《Troll in the Dungeon! (Harry Potter/OC-Insert)》


 1. Worst Day Ever

    Chapter 1: Worst Day Ever


    Unknown Location


    "AHHHHHH!" I screamed out in agony as I startled to consciousness. It felt like every nerve in my body was on fire and my bone marrow was being extracted through a straw wrapped in sandpaper.


    There was a popping noise as my muscles contracted involuntarily and made my spine contort in ways it wasn''t meant to. I thrashed and swung at anything and everything around me, only to backhand the hard floor with enough force to bruise. I didn''t know anything could hurt this much.


    When I was eight, my cousin and I were horsing around, pretending to be WWE Wrestlemania superstars. He jumped off the couch and frog-splashed onto me but landed knee-first onto my forearm, splitting the two bones wide apart and ripping the ligaments in my elbow like a piece of string cheese. That was the prelude to eight weeks of agonizing recovery and physical therapy. For months, just balling a fist or holding a fork was an exercise in patience.


    It didn''t even come close to what I felt now.


    I screamed myself hoarse until I tasted iron with every breath and kept going. My own screams drowned out everything else but I thought I could hear the delirious cackle of someone laughing in the distance.


    My vision was blurry with tears. I could make nothing out in the haze of my own suffering save a crimson light that taunted me with promises of even greater pain.


    I felt my spine convulse and slam my head against the hard ground. I saw stars and my vision went black for a moment. Even that was better than going through this pain, at least a concussion would daze me for a time.


    And then, when the pain reached a new crescendo, I mercifully lost consciousness.


    X


    Again.


    And again.


    I didn''t know how many times I awoke to this burning. It could have been five minutes. It could have been five years. So great was this unending agony that time itself lost meaning. I could only assume that I''d died and gone to Hell.


    And then it lessened.


    It was not a kindness. Now, blissful unconsciousness eluded me. I screamed and screamed until I could make no more sounds, until my own voice rubbed my throat raw and the taste of blood overwhelmed my senses.


    "Finally got the power right. Wouldn''t want you to pass out too often now. I want you to savor this, sweetie," came a woman''s voice. I hadn''t been dreaming of the cackling after all. I felt a cold, trembling hand caress my face, utterly at odds with the maniacal laughter that had filled the room until now. "You poor thing. You did nothing wrong. You don''t deserve this. You just happen to be unlucky enough to have popped out of that whore''s cunt. But as the French say, c''est la vie."


    My whole body shook with the tremors of whatever the fuck this bitch did to me. Through bleary eyes, I saw her.


    She looked bat-shit insane. She bore haunted, hollow eyes that might have once been a dazzling blue. Her cheeks were sunken as though she only ate once every few days. Wispy brown hair framed a face that could have once been pretty.


    "W-Who are you?" I stammered. I hated how young I sounded. I hated how my voice trembled and how I had to gnaw on my gums just to keep from hearing the clatter of teeth. "W-Why are you doing this?"


    "Why? Why? No, I suppose you don''t know what your murderous whore of a mother''s been up to, do you?"


    "N-No. You''ve got the wrong guy."


    "I assure you I don''t, Blaise," she cooed, almost affectionately. "You''re exactly who I''m looking for."


    My name was Corbin, I wanted to shout. My mother died of breast cancer when I was twenty-six. I cremated and buried her. I was the executor of her will. Who the fuck was this bitch?


    And yet, there was a niggling sense of doubt, the tiniest spark of recognition. There was a part of me that said I should know exactly what she was talking about, that, as absurd as this situation was, it should make sense to me.


    I wanted to kill her. I wanted to choke her and watch the light leave her eyes. For speaking ill of my mother, five years dead. For torturing some random stranger. For the fiery pangs of agony that swept through my body like aftershocks from an earthquake. Maybe even to put the crazy bitch out of her misery.


    Then the torture began again.


    This time, I saw something that started to jog my memories, like two pieces of a puzzle crashing into place with the force of a train wreck. She picked up a stick I''d ignored until now and shrieked, "Crucio!"


    I had a split second to recognize the word, to finally connect the dots that formed the picture to this shit-tastic day, then the crimson light struck me and my eyes rolled up into my skull as my world became pain.


    She kept it up for what felt like hours but had to be several minutes at most. I stopped trying to gauge time long ago and instead ended up measuring her stamina. Who was this witch? Why was she torturing me? What did she have against my supposed mother? Was she as powerful as Bellatrix Lestrange?


    God, I hoped not.


    She wasn''t very creative. Cruicio seemed to be all she knew. I wished she could be more inventive with her torture methods; then at least I''d have relief from this pain. I screamed and screamed until I would have gnawed off my own arm to escape the pain.


    I promised everything. I didn''t know what fell out of my mouth but it didn''t matter. Between the blood and vomit, I promised her the world. I promised her prophecies and secrets that could make her the most wanted woman on earth. I promised the Dark Lord''s horcruxes, the Deathly Hallows, the Sword of Gryffindor, the Chamber of Secrets. The philosopher''s stone. All that I knew about the series fell from my lips like a raging river as I searched for anything, everything, that could possibly tempt her to stop.


    It didn''t matter; all I got for my babbling was her mocking laughter. Of course she didn''t believe me. I hadn''t even begun Hogwarts; what secrets could I possibly know? What treasures could I have? In the first place, all she wanted was to make me suffer for no fault of my own.


    Until finally, it ended.


    She was panting now. Her wispy, brown hair hung in matted streaks down her face, making her look all the more like some kind of skeletal wraith. The orange light of the sole lamp in the room cast eerie shadows over her face. She breathed heavily and I thought I could see a slight shiver run along her hand.


    ''Magical exhaustion,'' the part of me that was foreign recognized. Crucio could not have been an easy curse to cast. Perhaps my suffering was at an end.


    "When I''m done with you, I''m going to send her the memory. Maybe pieces of you too," she giggled madly.


    I took huge gulps of air. Even the breath passing through my lungs sent fresh waves of pain through me. More and more of my memories pieced themselves together. I was Corbin Silva, just a no-name college librarian and lover of folk tales. I filled out a CYOA. I died doing¡­ something¡­


    I remembered my choices. I''d picked them out on a lazy evening at the campus library, a what-if character designed more for amusement than anything else. It sure as hell wasn''t funny now.


    I was Blaise Zabini. That name¡­ my "mother"... That¡­ That certainly explained quite a bit.


    Memories of my life in this world came rushing to the fore: Blaise Zabini was born the only son of Dante Zabini, an old pureblood who used to be an acolyte of Grindelwald''s back in the 30s. He married the black widow I called mother in 1976 and died in 1978. He was the first of her victims.


    I remembered growing up in this life. I remembered slowly maturing and realizing just what happened to all my "fathers," just what a maneater mother was. I remembered wondering why she continued to let me live, if I''d serve some unknown purpose then have an "accident" like all the rest. Suffice to say, Blaise Zabini did not have healthy coping mechanisms.


    Unbidden, I began to giggle. The giggling turned into deranged laughter. I couldn''t help it; it was honestly funny and humor was all I had left. "Hehehe¡­ Hahahahahaha!"


    "What are you laughing at?"


    "You. Me. Everything. You must be an Espinoza."


    "Don''t you say his name! Your murderous whore mother killed him! He was the only family I had-"


    "And I''m the only family she has," I croaked. It still hurt to talk but it didn''t hurt as much as a crucio so I kept talking. "That''s where you''re wrong."


    "What are you yammering about?"


    "Not the only one bit. The family bit. Valencia Zabini doesn''t have family. That''d require she give a fuck about someone who isn''t her."


    "Shut up. Shut up."


    "You think the black widow of seven murdered husbands cares about anyone? You think she''s capable of that?" I laughed. There was real bitterness in my voice, not just from being in this mess. It was the pain of a young boy who grew up too fast, who unwittingly stumbled upon the cooling corpse of more than one step-father.


    "Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!"


    "You''re just doing her work for her, you know, step-aunt number seven. Heh, she might even thank you for the convenience. Single mothers aren''t as sexy as unattached women."


    "SHUT YOUR MOUTH! CRUCIO!"


    I had the briefest moment of satisfaction knowing I''d gotten to her, knowing I''d shared just a bit of my pain, then I began to drown again in my agony.


    X


    I was awake for it all but awake and lucid were two different matters altogether. Crucio was the single most excruciating thing I''d ever felt. It had a way of consuming you, of devouring every last thought until the only thing in existence was you and the curse, until pain was all there was, is, or could be.


    It was also monotonous. It was one-dimensional. In a detached corner of my mind, I likened it to the desensitization of too much cologne, something you got used to if given enough time.


    It wasn''t like that of course. The pain was magical. The curse existed for torture and no other purpose. The curse wouldn''t let its victim go, not this soon, not unless I left my sanity behind. I refused; I wasn''t that far gone yet.


    Still, I eventually sank into a semi-conscious state of perpetual suffering. If there was a purgatory, I suspected it''d feel a bit like this.


    That subjective eternity eventually came to an end. The bitch couldn''t go on forever after all. She could only fuel herself with misplaced hatred for so long; even she had to eat. More importantly, she was magically exhausted.


    I wished I could stand but I could barely twitch in place.


    "That was satisfying," she said with false cheer. She headed up to a staircase. "You''ll stay down here for me, won''t you, Blaise? Not that you have a choice. You don''t even have your wand yet, do you?"


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    She laughed cruelly as she closed the door behind her.


    I allowed myself a minute to tremble and sob but I couldn''t afford to wallow long. I didn''t know when she''d be back. I took stock of where I was and what I had.


    The basement was an old wine cellar. There was a sturdy metal lamp hanging from a hook by the stairwell that cast a sickly orange glow through the room. Perhaps on another day, I might have wondered how wizards came to adopt light bulbs in some locales but remained so very backwards in others.


    The floor was solid oak; my skull knew firsthand how sturdy the wood was. There was nothing else in the room save for a wall-mounted shelf with circular slots meant to hold wine bottles. I searched intently for even one bottle left, it could make for a passable shiv if movies taught me anything, but no, nothing.


    I pushed against the floor and forced myself to sit despite the aching in my body. I had to. I had to believe I had a shot at escape. The CYOA was both my curse and my only hope. If I filled it out, it surely meant there was a way out too. Past-Corbin was a fucking asshole but even I wouldn''t think a single day of torture-porn was funny. This couldn''t be the end of my story.


    Then something on my hand scraped against the oak.


    I looked down to see a golden ring. I hadn''t noticed before but she''d clearly not bothered with taking any of my belongings. Why would she? She wasn''t looking for trinkets to rob. She only wanted to see me hurt and I didn''t have a wand to take in the first place.


    But I knew better. I knew what this was: a spell ring, a unique item enchanted to perform one, predetermined spell.


    I wracked my memories but came up disappointed. No, of course it wasn''t the AK, blasting curse, or anything to defend myself. Not even Fiendfyre so I could take the bitch with me. Then I realized what was in it and kissed my hand with the delirious joy of the dying.


    "Episkey," I whispered as a gentle, green light washed over me. Relief, pure, unadulterated relief filled me and I knew I''d promise the devil my firstborn to feel this again.


    The pain wasn''t gone, the strongest torture curse couldn''t be undone that easily, but the healing spell undid some of the damage I''d done to myself in my thrashing and banished the fog that lingered in my mind. It pushed the pain far back enough that I could think properly again.


    ''What do you have, Corbin? What do you know? What can you use?'' I asked myself. Those three questions became my mantra as I went over everything the CYOA promised me.


    I paled as I realized just what was happening here: Worst Day Ever.


    It was a drawback, one of those that gave you a hefty dose of points for taking it. In exchange, it placed you on Fate''s shitlist, because Fate was apparently a conscious force here. It made Fate take notice of you and ensured you were tested to see if you belonged in this world, to see if you had the right to exist.


    For one day, you had to survive at all cost in a setting that would spell death for most: stranded in a forest chased by werewolves, ground zero of a territorial dispute between a nundu and a dragon, that sort of deal. Kidnapped, wandless, and mid-crucio in some undisclosed basement with a torturer who could not be bribed nor negotiated with certainly qualified. The perks, innate abilities, and magical affinities purchased through the CYOA were nerfed into the ground during this time.


    It wouldn''t be a test otherwise.


    I slumped. It wasn''t as though my perks were combat-focused anyway. No, no wandless magic, physical fitness, or the bloodline of some powerful magical beast. I went the seer-route. Past-Corbin thought it''d be funny to take every single perk and talent related to divination, up to and including Fate and Time affinities, all for the purpose of creating a competent seer who had some measure of control over his abilities.


    Fuck¡­


    The bright side was, if I survived this, Fate would acknowledge my right to exist in this world, providing me with a vial of enhanced felix felicis as a reward, or perhaps a peace offering.


    I cast another dose of episkey on myself and closed my eyes. I had to try. Divination was one of the few talents that didn''t require a wand. Crystal balls. Tea leaves. Bone fragments. Tarot cards. Zodiac signs and birth gems. Sometimes just someone''s palms. Sometimes none of those things.


    Would I survive? Would I be rescued? I had to know. I had to try. Anything was better than this.


    Just twenty-four hours. If I could hold out that long, the drawback mandated Fate would pull back its bitchfest. Worst Day Ever ended with the holder of the drawback fainting, which implied survival or rescue. It meant my chances of survival in the long run would rise dramatically. If I couldn''t¡­ Surely I could ram my head hard enough against the wall to end it¡­


    I took a deep, shuddering breath. I tried to look within myself, to find something, anything, that could hint at the Sight. Innate talents were greatly weakened while Worst Day Ever was active but weakened didn''t mean gone¡­ right¡­? It wasn''t impossible to know.


    "Come on, Fate, you bitch, give me this," I begged, my voice a raspy whisper.


    I had no idea what I was searching for. Needless to say, Corbin came from a world without magic. Blaise wasn''t exactly a studious prodigy. It was a hail mary, a desperate attempt to grasp at straws. All I knew was that Blaise Zabini was definitely a wizard and so it should theoretically be possible.


    I didn''t know how long I tried to find my magic. Seconds seemed to stretch on forever. And then, I heard the door creak open.


    My heart fell through my stomach as my eyes flickered towards the stairwell, only to find it was still shut. She hadn''t returned yet.


    One second. Two¡­ Three¡­


    There was that creak again.


    "I''m back~" she sang like a third rate horror movie villain. I wanted to call her on it but the promise of drowning right back in that ocean of pain strangled the words in my throat. She skipped down the stairs. I didn''t know if she went to eat or sleep or whatever but she was back and ready to make me regret breathing again.


    I blinked as she repeated the motions. The dissonance in time was just wide enough for me to notice. Taking a deep breath, I counted again.


    Three seconds. Three. Fucking. Seconds. What the hell was this bullshit? I knew my powers would be dimminished here but what the fuck, Fate?


    The torture began again and molten lead flooded my veins. I screamed and laughed in abject hysteria. I didn''t know what to do. I wasn''t some shonen hero who could make three seconds work for him. I wasn''t motherfucking Monkey D. Luffy! Three seconds was fuck all!


    I bent and contorted myself, howling in agony. Her curse struck, then struck again as reality caught up with my Sight. The Sight was worse than useless; it forced me to see it coming twice over. What little vitality I managed to recover thanks to my spell ring was undone in moments.


    I coughed, spitting blood onto the oaken floor. It looked a lot like spilt wine in the orange light.


    "Sweetheart, we''re just getting started."


    X


    After an eternity of this, she was tiring again. Or maybe she was getting bored. No matter how obsessive she was, there had to be a limit, right? Ever so slowly, the rate of her crucios was trickling to a stop. My Sight made me obsess over time, counting the seconds until reality rubber-banded and caught up to my visions. The time between each curse ticked up, second by second, and I could think again.


    ''I have to make my move,'' I realized. If I did nothing, she really would kill me. Or I''d go insane like the Longbottoms. It didn''t matter; as far as I was concerned, true death and death of identity were one and the same.


    She paused to catch her breath and leaned against the wall. I used those precious seconds to think of a plan. It was risky, but what wasn''t at this point?


    She had been arrogant, thinking that a boy who hadn''t even gotten to Hogwarts couldn''t'' possibly be a threat. She hadn''t bothered to tie my wrists or search me for weapons, not that I had any.


    But I did have my ring. A crazy plan began to take shape.


    When she returned to her torture, I brought my right fist to my mouth and did my level best to swallow it whole. I felt the ripping of flesh and the warmth of blood as my teeth bit down uncontrollably.


    "Argghhhh," I screamed into my fist.


    She paused to laugh at me. "Aww, you''ve screamed enough, don''t you think, Blaise? There''s no need to muffle your screams now. Or are you trying to be a big man?"


    I ignored her. My blood hid my ring as I tugged it off with my teeth. I tasted metal, though whether blood or gold I couldn''t say. I tucked it beneath my tongue and waited for the right moment. Three seconds. I''d get a mere three second''s warning.


    "Does this fix anything?" I asked between ragged breaths.


    "No, sweetie, but it does make me feel better," she replied with an unhinged smile. "Your whore of a mother started this. Blame her."


    I hated what I had to do. I needed her to be pissed, absolutely livid. I needed her seeing red, so focused on hurting me that nothing else would register.


    So, I cracked a bloody smile, I''d bitten down hard enough to fracture my own teeth at some point. "Don''t worry, I do blame her for this bullshit. I''m jealous, you know?"


    "What are you talking about?"


    I shot her the most insufferable grin I could. "At least he got a good fuck in before he croaked."


    "You shut your mouth! Crucio!"


    I saw it coming in slow motion. I saw it coming twice, once as my power kicked in and another as reality caught up to my vision. The red bolt moved towards me and I had no way to avoid it. So, I didn''t bother.


    Instead, with what little strength I could muster, I spat my ring beneath her heel as she bolted to her feet. The magic ring caught itself between her foot and the oak floor. It skidded along the floor and took her right foot with it, causing her to collapse with a squawk of surprise. The first, predicted bolt struck my chest. The second struck the space to my left as her aim flew wide..


    I''d look back on this moment as the very first prophecy I''d broken. It was barely anything, a mere three seconds, but those precious seconds were a matter of life and death for me.


    Her yelp of surprise was cut off abruptly as she struck her head on the wall she had been leaning against. The force sent my ring rolling back towards me and I snatched it from the ground as fast as my trembling hands allowed.


    I put the ring back on, made easier by the slick blood covering my hand, and called, "Episkey."


    I groaned audibly in relief but I had no time to waste. Episkey wasn''t a counter to the crucio, something so convenient didn''t exist. All it could do was relieve the symptoms. Its soothing magic calmed the tremors and cleared my vision, just enough to fight back.


    I scrambled to my feet. My muscles burned and rebelled with every motion. There was a large part of me that wanted to give in, to just let her have her petty revenge and go to sleep forever. I couldn''t.


    I did not lunge for her. I instead stumbled my way to the lamp hanging next to the stairwell and removed it from the wall-mounted hook. It was made of sturdy wrought-iron, heavy enough to make my weakened arms shake from the weight.


    I paused and did my best to focus as reality twisted and expanded like a slinky. Then, time contracted like a rubber band as the present caught up to my vision. Three seconds. I knew where she would be. With a roar born more of desperation than courage, I lobbed the lantern at her head. And thanks to my vision, I struck true.


    The lamp couldn''t have been more than ten pounds but it was just enough to daze her. I saw her loosen her grip on her wand and dove for it before she could recover.


    "No!" she cried as I snapped it over my knee. Feeling the wood splinter in my grip was the single most satisfying thing I''d ever done.


    I collapsed to my knees; I couldn''t stand any longer. The combination of relief and vindication struck me like a physical force. Still, I had to move. I doubted I could fight off a toddler the way I was now. If I allowed her to catch her breath, she''d strangle me to death.


    So I crawled. I crawled over her until I straddled her chest and did my best to pin her arms beneath my knees. I wouldn''t win any title belts anytime soon but I managed. That she was mildly concussed and possibly malnourished and sleep-deprived helped.


    ''It''s her or me,'' I told myself. I did the only thing I could think of: I shoved both halves of her wand through her eyes, splintered points first.


    "Ahhh!" she shrieked. I learned that day that eyeballs were uncomfortably durable. Instead of piercing through, I felt the wand fragments skid along the sclera until they reached her tear ducts. Then they sank in with a squelching noise that made me wince.


    Neither wound was deep enough, not with my flagging strength.


    Her scream sent a blood-curdling chill down my spine. I''d been in a handful of scraps as Corbin, a bar fight that my idiot friend started back in college, a schoolyard scuffle in middle school, but nothing like this. I''d never really hurt anyone before, never intentionally maimed anyone before.


    But I kept going. I had to do worse than this if I wanted to survive. I told myself that she deserved it. She kidnapped some kid for the express purpose of slowly torturing him to death. If there was unredeemable evil, this was it. Besides, this was nothing compared to the agony of the torture curse.


    I hardened my heart and reached out for the lamp even as I dry-heaved. My hands shook so I cast another episkey on myself. Then I brought the lamp down on her head.


    "No, plea-" she tried to beg. Part of her must have seen it coming. Maybe I didn''t cut the optic nerve.


    Lift. Down.


    Again.


    And again.


    Something in my chest burned and ached as I continued to heal myself even as I caved in her skull. I didn''t know how long I carried on like that. Her screams became a whimper and slowly trickled to a stop. I didn''t know when; I couldn''t keep track. It was horrifying and therapeutic and hypnotic all at once, a droning rhythm that lured me into the task with the desperation of the dying. Not even the burn of magical exhaustion stopped me; I''d become very good at ignoring pain these past few hours.


    When I stopped, her head was a bloody slurry and my arms felt like they''d fall off. The burn in my chest had gotten intolerable now. Something innate warned me that I couldn''t continue like this. Anything more was suicide. I knew instinctively that even a single cast of episkey would kill me.


    I slumped forward, still straddling this stranger''s body. My head hit the floor and I was intimately introduced to the feeling of cooling brain matter. The thought of just what I was lying in made me empty my stomach again.


    With supreme effort, I turned my body around so I could look at the door, the magically locked and soundproofed door.


    A renewed wave of hopelessness crashed down on me. That hopelessness became relief; at least I''d get to die in peace. As the corners of my vision darkened and unconsciousness crept closer, I rolled myself onto my back with the last of my strength and lifted a shaking middle finger to the ceiling.


    Worst. Day. Ever.


    Author''s Note


    Believe it or not, I intended this to be a comedy for April Fool''s.


    Will this go on official rotation? Ehh¡­ probably not. I think you guys like my other stories enough that I''m not sure it''s a good idea to add yet another thing for me to juggle. People have been telling me to update my quests enough as it is. This might change if I ever build a big enough backlog of this story, but for now, enjoy the free chapters.


    I''ve been on a Harry Potter kick lately and realized that as one of the oldest fandoms around, it''s got a ton of tropes. I wanted to do a mashup of different trope ideas like I did with Plan? What Plan? with a trollish seer similar to Bryce as the main character. Again, was supposed to be a comedy before it took on a life of its own.


    I still intend for that to happen eventually, but I wanted to start with a CYOA. It''s this one if you''re curious: kondor9543 .neocities HPcyoa/. I talked about some of the choices in the chapter. We''ll see the rest next time.


    I want Blaise to be a jaded, sarcastic shitheel who uses his knowledge to fuck with people for shits and giggles. How that became this, I''m not sure of myself¡­


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 2. Aftermath

    Chapter 2: Aftermath


    Rome, Italy


    My eyes fluttered open, only to close immediately as the sun pierced through the gap between the curtains to jab painfully into my retinas. I groaned pitiably as the soreness washed over me like a wave. It was like the worst hangover I''d ever had paired with a full-body ache that I hadn''t felt since my ill-fated attempt at Crossfit to impress a girl in college.


    Then I remembered what I''d been doing to end up like this. The repeated rounds of crucio. Her pulped cranium. Her lifeblood and brainmatter staining the wooden floorboards.


    I whirled onto my side and retched but nothing came out.


    "Yup, I''d be surprised if you had anything left to throw up at this point," came a voice next to the door.


    I looked up to find the single most aggressively Mediterranean man I''d ever seen: bronzed skin from too much time on the beach; curly, windblown hair; bushy, salt and pepper mustache; he even had a mug of espresso in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He gulped down the espresso like a shot of whiskey and took a long pull of his cigarette before putting down the cup to draw a wand. The only way this man could be any more Italian was if he walked in with a bowl of pasta and dribbling a soccer ball. Sorry, football.


    "W-Who are you?" I asked. I hated how my voice cracked.


    "Healer Alvarez. Your attending healer, kid. You''re in the Saint Gregory''s Hospital for Magical Maladies. The intensive traumas and curses ward if you want to be specific. Now let me run some diagnostics and I''ll go notify your mother that you''re awake."


    "H-How long was I out?"


    "Four days since you got to the hospital. One of the aurors on-site had the good sense to dose you with a draught of living death before transporting you. Trust me, waking up mid-apparition can get nasty."


    My mind spun chaotically as I tried to make sense of everything he was telling me. "And¡­ And how long was I¡­"


    "In there?" I nodded, too afraid to voice the words. "Two days? Three at most."


    "That''s¡­ That''s good. Survivable¡­"


    He had kind eyes that simmered with rage, not at me but at what had been done to me. He put on a wide smile that quirked his bushy mustache up at the corners. He reminded me of Mario, except with a better mustache. "You''re safe, kid. You''re a real fighter. You were in good shape when you came in."


    "How bad?"


    "That''s-"


    "How bad was it?"


    "Malnourished. You hadn''t eaten or drank in a while. You cracked your teeth clenching your jaw too hard. Pulled some muscles too. Tearing of the vocal cords. Bruising. Minor concussion." I nodded along. That was expected. He shot me his best reassuring smile again. "But you''re a fighter kid, a hell of a spirit. You''re going to be fine. A month? Two? And you''ll be right as rain, healer''s promise."


    I mulled over his words. It¡­ It wasn''t a bad outcome. All things considered, I''d lucked out beyond all reason and it was all thanks to my little gold ring. All of those injuries he described seemed fixable. Hell, Harry had every bone in his arm regrown thanks to that fuckwit Lockhart. Or, will? Didn''t matter. Point was, magical healing was literally miraculous. I''d be fine.


    I''d be fine¡­


    I let out a sigh of relief at that. It felt as though a great weight had left my shoulders.


    "You know, there is a silver lining to this," he began again.


    "What''s that, doc?"


    "Healer, but what I''m saying is, magical potential is very much like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. Or perhaps ''stronger'' is not the right word. More robust? Yes, let''s go with that. It grows and adapts when meeting challenges or times of strife, especially during developmental years. I can confidently say no one I''ve ever heard of has survived an ordeal such as yours at your age."


    "And what does that mean for me, healer?" I asked, making sure to use the right word this time. It was a minor thing but he seemed sensitive about it.


    "It means you, young man, are likely to turn out to be a very powerful wizard."


    "I¡­ Yeah, silver linings¡­" I trailed off.


    He tapped the bedside table and picked up his empty espresso cup. "I''ll let your mother know you''re awake."


    "Is she outside?"


    "No, she went off to handle some business, confidential, she said. She asked to be notified by floo."


    "I see¡­"


    "Chin up, kid. You''re a fighter. A real survivor. You''ve got a lot to be proud of."


    He left me with those parting words. The door closed behind him with a gentle clack.


    I had no idea if what he was saying was just some empty platitude or there was actual truth to it. It''d be nice to be stronger, who didn''t want power, but I would have happily given up any power-up if it meant not having to go through that. It wasn''t like that was established canon or anything either. He was probably just doing his best to put a brighter spin on things.


    Then again, now that I had time to myself, I noticed a lot of my memories that didn''t quite align with what I knew to be canon.


    For starters, students entered Hogwarts at the age of fourteen and graduated at the age of twenty-one. Three by seven, an auspicious number according to numerology. Looking back, I could see how my increased age from canon helped me. I doubted an eleven year old Blaise, even with an adult''s memories and willpower, could have survived.


    Another shift seemed to be more varieties of magic, both in breadth and depth. Blaise remembered hearing from family portraits about entire fields of magic that didn''t exist in canon such as enchanting, druidic shamanism, and even necromancy and chronomancy. Other fields that were barely touched on in canon, like divination and alchemy, had entire libraries worth of literature dedicated to their craft with subfields dedicated to specific practices and branches such as the development of a true panacea in the case of alchemy.


    All told, the world felt more lived in, an actual global network of scattered magical communities with more unifying interests than just quidditch. Here, the world consisted of a series of national governments reeling from two dark lords in the same century, ones with political complexities that the teenage Blaise had barely paid attention to.


    To be fair to him, me, it wasn''t as though the Zabini family were nobles. Purebloods, yes. Wealthy, yes, one of the riches thanks to mother-dearest. But nobles? No. Even the black widow that was Valencia Zabini knew not to fuck with titled families. Though most modern governments did not offer nobles any legalized protections that other houses lacked, besides a hereditary seat in whatever made up their ruling body, their wealth and centuries of connections resulted in enough soft power to effectively rule magical society.


    I scowled. That was one more way old-Corbin fucked me over: My family was firmly in the dark, sorry, traditional, camp in terms of politics and had the appropriate associates to show for it. It was actually why I''d been in Portugal; mother was catching up with some contacts and had left me to my own devices in one of our properties. Stepdad-number-seven''s summer house, which explained how the crazy bitch knew how to get in.


