflection."

She said this casually, but she was looking out the corner of her eye at Fortuna's cat, wary of his owner's reaction. He was furiously licking the remnants of the offending liquid off his back in an effort to restore his equanimity and poise. Fortuna kept her face steady as she reflected that any guilt she might have felt about participating in Flavia's pranks against her sisters had been preemptively quashed.

"I wonder," Fortuna said, fixing an unfriendly frown on Daphne, "how you would react if someone spilled scalding hot cocoa on you."

"There's no need for wondering," Flavia said. "Empiricism is my watchword, the scientific method is my creed. We will dash the liquid across her back while she sleeps—not tonight, obviously, because expectation of observation would contaminate the results—but when she thinks she's safe."

Fortuna nodded along to this. "An excellent method of arriving at the truth. I accept your proposal, though I would suggest repeating the experiment under similar conditions to guarantee replicability."

"The implication I would act otherwise wounds me, Miss Floris," Flavia said.

Fortuna bowed to the extent it was possible while sitting with an indignant cat on a seat that was sliding around. "I apologize, Miss de Luce. I was merely thinking of experimental rigor, and I meant no such slight on your integrity."

"Oh!" Ophelia exclaimed with disgust. "Two of you!"

"Indeed," Daphne said. She'd abandoned all pretence at reading. "And why is that, Tweedledee? Can't you cause trouble at your own house?"

"No," Fortuna said.

Ophelia, who suddenly saw where this line of conversation was headed as clearly as Fortuna did, winced. She reached out to lay a warning hand on Daphne's knee, but her chair was suddenly whisked away by the bus taking a sharp turn.

"If even your own family doesn't want you around, why are you bothering us instead of staying at Hogwarts? We already have one barnacle stuck to us, and you aren't as charming as Anne Shirley."

“I watched my parents die," Fortuna said, conversationally. "Home invasion. Messy. I can't remember anything before that. Traumatic amnesia took everything but that moment away from me." 

That shut Daphne up as effectively as a knife to the throat would have, but Fortuna decided to twist it.

“Why would you use that as a basis to insult anyone, let alone your own sister's guest?"

With that rhetorical question, Fortuna reached into her bookbag—taking care not to disturb Harbinger—and grabbed The Murder at the Vicarage. She decided to ignore the older de Luces. She could feel Flavia seething beside her and it didn’t take long before she got up and swayed like a sailor down the aisle to the driver, with whom she spoke in a hushed tone. 

It was only a few moments before she headed back, gripping poles and people for stability.

“We are not going to go with them,” Flavia announced as soon as she sat back down. “We’ll be stopping by Inspector Hewitt’s home before we go to Buckshaw. They can explain our absence to Father themselves.”

It wasn't true, Fortuna reflected. The only one planning on meeting them was the man called Dogger; Mr. de Luce wouldn't emerge from his rooms until the following day. The comment still stung Daphne, who pretended to return to her book in an attempt to cover her mortification.

Fortuna found the antics of Leonard and Griselda Clement progressively less gripping as time passed, and she eventually let her book close so she could look out the window. They'd left London behind quite some time ago, and now they were careening through parts of the country she'd never seen—and, considering the Knight Bus's antics, she still wasn't seeing except for when they stopped to let off or take on another passenger. 

She considered making her alternate bus company more leisurely, but found the speed was part of the appeal for most passengers, many of whom couldn't apparate. Perhaps a side line in tours? If her venture earned enough, she could outright buy the Knight Bus and simply retire it. She planned and refined her attack until at last Flavia poked her in the arm.

Fortuna and Flavia left their baggage with her chagrined sisters and hopped off at the end of a walkway leading up to the door of a limestone cottage. It boasted two chimneys, several gables topped by a steep-pitched stone slate roof, and a well-tended—magically tended—garden, though the season ensured there were no flowers. Harbinger twisted out of her arms and jumped over the low wall that surrounded the lot. Fortuna understood his need to see everything. This place was perfect and anyone who lived here was worth knowing; they could let her inside.

“I can’t wait to introduce you,” Flavia said, unknowingly echoing her thoughts. She'd regained her footing now that her sisters were out of sight. “Inspector Hewitt is a good colleague of mine—though he won’t admit it—and his wife, Antigone, is the only other Witch in Bishop's Lacey.” 

She ushered her through the gate and up the path, nearly skipping as she made her way to a wood door. She gave three hard knocks and waited on her tiptoes, trying to peer through the peephole. It wasn’t long before she perked up, hearing the sound of footsteps inside, and stepped back. The door swung open and a woman stood in the entrance.

She wore Muggle clothing, jeans and a blue-green sweater that matched her eyes exactly, and both were set off by her olive skin and the black hair that cascaded down her back. 

Flavia stood enraptured, vibrating beside her, and Fortuna wounded if she needed to swat her just to have her calm down. "Mrs. Hewitt!" she exploded at last. "I'm back!"

“So I see," Mrs. Hewitt said with a smile. "It’s good to see you again, Flavia. I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days. Happy Christmas.” 

"Happy Christmas! This is my friend, Fortuna Floris. She's going to stay with us at Buckshaw. Fortuna, this is Antigone Hewitt."

Fortuna offered the best handshake she could muster, which was the best of all possible handshakes. "Pleased to meet you," she said.

"And you," Antigone replied. Fortuna suspected her of inwardly laughing at them both for the formality, but forebore from asking herself. "I was about to have tea. Would you care to join me?"

Flavia, who had been expecting and desiring exactly this, burbled about how they couldn't possibly intrude even as she was stepping forward to cross the threshold. 

There was a crash from down the hallway. Antigone had drawn her wand and thrust both of them behind her in the time it took for Fortuna to identify the sound as shattering glass.

"Stay here," she said very quietly, and set off in the direction of the room where the noise had originated.

Naturally, they did not stay there. They followed immediately, Fortuna with her knife and Flavia with her wand. They took their cue from Antigone, who was moving slowly and silently instead of barrelling into trouble.

But when they got to the room in question—a den or library—they saw there was no danger. There was only a man, unarmed, grasping the back of an armchair for support. He half-lifted one of his hands when he saw Antigone, but aborted the gesture to grasp his throat.

He opened his mouth—to explain himself, to beg for help, simply to scream—but no sound emerged. Instead from his mouth bloomed a single poinsettia, red as blood. 

Chapter Text

Antigone sprang into action like Diana of Versailles come to life. She ran past the man who had collapsed and through the broken French window that was behind him. It wasn't the first time I'd seen someone who'd been through the War respond to a crisis, but it was the first time Antigone had shown her experience.

I threw myself across the room and down by the victim's side. I recognized the symptoms at once as resulting from the Lydsprute Potion, the grotesque details of which had been exquisitely set down by Phineas Borne in Moste Potente Potions .

Unusually for Phineas, whom I ordinarily regarded as a most reliable colleague, no recipe accompanied the grisly description. I had felt quite let down at the time, but my disappointment then was now a clue: whoever had poisoned this man either had a much more exclusive source for the potion recipe or had deduced the ingredients and brewing process from first principles.

I wanted to meet this murderer.

And murderer they were. 

Even as I met his eye, I knew this man was already dead. A bezoar or a general antidote would work only before the seeds had taken root in the stomach lining of the victim. There was no specific antidote, and no hope of reversing the growth by the time the tongue had flowered.

But if I could delay things, even by a few seconds, maybe he could give some sign as to what had happened. What were my options? Think, Flav, think!  

I poked my wand at his throat. "Anapneo," I whispered. It was a spell Uncle Tark had once used to save a guest from choking on mutton, intended to clear the target's windpipe of whatever might be obstructing it. It didn't work, and I wasn't surprised—I'd never practiced it, and anyway it was his esophagus rather than trachea that was blocked.

His mandible cracked as another flower forced its way out of his mouth. I tapped it with my wand and muttered, “Reducio.” 

The plant remained unyielding. I tried again hoping for a better result, but was met with more failure. Magically resistant. I didn’t recall Phineas mentioning that, but he may have deemed it too obvious to be worth noting.

I pulled his shirt open and sucked in a breath. Phineas's illustrations, detailed as they were, didn't do the effects justice. His lower intestines jutted out noticeably through his skin and they moved, shifting around like snakes running over each other. Vines. Small sprouts shot their way from between his ribs, spiky tips ending in blood-stained buds.

All that came to mind now was the cutting charm, but mine was still sloppy and people's bodies were notoriously something one was not supposed to cut. Perhaps I could do something more precise with Fortuna's knife. I glanced to my side, half-expecting her to already be holding it out to me, handle-first, but she wasn't there.

I looked over my shoulder. 

She was still in the hall, slumped against the wall. I quashed the impulse to go to her almost before it had finished forming. She would understand. I stared back into my man's eyes, searching them for any hint of an attempt to relay information about his coming death. All I saw was an animalistic desperation and I knew all at once that no communication was possible. 

I took his right hand in both of mine and waited. As I did so, I took in everything from the glass I was even now kneeling in to the plain muggle shirt and trousers now stained with an ever-deepening red.

Antigone returned before he stopped moving, but after his eyes had lost their focus. She knelt on his other side, but he didn't respond to either the movement or the hand she placed on one torn cheek. "Janus," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

She looked up and met my gaze. "Flavia, would you please take your friend to the kitchen? She's ill. I need to call Charles and tell him...tell him there’s been an accident."

"Yes, Mrs. Hewitt," I said. I rose. Then I blurted: "You know it wasn't an accident?"

"I know," she said. She also stood up, then she cast a patronus. "Go to Gawain. Tell him Janus is dead and to come at once."

The silver rottweiler shimmered, then bounded off.

I started to go to Fortuna, who had buried her face in her hands. Like I’d fallen into tar, my footsteps slowed as I came nearer to her. I was unsure how to approach—even unsure if I should. Things like this didn't happen often, but she was always sensitive afterwards.

"Is she all right?" Antigone asked.

"She's like—" I bit my sentence off before it could end in Dogger . I knew Antigone knew about Dogger, but that didn't give me license to rattle on about it like Feely enumerating the alleged virtues of her multitudinous beaux to Daffy when Father was out of earshot. "She just needs some time. Here, I'll fetch her cat."

I needed to check outside, anyway. It was imperative I search the garden before the authorities arrived to tamper with my crime scene. If Antigone intended to bring Aurors into the house, and I couldn't think of anyone other than Auror Robards who was called Gawain, I wouldn’t be given a chance to search the grounds. And worse, Inspector Hewitt would most certainly foil any plans I had once he arrived. 

I stepped past Fortuna and went back through the front door and round back. Small shrubberies lined a low stone wall and rose bushes lay hibernating for next spring’s bloom. A small herb garden lay dormant in the corner of the yard and tucked between mundane basil and thyme I could spy more magical plants for potions. I was half tempted to take a closer look and nab a few for myself, but duty prevailed. 

I got on all fours and began crawling around the grass, keeping a keen eye out for any clues. Some crushed blades caught my eye and I followed the trail. It ended in a bed of pansies—rather, a bed of what had once been pansies. Harbinger was busy tearing through the remnants of the last two. 

"Cat!" I exclaimed, thoroughly annoyed.

He stopped long enough to make eye contact with me and resumed, clearly delighted in his work and my disapprobation.

"Come here," I said, grabbing for him. He dodged and put his tail in the air and strutted off, displaying his backside and the guarantee his insolence would manifest in future generations.

"You're lucky someone thinks you're cute," I called after him.

Unusually lucky. Fortuna wasn't prone to sentimentality or muddled thinking, but that cat was a blindspot. I'd often wondered how someone so tidy never seemed to mind her pants or robes being covered in gray hair. She was also allergic to him, though her overreaction to Romilda Vane's friend teasing her about it made me discreetly pretend not to know this. Most striking of all was the fact she preferred him to His Royal Highness King George the Fluff despite all that His Majesty graciously condescended to do for us.

I shook my head and returned to my work. I found another trail of tramped down grass, this one proving to be much more fruitful. It was obvious that my man had apparated close to the house and stumbled into Antigone's windows. I found his wand, which I left where it was so the poor Aurors would have something to go off of, and moved on.

Then I saw it.

Seasoned investigators such as myself instantly recognize the clue when they see it, and the one for this case was right there, crumpled in the grass where the victim had stepped on it as he staggered into Mrs. Hewitt's house.

It was a lottery ticket—a Muggle lottery ticket. I wrapped it in a handkerchief, careful (as ever) not to despoil evidence and contaminate the sample for testing, and tucked it into my pocket.

I contemplated making another pass around the yard, but I didn't want my absence to be long enough to arouse suspicion. I returned to the house by way of the victim's path and found Fortuna sitting at the kitchen table, frowning down at her palms.

"Your feline is misbehaving," I advised her. 

"Physically, chemically, biologically, and phlogistonically impossible," she said absently. 

"Horticulturally, an established truth. We'll have to make it up to Mrs. Hewitt."

She didn't seem to hear me, but—after a moment—put a thumb and middle finger into her mouth and whistled. 

I heard another crash at the window and some thumping down the hall, then Harbinger sprinted into the room. He flew into Fortuna's lap and flopped down, exposing his belly to her fingers. 

"You have a clue," she said, and held out her other hand expectantly.

I gave her the ticket. "I didn't find anything else," I said in a low voice. Whispering would have alerted Antigone, who was bent over a kettle, to the fact we were conspiring.

Fortuna's face suddenly went vacant, eyes taking on the expression of someone who was focused on a point off in the distance, just over the horizon.

I waited impatiently for her to return to the land of the living. I had learned not to be surprised or insulted by her frequent mental departures very early on, but I did wish she would be better at telling me where she went.

Finally, she spoke. "Flavia, I have not been entirely forthright with you."

I know , I thought; but I didn't let myself get excited. I could tell she was building up to something entirely beside the point, probably a joke—or, as was more usual with her, something like a joke. "I will hear your confession, Fortuna."

"We are avowed scientists, committed to understanding the world through rigorous empirical examination, yet I…" She flicked her hand and the ticket vanished. "Believe in magic."

I would have burst into wild applause if I hadn't thought it would be disrespectful to the man who lay dead less than thirty feet away. I knew how to palm coins, of course, but my execution had never been that smooth even with them. Cards were quite beyond me. "Show me how you did that backpalm."

She spread her fingers wide, then slowly rotated her hand so I could see she had not secreted the ticket along the backside of her fingers. "Backpalm?" she asked with an innocence so pure it could only be synthetic.

"Girls," came a voice from behind us. The inspector!

Fortuna was instantly on her feet. In fact she had already started to transfer Harbinger from her lap to her arms before Inspector Hewitt had spoken, though even my keen hearing hadn't picked up on his approach down the carpeted hallway.

I followed her, slightly less gracefully, and went forward to meet him. I held out my hand. "Inspector," I said gravely, as befit partners in detection meeting once again over a victim.

He took my hand, and if there was any reluctance in the gesture I could attribute it to the fact a man had just been murdered with a garden plant in his own parlor. "Hello, Flavia," he said wearily.

"A pleasure to be working with you again.”

Inspector Hewitt made a face at that, one that portrayed long-sufferance and resignation. I might almost think he was ungrateful for all the help I'd given him. “We don't work together, not before and certainly not on this case.” 

"Well, naturally this case is outside of your jurisdiction," I said, "but it is in your house and I respect that."

His eyebrows flew up, and he made some sort of throat-clearing noise that sounded something like you do?

"I can brew you something that will fix that cough," I said helpfully. "And Inspector Hewitt, this is my classmate Fortuna Floris. Fortuna, this is Inspector Charles Hewitt."

Fortuna's handshake was clean and precise. "It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Her speech had gone formal rather abruptly, and I could see the approval—and a positively insulting degree of relief—on the inspector’s face as he sized her up. A right good miss , he was probably thinking. She'll keep Flavia in check. I was surprised he was so easily taken in by superficial appearances, if he thought that Fortuna would ever be up to any more good than I was, or if he thought she was the leader of our detecting potioneers society—not that he knew about that, naturally.

"And yours," he said. Then he clapped his eyes on me like he was clapping irons on a suspect. "We can talk more on our way over to Buckshaw, where I will be driving you girls—once you turn your pockets out, Flavia."

My mouth fell open in sheer outrage—the effrontery, the impertinence, the gall ! Why didn't he trust me? And how dare he not make the same demand of Fortuna? It just went to show what he knew, she was the one with the evidence on her. I did as he asked, glaring all the while.

When he saw that all I had was my wand, a chocolate frog wrapper, and my now empty handkerchief, he nodded. "Thank you. Shall we go?"

We went, and as we piled into the inspector's car I noticed Fortuna was keeping up her share of the conversation without any of the unhappiness or distance she sometimes showed whenever she got into a funk. Whatever black memories had overcome her in Antigone's hallway had passed.

I turned my mental attention to her. Not only did I owe her some consideration after skipping over her in the hallway, I hadn't forgotten my previous decision to learn why she was the way she was—besides which I was certain Inspector Hewitt would be able to hear me thinking about the ticket I'd found if I dared contemplate it.

I still didn't know what to make of her. To see her so easily felled, and by a bit of showy potioneering no less, spoke to something more than what she had previously let on about her experiences. Something more serious than the flippant allusions she used to put my beastly sisters in their place warranted.

And there was still something else.

She had all but told me that the woman her boggart had turned into was herself, then followed it up with a declaration she could rule the world—a declaration she hadn't gone back on. 

Even though I knew about her casual, practically effortless brilliance—which she actively concealed from our other classmates and even our professors—I still didn't see why she was so confident about that. 

Or afraid of it. 

I almost, almost considered not warning her that Buckshaw did have occasional boggarts, just to see what would happen if she came across one again—but the thought was unworthy. I was ashamed.

To make up for it, I casually shifted position, resting my hand closer to hers than it was before. Approaching Fortuna was much like a cat; slowly and carefully while it assessed your intentions. One corner of her mouth turned up, she gave a slight nod, placed her hand over my own, and squeezed.

Chapter Text

The winter solstice dawned well after Flavia and Fortuna had risen. Time and tide waited for no man, and vengeance waited for no ball of flaming gas. For too long had Daphne de Luce rained down terror on Gryffindor adventurers and cocoa on the backs of sleeping felines, and today was the day of reckoning.

Flavia danced about her cauldron, taking little half steps and twirling, whispering faux Latin (and, occasionally, true Latin) as she stirred in splashes of an oily red liquid that stained the bubbling mixture a deep vermillion.  Aside from the gasmask and safety goggles, she looked every bit the witch that she truly was, despite the fact her current work was as mundane as the Bunsen burner powering it—the potion was but a mix of hydrogen peroxide and dish soap. 

She was showing off.

"So," she said authoritatively. "The combination of hydrogen peroxide and potassium permanganate will produce a rapid expansion of gas, which a sufficient medium could trap, leading to an explosive increase in the size of said medium. With the addition of cadmium dye, well—let's just say that books will not be the only thing being red today.” 

No place on earth so perfectly fit Flavia de Luce as her bedroom. Unlike the hodgepodge of stolen equipment assembled in the Shrieking Shack, the chemistry laboratory Flavia had taken for her residence had all the capacity and grandeur of an Oxford research facility. The room was circular, owing to the tower it was located atop of, and any way Fortuna turned she saw nothing but glassware, vials both empty and stoppered to keep their different contents safely contained, and books of every shape and size, all the legacy of Flavia's Great Uncle Tarquin. 

An inventory would take weeks by itself, but Flavia had spent years here, and it showed in the details. Surfaces had knicks and scratches as well as deep stains where potions or chemicals had tipped over and spilled, defiant against any attempts to clean them. Notes were scattered here and there, either torn from books or jotted on looseleaf mid-experiment. Books were stacked among empty glasses, arranged so that someone of Flavia’s height could reach them without much difficulty. Even the chemicals had small hand-written annotations on them, linking back to pages no doubt detailing how they were prepared. For all that it felt like a repository of learning to be treated with deep reverence, this was no museum. 

As Flavia continued her work, Fortuna settled down on her stool and allowed her power to pull her away for a moment. The murderer, a man called Walden for reasons known only to his inordinately cruel parents, was in his London office doing work of no paticular importance. It seemed that if he didn't have innocent men to poison or innocent animals to butcher, he stood around making small talk with the other wizarding bureaucrats that filled up the magical government.

He hadn't yet made the decision to come to Bishop's Lacey on Christmas Eve, where he would arrive shortly before the clock struck midnight. But, after a week of avoiding his unsavory friends, he would eventually move to recover the lottery ticket—and she would be waiting. Not one other person would get hurt; she was as sure of it as it was possible for anyone to be sure of anything, but checking and rechecking his position and state of mind had still become something of a reflex over the past two days.

On some unseen signal, Flavia grasped the handles and lugged the cauldron to a clean borosilicate beaker positioned on a low table. With a huff she tipped the solution out and it slowly poured. It was what blood would look like in a bad horror movie, all runny without any of the clot. It turned Fortuna's stomach, and she closed her eyes as Flavia finished the process. 

The cauldron clonged on the floor and Fortuna dared look again. Flavia held the jar aloft. “Behold the genesis of our retribution.”

“I behold the means by which your sister's evil shall be returned sevenfold and see that it is good," Fortuna said.

"It is very good," Flavia said, taking a moment to study her chemical creation. “But we need to make it go bang, and for that we need the catalyst. Could you hold this for a second?”

Fortuna couldn't quite control her expression in time, and Flavia hastily switched tracks. “Actually, if you would be kind enough to grab the Potassium Permanganate, I will carry this mixture to ensure its stability."

Flavia gave a vague nod at the rows of chemicals behind Fortuna, who used her power to pick a glass bottle out of the endless rows of colors and shapes. It was full of purple crystals that looked almost like metal shavings and meant nothing to her. When she turned, she found Flavia's weighty gaze locked onto her like a cruise missile. "How did you know which one I wanted?"

"A brilliant chemist inspires brilliance in her lab assistants," Fortuna said handsomely. "Let us implement our flawless scheme whilst our target is yet innocent of our dastardly intentions."

Unable to argue with either the statement or the suggestion, Flavia led the way down the stairs and into the west wing of Buckshaw. As they approached Daphne's bedroom, they began to tiptoe, pausing behind every corner to make sure the coast was clear before proceeding. 

Such precautions weren't really necessary; Flavia asserted (and Fortuna privately confirmed) that, true to her form on holidays, Daphne would be sitting in her bath, attempting to refresh herself from an all night reading binge while simultaneously starting an all day reading binge. They’d have plenty of time to lay the snare and get breakfast before enjoying the show.

When they finally arrived, they carefully pushed the door open and checked both sides for traps before entering. It transpired that Daphne had, in her arrogance and folly, laid no defenses against intruders.

The unguarded bedroom was a monument to the written word. Bookshelves lined every wall save for a writing desk that was itself heaped with towers of leatherbound texts. The full glory of the English language was on chronological display, from Chaucer to Shakespeare to Austen to Waugh, but there were very few personal effects to be found. In its own way, the single-focused enthusiasm for one area of study was so like Flavia's room that it took Fortuna aback for a moment. 

“Perfect," Flavia said sotto voce , and she beelined for the nightstand, where a copy of Bleak House lay atop four other books. "I knew she had to be reading some big old book that would put even Binns to sleep. I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten a concussion from passing out during her studies.” 

She pulled the book open and beckoned Fortuna over, placing her beaker on one page and grabbing Fortuna’s to sprinkle a layer of crystals on the other. “Sigillum,” she said, firmly poking the page with her wand.

The book slammed shut, the chemicals disappearing inside of it. Flavia held her breath and froze in place, waiting to see whether the book was going to explode.

It did not, and the conspirators withdrew in triumph and made their way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Mullet was bustling about making breakfast. If there had ever been house-elves at Buckshaw, the fact had been lost to the dustbin of history (which, so far as Fortuna was concerned, was just another way of saying "history"), and Mrs. Mullet had been the housekeeper and cook since Flavia's mother had hired her during the war. 

Housekeeper was certainly a more apt word than cook . No sooner did she spot her first victims of the day than she deposited two heaping plates on the table. One look at the meal, if it could be called that, laid waste to any thoughts of an enjoyable breakfast, or anything short of voluntary starvation.

There was an omelet, or at least a jellified mass of scrambled eggs that had started out with aspirations of omelethood. It was stuffed with mandarin orange slices and topped with what appeared to be scallions but proved to be mint on close (too close) inspection. 

The accompanying kippers had also been thoroughly stripped of their dignity. The charred flesh had been coated in some abominable paste of spices that could make no gastronomical sense save to someone with the unparalleled talent of Mrs. Mullet and burnt shards of peppercorn had grafted themselves onto the underside of the poor fish whose lives had been cut short for this fate.

"Thank you," Flavia said with a toothy anti-grin that did not so much fail to reach her eyes as it did avoid them out of conscientious objection.

Mrs. Mullet beamed at them both. "I know you girls have been up working in that lab of yours, so I made double portions for both of you."

Seeing that Flavia was not up to delivering a second lie, Fortuna stepped in. "Thank you," she said, appearing more gracious than her friend only because she had a superpower of nigh-incomprehensible might to guide her facial expressions. 

Mercifully, there was an explosion. It was followed by a much louder shriek, which in turn was followed by slamming doors, thudding footsteps, and sputtered curses.

Like a monster risen from the muck of an ancient, evil-smelling bog, Daphne appeared in the doorway. Each breath she took was a heaving gasp that seemed to shake her whole body, and she dripped with effervescently red suds that coated every bit of her. She was shaking with barely contained rage, each quiver splashing cadmium-dyed soap onto the floor, and her eyes were wide and wild as she scanned the room. 

Finally her malicious gaze focused on Flavia. "You," she spat, foam dribbling out of her mouth and staining her chin, "You—you foul defacer of God's handiwork! You—" She tried to shake herself off, not unlike Alexander when Flavia had spilled some gelatine on him, but succeeded only in covering the kitchen with bright red bubbles and distressing Mrs. Mullet.

Then she caught sight of Fortuna, who was choosing not to hide her smirk. "Both of you—you pernicious toadstools! You nasty, squirming, viperous little worms! You, you—” 

But sometimes words escaped even Daphne de Luce, and she resorted to violence to express her feelings. She leapt across the kitchen like a rugby player, cruelty flaming in her eyes. Fortuna just barely managed to pull Flavia and herself out of the impact area, and Daphne went sliding over the table, carrying with her the plates of alleged food and mugs of milk past their chairs and onto the floor. Accompanied by a series of outraged noises from Mrs. Mullet, they ran in the direction from which Daphne had come, and with Fortuna's help gained some ground by sliding along the soapy trail.

Daphne gave chase, abandoning all pretense of decorum. She started out on all fours like a rabid she-bear, but transitioned into a sprint as soon as her footing became more steady, shouting decreasingly creative diatribes with every breath she could manage to get in. She was wheezing, but—bookworm though she was—her longer legs would enable her to catch up to them soon enough.

So Fortuna led them all into an occupied corridor. While she could dodge around the cluster of adults, first Flavia and then Daphne collided with them, setting off a domino-like chain reaction as they all fell one after the other. 

By the time the dust had cleared, only Fortuna and a scarred and battered man with a false leg and a magical eye were left standing, and only Fortuna was left untainted by the soap that Daphne had brought with her. True to Flavia's word, the cadmium dye provided that gory hue that pushed her creation from party trick to abbatoir, and it looked like a dozen Palace Guards had been massacred in the hallway.

The writhing mass of limbs on the floor did nothing to decrease the general unpleasantness of the sight. Flavia, Daphne, Antigone Hewitt, and three Aurors were all tangled together, all fighting to free themselves and completely preventing the others from doing so. One of them, sensing the futility of the fight, simply glared at the man standing next to Fortuna. “Couldn’t have given me a warning, Mad-Eye?”

This momentarily caught Fortuna's attention. Did he mean that "Mad-Eye" was supposed to be able to tell the future? She shot a glance at him, wondering if he was something like her—but no, he could just see through walls with a magical device. And he'd also told the others not to worry about the explosion and screaming.

He snorted. “I had hoped an entire team of Aurors and veterans wouldn't be taken out by schoolgirls. Haven't I taught you anything, Robards?” 