    Not that my real dad, the first of mother''s victims, was any better. Daddy-dearest was an acolyte of Grindelwald''s, served with distinction if his braggart portrait was to be believed, and the creature I called mother taught Blaise to be just as critical of muggleborns. Condescending at best, more often outright hostile.


    Part of me was disgusted with myself that I''d called a healer a doctor, as if a master of the healing arts could be compared to some upjumped muggle.


    I shook my head. It was a habit at this point. Old-Blaise was basically indoctrinated into this way of thinking and It''d be a bitch and a half to correct myself.


    Or, should I correct myself? By all accounts, nothing terrible happened to Blaise Zabini in canon despite being a pureblood supremacist. He just kind of faded into the background. If I nodded along with Malfoy and the Death Eaters and allowed the stations of canon to pass me by, I''d probably end up alright, a tacit supporter who couldn''t be condemned for succumbing to peer pressure by the time the good guys won. I''d walk away with seven families'' worth of wealth and resources, assuming mother didn''t find stepdad-number-eight sometime during my schooling. By all metrics, letting canon play out would benefit me immensely.


    But¡­ But it wasn''t the right thing to do. Old-Corbin liked to think of himself as a good man. If not a paragon of virtue, then at least a decent enough folk who wouldn''t fold to the bystander effect. I''d also never been the type to be drawn to money; it was one of the few traits I was proud of.


    No, I was drawn to books. Knowledge. Stories. Cultures. History. I certainly didn''t get a graduate degree in library sciences to become a college librarian because it paid well. The Zabini fortune meant very little to me outside of what magical tomes we possessed and what more tomes I could purchase with said fortune. It was the mystique of magic that caught my eye, not the glitter of gold.


    Nor could I count on the stations of canon being followed. I knew of at least four major differences just from examining Old-Blaise''s memories. As mentioned, Hogwarts started at fourteen. Second, third, and fourth were similar: Malfoy, Parkinson, and Potter were gender-flipped. Draco was Lyra. Pansy was Heath. Those two, old-Blaise met at a yule function in Malfoy Manor a few years back. And of course, tales of the Girl-Who Lived filled bookstores all over.


    What other changes were there? What else was I missing? I doubted Blaise was a powerful seer in the canon Corbin remembered. Would the Chamber open during my first year? Would it open at all? Was Violet Potter the same abused and neglected child desperate for friendship? Were the Dursleys somehow worse? Or, were the Dusleys a loving family in this weird alternate universe?


    I sincerely doubted that last one but the trouble was, I didn''t know.


    I spent the next fifteen minutes sorting my memories. Not literally unfortunately, I wasn''t an occlumency prodigy and what most fictions called mind palaces didn''t actually exist, but I was competent enough. I did receive some training from my mother, mostly to keep a cool head under stress and keep out casual intruders. It didn''t make me some kind of emotionally detached genius but it did calm me.


    I''d have to work at it. The CYOA guaranteed that no one would be able to pick canon details from my head, but that was limited protection, if it could be trusted at all. I was a seer; I didn''t doubt I''d learn plenty of secrets, keeping them to myself would be a priority.


    I let out a sigh. My body still ached from the aftershocks and I didn''t think an episkey from my ring would help any if the trained healer hadn''t already fixed it. Dark curse. No choice but to smile and grit through the pain.


    Before I could finish taking stock of this new reality, the door flung open and possibly the most gorgeous woman I''d ever seen sauntered into my room.


    Valencia Zabini was thirty-eight years old and looked fifteen years younger, the result of a combination of good genes, magical vitality, and a steady regimen of beautifying potions. She had raven-black hair that cascaded down her back in lustrous waves. Her eyes were large and expressive, a warm, honey-brown with long lashes that models paid exorbitant amounts of money to mimic. Pouty lips, a healthy tan, and a body to put Playboy bunnies to shame wrapped in a form-fitting, purple dress, slitted on one side to show off her thigh, completed the picture.


    I was of two minds on the matter. On one hand, Corbin thought she was a knockout, the kind of woman movie stars would be jealous over. On the other hand, old-Blaise was disgusted with myself. New-Blaise waffled between captivated arousal and shame before I reminded myself of just what she was known for and settled on healthy respect and fear, the same kind you afforded king cobras crawling up your leg five inches from your dick.


    Then all thoughts flew out the window as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. The smell of her perfume hit me like a brick. Not that it was overly strong, it was elegantly subtle actually, but it was just about the safest thing I could bring myself to focus on at the moment. She literally smelled like roses, enough to be noticeable but not to offend the senses.


    "Oh, my little warrior, I''m so proud of you," she cooed. She kissed me on the forehead and moved back to get a look at me. There was smug satisfaction there, also perhaps even a hint of relief?


    My mind, only now starting to reboot, blue-screened again. Little warrior? Since when did she use pet names? For that matter, since when did she show genuine affection? I didn''t know she knew what that meant. Was¡­ Was old-Blaise''s memories¡­ wrong¡­? Or misinterpreted?


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The cynical part of me scoffed. Or maybe she was just that amazing an actress. But who was she putting on a show for? There was no one else in the room to impress.


    "Mother," I replied, as neutrally as I could. I had no idea how to deal with the conflicting feelings this brief interaction welled up in me so I turned to tried and true detached apathy. "Please do not touch me; I am still sore."


    "Of course, Blaise."


    "What were you doing that was confidential, mother?"


    "Oh, just talking to a few people at the Portuguese Ministry of Magic. You won''t be charged for killing poor Carmen of course," she said with a giggle that sounded far too innocent for the subject of discussion. I hadn''t even known that was my late aunt''s name. "Not that anyone was trying considering the circumstances, but I had to silence a few people who wanted to use it to maneuver me into a corner."


    "Did you kill them?" I asked, morbidly curious.


    The patronizing smile she offered me sent shivers down my spine. ''Of course not, Blaise. There is more than one way to keep someone quiet and I have some very good friends in the ministry. Besides, murder is such an inconvenient method."


    I almost barked out a laugh at that. The irony wasn''t lost on me. "So what does this mean for me?"


    "You? Nothing. The ministry is going to cover it up of course. As far as anyone knows, your dear aunt Carmen died in an accident, bad spell misfire. Could''ve happened to anyone," she said with a delighted little shrug. "The Portuguese minister doesn''t want a scandal in the middle of reelection. The Espinoza family wasn''t particularly influential, but they did have the right blood. Can''t have a pureblood head getting killed by a child because she went off the deep end."


    Political fiction then. I wasn''t a stranger to politics; university administration could be surprisingly cutthroat, but this was on a scale that dwarfed anything I''d experienced prior. Honestly? It made me mad. The healers knew. The aurors knew. But it wouldn''t matter; they''d keep quiet because the only one who could be blamed was dead and there was no retribution to be had that I hadn''t already taken with my own two hands.


    I looked down and for a moment imagined my hands as red as that day.


    "So this is it then?" I said bitterly. I felt hollow, like there should be something more that could be done. Justice should not be equivalent to desperate self-defense.


    "Yes," mother replied bluntly. Her warm smile was gone now, replaced by a cold, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You did well, Blaise. You fought, you killed, and you got a taste of what it means to wield power over someone else."


    "Is that what this is about? Power?"


    "That''s what everything is about."


    "That''s not what I felt when I¡­"


    "When you bashed her head in with a lamp after suffering through hours of torture that would have driven lesser wizards mad?" She reached out with a hand to daintily caress my cheek. "Oh, Blaise, that''s okay. It was only your first time. Losing sight of what matters is acceptable at the start. The heights of passion can be intoxicating."


    Her words washed over me and I knew then: This was Valencia Zabini. No frills, no longer that mask of seductive innocence, these were her innermost thoughts laid bare. In the crazy bitch''s mind, my kidnapping wasn''t a tragedy or an ordeal; It was a chance for me to cut my teeth on easy prey. She didn''t see a traumatized teenager; she saw a kindred spirit.


    Worse, this was her way of caring. She was trying to teach me, I realized, and that sent my stomach up to my throat.


    "This is just the way the world works, Blaise," she continued in that charming voice of hers. "People like to pretend that relationships matter, that words like love and friendship mean anything, but they don''t. Their only worth is how they can be used to manipulate the fools who put stock in them. Remember, Blaise, there is only power in all its myriad forms, and those too stupid to seize what they can."


    Voldemort once told Harry something similar. "There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to take it," or something to that effect. The way she inadvertently echoed the Dark Lord made me deeply uncomfortable but I quashed the feeling down. This sociopath was my mother, she had full control over my life, and I couldn''t show weakness.


    "Yes, mother," I said finally.


    "Good, now chin up, little warrior. Tell me all about how you killed."


    So I did. I recounted everything, of old-Blaise having lunch that a house elf prepared, of wandering the gardens, and of feeling a spell strike my back. I told her of waking up mid-crucio, I suspected that was when old-Blaise died or went insane, only to be taken over by me. I told her about how I fought through the pain and used my ring to trip her before stealing her wand, snapping it, and jamming the two halves into her eyes before killing her with the lamp.


    I didn''t tell her about my spell ring. I didn''t know if she knew what was in the ring, or if the CYOA gave it to me immediately and from an out of context source but if she didn''t know, I saw no need to enlighten her. It''d already proved itself an invaluable ace in the hole.


    Talking with her was¡­ refreshing. It disgusted me saying that but it was. Valencia Zabini was ultimately a simple woman. Oh, she was undeniably conniving and manipulative, but she was simple in what she wanted. Now that she''d laid her worldview bare before me, I found her easy to understand if not accept. That understanding became the rock I clung to. It was much easier to view my ordeal more clinically when I spoke with a detached sociopath.


    What did that say about me?


    X


    London, Great Britain


    I stayed in that hospital for a week, just in case. There wasn''t much they could do about the lingering influences of the torture curse beyond let my own magic wash it over time out but they wanted to keep me under observation anyway. Understandable. I would have appreciated the sentiment more had I actually been a fourteen year old boy.


    Personally? I just felt restless. I tried to make progress on my occlumency but I wasn''t sure how much better I''d gotten. I couldn''t stress test my own defenses and I wasn''t about to ask mother-dearest to rummage around in my mind.


    We moved to Great Britain shortly afterwards, back to our main house. Mom moved us to Britain when I was too young to remember. Perhaps it was a sense of nostalgia, she was a Hogwarts alumni after all. Or perhaps she simply saw that the political landscape of Magical Britain suited her opportunistic ways better than those of other countries. I had no clue. I didn''t ask.


    In the end the results were the same: I was here a week before term and I would attend Hogwarts like mother and father. Family tradition, and certain images had to be kept. She also expected me to shop for school supplies on my own. The most populous magical district in the British Isles was far safer than some beach house owned by step-dad-number-seven according to her.


    I was of two minds on the matter. Corbin relished the chance to explore Diagon without adult supervision. A thousand and one fanon tropes came to mind. Could I sneak off to Knockturn and somehow luck my way into a phoenix egg? Could I discover a forgotten tome on the mind arts? Or maybe Madam Malkin could weave me a custom order coat made of basilisk hide or acromantula silk?


    Ridiculous of course. Diagon was Magical Britain''s version of a mall, not some video game dungeon. If such secrets existed, they sure as hell wouldn''t be accessible to someone who hadn''t even begun his first year. Still, it was Diagon Alley, one of the core settings of the book series that defined my childhood. I couldn''t help but get my hopes up.


    Blaise, the part of me that was still a teenager, was far more cautious. It wasn''t as though I feared for my life if I was away from my mother, even child-me could recognize that such a thing was highly unlikely, but it had only been two weeks since I''d been rescued and feelings were seldom rational.


    I looked out over the garden as I pondered what I wanted out of this life.


    Looking back on my memories, I was now convinced that Blaise was a Slytherin purely because his ideals made him unfit for Hufflepuff, he lacked the courage for Gryffindor, and he didn''t particularly value knowledge. He had no true ambition because he genuinely believed Valencia would kill him off if he got too inconvenient. Ambition meant nothing to a boy who''d become a wallflower as a survival strategy.


    Although, he had been reasonably cunning in the way he manipulated his numerous step-dads into giving him gifts in the vain hope of currying his mother''s favor so perhaps that was it.


    But that ambiguity just meant this body was a blank slate. What exactly did I want? I was a seer. My abilities would grow more powerful with time but that wasn''t necessarily a good thing. It was an invaluable resource to be sure, but it was also a highly coveted resource, the kind that many would seek to exploit.


    Dumbledore. Voldemort. It didn''t matter. If I wanted to be my own man, pursue my own dreams, I''d need to be powerful enough to resist their machinations. I needed to be so powerful that fucking with me wasn''t worthwhile.


    I supposed it was possible for me to simply not use my power, but I didn''t want that. I wanted to practice magic in all its forms. I wanted to explore, to push the envelope until I discovered new secrets only I knew. And, if I was honest with myself, I wanted the acclaim of being the first seer who could control Fate, not be bound to its whims.


    So step one: Power.


    I let out a derisive laugh. I''d spent all week in the hospital thinking about what a fucking psycho Valencia was but here I was lusting after power just like her. Perhaps the apple didn''t fall far from the tree. Perhaps there were lessons I could learn from her, I just hoped I''d remain myself while letting her in.


    She wasn''t wrong after all; there were many forms of power. Magical might was the most obvious and though Healer Alvarez did say I''d become a strong wizard, I seriously doubted he meant I''d stand shoulder to shoulder with titans like Dumbledore and Voldemort.


    Wealth? Wealth wasn''t nearly enough to keep either off my back, nor was it something I could accrue much of while at Hogwarts. My family was rich, but it wasn''t anything compared to the truly old families like Malfoy, Black, or Bones. More importantly, it wasn''t my wealth; it was my mother''s.


    Valencia Zabini did not strike me as a charitable woman.


    Connections? That was too iffy for me. It hinged on my connections being more loyal to me than to either side. No, it was worse than that. It relied on my connections being willing to put themselves between me and the two most powerful wizards of the century. Unlikely to say the least.


    That left one option: Reputation. Reputation was tricky. Without direct power or influence, it was a hard thing to sell. Should I pretend to be crazy? No, that wouldn''t be enough. I needed to be a porcupine or a pufferfish, never worth poking. I needed to convince both Dumbledore and Voldemort that I could hurt either side so irreparably that it wasn''t worth ever trying to manipulate me.


    Nicholas Flamel struck me as the paragon of this form of power. He and his wife had lived for six centuries, outlasting a dozen different dark lords. I didn''t know if the alchemists were personally powerful, but they certainly had an aura of mystique that made even approaching them difficult.


    It wasn''t impossible, in theory, but¡­ how did I accrue that kind of mystique?


    I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. "Maybe I should just help Violet win early," I mumbled. It''d mean going against my mother, breaking every connection my family had, but done right, becoming invaluable to the Light could be rewarding as well.


    To do that, I''d¡­ I''d have to take refuge in audacity. It was very unlike old-Corbin, but¡­ but it was an option, one that seemed at least feasible compared to the others. At the very least, it was something to keep in mind.


    Sighing, I stood and hobbled back to my room. I still hadn''t gotten over the effects of the crucio; I wouldn''t for months apparently. So mother, in a rare act of charity, had gotten me a cane.


    It was made of rich walnut and fitted with a golden cap on the foot that made a distinctive clacking noise against the floorboards. The cane also sported inlays of golden scales, each individual piece the size of my pinkie nail. The pieces started from halfway up the cane and gradually grew larger as they entwined around the wood, forming the overall picture of a coiling serpent.


    The head of the cane was that of a king cobra, hood flared and ready to strike. "To remind the world that my little warrior has fangs," she''d said.


    It sounded pretentious as fuck even repeating it in my head. Hell, considering what a colossal slut my mother was, I couldn''t help but feel like I''d been given a pimp cane. If I didn''t literally need it to walk, I''d have tossed it into the fire the first chance I got. I was still tempted honestly, surely a broom handle would suffice.


    Ostentatious gift aside, I hadn''t seen hide nor hair of my mother since we''d arrived back in Magical Britain. She said she''d be off taking advantage of my newfound reputation, rumors traveled even if the official story said otherwise, though I wasn''t sure what exactly British high society heard. It was what she did best after all.


    Apparently, she actually had friends in Britain, or at least as close to friends as someone like her could have. Whoever this "Selene" was, I hoped she kept her husband on a tight leash while mother was around.


    "Let''s say I get what I want," I mumbled to myself as I pushed in the door. "Let''s say I manage to convince everyone to leave me out of their bullshit to pursue my own interests. What then?"


    I thought about it long and hard as I reacquainted myself with my room. I loved books. I had esoteric magical affinities. I wanted to explore those affinities, to pursue the secrets of magic only I could uncover. I wanted the grandest magical library in existence. I wanted to be known as the greatest seer to ever live, to never again suffer because Fate wanted to "test me."


    I supposed that was what it came down to in the end: Defying Fate. Fate was all-consuming in the Potterverse. It didn''t matter who it was, it seemed that everyone was a slave to the whims of Fate. From Harry and Voldemort who were forced into that ridiculous duel to Snape who inadvertently set those events in motion.


    Whatever fanon nonsense people liked to spout about Death and his Hallows, it was Fate who reigned supreme.


    I hung my cane on a hook embedded into the wall and stumbled towards the bed. One of my drawbacks was Somnolent. I required a full twelve hours of sleep to be functional or I''d be tired, cranky, or possibly even narcoleptic if the situation was bad enough. The healers said it was caused by an unforeseen aftereffect of the crucio. Seeing how no one my age had survived shit like this, it wasn''t as though they had anything to compare my case to.


    As I rolled onto the bed, I noticed something on the shelf that hadn''t been there before. It was a potion, shimmering golden liquid trapped in a vial of ornate crystal. I recognized it of course, from both lives. The gold was a telltale giveaway. Felix felicis, the single rarest and most potent potion in existence short of Flamel''s elixir of life.


    Pinned beneath the vial was a letter I hastened to open. I knew it wasn''t from my mother; she''d never bother with such an expensive potion. Penned in elegant but legible cursive on high quality parchment was a note from the chief bitch herself:


    Corbin Silva,


    You''re not the first, you know. The boundary between realities can be awfully thin. It isn''t unheard of for certain souls to slip through the cracks as it were. And sometimes, certain patrons like to insert these souls, often for some nebulous purpose like their own petty amusement. Of course, these souls don''t typically insist on proving their right to remain here.


    Was it your idea? Or your patron''s?


    I suppose it doesn''t matter in the end. You made a grand challenge and I, your welcoming host, obliged you. And, surprise surprise, you persevered.


    Congratulations, Corbin Silva, or Blaise Zabini if you prefer, I acknowledge your right to exist in my world.


    I hope you understand the worth of what I am giving you. Blaise Zabini, the vessel you now occupy, had no grand destiny. There were no plans. He would have been raised a typical pureblood wizard and grown up to be a typical pureblood wizard. He certainly had no great affinity towards me.


    Except now, he is an anomaly. Now, he''s you.


    This bottle is proof of your victory in our little contest, proof of your persistence. Yes, it is liquid luck, but it''s so much more than that. It is the essence of everything you are in a way, the embodiment of everything I''ve allowed you to become: It is a Fate-Breaker.


    Twenty-four hours. Drink this and not only will you have supernatural luck, you have my personal guarantee that I will not reassert my will on any prophecy you go out of your way to break during that time frame.


    Suffice to say, this is not a gift I give often. Use it well, or don''t. Actually, that would be better for me, less work you see.


    Who knows? Perhaps we shall meet face to face one day and you will not need the aid of a potion to greet me as a peer.


    Well played.


    Your friend,


    Fate


    Author''s Note


    Blaise is a very confused boy.


    The enhanced felix felicis is the single biggest reason to take Worst Day Ever. It''s basically what the letter said. Since Blaise''s build is so heavily tied to divination, I figured it''d be neat if his affinity in combination with the drawback made Fate take a personal interest in his development.


    Animal fact? Sure. Tigers hunt by facial recognition. Or rather, they stop hunting by facial recognition. Because they are ambush predators, if they see a pair of eyes, they''ll assume they can be seen in turn and won''t leap.


    Indian and Bangladeshi lumberjacks and woodsmen have used this to their advantage by wearing hats with faces painted on the back of the head to deter tigers. Unfortunately, tigers aren''t stupid. They''ve caught on and there are on average 22 deaths per year (up to 50) in the Sundarbans region.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 3. So It Begins

    Chapter 3: So it Begins


    London, Great Britain


    I did it. I managed something people have been attempting ever since we had two brain cells to rub together: I talked to Fate.


    Sort of. At least, I received a letter from Fate, which was more than most could say.


    It was terrifying. I talked about defying Fate as an ambition, about "being my own man," but now that I was faced with the potential prospect¡­ I felt like an ant who had been shown just how wide the world was for the first time ever.


    And yet, the possibilities were enticing. This golden liquid guaranteed me a day without Fate''s interference, without Fate''s correction. I could alter the course of human history, if that was what I wanted.


    "I can kill Voldemort," I spoke aloud. I could take Violet''s place, be the Man-Who-Conquered. I scoffed and let the vial slip from my grasp onto my pillow. Standing, I committed the letter to memory before tossing it into the fireplace. I''d only had the vial for a minute and I was already thinking about playing a major role in canon events. "No way. No way in hell. Becoming the Chosen One stand-in won''t make me happy."


    How could it? The fame that became suffocating. The blind worship of the wizarding sheeple who would turn on me with a single Daily Prophet article. The tactless envy of my so-called friends. The increased scrutiny and enmity of the "light" faction.


    No, Violet could keep her crown. I had no intention of breaking Fate''s machinations on that front.


    As ever, the better question then was, if that wouldn''t make me happy, what will?


    Books. Esoteric knowledge. Secrets untold. I wasn''t sure about any spiritual or emotional fulfillment, but these things could make me happy, at least superficially. So, lying in bed and staring at my plain brown ceiling, I declared:


    "My ambition is to build the greatest library in both the muggle and magical world, so great that Ashurbanipal himself would weep with envy. I will live this new life without regrets, pursuing my own dreams without regard for Dumbledore, Voldemort, or even Fate, and should the day come that I stand as Fate''s equal, I''m going to punch her in the mouth for this bullshit."


    Silence greeted me.


    I breathed deep and allowed my body to fade off into sleep. It was no grand declaration made on board the Going Merry as she sailed for Reverse Mountain. It was certainly no Oath of the Peach Garden. There was no one to hear my words to give them weight but I felt that weight anyway.


    I was here. I heard. And that was what mattered in the end. It was unlike me to torture myself with what-ifs. So, I wouldn''t.


    I would step forward each new day towards my own ambition, casting aside all other concerns.


    "After this nap," I yawned as my drawback lulled me to sleep.


    X


    The first step to living for myself was learning more about my power. To that end, I decided to seclude myself in the family library.


    The Zabini family library of today was a Frankenstein''s monster cobbled together from the corpses of many others of its kind. Father, my real one, was a dark wizard who''d worked under Grindelwald. He''d carried on a long family tradition of being absolute cunts to everyone lacking the "right" blood. The core of the Zabini library was therefore appropriately dark, if not particularly rare, expensive, or numerous. It contained a wealth of knowledge on dark curses and forbidden magics, all of them effective in their own right.


    Mother had only added to this from the libraries of her many victims. She sold most of her husbands'' possessions but kept the choicest bits for herself like a dragon hoarding gold. She wasn''t a big reader, certainly not someone who treasured knowledge, but she was savvy enough to recognize that grimoires were themselves a form of power, and power was what she was all about.


    All that to say, as far as non-noble houses went, our family library was probably among the largest and darkest. It contained a great breadth of works on esoteric knowledge, especially pertaining to Fate and Time, as mandated by my CYOA. I looked forward to adding to it in time.


    But for now, I could only take and learn from the treasures of seven families.


    In front of me was a book titled Divination through the Ages: A brief exploration of the art throughout history. It wasn''t a grimoire, a magic book, but it was an excellent primer on what the art could be when its potential was fully realized.


    It detailed the different ways the Sight had been used across the millennia, from Egyptian priests who made predictions using the entrails of sacrificial animals to the centaurs who looked to the stars for guidance. It taught me about the lives of the most famous seers in history, from Cassandra of Troy to Michel de Nostredame. Admittedly, it seemed somewhat lacking in eastern divination practices, but it was just one book among many.


    The big takeaway seemed to be the lack of a distinct medium. Tea leaves? Fine for vague premonitions. Crystal ball? It was among the more reliable mediums. Corbin picked up one of those from the CYOA and it was lying around the manor somewhere. Tarot cards? Great for more personal fortunes, though admittedly open to interpretation. Entrails? Messy, but the value of a blood sacrifice couldn''t be disregarded entirely. Planetary alignments? Excellent for global events and heralding grand climaxes in the play woven by Fate, but not so much for individuals.


    Seeing how I actually had a crystal ball and the journal of the man who made it, I decided to start with that. I found it rolling around in what used to be my father''s office, mine now. It had belonged to some unknown master perhaps centuries before my time.


    It was one of the items that Corbin had saved from the CYOA, an orb which could be used as a medium for traditional fortune-telling and also had the unique ability to see into the dreams of anyone who was sleeping, provided the user knew who they were looking for.


    According to Divination through the Ages, the hardest part of divination was starting out. No one was quite sure how to "open the eye" as it were. The Greeks drugged priestess-hopefuls with potions, a few magic and most just narcotic, to try and hear the voice of Apollo. Other cultures could be even more brutal, with dangerous fasts and self-flagellation in the name of letting go of mortal attachments being quite common. Hell, details were sparse but the book even touched upon the spirit-walks that prospective shamans went on in North America.


    Suffice to say, the process of opening the inner eye could be extremely dangerous, especially for children. And that was if a prospective seer had the Sight in the first place. Since there was no real way to be sure until it happened, the whole trial could be a colossal waste of time. It certainly explained why divination was described as "wooly" at best even by accomplished witches and wizards like McGonagall. It wasn''t that they dismissed its existence, but that they doubted anyone''s ability to truly master the Sight to any usable degree.


    Thankfully, I''d already awakened the Sight, and in a way that was on par with some of the methods explored by those ancient cultures. I grimaced as my nerves reminded me of the magical burns that had yet to heal. If there was one silver lining that came out of my Worst Day Ever, it was a pre-awakened Sight.


    My readings on the subject taught me that there wasn''t any single surefire method to learning the art, which explained why Trelawney''s class felt so scattered in the movies and books. Some people had an easier time with tea leaves, others with tarot cards or oracle bones.


    So, seeing how there wasn''t a strict study guide available to me, I decided to start as sequentially as possible. Contrary to common misconceptions, divination was not fortune-telling. Fortune-telling was just one aspect of a much broader branch of magic. Divination was in fact the art of gathering information via magical means. Both the point me and homenum revelio spells were examples of wanded divination. Hell, Dumbledore''s pensive was a divination artifact much like my crystal ball.


    I tossed out any notion of seeing the future; the complexities of divining countless futures for the most likely outcome wasn''t worth it. A mere three seconds could give me a migraine with enough use. Anything long-term was out of my reach until I got stronger.


    Instead, I chose to approach this by looking to the past. Postcognition, or psychometry if you bought into ESP terminology, was the art of reading the "history" of an object. Shirou Emiya''s structural grasp was an example. I figured that if the future was wooly because there were too many variables, pericognition, knowledge of the present, would be more complicated than postcognition for the same reason. Things that already happened were set in stone, there could be only one answer, while things that were still ongoing could be influenced by outside factors I either hadn''t taken into account yet or lacked the ability to perceive.


    I stared deeply into the crystal ball and tried to trigger that same feeling of seeing. On the table beside it was a deck of chocolate frog cards, old-Blaise had taken to collecting them for lack of anything else to do. At first, I failed to use my power. Or rather, I succeeded but only in seeing a few seconds into the future. Since there was no one else in the room and nothing was in motion, all I accomplished was to slightly slow my perception of the passage of time.


    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    I kept at it for hours, taking a BLT in my room thanks to the helpful little bugger that was Pocky the house elf.


    Then I felt it. The sensation of my magic connection to the crystal ball was impossible to put to words. It was no wonder divination instructions sounded so haphazard. The best analogy I could make was that I was now aware of something that wasn''t directly connected to my body yet still resonated with me as well as my own hand.


    See? It sounded stupid.


    But regardless of my own tenuous grasp on the English language, I now had a tether to the crystal ball. I peered into its core and tried to visualize the deck of cards right next to me. The crystal began to fog up, filling with a silvery-white mist that obscured its center. I wondered what it was. The pensive drew silvery memories. The patronus likewise manifested as silvery mist. Was it a coincidence or was the crystal being filled with the magical manifestation of my own memories?


    I tabled the question for now. The fog began to clear as I envisioned the deck of cards. One by one, I began to guess at the top card, then the next.


    "Agatha Hopkirk," I tried. She was a sorceress who established the very first news outlet in the British Isles according to her chocolate frog card, the very same that would eventually rebrand as the Daily Prophet.


    I flipped the physical deck next to me, only to find a copy of Meriwether Lewis, the famous explorer of Lewis and Clark fame. Turned out, guy was a wizard and magizoologist who did much to catalog the magical beasts found in North America. There were loads of rumors about him, from him having a thunderbird familiar to discovering ancient tombs and treasures. Ilvermorny apparently counted him as one of their greatest alumni, their very own, real-life Indiana Jones.


    "Fuck," I swore. As interesting as his chocolate frog card was, I''d been guessing, not relying on my power.


    This had seemed like an excellent way to practice postcognition. A math professor at my college told me once that there were more permutations of a single deck of playing cards than there were known stars in the universe. I wasn''t sure whether that was really true or not, but it was certainly more than I could count and that was enough. Old-Blaise had far more than fifty-two unique chocolate frog cards.


    I mixed the deck again. There was nothing I would do from this point to alter the permutation. Therefore, by using the crystal ball to determine the sequence of these cards, I was effectively looking into the past, the "history" of these cards.


    I pulled out some quill and parchment and began again. This time, I did my best to strengthen the connection and imagined the cards flipping over. In response to my desires, the top card on the deck reflected in the fog lifted itself, revealing the face of a world-famous alchemist. Nicholas Flamel, a particularly rare card. I scribbled my answer.


    Then Oliver Cromwell, an idiot with delusions of grandeur whose card was more a mockery of his life than homage to it. Samuel Longbottom. Monica Avery. Sophia Bones.


    One by one I drew from the hazy illusion until I had nothing left to draw. Then I took the physical deck and flipped the top card. The solemn face of Nicholas Flamel brought a smile to my face, perhaps the first since Portugal.


    Oliver Cromwell. Samuel Longbottom¡­ One by one, I checked the accuracy of my postcognition.


    I wasn''t always right. Out of the seventy or so cards, roughly a quarter of my predictions were wrong. The deeper into the deck of cards, the more frequent my mistakes.


    I leaned back into my chair after marking my answers. "Question is, is it because my connection to the orb fluctuates like radio static? Or am I running out of magic? Maybe my inner eye isn''t open fully yet and I can only look so far?"


    I gathered the cards and split them in two piles before forming a riffle bridge. The college librarian life was quiet and I''d taken to practicing a lot of different hobbies during the late night shifts, card tricks just happened to be one of them. After a few rounds, I cut the deck and began again. If Healer Alvarez was right and magic was like a muscle, I''d be sure to exercise it as much as I could.


    X


    I did nothing else but work on my burgeoning Sight for four days. The crystal ball was a godsend, the beginner''s guide and crutch to an otherwise deeply metaphysical art. By the end of my little training spree, I could more or less observe any material so long as I could envision it. If it existed, and lacked any ongoing variables, it was a simple matter to obtain the information I desired.


    I''d also taken to practicing my precognition, limited as it was, as often as possible. The brain of a human child was filled with neurons. As the child learned, the brain pruned itself, strengthening and focusing connections that were frequently used while discarding those that were not. This process of growth and optimization was called neuroplasticity. I had no idea if magic worked in the same manor, but I did know that magical affinities were a thing. If at all possible, I wanted to strengthen my affinity towards divination in any way I could.


    In order to not be bored out of my skull, I came up with a number of different exercises such as trying to catch a butterfly with my bare hands using foresight alone. That particular challenge was especially difficult considering I''d shiver and seize up from my recovering nerves every few minutes. I hoped that with time, what was currently an active ability would become a passive warning system.


    I wanted my own haki, damn it.


    I was learning too fast, far faster than anyone should when exploring such a wooly art without a single teacher to guide me. I attributed my growth rate to my Fate and Time affinities, as well as the Esoteric Knowledge perk.


    My stay in Zabini Manor wasn''t all sunshine and rainbows however. I''d yet to see my mother even once since coming home. I wasn''t sure what a professional socialite and infamous black widow did to pass the time, but it sure as hell wasn''t spending time with her son.


    "No, this is a good thing," I told myself. There was the teenage son in me who sorely longed for a relationship with Valencia Zabini, even knowing what she was. There was also the detached reincarnator in me who couldn''t be happier. Money, space, a house elf to cater to my whims, and the freedom to pursue my own interests. Those should have been fair trades.


    So why did old-Blaise insist it felt hollow?


    The crystal ball had a secondary function beyond acting as a general divination medium. It was a masterwork created by some ancestor of mine, the same man who''d go on to study the effect of magic on subconscious memories, impressions, and emotions. Or to be specific, dreams.


    The ball had the power to scry dreams. According to my ancestor''s journal, a true master-such as himself of course-humility was a foreign concept in my family, could use it to directly influence the dreams of others, or simply to pass them messages or flashes of "inspiration."


    When I got to reading that bit, I just had to try it. So, I soldiered on despite my increased need to sleep, told Pocky to not wake me in the morning, and tried to scry the dreams of the only other person in the house.


    Never. Again.


    I learned a great deal about my mother and step-dad-number-two. I learned that Valencia Zabini remembers her husbands fondly, enough to dream about them. I learned that step-dad-number-two liked to be tied up in bed. I learned that the eighty-two year old man needed some¡­ enhancements¡­ to perform. And that, yes, it was in fact possible to overdose on said enhancements and orgasm so hard you died of a heart attack.


    I learned my mother wore the prettiest smile as she watched her husband froth at the mouth and release inside her one last time.


    That was how I found out that Valencia Zabini didn''t just kill because she craved power. No, my mother was a base creature and talks about power and realpolitik were but a cover for her psychotic proclivities. Like any true spider, she enjoyed the kill. She felt alive in her husband''s final moments. The sheer, unadulterated delight and fond reminiscence filled her dream like a gunshot in the silence as she came on a dying man''s cock. The smile of pure rapture was likely the single most genuine expression I''d ever seen on her.


    Valencia Zabini was a monster.


    Never. Again.


    X


    Pocky, the cherubic house elf that she was, allowed me to sleep in. I retired at roughly two in the morning so I woke up after a full twelve hours well into the afternoon. The first thing I did was take a long shower. I felt dirty having seen that, not because I had any compunctions about privacy, if I did I wouldn''t have tried to scry dreams in the first place, but because Valencia Zabini was a truly revolting existence. Gilded and beautiful, but irredeemably evil.


    When I stumbled downstairs into my new study, Pocky appeared with the crack of poprocks and sank into a bow.


    She was a short, thin creature, as all house elves were. It was impossible to tell her age beyond "not as old as Kreacher," and that only because she didn''t look like a shriveled scrotum with eyes. Mother saw fit to give her a longer pillowcase with floral prints that she wore as a knee-length dress.


    She remained in that bow and in my recently awoken haze it took me a moment to remember why. Mother was one of those rich bitches who believed "the help" should not be heard, preferably not seen either unless strictly necessary. She wouldn''t speak at all unless I addressed her first.


    "Good morning, Pocky," I greeted her as affably as I could. "Please stand."


    "Good morning, Master Blazey," she said. She stood but made sure not to look me in the eyes, another of mother''s rules. "Does Mastery Blazey be needing lunch?"


    "Yes, I''ll take my meal here, please."


    "What does Master Blazey be wanting?"


    "Just a sandwich is fine." I told her. She remained and I realized I hadn''t specified what kind. "Turkey, provolone, gherkin, onion, and watercress. Thank you, Pocky."


    "Yes, Master Blazey, right away."


    I chuckled as she popped away. She''d been calling me "Master Blazey" for as long as I could remember. One of these days, I''d figure out where that ridiculous quirk of house elves came from.


    I ate and went about packing for school. Like every other first year, Blaise had of course received a letter some weeks ago, way back before I''d landed in this body. With the formal acceptance letter came a list of materials required by the school.


    One of the major benefits of not being a muggleborn was that I could ignore most of the list. Cauldron? Scales? Telescope? Glass phials? I had those lying around. Mother sold practically everything held by her husbands, but that didn''t mean things didn''t pile up, especially things that were just not worth the bother of selling. All I really needed at Diagon Alley was a wand, uniform, schoolbooks, and perhaps an owl for myself.


    I figured that was a good thing. Mother was rich; I received an allowance. Sure, it was a respectable amount, but I didn''t doubt I''d find ways to burn through it quickly. The more I could save now, the better.


    I informed Pocky that I''d be eating out in Diagon someplace for dinner and made for the floo.


    "Welp¡­ So it begins¡­"


    Author''s Note


    I have no idea what divination training would look like. On the plus side, neither does JKR, which means I can bullshit as much as I damn well please.


    Facts... Umm... In traditional Chinese philosophy, there are five elements: fire, water, earth, wood, and metal. Out of everything in creation, it is the peach tree that is considered to possess all five elements in perfect harmony. The wood has been used as staves by traveling monks to ward off evil and the fruit features prominently in myth as the Peaches of Immortality raised in the garden of the Queen Mother of the West.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 4. Obligatory Diagon

    Chapter 4: Obligatory Diagon


    London, Great Britain


    There was a small square filled with several public fireplaces just to the side of Diagon Alley that played the same role as a bus stop or subway station in the muggle world. After all, it''d be really weird if the only entrance to the biggest magical shopping quarter in Magical Britain was through a rundown tavern. While I had no doubt that Tom loved the flow of traffic and increased business, his little tavern couldn''t possibly cater to the entire magical population of the British Isles.


    And still, as I stepped into my own fireplace, I tossed the ash-like powder onto the ground and enunciated clearly, "Leaky Cauldron."


    The part of me that was Corbin, the man who grew up reading stories about this world, would accept nothing less. Saying those words with floo powder tightly clenched in hand meant something, just a part of my childhood dream being validated. It sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach.


    That was as much joy as I got out of my first floo experience before the world shifted around me like a demented carousel. Turned out, the floo was not instant movement, not really. If anything, it was like one of those 60s sci-fi cartoons where people got shoved through chutes at super speed. I saw other people''s fireplaces blur by, too fast to make out any specific details.


    Then, my mind was launched out of the chute even as my body insisted we were still moving in the same direction. I saw myself faceplant onto the tavern floor, pimp cane clattering to the ground. My body convulsed as the fall triggered a new round of painful shivers.


    ''Precog,'' I realized. I did my best to brace myself, though to little avail.


    In the end, I clutched my cane with both hands and walked out with the release, doing my best to bleed off the momentum. This didn''t keep me from promptly tripping over my own feet. I staggered forward two more steps before I managed to jam the cane into the tavern floor with both hands like I was staking a vampire. I drew a fair bit of attention but the patrons of the bar immediately turned back to their meals once they realized there was no entertainment to be found.


    "You alright there, lad?" came the bartender''s concerned question. I looked over to find Tom polishing a mug. He was an old, bald man whose age had stooped his back into a pronounced hunch. Still, he was a nice enough man by all accounts and his eyes shone with naked kindness.


    Or maybe he just didn''t want me losing my teeth against his floor.


    "Well, I''m not having a seizure so we should be fine," I drawled back. "Sorry about making a show, can''t really walk right at the moment."


    He eyed the ostentatious cane with a knowing nod. "Ain''t the worst I''ve seen. You want anything, kid?"


    "Just getting my school shopping done, Tom."


    "You know they have a public fireplace right around the corner?"


    I shot him a disarming smile. "What can I say? Your pub''s iconic. Felt like I had to start my journey here if that makes any sense."


    He puffed out his chest with pride. "Well of course it''s iconic. The Leaky Cauldron''s been in the family for near five hundred years now. This humble pub''s the divide between the wizarding and muggle worlds, you know? It ain''t much, but it''s an institution is what it is."


    "So I''ve been told. Heard you got a mean shepherd''s pie too, might come back for dinner. You take care, Tom. Gotta go get my wand and whatnot."


    "Heh, you get on then, lad. Cutting it a little close though."


    "I''ve been busy these past few weeks," I said with a wan smile. "Not exactly my choice either."


    "You need to be let into the Alley," Tom asked. "The wall stops anyone who don''t know the sequence."


    "Ehh, I like puzzles. Let me try on my own first. I''ll come get you if I can''t figure it out."


    "Suit yourself."


    With a wave behind me, I stepped into the back of the tavern. Before me was the brick wall that Hagrid first showed to Harry. It looked about as mundane as any other alley, with a few trash bins in one corner. Tapping the right brick would make the wall reconfigure itself into an archway.


    "Was it three up and two across or two up and three across?" I mused to myself as I stepped next to the rubbish. "I know the sequence began from the trash can¡­"


    I could easily try both combinations but I figured it would be a decent chance to practice my divination without the ball. The ball was a tool but I didn''t want it to become a crutch. I reached out and placed a hand on the brickwork. I closed my eyes and willed my magic to the surface. This in itself made me an anomaly; I doubted anyone my age could call on their magic freely without a wand.


    My magic answered me, rising up like a bubbling spring. Like water, it was formless. Any attempt to grasp it with my will only saw me staring at my empty hands as it flowed through my fingers. If it wasn''t for my esoteric affinities, I knew I wouldn''t have been able to manage even this much. Everything save divination was far out of my grasp.


    That was fine; I didn''t need anything else. The magic in the wall thrummed as it sensed me. I willed my own magic into the brickwork and attempted to look at its past. My magic felt like molasses as it slowly seeped inside, a huge contrast compared to the crystal ball which had all but snapped the connection into place on its own.


    I supposed that was the difference between a magical tool designed for the art and your everyday ward.


    I stood with my eyes closed and hands on that wall for a solid twenty minutes. I felt my lips curl into a smile as I thought about what I must have looked like, kind of like I''d been pulled over and was waiting to be frisked by a cop. Then the distracting thought broke my concentration and I had to start again. Tom must have assumed I''d gotten in somehow because he didn''t bother checking up on me.


    I didn''t succeed, at least not in seeing its history. Normally, I literally saw visions of what had happened, such as me seeing the cards flip over to reveal themselves in my crystal ball. Instead, though the vision of the last person who''d used this entrance eluded me, I was able to feel the way the magic flowed through the brickwork. It felt a bit like the water of a gentle creek that I''d dipped a finger into as it flowed downstream. It was slow and languid, so much so that I barely noticed the current, but it was there.


    I tracked it to the center of the wall, three bricks up and two across from the rubbish bin.


    "That must be the entrance then," I concluded. I reached out and tapped the brick. Sure enough, I was rewarded with the sound of grinding stone as the wall moved aside for me.


    I grinned wide as the legendary locale spread out before me. It was¡­ Well, it was honestly somewhat underwhelming, but the simple fact that this was Diagon Alley made it seem much more grandiose than it would have been.


    I skipped the bank. Valencia Zabini was a paranoid bitch and though the Zabini family had an account with Gringotts that included six other folded houses, there was a not insignificant amount of money and resources that was squirreled away in different places around Europe. It made sense, when she lived her life screwing over (literally) everyone she met, it became second nature to expect the same treatment in return.


    All it meant was that I lacked the key to the Zabini vault. Mother had seen fit to give me a bag of one hundred galleons and told me to knock myself out.


    Parenting, thy name is not Valencia.


    How much was that in pounds? I didn''t have a single fucking clue because old-Blaise never frequented the muggle world. It was a lot though, enough that a less affluent family could live for a month or two on my allowance. Considering Fred and George used only a thousand galleons to start a business, purchase and develop products, and acquire retail space, perhaps that was to be expected.


    "Let''s see¡­ I need a wand, uniform, books, and an owl¡­" I muttered to myself.


    That made my decision easy. I''d never been the sort to leave the important things for last so I made a beeline for Olivander''s.


    I meandered through the streets, window shopping to see if there was anything not on the list worth buying. I saw the Nimbus 2000 and a few kids going goo goo over it, but it didn''t strike a chord with me as I''d expected. Apparently, old-Blaise wasn''t much of a flyer.


    I eventually found the historic shop. It was near the southern end of the alley and looked somewhat dilapidated. The walls were covered in beige paint that had begun to flake off and there were cracks in the masonry as if caused by one too many explosions, which, considering Harry''s wand choosing, wasn''t out of the question.


    Then again, I supposed the outer appearance of the shop meant little to a wizard, especially not one with a guaranteed clientele like Ollivander. Perhaps he saw no reason to restore the store to its undamaged state so long as the damages were merely cosmetic.


    I took a deep breath and stepped into the store, the bell above the door ringing merrilly. I turned around to face the nook behind the door, Ollivander playing peekaboo was a thing, right?


    Only, there was no one there.


    Then a sliding ladder clanged to the floor with a deafening thump, making me jump. My hand clenched down on my cane and I only just kept down a squeak of surprise. The famed wandmaker slid down from it with dexterity belied by his age.


    "Ah, Mr. Zabini, welcome to my store," the wispy old man said with a knowing smile.


    "Do you enjoy surprising people?" I asked acerbically. I wasn''t pouting, honest.


    "When one reaches my age, one must find his own amusement."


    "How did you know my name?"


    "You have many questions but the answer is not as magical as you would believe. You look like young Miss Constanza did at your age. Willow and dragon heartstring, nine inches, a flexible wand for a morally flexible witch."


    I scowled. It took me a moment to recognize my mother''s maiden name. I should have triggered my precog before coming in, if only to turn the tables on that little prank of his. "Might be the nicest way I''ve heard anyone describe her."


    "Yes, well, let''s get started, shall we? Show me your wand arm."


    I transferred the cane to my left hand and held out my right. A set of measuring tapes floated around my body, measuring everything from the space between my eyes to the width of my nostrils. "Do these things actually help or are they just here to distract customers while you work?"


    He gave me another of those enigmatic smiles but ignored my question entirely. "Here, try this one. Ash and unicorn hair, very forgiving."


    "That''s not me," I said definitively. The CYOA had given Corbin the chance to customize a wand. Naturally, old-me had gone with the one best suited for esoteric magics, especially divination: silver lime and phoenix tail feather, ten inches. Even had I not known my exact wand, I would have had doubts about this one. Forgiveness? Me? There was a woman with her head pulped down in Portugal who''d beg to differ.


    "Try anyway," he urged. "I find even the rejections to be highly informative. As my grandfather always said, it is the wand that chooses the wizard. The choice could surprise you."


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I reached out for it and just before I could make contact with the wood, it launched from my grip and threw itself into the fireplace where it promptly burst into flames.


    I stared at him flatly. "Yeah, well, your wand chose to commit suicide rather than spend a second in my hand. What''s that mean?"


    "That you will be a most fascinating customer."


    That kicked off fifteen minutes of wand-fitting. Unfortunately for Ollivander''s profit margins, the first wand wasn''t the only one to commit suicide. One slammed into the brick wall and snapped itself in half. Another turned to confetti in my hand. A third literally grew a snake''s head and bit itself in two.


    "Perhaps unicorn hair is not right for you, young man," he hummed.


    I let out a gasp of mock-horror. "Say it ain''t so!"


    "Your sarcasm is really not as endearing as you seem to think it is."


    "Yeah, well, I ain''t paying for the wands that decided to off themselves. I didn''t even know they could do that."


    "Truthfully, neither did I. Wands are fascinating, aren''t they? Now try this one, silver birch and phoenix tail feather, eleven inches." I took it in hand. A jolt of magic raced through me and I felt my own magic rise up to respond. The tip of the wand began to glow white but before it could do more, Ollivander snatched it from my hand. "No¡­ Close, but not quite¡­ Phoenix feather does seem like the right core for you."


    "How can you tell? I mean, yeah, it didn''t explode or anything, but what are you looking for when a wand matches itself properly?" I asked curiously. "They can''t all let out sparks or something, right?"


    "Correct, Mr. Zabini. Wands have personalities of their own, much like people. And much like people, they show their approval in different ways."


    "Okay, so what are you looking for? How do you know that a wand is the right fit?"


    "Ah, you must allow an old man his secrets. Now, try this one: silver lime and phoenix feather, ten inches. I felt the silver birch was close."


    I took a calming breath. This was it, my wand. I took it in hand with eager anticipation. There were no sparks or gouts of flame, no magic birds that chirped their birdsong throughout the store. In fact, there were no outward signs of a shift at all.


    And yet, it felt as though my world exploded with color, as if I''d been born blind and had only now begun to see. Every hue and shade seemed more vivid, more real in a way that I could not explain. There was a thrumming in my wand, a quiet hum only I could hear whispering its welcome, promising me its secrets.


    "Congratulations, Mr. Zabini, I believe that is the right wand for you."


    I scowled at him. "How''d you know? There weren''t any signs at all this time."


    "From the wand, Mr. Zabini, from the wand," he said with a knowing smile. "The look of awestruck wonder on a young man''s face as he forges that connection for the first time is a sure giveaway."


    "I¡­ Yeah, fair enough. Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."


    "You are welcome. You''ve been a most curious customer."


    "How so, sir?"


    "That wand is not a powerful wand, silver limes seldom are, certainly not at that length. However, it is an extraordinarily subtle wand. I suspect that it will serve a man with the right outlook on life."


    I met his smiling gaze with a suspicious one of my own. There was no legilimency probe as far as I could tell. I had the sneaking suspicion that the whole thing about watching my face to see the proper match was bullshit, at least partially. Could he see magic directly? Or maybe there were wards around the shop made to scan for it? Were his glasses enchanted like Mad Eye''s?


    "I¡­ Thank you, sir," I said, now thoroughly unnerved. I knew from the CYOA that this wand excelled at legilimency and divination. Question was, did he say that to suggest he knew I was a seer? Or maybe to give me a hint to study the mind arts more?


    Ollivander was a man of hidden depths. Something about the man made my hackles rise. I bought myself a cleaning kit and holster and did not linger.


    X


    Now that I had my wand, the rest of the shopping went by quickly. Madam Malkin''s Robes for All Occasions was a far more stylish shop on the surface than Olliivander''s, with a squat, older witch dressed in a whole lot of pinkish purple manning the store. She was friendly enough but I''d never been the fashionable sort so I bought several Hogwarts uniforms and headed out. It wasn''t as though Blaise didn''t have normal clothes anyway.


    That left me with only my books and owl to purchase.


    Flourish & Blotts reminded me of Barnes & Noble, if one particular store manager was both blind and insisted on laying out his shelves according to his eight year old son''s fever dream. Which was to say, absolutely nothing made sense here. I saw books on transfiguration laid out with Lockhart''s "memoirs." There were guides to botanical taxonomy next to Dumbledore''s famous thesis on the twelve uses of dragon blood. The whole store was a cluttered mess and the inner librarian in me wanted to find the proprietor if only so I could kick his dick into his throat.


    And then there was the Girl Who Lived section. It occupied a place of prominence near the counter, which made clear to me the priorities of the owners. "Memoirs" of Violet Potter''s life filled the shelf, just about the only shelf that seemed properly organized.


    I was taken aback by the sheer number of volumes on display. There were titles ranging from The Girl Who Lived and the Fae Prince to The True Life and Times of Violet Potter.


    Partly out of a desire to not look at the disaster zone that was the rest of the store and partly out of morbid curiosity, I picked up one of the less obviously libelous volumes. It was a leatherbound hardcover that professed to be a true record of the events of that fateful night in 1977.


    And then I got to the part about little Violet rising up out of the crib to smite the Dark Lord with the anti-killing curse, whateve the fuck that was, and promptly lost all faith in the magical world.


    I let out an audible groan of disappointment as I closed the tome and returned it to its rightful place. Garbage or not, books were to be treasured.


    "I take it you''re not here for casual reading?" came a female voice behind me. She sounded far too amused for my liking.


    I turned to find an older girl, roughly sixteen or seventeen, with dusky skin and large, olive eyes. Said eyes were narrowed into an amused smirk. She wore the witch-typical robes with a nametag that marked her as an employee.


    "Just here for my school books but got caught up in this nonsense. How do you find anything in here?"


    "The summoning charm," she said with a sly grin. "Alicia Spinnet, you?"


    "Blaise Zabini," I said as I tucked my cane under my arm so I could ask for a handshake.


    There was a flash of recognition in her eyes at the name and her smile became a little more rigid. She still took my hand to not seem impolite. "Right, come on then. We keep all the school books beneath the counter for convenience. First year?"


    I pretended not to notice her judging eye. I''d just have to get used to being associated with an infamous black widow. I recognized her of course, one of Gryffindor''s three chasers. They got a decent amount of screen time for such irrelevant side characters purely by association with Harry''s quidditch team. Old-Blaise remembered House Spinnet as a halfblood house, and therefore not really worth networking with. Nor rich or powerful, but not impoverished either. They just, were.


    I was trying not to be a bigoted ass so I made some conversation. "Yup. You don''t look much older than me. Working part-time?"


    "Yes, well, some of us need to work for what we want."


    "Hey now, no judgment. Just making conversation."


    She let out a sigh. "Sorry, just¡­ had a run in with Avery the other day."


    I ran through old-Blaise''s memories for someone from that house. A boy a few years my senior came to mind. "Eustace Avery?"


    "Yup. Know him?"


    "We move in the same circles. If it makes you feel better, he''s not any more bearable when he''s with ''friends.''"


    "Not surprised. If you must know, mom said I should learn the value of a knut and told me to save up for my own broom this summer."


    "Respectable. So, my books?"


    "Yeah, I got you." She slid a set of books onto the counter. "Here''s the firstie set."


    I placed them into a trunk I''d brought for the purpose and shrank it before it went into my pocket. I paid her and walked back into the store. "Thanks, gonna go look for something else interesting to read."


    "Sure. What''s with your cane?"


    "Accident. Can''t walk right."


    "Sorry."


    "Don''t worry about it," I waved, readying myself to plunge back into the jungle that was this store''s bookshelves.


    X


    I returned half an hour later with four books under my arm. It had been an absolute ordeal trying to find anything of worth in that maze. In the end, I looked for books that were likely not in the family library, if only so I could say I''d added to it. I placed them in a stack on the counter.


    "Ring these up for me, please."


    "Sure, Zabini." Alicia saw the book on top and rolled her eyes. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard? You don''t strike me as the sort to collect children''s books."


    I shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? It''s a classic."


    "Mhmm, let''s see¡­ Zonko''s Pranks and Practical Jokes, some old edition of Hogwarts: A History, and Enchanting Enchantments for the Novice Enchanter¡­ Wow, your reading choices are all over the place."


    "I mean¡­ yes? Aren''t these interesting? Zonko''s is Zonko''s, but Enchanting sounds like a foundational text for say, how to make your own broom."


    "I guess, so why the children''s book and the history doorstop?"


    "They''re classics. How can I not buy them?" I repeated.


    "Right, to Ravenclaw with you then. That''ll be nine galleons and six sickles."


    "Slytherin, actually," I told her as I dropped the cash into her hand. "I''m willing to bet anything I''ll end up a Slytherin."


    "Oh? And here I thought you were starting to look respectable," Alicia snarked, her lips curling up a little in jest.


    "Ravenclaw is fine, but well¡­ my ambition is bigger than my love of knowledge."


    "What''s that supposed to mean?"


    I swiped the books into my trunk and began to walk away. I wanted to be a man who wasn''t bound by Fate, who held all the magical knowledge that existed or would exist in the world. If that wasn''t an impossible dream, I didn''t know what was. "Don''t mind it. Nice talking to you, Spinnet."


    X


    I walked away from that encounter feeling resigned to the prejudice I''d be facing. If this were a game, I''d be starting every social interaction with a malus simply for being my mother''s son. And, the worst part of it all was that I couldn''t blame them. Sure, I was my own person, but children were products of their environment and until I could prove that I wasn''t on track to become another opportunistic murderer, I could assume everyone would keep me at a distance. Spinnet was at least polite-ish about it.


    I stopped at my final destination, the Magical Menagerie. I could smell the shop before I even entered. The pungent scent of animal droppings, feed, and musty cages struck me like a physical force as I entered the store.


    The interior of the store was so crowded that there was barely any room to walk. Cages upon cages were stacked from floor to ceiling,each filled with all manner of creatures. There was such a large variety that even Blaise''s memories were not enough to identify them all, not that Blaise was particularly interested in magizoology.


    I didn''t bother using my cane and simply leaned against the wall of cages as I moved forward.


    "Hello, welcome to Magical Menagerie. How may I help you?" came the call of the shopkeeper. She was a portly lady with only one exposed eye; the other was covered with thick bandages. I must have been caught staring because she let out a rueful chuckle and pointed to a large glass tank in the corner. "Sorry, dearie, I must look quite the sight. Streelers, you understand."


    I walked up to her and looked over to the tank to find the biggest snails I''d ever seen. Each shell seemed to be at least six inches in diameter with their slimy bodies ranging from eight to seventeen inches. As I watched, some of their shells began to change color, from orange to blue, blue to neon yellow.


    "No problem, ma''am. Sorry for staring. Umm¡­ What are they?"


    "Streelers, they''re a type of magic snail, see? Their slime trail is poisonous and they''ve got little venom sacs underneath their shell with a needle to inject it. Got a bit in my eye while moving them around the shop the other day."


    "I see¡­ Will you be alright?"


    "Oh, thanks for asking. Yes, the streeler venom isn''t too dangerous. Healers at Mungo''s said my eye''ll regain sight in a week or two," she said with a chipper grin.


    I nodded slowly. I wasn''t sure how she managed to get snail slime into her eye but decided not to question it. "Glad to hear it. I''m looking for an owl¡­"


    "Say no more! Knew you had that firstie smell on you." She took me by the hand and began to drag me along. She was surprisingly gentle, having noticed the way I was bracing against the cages and my cane. "Come this way, let me show you all the birds we''ve got."


    And it was truly an impressive collection. The shop was much larger inside than it appeared at first glance, which should not have been surprising in hindsight. There were several shelves stocked with nothing but Hogwarts-approved animals. The owls especially got the most room, enough to hop around a bit and stretch their wings. I noticed that several large cages housed up to eight or nine owls while smaller cages only housed one or two.


    I didn''t even bother looking at the toads or kneazles. Owls were symbols of wisdom, and more importantly, they were far more useful than either option. I didn''t have any plans to communicate with my mother at school, but it couldn''t hurt to have a private owl.