At this, Flavia’s head peeked out between the two women and she crawled her way out, acting as the lynchpin that seemed to allow the rest of them free. She zeroed in on the man with the magic eye.

"You're Ma—You're Alastor Moody," she announced with the formality that signaled to Fortuna that she was about to say something outrageous. "I am Flavia de Luce and I would be willing to let you consult with me on poisons."

Fortuna’s power informed her that the man was something of a war hero or/and a paranoid maniac, and Flavia had heard more than one horrific story about his actions. She was utterly enamored. 

"I consult with people old enough to use a wand outside of Hogwarts," Moody growled. 

"But I didn't use magic for this," Flavia squeaked, mostly truthfully. "It's just Muggle chemistry!"

All eight of them looked around. Fortuna had gotten used to the occasional condescending remark when Flavia mentioned her interest in the sciences, but not a word left anyone’s lips. The proof of her abilities lay splattered across the ghastly clot-red and mustard-yellow wallpaper like the leavings of an ax-murderer’s handiwork. 

The Aurors themselves and even Antigone—who presumably was more familiar with what Flavia could do than the others—looked deeply uncomfortable at being coated in what looked like the remnants of a blood bank. Finally Moody,  seeming to remember he was a wizard and not a police officer with a fancy stick, waved his wand and the dye dissolved in a series of bubbles.

"Girls," Antigone asked, as she watched the remnants of the elephant toothpaste float off and vanish, "what were you doing ?" 

Daphne's look soured even further and she jabbed a finger at Flavia, who was ostentatiously dusting herself off. " She is a secret and villainous contriver."

Abruptly both of Alastor Moody's eyes focused on Daphne. "And you knew this before this morning?"

"I've known it all her life," Daphne said haughtily. 

"And you still fell for a trick of hers, did you? I shouldn't have vanished the evidence, then, having you clean it up could have been a learning experience."

Daphne's eyes widened and, at a loss for words and parental authority, she turned on her heel and left with as much dignity as she could summon. This was very little even though she was no longer covered in foam. "Fungus and fungus food," she hissed at Flavia and Fortuna on her way out.

"An hour wasted on Haviland," grunted Auror Robards as he turned to leave, and Fortuna only then realized that the adults had been visiting Flavia's father. "I knew we wouldn't get anything out of him."

Antigone opened her mouth, but Flavia had already stiffened and stepped forward. "If you know so much, tell me the name of the poison that killed Janus, how it is made, how long it takes to kill, and what all of that implies about both the killer and the victim. Furthermore , if you are going to handle this case so incompetently, one is compelled to ask—where were you on Friday night?"

The man's mouth flapped open and closed, increasing his already strong resemblance to a fish.

“You want a leg like mine, Gawain, keep chewing that foot of yours," Mad-Eye Moody grunted. “As for the rest, girl—we already know that Wolpers knew his killer. Trust us to do our jobs."

Flavia settled for stonily silent hauteur, but she pulled it off less well than her sister Ophelia.

As the rest of adults rounded the corner, Fortuna got the sense Moody was still staring at them through the wall. She used her power to stare right back at him, tracking right where he walked without blinking until he finally looked elsewhere. 

By the time she'd won her staring contest, Flavia had relaxed and was acting like nothing had happened. "A success, Dr. Bosch, a brilliant and stunning success!" 

"An absolute and flawless victory, Dr. Haber," Fortuna said, steering them back toward the lab (and further away from the kitchen). "Let us congratulate ourselves by consuming edible fare fit for a living thing. Any living thing, fungi included." 

Flavia heaved a sigh, pointedly ignoring the open door to her father's study as she strode past it. "We can make toast and tea over the bunsen burner. And serve it with sugar mice. Again."

Fortuna ventured a look. Haviland de Luce stood with his back turned to them, staring out the window at the deteriorating Buckshaw grounds. Dust had settled everywhere and untidy stacks of envelopes sat unopened on his desk. How long had he been there? Fortuna realized she hadn’t seen the man once since she had come to Buckshaw two days ago. She'd been so caught up in the case and their schemes, she’d completely forgotten there should have been someone to tell them not to use their wands and stop them from eating candy for three meals a day.

And to think that Flavia had said the de Luces didn't become ghosts.

By the time they finished their breakfast, Flavia was ready to discuss the purpose of the Aurors' visit, if not whom they had visited. The mystery had occupied most of Flavia's attention since their arrival, and they'd spent their first day in the nearby village trying to uncover some critical information. They had investigated the inn (no new customers), the town's only taxi stand (no new customers), and the police station (Flavia, leave), finding nothing that would point to a criminal element deeply embedded in the fabric of an out-of-the-way village.

"We need to go to Bishop's Lacey again," she announced. "Lottery results will be in the papers, and I have a hunch our ticket is the winner."

"There wouldn't be a point in killing someone with extremely dark magic over a losing ticket," Fortuna said with a nod. 

" Esoteric extremely dark magic," Flavia said, and her eyes went to the tome of horrific potion recipes they'd consulted (rather, that Flavia had consulted and Fortuna had studiously ignored on account of the grisly illustrations). "The recipe isn't written down in the usual places, and I don't know of anyone living who could deduce its contents based on its effects, not unless Snape is really hiding something. It's more likely the killer found the existing Lydsprute seeds somewhere rather than brewed the poison himself—or herself."

Definitely himself, Fortuna knew, and she also knew Flavia's guess about the seeds was spot-on. Walden Macnair had access to a lot of dark objects through a combination of his job and his similarly low-life friends. "And it's slow," she said. "That potion. So he knew he was dying and he went to Mrs. Hewitt because he thought she would be able to do something… not for him, but with the ticket?"

"It must tie back in with the war. If the Aurors won't tell us, and Father won't tell us…" Flavia chewed on the end of one of her pigtails. "We're going to talk to Dogger, and we'll bike to Antigone’s house after. It's your fault we have to fix her garden."

Fortuna magnanimously did not acknowledge the slander.

Arthur Dogger was in the old greenhouse when they sought his counsel. He was moving bags of potting soil with his wand, his pace slow and wandwork sloppy. The bags shook with every movement and it was obvious they were resisting his attempts to transport them with a first year spell.

Flavia made sure to knock at the door before entering and stomped her way forward for good measure. The older man—he wasn't that old, it was just that the lines across his face made him look middle-aged instead of in his late thirties—seemed to take a second before looking her way with dark, soulful eyes that looked all the darker and more soulful because they were set under a heavy brow and a receding widow's peak. “Is there something I can help you with, Miss Flavia?” 

Flavia walked over and sat herself down on an upturned pot for a rather large plant, and Fortuna stopped and stood a bit behind her, making her presence as unobtrusive as possible. She could easily participate in the conversation, but Flavia was something like possessive when it came to Dogger and his past.

It made Fortuna uncomfortable, knowing that Flavia so frequently compared her to this man. As she observed how carefully Flavia trod, literally and metaphorically,  so as not to disrupt his mental balance, she was a little embarrassed. The idea that she was so fragile, so easily shattered, sat in her gut worse than the self-styled "dinner" Mrs. Mullet had inflicted on them the night before.

“Dogger," Flavia said brightly, "how would one go about gardening?” 

“Why, Miss Flavia, I believe I’ve got that matter handled.” 

“Oh—no, Dogger," Flavia said, rushing to reassure him in case she had caused offense. "I’m not coming for your job! You see, we agreed to help Antigone with her flower garden because Fortuna’s cat made a mess of it.”

"Harbinger would never make a mess,” Fortuna said with alacrity, though she knew full well that Dogger had gently dissuaded the said Harbinger from eradicating the Buckshaw herb garden more than once by this point. “The pansies were disorderly and he corrected them.”

Flavia elbowed her. “But still, we owe it to her to fix things, don’t we?”

Dogger rubbed one cheek as he considered the question. “Well, Miss Flavia, I haven't seen the damage myself, but if the plants can be saved you won't need to do anything. If young Master Harbinger disrupted the root systems, you might have to replace them entirely. You can't do that until it's warmer, so you would have to remove the plants now and wait…"

The duo waited a moment to see if the man would continue, but instead his gaze slipped and he started looking somewhere past the two of them. 

“That’s all good, then, Dogger, thank you for the advice!” Flavia said brightly. "Say, did you ever know Mrs. Hewitt before? Just after you left school?"

“I might have, Miss Flavia. It's difficult to say.” 

“Do you know if she ever worked with a man named Janus?” 

Dogger, nobody's fool, did not answer the question. "You're planning on catching his killer."

"You know we have to, Dogger. Anything that could help…?"

This time, Dogger made his way over to a bench and sat down. Both his hands clasped tight to his thighs like he was worried about losing them. “I believe she was involved in a lot of things. We all were back then.” 

"During the war?" Flavia prompted.

"Just so, Miss Flavia. Mrs. Hewitt and Mr. Wolpers were tight as could be. They worked side by side as much as they could. Like a brother and sister, they were that close."

“Do you think they may have made any enemies?”

“We all made enemies, Miss Flavia. There wasn’t anything but enemies. Mr Hewitt and I…” the man trailed off his eyes seeming to focus on something beyond them. 

Dogger didn’t speak for a minute and then two. Flavia seemed happy to stay quiet and wait for him.

Then, suddenly, she said: "So there's really nothing we can do to fix the pansies today?"

Dogger’s gaze didn’t quite refocus, but his eyes turned in their direction. "I'm afraid not. You'll have to wait until spring."

"Right, well, we'll have our work cut out for us then. Thank you, Dogger!"

Flavia propelled Fortuna out of the greenhouse, as though she thought Fortuna might stay behind to be tactless. “Dogger’s the best of them. He just has trouble sometimes,” Flavia said. 

"He told us the most important thing," Fortuna said. "Anybody who knew Mr. Wolpers knew he was close to Mrs. Hewitt. And if the murderer knew Mr. Wolpers well enough to slip him some poison…"

"Exactly," Flavia said, and suddenly her temper was back up. "They're all talking to us as though we're children! Even Mrs. Hewitt, who should know better!"

"You see the problem, don't you?" Fortuna asked.

"It's obvious, but they aren't going to listen to me—to reason, I mean. Antigone is in danger and they aren't taking steps to protect her. Even she' s acting like she's safe!" 

"We did hide the ticket from them," Fortuna said. "They don't know the murderer has a special motive to come here."

Flavia waved a dismissive hand in irritation. "They should deduce it from first principles. A murderer always comes back to the scene of the crime, there's never only one body, and there's no such thing as coincidence. If the victim died in the Hewitts' house, the murderer will follow. They're simply not thinking logically."

Fortuna nodded as though all of that made sense. "You know if they don't stop him…"

"Then it's all on us."

Chapter Text

The entire village of Bishop’s Lacey had squeezed itself into the nave of Saint Tancred’s in order to celebrate Christmas, a process which—surprisingly, to Fortuna’s unchurched mind—centered around prolonged auditory torture.

Not that she hadn’t been warned. Ophelia had complained about the nightmare that they were about to be plunged into, but Fortuna had dismissed the tirade as catty jealousy. It seemed that her absence during Advent had led to two other parishioners being selected to play the organ and lead the singing for the first part of that evening's service.

"Lessons and Carols begins with a solo ," she'd half-lamented, half-whined. "And they asked Miss Aurelia Puddock to initiate. They gave an a capella solo, the very first notes anyone will hear to inaugurate the service, to that warbler!"

“Lessons and carols are what happen before Midnight Mass,” Flavia had explained sotto voce . "They're hymns interspersed with Bible passages."

"We are speaking of a ceremony held to celebrate a religious feast, not a concert," Mr. de Luce had said solemnly, quashing Feely's wounded monologue.

As they so often did, his words signaled the end of any further conversation and his daughters sat in an uncomfortable silence as late-arriving residents rushed their way to pews. Two middle-aged ladies, obviously the women Ophelia was complaining about, were crowding the seat of the enormous pipe organ, shuffling and reshuffling reams of sheet music so old they must have come with the original church. 

Then everyone settled in for an unforgettable experience. When the first tortured tones of Once in Royal David's City began to expel themselves from Miss Aruelia's battered pipes, Fortuna realized that this was more along the lines of a religious ceremony where people died in droves to propitiate the wrath of a cruel and bloodthirsty deity. 

While the singer had the appropriate soprano range for the part, she brought nothing else of value. Ophelia had been too kind in calling her a warbler; her voice cracked like eggs being flung at an innocent man's house by juvenile delinquents, and it was hard to tell whether she was using vibrato deliberately or simply expressing surprise at the pitches that were fleeing her mouth. To make all of this worse, her sister chose a dirge-like tempo, forcing the congregation to drag out each wretched syllable with malice aforethought. 

In the appalled silence that reigned after the hymn was finally put out of its misery, the man in the pew behind them stage-whispered: "I think we all want to go 'to the place where He is gone' right now."

The vicar cleared his throat aggressively. “We gather here to recall the mystery of our  redemption,” he said.

“Can a creature that just did that in worship of the Divine claim to deserve it?”

A suppressed snort escaped from Ophelia's nose. Flavia piously lifted her own in the air. Fortuna rubbed hers and wished Macnair would get on with it.

A weedy subdeacon concluded the first lesson—"for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" inspired a gruesome thrill that made Flavia shiver next to her—and the second carol was assaulted from all sides, forbidding the congregation any opportunity to find its rest.

The respite achieved when this ended was short-lived, as the second reading was only three verses long. The third carol exhorted the audience to rejoice. Nobody rejoiced, though all listening were eager for ransom and release by the time it ended, and Ophelia's teeth were audibly grinding. Fortuna decided that, fascinating as learning about Flavia's background was, enough was enough. She tapped her power and tuned out.

When she returned, the last hymn was being played, and everyone was practically screaming in agony rather than singing in exultation. The congregation, so thoroughly fed up with the whole affair, had gotten nearly two measures ahead by the time the song reached its dramatic, and thoroughly welcome, close. 

"Charity," the vicar intoned in the shuddering stillness, "is a virtue."

***

There was a brief interlude between Lessons and Carols and what everyone called Midnight Mass even though it was due to begin at eleven. Most parishioners gathered in the narthex, subconsciously (or perhaps consciously) avoiding the Puddock sisters' pew at the front of the church, and snacked on raspberry tarts with tea given out by the ladies of the women’s auxiliary rather than discuss what they had just witnessed. 

Flavia and Fortuna slipped away from the de Luces' cluster as quickly as they could manage. Not out of any animosity—Christmas was a time for a generous spirit and they had gotten revenge for the attack on Harbinger, after all—but out of Fortuna's need to set up events for later in the evening, if she wanted to guarantee things would play out as she intended. 

It took only a bit of ducking and weaving before they came upon her first target. He had the overdone hair and rugged handsomeness of an actor from one of those black and white movies that played on the BBC and the permanently bewildered look of the archetypical country boy. Her power told her that he was looking for a woman he had escorted here and then promptly lost, and he didn't notice the approaching pair of eleven-year-olds. 

Fortuna allowed herself a second of regret before she trod on the back of Flavia's ankle and tripped into her, toppling both of them forward into the older boy. Flavia’s doomed attempts to keep herself upright led to her slamming both hands into his stomach with a terrific jolt and he let out an aggrieved groan as he hit the floor. Flavia followed none too shortly after and Fortuna just managed to avoid joining them.

"Hullo, Ned," chirped Flavia with remarkable composure.

If Ned had been out of sorts following the dual hits he'd taken, he didn't show it. His eyes gradually focused on the girl pushing herself off him and his smile slowly widened. "Oi, Flavia.  How are you finding yourself?” 

He reached a hand out to shake, but when Flavia grabbed she tried to pull him up. She only succeeded because he did the work for her. “Very well, considering the circumstances, thank you. Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas to you too.” Ned scratched at his chin, where a few wispy hairs had dodged the razor.  “Actually, I have a question for you.”

“Oh?” Flavia asked, resigning herself to a drawn out conversation. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Feely , would it?”

Ned’s shy stammer was all the confirmation they needed. “I put together a gift for her,” he said, “but, well, it doesn’t seem right giving her something like this right now and I didn't want to make the trip out to Buckshaw. Not—not because Ophelia isn't worth it, but the weather…"

“So you intend to charge us with providing a courier service?" When Ned smiled in weak incomprehension, Flavia rephrased. "You want us to take it over for you?"

"Could you? Please?"

“That would depend entirely on the package, now, wouldn’t it?” Flavia asked. Then, when she saw Ned was worried she wouldn't help him, she backtracked. "Of course we will, Ned. For you, if not for Feely."

Ned smiled again and pulled a tacky heart-shaped paperboard container that must have been meant for Valentine’s Day but had only just been bought, ten months out of date. He held it out to Flavia, who moved to snatch it, strychnine and cyanide clearly at the forefront of her mind. 

“Oh no,” Fortuna said, allowing her power to wring her hands, “that wouldn’t happen to be chocolate, would it?”

Ned's eyes slowly widened, like he was a puppy caught sitting on the furniture. “Yes, why?”

“Well," Fortuna said, hesitantly, "Ophelia’s been reading about a new diet they’ve been doing across the pond. She hasn’t eaten anything with even a gram of sugar in it all autumn.”

“She is so very vain,” Flavia jumped in, immediately playing into the idea. “What with all those treats Miss Mullet’s been feeding her, I guess it shouldn’t be surprising. Why, if you’ve ever had one of her pies…”

Ned Crocker had never had the misfortune of sampling one of Miss Mullet’s culinary disasters, so he thought he understood what Flavia was saying. He stuffed the sweets back into his bag with a despondent slump of the shoulders, already planning to relabel them for Mary the following morning. “Oh, no. I don't have a gift now, and it's already Christmas Eve. Thanks anyway, Flavia. I guess I’ll see if I can come up with something.”

“We could find a gift for you,” Fortuna rushed in.

Ned’s eyes lit up. “Would you?”

“Of course, Ned. Buckshaw has plenty of neat little knickknacks," Flavia gushed. "Enough that there's something that Feely doesn't know about and will suit her perfectly —you know how Ophelia gets around shiny bits and bobs. She's just like an egomaniacal magpie." 

Ned thought this was a compliment. “That’s mighty kind of you, Flavia,” he said, reaching out to give her hand a rough shake. “If you ever need anything, don’t forget about old Ned Cropper, alright?”

“Alright,” Flavia said heartily, and Ned broke away to find Mary before she could get too angry (it was too late, Fortuna knew). Then she turned on her the moment he was out of ear shot. “ Find her a gift? " she hissed. "What gave you that idea? I've been raring to see what some nettle extract could do to her gums.”

“Haven’t you already poisoned her before with Ned’s sweets? Fall too far into a rut and your tricks will grow stale.”

“Not as stale as those chocolates,” Flavia said, smiling, “but perhaps you are correct. You had something in mind then?”

“Yes, but not here. I think your Inspector is coming to give us the third degree.” 

Flavia tried to scan the room discreetly, but locked eyes with Inspector Hewitt the moment she swiveled around. He was alone—Antigone was off speaking to the vicar's wife—and stalked toward them with the speed and focus of a torpedo. He wasn't certain of her intentions, but he felt that Flavia de Luce should not be wandering about unimpeded, or at least unwarned. 

“Happy Christmas, Inspector Hewitt,” Flavia burbled.

“Happy Christmas, Flavia—and Fortuna. I hope you’re keeping well.”

“Quite well indeed, thank you," Flavia said primly, and Fortuna nodded a greeting. "How goes the investigation?” 

That had been precisely the wrong thing to say. The Inspector’s expression hardened. “I hope that you haven’t decided to poke your nose into all this business. Antigone has assured me that your authorities are handling this with the utmost care and security.”

An exaggeration. While it was true the Aurors were conducting their own investigation into the untimely death of Janus, they had not decided to give a protection detail to poor Antigone. In their eyes, his death, while unfortunate, was only coincidentally linked to her and did not see the need to provide a body guard. She had set up an intruder charm herself, something that would set her broach vibrating if someone apparated to or from Saint Tancred’s, but that was the extent of all their precautions.

"I know they are doing the best within the scope of their limitations," Flavia said.

“Flavia.” He stared down at her from behind his glasses. “Please do not do anything objectionable." 

Flavia opened her mouth.

He threw up his hand. "Allow me to clarify. Flavia, please do not do something that anyone else would find objectionable.”

Her eyes narrowed in outrage, then widened in innocence. “Really, Inspector," she said in a frigid voice that guaranteed he would watch her like a hawk the rest of the night, "I’m sure I don't know what you mean.”

The Inspector looked ready to speak, but Flavia was quicker. “And I’m sorry, Inspector, I believe I must be getting back to church. I would like to offer up a prayer for those without a bed to warm them tonight.” 

Flavia considered this a very quick-witted response, as piety was the type of thing no man had the wherewithal to stop a girl her age from practicing, turned on her heel, and marched back into the church. Fortuna shrugged at Inspector Hewitt and traipsed after her friend.

Mr. de Luce and Daphne were already sitting in their pew, but Ophelia had taken up residence at the organ. The Puddocks looked as though they'd been evicted, and Fortuna deduced that Flavia's sister had not been as gracious as she could have been during the handover. 

When the liturgy was about to begin, she placed her fingers softly on the keys, like a hunter testing the tautness of a new bow. Then she pushed and the first notes to Hark the Herald Angels Sing rang to the vaulted ceiling. The pipe organ sung like it was a whole new instrument, proving, in even its first measures, Ophelia the victor over all who would dare challenge her on this field of battle.

So she had one redeeming feature. Or potentially redeeming feature.

As the ceremony progressed and the Puddock sisters' brutalization of all that was holy and musical was left behind, the congregation relaxed. By the time the homily rolled around, they even seemed to be receptive to the vicar's speech about peace and goodwill. Fortuna reflected on the process of repressing traumatic memories while she waited.

There was a meditative pause in between the end of the Canon and beginning of the Communion hymn, and for a moment, the music stopped, the room was silent, and everything still.

It was during that pause that Macnair made his move, apparating in the churchyard, where he stumbled over the tombstones.

To nearly anyone, the sound would have been all but imperceptible, but Fortuna was sitting next to Flavia de Luce, whose well-tuned ears picked up the noise. She deduced its proper meaning in mere seconds and immediately caught Fortuna's upper arm in a death grip.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered in as hushed a tone as she could while still managing to be heard over Ophelia’s renewed playing. “That was apparition, I know it. It has to be our man.”

“Are you certain?” Fortuna asked.

“More than certain. Look.” She indicated Antigone with a jerk of her chin. 

The intruder charm had just gone off at Macnair’s arrival, and Mrs. Hewitt had gone dreadfully still.

Fortuna knew she was making a potentially lethal calculation. The death of one man already bore down heavily on her conscience and the stories of Sirius Black in the news had brought back dark memories of how he had massacred innocent Muggles to get to another Wizard. Antigone wasn’t willing to risk such a horror happening in her own town, and she wasn't willing to put any other person in harm's way for her sake.

She whispered into her husband's ear and, exchanging a look the two both understood in full, hurried to the back of the church. Despite a few inquisitive glances her way and a few tuts from older residents at youth’s impropriety, no one paid her any mind.

“Antigone's trying to leave,” Flavia whispered urgently, eyeing her family to ensure there was no eavesdropping. “She must know something. We have to go after her.” 

“I doubt your father is going to let us walk out,” Fortuna whispered back into her ear. 

It was true. Mr. de Luce was already looking over, unsurprisingly suspicious about what his daughter was getting up to. Flavia may have used piety as a suitable shield from unrelated adults' condescension, but it didn’t seem to have fooled her father at all.

“Give it a moment," Fortuna said. "She can’t get too far of a head start. We just need to look for a gap to make a break for it.”

Flavia was already scheming five different needlessly convoluted plots to flee from her seat and join Antigone, but for now was forced to concede the point. Too many eyes and too little to distract them—at least until the mass of worshippers began to stand and take their place in line to receive Communion.

“I have an idea,” Flavia said. “Follow my lead.”

Flavia made like she was falling in line behind Mr. de Luce and Daphne to move toward the altar. Then she cocked her head back, indicating that they should sneak out, and the two slipped into the crowd. What with the sea of skirts and coats of the older and taller residents, it was impossible for anyone to tell that there were two eleven year-old girls on the move. 

Nearly impossible. Inspector Hewitt caught Fortuna’s eye for one moment, and she looked away quickly, plainly projecting guilt. He would follow them after receiving Communion.

Satisfied, Fortuna joined Flavia in the narthex. They opened the church door, pushing against a blast of cold air, and quickly shut it behind them.

The night outside was dark and quiet save for the subdued moaning of the pipe organ. There were no signs of a struggle or screams from a captive, nothing so ostentatious as a villain fleeing the scene or a violent duel in progress, only smudges in the snow from residents making their way in. 

“They may have disapparated,” Fortuna said.

“No, I would have heard them. If they left it must have been on foot.”

“Well,” Fortuna began, “there’s only one place I could think of going if I was trying to hide a body.”

Her eyes flicked to the entrance to the crypt, poking out of the narthex. On being accosted by Macnair, Antigone had fled into the catacombs, thinking them the safest place to face down an enemy wizard without drawing unwanted attention or endangering others.

“Brilliant, the obvious answer,” Flavia said, rushing to the door. “Onward, my dear friend, into the land of Tartarus.”

With that, they descended.

The crypts beneath the church were a labyrinth filled by seven hundred years of Bishop’s Lacey residents long consigned to God. Fortuna was certain that, if given a suitable opportunity and very little prodding, her friend could have revealed tales of the more prominent de Luces that had to have been buried here and their exciting hijinks through the ages. 

Flavia rotated her head like a sonar dish, trying to pin down the exact location of their man. “This way,” she murmured, pointing down a tunnel to their left.

The closer they got, the louder the noise of battle became. The quick back and forth of raised voices was followed shortly after by sustained spells one way or the other as the two wizards each tried to turn the tide of battle in their own favor. Chunks had been gouged out of walls, burn marks scarred the ceiling, the floor had morphed in certain areas to a strange muddy texture, and several dismembered skeletons rolled along the floor. 

Fortuna grabbed Flavia's shoulder, stopping her from tumbling headfirst into an active fire fight. The duel paused for a moment as both combatants tried to catch their breath. Flavia drew her wand, which her father had strictly forbidden her from taking to a Muggle church, and peeked around the corner. Fortuna did not draw her wand, which she had dutifully left at Buckshaw, and also peeked out. Antigone was hidden, partially, at the far end of the tunnel, using a small enclosure as protection from the hail of spell fire. A wild-eyed, grey-haired man was hiding in an alcove only a few feet from them.

“Cough it up and you can get out of this alive." His strident voice called out over the sound of Silent Night . "Minus a memory or two, but alive.”

Antigone responded with perfect evenness, seemingly not at all worn down by the fighting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Janus died before he gave anything to me.”

“As if I believe that. Nothing was found on his body. I checked the files myself, did you think I wouldn’t?"

Antigone risked a glance and Macnair fired out a quick disarming spell that ripped stone from the wall. Antigone returned with a stunner that went wide and ducked back to safety.

"So they’re letting you Death Eaters in the Ministry now," Antigone said, trying to draw him out. "We’d assumed a lone actor, someone with a grudge. What do you think you can gain from this?"

He shuffled from his spot, trying to catch sight of her. "Quit stalling for time. No one can hear you down here. If you don’t want this tomb to become yours as well, you’re going to give me the ticket."

“And when you find I never had the ticket? What will you do? You’re mad. You think the Aurors won't investigate this?”

Macnair didn't respond.

“They’ve already got men checking up on me,” she lied. “And they’re already on your trail for Janus. Some bureaucrat snoops through the case files and suddenly I turn up dead? They’ll be knocking down your door before Christmas dinner’s cooled.”

The man let out a laugh at that. “Oh no, I wouldn’t be concerned about them. The Aurors are looking into it, but Janus had so many enemies. Never managed to pull himself free from the war, did he? There aren't people looking out for you, they’re searching for a group of men he’s been tailing for the past year. In fact, the report said they'd declined to post a guard. Didn’t even mention a follow-up."

Flavia connected the dots in her head and, in the exuberance of a mystery solved, gasped loudly. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it was already too late. Fortuna grabbed Flavia’s other hand and pulled the girl back into an alcove, a hiding spot that had no chance of concealing them if Macnair were to do an actual search. 