    "Go on, dearie," she urged. "I know ol'' Ollivander likes to say the wand chooses the wizard, but I think my owls can be even more selective."


    "Alright then¡­" I walked up to the nearest cage and wiggled my finger against the bar. Inside was a midnight-black owl of a species I couldn''t name. "Hey, you, how''s it-Fuck!"


    I jerked my finger back before the little bugger could take a bite of it. My startled yelp caused every owl and cat in the store to turn to me with a cross glare.


    "Heh, yeah, that one''s frisky. Might want to keep your voice down, dearie, lots of creatures here aren''t fans of loud noises."


    "Sorry¡­"


    I learned my lesson. I triggered my Sight and walked from cage to cage, merely intending to stick my finger inside. If I didn''t receive any visions of it getting nipped, I went ahead and petted the animal. I wanted an owl that was both smart and calm, not one of those ornery fuckers that left droppings in your shoe because you didn''t give them a tribute of bacon.


    In the end, I left the store with an absolute mammoth of an owl. She as an Eurasian eagle owl according to Wanda, the shopkeeper, and had some room to grow still. She didn''t look all that special, just your typical tawny browns and grays, but her sheer size caught my eye. She was almost the size of my head and most of that volume was pure fluff. I knew because she turned out to be an incredibly affectionate bird who''d decided my head made for a perfect perch.


    Wanda threw in a leather cap to protect my head from her talons.


    I decided to call my newest ball of fluff Minerva, officially, after the Roman goddess of war and wisdom. Unofficially, I wanted to rub it in McGonagall''s face. Cats were inferior to owls in every way.


    Author''s Note


    Remember, for Blaise & co to be 14 at the start of canon, they would have had to be born in 1977, not 1980.


    This makes Alicia Spinnet 16 years old.


    Right, chapter-relevant animal fact for once: The Eurasian eagle owl is the second largest owl in the world, can have a wingspan of over six feet long and weigh north of ten pounds. It''s a chonky birb.


    I had pork bulgogi today. Not news, was delicious. That is all.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 5. All Aboard the Choo-Choo Train

    Chapter 5: All Aboard the Choo-Choo Train


    London, Great Britain


    I stood on Platform 9 ? with mother-dearest, my luggage, and Minerva the owl. To my surprise, it was Valencia who woke me up this morning, saying she''d see me off to school. It was a once a year event so hardly a time commitment, but that she took her time out of her schedule to come along was¡­ something. What it said, I wasn''t exactly sure.


    I felt Minerva pruning my hair; she liked to do that, like I was an owlet for her to groom. Her talons were sharp as fuck and the leather cap the pet shop recommended made me sweaty so I quickly gave up giving her rides on my skull. Instead, I got her a little, shoulder-mounted perch I could wear over my right shoulder. It was basically a normal shoulder strap with a hardened leather platform for the oversized owl to sit on. It looked silly, but there was something pretty fucking cool about having a giant bird nestling into you.


    The two of us gamely ignored the captivated stares of men twice her age and the jealous fits of their wives. Witches'' robe or not, mother still managed to turn heads. She''d spent the morning making sure we were presentable, which meant "dressing down" in what was the magical world''s equivalent of a button-down shirt, slacks, and loafers. Still evident that we had money to burn, but not quite the lacy monstrosity that was the wizarding dress robe.


    "Remember, Blaise, image is a power unto itself. An image of strength, an image of vulnerability, they both have their uses," she whispered in my ear as she came in for a hug. "Cultivate useful pawns but know that every relationship has a price, whether social or monetary. Some people are just too expensive to keep around, no matter their talents. Use them and toss them, without distorting your image."


    "Yes, mother," I replied back in rote. I heard what she hadn''t put to words: Mudbloods weren''t worth it. Not because she had any innate sense of superiority over them, not any more than anyone else we met on the street, but because they were "too expensive" in terms of social clout to be worth the investment.


    It was a final reminder: No matter how seductive, how empathetic she seemed, Valencia Zabini was a transactional creature who weighed lives on a scale of material gains.


    Then, with a final peck on the cheek, she whirled around to lock eyes with a man thrice her age, possibly more considering the greater life expectancy of wizards.


    "Lowell Spencer-Moon," she hummed with an uncomfortably sensual purr. "Deputy head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Recently widowed and nephew of former minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon."


    "Huh, so he is," I hummed noncommittally. I knew this song and dance by now.


    "Go on then, my little warrior. Who knows? By winter, you might have daddy-number-eight."


    "And won''t that make the holidays interesting¡­"


    I turned around and boarded the train, doing my level best to suppress that bit of fresh trauma. On the plus side, I had yet one more very good reason to hone my occlumency. Truly, I had a mother who motivated me to greater heights.


    X


    The interior of the train was¡­ disappointing. I shouldn''t have been; I''d been in train cars before and seen the movies, but there was something about the Hogwarts Express that made me set my expectations high. In the end though,the cars were as normal as could be, with eggshell-white walls and eight individual compartments per car.


    I walked along the corridor, languidly looking in on any compartments that caught my eye. Most were already occupied by the older students, leaving the last car or two to the first years. Some were studying, others were catching up, and one particularly daring couple was just starting to get frisky and hadn''t remembered to draw the curtains. I rapped on the window and gestured to the curtains before moving on.


    "Now¡­ Do I want to meet the Chosen One early?" I mused. I could try to use divination to predict which compartment she''d end up in. Train leaves in half an hour. There were only so many compartments available and only a single variable to consider, Violet. Precognition wasn''t my forte quite yet, but under such narrow conditions, scrying her future location should be well within my capabilities.


    "That sounds creepy as fuck," I told myself with a snort. Why did I even want to meet Violet anyway? Because she was the Chosen One? Passing curiosity would just piss her off and anything more than that on my end felt too much like manipulation, too much like I was heeding mom''s advice. Oh, I had no doubt that I''d have to play the political game, I was a Zabini, but that didn''t mean I had to start by grooming a fourteen year old girl.


    Standards. I had them¡­ sort of¡­


    Just as important as my own moral compass, I couldn''t rely on canon to play out as I''d seen. With Harry being Violet and us all being fourteen, things were bound to be different and I wouldn''t know what those differences were until they hit me like a wet fish. Hagrid might not have forgotten to teach her how the platform gate works. She might have read about it in Hogwarts: A History. She might meet a different magical family. Or, she might be a typical teenage girl and decide not to enter a compartment with a lone boy in it.


    No, finding Violet sounded like a silly thing to do. If canon played out, great. If not, also great. I''d involve myself if I thought it''d amuse me, until it stopped amusing me. All that mattered was that I improved my own divination abilities and set myself up to gather the biggest magical library in the world.


    To that end, I found myself an empty compartment and cracked open Divination through the Ages: A brief exploration of the art throughout history, one of several books I''d lifted from my family library. I cracked open the window so Minerva could fly to Hogwarts if she so chose, kicked up my feet, and began to read:


    Scrying is ultimately the art of seeing and hearing from remote distances, across space and time, by using the reflective properties of a medium. There is, therefore, no functional difference between a crystal ball, a mirror, and a tranquil lake surface for the purposes of divination. They can all be used in the same manner and once one understands how to use one medium, one understands all the others. That isn''t to say there aren''t some advantages to certain mediums over others however. I will go over each in general and make my case for why the crystal ball is the greatest of all scrying mediums.


    Naturally, the clearer the medium, the better the result, thus a body of water is typically ill-advised. It could work, shamans across cultures have been using still lakes and ponds to practice divination for millennia, but when a single stray wind or falling leaf might disturb your session, suffice to say there are better options.


    That isn''t to say there is zero advantage to a still pond. Because of the moon''s conceptual connection as the "illuminator of darkness," it can greatly empower divination attempts under the right circumstances, such as a full moon reflected upon an unpolluted pond that formed above a natural ley line. Indeed, I would go as far as to say such a locale has the potential to be the single most powerful scrying medium. Though powerful, I consider natural locales such as this to be the least useful for the average diviner because of their unreliability.


    Mirrors, though clear, stable, and easily portable, are only middling in their use. This is because unlike the pond which reflects the moon, or "the world" if one must be philosophical, the mirror reflects "the self." It is therefore best used in scrying events that are directly relevant to the self and often provides misleading answers when attempting to scry another.


    This is doubly true when one scries a natural event and not, say, a person or creature. Though there is no true consensus on the matter, I believe it to be because the mirror is intrinsically tied to an identity, a sense of self. When the target lacks such, the magic weakens a great deal.


    There are ways to mitigate this. Enchantments anchored-


    I was brought out of my reading by the sound of my compartment door sliding open. "C-Can I sit here?" I heard someone stammer.


    I put down my book and looked at the intruder. He was a chubby, brunette boy who despite our age had yet to shed his baby fat. He kept his hair in a shaggy mess and dragged along a suitcase. I recognized him from a few formal events we''d been forced to attend.


    "Longbottom," I greeted the Boy Who Could''ve Been. "Sit."


    "Thanks," he said shyly. He took a seat, took one look at me, and realized whose cabin he''d stepped into. The boy shrank into himself like a shriveled nutsack.


    Past-Blaise hadn''t bullied him or anything. Never mind anything physical, he hadn''t said more than a few words to the Longbottom heir. What he did do was hang around Theodore Nott, Lyra Malfoy, and all the other children of the "dark" faction. He was careful with his words even as a child thanks to Valencia, but he''d certainly chuckled along. Coupled with my mother''s reputation, it wasn''t exactly surprising that Neville considered me among his bullies.


    I could see his eyes darting towards the door. He was probably wondering if I''d take offense and single him out throughout the year if he bolted now. I rolled my eyes. I knew he would find his spine eventually, even go on to lead the resistance in Hogwarts, but whatever valiant man he''d become, he certainly wasn''t that now.


    I vaguely remembered that he didn''t have a happy home life either. Augusta Longbottom was by all accounts an intimidating woman. She expected much of people and I couldn''t imagine the bar was any lower for the heir. Neville was treated as a squib for a decent chunk of his childhood before his uncle dropped him from a window. He sure as hell didn''t have a support group in the rest of his family.


    When I considered that he had an extra three years of that kind of home life, it became painfully obvious to me why he was so skittish.


    "Keep it down and let me read in peace, capiche?" I asked rhetorically. Part of me wanted to comfort him, bolster his confidence somehow. The bigger part of me said it wasn''t any of my fucking business. His childhood was downright heavenly compared to mine. Besides, any attempts to be kind would feel like a trap to him so I settled for cool ambivalence.


    "R-Right. You got it, Zabini."


    He rummaged through his suitcase and picked out a book. The compartment fell into silence as the final warning whistle sounded, five minutes now. Judging by how he never flipped a page, the boy was all nerves still.


    I ignored him and continued to read:


    There are ways to mitigate this. Enchantments anchored onto mirrors through the use of runes and formalcraft can turn the mirror into a highly effective tool. Expensive, alchemically treated silver used as the base for the glass to rest on instead of mere aluminum can likewise make it a better medium, as can quartz over regular glass. Runic inlays can be formed with poured gold or some other material should one need it to perform a specific function. I once saw a mirror made of pure obsidian used by the Inca; it had several unique properties that go beyond the scope of this short primer but suffice to say, it was a very useful tool.


    Finally, we come to the crystal ball. Every benefit which can be attributed to the mirror can likewise be attributed to the crystal ball. It is reliable, perfectly clear, and portable, all without any conceptual ties to a sense of self, vanity, or similar. It is a tool designed purely for divination and behaves like it.


    Some say that the biggest drawback to a crystal ball is that because it is made up of a single material, it lacks room for customization. However, I beg to differ. This is an advantage more often than not, especially considering just how difficult it is to find a truly masterful enchanter who is both a runemaster and has a clear understanding of the nuances of spell matrices that make up divination spells in particular. Suffice to say, such people are extremely rare and their time proportionally valuable.


    That is why, though there are dozens of different means of divination and three in particular most commonly used in scrying, I will focus the following chapter on the humble cryst-


    Several minutes later, just as I was coming to the tail end of the preface, the compartment door slid open again.


    "Mind if I join you, chaps?" The speaker was yet another boy, but this time obviously muggleborn. He was short-ish with a frizzy mop and a pronounced upper bite. He was also dressed in jeans and a Beatles t-shirt.


    I glanced at Neville, then at the newcomer. Maybe he didn''t want to give permission because I was here first. Or maybe he was afraid of me for some perceived threat I''d made. I decided to try to send him a subtle message: Blood really meant nothing to me.


    I waved the newcomer in with a careless nod. "Sit. Keep it quiet; I''m reading."


    He dragged his suitcase inside and plopped down directly across from me. "Oh, that''s great. What''re you reading? Divination through the Ages? Is it any good? I heard it was a subject we can learn in our third year but it''s supposed to be a load of hogwash, not that I won''t give it the ol'' college try of course. Are you a third year? I''m a first year and it''s so exciting, learning magic and all. I couldn''t help it and read all the first year coursebooks already. Would you mind lending some of your old books to me if you have them?"


    My grip on the tome tightened. Brunette, check. Buck teeth, check. Frizzy hair, never shuts up, clearly way too into books¡­ Check, check, and check. A sinking pit formed in my stomach as reality beat me like a ginger stepchild. I had the sneaking suspicion Fate was laughing her ass off somewhere.


    Just to confirm, I said, "In polite company, we introduce ourselves before interrupting people who are trying to read."


    "Oh, my bad, chap. I''m Leontes Granger, first year Hogwarts student. I get a little excited about reading; mom says I should curb the enthusiasm just a tad. Call me Leon."


    "Neville Longbottom," my initial cabin-mate introduced himself.


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "Zabini. First year. Your mother sounds like a wise lady."


    "She is! So¡­ Divination?"


    I stared at genderbent-Hermione. I recognized the name of course. How could I not? I was a librarian. Leontes too was a Shakesperean name, the name of Queen Hermione''s husband in The Winter''s Tale in fact.


    I slowly marked the page and closed the book. "Very well. Ask away, Granger."


    "Is it?"


    "Is it what?"


    "Hogwash. I mean, there has to be something to the branch of magic if it''s taught in Hogwarts, but when I looked for details on the electives, all the books I read dismissed it."


    "That depends on what you think of when you think of divination. What is it?"


    "It''s the magical art of predicting the future," he said matter-of-factly.


    "Good, and which book did you get that from?"


    "Hogwarts: A History of course. You should read it if you haven''t."


    I sighed. "That was sarcasm. While that definition is correct, it''s also incomplete. Divination is the art of acquiring information through magical means. Let''s say you have your telescope. You brought it for Astronomy, right?"


    "Of course."


    "Well you''ll find that the telescope you purchased in Diagon Alley has been enchanted to improve the magnification of light and to provide better clarity. That enchantment matrix? Divination."


    "Oh, I hadn''t thought of that. I don''t think that was covered in-"


    "It wasn''t covered because permanent enchantment is a field reserved for NEWT-level students. If Hogwarts: A History addresses the subject, it''s likely just a small part and probably not mentioned alongside divination at all. Another use of divination is, say, a spell to let you hear things better."


    "So it doesn''t have to be trying to predict the future. I really want to read that book now."


    "Perhaps another time," I evaded.


    Neville looked between me and Leontes like he couldn''t believe what was going on. Blaise Zabini, a pureblood, was talking to a muggleborn and had yet to utter a single threat or insult. He shifted in his seat and I saw his eyes widen in shock.


    I thought it was because of something we did, but he began to pat himself down. Then, when he didn''t find whatever he was looking for, he lifted his trunk back down and began to rummage through it.


    "Neville?" Leontes asked. "Are you okay?"


    "Trevor? Trevor''s gone!"


    "Who''s Trevor?"


    "My toad is missing."


    "Longbottom, if your toad isn''t on your person or in your trunk, it stands to reason he''s somewhere in the car," I replied. "Were you in any other train car before settling on this one?"


    "N-No."


    I stood. On one hand, I could just tell them to find a prefect and summon Trevor. But on the other hand, if Fate wanted to throw canon in my face like this, I figured I may as well go meet the Girl Who Lived. I had to admit to being quite curious. "Well come on, then. Let''s go find Trevor before he finds a kneazle. Or an owl like Minerva here."


    "Y-You''ll help me?"


    "This promises to be entertaining."


    The two boys followed me out. Neville still looked a little bewildered by my unforeseen assistance; I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to step out of my mother''s shadow. Leontes on the other hand, showed zero hesitation and marched up to the nearest compartment before yanking the door open.


    He peered inside and said, "Hello, pardon me. Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his."


    "No, get out, firstie!" I heard before the compartment door clattered shut. One of the upper years who wanted a rear compartment then.


    "Well, that was rude."


    I strolled by and saw Lyra Malfoy talking to Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. As if to prove that some things never changed, Heath Parkinson sat to Lyra''s right, doing his level best to get her attention. I tapped the wall before Leontes could reach for the door handle. "Not this one. Move on."


    "What? We should check all the compartments. That''s the logical thing to do."


    "What''s wrong?" Neville asked.


    "Malfoy and Parkinson. Greengrass and Davis aren''t so bad but if you want to deal with them, then leave me out."


    Neville grabbed Leontes by the arm and started to drag him down the corridor. "Zabini is right. We can leave that cabin for last."


    "What? They''re just talking in there," he protested, but seeing how we both shoved him on, he let out a huff and tagged along.


    We went down a few more compartments until we arrived at the last one. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot sat with Lisa Turpin; they were nice enough to promise to pass Trevor on if they found him. Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Terry Boot, and Anthony Goldstein all shared a cabin and one of the boys was explaining Exploding Snap to Justin, the muggleborn among them. They hadn''t seen Trevor either.


    The last cabin in the car contained three girls, a pair of brown-skinned twins and a raven-haired girl who seemed a tad skinnier than she perhaps should be. At her side was a snowy owl, which made it easy to guess who this was.


    "So the Patils twins met her first," I hummed under my breath. An interesting change, but not something I didn''t expect. I didn''t know exactly who she''d be with, but I assumed it wouldn''t be Ron this time around. "Should be interesting¡­"


    A lot could have happened between Violet stepping onto the platform and settling in with Ron. She could have been invited by the Patils before she found an empty cabin. Or maybe the Patils invited themselves and Ron decided he didn''t want to sit with three girls. Or perhaps Fred and George took more time showing him Lee Jordan''s tarantula than in canon.


    "You know them?" Neville asked.


    "You don''t?" I asked back in genuine surprise. I assumed Augusta Longbottom would have ensured he knew every pureblood family name. "Light" or not, she was still fairly traditionalist in mannerism. "Pureblood family from India. Their father''s a master enchanter who sells high-end textiles abroad. Their uncle''s the Indian Ministry''s Head of Foreign Affairs."


    "Ah¡­ I think that sounds familiar?"


    "Well we should say hello." Leontes opened the door and poked his head inside. "Hello, has anyone seen a toad? Neville lost his."


    I took the chance to lean against the door and take a closer look at the Chosen One.


    Everyone in the wizarding world knew Dumbledore had taken custody of her. Some bought the tripe written in her "biographies" and expected a gallant heroine off to slay dragons before her first year. Others thought she''d be raised as a princess, given all the best our world had to offer. Entitled? Or maybe a political mastermind? Or, a beautiful maiden ready to be wooed by the right pureblood? She wasn''t any of those things, but she wasn''t what I expected either.


    As far as I knew, Harry was abused, not just emotionally but physically. There was a point in canon when Petunia beat him with a frying pan for burning the bacon or some other inane reason. I expected similar here, a fourteen year old girl who''d spent most of her life sleeping in a stairwell closet, a very literal modern day Cinderella. Did the genderswap make her more a sympathetic figure? Or did it trigger Petunia''s envy even worse?


    I thought I''d find a malnourished waif of a girl dressed in Petunia''s baggy hand-me-downs, maybe with a sweater to hide the bruises. I expected her to have the eyes of a scared rabbit and loathe physical contact. I expected to find an abuse victim. It was something I''d come to terms with. There wasn''t much I could have done over the past month and even less chance of convincing Valencia to help. To be Violet was to suffer and I''d accepted it as a fact of life as sure as the rising sun.


    That wasn''t what I found.


    She sensed my gaze on her and her eyes snapped up to meet mine. They were large, made all the larger by her glasses. In those pools of green, I saw not a shred of hesitation or fear. Instead, I saw defiance and spite; I saw someone who was used to getting shit on by everyone and decided that she''d rather throw the first punch than get shoved around.


    Her outfit was likewise unexpected. The first thing I noticed, besides her scar and trademark "Lily''s eyes," was the piercings in her ears. She wore diamond studs on her lobes and rings on her upper helix. Around each piercing was a hint of scar tissue, implying she got those done in a back alley or did them herself.


    Around her neck was a lace choker with torn edges, probably ripped out of another garment rather than purchased. Instead of Petunia or Dudley''s baggy hand-me-downs, she wore a black, tight-fitting t-shirt with a faded, bubblegum-pink butterfly design stretched across her chest. A pair of dark jeans and a studded belt wrapped around her hips. In her hand was a wand, presumably holly and phoenix feather, as well as a pair of fingerless gloves.


    She looked, in a word, like a punk. Or at least, what an abused, isolated teenage girl would consider "punk."


    "Take a picture; it''ll last longer," she spat.


    "You¡­ are different," I admitted quietly. This was a good thing, especially considering the alternatives. I turned to greet the Patil twins. Padma was reading a book while Parvati seemed to be in the middle of lecturing Violet on fashion. "Patils, right? Blaise Zabini."


    Parvati waved awkwardly. "Aren''t you¡­"


    "The son of an alleged serial killer," I finished for her. "Why, yes, yes I am."


    "Wait, seriously?" It was Leontes who spoke up. "Your dad killed people?"


    "Considering my old man lived through Grindelwald and World War Two, yes. He''s definitely killed people. That part isn''t really up for debate, but nor is that what she''s talking about. It''s my mother who''s the alleged serial killer if you must know."


    "You seem¡­ cavalier about this," Padma said carefully.


    I shrugged carelessly. "Ehh, everyone knows it. People who grew up in the wizarding world are going to be suspicious of me because of who my mother is. Can''t do anything about it so I may as well get used to clearing the air."


    "Oh, that was really rude of Parvati, wasn''t it? I apologize on behalf of my sister."


    "Hey, I didn''t say it," the more energetic twin said with a pout.


    "But you thought it and made it super obvious."


    I shrugged. "Don''t mind it; that was a natural reaction. More importantly, toad named Trevor. Longbottom lost him. Have you seen him around? If Snowball over there ate him, let us know so we don''t waste time looking."


    "Hedwig," Violet said. She reached out a hand and stroked the ornery owl as the bird glowered at me. "Her name is Hedwig, not Snowball. And I''m Violet."


    "Padma Patil."


    "Parvati Patil. And sorry, we haven''t seen any toads."


    I noticed Violet didn''t give her last name. She''d likely cottoned on to the mess that was being a celebrity already. Unfortunately, Leontes was as bright as Hermione and he connected the dots rather quickly.


    "Violet? As in Violet Potter? Oh! I read all about you!"


    "Yeah? You want a medal?"


    "Is it true that you-"


    "Fought off a dementor and saved a fairy who took me into Albion where I studied magic for a hundred years in a day?" she said, voice tinged with excitement and pride.


    "Yes!"


    "No," she said flatly. "Are you stupid? Were you born this way or were you dropped on your head as a child?"


    "Hehehe," I chuckled as Leontes sputtered. This little trek around the train was worthwhile just to see this. They were great entertainment if nothing else. Violet Potter was turning out to be quite the variable, and in a good way.


    "What''re you laughing at, chuckle-fuck?"


    "Forgive Granger. He''s very curious about the magical world. He was interrogating me on the nuances of divination before we started this little scavenger hunt."


    Parvati perked up. "You''re studying divination?"


    "Independently, yes."


    "Ooh, do you have the Sight?"


    "I''d like to think so. Any interest in the subject?"


    "Yeah! I mean, why not learn, right? Imagine knowing who your true love is. Or how to make yourself lucky. Or when you''re going to die so you can prevent it."


    Padma sighed and interrupted her sister. "Or, you can spend a decade learning an art that you have zero talent in. You either have the Sight or you don''t. And we don''t. Patils haven''t been seers in all three thousand years of our existence."


    "Hey, you never know. Seer bloodlines have to have started somewhere. What do you think, Zabini?"


    This was clearly a longstanding argument between the two. I vaguely remembered Parvati and Lavender taking divination in third year so her showing some interest in the subject beforehand made sense. "Leave me out of your sibling spats, please. All I know is I''m a seer. That''s all that matters to me."


    "Liar," Padma accused. "Seers are really rare. In fact, you wouldn''t even know if you were one because seers don''t remember their own prophecies."


    "Is that right?"


    "Yup. I think you''re having us on."


    I smiled glibly. She wasn''t wrong, the CYOA just made me an abnormality. I wanted recognition, to be known as the greatest seer of all, and what better time to start building a reputation for myself than now? I figured I may as well sow the seeds and tapped into my magic. Suddenly, I was hearing their conversation five seconds ahead. I began to speak conversationally, repeating everything I heard as they spoke in the real world.


    "Well, he was reading a book on divination," Leontes said.


    "Yeah, so? That doesn''t mean he has the Sight. He''s probably interested in it like my sister."


    "Hey, guys, umm¡­ I''m going to go find a prefect so I can get Trevor back," Neville said before shuffling away.


    "Lovely meeting y-"


    "Holy crap, Padma, he''s saying what we''re saying!"


    "Yeah, I noticed," the smarter sister said with a scowl. "Stop copying us. It doesn''t prove you''re a seer."


    "Wait, isn''t he saying the words before you do? He is!" Parvati exclaimed. I walked into the cabin and took a seat next to Violet and across from Padma so I could better look at her changing expressions. Leontes squeezed in next to the twins and closed the door behind him. The chipper twin had a huge grin on her face. "Do you have the Sight?"


    "Doesn''t prove anything. It''s a good trick, but just a trick. Watch: Mera naam Padma Patil hai. main Ravenclaw banna chaahati hoon," Padma said in a foreign language. She looked smug for about a second before she realized I said the same thing she''d said, and a whole second faster than she did. "No way¡­ That was Hindi¡­"


    "Oh, was it?" I asked with a grin that wouldn''t melt butter. "It feels a bit strange on the tongue. What did I say?"


    "You said, ''My name is Padma Patil. I want to be a Ravenclaw.''"


    "Huh. Neat. Sorry if I butchered your native language, Patil."


    "Either you''re lying and you speak Hindi, or I''m wrong and this isn''t some predictive mind game."


    I waggled my eyebrows. "Who knows? So, Ravenclaw, huh? Ever consider Gryffindor? Your sister''s probably going there."


    "Really?" Parvati asked. "Like, for real? You saw it?"


    "Maybe. Or maybe I''m just messing with you and you''re going to end up in Ravenclaw, doomed to forever be cooped up in a tower studying like your sister."


    "That would be awful."


    "Hey! Ravenclaw is a perfectly respectable house," Padma protested. She shot me a judging glare. "And don''t think I don''t know what you''re doing. No changing the subject. Do you have the Sight?"


    "Signs point to yes."


    "A yes or no would be great, Zabini."


    "Reply hazy, try again later."


    "Ugh, Blaise is copying magic eight ball responses," Leontes groaned. "It''s a muggle fortune-telling toy."


    "Zabini, Granger. In the wizarding world, unless you are close friends, lovers, or family, you use a person''s family name to address them. We''re not that close," I corrected him. He''d probably get shit for it if I didn''t. He''d get shit anyway, but if he made a basic effort to fit in with wizarding culture, he''d be less likely to get singled out. "And who says that muggle contraption is useless?"


    "I mean¡­ Isn''t it?"


    "Better not tell you now."


    "More eight ball responses? Really?"


    "It is certain."


    Violet, who''d been watching carefully, let out a snort of laughter. "Is it just the future? Or can you also see the past?"


    "Not everyone who has the Sight is equal, kind of like how not everyone has perfect vision. Either your eyes are opened or shut, but the clarity varies from person to person. A lot of things depend on the medium, what spell you''re using, what you''re searching for, or even the position of the planets, stars, and moon. But yes, it''s theoretically possible for someone to see into the past."


    Parvati spoke up. "Ooh, can you tell me what house will have the cutest boys?"


    I couldn''t help it. I flipped my bangs like the pompous ass I was. "Slytherin, because I''m going there."


    "Someone''s humble," Violet rolled her eyes.


    "I am. Now are you convinced I am a seer?"


    "Maybe. Tell me something no one knows about me."


    I stared at her pointedly. "Are you sure?"


    "Of course I''m sure." Her reply was immediate. It was good to know she was as reckless as her male counterpart.


    "No, because there are a lot of things that you''d actually feel uncomfortable about," I said reasonably. She must have thought back on her life because her face became an unhealthy red. "There is something harmless however: You have a neighbor named Arabella Figg. And if that doesn''t convince you, just remember: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak."


    "I-Yeah¡­ Thanks. I believe you now."


    "No problem, Potter. Now if you''ll excuse me, I''m going to go get changed into my school robes."


    "No, wait," Parvati called, "What''s that supposed to mean?"


    "Nonsense, sister," Padma drolled. "He means nonsense."


    "I''ll have you know I make as much sense as Albus Dumbledore," I sniffed pompously. "You''ll see. And just remember, my services are for sale. Now I really must be getting changed."


    "Oh, right, you left your owl in our cabin," Leontes said.


    "Minerva''s a big girl. She probably left through the window anyway."


    "We still need to grab our stuff."