Macnair swiveled around, but held his wand on Antigone. “Who's there?"

"Nobody's there," Antigone said, a little too hastily.

"You'd like me to think that, wouldn't you? Show yourself, or I’ll bring these bloody rocks down on you."

Flavia glanced at Fortuna, clearly projecting her intention to join the fray. Fortuna gave a single, solemn shake of her head. Flavia almost immediately turned away and charged out of their hiding spot, wand at the ready, and Fortuna mentally sighed and dashed after her, knife in hand.

They almost collided with Macnair.

“This was your back-up?” he asked, incredulously. “ Schoolgirls ?” 

The look on Flavia’s face expressed how much she enjoyed the epithet, but she remained stalwart in the face of this insult. “Drop your wand, or we'll take it from you.” 

Antigone's face crumpled and Fortuna almost felt bad for her role in setting this up. She clearly thought she had just consigned two children to their deaths, and abandoned her cover entirely to charge Macnair, her hand gripped tight around her wand, knuckles going white. 

“Step away from them,” she ordered.

He managed to dodge the stunner before it landed and fired back with a mist that Antigone hastily began to disperse. He lazily dismissed a showy burst of flame from Flavia’s wand, and the curse he sent in retaliation gave Fortuna a pretext to duck back down the passage. Then, before Flavia could finish the jinx she'd started to cast, he rushed her, wrapped an arm around her neck, pulled her from her feet, and jabbed his wand underneath her chin. 

“If you make one move the girl dies,” he barked out. “Your wand, on the floor. Now. And you, other girl, come out of there.”

The sound of footsteps was lost between the voices and the ever-present organ, but she still turned as Inspector Hewitt came up behind her. Despite the danger and the fact he had to know he was about to intervene in a magical duel, he appeared quite calm. Fortuna nodded and, before he could object, raised her hands and walked directly into Macnair's line of sight.

When Antigone saw Fortuna, too, she acquiesced. She dropped her wand and Macnair focused intently on her and not the passageway Fortuna had just left.

“Now, if you’d like to leave her head attached to her neck, you’ll tell me where you’ve put the bloody ticket.”

“I don't have the ticket,” Antigone said through gritted teeth. “I’ve never had the ticket. I don't even think there is a ticket, you stupid little man.”

“We'll see about that,” Macnair said, as he took his wand off Flavia and waved it in her direction. “Cru—”

A swift blow to the head ended the incantation. Inspector Hewitt stood over him, hands clasped around a heavy leatherbound hardcover of the Book of Common Prayer. He'd slammed it down on Macnair’s head with all the force he could muster, which was not inconsiderable. 

The wizard took one wobbly step forward before collapsing in a heap. Antigone dashed for her wand and stunned the fallen man. Flavia got to her feet and dusted herself off insouciantly, as though nearly getting herself killed had been part of some grand plan. Then she ever so casually walked behind a support column, conveniently removing herself from the inspector's sight.

Antigone summoned her canine Patronus in an instant. “Get Gawain now," she commanded. "Tell him to come to the crypt beneath Saint Tancred's church in Bishop's Lacey, about two miles from my home. I have our killer.”

Her dog dashed off and the two adults turned on the children.

“Flavia,” Inspector Hewitt said. Just the one word.

Sheepishly, Flavia stepped back into view. “How did you know we were down here, Inspector?”

“I saw you and your friend heading for the exit," he said. "I knew wherever Flavia de Luce was going, there would be trouble.”

Flavia realized she could take credit for bringing him here and perked up. “Well, I am happy to have provided the assistance necessary for you to nab our killer, then, Inspector.”

Inspector Hewitt took a deep breath and let it out in a slow exhale, as if the very fact Flavia characterized her exploits as positive was Atlas's own burden.

“I hope you don’t see this as a good thing,” he admonished.

Antigone placed a hand on his. “Charles,” she said. “It worked out.”

It was like all the tension left Inspector Hewitt in an instant and he simply allowed all his reproofs to slip away unspoken.

“Come now, you two,” the Inspector said, gesturing at the entrance. “I’m sure your father will be relieved to hear you haven't been blasted into smithereens and, more importantly, you aren’t heathens.”

***

Flavia’s father wasn't angry, though it was difficult to say what his emotions were at the best of times. The man hadn’t noticed their disappearance or subsequent return and had only been relieved that they had managed to consume the body and blood of Christ before service ended. Flavia’s sisters were similarly unimpressed, though for different reasons.

“To think," Ophelia said, halfway through the ride back to Buckshaw, "that we can't have even one Christmas without incident. Oh, Flavia! Why couldn't you have done it while Lavinia Puddock was playing?”

“I believe we were celebrating the Nativity of the Messiah, not your exhibition, Feely. Perhaps once you’ve risen from your grave you can get all the attention you think you deserve.”

“Oh, please. If anyone’s going to be lurching from the tomb and hassling loved ones, it's you. That is if you can find any.”

Flavia immediately prepared a particularly wicked diatrib, but Fortuna pulled on her sleeve and shook her head.

This time, Flavia heeded her warning and dropped the subject, however reluctantly. By the time the car pulled back into Buckshaw, Flavia and Ophelia were almost level-headed again.

They exited the car and made their way up the footpath. Even from a considerable distance away, they could see a letter had been attached to the door with a bit of tape—something Fortuna had set up before they left, hiding her machinations by holding the door for Flavia’s father.

Dogger was the first one to reach it. He plucked it down and held it up to the light emanating from the kitchen window. “It’s for Miss Ophelia,” he said, and handed the note to the eldest de Luce sister. It was a simple yellow postage mailer labeled “To Ophelia de Luce, from your secret admirer, Ned Cropper.”

As they entered the house and filed through the kitchen, Ophelia opened the envelope and plucked out a little piece of paper. "It's a lottery ticket," she said, audibly disappointed.

“Is there a poem?" Daphne asked, though her attention was mostly directed at the book of Christmas tales she was reading. "I want a boy to write poems for me. Lotto tickets are worth less than the paper they're printed on.”

“You don't have any boys to write or not write you anything," Ophelia snapped before returning to her present. "But it's from last week. Poor boy must have bought it and only now managed to work up the nerve to deliver it.”

She idly began to search for the morning's paper, more out of the desire to spite Daphne than any real hope, while the rest of the household began the slow process of withdrawing from one another. 

Flavia began to pace—she had realized what Fortuna had done and couldn’t hide her excitement—but Fortuna plopped down into an armchair and plugged her ears with her fingers.

A sudden scream rent the air, shocking everyone else into stillness. Ophelia came tearing back into the room like a woman gone mad, as her name would imply.

"Father—"

She couldn't finish the sentence and so brandished the newspaper clutched in her hand, the excitement leaving her a more deathly pale than her normal hue. Mr. de Luce took the paper and ticket from her, fiddled with his reading glasses, and glanced between the two. Finally he folded the paper, then handed it and the ticket back to his eldest daughter.

“That is really quite the gift, Ophelia,” he murmured. Dogger stepped up behind him in case he needed a steadying hand. “I cannot tell you to give it up, but I trust you will not spend it solely on yourself.”

"Of course not," Ophelia said solemnly.

Flavia took a step back to stand next to Fortuna and folded her arms. “Feels like a loss, giving the winning ticket to Feely,” she muttered.

“Your father would have refused it and she's the only other adult in the family,” Fortuna said. “If you want the money to go to Buckshaw, she's the only option.”

Other people would benefit, too. Ophelia would share some with Ned, who would invest it in the Thirteen Drakes and his eventual family with Mary. Fortuna, under an assumed name, would convince her to use the money to fund her Knight Bus alternative. Saint Tancred's roof would get some much needed renovations—and so would Buckshaw. 

Flavia conceded the point mentally, which was all Fortuna needed.

“Still wish we could have uncovered everything. How it turned to murder and what a Death Eater was doing interfering in a Muggle lottery."

“We can ask Antigone about it later,” Fortuna said, and relaxed further, sinking into the soft leather as she watched Ophelia and Daphne babble about what could be done with so much Muggle money. Mr. de Luce had taken a restorative sit in a nearby chair while Dogger ran off to fetch a brandy and soda to help brace his spirits. Harbinger made his appearance, somewhat sulkily. He was out of sorts because nobody had paid any attention to him for two full hours, so she hoisted him up onto her lap and began stroking and scratching him to assuage his dignity. 

Wrapped up in winter clothes given kindly by Flavia and watching the antics of her sisters and father, Fortuna couldn’t help but feel an all encompassing emotion take her. She had to ask her power to explain what she was feeling. 

It was homesickness. Which was odd, because this must have been the most comfortable she had felt in her entire life.

***

It was well and truly past the witching hour when Flavia and Fortuna finally found themselves bundled up in Flavia’s bed. The cheer from earlier had followed them up and the two of them couldn’t shake it off.

"What a wonderful Christmas, what an absolutely wonderful Christmas,” Flavia exclaimed, sounding almost dazed. She turned to look Fortuna in the eyes. "Miss Floris, thank you for accompanying me to my home. I can say without a doubt that you have turned what could have been merely an acceptable Christmas into something beyond marvelous!”

Fortuna couldn’t help but smile back. “It was my pleasure to come, Miss de Luce.”

“And of course,” Flavia said, looking slyer by the moment, “what good is Christmas without a present to go along with it?” 

She leaned sideways to reach underneath her bed and pulled out a small little package of multi-colored paper tied up with a string. The excellent bow proved Dogger had been the one to wrap the gift. Fortuna carefully took it out of her hands.

“Go on, open it,” Flavia urged.

Fortuna carefully undid the seal and popped off the lid. A beautiful golden pocket watch sat on a pile of simple wool. She raised it carefully and let the light of a candle gleam off the metal. 

“It was something of Uncle Tar’s he used to help keep track of time while working on rather finicky potions. You see, if you focus on it, you should always be able to hear it ticking. Dreadfully useful when one’s hands are full and you cannot turn to see a clock. At least, that was what he had said.”  

Fortuna even now could hear the thing ticking away, but couldn't think of a single word to say in reply. Flavia, taking her silence as a sign of some fault on her part, sought to fill up the noise. 

“It’s very good for centering one’s self and keeping focus when your mind may drift astray. It—”

“Thank you Flavia,” Fortuna said, “This is the best gift I’ve ever received.” 

And it was true. 

Flavia tried her best not to look expectantly at Fortuna, but she needn’t have worried. Fortuna stood up and collected a perfectly festooned Christmas package from her suitcase. Flavia took it eagerly and tore paper out of the way before reaching in and bringing forth the stoppered vial Fortuna had removed from the room with the cursed diadem.

“This is but the first half of the gift," Fortuna said mysteriously. 

Flavia looked in awe at the mauve potion, which was still ominously churning. She moved to give it a tentative shake, before thinking better of it, and instead began running through potential tests for it in her head. "What is it?" she asked. "What does it do?"

"I have no idea," Fortuna said, in a more mundane voice.

Flavia grinned back. "And the other half?"

"I shall tell you the secret of how such an object of power fell into my hands."

Flavia carefully went to tuck it away amongst her normal chemical racks—though Fortuna noticed with pride that Flavia had chosen to place it at a prominent spot towards the front.

“Well then, Ms. Floris, you simply must deliver once we’ve gotten back,” Flavia said. Then she flopped back into bed. “Hard to believe it will be so soon. It feels as if these months have flown by. I don’t know what summer will be like with you gone.” 

A chill passed over Fortuna. She sat back down, listening to the steady tick of her new pocket watch, a welcome distraction. Feigning interest in the new gift, she fiddled with the mechanism until it popped open suddenly, the second hand steadily advancing.

On the other side was a photo. She recognized it as one Dogger had taken not two days earlier. She and Flavia stood in front of the Christmas tree, both wearing the finest dresses they could purloin from Daphne, chosen for attending the Christmas Pageant that both Mrs. Mullet and Mr. de Luce had insisted they must attend. Her power informed her that Flavia had been at work these past few days preparing the serum herself to animate it. The two girls had their arms slung around each other as they smiled into the camera flash. 

“I don’t want to go back.”

“Oh I know, it's always so difficult getting used to being at Hogwarts—”

“No,” Fortuna said, “I mean I don’t want to go back to my foster family."

Across the room a potion bubbled merrily in a cauldron stationed between some chemical experiments. Candlelight glinted off a set of beakers left to dry in the corner. The ceaseless ticking of her pocket watch was not overwhelming, but instead calming.

"I want to stay here with you.”

She angled herself away from Flavia and stared out the window. It had stopped snowing, and moonlight spread over every surface of the grounds of Buckshaw. A statue of Poseidon standing guard over his fountain. A small little pond with some classic grecian architecture, long decayed. A forest that had not seen order since well-before King George VI had given his final breath. It was all falling apart. It was all beautiful.

 A small soft hand found her back and rubbed it.

“You don’t have to go,” said Flavia in a whisper. “Not if you don’t want to. You can always stay here. I would never allow Buckshaw’s doors to close on you.”

“Your father—”

“I can handle Father.”

Fortuna blinked hard as she heard the clock strike three somewhere far below them, and Flavia moved from the bed to take her hand.

“Happy Christmas, Flavia de Luce.”

“Happy Christmas, Fortuna Floris.”

Chapter Text

Alastor checked and rechecked the address on the parchment, just to make sure it wouldn't change on him the moment he looked away.

122A Chandler Street. 

Posh area—perhaps too upscale for a Ministry contractor. It was obvious that Macnair enjoyed his lifestyle. He took another look down the street, eye tracking for passersby or scouts intended to watch for Auror presence. 

“No hexes on the door? Charms on the frame?”

“None, sir.” 

He’d already checked himself, but overconfidence had been the undoing of more than one Auror. He had been in this game too long, knew too many tricks, and that itself could push him into a rut. Could have him making mistakes. Better a second opinion, just in case.

“Nothing behind it either, nothing I can see at least. Buckley, my flank. Tonks, the hallway. We need eyes in case he had failsafes or traps. Shacklebolt, bring up the rear.”

They moved into position wordlessly and he checked the door one more time, looking for the trap that he would have put there. The spell that could have alerted an associate, destroyed vital evidence, ended a life.

Still nothing. Dark Wizards were getting sloppy these days. 

“Now, breach.”

The door flung open and he already brought a protection spell to bear as he pushed his way into the room. His eye swiveled madly about its socket, inspecting corners, peering through walls, and searching, searching for anything that appeared even the slightest bit out of place. No attacks, but he didn’t let the spell down. They came in as a cluster, casting counter-hexes and probing spells in a perfectly staggered sequence. A few steps into the room they split, with Aurors breaking block to sweep corners and closet spaces for anything crucial they might have missed.

He waited a moment before finally barking out, “Search the room.”

He let down the spell but didn’t lower his wand. It was something to be said about how poorly their efforts had failed after the war that a man like this could get a somewhat senior position in the ministry. One of his many failures, not pushing those nitwits harder.

Now, he was seeing it play out again. Macnair was already angling for the Imperius defense, claiming an “unknown attacker” had put it on him while going about his day. He wouldn’t be surprised if that buffoon, Fudge, accepted it either. The whole damn thing was a black mark the administration was so clearly trying to get rid of.

He scowled and shook off the niggling doubts and problems. Distraction was the kind of thing that got you killed in the field. He had an apartment to turn over. 

"Accio incriminating evidence," Alastor growled.

It didn't work. It never did; indeed, attempting to summon something unspecific went against the fundamental purpose of the spell, but he always tried it in case it changed while his back was turned. 

He'd have to do this with elbow grease and a thorough eye. Thankfully, he already had one.

Macnair's flat was a spectacle of death. He'd earned decent enough pay doing the Ministry's dirty work, but it seemed he decided to spend all that and more on collectibles. Antique swords ground to a razor’s edge were laid carefully in their decorative holders, skulls of rare and extinct animals had been mounted on plaques as trophies, a group of monstrous insects still vibrated in something resembling amber. Nothing illegal he could spy— though he would certainly be bringing someone in to double check that— but enough of a display that it was clear he intended for others to gawk. 

Even so, the floor was covered in bits of refuse and hair — whatever animal it was would need to be confirmed in case that itself held a clue to his actions, travels, or compatriots. He left stacks of parchment and paperwork spilling over each other as if uncleanliness would manage to hide his misdeeds. Worse, it stunk of wet animals and something sour.

Not the worst smell he’d been exposed to, but it made his job of wrangling Aurors all the harder the more this dragged on.

The most suspicious part was that nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He peeled back letters and forms— he’d be going through them in full later— but nothing befitting a murderer. Despite his macabre decorations and poor upkeep, the apartment seemed like an ordinary mans. His gaze swirled around the room, searching.

“Don’t touch that, Buckley.” 

The man froze, his hand half-way outstretched towards the doorknob to Macnair’s study. He swung around to match his eye and probed the innocent-seeming doorknob with a few judicious jabs of his wand— he was rewarded as the brass surface was disenchanted to match the silver interior, incongruous with the rest of the fittings. 

“The doorknob’s hexed. Pin in the side there would cut right into your finger without you noticing,” he said, pointing with his wand, best not to move too close. 

Something about the look of it brought up a vague memory. One of the myriad of dark artifacts and items he’d encountered during his time in the war. It didn’t appear deadly at a glance, but the fact it had reminded him in the first place meant it was better to play it safe. 

With a swing of his wand the door opened inward and he entered. Macnar's study was in much finer condition to the rest of his house. If the previous room had been a show of his interests, then this room was a monument. Every inch of space had something sitting on it, with the bones, pieces, or mummified corpses of the rare and exotic practically falling on top of each other. It would have sent a museum director into a fever to see them laid out like this. The sole exception was a bookshelf lining one wall. 

It was tidier than the previous room, but much more dusty. He could practically track a well worn line the man must have walked each night to sit in that expensive armchair and drink alone. A single candle on the desk in the middle lit up when he flicked his wand towards it.  No windows—he wasn’t the sort of man who would want someone to be able to see what he was up to. 

Alastor’s eye tracked the desk but nothing there deserved scrutiny. Quills, bottles of ink, a few notebooks and journals. Things to dig through for motive. Nothing like the burning wand he was hoping for. 

A silver pendant—not goblin-made, but a wizard's shoddy imitation—caught his eye. It lay alone in a hidden compartment of the desk drawer. A common concealment, the contents of the drawer differed depending on how it was opened. Very effective, Alastor used it himself—but utterly pointless if you didn't bother closing it properly, as Macnair had.

Tapping the top of the desk with his wand, Alastor bade the drawer to pop open so he could examine the bauble directly. A silver ring about the size of a galleon stared up at him—neatly framing a gleaming needle that he knew would spin in its housing and point with purpose if you knew the right spell to activate it.

One half of Luquard's Hound and Bite. The pendant was the Hound, it followed a blood trail created by the paired Bite—and Alastor would happily bet his one good eye that this Hound's partner lay in the study's doorknob. Alastor's gaze trailed over the assorted trophies as he sneered. There were far more effective security measures Macnair could have taken, but of course a fool that fancied himself a hunter would find a trick like this appealing. A prick of blood from an unwary intruder and he could track them down at his leisure.

He pulled a box from an inner pocket of his cloak and enlarged it with a flick of his wand, then made a partition in the middle. Into one half, he levitated the pendant.

"Buckley," he barked, making the other Auror jump as he stepped back into the hallway. "Unscrew that trapped doorknob and stick it in this box as evidence. No, don't touch it yourself, use your wand. Get it back to the Ministry and have them check for blood. If they find any, see if it came from Janus."

While Buckley hurried off on his errand, Alastor allowed himself a small, grim smile of satisfaction before returning to his examination of the study. It wouldn't seal the case by itself, but this was one piece of evidence Macnair would have a hard time explaining away as the Imperius's influence.

He surveyed the rest of the room more carefully, paying particular attention to the bookshelf—or, more accurately, a shelf that contained books. All of them were old school books. Macnair appeared to have stopped reading when he'd turned seventeen, assuming he'd read any of the textbooks in the first place. 

An odd thing for the man to keep. From all accounts of the man he wasn’t studious, doubtlessly not someone to go back over old books. They should have been in the bin the second he left Hogwarts, so why were they here?

Alastor didn’t step closer but used his eye to run over the books. Nothing inside, not as if that meant anything. His eye couldn’t spot every trick, smudge, or cipher buried in parchment. His next look studied the outside, looking for any obvious signs of misuse. 

One of them, a book about the care of magical creatures, was slightly less dusty than the others. A rookie mistake. Alastor waved his wand checking for spells, jinxes, hexes, and any errant curses. After those came up empty, he levitated the book out slowly, prepared to move at a moment's notice.

A small slip of paper fell out from between its pages and fluttered to the ground. Both eyes studied it and he let the book fall before levitating it to him. 

It contained two words, written in ink the color of fresh blood.

I'm watching .

He studied the book carefully after, but there was nothing. A mundane book about the Care of Magical Creatures. No signs of code or changes concealed in it. Nothing except for a single letter. 

Alastor studied the note, scrutinizing the parchment itself. 

Only the hue of blood, though? Why not the real thing? Teeth grinding, Mad-Eye turned the bizarre situation over in his head at about the same rate that his eye spun in its socket, thirstily rummaging through the room in search of anything remotely relevant.

Macnair was a monster. A coward like all the rest of them, sure, but still a black-hearted beast through and through, more vicious than any of his prey. Something rattled this monster, and it wasn't a flimsy threat of surveillance.

No, it wasn't just the note.

Who would watch Macnair? Who would Macnair care that he was watched by? Certainly nobody up to any good.

Were anyone there to see it, the grotesque contortion that passed for a sneer on Mad-Eye's face would have scarred them for life.

Dark wizards never changed. When they weren't prowling and prancing in the night, they were at each other's throats. This sort of skulduggery with anonymous, intimidating notes... yes, the fake blood aside, this stank of infighting, and what a beautiful smell it was.

That still left the questions of who, why, and why now.

At times like this, Alastor felt an itch start to develop in the socket behind his famous mad eye. Like there was something staring him right in the face that he couldn't see. It was never a good feeling. He didn't dabble with the whims of Seers or portents, but this was different. This was perfectly justified suspicion that there was more to what was going on than met the eye.

For safety, he took a moment to consider the worst case scenario: Voldemort returning. This couldn't be his handiwork, he was always one to skip intimidation and go straight to torture where unruly followers were concerned. Speaking of said unruly followers, some of their sorry hides slept better thinking their master would never know of their betrayal.

That could be it. In-fighting between former Death Eaters, provoked by the threat of Voldemort’s impending return. There was nothing proving that was the case, but nothing proving it wasn't either.

“Moody.” 

Shacklebolt, from the room across the hallway. Just loud enough for him to hear, and not a whisper more or less. He tucked the note into his pocket before answering the call, his eye roaming ahead of him. The man had torn the paintings off the walls and disillusioned what appeared to be a notch in the paint, barely large enough for a key. Something so small as to be unnoticed, but Auror Shacklebolt certainly had a keen eye. Alastor looked past the painting to the safe behind it and a rough, cruel smile carved its way on his face.

Even from this distance, he could spot the telltale sign of dark artifacts. 

The front door admitted Buckley again, already returned from his task. The man was fast as a hex, Alastor could have done with a hundred like him.

“Buckley, get Auror Tonks back to the Ministry and pull Arthur. I believe he’ll be happy to hear we require another raid.” 

“Arthur?”

“Arthur Weasley, the man who’s spent the last year confiscating stashes of Dark objects. Who did you think I meant, Merlin's bloody drinking buddy?”

Buckley left quicker than usual at the admonishment and Alastor followed him, leaving the crime scene to Kingsley to handle. Once Arthur arrived, they’d crack the safe open and inventory the contents—and because it was Arthur doing it, nothing would be overlooked, no matter how irrelevant it seemed. Alastor had another responsibility to attend to. 

The note, Macnair, the threat of a restless group of dark wizards.

The Ministry had already proven itself unable or unwilling to acknowledge, let alone confront, uncomfortable truths. 

Albus was a different matter, and the sooner Alastor shared his findings, his suspicions, the better.

Chapter Text

The day Fortuna and Flavia returned to Hogwarts, Mr. De Luce roused himself to issue a stilted speech about appropriate behavior at school that seemed to be mostly directed at Flavia before vanishing into his study. Ophelia made this sorry send-off worse by haranguing the detention-prone Gryffindors the entire Knight Bus trip to King's Cross. 

Fortuna could have shut her up, but there was no need. Flavia tuned her out with schemes for the second term's clandestine potioneering and Fortuna focused on something far more important: anticipating all the food she would soon eat, both on the train and at Hogwarts.

This was no small relief. Their pockets were laden down with what Mrs. Mullet had styled "chip butties," mangled hunks of unsalted potatoes smeared between the jerky-like husks of bread slices. These they opted to throw away the second they got into the train station instead of inflicting them on the pigeons (the poor creatures didn’t deserve to choke the sandwiches down, flavored as they were with balsamic rather than ordinary vinegar).

Eight members of the study group crammed themselves into one compartment and the train left as Candidus and Flavia, who wanted to double-check the procedure for stewing lacewings in preparation for the Polyjuice potion, began to talk animatedly about the exact effects of the lunar cycle on nocturnal plantlife. He was a git, but at least he was a git who knew his way around the intricacies of plant care, and in turn he was just clever enough to know Flavia could help him turn that knowledge into adequate Potions marks.

After a discreet elbow from Astoria that only Fortuna and Angelique noticed, Jessica broke in: "Hope you didn't spend your holidays swotting." 

It was an unsubtle attempt to get Flavia to spill about the murder, but Zachary and Derek announced that they actually had done all their reading. Angelique asked with genuine interest about what Jessica had done, if not homework. 

“Tori and I had a proper good time at ManU,” she added.

“It was acceptable, I suppose,” Astoria said with the affected indifference that seemed to blanket all her statements. “The game was much more entertaining than I expected it to be, even though it only had one ball.  I still can’t believe you had a whole musical number prepared about that player's dead mother.” 

“Should have seen what the fans did when he got a Deuce."

It was plain that nobody else in the compartment had the slightest idea what Jessica meant by that, but the Hufflepuffs all nodded politely.

“Did you two get up to anything besides a sports match?” Candidus asked acidly, once he realized any further attempt at intellectual conversation was doomed. 

Astoria looked down her nose at him. "Of course. We visited some Muggle shops to replace the clothes Jessica made me wear."

Jessica turned to the rest of the compartment to fight this one out in the court of public opinion. “She showed up in a bathrobe and kids' shorts. I saved her like I was a bloody Gryffindor."

The two began to bicker, which let them conveniently leave out the end result of their shopping expedition. Between their youth and Jessica's general air of hooliganism, they had been cornered by employees every time they'd begun to angle toward the more expensive items. With every "aren't you lost, dearies?" Jessica had gotten cheekier and Astoria had gotten haughtier and they'd eventually been asked to leave.

"How did your parents respond to being invited to a Muggle day out?" Angelique asked, knowing full well that her parents would have had their daughter beaten and drowned if they'd been aware of her plans.

"I asked Daphne to manipulate Blaise into inviting her over, then tagged along. They didn't even notice when I left with Jessica." She was downplaying it; the double debt to Daphne and Blaise would loom over her head like the sword of Damocles until it was paid off. "How was your family's ball, Angelique?"

“Oh, it was like a dream, or maybe something out of Cinderella. Mum was like the fairy godmother and the wicked stepmother. She's so particular about that sort of thing and she had been fretting the whole month about catering and decorations. Though this time must have been easier on her; she only yelled at six people and I convinced her to buy me a beautiful baby blue dress. It was a fun night.” She smiled, reminiscing.

Fortuna’s power told her that Anglique’s “new dress” had been a Chanel with a price equaling that of most used cars. She mentally adjusted her understanding of Angelique's worldview.

"And you were right about Kamchatka, Fortuna. The only problem is that now I have to get everyone presents from Russia." 

It felt like years since Fortuna had told Angelique to lie about her whereabouts the previous term, and she only barely remembered her suggestion about study abroad. "I think you can use an owl service," she said. 

"There are Wizards in Russia?" (This from Derek, though Zachary shared his surprise.)

"I think there must be," Candidus said wisely.