    "We don''t. Leave it to the house elves, Granger. Just grab your robes."


    "What are house elves? I read about them but there wasn''t much in Hogwarts: A History to say for sure. Are they like a type of brownie?"


    I sighed as I stood back up. Dick or no dick, Hermione was as hungry for knowledge as ever. If I was honest, it was getting a little annoying. Hopefully I could ditch him soon.


    Author''s Note


    There must be karmic balance. If Harry gets swapped, so does Hermione. Lyra and Heath have the same relationship here as they did in canon, which is to say, not-Pansy is still thirsty as fuck. I guess he''s a simp now (lol).


    I''m probably forgetting a lot of canon, I read the books over a decade ago. I realized as I was writing that I''m effectively no better than the people who write fanfiction about Worm without ever having read it. Canon and fanon have fully merged into an amorphous blob in my mind.


    Animal facts¡­ Shit, umm¡­ kinda put myself on the spot because I didn''t have one when I originally put this up on Pat-re-on. Have something disturbing: Adelie penguins can and will fuck absolutely anything vaguely penguin-shaped. Chicks? Fine. Females? Consent is a human construct. Dead penguin carcasses? Yup.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 6. Wanna see a hat trick?

    Chapter 6: Wanna see a hat trick?


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    "First years! First years! This way!" Hagrid shouted. The man was a hulking goliath. He stood nearly twelve feet tall, but in the dark and the rain, seemed even bigger. He was twice as wide as I was, and most of that bulk were muscles that I felt could uproot small trees. He wasn''t technically allowed to do magic anymore, but that didn''t make the half-giant any less imposing.


    "Ah, Violet, yer ''ere!" he said, lumbering towards us. He reached down and ruffled her hair, making the already messy do look like a hippogriff nest.


    "Stop that," she growled, though it sounded more like a cute whine coming from the petit girl. She did her best to swat his hand away but was physically too weak to do more than contribute to her hair-ruffling.


    I couldn''t help it. I laughed. Beneath his massive palm, the Chosen One''s head almost looked like a tennis ball. She glared heatedly at me, but that only made me laugh harder. She seemed like the kind of person who absolutely loathed being mocked no matter the reason, which was admittedly understandable.


    Then something else caught my attention: the carriages. We wouldn''t be using those until second year, but the beasts hitched to them were as visible as could be to me.


    Thestrals, they were sometimes called death''s steeds or harbingers of misfortune in magical folklore, because they could only be seen by those who had seen death. For whatever reason, Harry couldn''t see them until fifth year despite having seen his mother die as an infant. I assumed it was because he consciously did not remember the night. Or perhaps, it was because as an infant, he hadn''t seen the deed itself. I saw Violet''s gaze glide over the "invisible" horses and figured the same applied here.


    In my case, the night I "saw death" was as clear as crystal to me. It''d only been a few weeks and I''d been the one to deliver it.


    The creatures looked like a mix of dragons and horses, with draconic heads and wings and fleshless bodies. Their skulls were draconic, all curves and menacing fangs. Their dark hides stretched form-fittingly over their skeletons, leaving every bone visible to the naked eye. They brought to mind stories of the Wild Hunt, Germanic and Norse folklore adopted to the British Isles. These certainly looked starved, even if I knew they were supposed to look like that.


    Then their eyes met mine. Pupil-less though they were, I knew somehow that they were staring straight at me. Was it magic? Did they somehow know when their disillusionment failed on a person? Perhaps some kind of prey response or sensitivity towards being observed? Or were they so intrinsically tied to the concept of death that they recognized a kindred spirit?


    Their soulless eyes stared into me and left me feeling thoroughly unsettled. I was reminded that though Luna Lovegood treated these creatures like ponies, they were carnivores and considered dangerous by the Ministry.


    Harmless? Dangerous? The truth was likely somewhere in the middle; even mundane stallions were dangerous if provoked after all.


    Whatever they were, they creeped me the fuck out.


    "Zabini? You coming?" I heard Patil, Parvati, call.


    "Y-Yeah, just¡­ Thought I saw something," I said. I took a step but my body seized up in pain. I almost went sprawling if it wasn''t for Padma catching me by the arm.


    "What''s gotten into you?" the quiet twin said.


    I tapped my pimp cane on the ground. "Sorry, ground''s a bit wet."


    "Well, come on. I''ll get you to the boats."


    I ended up sharing a boat with the Patil twins, Parvati getting on first and taking my cane while Padma helped me step over the shallow hull. It made me feel like an invalid, though I supposed I was at the moment.


    We looked back towards Neville, Leontes, and Violet. Parvati waved to them. "Come on, doesn''t matter who."


    "You go ahead," Longbottom said. "I think there''s space with Bones and Abbot."


    Violet shrugged and hopped on before waving Leontes towards Neville. Truthfully, I wasn''t too sad to see the boys go; they were incredibly problematic people to associate with for someone in my position.


    To be fair, I didn''t care terribly what mother-dearest thought and intended to do my own thing, but that didn''t mean my life wouldn''t be made easier if I associated with the "right sort." The Patils were convenient in that regard, not "dark," but not "light" either thanks to their foreign roots. Their neutrality and bloodline made them uncomplicated to be around.


    As the boat began to move, I whispered a quick lumos and tucked my wand behind my ear to use as a light. I opened my book and kept right on reading. Or, I tried. Five minutes later, the castle came into view and focusing became impossible.


    "Woah," I heard them gasp. Then, I felt Parvati slap my shoulder. "Zabini, look! The castle!"


    "Yes, I''m sure it''s lovely."


    "You didn''t even look."


    I sighed and closed my book. "Fine, I''ll look. Are you hap-"


    The view was breathtaking. I''d seen it in the movies plenty of times so I figured it''d be more of the same. I''d already had my sentimental "first time in the magical world" moment when I entered Diagon; I didn''t need another.


    But there was something about being here in the moment that made it all seem so much more mystical. Hogwarts Castle loomed over the lakeshore, its towers and arches cast in brilliant orange torches. The moon reflected off the castle, giving the entire vista an ethereal look straight out of a fae court.


    It was majestic. Iconic. Maybe it sank in then, that I''d be here for seven years. I couldn''t put to words the feeling that welled up inside of me.


    "See? Awesome, huh?" Parvati said with a snicker. She nudged my side repeatedly and waggled her eyebrows playfully.


    I snatched my wand off my ear before it could fall into the water. I reached over and jabbed her side.


    Parvati practically jumped off the boat with a squeal of laughter. "Eep! Why?"


    "Stop ruining the mood."


    "Jerk."


    "Yup. I''m evil. Now pipe down and enjoy the scenery if you''re not going to let me read."


    "Ugh, such a Ravenclaw."


    "And what''s wrong with that, sister?" Padma asked her twin pointedly.


    "Ah¡­ Nothing?"


    "That''s what I thought."


    "Padma''s kinda scary when she''s mad, huh?" Violet said with a grin.


    "You have no idea. It''s always the quiet ones, I tell you. She''s smart so she never forgets," her sister complained. At Padma''s glaring, she coughed to the side and quickly changed the topic. "So, Zabini, what does it feel like when you see the future?"


    "Boring. Like seeing the present, only you have to live through it twice," I drawled.


    "Boo¡­ Fine, when did you find out you had the Sight?"


    I coughed awkwardly. That wasn''t exactly easy to talk about and I didn''t want to ruin the moment for them so I settled on obfuscation via honesty. "This summer in Portugal, when I had to spend a night with my step-aunt."


    "Cool, how far can you see into the future?"


    "Without a medium? About five seconds with good clarity. Really, Patil, having the Sight isn''t as great as you''re making it out to be."


    "What? Why? It sounds awesome."


    "Look, precognition is a lot like being stranded in the middle of London on a really foggy morning. You can see ten feet in front of you, maybe. There are some things that stand out through the fog, like Big Ben or the River Thames, but for the most part, things are just fuzzy. The difference between seers and non-seers isn''t that seers are all-knowing, it''s that seers know there is a fog in the first place."


    "So¡­ You don''t know who your ideal girlfriend is?"


    "Nope. Or how I''ll die. Or the lotto numbers. Sorry to break it to you."


    "Aww."


    I smiled softly as the three girls fell into a conversation about the castle and what magic was like in India. Their conversation was all over the place, from comparing Indian and medieval Scottish architecture to hair curling charms that Parvati promised would tame Violet''s messy locks. It was a weird dichotomy, with Padma trying to steer the three into talking about something more academic and Parvati tugging in the opposite direction.


    Regardless, Violet seemed to be enjoying herself; this was probably one of the few friendly conversations she''d ever had with her peers.


    The boat really took the scenic route, taking us on a leisurely cruise across the lake and beneath the bridge. I thought I could see the giant squid waving from beneath the water, but it could have just been the ripple of moonlight scattered on the surface.


    Eventually, the boats did reach that little alcove next to the great hall and we disembarked. I nearly stumbled again and hopped out of the boat but managed to stick the landing.


    Our heavy coats kept most of the drizzle off, but I almost wished for someone to show off how cool and powerful they were with a warming charm for the rest of us. Alas, I lacked the charms affinity to make the attempt and there weren''t any other isekai protagonists around that I knew of.


    We were just settling in to wait awkwardly when the walls burst forth with a parade of Hogwarts ghosts. There were dozens of them, dressed in finery from all throughout the centuries, but my eyes were fixed on four in particular.


    Nearly Headless Nick led the charge, probably the closest he''d ever get to joining the Headless Hunt. The ghosts of Helena Ravenclaw and the Bloody Baron marched solemnly on either side, as far from each other as they could possibly get. The Fat Friar, as per the values of his house, stuck around for a while after the ghostly host had passed, chatting and welcoming the students to the castle proper.


    I had to give it to him, the man did a great job of breaking the ice. The teenage awkwardness of standing around with thirty-nine other kids you didn''t know was more or less gone now, leading to much of the conversation I''d expected.


    "My older brothers say we have to fight a troll to prove ourselves," said a ginger boy who could only be Ron. He was tall, taller than me by a good six inches, and broad-shouldered. He sounded skeptical himself but willing to share one ridiculous guess to top the last.


    "No way, mate," another boy said. "I''m telling you; it''s a test."


    "What test? I didn''t expect a test for the sorting, but that makes too much sense, doesn''t it?" Leontes stammered. "Aw, bollocks, all our books are still on the train!"


    That got a laugh out of me. "Relax, Granger," I called, lifting the head of my cobra-cane in a jaunty wave. "The sorting isn''t a test, though the troll thing¡­ maybe¡­"


    "Liar," Padma accused. "Stop scaring the muggleborns. A troll has magic-resistant skin and stands twelve feet tall. There''s no way that''s the sorting ceremony."


    "You''re right, Patil. Don''t worry about the troll. It really doesn''t concern you."


    It was a neat bit of foreshadowing on Rowling''s part, one she didn''t get enough credit for. Ron claimed the sorting might involve wrestling a troll. It didn''t of course, but he and Harry did indeed end up fighting one for Hermione''s sake. Whether that''d happen this time around or not was up in the air, but¡­ maybe¡­


    I allowed the easy conversation to wash over me as my schoolmates introduced themselves to one another. They talked about all sorts of things, from quidditch to house cups and upcoming classes. None of them interested me much, my cryptic warning given for the evening, until I heard a familiar voice call out to Potter.


    Really, I''d expected this conversation on the train, but it was just as well. One way or another, the pair seemed fated in their own little way.


    "I heard Potter''s in our year. Is that you?" I heard a clear, bell-like voice say. I turned to find the dickless ferret herself, Lyra Malfoy.


    I wasn''t being fair to her. She was very pretty, with straight, blonde hair and icy-blue eyes. She stood at about chin-height to myself and had the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. She wore a set of earrings made of gold and sapphires, worth a fortune. A similarly jeweled hair clip kept her bangs out of her eyes and framed her face elegantly.


    Even with the standards set by my mother and her armory of magical beautifying products, I could honestly say Lyra Malfoy was one of the most attractive girls I''d ever seen, in both lives. Throw in her family wealth and it wasn''t hard to guess why boys catered to her every whim.


    The only thing marring her beauty was the smug smirk on her face that I knew was meant to be disarming but instead looked overly self-satisfied. She couldn''t quite pull off Narcissa Malfoy''s trademark smile yet. She stopped right in front of Violet and waited.


    Violet, in a manner I was starting to realize was typical of her, rolled her eyes. She crossed her arms across her chest and stared Malfoy down like she''d done to Granger. She held the silence until Lyra visibly started to squirm with discomfort.


    When she showed the first signs of cracking, Violet spoke, "Who wants to know?"


    "Lyra Malfoy." She looked at myself and the Patil twins. She nodded imperceptibly towards me in acknowledgement and stuck out her hand. "I see you''ve found some of the right sort. Patil and Zabini aren''t bad, but you could do better. I can help you with that."


    I could see the explosion coming a mile away, seer abilities unnecessary. Violet grew up a neglected and lonely girl. By contrast, Lyra had everything Violet ever wanted, namely a good home and loving parents. The presence or absence of a penis wasn''t going to change that.


    Of course, Violet didn''t know that, but every gesture on Lyra''s part screamed entitlement. Those few sentences already had her associating the pureblood heiress with her relatives, the kinds of people who sought to control her, told her what to do, and liked to put others down to feel better about themselves.


    "Right sort, eh?" she hummed. She then leaned forward until her nose was inches away from Lyra''s and whispered, just loud enough for us to hear. "The right sort is whoever the bloody hell I feel like talking to, thanks. Piss off, princess."


    Lyra''s face took on an interesting shade of red as she processed her words. The most amusing part of all this for me wasn''t that their interaction seemed predestined, it might have been for all I knew, but that this was Lyra''s attempt at making friends.


    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    She implied that Violet''s reputation was important enough to catch her attention, introduced herself, and offered a potential ally a clear service she could provide: information regarding magical society. Which, to be fair, Violet needed. Lyra had done as she''d been taught. She''d even foregone much of the manners of noble society in favor of something befitting schoolmates.


    Then she ran smack dab into the wall of teen moxie and spite that was Violet.


    This scene was even funnier now that I knew the subtext. I couldn''t help it; I giggled. I tried to be quiet, but I couldn''t manage it. Soon, both girls were glowering at me.


    "Oh, think that''s funny, do you, Zabini?" Lyra scowled. She''d never been the butt of a joke before, her beauty and wealth made sure of that. Put on the spot like this, she didn''t really know how to handle it.


    "Wow, I really should have expected this," I said with a cough to clear my throat. "I''m sorry, Malfoy, I didn''t mean to laugh. I do find this funny, but not for the reason you think. Please don''t mind me."


    "Hmph, seems you''ve found her on the train. Getting started early, are we?"


    "Are¡­ Are you implying that I''m trying to groom Potter so I can marry, fuck, and eventually murder her for her inheritance?"


    Faced with blunt oversharing, Lyra did what most people did and backpedaled. "What? No!"


    "If you are, just say what you mean, Malfoy. No need to tap dance around it, everyone knows who my mother is," I drawled. I smiled serenely as the entire hall fell silent.


    "That wasn''t what I said."


    "You didn''t. I said it for you. I don''t mind." I placed an elbow on Violet''s shoulder and leaned in with a conspirational wink. "Hear that, Potter? I''m coming for your vault, in more ways than one."


    She snorted and shoved my arm off her shoulder, making me stumble on my cane. "Hilarious. You''re a right prat, Zabini."


    "I am. To everyone. You. Malfoy. Patils if I can ever tell them apart-"


    "Hey!" Parvati complained. "I''m the pretty one."


    "She thinks she''s the pretty one. Whereas I''m definitely the smart one," Padma corrected primly.


    I nodded amiably. She wasn''t wrong. "Right, just know I find you both funny for my own reasons. I think I hear McGonagall coming. Sorting''s up; better start prepping for that troll. I recommend indirect spells, by the way."


    X


    The deputy headmistress came, gave us her spiel about the four houses, and led us into the great hall.


    The hall was beautiful, with the famed ceiling that reflected the stormy sky outside. In truth, seeing it for myself left me feeling thoroughly unimpressed. I knew of course that it was a masterpiece of enchanting and charms-work. It had lasted for as long as the castle, an incredible feat in and of itself.


    And yet¡­


    "A skylight," I muttered as I heard Granger chatter about reading about it in Hogwarts: A History. "The Founders built a skylight. Let''s not get too excited¡­"


    Overhyped though the ceiling was, I had to admit, there was a certain ambiance here that was hard to describe. It was the hundreds of candles that floated through the air and the sound of the Hogwarts Choir as they sang an emotional ballad about new beginnings. It was the rapt attention paid to us from our seniors, the gaze of our professors as they took our measure. It all charged the air with eager anticipation and celebratory cheer that was at once uplifting and made us march proud with our backs straight.


    When we were gathered in front of the hall, the hat broke into his traditional song:


    {Oh, you might be expecting


    Some stupid fucking song


    About the four houses here,


    But that''s too fucking long.


    You know this one already,


    Shit''s just exposition,


    So let''s skip this boring number,


    And move on with narration.}


    The hall burst into applause and I wondered what he thought about the rest of the year. Did he spend the whole year thinking of words that rhyme with the four houses? Because that sounded like a special brand of hell I wouldn''t wish upon my worst enemies. Or did he simply go into stasis like a painting that hadn''t been spoken to in a while?


    Or, if this was a terribly written fanfiction, maybe he was the representative of a sentient castle? The Will of Hogwarts who had untold powers and privileges bestowed upon him by the Founders. That''d certainly make my life easier. I could just invoke some secret ritual, have Violet take an inheritance test from strangely helpful goblins to become Lady Potter-Black-Peverell-Gryffindor-Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw-Slytherin, and take down Voldemort with the help of Slytherin''s portrait, which would conveniently be hidden inside the Chamber of Secrets waiting for the "true heir of magic" or somesuch.


    I felt an elbow jab into my side. "You''re smiling like a loon, Zabini," Violet muttered.


    "Don''t worry about it, just plotting a few murders here and there," I whispered back.


    "Bloody nuts, I swear."


    "Abbott, Hannah!" I heard McGonagall call.


    "Hufflepuff," I muttered under my breath. A few seconds later, I heard the hat call the same. Violet eyed me funny so I smirked back at her. "Lucky guess."


    "Bones, Susan!" The niece of Amelia Bones walked up the steps. She was a pale, slightly pudgy redhead. She''d grow up to be a fierce witch in her own right, one of Harry''s greatest allies in the house of badgers, but that was nowhere to be seen now. Now, she was shaking with nerves and almost jumped when McGonagall placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.


    "Totally a Puff."


    "Might be a Gryff," she countered with an amused glint in her eye. "She''s a redhead, has to have a temper."


    "But is that courage?"


    "Eh, it might be."


    "HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouted from atop Susan''s head.


    "Rats."


    "Boot, Terry!" McGonagall called.


    "Raven," I said. A second later, the hat proclaimed the same.


    "Brown, Lavender!" This time, a bubbly blonde all but skipped onto the stage.


    "Gryff," Violet declared. "She''s too confident."


    "I agree with you," I hummed.


    Sure enough, the hat called for the house of lions and their table went wild in celebration. Then McGonagall summoned the first canonical snake to the stool. "Crabbe, Vincent!"


    The boy was big, a full head taller than me despite being in the same year. He was also fat, though I could see a layer of muscle beneath it all. He looked like he''d make a great linebacker if he bothered to put in the hours.


    The Crabbes were of middling importance in pureblood society, not because of any real wealth or influence, but because of the way they served families far more important than themselves, namely Malfoy.


    From what I could remember of mother''s lessons, the Crabbe patriarch, alongside the Goyle''s acted as enforcers for Lucius Malfoy because his father, Abraxas Malfoy, paid for their ministry positions or something. It was a decades old arrangement, though one that seemed to be losing steam somewhat because of Lyra''s gender.


    Which wasn''t to say they didn''t take orders from her, they did, or would if she bothered to give any. They were undoubtedly told by their parents to keep the Malfoy heiress happy. The problem was, Lyra herself saw them as "gross, smelly, and stupid," her words. She, like many teenage girls, concluded that having them following after her like the world''s ugliest pugs wasn''t a good look and effectively let them out into the wild.


    "Slytherin," I whispered.


    "Why?"


    "Hat says it''s about our inner qualities. I don''t think that''s true. I think the hat sorts us based on the qualities we value most."


    "They''re the same thing much of the time."


    "Yup. But if a family has been in one house for centuries¡­"


    "The kid grows up thinking that house is greatest and so gets sorted there," she finished for me. "Huh, any others like that?"


    "Bones and Abbot were two legacies," I confirmed. "A lot of pureblood houses are like that."


    "And yours?"


    "Mom''s the only Hogwarts graduate. Dad went to Durmstrang."


    "SLYTHERIN!" the hat interrupted us.


    I gave Violet a knowing wink, which she responded to with a short raspberry. By now, our little game had caught on a bit, which was good considering I wanted to market my services. A bit of a demonstration was necessary.


    The ones who were sorted early, and wouldn''t get to hear me do this, would no doubt hear the rumors of a true seer wandering around. People were likely to say that the feat was easier than implied because a lot of old houses were shoe-ins for one house or another, but it''d still send tongues wagging, especially since my name came last and I could run the full gamut.


    The next name got called and we continued our game, this time with a few more participants.


    "Anyway, I''m going to Slytherin because I value my ambition more than the other virtues, not because mom''s a graduate."


    "So where am I going?"


    I considered what I knew of her. She''d be great in Slytherin, that much was obvious. Not only was she a parselmouth, she proved to be fairly observant of people and seemed like the kind of girl who could be viciously cunning when motivated. She''d also fit in with Gryffindor considering how impulsively she''d responded to Leontes and Lyra.


    "That depends," I told her.


    "On what?"


    "On how much you value greatness."


    "That''s not an answer."


    "Of course it is. It''s a perfectly seer-like answer. Cryptic and makes zero bloody sense until you sit up there."


    "And you''ll pretend you got it right no matter what," she accused.


    "Yup. Just remember, I''m for sale."


    She snorted. "You sound like a manwhore."


    "Shameless," I agreed.


    More joined in on our little guessing game, though I was the only one who continued to get full marks. Some were obvious to me, like Goyle, while others, I had to cheat a bit, invoking my power to see a few seconds ahead and simply speak ahead of the sorting hat.


    The Patil twins were separated, as per canon. They didn''t seem terribly surprised by this. Though they had a good relationship with one another, they were very different people and they acknowledged that. I saw Padma and Parvati making signs at each other from their respective tables, promising to hang out later no doubt.


    Then it came.


    "Potter, Violet!"


    X


    Violet Potter


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    How the bloody hell did two words silence the entire hall like this? I''d thought the bullshit I had to put up with at the Leaky Cauldron would be the worst of it, but nooo, teens turned out to be as bad as the adults.


    Where was the belligerence and fuck-it-all attitude? Why the hell did they give a damn about something that happened before they stopped shitting themselves?


    It was all so strange. Back in Surrey, my scar made me a freak. I''d taken the label and ran with it, becoming a delinquent so my fat lard of a cousin would leave me alone. I became "different" enough to belong with the outcasts.


    Here, my scar made me a hero. I just wished I remembered, then maybe I''d at least know what my parents looked like. Uncle Vernon said they were shitty people who died in a car accident. Turned out, they died fighting for me. I should''ve known anything that fat fuck said was suspect.


    I felt a lot like an elephant at a circus as I made my way towards the stool. Sure, half the bloody students in my year had been sorted already, but it was obvious everyone was waiting on mine. No one gave a damn that Lyra Malfoy went to Slytherin before the hat even touched her. Me though? I could practically hear every mouth-breather take a deep breath.


    The hat dropped down, almost big enough to slide over my eyes. I almost wished it did, then I wouldn''t have to see the stares. Then my eyes met Blaise''s.


    And wasn''t he baffling.


    He was an ass but hadn''t acted like he wanted to sniff my knickers or save clippings of my hair. He was also apparently a seer, one who knew about my uncle and aunt. Or at least, knew enough to stop talking. I didn''t know how common that was, but the thought that random people could just¡­ know things¡­ about me made me deeply uncomfortable.


    ''No worries there, Miss Potter,'' a strange voice spoke into my mind. I started, almost throwing the hat off my head, but a warm chuckle filled the void. ''Relax. I''m the sorting hat. I speak no secrets. And to answer your question, seers are extremely rare.''


    "So he''s-"


    ''In your mind, if you please. I can hear you just fine.''


    ''Fine, so Blaise is a seer? For real?''


    ''From what you''ve seen of him, that does seem to be the case.''


    ''He was lying.''


    ''Hmm?''


    ''The five seconds rule he gave Parvati on the boat. He also said on the train, "Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak." That wasn''t nothing.''


    ''It could be nonsense, you know.''


    ''He seemed to know enough about me. I''m not taking anything he says for granted.''


    ''Wise, though I must warn you, people have a bad habit of misinterpreting prophecies. Heed his counsel if it suits you, but never rely on it.''


    ''Yeah, he''s a colossal prat who enjoys confusing other people. I figured. So, where am I going?''


    ''Well, that depends,'' the hat said coyly. I didn''t know a hat could do that. Then again, I didn''t know hats could sing until tonight either.


    ''Oh, god, if you say something about the value of greatness, I''m going to fill you with dog shit.''


    ''Rude, especially because I know you mean it. Alas, your seer friend-''


    ''He''s not my friend,'' I huffed. Those were rarely worth it. I didn''t know what he was. He was a prat. And he knew too much. But talking to him¡­ hadn''t been bad¡­


    ''Your "seer acquaintance,"'' the hat continued, this time all but rolling his eyes at me, ''speaks true. Slytherin can make you great.''


    ''And that just happens to be where you''re sending Blaise.''


    ''Perhaps, perhaps not. I''ve yet to see into his head. Don''t mind him, mind your own sorting, Miss Potter. You''ve a cunning mind should you choose to apply yourself. Slytherin truly could make you great.''


    ''And the other options?''


    ''Gryffindor, for you have plenty of courage. Brave, though some might say "bullheaded" is the better descriptor. Upright, a deep sense of justice, though at the cost of the letter of the law at times.''


    ''Yeah, well, laws are used to protect the big guy, not little ol'' me.''


    ''Yes, Holly told you that. Your first true friend.'' This time, I didn''t correct him. He was right. Holly had been the very first person to side with me over Dudley. The memory of her kneeing the fatass in the dick never failed to make me laugh. ''Real spunk on that one, though I would caution you; morality and justice are more complicated than your rebellious friend likes to assume.''


    ''Well, fuck you too, Mr. Hat. What about the other two?''


    ''Do you consider yourself wise?''


    ''Fuck no.''


    ''Then that is Ravenclaw out. Hufflepuff is a better fit, though I suspect your "lone wolf" demeanor will go down poorly with them.''


    ''Blaise said you sort by what we value, not what we are.''


    ''And he was right, to a point,'' the hat acknowledged, ''but your values are just one of several factors I take into consideration. Your ability to fit in with the culture of the house is another.''


    ''And that''s not me.''


    ''No, it is not.''


    ''So Gryffindor and Slytherin?''


    ''Indeed, Miss Potter. Which shall it be? The house of the brave, or the house of the cunning?''


    I stared out at the crowd. The sorting was getting long, at least three times as long as anyone else''s. That feeling of being a circus elephant increased along with the whispers that filled the hall. I found my gaze drawn to Blaise again.


    That smug asshole had his signature cocky smirk on his face. He was leaning on his cane and offered me a knowing nod, like he knew exactly what we were talking about.


    Maybe he did.


    Either way, that smirk made me want to kick his stupid cane from out under him so I could watch him hobble around for a while.


    ''You don''t mean that. You are vindictive, not senselessly cruel.''


    ''Yeah, well, maybe the cripple deserves someone laughing at him for a change.''


    ''I''m sure you''ll find plenty of reasons to laugh at him. It''s what friends do, I hear.''


    ''Not friends,'' I huffed, but there was no heat in it. He was¡­ complicated. Patil twins? Great, but Parvati was too chatty. Longbottom? Pudgy puppy. Granger? Annoying, geeky fanboy. Malfoy? Prissy, entitled cunt. Zabini? He defied easy categorization and it bothered me.


    ''The world seldom fits into our neat, little boxes, Miss Potter. Now, if you don''t mind¡­''


    ''Yeah, sorry, but you know my answer, don''t you? You''re in my head.''


    The hat chuckled. ''So I do, Miss Potter. Slytherin can make you great, but greatness has never been your desire. No, you did not feel a surge of ambition at my proclamation; you felt trepidation at the thought of yet more burdens. Slytherin could make you great, but it''s not the only path forward. I do hope you''ll sharpen this wit of yours as well as your courage in GRYFFINDOR!''


    The hat''s sudden shout caught me by surprise. The following cheer from the red table didn''t exactly help either.


    "We got Potter! We got Potter!" I heard a pair of gingers yell. They even got up and did a little jig, like getting me in their house was some kind of prize or something.


    "Is it too late to switch?" I asked the hat. The rumpled garment didn''t reply, and Professor McGonagall nudged me towards my new house.


    I sighed and resigned myself to more handshaking and whatnot. I met Blaise''s eyes and the smug cripple gave me a jaunty wave even as someone handed him a galleon.


    I sat down next to Parvati. Truthfully, she wasn''t bad. She was a tad loud, but it was nice to have a friendly face. I used her as a buffer as more and more teens did their best to demand my time. They kept introducing themselves, as if I could learn all their names in a few seconds. It was a relief when the professor finally continued their sorting.