Finally, Angelique asked the question the rest of them had been waiting for. “Flavia? Fortuna? What did you get up to during your vacation?” The way that she phrased it, the piercing gaze; she was seconds away from pouncing on them like a panther. A very cuddly, not very competent panther. 

“A pair of young ladies can get up to many different things," Flavia said, going for prim even though one of her knees was bouncing in unsuppressed excitement. "We did pass a rather interesting Christmas this year, thank you for asking."

Zachary brought the point out into the open. “The murder! Tell us about the murder!” 

A smile suddenly shattered Flavia’s calm facade; there would be no stopping her at this point. "I can, though I expect the utmost secrecy from you. The investigation is ongoing."

"Cross our hearts and hope to die,” Jessica said, drawing the Lord’s symbol across her chest and giving an enthusiastic miming of a knife into her neck. 

It wouldn't matter whether their friends shared anything she said. The word had already leaked into the homes of students whose parents worked for the Ministry, and everyone in the castle would hear six or seven versions of the event by the time the return feast had been consumed.

“Well,” Flavia said in a voice attempting its best at solemnity, “it all began at our arrival, the very first day of holidays, when our dear neighbor’s friend was poisoned in front of us!” 

🔮

Hogwarts food was as delicious as she remembered it, though she appreciated it even more after two weeks of Mrs. Mullet's concoctions. She helped herself to a rack of mutton that dripped savory juices all over her piles of pillowy mashed potatoes and roasted sprouts. Somehow she still had room for a tart that burst with flavor, sour and sweet in equal measure.

By the end of it, she felt not unlike a goose stuffed for foie gras, and she was content. Buckshaw had its charms, but her school simply had a way of making all who crossed its threshold feel at home.

Alexander hadn't touched the small mountain of dog food they had left him during their time away. Perhaps, observed Fortuna, he had decided that the royal title so wrongfully bestowed on him required more extravagant fare than they’d managed to obtain. Flavia pointed out that he had guarded their base and deserved whatever he wanted, and she was right. They crept out into the streets of Hogsmeade to scatter the kibble for the birds and rats he evidently preferred.

The Polyjuice Potion was still on track, and, now that they had Ophelia and Daphne's hair (the only worthwhile contribution either had made or ever would make to any cause their whole lives), they only required fluxweed and time. It would be ready by the twelfth of the following month, when they'd once again use it to go to Hogsmeade by day without getting caught. It would be convenient if they could also get Harry Potter to go as well, since it would give Sirius Black a shot at him and in turn give them a shot at Sirius Black.

The week back at school was subdued. All the professors except for Snape had known that no homework would be done over the holiday, and so the first years at least were eased back into the rhythm of things. Fortuna allowed her power to guide her through the classes, and Flavia followed up every period with an apology to her wand for boring it.

At least she had the distraction of knowing she was the center of a firestorm of rumors regarding the confrontation with and capture of Macnair. One person who heard there was a fight in a crypt began to say that it was a plot by a servant of He Who Must Not Be Named attempting to unseal an army of Inferi hidden under a random town, and another said that the culprit was framed by Mad-Eye but the Ministry hushed it up to push the Auror towards retirement. Another rumor, especially popular among older girls, asserted that the day had actually been saved by Gildery Lockhart, who had clearly faked his injury the year before and was moonlighting as a wandering hero who vanquished evil without taking credit.

Credit itself seemed to be distributed at random. Either one second year or two first years had been triumphant—or maybe it had been Ophelia, modest and beautiful Head Girl, or Hagrid, framing Macnair to save a hippogriff (this was spearheaded by Malfoy, although people kept laughing too much to even hear the second part of his explanation).

Others, unable to handle the possibility of two unrelated mysteries occurring in a single school year, tied the murder to Sirius Black. Had Macnair been caught in a mass murder of Muggles to rival that committed by Black? Had Black secretly been behind the attack, or had he actually been disguised and the victim?

Nobody save Flavia and Fortuna knew for sure, and they were inundated with demands for clarification that Fortuna dodged and Flavia rejected with obvious pleasure. The second week they were back, a more serious request came via Flitwick during one of their free periods.

Flavia seemed intent on having Fortuna reread her Potions essay—it was already perfect, but perfection would not spare it from the ninety-two it was destined for—when the Charms professor arrived. “Ms. de Luce, if I could have a moment? The Headmaster would like to talk with you. If you aren’t busy now, he would be delighted to have your time.”

Flavia shot a quick look at Fortuna, clearly wondering why she was being asked to go by herself if the Headmaster was planning on asking about the attack at Bishop's Lacey. Fortuna merely shrugged. Professor Dumbledore had considered inviting her as well, but had changed his mind upon recalling how his irreplaceable device had ended in a hundred tiny shards. It was safer, he decided, to get the information from Flavia instead of risking another mishap. 

“Go,” she said, “I’ll look over your potions homework in the meantime. We can meet at lunch.” 

Flavia nodded and waved goodbye, following behind Flitwick as he led her off to the older man’s office. She was already anticipating what she would say to Dumbledore, who would come away from the meeting satisfied that he had gotten the full picture. He would discover a pair of coincidences that showcased a promising young witch; no greater interest or deeper investigation would be warranted, and Macnair's trial could proceed without troubling a student. 

And Fortuna wouldn’t have to pretend to be a brainless dullard in front of Flavia. 

🔮

Before the next week was out, Jessica had hounded every member of the study group into an agreement to meet on Wednesday morning. Ostensibly, it was to brush off the rust after two weeks without the dedicated use of magic. In reality, it was a way for Jessica and Astoria to bully the rest of them into dueling practice.

This, in turn, devolved into the two of them vying for dominance. Bright jinxes and showy spells, or at least as showy as two first-years could manage, flew back and forth between them. In the end, they were both exhausted and the entire front of the classroom had been covered with lace.

"Wow!" said someone from the door. It was a man's voice—or that of an older boy, one in Hufflepuff robes. Jessica's eyes bugged out when she saw him, and Astoria took advantage of her distraction to hit her with a knock-back jinx. "Nice work."

Angelique peeked around him. "Sorry we're late!" she said in a near yell. "I had to explain to Cedric what we were doing." 

"I'd heard the first years were starting competitive study groups," he said, smiling at Angelique, "but I didn't know they included dueling."

"Toil and Trouble does," Astoria said proudly as she stepped forward, hand outstretched. "The others don't. Astoria Greengrass."

"Cedric Diggory," the older boy said solemnly. "Angelique asked me if I'd be interested in tutoring some of her classmates, and I wanted to see what I'd be getting myself into. More toil and less trouble, I trust?"

"Yes," Angelique interjected. “Of course, we try our utmost to remain safe.” 

Cedric scrutinized the piles of lace, the scorches on a couple of the desks, and Jessica’s feeble attempts to pick herself up from where she’d been knocked to the floor. 

“We are successful in some aspects more than others,” Astoria added with a sigh. “But there are certain oafs who don’t want safety considerations to interrupt their ‘full-contact’ duels.”

“Bah,” Jessica said as rebuttal, dusting herself off.

"That was good wandwork, but you should have more supervision. Even first year spells can be dangerous if put in the right hands. Or, well, the wrong ones.”

“And you came here out of the kindness of your heart to help with that?” Candidus asked with one eyebrow raised.

“Obviously someone had to,” Cedric shot back with a lady-killer smile that had less than no effect—on Astoria, at any rate. Angelique, who was a little older, blushed and started playing with a quill.

While his words were true, Fortuna’s power told her it was also true that he wanted to know about the Christmas murder as much as anyone else did. 

He unsubtly segued into an outright question. "Though I hear one of you has already gotten into a real duel?"

The rest of them, Fortuna included, all glanced at Flavia, who unconsciously started adjusting her hair the same way Ophelia did when she was preening. “I’m surprised the news about that got out so quickly,” she lied. “I hadn’t wanted to cause a stir by releasing any of the gruesome details to those who were not in the know, as it were." 

"That's a good idea," Cedric said. "But since we're here, maybe you could share your insights."

"Oh, of course—I think the most surprising thing was how fast everything was. I only managed to get off two spells, the bee-sting jinx and the fire-making charm. Also, you know it wasn't just me? Fortuna was there, too."

"I didn't cast any spells," Fortuna said. "A Muggle ended everything by hitting him on the head with a book."

"A useful lesson," Cedric said, laughing.

Jessica punched Astoria in the arm. "Told you to work out," she said.

"And I told you to keep your books around," Astoria muttered.

Flavia recounted what they'd seen of the duel between Antigone and Macnair. Cedric talked them through what he thought were the most important lessons: use of the surrounding environment, how Macnair found it hard to contend against four people even though three of them weren't as powerful as he was, and, again, the quick pace of events. 

“You did the best you could with what you had, but you really need to practice some of these spells under fire. It’s the only way to get them down right and get them off fast.”

“Well then,” Flavia said, a bit too eagerly, “can you show us?” 

Under his guidance, they paired off and started casting the bee-sting jinx at each other. He offered guidance where it was needed and encouragement where it was wanted. He had them recast their spells from the same position and then indicate what they'd done and why they'd done it in a particular way. Fortuna guessed he was used to doing this with the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and Fortuna could see why he'd been picked for captain.

He was proving himself to be extremely valuable. Having a fifth year meant access to spells and experience far outside their own meager repertoire, and a prefect's involvement meant a certain leniency from Professors if they were to be caught hosting a potentially dangerous club like this. 

And, of course, his patience and kindness were truly useful when it came to dealing with Candidus and the Hufflepuffs.

🔮

“And, while Merfolk’s speech may seem incomprehensible to those of us who breathe air, with enough work and practice, even you can manage to speak it—just remember to keep your head underwater. Class dismissed.” 

The words were barely out of Professor Lupin's mouth before the class burst into motion. Flying came next, and in only an hour they had to move from the classroom, eat, change, and get down to the fields.

“Oh, and keep in mind I’ll need six inches on what to do when you encounter Merfolk due next Wednesday,” Lupin added before the class was completely lost to him.

“Ready to be shown up?” Jessica said with a grin.

“Please,” Flavia said, slinging a bag over her shoulder as they made their way to the door. “Nobody could beat Fortuna in flying. She has a natural knack for the skies.”

"Raw talent is valuable, but honed skill will beat it every time," Astoria countered. The fact Fortuna so easily outshone her was something of a sore point, and Fortuna was busy conferring with her power on how best to soothe her ruffled ego when Hermione Granger slammed into Jessica.

The teetering tower of books she always had in her hands crashed to the ground, drawing stares from everyone nearby. While uncouth, Jessica was not a brute and she was on her knees in a moment to help Hermione. “I’m sorry. Didn’t see you there.” 

It was no wonder she hadn't seen her; Hermione had materialized out of nowhere thanks to her time turner.

"My fault," Hermione said. "Sorry. You don't have to—"

“Ah, don't worry about it,” Jessica said as she grasped three books in one hand. 

Hermione acquiesced and brushed the dust off her knees as she stood. "At least someone wants to help,” Hermione grumbled to herself. 

Fortuna wondered about that, and her power informed her that the third-year was currently in a drawn out argument with Ron Weasley over whether her pet cat had killed his pet rat earlier that week. He was wrong and she was right, but nevertheless it was a sore subject that was having an ill effect on her temper. 

“We should stop meeting like this,” Fortuna said, trying to shift her focus to something more agreeable.

Hermione did instantly brighten. “There you are! I was hoping to catch you. I wanted to thank you.” 

“Thank me?” Fortuna inquired. 

“Well, the both of you,” Hermione said, gesturing at Flavia. “You saved Buckbeak!” 

The look shared between them made clear neither had any clue about saving a “Buckbeak”.

“Hagrid's hippogriff! He was going to be executed for 'attacking' Malfoy, even though Malfoy provoked it and then malingered. Macnair was the only executioner of dangerous beasts approved by the ministry, and with his arrest, it will take months to arrange for another. Hagrid will have more time to fight his case.”

This didn’t serve to illuminate the matter at all for the duo, but it would be ungrateful not to respond to her heartfelt statement in kind. 

“I’m happy to hear that stopping him ended two plots, and not just one,” Flavia said. "Honestly, the fact that man was a civil servant at all says everything you need to know about the Ministry." (This was mostly her father's opinion.)

“Please," Hermione said, "if you need anything from me, never hesitate to ask."

Fortuna was prepared to magnanimously turn down her offer, but Flavia was wise enough to seize the opportunity. 

“We do have one thing,” she said. “Next time you see Harry Potter, could you ask him to be bait?”

🔮

While Hermione had quickly and ruthlessly dashed their hopes for securing Harry’s assistance, their other plans galloped apace. On the Thursday before the Polyjuice was due for completion, after all their classes and homework had been completed, Fortuna decided to lure Flavia to the upper recesses of the castle with the nebulous promise of adventure. 

"This is not an adventure," Flavia said. "This is a portrait of a ballet class." Then, betraying the snobbery inculcated by a lifetime spent around her family, she added: "Not exactly Degas, is it?" 

Fortuna explained that she needed to be patient, and suggested they both write down a secret that they needed to conceal. They walked around for a little while until the wall opened to reveal the room of hidden things.

Wherever Flavia thought following Fortuna's orders would take her, it wasn’t here. She stepped through the threshold as gingerly as the first explorer entering some long forgotten vault. She moved forward in astonished silence, along a carpet of forgotten jumpers and lost socks, past cauldrons caked with goo and chipped potionware that hung like tinsel from racks. Even her careful eyes couldn't capture every diary, drawing, or delightful mystery that this room was overflowing with.

At last they came to giant stacks of books and unsteady layers of parchment, each tall enough that a student who started reading from the moment they entered Hogwarts would die before making their way through all of it. In the middle of these stacks sat a desk piled high with parchment and flanked by two dusty old armchairs.

Fortuna idly inspected a globe out of date by several centuries, then, on her power's say so, popped it open by depressing Hispaniola.  Several oddly shaped glass bottles filled with different colored liquids were nestled within.

"How did you find this?" Flavia asked.

“I get up to a lot of things while you’re busy with potions,” Fortuna answered vaguely as she inspected a bottle full of some strange acid-green liquor. The globe and its contents had been hidden there by a professor who had been involved in a smuggling ring, which—

“Fortuna.”

Flavia’s tone was surprisingly forceful, and Fortuna belatedly realized that this was the time and place her friend had chosen to push the issue of her strange behaviour. Her glare left no room for evasion, no chance at escape. 

“I’m serious, Fortuna. What did you need to hide badly enough to find this room in the first place, and how did you just happen to be outside the wall when you did?"

Fortuna fell back on what had become her default lie. “I may have overheard the Weasley twins speaking about it.”

“When? How? Why would they be talking about this? Why is it they always spill so many secrets in front of you? And how could you expect me to believe that?"

Fortuna found herself speechless. Not from fear that she couldn’t easily talk her way out of this, but surprise that Flavia's pained look and the slimy feeling slithering down her throat made her not want to.

“We’re supposed to be housemates and study group partners and marauding potioneers! We are supposed to be friends."  She took a breath and launched into a speech she'd clearly been rehearsing for weeks. "I try not to ask your secrets, I’ve chosen not to pry into that mysterious business in the owlery you think you're hiding, and I won't even take you to task for making me pretend I don't know you're allergic to cats—but I will not hold my tongue at your duplicity."

With each accusation she took a step forward, forcing Fortuna back further and further until she stood next to one of the armchairs. Flavia gestured at it with all the authority of a cop who had his man dead to rights. 

"Enough is enough. Sit down, Dr. Sheppard. I, Hercule Poirot, will elucidate your crimes."

Despite all her instincts telling her to use her power to simply end the conversation immediately, to leave this room and concoct some story that would manage to evade all of Flavia’s best efforts at probing, she sat. 

"The day we met," Flavia began, pacing, "you sneezed at exactly the right time to allow for my clandestine requisition of medical supplies. We have gone to and from the Shrieking Shack no less than two dozen times and we have not gotten caught despite the constant patrols by professors and Aurors. More than that, we haven't even had a close call, nor have you ever come close to being struck by the Whomping Willow. You always know where things are and what time it is, you knew which roll Malfoy would eat and you took the lottery ticket in the nick of time because you knew that Inspector Hewitt would search me."

Fortuna shrugged with the feigned indifference the moment called for. "If you're the detective and I'm the murderer, I have to deny everything. And so I shall. It's all a coincidence and you must be mad to say otherwise."

"Mad!" Flavia exclaimed, affecting a fake French (or Belgian) accent. "You wish I were, mon ami, but I am not. You have slipped up one too many times, grown too comfortable in your act, and your secret is now bared to the searing daylight of my deductions." 

She waited through a long and dramatic pause before thrusting a finger into Fortuna’s face. "You are a Seer."

Fortuna didn't react, which was the reaction Flavia expected.

"I’ve not done much research, what with all our other tasks, but I'm quite sure. It's almost always there, and when it's not, you handle surprise—" Flavia broke off mid sentence, then finished with a lame understatement. "Badly."

After letting the silence stretch the exact amount of time it needed to stretch, Fortuna rubbed her forehead.

“I believe you’ve caught me.” 

The weary sigh that accompanied these words was not only for theatrical effect. It truly felt like she was losing something even admitting this. But she persisted. Not only did Flavia deserve to know something, Fortuna also had to head this curiosity off at the pass.

"For as long as I can remember," she said, "which you know isn't very long, I've had… intuitions. Gut feelings. Sit in this seat, notice that roll, take the ticket, leave now. I thought it was just part of being a Witch."

"For most of us, Divination is inaccessible." Flavia paced more, muttering to herself. “Some people make prophecies sometimes, and they can read the stars or tea leaves or things like that. But people who can do that are unusual. Even the Divination professor here is a sham, or at any rate that's what Feely and Daffy say, and the real ones aren't always reliable."

"You've noticed that my sense of things isn't always reliable, so it could just be like that."

Flavia shook her head. "No," she said. "I believe you, but lucky intuition doesn't explain why you're afraid you'll conquer the world."

Fortuna cursed that moment of weakness, cursed herself for ever uttering that phrase, cursed herself for laying bare so deep a wound. Flavia bore down on her like the hull of an oncoming ship and stopped only when she was barely a breath away.

"You've seen something," Flavia said. "Something real."

Fortuna stared down at her knuckles like she was inspecting them for dirt.

“I’ve seen what I could be. I can hurt people, Flavia. I can feel what the right thing to upset someone is, and sometimes I want that. You've watched me do it to Myrtle and your sisters. It’s more than that, though. If I tried hard, I could push it further. Hurt others in ways they couldn’t recover from. I've seen it…Sometimes just in my own actions, sometimes in dreams of what my future could be."

“The Boggart,” Flavia said, her deductive mind putting the pieces together as Fortuna's power dictated. 

“I never want to become her. But…” Fortuna rubbed her nose. “I'm scared. I'm scared I won't have a choice. That I'll have to, and it will start small, and it will inevitably snowball into an avalanche."

Her gaze reached Flavia’s again. Her friend's eyes had softened, the pain in them receding.

“I don't want to be her. I just want to be Fortuna.”

“And you will be,” Flavia said, grabbing Fortuna’s hands in hers. “I won’t let you turn into something like that. You are my friend. We are—well, we are together, bollocks to the rest of it and damn the consequences, as Dogger would say.” 

She heaved Fortuna out of the chair, as much as her meager strength could allow, and brushed off a dust bunny that had latched to her robes. Her gaze stayed far away from Fortuna’s face as she spoke. 

“I don’t know if I can relate entirely to how you feel. The worries of what you could do. The inevitable path you are headed down. But I know the isolation. Feeling like you can do things that others can’t. Please, speak to me. Let me help. I’ll make sure nothing ever happens to you. My word, as a de Luce.” 

Fortuna could not work up the ability to speak. She stared at her shoes, not willing to meet the other girl’s eyes.

“If you can’t trust yourself to figure things out, then trust me.” 

“I suppose I could do that, Ms. de Luce.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Miss Floris,” Flavia said and beamed an earnest smile before giving Fortuna her space and turning off to the rest of the room.  “Well, come on and tally ho! We have treasure to hunt.”

She was off like a shot and Fortuna followed behind, attempting to not let her relief show. This conversation had been bound to happen; she had known that since the night after the Boggart had revealed itself, and now Flavia had the satisfaction of "solving" the mystery. She hadn’t expected it to go like this, though, and was grateful she'd decided to allow some honesty to come through. 

This was where she had wanted to be. Somewhere she could open up, even if it was only a little bit. And there was no one she could trust in this world more than Flavia, whose speech had been as heartfelt as it had been impassioned. She had meant every word that she said, about being willing to protect and to help and make sure Fortuna stayed herself.

And with such conviction in her voice, Fortuna almost could believe her.

Chapter Text

Fortuna and Flavia plundered the room of hidden things several times that week, their spoils limited only by what they could physically carry off to their lab. While Fortuna had expected the room to be a mild curiosity that might entertain her friend for a day, Flavia had all but demanded multiple trips in order to truly plumb its depths. The room might mostly be a repository of broken junk, but there were still quite a few nifty finds to be had. 

So far they’d made off with several jewelry pieces of questionable authenticity to test for obscure curses, numerous broken doodads that struck them as potentially salvageable, and several older magical toys that Flavia intended to show off once she was potions master at Hogwarts. It seemed that her brief time in Dumbledore’s office had pushed her to be more of a pack rat.

They went early to breakfast Friday at Flavia’s insistence, so early that the food had not even arrived yet and there were only a few other students, consisting entirely of Hermione Granger and the few fifth and seventh Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who were preparing for their OWLs and NEWTs well in advance. It was not an uncommon departure from their usual schedule—Fortuna had long grown used to the odd hours required of renegade potioneers—but this time they had a purpose. 

“We’ll need plenty of time to head if we plan to delve into the Repository of Forgotten Riches,” Flavia had announced when she'd opened the draperies around Fortuna's bed at 5:50 AM. She had the unfortunate proclivities of waking people up without permission, scaring off cats who had been innocently sleeping on their owners' stomachs, and of giving everything the most elaborate names. Left to her own devices, Fortuna would have just called it a junkyard.

“And what is our quarry today?” she asked.

“As you may be aware, our final project will be completed tomorrow," Flavia said solemnly. She had taken to calling their Polyjuice-and-Hogsmeade scheme their “final project” as a way to throw off any nefarious, eavesdropping Percy Weasleys, and the potion had finished brewing the night before. Fortuna nodded and Flavia continued.

“We have yet to acquire one of the most important aspects of our project, to wit: suitable receptacles in which to carry the fruit of our labors. We will be on an hourly timer, and only rank amateurs, which we are not, would find themselves running out of supplies midway through their adventures.”

“We can just as well use normal potion bottles.”

“Bottles?” She asked, then sighed the longest and most drawn-out sigh possible. “Months of work in preparation for the heist of a century, and you want a bottle as opposed to a flagon , a beaker , a chalice , or even a flask ? Fortuna, while I respect your immense and worthy capabilities as an assistant, your panache is something we will need to work on.”

Fortuna knew there was no use arguing with Flavia when she had made up her mind and simply nodded. “I will endeavor to correct my deficiencies. Is that all that's left?”

Flavia began to tick things off on her fingers while the platters magically filled. "Polyjuice, check," she said. "Hair from Harpy the Greater, check. Hair from Harpy the Lesser, check. Agenda of mayhem, check. Alibis and excuses for what happens if someone asks us why they've seen two identical harpies in two different places, check. Wait—we've overlooked something for tomorrow."

Fortuna was too busy with her eggs benedict to manage more than an inquisitive hum in response.

"We haven't decided how we're going to dress."

"Like Daphne and Ophelia," Fortuna said, once she'd swallowed a delicious mouthful of hollandaise-slathered asparagus.

"I mean where are we going to get the clothes? Do you think the Repository would have some Slytherin and Ravenclaw robes in our size?"

Fortuna thought about it, and found the answer was yes. There were a lot of discarded robes in the room, and they would be able to find robes and house ties that would fit their borrowed bodies. "We can't be the first students to illicitly change house colors."

Breakfast was quick, scrumptious, and filling, and they were back into the room before an hour had passed, despite the arduous seven-story climb. Thanks to the unobtrusive assistance of Fortuna's power, they turned up results rather quickly. A wardrobe of abandoned clothes yielded robes that would fit, and then they began to wander around looking for sufficiently ornate bottles.

"Eureka!" she exclaimed, after a few minutes. Fortuna went over to see what her friend had found.

She was standing in front of a cabinet that looked like it hadn’t seen use since the eighteenth century, admiring a selection of different glass ewers. Their richly colored contents appeared inert to the naked eye, though Flavia was convinced they were possessed of some strange and wonderful property.

She grabbed a blue one and swished the liquid this way and that, seeing what she could discern from the viscosity of the elixir. For her final test, Flavia gave the bottle a fierce shake—holding it a moderate distance away like she thought half a foot would protect her from any explosion—before holding the glass up to Fortuna. 

“Do your Seer powers detect anything particularly useful from this one?” 

Fortuna winced. "I'm not a predictive vending machine," she groused. 

Flavia looked taken aback, Fortuna didn't rush in to save her from the feeling that she'd put her foot in it; letting her stew in discomfort and awkwardness for a few seconds would do more to stop her than demands ever could. 

“My apologies," she said at last. "Of course you aren’t. Please excuse my blunder. I’m sure I’ll be able to put it together on my own. Half the fun is in discovery, is it not?”

Then Fortuna's power did have something to say about these so-called potions, which were really experimental alcoholic beverages that had become extremely potent and unstable over the course of a century and a half of magical aging. 

"It is," she agreed. "And as your assistant, I can only advise you to treat them with the care and respect due any mysterious substance uncovered in the course of a scientific adventure."

“Of course, now let’s hurry. I don’t want to be late for class. An upset professor is more volatile than any potion could ever hope to be.”

🔮

After their trip had concluded, Fortuna stopped by the owlery to collect more of the letters from the Obliviation support group she had begun. She knew that there would not be much worth reading, but she worked in hope that every little bit would help. She stuffed the parchments into her pocket for later examination and was off to Herbology.

Professor Sprout gave a more than adequate lecture on the life cycle of Devil’s Snare, but Fortuna spared not even the barest effort at paying attention and it didn’t appear that Flavia tried any harder. Their plans for the following day were well and truly dominating their minds and, while Flavia was mainly fretting over whether every minute detail of the Polyjuice Potion had been done correctly, Fortuna was more preoccupied with what happened after they'd drunk it. Hogsmeade offered a wealth of possibilities for them and, with the aged up bodies of the de Luce sisters, the village was their oyster. 

Their candy reserves were certainly lacking, Fortuna really would enjoy finishing a butterbeer without interruption, and then there was Zonko's. Between the shops and what coins they'd scrounged from the "Repository”, Toil and Trouble would be well-stocked with sweets and antics for the rest of the year.

It would also amuse her to share the same carriage with Hermione again, just to see her fail to figure out the charade.

When class was over, the two girls beelined for their hideout. Nobody would be watching the Whomping Willow during lunch, so they were able to slip into the secret passageway without interference. Flavia was vibrating with anticipation the entire trip down the dirt passageway to the Shrieking Shack. She immediately fell on the bubbling elixir of polyjuice, circling it and inspecting it from every side and angle like she was Snape hoping to find some defect. 

“Let’s hope she doesn’t take too long,” Fortuna said to Alexander, watching Flaiva lost in her own little world, before realizing how idiotic it must look to be talking to an animal. 

He wagged his tail because she'd spoken, but his attention was also on the potion until Fortuna set about unpacking some of the food they had laid by, and spread a mighty meat and cheese platter on the floor. It was no feast, but Alexander immediately began to gorge himself on smoked salami.

“My dear compatriot, I believe our work is a success,” Flavia said with smug satisfaction as she sat down, grasping a wheat cracker and swiss for herself. 

“As though there could have been any chance at failure with the great Flavia de Luce and her even greater assistant at work,” Fortuna said.

"Our combined prowess rivals that of the greatest alchemical minds of Wizarding history," agreed Flavia. "You know, it's a shame that Hermione wouldn't ask Harry to be our bait tomorrow. Did you notice she was still grumpy this morning?"

"It's because her friend's rat ran away," Fortuna said. Alexander's ears perked up, so she scratched behind them. "If we want Harry to be part of our scheme, we should bypass his friends and ask him directly. If he knows about Black selling his parents out to You Know Who, he'll want to bring him out into the open as much as we do."

Flavia rubbed her chin. "Yes, but not for tomorrow. We don't have enough time to plan. The next Hogsmeade weekend, then."

"Agreed," Fortuna said. "Is there anything else we need to do before flying? I want to go through my mail."

Flavia nodded at that and wiped her hands on the front of her robes. “We just need to transfer our mysterious elixirs out of their containers and put the Polyjuice in."

As Flavia moved to the potions equipment and the several strange liquors she’d set nearby it all, finally Fortuna turned her attention to the letters.

As her power had warned her, much of it was broad strokes; letters of introduction, explanations of who they were, and how they had lost their memories—at least those who could remember those circumstances. There was the usual fare—people expressing their woes and discussions about continuing with life after losing something so vital—but the last letter gave her cause to think. It was from a man who had been a soldier during the wizarding war and had lost most of his mind to Obliviation. Though he carefully talked around it, she deduced that Death Eaters had tortured him until they'd broken through his Obliviation.

Fortuna paused, rereading the passage again to herself. Hermione had mentioned months ago that the effects of torture or other negative stimuli could help with recovering memories—no, help was the wrong word—but this was the first person she'd come across who that had happened to. He didn't seem happy about the process or satisfied with the results, and what was Dementor exposure but torture by another name? It was simply less outwardly gruesome and, in her case, voluntary.

A thought began to plague her mind, a niggling doubt. She had initiated her friendship with Flavia to get happy memories to fuel the patronus charm, and she was confident by now that had worked. But what if the plan itself failed? What next? Would she subject herself to something truly horrible? If it came to it, would she put herself through pain like this man had experienced? Would she suffer just at the slimmest chance of recovering what she’d lost?

She tucked the packet of letters away with an air of finality. She already knew the answer to that question. 

Alexander barked, pulling Fortuna out of her reverie. 

She looked up to see that her friend had poured the fiery red bottle of liquid into one of the beakers on her desk and it had appeared to not appreciate the change in scenery. Flavia had the beaker clasped tightly in one hand—thankfully gloved—and it jerked violently as if trying to free itself. Fortuna was up in a moment, wand at the ready. 

“Flavia, put that down." 

“I have this, Fortuna. Don’t worry.” And with that the crimson liquid geysered up and out, splattering all over the front of Flavia's robes and catching fire. Fortuna was already shouting the water-making spell, drenching both Flavia and her surroundings.

“Hmm, well, unfortunate,” Flavia said, seemingly none the worse for wear after her near-immolation. 

"Do you know what would also be an interesting reaction?" Fortuna snapped. "Fire plus this shack. It's made out of old dry wood, which is flammable. And do you know what else is flammable?"

"Isopropyl alcohol," Flavia mused.

"Witches! Notoriously!"

“I know, I know. Laboratory safety is paramount. I didn’t expect such a volatile reaction. Emptied two of the vials for the polyjuice potion and then a scientific mind simply started to wander. What sort of reaction would a mixture of the two potions bring? But it's only moonshine. How disappointing."

"Your precautions are disappointing."

Flavia finally acknowledged Fortuna. "Thank you, Fortuna. I promise to be more careful in the future."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." 

"For the record," Flavia said, still caught in an academic reverie, "if you'd paid attention in history class you'd know that actual Witches were not burned during the Witch hunts."

"You're lucky I was paying attention here."

"I am not lucky you were here," Flavia said, smiling. "I am honored and grateful. Thank goodness you can see things coming. Oh, but this robe has given up the ghost."

Almost against her will, Fortuna accepted the compliment and began to calm down. "At least we have more clothes," she said, eyeing the half-burnt, waterlogged tatters that hung off Flavia's tiny frame. 

Flavia sighed and went upstairs, Alexander right on her heels. Likely he wanted to keep her from doing something even more idiotic. Say what she would about the mangy mongrel, he at least had a sense of self-preservation.

Silence pressed on Fortuna from all sides. Flavia’s remark about her being able to see things coming hung in the air like a foul odor.

She thought about it and came to a disquieting conclusion. Since her semi-confession, Flavia hadn't begun to treat her like she was just a vessel for divination; as Flavia's apology earlier had proved, she would never see Fortuna as her power first and her self second. In fact, she'd puzzled out something about how Fortuna's power worked a while ago, and she'd often remarked on Fortuna's reflexes or ability to anticipate their needs. The only difference was she was more direct now, more sure of her angle.

She hadn't changed, and that was the problem. She had accepted Fortuna’s explanation. She had accepted it and continued on like it was nothing and she hadn’t even reacted internally except to congratulate herself on being clever enough to solve the mystery.

So then why had Fortuna resisted telling her? Why was she like this? Why had every single ounce of self-preservation she had fought against the idea of telling Flavia the truth? Why did even admitting what little she did still feel like some failure?

Her compulsion toward secrecy, her aversion to opening up even when it was good for her, must have had to do with her memories and the fog. The thing she couldn’t manage to capture but seemed to control so much of her life. 

The letters had affirmed the path she was on was the right one, and moments like these were a wake up call. There was a piece of her lost and she needed to pull it out of herself. Whatever pain, whatever wound was there, she needed to grasp it. To understand it.

She wanted to be Fortuna Floris. How could she ever hope to be her when she didn’t even fully understand who that was?

The creaking of the old stairs to the Shrieking Shack drew her attention, and Flavia came back down, wearing a different pair of slacks and jumper. Her tie was undone, her hair a bit of a mess, and she was still pulling a new Hogwarts robe on.

“You’ve changed your whole outfit,” Fortuna said. 

“Yeah, uh, yes, Miss Floris. I thought it fortuitous to ponder over the assortment available and, er, find something different to wear.” 

Fortuna gave her the side-eye, but said nothing. Hopefully the near-death experience had simply scattered her brain and not caused some irreparable damage. 

“Could you help me with the tie?” Flavia said, and Fortuna stepped forward to do the knot. “Well then, we should get going. Enough excitement for one day.” 

They collected the Polyjuice for the next day's mission and headed back to Hogwarts grounds to prepare for their Flying lesson.

“You know," Fortuna said when they were nearly back to the castle, "if we hadn’t had spare clothes, Jessica would be rubbing the explosion in your face as she flew circles around you.”

“Oh, well, actually I was thinking about skiving off today," Flavia said, staring over the grounds. "Still shaken up and all that. I mean to say, pip pip and what what?”

“If you try to skip Madam Hooch’s class without a petition on your behalf from Madam Pomfrey, she’ll have you doing laps around the towers until you throw up.”

Flavia grimaced and roughed up her hair before catching herself and putting her hand in her pocket. “No choice, then. C’mon, let’s get to it.”

The way she was speaking, the way she was acting. Something was wrong, and there couldn't just be her being spooked by that little accident. Flavia was death-defying to a fault. She’d almost been killed by Macnair and shown less reaction.

What was Flavia thinking?

Nothing, her power informed her.

What? 

Flavia wasn’t thinking about anything, her power informed her again.

Fortuna shot a glance at Flavia, and while such an answer wouldn’t have made her even blink with someone like Angelique, her best friend was a girl who simply could not stop thinking.

Had her power decided to fritz out now that she'd partially disclosed its capabilities? No, something was wrong.

What was Flavia doing ? 

She stopped stock still for a second, her heart attempting to thump its way out of her chest, until she managed to regain her composure. Her power quelled her dread and set her pace back to normal and forced her into the picture of calm. The slightest misstep could spell doom.

Because Flavia was currently back at the Shrieking Shack, unconscious thanks to a Stunning Spell.

The girl standing next to her, the murderer wearing her friend's face, was Sirius Black.

Chapter Text

Drat and damnation! 

There were few things more embarrassing for a nonpareil chemist such as myself than an experiment gone wrong, and of course it had to have happened in such a spectacular fashion. Fortuna would be gazing reproachfully at me for weeks. I was thankful the school shirt and trousers I’d scavenged from the attic of Buckshaw were none the worse for the little accident, and even more thankful there were plenty of extra clothes in our laboratory.

I briefly wondered if Fortuna's insistence on a spare wardrobe came from some foreknowledge or her usual fussiness. Well, perhaps one begat the other. No use trying to untangle my friend’s Gordian Knot of a psyche when we had class to get to.

His Majesty King George the Fluff jumped onto the bed, smiling from ear to ear, and I couldn’t help but smile back. Surely he was showing support and not laughing at my mishap. I yanked a robe out of the trunk we kept under the bed and began to pull it over my head.

I heard the slightest scrape—someone moving something while trying to make as little noise as possible. Nobody else could have picked up on the sound, but I had the keen ears of Harriet de Luce, and I knew, from the direction it came, that it could only be one thing: my wand, which I'd set on the nightstand. 

I suddenly felt like I was fighting my way out of my bedsheets after a nightmare. I struggled to pull the blasted cloth down and finally poked my head through the opening.

Sirius Black stood there, pointing my own wand at me. He didn't look like a maniac. He wore a pedestrian set of robes slightly too large for him—most likely stolen. He was skinny but not gaunt, his shoulder-length hair was well kept, his eyes were focused instead of wild, and his expression was… sheepish?

Like that of a dog that expected to be scolded.

"Sorry, Flavia," he whispered. "Stupefy."

I had no chance to speak, to scream, to warn Fortuna. The spell hit, and the rest was darkness. A deep, smothering darkness, black as old blood. 

🔍

Cold water hit me in the face.

“Fortuna,” I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Sirius Black!"

I thrashed around, trying to find anything to use as a weapon, and my hand eventually landed on the candelabra I had found in the Repository of Forgotten Riches. Two blurry shapes jumped away from me. I'd told Fortuna taking it would pay dividends, but she'd still grumbled about lugging it all the way up here.

I blinked more to drive the water out of my eyes and the blurs materialized into a solid picture. I thought I was seeing double until I noticed their ties were done up in different ways. The Weasley twins, each standing on a different side of the bed in the Shrieking Shack.

“Oh. It's you. From the frame job," I said, the shock letting my mouth get the better of me.

“The what?” one of the twins, the one on my right, asked. 

There was no point in pretending the beans I'd spilled weren't rolling all over the floor. I sighed and returned the candelabra to the nightstand—the same one Sirius Black had stolen my wand from. Uncle Tark would be so disappointed in me. "My friend and I let you take credit when we poisoned Draco Malfoy."

“ Let us take credit? Bloody Snape was on our backside for months,” one said, completely ungrateful for the fact everyone who wasn't Snape thought it was the best thing they'd ever seen.

“Wanted to have us hanging from our thumbs,” the other replied. 

“Never mind that,” I said with absolute exasperation, “ Sirius Black! He was a dog and then he turned into Sirius Black and attacked me!”

The outrage of it all galled me. He'd been our dog. I had fed him feasts, I had picked the fleas from his fur, I had bestowed on him his title, and I had sworn my allegiance to him! Honestly, this was the kind of royal backstabbing that had kicked off the French Revolution.

The two boys seemed nonplussed by my warning. “An animagus?" 

"But they're registered."

"And he doesn't have a wand."

Well, he did now.

“She’s raving, George."

"I'm not raving! If I were, then how did you get here?"

One of the twins sighed to the other, as if I were behind on some program. As if I could be caught up after being knocked out for Saint Tancred knew how long.

“Your partner in crime gave us this note," he said. "How'd you manage to stun yourself?"

I took the parchment from him. There was one line written on it in the precise, perfect cursive that Fortuna always wrote in, which never got smudged or less neat no matter how quickly she wrote. 

" Should you wish to access the Shrieking Shack and all its wonders, throw a rock at the fourth knot down from the great fork in the Whomping Willow. "

There wasn't a message for me, and there was nothing about Black.

Did Fortuna even know? How could she not, I hadn't come down—unless! I whirled around, looking for the bottles of polyjuice potion we'd intended to use the next day. Gone, damn and blast and double damn. Black had managed to impersonate me and was now gallivanting about Hogwarts wreaking who knew what havoc.

"I didn't stun myself," I snapped. "Sirius Black did, or haven't you been listening?"

And Fortuna didn't know—or did she? She'd known enough to send the twins to our secret hideout. Had her Seer's insight nudged her to do that? Surely she would have done something more than send me two fifth years, if she'd known the full extent of it. Fortuna tended to downplay her capabilities in general, whether it was her genius for transfiguration or careful cultivation of our study group, and I'd assumed her less than effusive appraisal of her Sight fell into the same category. Surely something that gave her such quiet confidence and flawless reflexes was more than vague, often inadequate suggestions.

"Sirius Black?"

"A homicidal lunatic stunned you—"

"And tucked you into bed?"

He had, hadn't he? Convicted murderer, serial killer, and Death Eater Sirius Black had apologized to me. He’d looked sorry. He’d carried me to bed like Dogger, after another experiment had drawn me into the long hours of the night. To think he’d put in care to make me more comfortable after knocking me out. I didn’t have the time to even begin comprehending what his motive there been.

"Are you sure you didn't put a confundus curse on yourself?" 

I waved off their nonsense. "I know what I saw," I said, and looked around for proof that I hadn't been stashed up here like a madwoman in the attic. Black's robes were piled in a heap on the floor. I picked them up. "Look!"

"George—" Fred said, as they both stepped toward me.

"Fred—" George said, taking the robes from me.

"Do my eyes deceive me?"

"These are the clothes he was wearing when we saw him."

I left them to it, and applied all my considerable brain power to the situation at hand. I'd assumed Fortuna was lying or—not lying, but devaluing—her Seer abilities. But perhaps Fortuna had been telling me the whole truth when she said her divination was just something that sometimes pushed her toward certain paths. Perhaps she didn't know why she'd been prompted to give such a letter to the twins. Perhaps she didn't know that "I" was a killer.

Perhaps she was in danger.

What was she doing right now? I checked my watch.

My heart sank. The study group. Seven children. Seven people, when Black had taken out thirteen with one spell. And Fortuna was brilliant when pressed, but she was still my age, and she stumbled when taken by surprise. 

I had to save them.

Right.

I didn't have my wand, but I wasn't without weapons. Even when I was up against the old wall and all seemed lost, I always had a tool. The tool.

Potions.

The selection we'd accumulated thus far was unfortunately not very useful, but… I took the Veritaserum that we had originally brewed for use on Sirius Black. At least one of my plans would come to fruition this day. 

"Let's get to it," I said.

The twins didn't hear me. They were looking at a cutout from a newspaper. Context would seem to indicate that they'd fished out of Black's pocket. "It's us," one of them said.

"Why would he have this?" 

"Why would he care about our trip to Egypt?"

"It's old."

"From the summer."

"He saved this."

They stared at each other with dawning horror.

"We have to—"

"Tell Dad."

As one, they dashed past me and down the stairs. I picked up the clipping from where they'd dropped it and looked it over. It was only a puff piece with a photograph of all the Weasleys.

Something at the back of my mind came forward, and I had the sense of something great and imminent, like I had been staring down some great expanse, some unknowable cavern of secrets and knowledge, and had just been given the final push to plunge straight into it. I was falling, but hadn’t hit the water beneath yet.

I had all the pieces of the puzzle now, I was sure. I just didn't know which was the key, the one that would let me see them all in their proper orientation. Either I was on the cusp of breaking this case wide open or my name wasn't Flavia de Luce.

I folded the paper and put it in my trousers pocket and went after the twins, stopping to grab some of the explosive tipple. I was able to catch up with them where the height of the passageway lowered and forced them to stop running.

"Wait," I said. 

They kept pushing forward.

I visualized Feely playing Head Girl, Daffy holding forth on Charles Dickens, and the odd moment when Father would come out of his study to discipline us. I thought of the time they all had confronted the murderer who'd kidnapped me. 

" Stop ," I said, throwing nine hundred years of de Luce authority into my voice. 

They stopped. 

"What?" they said at the same time.

"I need to ask you some questions," I said. "It's important."

"Black's after our family—"

"That's more important."

“Talk with me now and my friends and I will owe you a favor, no questions asked."

It was the handsomest offer I'd ever made to virtual strangers, but the look on their faces made it clear that they put much stock into the idea of a bunch of first years being able to help them advance their agenda.

I thought bigger. "You know my family. You know that if I make a promise, I'm good for it."

They began to confer silently. I might not have noticed how in sync they were, if not for the similar connection Fortuna and I had developed.

“Look, my friend and I made that donkey brew for Mr. Malfoy. We have the talent, I swear on my honor as a Girl Guide. Whenever you call, we will answer—with poison as needed."

They stared at me. I gave up on dignity and stamped my foot in frustration. "And this is just as important! I’m so close to figuring everything out!”

At last they ruled in my favor and nodded. I pushed my way past them and took point, setting the pace as I talked. 

"You were the ones who saw Sirius Black in his attack on the Gryffindor common room, am I correct?”

“I would hope that tales of our heroic deeds have carried through the castle."

"How we faced down Sirius Black—"

“The stiff upper lip we had in the face of danger—”

“Despite being in mortal terror—"

“Clearing the field of Death Eaters without so much as flinching."

“Get on with it,” I said, with no humor in my voice. “Tell me exactly what happened. Where were you sitting? How did he enter? What did he do when you saw him? I need every detail, no matter how trivial.”

“We sat at the table furthest from the door."

"Working on a new invention.”

“One of our best."

"A portable storm. You throw it at someone—"

"It starts raining."

"Thunder rumbles around their ears."

"Lightning singes their eyebrows."

"Use it on enemies—"

“Or bad dates.” 

I interrupted the sales pitch. “And then Sirius Black came in.”

“Well, yes, but we didn’t hear him enter.”

“He snuck in quietly.”

“Like what you’d expect of a rat of a murderer.”

This was all information I already knew. Nothing that could give me a clue or even a hint. "When did you notice him? How?"

“He made a noise."

"We looked up."

"And there he was."

“Looked pretty good for a man locked in Azkaban for over a bloody decade.”

"Not like those wanted posters."

“A noise?” I asked, bringing their rambling back around to something useful. "What noise exactly?"

They gasped in unison.

“It wasn't a word?" I asked.

“Definitely not a word."

"He stepped forward—"

"Looked at our invention on the table—"

"Then made a face—"

"And then he turned and ran away."

“Figure he had us confused for someone else.”

“Not Harry, though."

“Harry could never have our dashing good looks.” 

" My dashing good looks. You're too hideous to look at."

I pondered this. Not the crack about how handsome they were, but about Black's behavior.

Of course they had dismissed it. Everyone knew Sirius Black was looking for Harry Potter. That was why he had escaped, and why he'd gone to Gryffindor Tower. He'd left because he was outnumbered two wands to zero.

That was what I'd thought, too. 

Because why would You-Know-Who's number one supporter Sirius Black be interested in two random, non-Potter students? Why would a Sirius Black who could turn into a gigantic dog not attack, take their wands, and go for Harry?

Hadn't Fortuna said something along those lines back then?

Brilliant, clever, fragile Fortuna. My pace quickened.

What we had instead was Sirius Black who approached two red-haired boys and started looking for something in their vicinity. But then he ran. Not because he'd gotten caught—he'd managed to subdue me well enough, and he had a secret ability that made him a formidable fighter without a wand—but because the students who had caught him didn't have what he wanted. 

Two red-headed boys…

I pulled out the article again, and studied it as I walked by the light of the twins' Lumos spells.

My eye moved past the four adults to the five students. Ginny was a girl, Percy dressed more carefully and in better clothes, and the twins had been ruled out by Black himself.

That left one boy. The boy I'd spoken to in the carriage, the boy who was friends with Hermione and Harry Potter, the boy who was gripping an unenthusiastic, camera-shy rat in this photograph.

Ron.

And the puzzle solved itself.

🔍

The three of us pushed our way through the ever shrinking corridor until sunlight finally graced us. The tree was pacified and we wormed our way through as quickly as we could manage, each fighting for the first spot free.

"Find a professor," I said when we had crawled up into the sunlight. "They need to know Black is here."

"Find your own professor."

"We have to go to the owlery."

"There’s a bloody serial killer after our family.”

And he’s after mine , I thought. "Your father isn’t here, but every Hogwarts student is. Black is with Fortuna right now, he’s with my friends . Just tell a teacher, any teacher! Tell them to go to the classroom on the fourth floor by the trophy case."

With that, I ran off. I prayed the twins would listen to my words, but I didn't have time to worry about it. Fortuna wouldn’t have allowed "me" to leave when I was supposed to be assisting with the study group, and no matter how well Sirius Black might have weathered Azkaban, one glare from her would have brought him into line.

I burst into the Entrance Hall like a bat on its way out of hell and hurled myself up the grand staircase, sometimes taking two steps at a time. It was as if the castle itself could feel my urgency, for the staircases all aligned and not even Peeves delayed me. The fourth floor opened up and suddenly I was at the door to the classroom without a plan.

I stopped for a moment to fix my appearance and ready my pronouncement. My first words confronting the fake me would have to be perfect. They would have to command attention. They would have to be suitably sleuthy .

Thankfully, I knew well and truly how to enter a crime scene.

I kicked the door open with one foot, lept into the room and shouted, “Halt! One of you in this very room is a murderer .” 

Everything was in shambles. One of the overhead chandeliers had fallen, spilling candles and broken glass everywhere. Tables had been overturned, papers sent flying, and chairs shattered. Some of the shards were still twitching. Sections of floor had been scorched black, brown, and red, and what looked like living chains writhed around several of the pillars. 

Nobody turned to look at me. Astoria stood over a downed Jessica, who was propped up against a wall and holding an injured arm. An unconscious Candidus was in a heap near the blackboard, and at some point half of the Toil and Trouble banner had fallen on him. The Hufflepuffs were nowhere to be seen, and I hoped that meant they were safe.  

No, there was one Hufflepuff: Cedric Diggory was crouched down wiping ceaselessly at his face where a nasty black ooze seeped endlessly out of his eyes, ears, and nose. 

Beyond him, Sirius Black lay on the floor, motionless.

Over his prone form rose a shapeless mess of black robes. For a moment, I thought it was a dementor, but it resolved into a shape I recognized. Fortuna, hair out of place, eyes narrowed into slits through which only the darks of her pupils were visible, and teeth bared in an animalistic snarl, stood over Sirius Black’s body, a bloody knife clenched in her hand. 

Chapter Text

Fortuna gripped the knife so tight she was sure her joints would snap. 

She could kill him now. 

He didn’t suspect her. He wouldn’t have time to react. Her power let her see it: it would be like crushing a flower in her fist. A strike to the jugular and the shock would be so great he wouldn’t even get the chance to try and stop her. A few seconds too late, he’d go for his wand and she’d knock it aside. He’d try to wrestle her hand free, but that wouldn’t work either. He’d die grasping his throat. Quick. Clean.

He would be wearing Flavia’s face. 

He would die wearing Flavia’s face. 

She imagined the act in more detail, this time without the mediation of her power. What it would look like. How it would feel. 

She relaxed her hand, letting her knife slip deeper into her robes pocket.

She couldn’t do it. She could never hurt Flavia, even if she knew it was a masquerade. No matter what her powers made her capable of doing, she couldn't work up the nerve.

Her instinctive torrent of half-asked questions yielded a cascade of disconnected facts. That damnable password, the question of the dog's name, the ingredients of Polyjuice, and, for some reason, the missing pet rat all crowded into her head.

What?

No, this was too much. 

She needed to think about this carefully and completely, from all angles, and work out the ramifications before she chose a path.

Fortuna let her emotional turmoil fall away, the wave of a storm breaking on the rock of her psyche, and asked the most important question.

Flavia was safe. Her ego would be in tatters for a few minutes, of course, but she wasn't hurt. 

Fortuna's own ego had not escaped injury. She did not think that she could feel like a bigger dolt. The fact that she had been fooled by Sirius Black’s impression of Flavia for even one conversation, the fact that she'd been standing next to the answer for so long, the fact that he'd been laughing at them the whole time—all of it was almost too much to bear.

But bear it she would have to. This was obviously a problem that called for an urgent solution, and she needed to focus on working through it, not her bruised pride. 

Flying class would afford her enough time to do that and to set things in motion.

Beside her, Black walked in stiff silence. Odd that he couldn't mimic the easy way they could go for hours without talking despite having observed them for so long.

When at last they reached the Quidditch pitch, Black stopped and stared uncertainly at the group of students. He clearly did not know who was who or where Flavia would be expected to go.

“Oi, lovebirds!" Jessica called from where she squatted next to her broom. "Ready to get smoked?”

"Jessica," Black muttered, mentally matching her with the description he'd overheard. "And that's Astoria."

"Of course that's Jessica and Astoria," Fortuna said, unable to refrain from needling him a little. "They are here at this time every week."

"Much to the lamentation of, um, all and sundry,” Black said.

Fortuna had to use her power to suppress a snort. "Woe unto Hogwarts," she agreed.

“Please forgive her,” Astoria said in an attempt at calm dignity, badly hiding her own excitement at the chance to fly. “She’s done nothing but talk about this all day.”

“I’ll take what chances for fresh air I can get. The Slytherin dungeon smells like burnt hair and rabid git.”

Black couldn’t help but smile at that pronouncement. “Some things never change,” he said.

“I hope the older students aren’t still giving you trouble,” Fortuna said to cover for his slipup. 

“Not since the last one got sent to Madam Pomfrey,” Jessica said before the squeal of Madam Hooch’s whistle cut off their conversation. 

The games mistress assembled them into two lines and gave them instructions. The class was going to let out half an hour early due to an incoming storm, so they were to make the most of their limited time. 

Black didn't need telling twice; he was as good at flying as he was bad at acting. It seemed he hadn’t had much in the way of entertainment outside of theft and deception these past few months, and he was taking full advantage of his sudden freedom.

Well, she could sympathize with that. Her own experience with flying was nothing short of liberating, but he really ought to have reined himself in. Instead he had the self-control of a toddler let loose on a playground and Astoria, who was always keenly aware of how well her competitors were doing (a category that naturally included her friends), immediately noticed. 

“What in Merlin’s name is she doing ? Where did Flavia de Luce learn to move on a broom like that?” 

Fortuna sighed internally. She needed to let the charade play out until she decided what to do, and it fell to her to balance out Black's carelessness. “Oh, she just mastered a complex new potion. Give her time to work through the exhilaration and she'll be back to normal.” 

Astoria frowned but flew off, leaving Fortuna to her thinking.

The simplest answer was to manipulate Black into standing outside Dumbledore's office and stun him. The Polyjuice would wear off and the Headmaster would find him before he woke up. Only a few dozen steps and the entire problem would be out of her hands.

But that had its own drawbacks. Dumbledore would come to the right conclusions and do his best to get Black cleared, but without her help he would fail to catch Ron's rat, evidently a human called Peter Pettigrew, and that would cause an even bigger mess down the line. 

She supposed she could also maneuver Pettigrew out into the open, but she found she didn't want to do that, either. While foisting everything off onto the proper authorities would resolve the issue of Black's innocence, it wouldn't advance any of her other schemes, nor would it satisfy Flavia.

There were opportunities, here, if she could be clever enough to capitalize on them.

One thing was plain: she had to get Flavia back. The stunner would naturally wear off in a few hours, but she needed her sooner. Someone had to explain everything to the school authorities and to prove that Sirius Black was not dangerous and to expose the rat, and that someone would not be Fortuna Floris. 

Not to mention that Flavia would never forgive her if she solved this whole thing alone.

She needed Flavia, and Flavia needed witnesses . She also needed a little bit more help to fully unravel the mystery.  Knowing that Alexander and Sirius Black were the same entity would get her about seventy percent of the way there, but Fortuna would have to prod her to the finish line.

The Weasley twins could get her all of this.

She mentally flipped through other possibilities, taking fragments from each until she'd built a plan that would yield something for everyone. Black would be cleared, Professor Lupin would see his old friend vindicated, the study group would get glory and further inspire copycats, Flavia would get her big moment, Headmaster Dumbledore would get more help than he'd ever know, and she…

She would get the Dementors to herself. It would cost something of her privacy, but she had already decided she could and would sacrifice more of herself than that to get her memories back.