    Parvati and I didn''t watch the stool, we watched Blaise.


    He was a character. It was fascinating. He seemed to get visibly tipsier, like Uncle Vernon after a few drinks. Except there was no alcohol to be had. He leaned more on his cane as the sorting went on and I wondered just what he needed it for exactly.


    Similarly, the students around him became increasingly dumbfounded. We couldn''t hear him from where we were sitting, but it was obvious why: He''d probably continued his guessing game.


    "Think he''ll get them all?" Parvati asked.


    "No contest," I said. "He''s a prat, but he''s the real deal. Even the hat thinks so."


    "The hat? You talked to it about him?"


    "It just looked in my mind, but yeah."


    "So it''s true then?" Longbottom said. Our eyes turned to the pudgy pupper and he immediately looked down nervously. He introduced himself again, though it came off as a nervous tick. "Sorry, I''m Neville Longbottom, but you can call me Neville. People have been saying Zabini is a seer."


    "He is," Parvati said. "He''s been guessing where everyone''s going and hasn''t failed once."


    "I see¡­"


    The three of us continued to watch the sorting. Until finally, Zabini was the only one standing in the middle of the hall.


    When his name was called, he didn''t walk so much as he stumbled up there. He didn''t seem to be in pain, but it was clear that he wasn''t in full control of his limbs either.


    After a long several minutes, almost as long as mine, the hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"


    "He predicted his own house too," Parvati said with an impressed hum. "So, full marks?"


    "Full marks," I agreed. "He''s still a jerk."


    "He is."


    Once we were all seated, Headmaster Dumbledore stood up for a second. He carried on with some announcements about forbidden items, a forbidden forest, and, brand new apparently, a forbidden corridor.


    Finally, he held out his hands as if in benediction, and said, "Now, I have but four final words for you before we begin the feast: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"


    My eyes found Parvati''s, only to flicker to Granger, and then to Padma across the hall. The four of us whirled to find Blaise at the Slytherin table, but he''d rested his head on his arms. Then, as if feeling our gazes on him, he raised his head and offered us that same, cheeky smirk.


    "He lied to me!" Parvati yelled. "You said five seconds! You liar!"


    Author''s Note


    This got a bit long, but I feel like splitting it would have been a disservice so you get this.


    Hagrid is canonically 11'' 6", more than two feet taller than the tallest man ever, Robert Wadlow.


    I write a lot of dialogue. I feel like because these scenes are so well-treaded in both canon and fanon, the only way I can make them seem a little less stale is to do a lot of talking. I''ve taken the PWP approach in a way: Throw in a bunch of fanon references and tropes into the pot and see what comes out.


    While nothing changed as far as houses went, it''s worth noting that Violet doesn''t have an ingrained animosity towards Slytherin here for three reasons: First, her conversation with Ron didn''t happen. Second, Blaise took on some of the tension from Violet and Lyra''s first meeting. And third, Blaise himself is in Slytherin, and she''s got a lot of mixed (though not negative) feelings about him.


    As for Blaise''s own sorting, I decided to skip over it. The isekai protagonist always has a chat with the hat where the hat promises not to tell anyone and whatnot. I figured we could ignore that bit and move on.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 7. Dinner shouldnt be this complicated!

    Chapter 7: Dinner shouldn''t be this complicated!


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I hobbled towards the Slytherin table, the sorting hat''s shout ringing in my ears. The healers said my muscle spasms should stop in a week or two¡­ or three¡­


    I was a bit of an outlier as far as the age of crucio victims went so they didn''t know as much as any of us would like, but the usual spasms felt three times worse now that they were coupled with my Somnolent drawback. Standing around while everyone else got sorted hadn''t exactly done me any favors either.


    Bluntly, I had a bedtime and every fiber of my being loathed being awake past it. My vision was getting blurry at the edges. My knees wobbled. Alas, I still had the rest of the opening feast to muddle through.


    I was tired, magically strained from consistent attempts to access the Sight, and appropriately cranky. I knew from experience that the food would help me stave off exhaustion for another hour or two, probably enough to get me to bed, but I''d regret all of this in the morning, if I could wake up on time at all.


    The student body applauded eagerly, though the applause wasn''t for me as much as it was for the feast to come.


    "Episkey," I whispered under my breath as I approached the Slytherin table. A wave of healing magic bathed me like a cool river, soothing the aches enough to let me walk without problems. I took stock of what I knew about the house as I looked for a seat.


    Unfortunately, that was precious little. Rowling hadn''t seen fit to do much worldbuilding when it came to Harry''s non-Gryffindor housemates. I wondered if that was the reason she made the houses in the first place, so Harry only ever had to interact with a tiny fraction of the student body.


    What I did know was that Valencia Zabini once described her house as "a haven for jackals who think themselves nundus." I remembered that quote because she said it with a smile of fond reminiscence, one of the few honest ones I''d ever seen from her, which was a little disturbing by itself.


    Annoying, but this probably was the best place I could be. I didn''t just want a big library, I wanted the biggest, most comprehensive, and rarest library, one with magical secrets lost to time and treasures beyond imagination. I wanted the kind of library that''d feature in terrible Indiana Jones rip offs a thousand years from now.


    And for that, I needed contacts. While it was true that most nobles today were entitled pricks, it was also true that they were nobles because, at one point or another, they deserved these titles. They weren''t good lords, but many were powerful once. Rare tomes and grimoires hoarded throughout the centuries, family magics passed down from generation to generation, I wanted them all, everything locked away for posterity.


    Getting them to part with their legacies was a tall order, but¡­ but that was precisely why I was here, in the house of the ambitious.


    I stumbled through a wave of drowsiness that had the cane skidding along the ground. I expected to faceplant against the brick floor, but found that my cane caught itself in the space between two bricks, keeping me upright.


    Grunting in annoyance, I took the seat farthest from the other students. I ought to be making friends with my housemates, connections were especially important in Slytherin, but I just didn''t have it in me. My lethargic ass could barely be bothered to shoot Violet and Parvati a smug grin after Dumbledore kicked off the feast.


    There was a fair bit of theorizing about what those words meant among readers. Some said the headmaster was poking fun at the four houses by naming traits counter to their virtues: nitwit because Ravens were supposed to be smart, blubber because Gryffs were arrogant, oddment, for the overly cliquey Slytherins, and tweak for the Puffs who just couldn''t let things lie.


    The other, more likely in my view, theory was that the four words just happened to be the names of the four house elves on serving duty for the feast.


    Truth was, I had no clue what those words meant in context either. If they were the names of house elves, I knew who to thank for not putting plates on top of my head as I rested my head on the table.


    I picked myself up with a groan and began loading my plate.


    The feast was a credit to the Hogwarts elves. It had everything a school full of gluttonous teenagers could possibly want. The tables groaned in protest at the sheer weight of the food and the quality was spectacular enough that there wasn''t any one dish that could be called the centerpiece.


    I saw a huge, roasted poultry I learned was goose, platters of bone-in pork chops seasoned heavily with rosemary, an entire prime rib with a knife that cut by itself upon request, and meat pies as wide as my shoulders. It was all fantastic, cooked to perfection in a way I''d only seen from my own elf, Pooky.


    I tapped my goblet and requested that it be filled with iced water instead of pumpkin juice. The thing was too sweet and it wasn''t like all wizards drank it religiously. No, as if to prove the Brits were tasteless boors no matter the presence of magic, it was mostly popular in Britain and small parts of Germany. Still, Hogwarts'' terrible taste in drink aside, the feast was amazing and the sudden influx of calories was enough to perk me up for a time.


    If this kind of culinary genius was a spell, the elves were sorely underrated. I wanted to learn it. I made a note to visit the Hogwarts kitchens; I could probably sell the information to non-Hufflepuffs for a decent chunk of change too.


    Now somewhat rejuvenated, I took the opportunity to examine my new housemates. There were four boys and five girls, as there should be. On the boys'' side, there were Parkinson, Nott, and the two gorillas. The girls were made up of Malfoy, Blustrode, Greengrass, and two I assumed were Tracey Davis and Alice Runcorn. I could already see little cliques forming based on where they were seated.


    Lyra, of course, had pride of place. She sat nearest to the older students, her name and wealth enough to see her welcomed there. Her platinum-blonde hair shimmered in the candlelight, making her seem like a princess from fairy tales. Millicent sat to Lyra''s right and nodded along to everything she said, as was her job as the token "ugly friend." Because Lyra was the sort to have one of those.


    Across from the "dark princess" herself sat Heath. He was, much like Pansy, somewhat "pug-nosed," though that was an overly harsh critique, I felt. Heath was tall for our age and had broad shoulders. Objectively, he''d never be dashing like he so desperately wanted to portray himself, but coupled with his flat-ish face, he could be ruggedly handsome if he bothered to put on some muscle, maybe a beard too.


    His sorting had only been a few names after Theodore Nott''s and he had wedged himself between Theo and an older boy so he could sit across from his blatant crush.


    That was his problem, I felt. It wasn''t as though I was a womanizer, no matter how my mother dearest wanted me to behave, but everything Heath did reeked of desperation.


    Really, he was a teenager with a crush. He saw the Malfoy princess, saw how beautiful she was and how perfectly noble she behaved, and did his best to become the kind of man he thought she''d be enticed by. He considered himself as an elegant debonair who deserved the finest things in life, but like every other teenager, didn''t actually know how to get them. I felt Slytherin would teach him some harsh lessons.


    Then there was Theodore, though I knew he hated the name. He was a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. In fact, the most recent genealogy of pureblood lines had been penned by Cantankerus Nott, his granduncle.


    Theo was a thin boy with a plain face. He had black hair and broody, gray eyes. He kept his hair slicked back with a bit too much pomade, giving his already thin face a bit of a weasel-like look.


    Of all the boys, Theo was the one Blaise had been the most wary of, and I agreed. Not only was he a noble with exceptional resources in his own right, he deserved to be a Slytherin for his cunning rather than ambition or legacy. In the quiet of his own mind, old-Blaise had admitted that the wiry boy was shrewder than he.


    He too had wanted to sit with Lyra, but not because he was a horny teenager. The impression I had of him was of a politician who''d been prevented from making a useful connection by an unwanted guest.


    Next to him were Vincent and Gregory. They were¡­ There wasn''t a whole lot going on upstairs. The two were happily stuffing their faces with absolutely everything within arms'' reach, though they did have the bare minimum of manners pureblood society mandated of them.


    Across from them, looking somewhat uncomfortable with the amount of food the two could devour, was Alice Runcorn. She was a tall girl, so thin that she made her robes look like draperies. She''d grow into the look, much like her father, Albert Runcorn, but right now, she was a bit of a scarecrow. Old-Blaise remembered her as being a bit of a wallflower, self-conscious about her height.


    Her family tried to stay out of the politics of the Wizengamot in favor of cushy ministerial positions. She acted as the buffer between Lyra''s clique, Theo''s networking, and the other pureblood princess: fanon''s favorite, Daphne Greengrass.


    Admittedly, Daphne was a very pretty girl, not less than Lyra in any way. She was also blonde, but a honey-gold color to Lyra''s platinum. Though not as rail-thin as Alice, she had a fairy-like figure that placed her in the perfect middle ground between adorable and gorgeous. Or, it would have been, had I not known the cause.


    She and Lyra had been bitter rivals all their lives, but Daphne was doomed to lose this burgeoning social contest; the Greengrass family was in steep decline. Oh, they were wealthy, enough that they made even my mother look like a pauper. They were also nobility, with one of the few permanent seats in the Wizengamot. Power, wealth, and a drop dead gorgeous daughter who was also as smart as a whip were theirs. Maximilian Greengrass was blessed, they said.


    And also horribly, incurably cursed.


    Canonically, the Greengrass bloodline had a blood curse attached to it. No one knew the cause, or if the Greengrass patriarch did, he wasn''t telling. It would kill Astoria in the future, Daphne''s sister was doomed to live a tragically short life, but it wasn''t like Astoria was the only one with the blood, and therefore the curse, just the one who exhibited the most severe symptoms.


    Members of House Greengrass, women especially, tended to be petite because of their fragile health. The potency of the curse varied from individual to individual, but not a single Greengrass woman had lived past the age of thirty-five.


    Lord Maximillion Greengrass, Daphne''s father, invested heavily into a cure. He hired curse-breakers from all over the world: onmyoji from Japan, shamans from Brazil, rishi from India, and more. It was a well-known truism in our circle, that he and his brother Gareth would pay exorbitant amounts of money to anyone who even remotely looked like a curse-breaker.


    These rumors of poor health and inability to find a cure, along with their monetary losses, left the family greatly diminished compared to what they were. Still powerful, but like a brilliant bonfire with a very finite stock of fuel to burn.


    No, Daphne was destined to lose her bout of social jockeying against Lyra, though not due to any shortcoming on her part. She was just unlucky.


    Perhaps that was why she was so fiercely defensive of Tracey despite the latter''s blood status. With such a devastating curse inherited through her vaunted bloodline, the philosophy of blood purity likely lost much of its luster. Her half-blood cousin wasn''t a Greengrass, she was the daughter of Daphne''s aunt on her mother''s side, which meant there was no trace of the curse to be found with her.


    Old-Blaise knew little about Tracey''s parents. All he knew was that she was an orphan raised with Daphne in the Greengrass manor, and that only because of how often Tracey accompanied her cousin to social gatherings.


    Tracey was the nearest to me by seating. She''d sat as far as she could from Lyra because she was conditioned to. The two cousins were fiercely protective of one another, which meant Lyra sniping at Tracey''s blood status inevitably earned Daphne''s bitter loathing. Tracey, for her part, tried not to cause her cousin any problems and always wore a bubbly, chipper smile while staying out of the limelight as much as she could.


    It was interesting, I felt, just how much outside forces could influence this little game here at this table. Lyra''s bitching at Tracey had soured the relations between the two most powerful children our age. That little argument between tweens was now shaping house dynamics in our year, and, if left unchecked, might even go on to influence national policy in Magical Britain when the two grew up.


    Slytherin truly was a microcosm of the pureblood elite.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    But none of this concerned me. I was no noble and so had no inherent worth in Slytherin, despite my awareness of its political dynamics. Wealthy enough to join the circle, not powerful enough to matter, that was Blaise. Even now, I intended to be a third party, an information merchant out for myself.


    I hummed happily as I placed a succulent slice of pork chop into my mouth. Layered with cranberry sauce and a dollop of gravy, the bite was everything I could ask for.


    "Zabini, right?" Tracey said with a bright, cheery smile more plastic than a barbie doll.


    "Good evening, Davis," I said politely but winced a little inside.


    Tracey, and Daphne by extension, had good reason to dislike me. Old-Blaise was a mess of issues ranging from bigoted blood purist to mildly misogynistic. Not that he thought of women as inherently lesser, but he only had one older example of a "successful" woman and she''d gotten where she was by fucking and murdering everyone involved.


    He used to treat girls like black widows in the making, projecting Valencia''s predatory behavior onto tweens who didn''t deserve the prejudice. Coupled with Tracey''s blood status and¡­


    Suffice to say, telling Tracey she should seduce Theo while he was young to "improve her station" hadn''t been received well. Her chipper mask cracked and she burst into tears. Daphne had been so wroth with old-me that she''d shattered every window in the venue, Theo''s summer house, with a burst of accidental magic before storming off to comfort her cousin. They weren''t my biggest fans since.


    The worst part was that old-Blaise had been genuine in his advice there. He thought she was pretty and, "If it worked for mom¡­"


    A part of me, the older, more mature Corbin, wanted to apologize, but I stamped down on the impulse. It wouldn''t seem sincere here in the house of snakes. I''d just have to make it up to Tracey for making her cry. Deeds, not words, and those in baby steps.


    "Can''t say I''m surprised to see you here," she said conversationally. Her voice was level, but I could hear the barely hidden distaste beneath.


    "Likewise, though I think you might have enjoyed Hufflepuff more."


    "Why? Are you saying I don''t belong here?"


    "No, of course not. I''m sure you''ll do well enough," I said placatingly. I didn''t know where she ended up post-Hogwarts in canon, but she couldn''t be any less worthy of being in Slytherin than Vincent or Gregory. "I simply meant that from what little I know of you, you seem like the kind of girl who values loyalty and friendship."


    She studied me suspiciously with narrowed eyes, then snorted in a distinctly unladylike fashion. "You''ve gotten smoother."


    "I have, yes. Not untrue though, I think."


    "I saw you getting chummy with Potter."


    "She is a very interesting person, and not just because she is the Girl Who Lived."


    "Oh? Do tell," she said. Some of the acidity had melted away. Like every other child in Magical Britain, Tracey undoubtedly grew up with tales of Violet Potter''s heroic deeds. Curiosity was guaranteed. Beside her, I could see Daphne incline herself towards us just a little despite her attempts to seem above it all.


    I thought about what I wanted to tell them. I was very cognizant of the fact that whatever came out of my mouth next would be their first impression of Violet. I didn''t intend to solve all of Violet''s problems for her, but at the same time, I didn''t want her to have the same antagonistic relationship her counterpart had with this house, especially since I might need her and her predestined nonsense in the future.


    "Did you know she has a pet nundu?" I said with a jocular smirk. "She raised it on a strict diet of dementors and acromantulas. You know, to purge the world of darkness and whatnot."


    "Lovely. Now your real take, please."


    "Fine, fine, as the lady wishes. She''s¡­ sharp, sharper than her upbringing would suggest."


    "What do you mean by upbringing?"


    "She wasn''t raised in secret by Dumbledore to be some kind of super-auror is what I mean. In fact, she knew nothing of the magical world until very recently." I saw both their eyes widen in shock at that.


    Not that she hadn''t been tutored by Dumbledore, most reasonable wizards didn''t buy that, but that she knew nothing of the magical world at all. The general consensus was that she was being raised by a family friend of the Potters, perhaps a family on the light side of the political spectrum that Dumbledore felt could be trusted. There were even rumors that she''d been taken abroad for her safety. But the savior of the wizarding world raised in the muggle London? That was unthinkable.


    It was a risk telling them this, but as I saw it, the biggest problem with Harry''s school years was that he was too sheltered, locked within his clique and exposed to nothing but the Gryffindor bubble. That kind of self-imposed isolation reminded me of myself in college, actually.


    Had he sought help outside, worked to make inroads with different people, his burdens would have been lightened considerably. Oh, no one else was going to kill the basilisk for him, but he might not have been labeled as the Heir of Slytherin and his year would generally have been a lot more pleasant. Likewise with the "fourth champion" fiasco in his fourth year. Harry, and Violet, would always have their detractors, but isolation allowed other people to build their own narrative, twisting the circumstances to suit their interests.


    There was a chance, a good one even, that I was making Violet look weak, it might even send some vultures her way, but feigning competence rarely went well. It wouldn''t take long for Violet''s utter lack of wizarding knowledge to become apparent, if it hadn''t already.


    Silence was also an option on my part, but Lyra already had an unfavorable view of Violet and I didn''t want her to poison the well so thoroughly. Maybe, if I painted Violet as a potential target to reach out to, she''d have a few allies in the house of snakes. Perhaps, dare I dream, two female friends.


    "As I understand it, Violet Potter was raised with her muggle relatives," I explained. Was I meddling? Absolutely, but I was a seer. It was my narrative prerogative, nay, my place in the universe, to meddle to my heart''s content. "She didn''t even know magic was real until this summer."


    "That''s insane, why wouldn''t she know about magic?" Tracey asked incredulously. "It''s magic!"


    Daphne hummed in thought, sucked in by our conversation topic. "Perhaps Dumbledore wanted her to grow up without her fame for the sake of humility. He seems like the sort to believe this would instill certain character virtues."


    I shrugged helplessly. I wasn''t going to explain to them the importance of Lily Potter''s blood. I certainly wasn''t going to talk about the prophecy. "Who knows? The reason isn''t as important as the outcome in this case: Violet Potter knows nothing about the magical world, which led to that mess everyone saw with Malfoy before the sorting."


    "Oh?"


    "Like I said, she''s ignorant, not stupid. You don''t need to be magical to know someone''s trying to use you. Malfoy''s offer of friendship was probably in good faith, a mutual exchange, but Potter didn''t see it that way because she doesn''t know anything about blood status or why Malfoy''s name is important. No prejudice, no bias, no special interests, she''s a blank slate."


    "So she just saw someone muscling in on the conversation."


    "That''s my take. Or maybe she just doesn''t like being told what to do. Either way, Malfoy''s introduction rubbed her the wrong way."


    "And how did you make it into her good graces? Don''t tell me it''s the ol'' Zabini charm," Tracey snarked.


    "I wouldn''t say I''m in her good graces," I said, diplomatically ignoring the jab. "I happened to stumble on Potter and the Patil twins on the train. She was talking to the twins normally so I did the same, that''s all."


    "And the rumors of you being a seer?"


    "Rumors? I proved that over the sorting, didn''t I? Can you still say they''re rumors?"


    "You guessed, most of us are legacies," Tracey scoffed, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "That''s not the Sight; you''re just lucky."


    I was starting to get annoyed. I didn''t have the mental bandwidth at the moment to deal with her backhanded sniping so I grunted and started to eat again. "Think what you want, just know my services are for sale."


    X


    Tracey Davis


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    Zabini was Zabini. Handsome face, flawless tan skin, and wavy brown hair that framed big, soulful, brown eyes. He was easily the best looking boy in our year, though that wasn''t saying much given the competition. I''d be lying if I said I wasn''t interested in him before, but that pretty face was all a lie; he was as bad as the rest of them. Beneath the surface, he was a conniving, smug arse who thought the best thing I could amount to in life was someone''s bed warmer.


    The prat didn''t even know me!


    Ugh, just thinking about him made my blood boil, but I couldn''t lash out. I had to wear a pretty smile so Daphne wouldn''t have to protect me. Again. My cousin had enough on her plate without fixing my social fuckups.


    Why did he sit here anyway? I would have thought he''d be off brown-nosing Nott or trying to get in Malfoy''s knickers like Parkinson. They were the ones with real clout, not us.


    Maybe he considered Daphne an easier mark than Malfoy. After all, what he said about me applied to him too: The only thing the Zabinis lacked was a noble name.


    I was ready to cut in if he started sniffing around Daphne, she deserved better than this prat, but he didn''t say a word to us. Instead, he started to gorge himself at a rate almost as impressive as Crabbe and Goyle. Then I saw the bags under his eyes and my anger was replaced with confusion.


    This¡­ This wasn''t the Zabini I remembered. A year ago, he was a superficial fop who probably spent more on his hair than I did. He''d never let himself look so worn down.


    I felt my cousin nudge my thigh with her leg. She looked at me meaningfully before glancing down towards his lap.


    What was she¡­ the cane. He had a cane, and seemed to actually need it unlike Lord Malfoy. There wasn''t a whole lot that could keep a wizard down; either it killed us outright or healing magic took care of the problem. Sure, healers were expensive, but the Zabinis could afford the best.


    Which reminded me, there was a rumor going around that some pureblood house went extinct in Portugal. Nott was complaining because it affected some arrangement or other that his father had with the Portuguese house, not enough to truly change things, but enough that Lord Nott had been quite annoyed. The way he told it, a relative of Madame Zabini''s ex-husband went crazy and crucio''d someone.


    She was arrested? Died? I didn''t care enough to pay attention, but if Zabini was the victim, that''d explain why he walked around like a cripple. I wanted to be a healer and I read that crucio damage was supposed to be some of the hardest for healing magic to overcome.


    I felt a little bad for him. He was a jerk, but he didn''t deserve to suffer because his mother was an awful human being. The things he said weren''t really like him either. He was the sort to give backhanded compliments and do his best to make himself sound more clever than he was. Not taking the opportunity to brag wasn''t like him.


    It was terrible of me to think, but I wondered if getting crucio''d gave him a bit more perspective.


    I eyed the cane and nodded back at Daphne. She''d noticed too, of course she did. She was smarter than me. Better with the training wand too. All I had over her was better health.


    Blood purity. Bollocks.


    The feast ended with a Merlin-damned rendition of the Hogwarts school song, sung at any tune we wished. It was pandemonium and the sheer gall Dumbledore had to call that music had to be a miracle in its own right. Or maybe, when you got so strong enough, you just didn''t have to give a damn about anyone else''s opinion. He probably did something eccentric every once in a while just to see if anyone would call him on it; I knew I would.


    I couldn''t help it; I was jealous. I wanted that kind of power. I wanted to find a cure for Daphne and Astoria, tiny menace that she was. I wanted to make everyone who looked down on me sorry. I wanted to be so strong that people would fear even uttering the word "half-blood" in my presence.


    We got up and I saw Zabini lean heavily on his cane. He looked a little more alive than when the feast started, but it was clear that walking down to the common room, wherever it was, wouldn''t be pleasant.


    Daphne caught my eye and motioned towards him. I was confused for a moment, then she raised a shoulder and gestured subtly in his direction.


    My eyes widened in panic. It was a wonderful thing, being best friends with your cousin. We could hold entire conversations without words. Most of the time, I loved our closeness. She was like a sister to me, someone I''d do anything for¡­ unfortunately¡­


    I don''t want to, I screamed with my eyes.


    Do it anyway, she said back, stoic as ever.


    Please don''t make me do this, I begged.


    I tried the puppy eyes, the same that let Astoria get away with bloody murder. Alas, I wasn''t as petite or cute and Daphne wasn''t Aunt Selene. She remained frostily unmoved.


    Resigned, I lagged behind the rest of the Slytherin procession until I was rubbing shoulders with Zabini. Then, I grabbed the cane from his hand and steadied him with my arms.


    He looked at me in genuine shock. He hadn''t expected that, though to be fair, I hadn''t either.


    "Thank you," he said softly. None of the casual arrogance I was used to was present. I felt his arm tremble in my grip and watched as he grit his teeth.


    "Yeah, well, don''t get used to it," I grumbled without any heat.


    I looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to us. No good deed went unpunished and I really didn''t want to be associated with him more than necessary.


    Sad then that a pair of emerald eyes met my own. Violet Potter stared back at me from the Gryffindor contingent, eyes widened in surprise.


    She looked¡­ muggleborn. A pureblood princess wouldn''t be caught dead with hair that messy. Or a choker that had been clearly torn from some other garment. Or those sloppy piercings. Sure, she wasn''t a pureblood, but the Potter name carried weight and expectations for decorum, that she either wasn''t aware of or didn''t give a damn about.


    Then her eyes narrowed in a focused glare, not at me, but at my cousin who''d joined me in studying her.


    I saw what Zabini had been saying. The girl was sharper than her dress suggested. Ignorant, but not stupid.


    Was this why Daphne wanted me to help Zabini along? Being associated with the Girl Who Lived was certainly a form of clout. The Potters had no Wizengamot seat of their own, but that didn''t matter with her potentially being a Black heiress too. And, her fame being what it was, she had something arguably as important as a lordship.


    As we walked, my eyes found Daphne''s. She gave me a subtle nod, so small that anyone else might have missed it. Confirmation. Inroads with Potter.


    I hadn''t even realized this was a possibility. "Trust Daphne" had been my motto for a while now, and I was reminded just how brilliant my fae-like cousin really was.


    I knew then, whatever Slytherin had in store for us, the two of us would be all right.


    Author''s Note


    Whooh, that was a lot of introductions to make. Hopefully it wasn''t too much of a slog to read through.


    Obligatory bitching about pumpkin juice? Check. Tracey Davis is the token half-blood in Slytherin? Check. Slytherin house full of hyper-competitive teenagers? Check. Blonde Daphne? Check. Tracey is related to Daphne somehow? Check. We''re ticking so many tropes this chapter!


    Runcorn is one of the students in Harry''s year that was never shown in the books or movies. I think it''s the only name that wasn''t given a first name either. So, like with much of the lore, I made her up.


    We know of three people with the Greengrass curse: Astoria, Cereus, and some unnamed ancestor. Other than that, we know very little about it.


    I feel like Tracey is a very under-utilized character. She''s always just "Daphne''s +1," not really a person in her own right. I''m taking the chance to flush her out a bit, as well as old-Blaise''s personality.


    Old-Blaise was a product of his environment. We saw in previous chapters that people treated him warily because of his mother, but here we see that Blaise poisoned the well on occasion as well. Both are true.


    Animal fact? Sure. The longest snake in the world is not in fact the anaconda. It is the reticulated python, a snake native to Southeast Asia. They beat out the green anaconda by 2 feet (anaconda 30'', python 32''), though most are "only" about 20 feet in length.


    Like the anaconda, they can and will eat damn near anything with a pulse, including gators. Their size, strength, and appetite has made them a major invasive species in Florida as adults have no natural predators. This means that they can be killed at will without a permit, assuming you have the landowner''s permission.


    This chapter, and pretty much all of Troll, has been the result of my commissioners riding me for more of this so thanks for keeping me motivated guys. Likewise to the rest of you patrons. I hadn''t expected to see so many votes on my potential ideas thread, but at this rate, I might have to start another story¡­ maybe¡­


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 8. Roll credits, because the troll is in the dungeon

    Chapter 8: Roll credits, because the troll is in the dungeon.


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I leaned on Tracey as she led me into the dungeons. She walked slowly, supporting me on a shoulder and keeping pace with the tap of my cane. I could have made the trek on my own two feet but I appreciated the help nonetheless. It was strange for her to offer her shoulder, especially considering her justified animosity towards old-Blaise, but I wasn''t in much state to question her unexpected goodwill.