The plan she settled on would also require a bit of pain on Black’s part, but it wasn’t as  though he didn’t deserve it. He was innocent of the crime he'd been accused of, and he was innocent of designs on Harry Potter's life, but he wasn't innocent of lying to them for months. He wasn't innocent of ambushing Flavia in her own lab, or of using them to steal the Gryffindor Tower password, or of taking her food when she wasn’t looking to try and sell his canine character.

Madam Hooch signaled the end of class just as the first drops of rain fell, mercifully stopping Black from further displays that might shred his tissue-thin cover. Fortuna touched down with grace but without fanfare, while Black slammed into the ground grinning the least Flavia-like grin conceivable.

“Where the bloody hell did you learn to do that?” Jessica said, racing in after her.

“Jealous?” Black asked, swaggering like the teenage boy he still was at heart.

Jessica, who had spent much of her youth breaking the arrogance of teenage boys, rose to the occasion to meet him where he stood. Fortuna positioned herself between the two before this one-upmanship escalated.

“As much as I enjoy these antics,” Fortuna said, all but pulling Black away, “we have pressing matters to attend to that do not take place up in the sky.” 

Sirius shot a confused look her way. “What do you mean? Er, what ho, you aren't scared of these storm clouds, are you, my fellow Gryffindor?”

Jessica rolled her eyes. "We'll see you in half an hour," Astoria said, primly.

Fortuna waited until they were an appropriate distance from the Slytherin girls, the better to sell an atmosphere of established conspiracy. "We need to deliver our message to the Weasley twins this afternoon," she said.

“The Weasley twins?” Black asked, all at sea.

Fortuna let her power attach the appropriate amount of derision to her next words. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. For the second part of Operation: Malfoy Suppression?"

"Um, yes. I was caught deep in the thinking of the esoteric mysteries of carbon." He rhymed it with gone . "Sorry and all that, Miss Floris."

"The burdens of scientific contemplation are heavy indeed, Miss de Luce. But it is most imperative we accomplish this task today—nay, this very hour."

Black didn't pick up on her mocking his pathetic attempt at a Flavia, and he followed her like a lost duckling. The whole time he unsubtly peered around the floor and into corners, looking for rats, and pained nostalgia occasionally brought him to a sudden halt. She pretended not to notice these pathetically obvious tells, and literally looked the other way while he gulped down another dose of the Polyjuice potion. 

One hour.

Fred and George were in the Gryffindor Common Room, wondering aloud to each other what they'd do with their afternoon. Black pointed at them. "You'll get that, won't you—I mean, can I rely on you, my stalwart comrade, to accomplish this great…thingummy?"

"Of course, my gallant general. Just remember that we have to leave for Toil and Trouble shortly," Fortuna said.

Black announced to nobody in particular that he was missing a quill and began to poke around the room, hoping against hope that he'd find Pettigrew under a cushion or something.

Fortuna got some parchment and wrote her message for the twins. It was something that would attract their attention but didn’t sound outlandish enough to cause them to dismiss it entirely—something they'd reckon would fill up their free period.

When she was ready, she approached the twins and it didn’t take long before they noticed her patiently standing on their periphery. 

“Well, well, well, George,” one said.

“Whatever could a firstie be searching us out for, Fred?” the other replied.

"Homework help?"

"Sage mentorship?"

Fortuna held the parchment out and the one who had been called George but was truly Fred grabbed it with a questioning look on his face. 

“If you want to find out who framed you for the potions prank in the Great Hall, this paper will be of service." 

Without another word, and with no further explanation, she went to find Black, who had accomplished something after all. Specifically, he had managed to topple a stack of Hermione's books that she'd piled up on an end table. She was crying and he was apologetically patting her arm with extreme awkwardness. 

"There, there, I'm sorry." 

Hermione was gulping and wiping her eyes, trying to regain self-control despite the months of strain, the stress of fighting with her friends, and the additional indignity of little things repeatedly going wrong.

"I have to go, goodbye."

He turned and almost collided with Fortuna.

"Let's go, Flavia," she said, knowing it sounded a little ominous. 

“I’m glad that all our plans are complete,” Black said, obviously trying to figure a way out of what was coming, “but I am needed somewhere else, so—”

“Don’t tell me you’re attempting to duck out on our club again. I thought we had gotten past this.”

“Well, it isn’t that I don't want to go, but—”

“Flavia,” Fortuna said warningly, and shot him a glare that could have charred a crème brûlée. 

Black reluctantly. “It really is important.”

“Then I will help you after dinner,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulders and propelling him out the portrait hole.

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When all eight of them were seated, Fortuna smiled at Black. "So, Flavia," she said nonchalantly, "what potion will we learn today?"

"What?" The look of horror that crossed Flavia’s face was delicious. "Oh, no, I need to check my book—”

"Here," Fortuna said. She reached into Flavia's bag—which Black had inconsiderately dumped on Fortuna's side of their desk—for the carefully marked-up textbook. She flung it in Black’s direction like a frisbee. Unaccustomed to the much weaker and less coordinated body he now possessed, he fumbled it. 

In his frenzied attempt to regain balance and open the book, he didn’t notice her hand dart inside the bag and take the stoppered vial of Polyjuice Potion.

“What?” Angelique said. “I thought that we were working on Charms today before Cedric comes to teach us dueling." 

Black froze where he stood, like a deer caught in headlights, and the look of betrayal he shot Fortuna was so forlorn that she had to remind herself it was not actually Flavia she had betrayed. 

“A jest,” Fortuna said lightly. “Flavia engaged in unsafe laboratory practices earlier and her wits are a little scattered from the accident."

“What lab accident?” Candidus said as he entered the room.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Black said, trying to gain some control over the situation. "Fortuna is exaggerating so that she can pretend to have the upper hand on my amazing expertise for a whole five minutes."

“It is just Charms work today, right?" one half of the Zachary and Derek combination said, desperate to diffuse whatever was going on between Fortuna and Flavia.

“Yes, we’ll be working on box-breaking and mending,” Fortuna said.

There was something like a collective groan. 

“Didn’t we get enough of that with Professor Flitwick?” Candidus said.

"I need help with it," Fortuna lied. "And Jessica, you can break boxes but you can't fix them. Angelique, you can barely break the box but can get it fixed faster than anyone. The rest of us are somewhere in between these two extremes. Let's share notes."

In truth, none of them was so bad at the mending charm that they needed intensive practice to figure it out. Instead, it was a part of her path to ensure this whole thing went off without a hitch.

“Well, I suppose it is something we need to work on," said the other half of Derek and Zachary. "Can we use that timer of yours, Flavia? Forty-five minutes?"

Black stared blankly at them, and Fortuna reached into Flavia’s bag again and pulled out the charmed hourglass she'd inherited from her uncle. "Forty-five minutes," she agreed.

Each of them had a little wooden box forced on them by Professor Flitwick, who'd admonished them to master the mending spell due to its usefulness. However, the way he'd elected to have them master it was a painfully boring cycle: break the box with the box-breaking spell, then mend it, then break it again, then mend it.

"I'm going to be barking if this keeps up much longer," Jessica said, a mere fifteen minutes into their session.

Black grunted in agreement, looking like he’d prefer to be locked up again than continue. Each wave of Flavia’s wand seemed to take more effort and concentration on his part to get the same simple action done.

"At least it won’t be too long till we’re fighting to the death instead of being bored to death," Jessica added.

"Oh, no," Angelique said. "Cedric would never let us get in a real fight."

As they spoke and tried and failed and tried harder, the minutes ticked down until, at last, the sand in the hourglass finished draining.

"Thank Merlin," Candidus said.

"Worst hour I've spent in thirtee—er, thirty days," Black agreed. Then he realized what he'd said and remembered that he needed more Polyjuice. He patted at his pockets before going for Flavia's book bag. When he didn't immediately see it, he began to rip frantically through every scrap of parchment, bit of potions equipment, and textbook, chucking them over his shoulder. A book smacked into Angelique’s arm while she was casting her final, perfect box-blasting charm. It went wide and destroyed a nearby chair.

"What are you doing ?" she cried in anguish.

"Um," he said, "my potions book…"

Jessica waved it. "Here, you bloody loon!"

"My backup potions book?" Black tried. "It was right here , where—how—"

The bag fell to the floor as his hand inflated for a second, before deflating. Then it inflated again, bigger than before.

Black tried to leave, but it was already too late. He meant to run for the door, but his legs were already shifting and he wasn’t quick enough to adapt to the sudden increase in height. Toil and Trouble stood and watched in horror, silent except for Angelique worriedly asking if they should do something, as Black crawled, limbs lengthening and skin shifting. No one had an answer and by the time they even thought to ask what was happening it was obvious. The changes subsided and, soon enough, clambering to his feet on shaky legs, was the red-faced Sirius Black.

Fortuna responded first—she had to, her classmates were too stunned to act—and hurled her freshly mended box into Black's chest.

She set her voice at a high quaver. "Where's Flavia? What did you do to Flavia?!" 

It only stopped him for a few seconds, but it gave the others a chance to recover.

“This is all a mistake.” Sirius turned toward the door, which happened to be blocked by Angelique, Derek, and Zachary.

Candidus leapt between Sirius and the Hufflepuffs. "Run," he ordered them. His wand hand was shaking and his voice squeaked, but he stood his ground. "Get out of here, find Headmaster Dumbledore."

Derek and Zachary each grabbed Angelique by an arm and hauled her backwards out of the room, while Astoria and Jessica hastily flanked Candidus, forming the flying wedge that Cedric had showed them (he'd passed it off as battlefield tactics to please Astoria, but really he'd lifted it from a book of professional Chaser formations).

Bolstered by his friends, Candidus spoke again, and he fell into his usual condescending rhythm. It seemed to carry him through his fear. "Think about this logically, Black," he said. "There are seven—well, four—of us and one of you. If you surrender now, we'll tell the professors you gave yourself up peaceably. If you blow us up like you did those Muggles, the professors will notice and they'll come anyway, ready for a fight that you won't survive." 

"I'm not here to blow kids up," Black said, visibly frustrated as he wordlessly countered a fire spell Astoria shot at him. "There's a Death Eater here. I'm the only one who knows. I'm the only one who can stop him. Get out of my way."

Candidus stayed put. "I told you to surr—"

" Stupefy! "

The boy crumpled against the blackboard, and Black moved to the door so that he could catch up to and stop the Hufflepuffs.

Jessica barreled toward him, going low and preparing to take him in a side-tackle worthy of the World Rugby Hall of Fame. But she'd telegraphed it by shouting "Oi!" and he side-stepped her and she tripped. 

Black took the opportunity to shoot a stunner at Jessica, but Astoria was suddenly in between the two. 

"Protego!" she shrieked. 

She shouldn’t have been a strong enough Witch for the spell to be truly effective, but Black’s spell came out weak, and with reluctance. Her amateur shield deflected the attack just enough for Jessica to roll out of its way. Black tried to stun Astoria, but Jessica hucked a desk at him with a levitation charm. Black knocked it out of the air with the box-blasting charm.

"How are all of you like this?" he exclaimed in exasperation. 

"They're not the only ones," Cedric Diggory said, advancing into the room with the fierce determination of an Arthurian hero. "Incarcerous!"

Black was caught off guard by the attack and knocked down, but for only an instant. He freed himself with a cutting charm and the two began something approaching a proper duel, with Cedric's precocious talent and the assistance of the first years matched by the out-of-practice Black pulling his punches and fighting with an unfriendly wand. 

Black was quick, though, and knew what he was doing. He dodged a series of spells and cast something on the desks that had them stand up on their own and charge about like a pack of feral hogs. They went after the younger students, allowing him to focus on his more formidable opponent. 

A nasty green jinx was knocked skyward by Cedric's shield spell, and the chandelier fell. The fifth year then attempted to direct several of the broken shards around to Black's unguarded back, but they were deflected into a wall.

Fortuna, Jessica, and Astoria divided their attention between blasting the furniture and peppering Black with minor jinxes when they could. “For God's sake,” Black grumbled after three bee sting jinxes landed on his face in a row. He directed chairs to go after Cedric and redirected his attention to them.

"Get out of the way, girls," Cedric called, even as he summoned lashes of green flame to fling at the encroaching furniture.

Fortuna moved, dodging a complex spell that sent a series of black chains bursting from the floor. It ensnared both Jessica and Astoria, dragging and binding them to two pillars. Cedric, still engaged with torching chairs, was helpless to assist and had to leave them to work at freeing themselves.

Black was just about to turn into his dog form, which he figured was big enough he could overpower the two remaining combatants and fast enough he could outrun them when Fortuna disrupted his concentration by slashing at his sleeve. Her knife opened a gash along the length of his left forearm just deep enough to bleed freely.

He jumped away. "Damn it, Fortuna, it's me, Ki—Alexander. I didn't hurt Flavia."

"Bad dog," she said, and stalked toward him. Step by step she forced him away from the door, countering some of the spells he threw at Cedric with her wand and taking his space with her knife.

Finally, when he'd been compelled three quarters of the way to the farthest corner of the room, she allowed a sensory deprivation spell to down Cedric. Black fully turned his focus onto her. 

"Expelliarmus!" he bellowed.

The spell backfired as the wand rejected its captor. Fed up with an hour's worth of box-breaking and box-fixing, offended by the lack of acknowledgment or apology, and unwilling to be turned against its master's companion, it revolted. Black was blasted across the room. 

Fortuna's hand was already reaching out to catch the rebellious wand as he bounced off the wall, and in the same motion she pocketed both it and her own wand. Black was trying to get up when she arrived at his side, and she flipped her knife and drove the butt of its handle into his nose, where something cracked.

"Stay down," she hissed.

The door burst open.

"Halt! One of you in this very room is a murderer!"

Fortuna stood and turned to face her friend, who was red-faced, gasping, and clutching a stitch in her side.

"Oh, good," Flavia wheezed. "You found him."

Chapter Text

Roon and I really cannot overstate how thankful we are for tearlessNevermore here. They figured out what Flavia could have known and what she could have reasonably concluded. Poe, I have NO idea how we could have gotten all of this storyline put together without you!!! 

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"You're all right," Fortuna said, sounding surprised. 

Flavia sauntered, or at least lurched with an attempt at a saunter, further into the room. "'Course I am. Sirius Black is innocent."

Next to her, Black made a noise.

"After the events of the past ten minutes, I find that to be exceedingly unlikely," Astoria said. Then she turned to the other Slytherin, who had picked herself up and was trying to rouse Candidus. "Jessica, we're too young for rennervate. Try aguamenti ."

"How bout I try this?" Jessica slapped the unfortunate Candidus across the face. "Oi, Candy, you great git, you slept through the fight."

Fortuna pocketed her knife and returned her attention to Flavia. "He attacked you. He lied to us and he attacked you. And—" she waved around at the classroom and everyone in it, shamelessly pinning the chaos she'd engineered on Black.

"I didn't say he acts innocent, I said he is innocent."

The door creaked behind them and a panting Remus Lupin pushed open the door just in time to hear her pronouncement. He froze where he stood, wand trained on Black.

"You just accused him of being a murderer," Fortuna pointed out. 

"That was when I thought he would still look like me, of course. You ought to be more attuned to the critical importance of a dramatic entrance." She threw up her hand when Fortuna started to object. "Don't argue, Fortuna. As usual, the authorities have gotten things wrong, and I am here to reveal the truth."

"We all learned the truth those thirteen years ago," Professor Lupin said, stepping fully into the room. Fred and George crowded in behind him, even though he'd told them multiple times not to accompany him, and made themselves useful by going to Cedric's aid. "The only question left for him to answer is how could you?"

"And the answer," Flavia said testily, "is that he couldn't, and thus he didn't. Really, Professor, I'm about to explain everything. Do not interrupt the detective during the denouement."

Lupin found he couldn't curse Black without risking hitting Fortuna and hesitated.

"Listen to the girl, Remus," Black said. He sounded like he had a cold. "Please. You can kill me after, and I'll accept it."

"How—"

Behind Black, and from an angle where only her professor could see, Fortuna quickly traced a circle in the air above her head. Then she mimed howling at it. 

Lupin fell silent, and into that silence, Flavia began to speak.

"To begin with, Sirius Black is an unregistered Animagus. It is the central fact—" She broke off suddenly.

A few seconds of silence morphed into something longer as Flavia grappled with herself in some internal debate. People started to shift and look at each other, wondering what could have brought her monologue up short and whether they should say something.

"Blast," she said, before she could actually lose her audience. "Part of this is that I have to explain how I figured it all out, but that…Oh, very well. Duty's duty."

She took a deep breath and started over. "To begin with, Fortuna and I have been sneaking out to the Shrieking Shack using a secret passageway under the Whomping Willow since the beginning of the school year." 

Lupin’s eyes bugged out and he made a sound that would have been a “what” if he hadn’t ended up swallowing it.

"Don't worry, sir," Flavia said, all gumdrops and rainbows as she smiled up at her Defence Professor, “we simply needed a space where I could adequately further my potions studies unimpeded by dour men who couldn’t teach a molerat how to brew a proper cup of tea.”

"We also had reason to believe we were safe because the Shack came with a dog who weighed more than both of us combined," Fortuna added.

Black smirked then, damn him. She should have hit him in the teeth.

"So you found a beagle?" Jessica asked, because she hadn't read any mysteries and didn't know she was supposed to be quiet except to make astonished noises or offer a helpful dialogue prompt.

"I'm not a beagle," said Black, who was roughly as mature as Jessica, and proved it. His grin grew and turned something feral as his body shifted, elongated, and changed. In less than a second, Alexander shook his head and smiled around at everyone, drooling vigorously.

Dogs .

Jessica leaned to Astoria and whispered, “I’m going to learn how to do that too.”

"Me first," Astoria murmured.

Black wagged his tail.

"Your Majesty," Flavia said with sincere solemnity, "please comport yourself in a manner becoming your station and this situation."

He turned back into a human, looking inordinately pleased with himself and the admiration he'd just received. 

"Sit," Fortuna said. 

He sat.

"And so Sirius Black is an unregistered animagus. This is the central fact around which the entire case revolves, and it is what has allowed me to piece together the rest."

She paused, not to invite commentary, but to let her premise sink in.

"He could have killed us the first night we found him. He didn't. He could have attacked Fred and George that night in Gryffindor Tower. He didn't. He could have attacked one or both of us dozens of times over these past months, but he stayed his hand until he had a disguise on hand. He—"

Here Flavia looked uncomfortably at Professor Lupin again. "That is to say, he only attacked me once Fortuna and I had finished brewing Polyjuice Potion. We were planning on using it to sneak into Hogsmeade tomorrow disguised as my sisters."

Lupin, who had by now lowered his wand, rubbed his forehead.

"And when he did attack me," Flavia went on, voice higher, "he did it without hurting me, and he bothered to tuck me into bed. I ask you, is any of this the behavior of a hardened criminal?" 

Her rhetorical question coincided perfectly with the entrance of Albus Dumbledore, who had finally been convinced to investigate the classroom following the careful interrogation of three hysterically incoherent Hufflepuffs.

"Er," Flavia said, when she saw him.

He carefully closed the door behind him, casting a spell Fortuna’s power told her would ensure no interruptions from without—or escape from within. "Please do not stop on my account, Miss de Luce," he said congenially. 

“Yes, Headmaster,” Flavia said, happy for his implicit permission to continue, but happier still to have a larger and more important audience. She turned away to resume her dramatic pacing. 

Behind her back, Professor Dumbledore gave a less congenial look to Lupin, who immediately blushed and dropped eye contact.

"All of this goes to say that his behavior is inconsistent with that of a garden-variety killer, let alone a Death Eater. This is the point at which the narrative of Sirius Black, the Muggle-killing traitor who escaped Azkaban to best serve the Dark Lord by killing Harry Potter, begins to break down." She stopped in front of and looked down at Black. "He is simply too good a dog to be so bad a man."

Black blinked hard at this. Flavia noticed and turned back away. "This is also the point at which I must confess to an error. Until an hour or two ago, I had assumed that Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban with external help. This hypothesis seemed to be bolstered by the attempted burglary of Gryffindor Tower."

Black choked out a laugh, and Flavia went pink. "In the event," she admitted, "he got the password from us."

Fortuna stepped in to save her friend the full embarrassment of the admission. "My fault. I complained about how the password had my name in it in front of him."

This seemed to interest the headmaster very much, but Flavia moved past it as quickly as she could. 

"I had envisioned a dark conspiracy to rescue Black, one that took a long time to work out. However, he is simply an unregistered animagus who has been relying on good luck and the innocent—wholly innocent—assistance of Fortuna and me. He could have escaped at any time he wanted, yet he remained."

"James and Lily were dead and it was my fault," Black said with urgency, directing his remarks to Lupin and Dumbledore. "I—"

"Wait your turn," Flavia interrupted, not politely. "I did plan this speech out on the way over here, you know. What I'm trying to build up to is to point out that the timing was not an accident of external circumstance, but a decision with a specific motivation. The question is what?"

Everyone recognized that the question was also rhetorical.

"Everyone, and I must tragically include myself, has wrongly believed that your motivation in escape was to kill Harry Potter." 

"Never," Black said, and Fortuna kicked him in the thigh.

"However, this assumption does not withstand scrutiny. Everyone who can add eleven and nineteen eighty knows Harry entered Hogwarts two years ago, and it would have been easier to kill a freshly minted eleven-year-old than someone trained in magic.”

The nonchalance with which Flavia spoke of murdering the Boy Who Lived did seem to prompt a bit of eyebrow raising (Astoria, Professor Dumbledore) and some uncomfortable shifting (Candidus, Professor Lupin), but she easily spoke over their quailing.

"No," she said. "There is something different about this summer versus the previous twelve, something that motivated you to brave the risks of getting caught or drowning in the icy waters of the north Atlantic."

She paused, and nobody stuck their oar in.

"That something," she said with all the melodrama of an eleven-year-old playing a part, "is Ronald Weasley."

Her classmates gave her blank looks. Fred and George just looked incredulous. 

"Harry Potter's friend, that is. Behold!" she shouted, casting the newspaper article down at Black's feet. It landed wrong side up.

" Accio ," Dumbledore said, and he examined the article while Flavia continued.

"That is about the Weasley family. Somehow, someway, Black got hold of a copy of the Daily Prophet, and that spurred him to action.”

“Left by Minister Fudge,” Black interjected.

Flavia ignored him. “That article is the lynchpin. When he encountered Fred and George in the Gryffindor common room, he did not flee out of fear of teenagers half his age. He fled because he had mistakenly gone for the wrong Weasleys . It couldn’t have been their parents or oldest brothers, or why would he have come to Hogwarts? It couldn't have been Percy or Ginny, who can't be mistaken for twins. And if it isn't the twins, then who remains?"

“Ronald,” Albus said, speaking as the sole person who seemed to understand how a murder mystery reveal was supposed to go. “Why do you think he sought out poor Ronald, Miss de Luce?"

Albus looked curious, but Fred and George were leaned as close as they could manage for the next reveal. Flavia looked sheepish for only a moment before gaining back her edge.

“Sadly, this is where my deductive reasoning begins to fail due to lack of data. He certainly sought out one of the Weasleys, and I believe it must be Ron due to the lack of other options. As for why, I believe there is only one man who holds that answer."

"He said he was looking for a Death Eater that only he could stop," Fortuna said, not choosing to allow Flavia to give up just before the finish line.

Flavia whirled on Dumbledore. "Give me that paper—I mean, please, sir, may I see that newspaper again?"

He obliged and she looked at the picture and then at Black.

"The rat ? Oh—of course."

It was plain by the looks on everyone else's faces—except Lupin's—that there was no of course about it.

“Scabbers?” George asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Of course," she said again. "If the case has one animagus, why not another? Indeed, that makes more sense to me. To become an animagus without the support of the ministry is dangerous and complex, but it would be made safer and easier with assistance from close associates—that is to say, his friends. Besides, I certainly wouldn't keep that kind of fun all to myself, and my friends wouldn't let me even if I tried."

Vigorous nods from all the children present, Fortuna included.

"You recognize this rat as an animagus because it's one of your friends from Hogwarts, and you told Fortuna it's a Death Eater. But you're known as a traitor because your friends at Hogwarts weren't Death Eaters. You're known as a traitor for setting your friends up to be killed by You-Know-Who and blowing up your other friend, the one who got the Order of Merlin, when he confronted you."

"Peter," Lupin said. 

Flavia cast him a seriously annoyed look. "Yes," she said. "Peter Pettigrew. Articles about Black always mention him and the Muggles. And they also mention that only a finger was left after you were done with him; it matches, I am sure, to the single finger missing from the rat in the photo."

"Peter's alive," Black said, unable to contain himself any longer. "Remus, look at the photo and tell me that isn't him. He hasn’t changed in thirteen years."

Remus held out his hand for the article, but Flavia threw her hands in the air, and the scrap fluttered into Candidus's face.

"For Merlin's sake," she exclaimed. "I was just going to say that because—well, never mind, you've spoiled it."

She swept her gaze around the room, savoring one last dramatic pause.

"If Sirius Black is here for Peter Pettigrew, then he thinks Pettigrew is alive. If Black thinks Pettigrew is alive, he did not murder him. If he did not murder him, he is therefore innocent, which was that to be demonstrated." She beamed. "That's English for Q.E.D."

"Yes," Black said, scrabbling to his feet. "Flavia—Miss de Luce—you're right. That's everything."

"I do not believe Miss de Luce has covered everything ," Headmaster Dumbledore said. "Her reasoning is excellent and consistent with what she knows, but it leaves many questions unanswered. Chief among them is how, even if Peter is alive and well, he could have been able to betray the trust that Lily and James vested in Sirius, specifically."

"I don't need to explain that, I have potions," Flavia said. She withdrew the Veritaserum from her pocket with a flourish. "Your Majesty, kindly drink this and tell all."

"Is that your Veritaserum?" Black asked.

The two professors in the room eyed Flavia with something approaching concern, but she blithely tossed the potion to Fortuna, and Fortuna, because she could and because Flavia had chided her about lacking panache, tossed her wand back so that they each caught their respective targets at the same time. 

She passed the potion off to Black, who downed it in one go.

“Now, Mr. Black, it’s time for you to reveal everything ,” Flavia said, all teeth and braces.

Chapter Text

Sirius ought not to have drunk an entire ounce of Veritaserum, and Albus had some difficulty getting him to stick to one point. Everything was of equal interest to his tongue, and he spent more time praising stolen Hogwarts food and spilling the secrets of two thoroughly ill-behaved first years than he did explaining what had truly happened with the Fidelius Charm in the weeks before Lord Voldemort's fall.

From there, Flavia de Luce's conclusions hewed very closely to the truth as Sirius saw it, and watching her innocent pleasure at her own brilliance put him so strongly in mind of her mother that he almost became dislocated in time. Her equally frank chagrin when Sirius tangentially explained who had poisoned Draco Malfoy's cinnamon roll and why, and where exactly the large quantity of missing potions equipment and supplies had gone, put him in mind of her father as he had once been.

When it came to Peter, Remus affirmed that the rat in the photograph resembled his memory of Peter's animagus form, and the Weasley twins remarked that Scabbers had indeed been in their family for more than a decade. 

As for his present location, Sirius only knew that he had recently run away. Albus did not miss the expectant glance Flavia shot her friend when he said this. Fortuna Floris, looking far more kempt and at ease than he had remembered her being when she'd last had his attention, took a moment to think. Then she said that Ron believed Hermione's cat had eaten him, though there were no witnesses to the alleged act. If the rat was hiding, he was hiding from the alert and intelligent Crookshanks; and so far as she knew, there was only one place her kitten never went—for good reason. The groundskeeper's dog Fang, she asserted, was vicious and disrespectful when it came to cats. (Sirius here disgorged a monologue on dogs, cats, and Fortuna that appeared to offend her deeply.)

Albus thought her logic dubious, with more than one gorge-wide leap, but there was something beneath the look Flavia had given her, something confident and certain, so he gave the suggestion more consideration than it warranted. He conceded that Hagrid's home was an ideal hiding location for a spy who was unsure whether he should flee or remain. Rubeus would get updated news as quickly as any other professor, and he lived on the edge of the forest—allowing for plenty of opportunity to run at the first hint of danger. It was a sensible enough place to start, if still not one he would have thought of himself. 