    The two prefects, Gemma Farley and Evan Yaxley, occasionally glanced back to make sure we were keeping up but otherwise made no mention of my sluggishness. At nineteen, they stood a full head above us fourteen year olds.


    A few minutes and a flight of stairs later, we stopped in front of an empty stretch of wall in the dungeons. Here, Farley turned and spoke to us, "Here we are. You may have heard that the castle likes to shift its corridors; this is true. Depending on the time or other factors, the corridors and doors in this castle may lead to different places. However, some locations and pathways in the castle are immutable, the great hall, four common rooms, and offices of the heads of houses and headmaster are among them. Remember this route as this is the shortest way to the Slytherin common room from the great hall."


    Yaxley, a pudgy young man with straw-blonde hair, picked up where his partner left off. "This is the entrance to the common room. Notice that there is no doorbell; that is intentional. The exact location of our common room is to be kept secret at all times. Should you lead anyone here, you will be punished. Are we clear?"


    I was barely paying attention but nodded along anyway. Yaxley''s attempt at intimidation seemed unnecessary. It was a truism that no one trusted Slytherins; if there were any bright-eyed students in our year, the mistrust of the other houses would cultivate a guarded mentality in them in short order anyway.


    "You must speak a password to enter the common room," Yaxley continued. "The password changes on the first of each month and will be posted on the common room bulletin. If you forget, tough. For today and the rest of September, the password is legacy."


    At that word, the brickwork folded up on itself, much like old Tom''s entrance to Diagon Alley, revealing a wooden door set deep into the wall and yet more stairs. It had a silver knocker with emerald eyes, shaped into the form of a coiled serpent of course.


    The unassuming entrance did much to temper our expectations, only for the common room to blow them out of the water. Even I stood a little straighter at the sight. There was a certain austere quality to the place, not unlike a temple or cathedral.


    The common room was huge, boasting ceilings more than twice our height. The fireplace crackled comfortingly in the nearest corner. It was surrounded by a set of luxurious couches and a plush rug. Nearby was a row of bookshelves and desks. A small lamp sat at the center of each desk, providing enough light to study by.


    Further in, the common room got darker, though never too dark to see thanks to hanging lanterns with emerald-tinted glass. It all looked like we were underwater, an illusion further perpetuated by the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side that opened to the Black Lake. Though the water should have been impossible to see into, the windows had been charmed to show off the aquatic ecosystem. I saw grindylows arguing over a dead fish. Not pretty, but still a pretty neat sight.


    Just beneath the lakeside window were two sets of stairs that led further into the dungeons. They framed a series of comfy chairs that were occupied by some of the older students. One I didn''t recognize had a literal white cat on his lap as he eyed us, partially obscured in the shadows. With the lake giving the room a greenish, stained glass effect, he couldn''t have looked more like a Bond villain if he tried.


    Between the lake and the fireplace was a lowered pit. It was oblong in shape and extended nearly the full length of the common room. The pit was cut in half, with a circle drawn on either side. Clearly a dueling area, which itself said a great deal about the house. It wasn''t lost on anyone that the rest of the common room would be able to watch any spectacle that occurred.


    Once Farley deemed that we''d been in awe of the common room long enough, she clapped her hands for our attention. "Right. Some of you look dead on your feet so I''ll be brief: The dorms are to either side of the windows in a small alcove, right for boys, left for girls. Each of you will receive your class schedule tomorrow morning in the great hall. That would be all the information you need if you had been in any other house, but this is Slytherin, which means there are rules that you are expected to follow. The first rule of Slytherin is-"


    "We don''t talk about Slytherin?" I muttered under my breath. Tracey elbowed me before sliding me off her shoulder so I could lean on my cane. "Sorry."


    "-to never bother Professor Snape without a very good reason. Though he is our head of house, we settle in-house affairs without his intervention unless absolutely necessary. He is a very busy man and if you waste his time, you will be sorry," she said sternly. "Second, we are united. The other houses will be suspicious of us by default. I don''t care what quarrel you have with anyone here. Out there, you support each other. Are we clear?"


    We all nodded. Farley and Yaxley stared us down, meeting each of our eyes with heated glares. Admittedly, it worked. The ambiance was very much like a fraternity initiation, with the older years watching from the far end like imperial overlords.


    "Good. Now turn and face the bulletin board," Yaxley continued.


    The board was large, covering one entire wall and separated into several sections. The bottom corner held the house password for the month, as promised. Another section seemed to be a primitive version of an online BBS, with people making different requests. A third section covered club schedules and the fourth contained a list of students in the house, sorted by year.


    "The third thing we need to tell you is about that directory. We are the house of the cunning and ambitious and expect our members to conduct ourselves with those virtues. That directory of our names will be sorted and ranked on the first of each month, not by us, or even by Professor Snape, but by the castle in the same manner as the sorting hat. Those who act with the virtues of our house will find themselves greatly rewarded."


    "How?" Lyra asked hungrily. She''d always been competitive.


    "For starters, a private suite," he said with a sly smirk. That had all of our attention, even mine. "All houses have communal dorms and showers as the standard. However, the best male and female students in each year will find their belongings moved to a private suite at the end of the dorms. I can tell you from personal experience, you won''t find it lacking."


    "Another perk is that Professor Snape leaves his classroom open for those who wish to brew out of class time," Farley added, though with far less enthusiasm.


    It was something to look forward to; potions were some of the subtlest forms of magic and having a means of brewing our own with little oversight and supplies from Snape''s own closet was an incredible advantage. I wondered if that was why all of Snape''s detentions seemed to revolve around scrubbing dirty cauldrons.


    "Prefects are almost always chosen according to that directory," she continued. "Professor Snape will issue passes to be out after hours, or even to the restricted section of the Hogwarts library should he be particularly impressed with you, though there is only one student who has one currently.


    "That directory is one of the few visible indicators of respect. And respect is currency here. Favors. Clout. These things that can''t be weighed on a scale are the things we barter with in this house. You want a private broom? Tutoring? To leave for the weekend? You can, but only if you earn these favors. Our house rewards excellence and scorns mediocrity."


    "How are the rankings decided?" Theo asked. "You said it changes each month, which means we could lose all those privileges month to month."


    "Correct. The house is in a state of constant competition by design. There are a host of contributing factors, such as your contribution to house points, grades, excellence in extracurricular activities, and more. These standards have not been changed since Salazar Slytherin himself and not even Professor Snape can tamper with them."


    I frowned. That was a very vague response, and worrying on several levels. It implied that nothing we did was ever truly private. Which, in hindsight, was obvious. With the number of ghosts and portraits in the castle, coupled with the overarching wards, I doubted there was a way to fully avoid being seen. Even Harry had trouble sneaking around at times despite his heirloom cloak.


    In which case, the trick wasn''t to not be seen, but to not be noticed. There was a fine line there, an implied permission to do as we wished, so long as we were discreet.


    Her speech also heavily hinted that the castle was alive, or at least had similar charms which gave it a limited form of independence, not unlike the sorting hat. I wasn''t sure how to feel about that.


    "Which brings me to the dueling pit," Farley continued. This was getting to be longer than I''d like. "I''m sure you''ve noticed. You may practice there at your discretion. It is also the arena where disputes between housemates may be resolved. Duels outside the pit are prohibited and will be punished accordingly. It is one of the few offenses that will incur Professor Snape''s direct intervention. You don''t want that."


    "However," Yaxley cut in, stressing the word, "though you are free to use the pit as you please, it is also a highly public arena. We expect you to be cunning, and that implies a good dose of subtlety. Being seen down there often, even if you win constantly, won''t necessarily paint you in a positive light.


    "What else is there¡­ Oh, one final thing before we let you head to bed. The school boasts several clubs and extracurriculars. The full list of clubs can be found on the bulletin board. They will begin accepting applications this Saturday so as to give you firsties time to get used to your schedule. That is all. Welcome to Slytherin."


    X


    I groaned as we shuffled off to bed. Farley promised us they''d be brief. She lied. I''d make a fuss, but the beds looked positively heavenly. Our dorm was a large room with four poster beds and privacy curtains. The curtains were, of course, a rich green, as were the blankets and pillows. Silver serpents danced around the hems in enchanting patterns, but I really didn''t care anymore. I stumbled my way across the room and found my trunk before collapsing atop the bed next to it.


    "Huh, so the crucio rumor was true then?" Nott said, more with curiosity than offense.


    "Yup. I need twelve hours of sleep. Healer''s recommendation," I groaned. I shimmied out of my robes and kicked my shoes across the dorm before crawling beneath the blankets.


    "You''re not going to unpack? Or shower?"


    "Sleep first."


    "Brush your teeth, Zabini."


    "What are you, my mom?"


    "I prefer to be in the train, not the other way around, thanks."


    I looked up just long enough to glower at him before letting my head collapse back onto the pillow. It really was a great pillow. The smarmy git had a shit-eating grin that I wanted to slap off his face. Unfortunately, I desperately wanted the snuggly warmth of my bed more. He won. For now.


    "We have to be up at eight at the latest," Heath said. "You''re not getting twelve hours anyway so you may as well brush your teeth and unpack, Zabini."


    "Sod off, Parkinson."


    "Don''t blame me when you''re late in the morning."


    I yanked the privacy curtains closed. Merciful silence greeted me, the miracle of charms.


    X


    Heath was right. I''d die before admitting it to his face, but he was right. I was indeed late in the morning. By my estimate, I went to sleep at ten-thirty or so. Ideally, I''d have woken up at ten-thirty, but such a luxury was denied me.


    Instead, I woke up to Gregory pouring a bucket of cold water over my face. I gasped and sputtered to life, like a fish desperately flopping on land. I looked around to find the other four boys in my dorm staring back at me, each thoroughly unimpressed.


    "Merlin, Zabini, you look like an inferi," Theo said.


    It took me way longer than it should have for the words to register. I groaned and tried to rise, but failed. "Leave me alone¡­"


    "We did. We went to breakfast and now it''s almost eight-thirty. Get up, we have class."


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "Yeah, Nott even got your schedule for you," Gregory said. He poked me with his sausage finger and I contemplated biting it off.


    Then, realizing I''d have to sleep on soggy sheets, I slowly rose. "You could have left."


    "No, we really couldn''t," Theo shrugged. He handed me a slip of paper that contained my schedule. Herbology and DADA, with the ravens and lions respectively. "Yaxley told us we''re all expected to go to class as a group so none of us gets lost."


    "Fine, fine, go. I''ll take a quick shower."


    "We have fifteen minutes. We''ll be late."


    "Brush my teeth. Whatever."


    No matter what I wanted, it wasn''t like I could miss the first day of class, so I grudgingly got up and made myself look presentable. I felt much more alert after washing my face and I dared hope that my cane wouldn''t be too necessary today.


    I reached into my trunk and picked up my prepared schoolbag, ready since before the train ride, and hustled after my housemates.


    X


    The greenhouses were thankfully not far from the great hall, just a quick stroll out into the courtyard and a ways. There was a nice, stone path that led straight to them and I had a much easier time walking now that I''d had some sleep. Unfortunately, I was still drowsy and the lull of more sleep called to me, lingering like a black cloud.


    Thankfully, this was the first day and there would be little in the way of assigned classwork. I hadn''t expected Somnolent to be such a heavy drawback, but now that I was living it out, it was. It might not be outright dangerous to my safety, but the increased need for sleep was a constant irritation I had to balance. And, as I''d found with the feast last night, there were some events that would forcibly disrupt my schedule.


    I''d just have to live with it. It wasn''t as though I was entirely unprepared for the day anyway, the perks of canon knowledge.


    There were four large greenhouses, each with plants of increasing lethality and complexity. As had been explained to us by the prefects, us being everyone but me, the greenhouses were restricted based on our year, for our own safety.


    We walked to the nearest one and entered. Sixteen pairs of eyes turned towards us, the Slytherin girls, all Ravenclaws, and the professor.


    "You are late, dears," Professor Sprout said, though not unkindly. She was a dumpy woman who dressed in dust-browns and muted greens. Though she was often overshadowed by the other heads of houses, she had an affable, matronly aura that reminded me of my favorite aunt in my past life.


    I glanced at the four boys and saw that they didn''t want to say anything. Slytherins were united, which meant not throwing one of our own under the bus. I hobbled a step and spoke; it was better I take the heat voluntarily, especially given Professor Sprout''s personality.


    "I''m sorry, professor. It''s my fault," I said. I tapped my cane against the ground and smiled apologetically. "The feast was more tiring than expected so I overslept a bit."


    Sure enough, I saw her eyes soften compassionately. "Oh, don''t you mind, dear. Go ahead and take a seat; you didn''t miss much. A point to each of you for supporting your housemate."


    The first class was mostly just orientation. She showed us where the work gloves were, where we could find fertilizer, why herbology was important, and generally fell into a rhythm talking about the subject she so obviously loved. She was great to listen to, not because I had any interest in herbology, I actually had the Black Thumb drawback, but because she was passionate about the subject.


    When she''d covered what she wanted, she took a few minutes to show us how we should compact soil before repotting something. Apparently, there was a way to do it in such a way as to optimize water and nutrient intake for the plants. She had us doing that for the rest of class.


    "Okay, that, that was impressive," Nott muttered quietly as we worked.


    "Hmm?"


    "You made us all late and somehow turned that into house points."


    "I did. Confused?"


    "Hardly. I''m just surprised. That was quick thinking."


    I rolled my eyes. "Thank you, Nott. You can stop buttering me up now."


    The corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Oh, good, because I was running out of material."


    "What do you want?"


    "The private suite. I want you to not compete for it."


    "Denied."


    "Every month that you don''t, I''ll give you ten galleons."


    Technically, as the highest denomination of wizarding currency, ten galleons wasn''t nothing. Mother dearest gave me a hundred for the whole year and I expected not to need much more than that.


    And yet, that little monthly recognition was worth more. Not because I desperately wanted a private suite, though it''d be nice, but because I wanted Snape to recognize me.


    I was probably giving some Harry Potter fan out there in the multiverse chronic ulcers, but I did. I wanted the right to be out after hours. I wanted to see the restricted section. Hogwarts Castle may be the one assigning the suites, but it wasn''t lost on me that every other privilege that came with recognition was at the discretion of our head of house. It was probably how he kept the house under his control.


    I leveled Theo with a lazy side-eye. "You think I''m short on cash?"


    "Fifty."


    "Not interested."


    "Come on, what''ll it take?" he said, whining a bit now. Between Vincent, Gregory, Heath, and myself, he was smart enough to realize that I was his only competition among the Slytherin boys. But no matter how shrewd, he was still fourteen.


    "Nothing. I happen to need that recognition for my own ambitions."


    "Seventy-five galleons. Per month. For doing nothing. Think about that."


    "I''m not poor, Nott."


    "Well then, I guess this means we''re competing," he said ominously. Though, coming from him, it sounded a bit cartoonish, like something Invader Zim or Dexter would say.


    "Yup. May the best wizard win and all that," I drawled.


    Theo could be a problem, but that was the expected outcome anyway so I didn''t feel too bad. I wanted magic and all its secrets. Unless I was willing to steal Violet''s cloak somehow, I''d need that restricted pass and that meant we''d be competing. The question was, what did I need to do to be noticed?


    X


    After herbology came DADA. It was the most anticipated class among my more oblivious yearmates. How could it not be? We lived in a world where monsters and dark mages were real. This was the class where the next storybook hero could be born. This was where greatness got its start.


    There was a tangible buzz of energy as we sat with the Gryffindors. The class was arranged not unlike a college lecture hall, with a lowered pit in the center where the professor could speak from and be seen by all. Most notably, the whole class was festooned with bulbs of pungent, fermenting garlic as if they were Christmas lights. Even the stench of garlic was not enough to fully dampen the optimism.


    Of course, I knew better than to get my hopes up. So did Lyra, Daphne, Tracey, and Theo, as did several Gryffindors. It wasn''t just my canon knowledge talking; the truth was that Quirrell was the muggle studies teacher the year prior. If he had any defense knowledge, it''d be news to everyone.


    I sat with Alice Runcorn, though not by design. With the lumbering duo paired up and Theo no longer having a reason to try to woo me to his side, I ended up the odd boy out. SImilar situation with Alice for the girls.


    "Runcorn," I greeted.


    "Zabini," she nodded back.


    And¡­ That was it. That was the sum total of my interaction with her.


    I looked around and saw Violet sitting with Parvati. Parvati was talking her ear off about something or other, though she didn''t seem to mind. The subject didn''t matter as much as the fact that someone was allowed and willing to be her friend. That was good. I was happy for her.


    Seeing that I had nothing better to do, I put my head down and caught some Zs. I was lucky, Alice didn''t feel obligated to nudge me awake. She was quiet, uncomplicated, and didn''t think of herself as a political mastermind. It was decided: She would be my ideal DADA partner from now on.


    X


    After my hour of nap time came transfiguration. I was still tired, but felt much better, well enough to pay attention. Which was good, as according to Farley and Yaxley, Professor McGonagall was as much of a hardass as depicted in canon.


    The class was empty when we arrived. Empty, that was, save for a single cat atop the professor''s desk that stared imperiously down at us. I studied the cat. She was meticulously groomed, with an air of smug satisfaction that almost made me doubt myself. Still I continued.


    Why? For the lols, that''s why.


    Knowing I''d have to pay attention in this class, I claimed the frontmost seat by tossing my bookbag on the desk. Then, rather than take a seat, I began to rummage inside.


    "What are you looking for, Zabini?" Padma Patil asked as she placed her bookbag by mine. I hadn''t realized we''d be sharing a class with the ravens, but that was just as well.


    "You''ll see. I want to pet the cat," I told her.


    I pulled out a brush and cat treats I had Pooky grab, along with a small packet of dried catnip I hid in my sleeve. My seer talents extended only five seconds into the future without a medium, but canon was another matter. The future would change as I acted on this world, which meant I ought to enjoy myself while I had the advantage.


    I knew from the moment I saw the lone cat in the room that Professor McGonagall planned to pull the same stunt she did in canon. She probably did it with every first year orientation; it was certainly an impressive display of magical prowess.


    And so, catnip.


    I hobbled over to Professor Kitty and began to pet her. Gently proffering my tribute of kitty treats, salmon flavored even, I took the brush and started to run it along her back.


    "Aww, who''s a good kitty? You are, you are~" I cooed. I was rewarded with quiet purring.


    "I didn''t take you for a cat person," Padma said as she walked over.


    "Minerva''s better," I said, making the cat stiffen up a bit. "My owl''s superior, but cats are nice too. Want the brush?"


    "Please." She took the brush from my hand and eagerly took over, soothing the professor. Surely, if the Ravenclaw firstie joined in, there was no trick, right? An owl named Minerva had to be a coincidence. It was the name of the patron goddess of owls after all.


    With my hands freshly unoccupied, I reached into my sleeve and pulled out a little, brown paper packet. I grinned like the cat that caught the canary. Professor Kitty''s reaction was immediate from the moment I opened the packet. The subtle, minty scent of dried catnip filled the air around us and she gave up all pretenses of dignity.


    She flopped onto her back and began rubbing herself against the desk. She growled and purred as she batted at the air. I wasn''t sure what she was seeing, but she looked like she was having a blast. I held out a piece of dried salmon for her, only for her to hold my hand in her little paws. She meowed solemnly as if she were a bishop granting me benediction. Then she took a bite of the salmon and hung her head back, overwhelmed by the platonic ideal of seafood.


    Or she was high as a kite.


    Padma too was having the time of her life brushing her professor. I couldn''t wait to see the look on her face when she realized she''d been treating the strictest professor in the castle like a pet.


    "Yes, you''re just the prettiest kitty, aren''t you?" Padma said as she ran the brush down Professor Kitty''s front.


    "Zabini, sit down, don''t embarrass our house," Malfoy chided. I turned to give her a cheeky grin. She looked immaculate as always. Today, she''d worn her hair in a complicated French braid that would probably take a stylist hours to replicate without charms. She eyed me from head to toe and sniffed haughtily. Clearly, my own lack of personal care, or admittedly hygiene today, didn''t agree with her sensibilities. "If I dressed like you, I wouldn''t want to draw attention to myself."


    "And you look as enchanting as ever, Malfoy. You could come join us, you know," I offered with a placid smile. "I have a few more treats left."


    "As if, I''d pet some mangy cat. Sit down before the professor arrives and you lose us house points."


    I almost burst out laughing at that. This wasn''t an attempt to ruin Lyra''s reputation, but her compulsive need to insult everything that didn''t meet her lofty standards was the delightful cherry on top of this hilarious cake.


    "She''s not mangy. And the professor won''t be mad at me, promise."


    "What? Did you have a vision?" she asked sarcastically.


    "Oh, ye of little faith. Why would I have catnip? I have an owl, not a kneazle."


    By this point, the catnip had begun to wear off; that stuff only lasted for ten minutes or so at most anyway. Now that she wasn''t drugged to the gills, Professor Kitty finally realized just how goddamn shady I was.


    The truth struck her like a bolt from the blue and she leapt into the air, twisting and yowling. She glowered at me, daring me to further reveal the matter. She landed on the floor, and, with her tail held as stiff as a toilet brush and her nose held high, she stalked stiffly out of the room through a side door.


    "Aww, you scared her off, Malfoy," I said sarcastically. "Are you happy? You''ve somehow managed to out-entitle a cat."


    "That''s not a word. Now sit down, you idiot."


    "Fine, our fun''s over anyway. Come on, Patil, sit with me."


    The Indian girl looked at me with naked caution now. "Okay, what am I missing?"


    "Fun. Your twin must have stolen your share in the womb. Ask for it back, please."


    "Prat. Stop distracting me with sarcasm. What did you do?"


    "Besides distract you with a cat?"


    "Yes."


    "I drugged said cat."


    "I got that."


    "Said cat had the time of her life."


    "Zabini."


    "I also upset Malfoy. She''s rather cross with me because I dared remove the spotlight from her gorgeous face."


    "Die in a fire, Zabini."


    Before I could reply, the side door swung open and Professor McGonagall, human this time, stalked into the room. She saw the mess on her desk and primly vanished it with a flick of her wand.


    "I apologize for my tardiness, students," she said with a wooden smile. "I had some pressing matters to attend to."


    "Like sobering up," I muttered under my breath. Not quietly enough, because both Professor McGonagall and Padma looked at me with mounting horror. I decided to own it and shot Padma my most innocent smile.


    "Ahem, I see a few of you took great care of my¡­ familiar." The Gryffindor head of house stared me down with an evil eye that promised untold retribution should I open my mouth. She knew I''d done this on purpose. There was no other reason for me to keep catnip in my bookbag.


    I raised an eyebrow in open challenge. I wouldn''t have dared had I been seated elsewhere, but seated up front, no one else save Padma could see my expression.


    She knew. I knew. Padma knew. And so a silent negotiation was had.


    Padma''s gaze moved from McGonagall to me and back to the professor. I smiled serenely. Professor McGonagall''s eyes narrowed into ominous slits, daring us to contradict her. Padma nodded frantically, an adorable puppy showing her belly to the lioness.


    But I was Blaise Zabini. I would not yield so easily. I held her gaze and allowed the silence to stretch on.


    And on¡­


    And on¡­


    Until finally, when the pregnant pause could warrant a cesarean, I nodded subtly. It was an offer of armistice, an unspoken olive branch.


    "Yes, professor," I replied, smiling like butter wouldn''t melt in my mouth.


    "Excellent. Fifteen points to Slytherin for being well-prepared," she said with an equally subtle nod towards me. She had signed the armistice. And yet, I was not fully satisfied. I coughed lightly, tilting my head towards my seat partner. "And ten points to Ravenclaw for a deft hand."


    I considered it. House points meant nothing, but neither did this little bout of humorous humiliation in the end. If I pushed for more, she could make my life exceptionally uncomfortable. Yes, it was a fair tribute. Tribute, for it was plain to all three of us that I was victorious in this little contest.


    "Thank you professor, it was our pleasure," I said with a polite nod that promised my silence on the matter. Gracious in victory, that was Blaise Zabini. "I do so love animals. I would be delighted to cat-sit should you find yourself busy in the future."


    For a second, I feared I''d crossed that invisible line, but she nodded with a forced smile. The look on her face told me to cease pushing, so cease I did. "We shall see. For now, we must begin class; we''re late enough as it is. Let''s start with an overview of transfiguration as a field of study¡­"


    Author''s Note


    Tropes this chapter: Cliche Slytherin password related to purity or snakes. Tricked out common room. House rules that heavily incentivize competition.


    You know, I don''t think enough SIs mess with McG. But alas, Blaise is a troll and this is low-hanging fruit. We''ll pick up with the matchstick and the rest of the first day another time.


    Animal fact? Animal fact.


    Catnip is attractive to cats because of a compound called nepetalactone, which is what is called a cat attractant. Cat attractants are chemicals which mimic the role of pheromones. Despite what people say, catnip is not actually an aphrodisiac for cats, but it''s close.


    And it''s not just domestic cats either. Both jaguars and lions enjoy catnip and have demonstrated similar behaviors. So yes, jaguars and lions can and do get stoned out in the wild.


    Have a plant fact for free: Catnip is closely related to mint. You can eat it and several recipes, particularly in Italy, use it in soups, salads, and the like. It''s also decent in tea.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 9. The Value of Time

    Chapter 9: The Value of Time


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I shifted in my seat long enough to shoot Lyra a smug grin. I didn''t know if she knew she called McGonagall''s animagus form mangy, but she''d expected me to be punished. I did not.


    Was it petty of me to rub it in? Absolutely. But I was fourteen now, sort of, and I''d revel in permissible immaturity.


    Professor McGonagall gave her speech about the many wonders and dangers of transfiguration. She was a stern disciplinarian, stalking about and demanding the attention and respect due to a jaguar in a henhouse. To be fair to her, she was right; transfiguration was fucking dangerous.


    The summary was simple: Don''t fuck around. Don''t consume transfigured things. Most importantly, Don''t attempt human, gaseous, or other particle transfiguration.


    Apparently, there was always some idiot every year who thought it''d be funny to transfigure a book or quill into a cookie. Permanent transfiguration was damn hard and a subset of Gamp''s Law of Elemental Transfiguration said food couldn''t be made from non-food items. It didn''t take a genius to figure out what happened when that cookie transformed back.


    After her customary but well-warranted warnings, we were presented with a matchstick so we could attempt to turn it into a needle. Why matchsticks? Apparently, there was some symbolic significance in being "an object to catalyze fire" while simultaneously being something muggleborns and purebloods would equally find familiar. When I asked about it, she brushed me off and told me the arithmancy would be covered in third year if I so chose.


    I pointed my wand at my matchstick and took a deep breath. As she said, all spells were about incantation, wandwork, and focus. Calling on the pool of magic within, I imagined the needle and cast, only to find nothing had changed.


    Perhaps a simple point A to point B approach was incorrect. I began to deconstruct the properties of the match, taking into account its physical dimensions, composition, and all the ways it differed from a needle. I focused on changing one thing at a time and smiled as the match began to elongate and narrow just a bit.


    Shape. Then color. Then texture. Add some luster.


    Halfway through, I heard McGonagall speak. "Well done, Miss Malfoy, Miss Greengrass. Five points to Slytherin each."


    I turned to find that, sure enough, the two had finished. A dainty sewing needle sat before each of them. Daphne nodded politely as if her performance was the most natural thing in the world. Her expression said this wasn''t an accomplishment, merely the fulfillment of expectations.


    Lyra, on the other hand, tried to meet as many eyes as she could, as if to declare herself superior to us all. She sent me a challenging smirk, returning my earlier dig.


    I turned back to my own work. Though I had no drawbacks in transfiguration, I had a feeling this wouldn''t be where I excelled. I was no Hermione, who managed the transformation on her first try. Nor was I the two princesses, who''d likely received tutoring, at least on the theory of magic if not the full first year curriculum.


    A wand of silver lime was never going to be one for power or overt displays of magic, Ollivander said so, but it had its own strengths. Where it''d falter in power, it''d excel in subtlety. Piece by piece, step by step, that was the way. So long as I kept that in mind, and observed the flow of magic as others attempted the spell, I believed I could perform any spell in the end.


    "I am finished, professor," I called, four minutes later. During that time, Su Li, a tiny slip of a girl in Ravenclaw, had also completed the task and was awarded three points. I slid the needle across the desk, presenting it to McGonagall for inspection.


    "So you have, Mr. Zabini. A point to Slytherin," she said with a curt nod. The jocular mood of my little prank was gone now, replaced with Hogwarts'' most stringent disciplinarian. "I noticed you took longer to cast a spell."


    "I did. I found it helpful to break down the changes that need to be made: Shape, color, texture, luster, and the like."


    "Good. If you cannot tackle a problem, find a different angle. You''ll often be rewarded with greater understanding for your efforts."


    "Thank you, professor."


    "Attempt to switch it back. Then try to streamline the process."


    "Yes, professor."


    As she walked away, Padma looked thoughtfully at me. She then turned back to her matchstick. She sucked in one cheek; I could see her jaw moving up and down, nibbling on the inside of her mouth as she focused. With her brow curled and her nose tweaked up, her concentrating face looked adorable.


    "Gloat, Zabini. Get it out of the way," she huffed.


    "I wasn''t going to."


    "Then why are you staring at me?"


    "You''re cute," I said honestly. "I''m serious. You make interesting facial expressions."