In the end, as he stood in the rain and watched his colleagues bear an unconscious Peter Pettigrew off to the castle, he was surprised to find himself not surprised at all.

🧙

Before he contacted Cornelius, Albus wanted as complete a picture of what had unfolded in his school as possible. To that end, he interviewed the witnesses, beginning with the non-Gryffindor (and non-culpable) members of the study group that Sirius had infiltrated. 

Their accounts were all consistent with each other, and he was pleased to confirm the impression he had initially formed of the "battlefield." Despite being young and surprised, all his pupils had acquitted themselves well. They had acted quickly, gotten help, and protected each other.

He could not have been more proud. He sent them all off to dinner with praise and a vain exhortation to keep the events of the afternoon to themselves.

Cedric Diggory then corroborated Astoria Greengrass and Jessica Coleman's accounts and provided more context on the "dueling" aspect of the group. He also surprised Albus by saying that he had not been the one to fell Sirius. For the few seconds after the Slytherin children had been removed from the fight and before Cedric had lost his sight and hearing, he had seen Fortuna Floris go after Sirius with a knife. That explained Sirius's injuries, but it raised several other questions.

He put them out of mind so that he could commend Cedric and bid him goodnight. Before he left, Albus suggested that Cedric help Toil and Trouble—what a name!—formally organize under some oversight from a teacher, preferably Pomona.

Next he asked for Sirius, who had by now taken the antidote to Veritaserum that Albus had obtained from his potions master (Severus, who hated with the same unreasoning and unshakeable commitment that he loved, had been ungracious in his compliance). He came attached to Remus. The past hour had evidently been a productive one; when they sat down across from him, they were clutching each other's hands like sailors who had been thrown overboard and pulled back from the icy depths just after all hope had been lost. 

Before he could ask about the past several months, Remus spoke up. He confessed to having known about Sirius, James and Peter's animagus forms. It transpired that this was a schoolboy secret that he hadn't divulged because he was still ashamed of betraying Albus's trust, of the risks they had run as Hogwarts students, and his complicity in staying silent when Sirius had first escaped.

It was an understandable if not laudable series of errors, and Albus left the affair to his conscience. 

Sirius then told the story of what had been going on in the Shrieking Shack since September. During her mystery-solving monologue, Flavia had tried to play off her illicit appropriation of the building as some sort of potions-related extracurricular activity, but it transpired that she had deliberately and specifically set up a Sirius Black-catching headquarters.

“I haven't seen a more capable pair of troublemakers," Sirius said wistfully. "Even the Mau—even James and Remus and I didn't fight criminals. We could have, though, if we'd thought of it. Or if we'd known Peter was one."

"He wasn't at the time," Remus pointed out.

“Then we could have caught him off-guard.”

“Sirius,” Albus said, redirecting the conversation to something productive, “the girls?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, looking as if he was having difficulty coming back to himself, “the girls.” 

He took a long pause here to think, and Albus was certain he had a lot more to ponder than just two first year girls' antics. Not less than an hour ago Harry had been caught trying to break into Professor Lupin's office to “confront the traitor himself” and was only stopped by swift action on the part of Remus and a promise for an explanation. Sirius had not taken it well.

Albus was also sure the sudden lack of an objective had something to do with his pensive silence. Sirius had no life to return to, no clear future forward, and it was obvious he was struggling. More than anything, he needed a way to regain his footing in this world. Albus would have to see if there was any way he could help him find it.

"Albus," he said finally, "that kid is something else."

"Considering who her parents were, that is hardly surprising." He felt a pang at his accidental application of the past tense to Haviland, but Sirius didn't seem to notice his error.  

"No," Sirius went on, rubbing his freshly healed nose, "I mean Fortuna." 

Albus nearly objected, but decided Sirius knew them better. The wisdom of dogs, if they could speak, would be immense.

"Flavia, too, of course, but—" Sirius then told him about the child whom he would have overlooked, the one who had managed to best him after all combatants had been cleared from the arena. Cedric had expressed shock at Fortuna's behavior during the fight, but Sirius seemed to take her viciousness as a given. "She knew . I swear to you she knew that I'd switched and she set the rest of them on me."

Albus very much doubted that anyone could have reached the conclusion their friend was an escaped convict in disguise, or deliberately arranged for the confusion he'd walked in on, but he didn't contradict him.

“I don’t think even half of these girls' schemes would have got off the ground without her. Flavia didn't steal any of that lab equipment, she just mentioned it in passing and Fortuna went and took everything she could get her hands on. She’s the one who led them to me in the first place and she's behind that little study group."

Everyone in the group had told him Angelique Martin had started the group, though they were divided on whether Jessica Coleman or Astoria Greengrass was the real leader.

“You make it sound like she is the troublemaker and not Miss de Luce.”

Sirius laughed. “No, no, she’s second fiddle. But that’s the spot she chose . She doesn’t want to be in the limelight, and she's talked about it with Flavia. I’m not sure what happened or why she feels that way, but…well, if you could see the way she acts alone, you'd see that she's scared .”

He didn't elaborate. Remus looked disquieted, but remained silent.

Sirius then raved about Flavia for a while, and concluded with: "Please don't punish them too harshly. They’re outstanding witches and need to be encouraged.”

"You must know I can't praise them so effusively," Albus said. "Tampering with Mr. Malfoy's food, theft, curfew violations, months spent sneaking outside the school's protections when they believed a dangerous killer was on the loose…"

Sirius laughed. "Don't forget that they let the dangerous killer into the castle twice and conspired to use my godson as bait to further lure me out."

The case for clemency was not strong, and Albus told him so.

"Scold them if you have to," pleaded Sirius, "but don't quash their spirits."

Albus smiled and said that didn't sound possible.

🧙

At last he was ready to speak to the two Gryffindor girls, and he called them up. Flavia bounced in, and it was plain the idea that she might have done anything wrong had not entered her mind. Fortuna came on her heels and he couldn't deduce anything from her expression.

"Good evening, girls," he said. 

"Hullo, Headmaster," Flavia replied.

His stern tone had evidently not penetrated her cheer, so he cut to the chase. "You know, of course, that you are not allowed out of bounds. You know when curfew is, and you know that Hogsmeade trips are for older students. You know that stealing is wrong, and you know that when you steal from Hogwarts Professors you are stealing from the Hogwarts student body."

Flavia was taken aback. Fortuna looked at the tips of her shoes where they peeped out from under her robes.

"You do not yet know that there is a difference between courage and rashness, between being bold and being a fool. You must learn, and I expect you to learn by submitting to school rules. I must deduct eighty points from Gryffindor—fifty from you, Miss de Luce, for instigation, and thirty from you, Miss Floris, for aiding and abetting."

"Instead of tittling and tattling, I suppose," Flavia cried. "Professor, we freed an innocent man!"

"You did all this in pursuit of a man you believed to be guilty at the risk and expense of your school fellows," he said. "Temerity and recklessness are the vices of the Gryffindor temperament, Miss de Luce. They must be tempered with prudence and consideration for those others who may be hurt in the crossfire."

Fortuna shifted, but didn't say anything. 

"Learn this lesson now when the stakes are low. Professor McGonogall will see to your punishment, which I expect will last through the end of the term."

Perhaps realizing that arguing with the Headmaster would be proof of her recklessness, Flavia tamped her feelings down.

"Yes, Headmaster," she said. She sounded like she was trying to sound contrite. No true repentance there, he judged—yet.

"Now," he said, "with the understanding that you are already as in trouble as you can be, please tell me how all this happened." 

“We didn’t intend for things to get so far out of hand,” Flavia said, still reeling from the idea that breaking the rules could garner any real consequences, “Sn—Professor Snape and I disagree about the proper way to learn potions, and we felt that any attempts to rely solely on him for potions instruction would fall short. And we did do things he wouldn't have allowed us to do, Professor, and we did them right. I wish Sirius hadn't drunk all of the Veritaserum so you could see."

"He always did consume more than his share," Fortuna observed.

"You're just mad that he liked my name for him better."

"He chose your moniker because he was laughing at us. It's every bit as undignified as I said it was."

Albus had to take care not to laugh at them himself. "I did see, Miss de Luce. I question your judgment, not your skill. How did you come to think of the Shrieking Shack?"

“I heard there was a secret passage underneath the Whomping Willow," Fortuna said, back to addressing her feet. "We knew there had to be a trick to it, so we threw rocks at different parts until it stopped trying to hit us back. Then we went in and found out what was on the other end."

"It was perfect," Flavia said. "Nobody was there to vanish our potions out of pique or swoop around saying things like 'your attempts at basic brewing procedures are less than adequate' and 'I see you consider yourself to be above your textbook' and 'some things take real talent.' Ugh!" 

"You must remember that Professor Snape has to keep the safety of twenty students in mind at any one time, Miss de Luce. That includes reining in the attempts of a brilliant student to work beyond her depth. I would expect further extracurricular experimentation to be done in your group, under the watchful eye of a senior student who can assist if anything should go awry.” 

Harriet de Luce's temper rose up in her daughter so quickly he thought of a phoenix being reborn, but before she could explode on him—

"You did blow yourself up today," Fortuna said, so quietly he could barely hear.

Flavia's anger disappeared as fast as it had come, replaced with sheer embarrassment. Besides, it was only a moment later she seemed to deduce that she had just received permission from the Headmaster himself to continue her studies…if in a much more controlled environment and without the limitless bounty afforded by stealing.

"Yes, Professor," she said happily. "Of course."

"Sirius tells me that you were not only interested in potions, but in capturing him. How did you come to make that decision?"

“Well,” Flavia said, clearly unsure where best to begin a second monologue, “I guess you could say that it started the summer before I came to Hogwarts, when I found a dead man in the cucumbers."

She explained the first mystery she'd solved—at, he noticed, more personal risk than she seemed to understand—and talked about her understanding of herself as a detective. She took him through all their steps, from their blackboard of suspects to the test they'd run on dog hair from the Gryffindor common room to the events of that day, glorying in his attention with unmalicious glee. By contrast, Fortuna remained silent except for when he asked her direct questions.

It didn't take him long to put Sirius's conception of her as some sort of mastermind to rest. When he asked her why she'd dispatched Fred and George to the Shrieking Shack, she somewhat awkwardly explained that the explosion earlier in the day had scared her. She'd wanted someone else to check over their lab, and had settled on the twins as the right mixture of knowledgeable and unlikely to snitch.

This was, of course, a lie designed to make him think better of their approach to safety. It was more likely the Weasley twins had been tangentially involved with the entire scheme from the beginning, but he let it go. She also asserted, less awkwardly and more truthfully, that she had known something was wrong with "Flavia" based off "her" hysterical exuberance in flight class and uncharacteristic language. Her confiscation of the Polyjuice vials had been deliberate, but it was more to keep potions out of Flavia's hands until she'd returned to normal.

Albus judged that Fortuna had probably been more disturbed by "Flavia's" uncharacteristic behavior than she'd realized, and the removal of the Polyjuice vials had been a subconscious test. Her mistake had not been following the logic through to its end by recognising for certain what the empty vials indicated about a friend whose behavior had changed so suddenly. A mistake that was no mistake at all, but simply inexperience.

When they were done and he was confident that every last ounce of information had been squeezed out of them, he directed only Flavia to leave.

Fortuna's expression was readable now: wary. "Sir?"

"Sirius tells me you are very keen to escape notice," he said.

"A dog would gossip," she muttered peevishly.

"I am sorry to say that I did notice you led us directly to Peter Pettigrew. That was no mean feat; finding a rat in a castle is more difficult than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack."

Her expression shuttered again and she didn't say anything. The closer it seemed he got to the truth of Fortuna, the more she seemed to shut down. Still, he thought he had enough pieces for the puzzle now: a worrying proclivity for theft, a deep-rooted fear of authority figures beginning with her mother, and a background in the Muggle foster system.

"Am I right in thinking you knew where Peter was hiding because you had been to Rubeus's home to steal from him?"

"Professor Hagrid has some erumpent horns," she said, practically choking the words out. "Flavia…I thought she might like one."

Rubeus was not supposed to have erumpent horns.

He pressed onwards.

He opened one of the many drawers in his office and took out the box where he stored the shards of Elizabeth Midhurst's last gift. He opened it and placed it on his desk where she could see it. Then he stared at her with all the disappointed solemnity nearly a century's worth of teaching experience could bring to bear on an eleven year old.

"Did you deliberately break this, Miss Floris?"

Her face went from white to red. "I did, sir."

"In many respects, it was only a trinket, a curiosity that greeted other curiosities it met. But the Witch who gave this to me lost her life to Lord Voldemort. I will never be able to replicate the charm that allowed it to work."

"I…" She trailed off, eyes searching for an escape route he wouldn't allow her. "I didn't know, sir."

This sounded too much like an excuse, so he waited her out.

“I did know. At least, I knew that if I broke something you wouldn't want me back here." Shame and guilt seemed to seep out of her, and if he didn't intervene she would start crying. "I am sorry, sir."

She looked it. 

"Fortuna," he said more gently, "I wouldn’t have judged you differently than any other student that passes through my office, no matter how you acted."

She looked up, eyes narrowed. "Truly, sir?"

He thought back.

No. 

If the girl in front of him at the start of this meeting—self-contained, thoughtful, and uncharacteristically serious—had been in front of him then—when he was thinking of the threat she'd seemed to pose to Remus—he would have thought of Tom Riddle.

He could picture his thoughts as they had been. He would not have been so uncaring as to make his inspection or intervention obvious, but he would have dogged her steps nonetheless. He would have kept a careful eye on her to ensure he would never again make the mistake of unleashing a force like that upon the world. 

And it would have been a mistake to foist that burden on an innocent student.

Now he thought she bore no resemblance to Tom. He had witnessed her surrounded by friends, had heard of a deep bond with another student as firm as the bedrock of Hogwarts itself, and had observed her contrition and acceptance in the face of punishment. 

Instead, she reminded him of a man as lost to them as Harriet. A man whom he had grown to know well during his time in the Order as brave, knowledgeable, and uncompromisingly loyal. A man who had been broken rather than capitulate to evil.

She reminded him of Arthur Dogger.

“Perhaps not,” he finally said. “Perhaps not. Folly on my part rather than wrongdoing on yours, Miss Floris. Thank you for your time. I’m sure Miss de Luce is waiting for you.”

She blinked. "Aren't…Aren't you going to ask?"

"I won't pry," he said. "I will only ask you to remember that Professor McGonagall and I both have a great deal of experience and care about your wellbeing very much. If you wish to speak about anything, we will listen."

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

"Good night."

When she was at the door, he called after her. "Dark times lie ahead, Miss Floris. Take care of your friends."

This time when she looked back, she fully met his eyes, and one corner of her mouth twitched up in a sad little smile. "I do, sir."

There were urgent matters Albus had to attend to. He had to interrogate Peter, soothe Severus, address Harry, Ron, and Hermione's attempt to attack Sirius after they'd heard of his capture, speak to Harry and convince him to hear Sirius out, make up his mind on whether and to what extent Harry could fall under the guardianship of Sirius, confer with Minerva on how to keep all her students in check, and write Haviland de Luce with a gentle reminder about the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.

Most importantly, he had to rid his school of Dementors. If he wanted it to be done quickly, he would have to write Cornelius and convince him of the truth before the evening was out. 

But for a long time he sat and thought of eight first years from different houses who brought down a man they thought was a mass murderer, of a Boggart who told secrets, and, once more, of Rowena's shattered diadem.

Chapter Text

"Eighty points!" exclaimed Flavia, once they had received their scolding and detention assignment from Professor McGonagall and were on their way back to Gryffindor Tower. "We solved a thirteen-year-old mystery and we lost eighty points!"

Fortuna smiled. "Imagine if he'd deducted the points we would have lost if we'd been caught every time."

Flavia began to glow at the thought of all the trouble they hadn't gotten into. "Gryffindor would be in the hole until the turn of the millennium. Perhaps we got off light, even with permanent detention."

True to the Headmaster’s word, Professor McGonagall had decreed that detention was to be served every weekday evening and Saturday until the end of the year, even during exams. Tonight was their last and only night of freedom; beginning tomorrow after breakfast, they would be subject to the whims of a rotating procession of staff and professors including, unfortunately, the potions master.

"Not so light. Snape." 

They considered him. Fortuna did not need to ask her power to know the Headmaster would inform him of who had ultimately been behind the disappearance of so much of his stock and equipment. He’d hold a grudge almost as large as his nose. Permanently.

She foresaw the misery he would feel bound to unleash: they'd be separated in his class, paired off with the most unsuitable partners, targeted relentlessly, and all but failed. Indeed, Snape would try to fail them, and his hand would be stayed only by Dumbledore's intervention.

"We're going to lose far more than eighty points," Fortuna said. Then she realized she had to lay the groundwork necessary to help Flavia accept that she would not be getting anything above a seventy-five in her favorite subject for the rest of that term. "And he's going to take it out on our grades."

"Oh," Flavia said slowly. "I wish Sirius hadn't said anything about what we did with Malfoy and the Dunschiften Potion."

"Perhaps in the future," Fortuna said dryly, "you will brew less effective potions."

"Perhaps in the future I will administer my potions myself. He drank the whole thing . I thought everyone knew enough not to do that."

"It was the only dramatically appropriate thing to do."

Flavia begrudgingly acknowledged the accuracy of her statement. If given the choice in the heat of the moment, she would have had him do exactly the same thing.

Conversation petered out as they headed up the endless staircases to Gryffindor Tower. Flavia stewed over what potions she could talk Cedric into letting them try before year's end, and Fortuna thought about the next half hour.

Her heart rate had skyrocketed back in Dumbledore's office—not because she was worried about anything that had transpired there, but because that one on one conversation was the last thing, the very last thing, she had to do. Her heart was still thudding against her ribcage, and she had her hands in her pockets so Flavia wouldn't notice them shaking.

The Fat Lady was expecting them and burst open at the merest hint of the password.

The second they stepped through the doorway, they were swarmed.

Students from every year, the majority of whom Flavia and Fortuna had absolutely never interacted with, surrounded them. Quickfire questions drowned each other out as students steamrolled one another. 

“Is it true that he’s innocent?” 

“How did Cedric stop him?" 

"Is the Shrieking Shack really haunted?"

They'd been planning this ambush since dinner ended, a scant ten minutes ago. Despite the Headmaster’s insistence, not another member of Toil and Trouble had managed to keep their mouth shut. Every single one had been more than happy to share what they'd witnessed (and what they'd done)—even Cedric, who should have damn well known better.

Flavia put her hands up in the air like a maestro getting ready to conduct and, like an orchestra preparing for the opening notes, the lot quieted down. 

Even though it was a story she had told twice, she was more than happy for a third audience—the largest yet. She had the eager eye of every single student that could pack themselves in the common room. Her housemates would be much less pleased when tomorrow they saw the eighty rubies lost from their hourglass, but for now, she could rejoice in the attention.

“So you'd like to know how I cleared the name of Sirius Black?”

They would.

Fortuna took a step back as Flavia moved forward into the room, and soon she was cut off from her friend. With everyone's focus captured, Fortuna slipped into the crowd. Hardly a soul noticed as she weaved through the mix of people and took the stairs up to the dormitory, past a few girls hanging over the railing so they could see over the taller students blocking their view.

Their bedroom was unsurprisingly free of people, although Harbinger instantly rushed to greet her. She scooped him up, kissed his face until he squeaked, and (gently) tossed him aside on her way to her dresser.

She kept the watch Flavia had given to her on Christmas there, in a box lest anything might happen to damage it while she wasn't paying enough attention. So far she'd only touched it to keep it wound, and it was already ticking when she took it out.

Then she ducked under Romilda Vane's bed and seized her umbrella. She swung the umbrella over her shoulder and gave herself a single nod, certain that was everything, and she headed back down into the maelstrom of Gryffindors.

Nobody noticed her climb through the portrait hole.

🔮

Fortuna didn't have to worry about avoiding anyone on her way outside. The uproar they’d caused earlier had cleared the halls of patrols, and what guards were left centered on the room where they were keeping Peter Pettigrew.

Without observation, she could let her power loose. She slid down the banisters of staircases while they were moving, jumped across gaps between them, and leapt down entire flights. By the time she was on the first floor, she was jogging with the umbrella tucked beneath one arm.

She dashed through the entrance hall and stopped just before the doors. As she caught her breath, she mentally ran over her plan one last time.

This was it. Months of work and waiting, and her chance was suddenly here. In a quarter of an hour, she would not be the amnesiac without a past. She would learn where she really came from. Her family would have names, and she would understand why she hadn't warned her parents or fought to save them. She would discover what had happened after the catastrophe, how her uncle had become separated from her, and maybe even how she had lost her memory to begin with. 

She was going to clear the fog.

Then—then she would find out what dark magic had caused her neighbors to turn into mindless monsters, and she would trace it to its source and destroy it.

She unlocked it with a spell and kicked the door open. Heavy though it was, it wasn't a match for her perfectly placed foot, the precisely calculated momentum, and she stepped out onto the grounds of Hogwarts.

The storm from earlier had started to abate, but it was wet and cold, and a nasty wind immediately pierced through her robes and uniform to her skin. She turned into that wind and the rain beat against her thighs and umbrella, which she positioned to shield her face.

Her goal was the single dementor that hovered like dirty cobwebs just above the treeline of the Forbidden Forest. 

Mud and water weighed down her robes, but she continued until she could see the Dementor and the Dementor could sense her.

She drew her wand.

"Here I am," she called. She willed it to ignore the Headmaster and Minister of Magic's directives against intruding on the school grounds. She thought about the first meeting of her study group, tempting it closer with the promise of happy memories to feed on.

Finally it gave in and swooped down upon her. The rain turned to sleet, and the visions came.

Her family home and then the monsters. Her father’s death and then her mother's. Helpless. She was so helpless. She sat on her knees and watched her mother die, unable to act. Unable to stop it. 

It felt like only seconds, but the memories hit her like the Hogwarts Express. She needed a respite.

Her hand held her wand and she focused on the moment Flavia had decided to include her on the quest to catch Black. With a whispered “Expecto Patronum”, she received a number of silver sparks, driving the Dementor away, at least momentarily.

The screams echoed in her ears. She tasted the blood in her mouth. Her hands were clasped tight against the umbrella, but she was still standing. She was still here.

Again. 

She moved forward and the Dementor advanced again, the nightmares returning with it. 

Her father’s last panicked look as he was pierced by bone. Her mother’s face as it liquefied. Screams carried over, some from their mouths and some from her own, until they became all encompassing. What she saw didn’t change, only a repetition of death. 

She remembered her first time in Buckshaw. Sugar mice and bread toasted over a bunsen burner in Flavia’s laboratory back home. They’d sat on the bed together drinking tea from a thermos. Her lips moved and her wand swung, shooting a feeble mist. “Expecto Patronum.”

She asked questions. Why? Why wasn’t it working? Why weren’t there more visions? What was going wrong? She got back nothing but fog. 

The dementor returned. The vision was shorter this time, starting on her screaming. It remained unchanged all the same. Death. Death. It felt like she was seeing every angle, every splatter of blood and slough of flesh, every moment of pain until she was picked up by her uncle. Again and again she sat there limply, in shock and stupefaction, as she did nothing . 

Nothing, not even what her parents had died asking her to do. 

Get out of here. Run. Please, Forta. Run. We have to go. Run .

The gentle ticking of the watch called her back to the present, and she pulled on a memory of the Shrieking Shack, laughing with Flavia as she played with potions and that idiot, Alexander. Stolen feasts and outrageous schemes filled her mind. A cloud billowed forth and the dementor pulled back a third time. 

The air grew colder, more intense, and more dementors had come, attracted by the endless well of misery currently panting in the rain. She looked up into the sky as they descended. 

Would more help? Could they draw more out of her? She asked her power but only received fog in return. She felt cold, oh so bloody cold, as they swam closer. 

The visions came again. And then again. And then again. They repeated and slowed, they drew out the most agonizing moments, they rendered each second with total clarity. The destruction of her family and their pain were amplified into such perfect detail that she wished she could forget again. The screams this time were deafening. She wasn’t sure if they came from her parents' lips or her own.

But lingering under the sound of her own cries was the steady ticking of the pocket watch. A stalwart reminder that this wasn’t real. She wasn't there. She wasn’t there, but she was still about to die. The Dementors had drawn close, far too close, and she was running out of time.

She fumbled in the mud for her wand and she plundered her memories. The day Professor McGonagall had come to her with that promising letter, and how much she had come to love that professor's class. Finding Harbinger, the trouble she'd gone to adopt him, and a dozen different moments that showcased how worth it that effort had been. She thought of Toil and Trouble, of Angelique's warm acceptance, of their efforts to coax Candidus out of his priggishness, of Jessica and Astoria's complex friendship. 

And she thought of Flavia de Luce. Her time with her in the Shrieking Shack, in Buckshaw, in Hogwarts. Her co-conspirator, lab partner, and best friend. She thought of whispered secrets she had never admitted to anyone else, small quiet moments of absolute companionship, and of being bundled up together as they exchanged gifts.

Most of all, she remembered love. 

The gesture wasn't her power's, and the words that followed were all her own. 

“ Expecto Patronum.”

Light burst from the tip of her wand, not as sparks or mist but something living and full. It flowed from her wand like a massive wave and crashed against the dementors closest to her, driving them back with its presence. Then it fell into itself, collapsed into the shape of a mongoose that snarled and leapt at the creatures. Viciously it jumped and snapped at the dozen Dementors that surrounded her, until they reeled back like monsters first encountering fire.

It circled her protectively as they dispersed, like storm clouds carried away by the harsh winds. 

And then the mongoose vanished, dissolving into the rain.

She was cold. She was dirty. She was alone.

And she was not one step closer to anything new about her past. Anger and despair rose up in her, overpowering and all encompassing. She asked her power in a fury what had gone wrong, why hadn’t it worked, but all she received back was that damnable fog.

What could she do? What could she fucking do? 

Why had she even bothered? Why did she think this would ever work? Nearly half a year for nothing. All based off her own fucking inability to see the truth that was in front of her: she was never going to get her parents or her past back. She felt so contemptibly foolish. She wasn't some genius who had worked out a way to break the seal on herself, she was an incompetent cheat. 

When her power failed, she was nobody, an orphan from nowhere, an alien who had faked her way into friendships and family. A sad, pathetic nothing, currently soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and crying for a past she would never know.

And that’s all that she would ever be. 

🔮

I felt like hours before Fortuna could bring herself to trudge back inside. She left behind dirty water and muddy footprints from the entryway to the Gryffindor common room that would have netted her a dozen more lost points if she had gotten caught. Filch would be getting an extra round of work that night.

The crowd from before had gone to bed, their curiosity sated for now. Flavia was awake and sitting on one of the couches as she flipped through a fifth year’s potions textbook and idly stroked a snoozing Harbinger. Her eyes went wide and she shot to her feet when she finally caught sight of Fortuna.

"What have you been up to?" she asked. "Tell me you didn't leave me out of one of your schemes."

"No," Fortuna lied automatically. 

Then she thought better of it. 

"Yes," she said, stepping over to her.

"I could tell," Flavia said, eyeing her sopping robes with disapproval.

"You didn't miss out on anything. It was a wholly uninformative experience." Fortuna made a move for the couch, so worn out from the endeavor, she wasn't sure if she could stand for even one minute longer. 

Flavia grimaced. "Wait," she said. She whipped out her wand and quickly cast a spell that sent the water and mud shooting off of her robes like miniature fireworks, leaving her clothes steaming in their wake. Fortuna was left quite warm as well as dry.

She slumped down on a cushion, allowing the great fluff of the couch to consume her, and drove the heels of her palms into her eyes. She was going to start crying again, and didn't want her words to be rendered incoherent by uncontrolled sobs. 

“Dementors." She took a deep breath as Flavia sat back down beside her. "I went out to the Dementors, before they were sent away."

Flavia stirred beside her, but she didn't blurt out any questions or commentary.

"You know that the Dementors on the train made me remember my parents dying, but I don't think I told you those are almost the only memories of my parents I have. They're the only memories I have of my uncle and my friend."

"Oh," Flavia said, perfectly able to divine where this was headed. 

Fortuna lowered her hands and looked at them through her tears as she yet again wondered how they could have been so useless. “I thought that if I'd seen some memories, I could get more if I went back to the Dementors. The theory was sound, I was so sure…I hoped I would learn more, learn anything , but…I didn't.”

Flavia didn't say anything for a very long time, and Fortuna decided to read her mind. She was dwelling on her own loss, the fact she was the only one in her family not to remember the mother she was so constantly compared to. Yet she still had a history in her land and family, and she thought about how much worse it would be not to have that grounding.

She scooted closer to lean against Fortuna's side, bringing a purring Harbinger with her. The cat hopped off one lap to the next and Fortuna generously scratched beneath his chin. It wasn't too long before he curled up and fell back asleep.

Finally, Flavia spoke, slowly, cautiously, like she was picking her way through a minefield. "Dementors leave unhappy memories. If you only remembered that particular day, the other days must have…been better."

Somehow, that made it worse. If her life had been happy up until that point, why hadn't she done anything to preserve it?

She was too tired to argue the point. Flavia, who had stayed up well past bedtime waiting for her, was also exhausted, and she leaned her full weight on Fortuna. Harbinger's whiskers twitched furiously as he dreamt about the vanquishment of rats, and the warmth of the fire nearby was almost like a blanket around her. 

Some tension within her eased itself. She leaned back into Flavia, set a hand on Harbinger, and allowed her eyes to close. The soft crackle of fire and their breathing and the chittering of her cat were the only sounds in the empty common room. 

“Some questions never get answered,” Flavia murmured into her shoulder. She was still thinking of her mother, lost during the last war. No body for a casket, no grave to visit, no closure for the family. “And we have no other option but to go on. All we can do is decide what’s to come next.” 

“Detention?" Fortuna asked.

She didn’t need her eyes open to know a sly smile crossed Flavia’s face. “We will need something sweet to take the edge off our penal servitude, perhaps pain au chocolate or raspberry crepes—but no, I wasn't worrying about that. What do you desire , Fortuna?"

What was there, if not herself? If she couldn't have her past, what could she have as a future?

“Hot cocoa by bunsen burner,” Fortuna replied, barely a whisper. “Really excellent transfiguration—Professor Snape would look good as a turkey, don't you think? Flying without a professor reining us in. Perhaps a bit of plotting to cap it all off.”

“We detectives errant do need a fresh case. The world is brimming with mysteries, Miss Floris," Flavia said, each word growing quieter and quieter as her own weariness finally became too much to bear. “And who better to uncover them than us?”

Her last comment needed no response and in the quiet of the common room, half wrapped in Flavia’s arms and cocooned in warmth, Fortuna couldn’t help but drift off. She dreamed of nothing, gaining a peace that had evaded her for months.

And suddenly light. Fortuna opened one eye slowly and found the sun was rising. The clouds from the previous day were all dispersed. She shimmied her way out of Flavia’s grasp and went to the window. 

She watched the rays of a fresh morning come down on Hogwarts, stretching from the castle proper to the fields below. The Quidditch field was already populated by the Hufflepuff team at practice, the Whomping Willow was quiet, and even the Forbidden Forest did not seem so disheartening with fresh sunbeams peeking through its leafy canopy.

She heard Flavia’s yawn, listened to her shuffle off their impromptu bed, and felt her slow walk as she moved up beside her, peeking over Fortuna’s shoulder to spy the sight of dawn. She analyzed the scene with sleepy eyes.

"It's going to be a wonderful day, isn't it Miss Floris?"

Fortuna smiled and nodded. "Yes, Miss de Luce, I think it will be."

Chapter Text

Hostility greeted the girls at the Gryffindor table when they went down to breakfast, their popularity of the night before having been succeeded by disapprobation. Flavia claimed the jeers and vacillations of the madding crowd were beneath her notice, but she immediately acquiesced when Fortuna suggested they sit at the Hufflepuff table.

Angelique, Derek, and Zachary welcomed them by making Candidus, who always sat with them because nobody in his house was willing to give him the time of day unless they wanted his help in Professor Sprout's class, move. He had barely stopped complaining when Jessica and Astoria showed up and made him slide further down the bench. If a prefect noticed any of the strays, they'd be sent back to exile at their own house tables—but the chances anyone would care were slim.

"It was a rotten trick to play," Jessica said, heaping scrambled eggs onto her plate. "There we were, in the common room, listening to the Head Girl telling everyone not to be too impressed because it wasn't a real duel against a real criminal, and in any event the 'hero' of the story was actually asleep while it happened…She really banged on about your nap. Sorry, Flav."

"Feely trying to put me in my place is situation normal: all's right with the world," Flavia replied breezily. 

"My elder sister is also unhappy with me," Astoria said with graceful understatement as Jessica paused to polish off three pieces of bacon.

"Yeah, because then Ophelia said that Malfoy's poisoners had been unveiled as the same attention-seeking troublemakers who allowed Sirius Black into the castle to begin with."

"Indeed," confirmed Astoria. "I am sure there are those within our House who secretly applaud the move, but they have not chosen to intervene on our behalf. This morning I found a dead rat in one of my shoes."

"Poor little bloke," Jessica said. "Hope he was a Death Eater."

"I just hope it didn't belong to anyone," Astoria said grimly. "I wonder if I should go to a prefect because it could be. Ordinarily I would refrain because 'snitching' makes one look weak, but if someone is missing their pet…"

Fortuna's power convicted one Millicent Bulstrode of the crime. Then it noted that bullying and ostracization of Slytherins in inter-house study groups was an obstacle to her long-term plans. As she was mulling over the implications, Dumbledore called for everyone's attention.

"I enjoined everyone involved to total secrecy," he said, once silence had been achieved, "so it is only natural that all of you are aware that yesterday Sirius Black was apprehended within our castle's walls."

Despite the fact that nearly everyone from first year to seventh had spent half the night discussing the case, they all began chattering. The Headmaster was aware that stopping the Hogwarts student body from gossiping was beyond even his capabilities, so he merely waited for them to quiet down.

"You will also have heard that he was caught due to the brave work of some of our own students,” he said at last.

There was laughter from the more vile members of Slytherin, and Fortuna caught sight of Daphne de Luce sneering at them from the Ravenclaw table. 

"It is rare students come together to mutually cultivate the virtues of each of their houses, but it has been done and the fruits of that labor were harvested yesterday."

The jeers from Slytherin stopped, and Daphne's face turned a different kind of sour.

"I wish to acknowledge the nine students who had the ambition to improve themselves, the intelligence and dedication to succeed, and the nerve to act when they were threatened. Therefore I award Candidus Craven, Zachary Bangbourne, Derek Oakhorn, Angelique Martin, Cedric Diggory, Fortuna Floris, Jessica Coleman, and Astoria Greengrass twenty points each for their loyalty, quick thinking, sound judgment, and bravery."

Cheers echoed throughout the hall, even from some Slytherins who were braver, more invested in school competitions than politics, or simply more willing to cheer because everyone else was doing it. Fortuna noticed that people at the Ravenclaw table were looking for Candidus and were disappointed that he wasn't among them. He noticed, too, and flushed happily as they compensated by waving at him and cheering louder.

"Finally, for rescuing a man from a terrible and unjust fate, and capturing a servant of Lord Voldemort, I award Flavia de Luce fifty points."

The Gryffindors erupted into applause, even though the house was still down ten points. 

"You deserved more," Flavia said into Fortuna's ear.

"I don't want any more," she said, smiling as she realized that Professor Dumbledore had chosen not to single her out as a courtesy to her.

"I know," Flavia said. "You're mental."

"The Ministry of Magic has accordingly removed the Dementors from the school boundaries, but I must again emphasize that students are not to transgress them. Nor are students permitted out of the dormitories after curfew, and going to Hogsmeade without a signed permission slip is strictly forbidden."

Some of the older Slytherins cheered at that, just as a reminder to anyone thinking of breaking ranks that they held the power in their house regardless of what the Headmaster did. 

It truly was their loss. Fortuna saw the rest of the year unfold in her mind: Gryffindor would bag the Quidditch Championship, but Hufflepuff would keep the edge it had just gained from her study group's eighty points and win the House Cup for the first time in decades. Even Snape's spiteful favoritism wouldn't stop Slytherin from coming in last.

Perhaps the humiliation would do them some good.

The headmaster concluded his speech by roundly asserting Sirius Black's innocence, which Fortuna thought was odd until her power explained there was some tension between him and the minister of magic on the topic. It wasn't her problem, so she continued to eat her toast.

They were frequently interrupted by other Hufflepuffs coming to congratulate them—all of them—on their good work. A couple of people from Ravenclaw, not in his year, came up to Candidus and asked him to come back with them; he said he had to remain where he was. And it was Angelique, being both perfectly positioned and easily distracted, who first noticed the party approaching from Gryffindor.

"Oh, my," she said. 

Candidus knocked his goblet over. Astoria suddenly found that her hair needed adjusting. Jessica swallowed her food without chewing and choked. Even Flavia's eyes widened momentarily.

Harry Potter arrived at the table, flanked by his two best friends. His smile was a little strained. He had noticed them all noticing him, and he didn't feel comfortable with the attention.

Fortuna liked him immediately.

"Hullo," he said.

"Hullo," the first years chorused back.

"Er," Harry said, "can I sit down?"

Could he ever. Astoria and Jessica parted immediately and forcefully, and the Gryffindors ended up sitting directly across from Flavia and Fortuna.

"You're not here to tick us off about the points, are you?" Flavia asked with a wary eye on Hermione.

"Don't worry about that," Harry said quickly. "I've lost loads of points."

His nonchalance made him all the more impressive in the first years' eyes, but Hermione pursed her lips.

"Did you really poison Malfoy?" Ron blurted before she could give voice to her superego.

Flavia confirmed that they had. "Fortuna wanted to," she added, more than happy to force her friend into the spotlight.

"He was making fun of you for losing at Quidditch," Fortuna said, once it became clear that nobody was going to stop looking at her unless she said something. 

" She faints at Dementors too," Candidus chimed in. Then he yelped because Angelique, of all people, kicked him in the shin. "Sorry."

"We thought," Flavia said, "his character would be better served if people laughed at him instead."

"Too right," Ron said. Hermione looked pained.

"Er, thanks," Harry said, bemused. Then he gazed directly, earnestly at Fortuna. "Dementors are the scariest thing I've ever seen. Professor Lupin says being afraid of them is wise."

Fortuna was disappointed by rather than afraid of them, but she wouldn't say so. This thoughtful, chivalrous boy was going out of his way to make her feel better, so she would show him that she felt better. She smiled at him and said she wished Professor Lupin could always be their Defense professor.

He wouldn't. Snape had already outed him as a werewolf in order to make himself feel better about Sirius Black's freedom, and word would soon reach the ears of parents via assiduous student gossips. Even her work breaking the curse couldn't overpower that particular stigma.

"He's the best defense professor we've ever had, and he was friends with my parents—Sirius, too. He's my godfather."

"I heard you tried to attack him," Flavia said.

"I heard you wanted to use me as bait," he said, not angrily.

"That was our original plan," Flavia confirmed. "But that was before we knew what had really happened."

"Right, well, next time ask me and not Hermione. She'll never say yes."

Hermione made some sort of noise, but Flavia nodded gravely, as though he'd just made a pact with her. "Duly noted, Mr. Potter."

“What’s he like?” Harry said. 

“Magnificent," Flavia said loyally.

"Annoying," Fortuna said truthfully.

"I don't mean as a dog," Harry said.

Fortuna and Flavia looked at each other.

"Funny," Flavia said. "That's why Fortuna thinks he's annoying."

Fortuna grimaced at her friend. "He's kind. When I had nightmares he woke me up. And he let Flavia braid red, white, and blue ribbons into his hair and sing 'God Save the King' at him."

Harry grinned. "I'll remember that."

Flavia said with great dignity: "He was supportive of all our schemes."

"Did that include getting into a duel with a murderer?" Hermione asked, a little acidly.

"No, that was a purely Christmas holiday venture. We—" Flavia suddenly stopped short. "I wonder what Sirius ate . We only left dry dogfood for him…"

Fortuna's power gifted her with yet another mental picture of dead rats.

"They shouldn't have let Macnair go," complained Ron.

"I just hope the Ministry won't rehire him," Hermione said. "Buckbeak's trial didn't go well, but he won't be executed if there's no executioner."

Fortuna was somewhat alarmed to hear that Macnair had been released. She quickly found that it was due to the machinations of Draco Malfoy's father, but—

Will Macnair be a threat?

No, not even to the hippogriff Hermione cared so much about. 

Flavia bristled. "He was released? He held me hostage! He attacked Antigone—a Witch we know, I mean. He admitted the whole thing in front of Fortuna and me!"

Ron looked alarmed by this outburst. "Don't worry. They still confiscated everything he had. My dad reckons he can get Macnair on possession and use of Dark artifacts even if he gets away with murder. "

"Well, he won't," Flavia fumed. "I'm going to get him convicted if I have to write to Cornelius Fudge himself."

Harry was nodding to himself. He hadn't heard any of this interchange; he was thinking of what sort of life he might lead with a supportive, kind, and fun-loving man instead of his aunt and uncle.

Fortuna didn't pry into that. 

"Thanks," he said. "I haven't gotten to talk with him much." There was a pause, and then he added with a brief grin: "Yet."

Flavia and Fortuna also hadn't gotten to talk with him, but neither of them said so. That quick, wistful smile put technicalities out of their heads.

"Right," Harry said, collecting himself. "Sirius left, but he asked me to give this to you."

He passed a piece of parchment to Flavia. When the older children had said their goodbyes and departed, Fortuna read the letter over her shoulder.

"To his loyal subjects, from his Majesty, King George the Fluff, greetings:

"I am sorry for lying to you both for so long, and for ambushing you, Flavia. Now that the truth is out I hope you can understand. Thank you both for more than I could possibly explain, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet Harry again. 

"There is little I can do to repay you, but I know about troublemaking at Hogwarts. If you ever find yourselves up to no good, please send me an owl."

He signed it as Sirius (Not Alexander) . Fortuna was annoyed, but realized the value of his offer and understood that it was made with great affection. 

"It's just as well he's not really a dog," Flavia sighed, folding and pocketing the letter. "We've lost the Shrieking Shack—nowhere to keep a canine as grand and fine as His Majesty."

"I can't believe you had a secret headquarters and didn't tell us," Jessica exclaimed.

"It was secret , we couldn't tell everyone," Flavia said reasonably.

"We aren't everyone ,'" Astoria said. She was hurt, and she was speaking on behalf of the others.

Flavia became uncomfortable. She was, in her own way, as private as Fortuna, and she didn't need or particularly want all that much company.

"Astoria, Jessica…" Fortuna said. "Did you two want to sneak around, fight with a tree, and walk a mile and a half one way to do extra potions homework at two in the morning?"

The others looked at each other awkwardly until Candidus spoke for all of them. "Certainly not," he said. Then he added, more shyly and modestly than he had been capable of at the beginning of the school year: "But maybe if you'd asked…" 

Jessica, ever one to spot flawed rhetoric, took over for him. "Yeah, we know it wasn't all work. You had adventures and midnight feasts."

"As to that," Flavia said, "you can't really envy us the detention."

"Food," Jessica emphasized.

"I'll show you how to get into the kitchens," Fortuna said. 

This mollified Jessica. 

"Later," Flavia added, looking up from her watch. "It's ten to nine. Penal servitude awaits."

It was time to go to the greenhouses to assist Professor Sprout in cleaning out pots—with elbow grease, not magic. 

Fortuna turned back to Jessica. "Tonight. After dinner, meet me by the stairs to the Hufflepuff common room."

"We'll be there, too," Angelique said as Flavia got to her feet. 

"You also have to tell us about everything else you find in the future," Astoria said.

Flavia kept quiet; she did not want them to know about the room with all the abandoned items. Fortuna respected this and shrugged. "Everything I know is from the Weasley twins. I just have to wait for them to talk when they think nobody's listening."

"Rubbish way of managing things," Jessica said. "We'll start our own exploration team. Together ."

"Together," Fortuna affirmed.

Flavia tugged on Fortuna's sleeve, and Fortuna also rose. The two girls locked arms and headed off to detention. 

Chapter Text

Authors' Note: This purrlogue was a request from someone who helped Maroon_Sweater with a gigantic favor. She offers her thanks and also refuses to accept any blame.

🐈

The fifty-third cutest cat at Hogwarts purred in the arms of his human.

"Gray cat, gray cat," she murmured into the side of his head. "Sleek cat, gray cat, Harb cat, long cat. So long, so large. Large cat, long cat, large large long."

Human footsteps sounded on the stairs and Fortuna fell silent. The door to the dormitory opened.

"Romilda, we have to—oh, Fortuna. Are you talking to your cat again?"

"No," Fortuna said.

"She was," said the girl who was behind the curtains on one of the beds that he wasn't supposed to go in, but did when nobody was there to stop him. "It was revolting."

Fortuna tightened her grip on him.

"Why are you here?"

"I live here. We live here," she added, kissing Harbinger.

"I mean why are you here by yourself? Where's Flavia?"

"She's talking to the Gray Lady."

"Nobody talks to the Gray Lady. That's like saying she's having tea with the Minister of Magic."

"You could just say you don't want to tell us."

"I'm not snubbing you. Someone in Slytherin bet Flavia she couldn't get the Gray Lady to talk to her, so she's winning the bet."

Harbinger felt neglected and reached a paw up to bat at her cheek. She stopped talking and kissed him again.

"A Slytherin? You mean someone in your study group."

"Why didn't you make a Gryffindor study group? We're better than Slytherin."

"There's nothing wrong with Slytherin," Fortuna said. "Just some Slytherins."

"There's nothing wrong with any Gryffindors, but you didn't even ask us."

"It's not my study group. The Hufflepuffs put it together."

"You still could have asked them to ask us."

"I'm sorry. We didn't mean to make you feel excluded."

"Well, we have our own study group now. In fact we're going to go while you have detention."

"And we have some Ravenclaws—"

"Some of the good Ravenclaws, not the dud you have."

"They’re smarter than any Slytherins."

"We'll get all the points back that you two lost."

The other girls left.

"Fancy that." Fortuna extended her arms to full length. He purred as he let his feet dangle, basking in the warmth of her complete attention. "Their own interhouse study group. They really showed me—didn't they, Harbinger? Oh, you're so long, yes. Long cat, gray cat, Harb cat…"

🐈

The Groundskeeper's cottage was one of Harbinger's favorite spots to relax. The man always had a roaring fire going and his hearth was the perfect place to sleep away the slightly chilly days until Fortuna returned from classes and detention. Unfortunately, there was a dog but he didn't pay him any mind, even when Harbinger gave him the occasional whack to assert his place in the pecking order.

He was curled up in the dog's blanket in front of the fire, trying his best to ignore the four humans who had been talking at the table for more than an hour.

"Thank you for tea, Rubeus."

"Nothing to it, nothing to it. Have a biscuit."

There were appreciative sounds all around the table, though none of the humans actually ate the biscuits they took.

"Macnair has apparently vanished," said one of the other men. "I fear he may have gone in search of his old master."

"Too likely," said the third man. "He tried something and he failed. Of course he'll try something else."

"Was he working alone? Could someone be hiding him?"

"Perhaps. Until we fully understand why Janus had to die, it will be difficult to establish a complete pool of suspects."

"What did he tell the Ministry?"

"I am not entirely sure, aside from the claim he had been Imperiused. Cornelius has had difficulty accepting Sirius's innocence, and his concerns regarding that have proliferated to the detriment of discussion on other topics."

The man who lived in the cottage spoke up. "You figure it was revenge? Janus was one of us, and if Macnair caught him snooping about..." 

"I think other Death Eaters spurred Macnair into action."

The woman huffed and Harbinger huffed in response, an instinct he had picked up from his time with Fortuna. It was a trick that seemed to amuse the young witch and had afforded him dozens of scratches and plenty of treats.

"You think that anyone and everything including your bedroom slippers acts at the behest of Death Eaters," the woman said acidly.

The third man laughed. "I wouldn't rule it out. I don't own slippers. Where did they come from? What are they doing there? And why is there more than one?"

More laughter followed, and Harbinger stretched as long as he could before settling back down again. 

"Look at this parchment, Minerva. I found it in Macnair's house while I was searching it. I think he received it shortly before he killed Janus."

There was a rustle and the woman spoke again. "'I'm watching.' Who's watching? Lord Voldemort?"

"No," grunted one of the men. "Voldemort would have just popped round in person."

"He can't, Alastor. He's gone."

"I believe Voldemort's return to be inevitable," said the first man who'd spoken. "It is but a question of when and how, and it is possible that it will be soon."

"But you agree that he didn't send the note?"

"I think Alastor's assumption is likely to be true. Something has sowed dissension within the ranks of old Death Eaters, and we need to be alert."

"Then who sent it?"

"Nobody in Azkaban, which means one of the quieter cowards still out there. Malfoy, maybe. He's got enough melodrama for red ink."

"Perhaps Macnair is hiding from whomever sent the letter," the woman suggested.

"Perhaps, perhaps—but that's all that can be said on the subject for the moment. If I knew anything for certain, I would have shared this with you sooner. Until we know more, there's nothing else we can say or do but remain vigilant."

Eventually the humans finished eating and left. On his way out, the man with the long white beard bent over Harbinger and scratched him under his chin.

"I thought," he murmured, "that you never came here, lest you encounter Fang."

🐈

Days grew longer and warmer, and he spent more of his time outdoors. He was eating grass near the lake when a group of children approached, talking among themselves.

"They let that thing maul me and get away with it. It's an absolute scandal, and my father—"

"Petrificus totalus!"

Something shot past him and he ran up the nearest tree. 

A girl's voice spoke. "Millicent, what are you doing?"

"The cat—It belongs to that Mudblood."

"Granger's cat is orange."

"Not Granger," the one who had attacked him said. "The little creep that's stuck to the de Luce firstie. Florence."

"Floris," snarled the first speaker. "Aperio!"

The branch below him shattered and he climbed higher. He was dozens of feet up before the shouted words stopped and branches stopped exploding around him.

"Is it still up there?"

"I can't see it."

"Well, it's not getting down anytime soon."

"Unless it falls."

Unpleasant laughter drifted up to him as his pursuers sat down around the tree. He panted, heart still racing, as he listened for any further attack.

"They let monsters attack me and get away with it, they let Mudbloods attack me and get away with it…"

"The de Luces are Purebloods."

"Blood traitors are worse than Mudbloods. If it weren't for them, Mudbloods wouldn't have gotten their foot in the door."

"Father says that the de Luces aren't as far gone as the Weasleys. Some of them are still sound. The ones we have at Hogwarts now are among the degenerate, but Father says that—"

"What about the Head Girl? She's in Slytherin."

"That doesn't mean anything. She's dating a Mudblood in Ravenclaw, and we all know that the rot starts with courtship. I'm telling you, Hogwarts will be unrecognizable by the time we graduate."

What followed was an annoyingly long argument between two of the people below him about who was acceptable, who wasn’t, and what they were going to do about it. It was a meandering maze of a dialogue that returned to itself far more than it ever ventured anywhere towards leaving and it left Harbinger bristling, both unable to act on this transgression and unable to calm down from the attack. It was only after one of the members voiced an urgent need for a meeting with a professor that they finally decided to return to the castle.

The children left, but he couldn't see his way to getting down. He waited and waited. The sun went down and he was cold, but he couldn't do anything. Finally he smelled Fortuna coming, and he called out to her. 

"Harbinger," she said, and he responded.

"Harbinger," she said again, and he responded again. 

They kept it up until she was at the foot of the tree. She put her hands on her hips and stared up at him. "You aren't an arboreal lifeform, you know."

He indicated his distress and his desire that she resolve the situation at once. She laughed and started climbing. When she was close enough, he clambered onto her shoulders and clung to her and cried as she went back down.

"Ow," she said. "Must you use your claws? Must you make those sounds? Foolish kitty, you'd only fall if I wanted you to—and I don't, do I? No, no, I would never want a good long gray cat like you to fall. A horrid half-faced Persian, maybe, but not an elegant sleek gray man with a perfect pointy nose like you, no." 

She continued like this until they were on the ground. He tried to dash off, but she intercepted him and hugged him to her chest and scratched at the base of his ears, exactly where he most enjoyed it.

"What were you doing up there, foolish kitty? Why did you climb so high? Why—"

She stopped short and inhaled fast and deep through her nose. 

"I see," she said quietly.

Her fingers idly played with his ears as a serious frown formed across her face.

🐈

Harbinger stuck his front paw through the crack beneath the door to test whether the gap was big enough for his head. It wasn't, so he yowled at the humans on the other side.

"What is that noise, Fortuna?"

"It's Harbinger. He doesn't want to be left out."

"The fumes are poisonous! Unless you can convince him to wear a little mask, he has to stay out."

"I know, I know." Fortuna's footsteps came closer and soon the door was flung open. He darted inside, only to be caught and scooped up into her arms. There was something on her face and he began to wriggle frantically, trying to flee the unfamiliar sight.

Her voice came from behind the thing. "Do you want me to make you wear a little mask? I could, you know. Yes, I could."

"Fortuna! Experiment!"

He finally succeeded in escaping her grasp and ran toward the stairs.

"That's what I thought," she said, and the door closed again.

Once he had made it down the stairs, he slowed to a walk once and turned into a long hallway. There were many closed doors here, but he paused at the only one with a human on the other side. 

He called several times to get the man's attention. It didn't work so he tried putting his paw under the door again, but the carpet was too thick here. He resorted to clawing the door and left many long grooves in its wood before giving up and going down more stairs.

His first stop was a room that held two girls. One was stretched out on a couch, out of reach. He went to the one who was sitting up straight at a desk and announced himself by rubbing his face against her legs.

"Snake!" she shrieked, hurting his ears. "Oh, it's that girl's cat."

"Why did you think it was a snake? Snakes aren't that tall."

"I'm on edge, Daffy. I don't know how word got out, but everyone knows about the lottery win and I'm getting letters from every harebrained lunatic with a business idea. Look, here's one from someone who wants to replace the Knight Bus."

Harbinger yelled at them both for not petting him.

"I hate cats," said the one on the couch. "And now this one gets to roam about and we can't object because she'll pull the poor little orphan act on us. As though we aren't orphans ourselves and don't know what it is! Why is she here? Father didn't invite her, and you know that pestilent little beast didn't ask permission to bring her home."

"Father doesn't care what goes on in this house."

There was silence. 

"I don't know what to do with all this money. I asked Deiter but he doesn't, either, and his parents said they couldn't give us advice. Father doesn't pay attention, and…Oh, Daphne. I wish Mummy were still here."

"I do, too." 

There was more silence, and neither one of them made a move to scratch his head or acknowledge his presence in any way.

"You could ask Aunt Josephine."

"She'd impose herself on us and she'd bring that wretched Mrs. Longbottom with her." She sighed and pushed Harbinger aside with her foot—gently but definitely. "But I might have to."

They were bad company, so Harbinger trotted down a hallway to the hot room where he knew there was food to be had. The woman who frequented the place became angry when he jumped up onto the surface nearest her and meowed.

"No! Shoo!" she cried. She swung a cloth at him but he dodged it. "Not in my kitchen!"

She continued to try to hit him with the cloth, and the smells currently around weren't any more pleasant than the ones where Fortuna was, so he left through the open window.

"And stay out!" she called after him.

He went through the garden, gnawing on some of the more attractive bits of greenery as he passed them. 

Finally he found a man standing motionless, surrounded by new plants shooting from the ground. He pulled several of them up, then wound his way between the man's legs. When this garnered no response, he sharpened his claws on one of his heavy leather boots.

"Good afternoon, Master Harbinger," the man said at last. He stooped and gently pushed Harbinger off. After a few seconds, Harbinger returned to the boot and scratched it until he was lifted off the ground. 

"I'd rather you sit with me, young sir."

The man brought him to a bench, where he sat. He helped Harbinger settle in his lap and his heavy, calloused hand stroked him until he fell asleep.