    She didn''t blush like a stereotypical teenage girl. Instead, her eyes narrowed in judgment. "Shut up."


    "You don''t believe me?"


    "Get back to work. I''m still mad at you."


    "For getting you house points?"


    "You knew exactly what you were doing," she hissed.


    "I did." There was no point in denying it after all. Right now, the twins and Violet knew me best.


    "Prat."


    "Never denied it."


    "Ugh. Just do your work."


    "Yes, ma''am."


    I smiled when I saw Padma''s matchstick gain a bit of metallic luster. She''d taken the step by step approach as well. A minute later, she had her own needle.


    She leaned back with a satisfied smile. "Hah, I got it too."


    "Never doubted you."


    "What do you have after lunch?"


    "Charms with the puffs. You?"


    "History. Any sage advice?"


    "We haven''t had history yet, sorry."


    "Yes, because that''s stopped you before."


    "I could tell you what to expect¡­ for a sickle."


    Padma let out a put-upon sigh but placed a sickle on the desk and slid it over. "Fine."


    "You will have history with the Gryffindors," I said with a straight face.


    "Give me my money back."


    "I told you what to expect."


    "Zabini."


    "Why does every woman I know talk to me in that tone?"


    "Gee, I wonder why. Sickle. Now."


    I chuckled and slid the coin back. "Fine, and have this one for free: History''s a waste of time. Cuthbert Binns recites the same lectures as when he was alive so they''re outdated at best. He''s also prone to napping off in his own class and won''t notice if you choose to do the same. In fact, he won''t even remember your name even if you do manage to pay attention."


    "That can''t be right. I know he''s a ghost but¡­"


    "Seer''s advice: Bring independent study materials. Or a pillow."


    "You''re not messing with me?"


    "You lose nothing by listening."


    "Fine. And thanks."


    "You''re welcome, but that doesn''t mean I''m not going to charge you for advice next time."


    "A sickle? Still kinda pricey, don''t you think?"


    "At bare minimum, and only because I like you. The price varies since each question is bespoke. I''ll also accept other forms of payment."


    "Oh, really? Like what?"


    "Knowledge in all its forms. Could be juicy gossip. Could be valuable intel. Could be books from home. We''ll have to talk about what my help is worth."


    She snorted. "You should''ve been a raven."


    I shook my head ruefully. A sickle wasn''t cheap, but it wasn''t unaffordable for most. I wanted to build a reputation as an information broker so that, hopefully when she trusted me more, I could start asking for interesting grimoires.


    Was there such a thing as Sanskrit runes? Did parselmouths in India develop language-specific spells? How much of the muggle myths of Hindi rishi were accurate? What was the enchanting process for magic carpets and how did that differ from the process for brooms? Did rishi use different star charts for divination or rituals than in the west? Why?


    I didn''t know, but all of that sounded fascinating.


    "I belong with the snakes. Alas, you must learn to live without my constant company. It''ll be hard, but you must persevere, Patil."


    "Ugh, and we were having such a normal conversation," she moaned.


    X


    Lunch was a much lighter fare than what was presented at the feast. Rather than roasts, meat pies, and hearty stews, we had sandwiches filled with chicken, cucumber, and watercress. I found myself sitting towards the edge of the long table again, hoping to catch a quick nap before charms with the puffs.


    Unfortunately, that was a luxury that was denied me. Tracey Davis once again seated herself in front of me and started loading her plate with little sandwiches and other finger foods. "You''re awful chummy with the Patil girl."


    "Yes? Does the notion that I have friends bother you, Davis?"


    "It does, actually. Poor girl. I should warn her."


    I let out an exaggerated sigh. "Oh no, you''ve ruined my dastardly plans¡­ whatever they were¡­ Shouldn''t you be with your cousin over there?"


    Tracey''s face went through a myriad of complicated emotions before eventually settling on forced indifference. "She''s off chatting up Runcorn."


    I heard the implication. It wouldn''t be polite to say, but she did start needling first. "And you''ve voluntarily recused yourself from the conversation because you fear your blood status will keep Greengrass making an ally among the girls."


    "Shut it, Zabini."


    "That wasn''t an insult. I''m honestly a little jealous of how you two look after each other." She remained silent at that so I continued. "Question is, why here? Why me?"


    "You know, I''m starting to ask myself that too."


    "I was under the impression you rather disliked me."


    "You thought right."


    I took a lazy bite of my sandwich, chewed, and made a show of looking her up and down. "So ask."


    "What?"


    "You hate my guts. And I can admit that you are justified to feel that way."


    "Merlin, are you¡­ apologizing?" she gasped. I didn''t know what stung more, the remnants of old-Blaise''s pride at being spoken to this way by a half-blood, or that she sounded so genuinely surprised.


    I rolled my eyes. "If you''ll let me, yes, Davis. I would like to thank you for lending me your shoulder last night and formally apologize for the things I said about you. They were uncalled for and misinformed."


    "I¡­ What''s your game?"


    "Nothing, but I do realize you''re not going to believe that, so you may consider this a moment of weakness caused by gratitude for yesterday if that suits your image of me better."


    "It does, actually."


    "Then take advantage of it while it lasts. Ask."


    "Who says I want anything from you?"


    "Don''t be obtuse; you''re smarter than this. You''re not here to demand an apology from me, not one you didn''t know to expect. You can barely stand me. I''m quite sure that you''d rather sit with another house or skip lunch than sit in my little corner. Which means you, or more likely, Greengrass, think I can help you with something."


    The way she scrunched her nose made her look constipated. I was polite enough to not point that out. "I was hoping you''d be dumber."


    "Ah, but wit is a part of my charm."


    "Charm? I don''t think you know what that word means, Zabini."


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    "I do so love a girl who''s willing to sass me back."


    "I think I''m going to gag," she groaned, putting her half-eaten sandwich on the plate. Despite her protests, the mutual bitchfest was important; it allowed me to let her take things at her own pace, assistance in a way she''d find socially acceptable. After a moment, she spoke, "I want information."


    "Everyone wants information. This is a school." I held out my palms in mock surrender at her venomous glare. "Alright, fair enough, no more of my asinine snark. Find me after history in the library and I''ll hear you out."


    "Fine. Pleasure doing business with you."


    "We haven''t done any business," I pointed out sardonically. "And if you''re going to lie, lie better."


    "Prick," she huffed.


    "See? That''s more honest. I do think I like you better when you speak your mind."


    "Just¡­ Shut up¡­"


    X


    The rest of the day passed in a blur.


    Charms was charms: Flitwick was a tiny, bubbly mass of good cheer and charms knowledge. He truly was an excellent teacher, lumos was a laughably easy spell, and the puffs had already begun to treat us snakes like actual snakes. The way they huddled around each other like circling bison forming defensive rings around the herd was honestly kind of cute. Already, Zacharias Smith and Susan Bones were emerging as leaders of our year''s puff-pack.


    Then came astronomy, which was, sad to say, disgustingly boring. Professor Sinistra was a gorgeous woman with dusky skin and long, teased hair. She''d apparently studied at Uagadou, the pan-African school of magic, before earning her mastery and moving here to teach. She''d been at this school for five years and appeared to be a no-nonsense sort not unlike our deputy headmistress.


    Unfortunately, her personal background was the only interesting thing about the class so far. With the lack of a night sky, we were stuck looking through our astronomy textbook for common constellations. It was mostly rote memorization, which was highly unfortunate as I suspected I''d be needing this class in my capacity as seer sooner rather than later.


    Our final class of the day, history, was exactly as I''d promised Padma. Which meant I pulled out a pillow from my bookbag and was off to dreamland in seconds.


    I did not hear the last bell of the day. In fact, I only woke up when I felt someone shaking me violently by the shoulder.


    I lifted bleary eyes to find Daphne''s cross face. She was admittedly very pretty, though the death glare she was shooting me, I could''ve done without. "This really isn''t how you go about asking for help, princess."


    "Don''t call me princess."


    "Did I sleep through the last bell? Where is everyone?"


    "They tried to wake you, but you bit Goyle."


    "Ah, that does sound like me," I said with a laugh. "And so they left me behind. It''s the last class of the day so it''s not like I''m bothering anyone. You stuck around?"


    "As if," Tracey said with an unladylike snort. "We went back to the common room and did our homework before coming back. Do you realize that dinner''s started already?"


    I glanced at the clock. It was five-thirty. "So it has. Wonderful."


    "You said you''d meet us in the library, Zabini," Daphne said accusingly, "I didn''t realize your word meant so little."


    "You''re really not good at asking for favors, are you?"


    She studied me closely before taking a deep, calming breath. It was impressive how her entire visage changed subtly. It was like she was a whiteboard and someone had simply wiped the annoyance from her face.


    She now wore a placid, downright friendly smile. Gorgeous. Perfect. And I immediately felt bad for her. A fourteen year old girl shouldn''t have to know how to do that. "Apologies, Zabini. You''re right. Let''s start over."


    I stood and stretched, taking the opportunity to look the two girls over. Tracey wasn''t near as good at masking her emotions, but she tried for her cousin''s sake. She couldn''t quite pull off being friendly so she settled on blank detachment.


    I decided to let it go. No matter what, I did need to start building a network. Padma was a good start in Ravenclaw, and I suspected Parvati was doing the work for me in Gryffindor considering how interested she was in divination in canon, but I did need to start in-house as well. And, truth be told, I did like these two. That they cared so deeply for each other showed character, character that Lyra lacked.


    I began walking out, my pimp cane making rhythmic taps along the ground. "Well, come on then. Let''s go grab dinner before we head to the library."


    "Very well."


    "A galleon," I said as I started walking down the stairs. The history classroom was on the third floor. "Give me a galleon each."


    "You haven''t even heard my request yet."


    "I know, this is something else. Typically, I''d charge a sickle as the base price and go up from there, but this one can serve you in good stead for all seven years. Not life-changing or anything, but it''ll make your school years more convenient."


    "We didn''t ask," Tracey said.


    I turned and faced them, hand held out expectantly. The cousins looked at each other, a silent conversation I wasn''t privy to passed between them. Tracey looked like she wanted to protest, but Daphne fished out two golden coins from her breast pocket and placed them in my hand.


    "Thank you," I nodded. It wasn''t necessary, two galleons were chump change to both Daphne and I, but it established our relationship more firmly. "Now, come along."


    To their surprise, I veered away from the great hall.


    "Weren''t we going to dinner?"


    "We are."


    The great hall was framed by two sets of stairs that led to the basement. One was the dungeons, which included the Slytehrin common room, potions classroom, and Snape''s office. By process of elimination, the badgers'' burrow had to be located down the other stairway.


    We arrived at a large, open hallway. It was brightly lit with torches and lined with an array of paintings, all of them food-themed. I saw a reconstructed cow made of different roasts, a tap dancing chicken, and a banana sunbathing on a beach. There were more, some appetizing and others just plain weird.


    I stopped at the painting of a plain bowl of fruit. There were dozens of different fruits painted in near photo-realistic detail, but the green pear at about waist-height was the one that caught my eye.


    "Here we are," I said with a cheery grin. "I promised dinner, so dinner we shall have."


    "I''ve heard we eat with our eyes, but this seems a tad excessive, Zabini," Daphne drawled.


    "Lovely and witty? Be still my beating heart."


    She looked thoroughly unamused with my flirting. "Why are we here?"


    I grinned as I reached out and began to stroke the pear. "Why, to eat of course. Or really, to grab something on the go."


    "I am seriously reconsidering your worth."


    "Well don''t." The pear giggled, making them fixate on it. Then, to their wonder, it morphed into a handle. I twisted into a flourishing bow as I opened the door. "My lovely ladies, may I present the Hogwarts kitchens!"


    "What? How?"


    "I know things, Greengrass. It''s my thing. If you''re ever in need of a late night snack, or maybe something for a picnic out on the lake when spring comes, or just a cup of hot cocoa in the winter, you now know where to go."


    "Something to make our lives more convenient for seven years," Daphne hummed with a small smile.


    "Worth a galleon? Eh? Eh?" I asked rhetorically, eyebrows waggling.


    "Stop that. Can''t you at least pretend to have some decorum?"


    "Hmm¡­ Nah. There''s a time and place for all that stuffy nonsense. Now come on, let''s ask them for a sandwich."


    X


    The Hogwarts elves were a delight. Not a one could say our names, but that constipated look on Daphne''s face when the head elf called her "Missy Gassy" was a special little memory I''d hold over her head forever. They were so earnest and helpful that it was impossible to stay mad at them, even Daphne.


    After loading up on dinner and snacks, I led the two to the library. Finding it wasn''t hard; not only was it located on the ground floor, its location was written on the backs of our schedules for the particularly dim-witted.


    The three of us nodded respectfully to Madam Pince and found a secluded corner. They''d finished their homework, but I had not so I started on what little had been assigned while they ate. I''d get to my food later.


    Daphne was the one to start us off. "You really are a seer. Or you are unexpectedly resourceful."


    "They''re the same thing for your purposes, Greengrass," I said as I worked. "So, what can I help you with?"


    She didn''t hesitate. "The monthly leaderboard. I want the top spot."


    "Oh? I can''t say I''m surprised. I don''t know what miracle you think I can pull out of my ass, but Salazar Slytherin''s enchantments are a bit above my paygrade."


    "Don''t be daft, Zabini. I want opportunities to earn house points. I want chances to demonstrate my cunning and improve my standing in the house, both among our yearmates and with the seniors."


    "You''ll show the castle or sorting hat or whatever how cunning you are by¡­ following someone else''s advice?"


    "If that advice is from a seer and offered in good faith, then yes."


    "Fair enough. You do understand I''m not cheap, yes?


    "A galleon is reasonable."


    "Nope. Nice try, though. I charged a galleon for the location of the kitchens because that''s information that other students know and could tell you if you knew to start looking. Moreover, it''s not information that''ll greatly impact your performance or standing in the house, though I suppose you could sell the information yourself if you wanted. Like I said, just something to make life a bit more pleasant for you."


    "The suite will-"


    "Make life more pleasant, yes, but this is a finite good that other people want. Whereas anyone can visit the kitchens and it won''t diminish the quality of service from the house elves, there is only one suite per year per gender. And we both know the private suite isn''t as valuable as standing in the house."


    "Very well, name your price," she said with a sigh. It was unlike her, and judging by Tracey''s glare, she knew it.


    Question was, why did she want it so much? She had a bitter rivalry with Lyra, but was that really it? "You''re competing against Malfoy."


    Daphne looked like she sucked on a lemon. For the briefest moment, her eyes darted to her cousin. Tracey glared down at her sandwich without a word, but her balled fists were answer enough.


    It struck me then. Daphne might not be interested in winning for herself. Lyra acted like excellence, power, and recognition were her birthright. She was a pureblood and so deserved all the best. The entitled princess probably loathed the thought of spending even a month sleeping with a half-blood. I could only imagine what words were said in the girls'' dorm last night.


    Tracey winning would make her the subject of bullying, if she wasn''t already. How dare a half-blood put herself above her betters? But if Greengrass won and invited her cousin to stay with her, then that''d be more socially palatable.


    "What has Malfoy offered you?" Daphne demanded, all but confirming my thoughts. She wasn''t interested in standing, just the suite. "I can offer more."


    Still, I was curious. Perhaps it was cruel to push a girl just looking out for her cousin, but¡­ "No you can''t."


    "I''m willing to offer more. Malfoy is a cheapskate. She''ll string you along until she has no need of you, then toss you aside like yesterday''s trash."


    "And you won''t?"


    "I know how to treat my business partners."


    I decided to let up on them. "You can''t offer more than Malfoy because Malfoy hasn''t made an offer at all. Your reaction told me a fair bit though."


    "You-"


    "Are a Slytherin, Greengrass. I''m not opposed to helping you win the suite, but you understand that simply letting her win would remove her from the dorm too, right?"


    "That changes nothing. Blustrode follows her orders like a loyal attack dog and letting her gain more status in the house won''t make Tracey''s life better in the long run."


    "Daph-" Tracey protested.


    "Don''t bother, he knows."


    "I do," I agreed, "and I''ll help you."


    "Just like that?"


    "I told Davis already. I admire this about you, both of you. The way you''re willing to look out for each other? It''s touching in a way. And, if I''m honest, I do enjoy tweaking Malfoy''s nose."


    Daphne''s mouth twitched into a smile. Brief, but it was there. "Good, so let''s talk business then."


    "Any specific questions?"


    "I¡­ I admit I''m not sure what I can ask you."


    "Expected. Divination isn''t all-powerful of course. Remember how I was yesterday?" A part of that was from standing so long and the remnants of the crucio symptoms, but another part was magical exhaustion. Not enough for it to be a concern, but enough that I really wasn''t functioning at my best.


    "Your guessing game."


    "Yup. Individually not difficult, but over the whole sorting? I also did a few things before on the train that contributed."


    "Which means your divination is a finite good, and thus more expensive."


    "Quite. Now, let me think."


    I set aside my homework for the time being, not like there was much of it on the first day, and munched on my sandwich. The elves really were great; I didn''t even know they had Italian cold cuts here. The way I saw things, there were a few things I could tell her.


    First, I planned to cheat in all my classes. The thing about the Sight that made precognition so "wooly" was that us seers weren''t supercomputers. Even when we remembered our visions, we weren''t actually good at isolating and accounting for different variables. So the further off the future, the more variables, the more variables, the less accurate we our visions.


    That much was fairly intuitive. It also meant that if there were ways for me to remove these variables, or if I searched for information with a more limited outcome, I would see much more success.


    Such as classes. Classes in which tenured professors repeated their curriculum year after year. Classes with comparatively little variance.


    If I took my crystal ball and tried to scry tomorrow''s homework today, I''d succeed, partly due to familiarity, I''ve been in that class and knew that professor, and partly because professors were human (half in Flitwick''s case) and humans were creatures of habit.


    I could give Daphne a list of future assignments so she could have more time to tackle them. She was smart, old-Blaise knew that, so even an extra day to collect her thoughts would likely result in straight Os.


    Second, I could just give her the answers. If I could scry coursework, why not scry the answers too? It wasn''t like I could scry every homework assignment that would be turned in tomorrow for every single class, that sounded like a guaranteed trip to Madam Pomfrey, but I didn''t need all of them, just one.


    Granger. I knew Hermione was brilliant. I suspected Lupin was exaggerating when he called her the "cleverest witch of her age," but there was no denying that she was genuinely an intelligent woman. From what I knew of Leontes, he mirrored her character.


    "Alright, first things first. Do you want classwork?" I asked her. "I can give you tomorrow''s assignments so you can work on them early. Or I can just give you the answers."


    She snorted. It was a dainty sound, a bit like those squeaky not-sneezes that "refined" ladies tried to do. "No thank you, Zabini. I believe I will be quite capable of keeping up with the coursework on my own. Perhaps Crabbe and Goyle might be interested."


    "They have nothing I want," I said with a laugh. Like Daphne said, I doubted I''d need to copy future-Leontes either, at least not until our OWLs and NEWTs, so scrying future classes would be mostly for practice rather than any tangible gain.


    Although, if I ever wanted two patsies. I could probably bribe them with the answers.


    "Let''s talk prestige. Will there be an opportunity to one-up Malfoy this week? And if not, can I make such an opportunity?"


    That was the third thing I could sell her: canon knowledge. It''d be increasingly unreliable as the years went on of course, but by then, my own magical capacity and talent would hopefully be ready to pick up the slack. For now, the canon train was on track, all the more reason to abuse it for my benefit while I could.


    "Like this morning in transfiguration?"


    "Yes. You knew Professor McGonagall would be busy and that her cat would be there to greet us."


    I coughed to stifle a laugh. "Yes, something like that."


    "I want a chance to assert myself as the best in our year, at least among the girls, or a chance to discredit Malfoy. I would also be satisfied with something that could win over the older years as well."


    "Just wait then. Malfoy is proud. She''s not stupid, but she''s the sort to look down on her rivals. Or rather, she doesn''t think she has rivals. She''ll slip on her own if you give her enough time."


    "If I knew about those slips ahead of time, I could use them to my advantage more effectively."


    "So you can. Very well, I''ll help you, but it''s going to require a few days of scrying."


    "You''re really milking this, aren''t you?" Tracey asked.


    "I''m not, actually. Here''s an example: We''re in the library. Go find me a specialized charm for treating wooden furniture like this table here. I want it to keep the finish from degrading for hundreds of years. Oh, and it should be easy to cast so even us first years can do it," I waved over to the shelves. "Go on, care to give it a try?"


    "I''m not the seer."


    "And being a seer just means I can look into the future, not that I''ll have any success finding what your cousin wants. I can enter the library, but that doesn''t mean I know where the right book is."


    "Point taken," Daphne interrupted her cousin. "It''s a time commitment for you to look not unlike any other research project."


    "That''s right."


    "And what is your time worth?"


    There were so many things I wanted, things I needed to do. For starters, I wanted to get better at occlumency; it was cliche for a reason. And while I was at it, I may as well pick up legilimency, especially seeing how silver lime wands were specialized for it. I also wanted more books about divination, enchanting, auguries, astronomy, and rituals.


    But this wasn''t the time. In the end, this little chat was just about a monthly contest between five girls in Slytherin. Though it was important to Daphne and Tracey, it wasn''t something that merited a grimoire from Greengrass Manor to be shipped my way. If I asked, she''d just laugh in my face, and rightly so.


    "A favor. One from each of you. Honestly? I''ll probably ask you for help either passing on some messages or finding spells for me here at the library. I might occasionally ask you to help me tweak events in my favor. The less time I need to spend on that sort of thing, the better."


    "We won''t do things that are disadvantageous for us."


    "Nothing harmful is all I can promise. If it doesn''t inconvenience you in some way, it wouldn''t be much of a payment."


    The two cousins looked at each other. Tracey nodded, a tight, reluctant nod. Daphne spoke for them both. "Fine, that is acceptable. Your favor will depend on how happy I am with your information."


    "That''s fine. Now if you''ll excuse me, it''s nearing my bedtime."


    "It''s Six-thirty."


    "And I want twelve hours of sleep."


    "You''re¡­ You''re a character, Zabini."


    I waved them off and began to hobble for the common room. That was me, Blaise Zabini, the newest gossipmonger in Hogwarts. It grated to use my Sight like this, but practice was practice. It wouldn''t be long before I had some real information worth selling.


    Author''s Note


    The thing about Binns is actually true and would be knowledge Corbin has from being a huge nerd. In Hogwarts Mystery, Rowan Khanna, who is in the same house as your MC (so house changes depending on your choice), wants to be the youngest professor at the school ever. He knows Binns falls asleep often so uses the captive audience to practice his own lecturing. Yes, he canonically hijacks Binns'' class and the ghost doesn''t even notice.


    I wanted Blaise to start dealing in information, but it''s not like that information is going to change lives or anything. It''s a school. Most of what he''ll work with is teenage drama so he''ll be paid accordingly. It''ll change as he goes.


    Animal fact? Umm¡­ Sure. Owls do not have eyeballs. They instead have eye¡­ tubes? cylinders? They''re not built to rotate, which is why they evolved the ability to turn their heads 180 degrees.


    Because their eyes take up so much volume in their heads, if you shine a flashlight inside an owl''s ear canal, you can see the back of its eye.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 10. Were star-crossed lovers... or something...

    Chapter 10: We''re star-crossed lovers¡­ or something¡­


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I considered the second day of classes my real first day. Unlike yesterday, I wasn''t horrifically sleep-deprived. As soon as I finished negotiating with Daphne and Tracey, I beelined for my dorm, took a shower, and went to bed. I thanked Slytherin''s dead ass for the privacy charms on the curtains that drowned out the noise. I was out in seconds.


    It meant I got to wake up at seven, a full hour and a half before class, with a clear head devoid of the fog that clouded my thoughts yesterday. And the first thing I did was lambast myself for what I did the day prior.


    It wasn''t that there was much else I could have done with Daphne, not without any preparation, but I should have postponed the meeting for another day. What I said wasn''t the issue as much as how I said it. Looking through old-Blaise''s memories on pureblood etiquette, I could see a dozen different things I''d done that could be considered faux pas in more elitist circles.


    Things weren''t so bad with Daphne, she was clearly used to more informality thanks to her cousin, but I''d have to keep my state of alertness in mind for future negotiations, lest I make enemies instead of clients.


    Tired-Blase was a rude, acerbic smartass. Noted.


    A sense of alertness wasn''t the only thing that came with a good night''s sleep for me. The aches and pains from residual dark magic coursing through my body were diminished. Hell, I''d swear my own magic responded more eagerly, as if it had been waiting for me to finally get a hold of myself.


    I quickly washed up and returned to my dorm. With an hour and a half before class, charms with the puffs first today, I could afford to do a bit of scrying. First things first was the soon-to-be bane of my existence: Astronomy.


    I didn''t know if it was something Professor Sinistra enforced when she began teaching or if it was just part of Hogwarts tradition, but all seven years had a mandatory midnight class each week, which meant my sleep schedule would suffer every Wednesday without exception. At least, until I found a way to get out of it.


    I fully intended to approach the professor about my narcolepsy. She wasn''t unreasonable from what I gathered, though she was almost obsessively in love with her subject. I had a genuine medical reason for why I shouldn''t attend, but between trying to convince Sinistra on my own or having my head of house advocate for me, I honestly felt I''d have better luck going it alone. Charisma was Snape''s dump stat.


    To that end, I had to show that I wasn''t simply trying to skive off the least convenient class. The best way I could think of was to show my own interest in her subject and my willingness to put in the work outside of class time, which was why I had my ball on my lap and a roll of parchment by my side.


    I closed my eyes and focused on tomorrow''s lesson. I''d already been in the Astronomy tower so it helped to know what I was working with. The stars weren''t going to magically wink out of existence and the planets weren''t about to dip out of orbit. What I was doing might be precognition, but there were few things more set in stone than the rotation of celestial bodies.


    I trickled a hint of my magic into the crystal ball and opened my third eye. Doing this always made me feel so small, like I was a leaf floating in the middle of an ocean of possibilities.


    I used the astronomy classroom as my focus, using it like a lighthouse to center me. I reeled in my focus until I could see one possible future, the actions of my professor. Then, I did what every dutiful student did: I took notes. By the time I finished, I had her lecture notes as well as the assignment, a worksheet on general astronomy knowledge, filled out. Hopefully, I could convince her that I actually did give a damn about her class.


    With the answers right in front of me, and with the focusing enchantments of my crystal ball, the task only took half an hour. By this point, my roommates were starting to rise so I packed my bags and made sure to take my crystal ball with me. A bit of insight throughout the day was worth the risk that I might possibly lose it.


    "Morning," I called as I got ready to leave.


    "Morning, Zabini," Heath grunted. "You''re up early. Goyle was thinking about getting another bucket of water."


    "What can I say? I love my sleep."


    "What do we have first?"


    "Charms with the duffers," Nott chimed in. Only our second day and he was already showing that house pride. "Maybe we''ll actually cast something today."


    "We did. Lumos is a spell."


    "Bloody hell, Parkinson, lumos is a spell like a gecko''s a dragon. It''s not the same."


    I opted to ignore their budding argument and headed off to the great hall for breakfast. I found that I wasn''t really hobbling quite so much anymore. I still needed the blasted pimp cane, but now that I was better rested, I could afford to not rely on it constantly.


    I sat with the rest of the boys my year. One of the downsides of being half-Italian and spending much of my time on the continent was that I wasn''t particularly close with my peers. Even before my insertion, Blaise was something of a wallflower, if a boy could be described as such, always there among the scions of the so-called pureblood elite, but never quite part of their number. He''d tried the penpal thing, but quickly grew bored of the attempt.


    Not that they would''ve been the paragons of friendship and warmth otherwise, but my position in the house of serpents reflected my position outside of it. Though I wasn''t excluded, no one saw fit to draw me into conversation. That Theo likely felt scorned by my refusal to give up the suite probably didn''t help matters.


    Was it juvenile? Yes, but we were, in the end, fourteen.


    The girls arrived a few minutes after us. The food appeared on the tables, a veritable feast of breakfast options. I reached for my newly materialized goblet, tipping it subtly towards Daphne and Tracey. I brought it to my lips, but froze before the orange juice touched my mouth.


    I felt a sharp pain on my nose. Then, as I watched, it took on the consistency of taffy or melted wax, before some invisible force took hold of it. It stretched out painfully, swelling out long and red, until it was almost a foot long. There was a stuffed, overfull sensation that left my nose feeling awfully congested.


    Then time resumed again, leaving my face unmarred. The me of the present was seated at the table, having just greeted Greengrass and with the cup raised before my lips. I quickly realized what had happened: Like when I heard my dear aunt open the basement door, my Sight had activated on its own, triggered by what I perceived as impending harm.


    My eyes flitted rapidly to the Gryffindor table. Sure enough, a pair of identical redheads were snickering to themselves. They glanced at the length of the Slytherin table every few seconds. They were subtle about it, but now that I knew the end result, the culprits were obvious.


    ''At least they''re not singling me out,'' I mused, setting my goblet down.


    I thought about how I ought to deal with this. To tell or not to tell? But with only a few seconds, the decision was taken from my hands. I already saw a few people around the table begin to take a sip.


    "Don''t drink," I called, making some of them pause. Others ignored me or didn''t hear. "The juice is drugged."


    One of the older students, a second or third year I''d yet to get the name of, frowned. "What are you talking about, firstie?"


    Then it started. Our quarter of the hall was filled with the surprised squawks of students who''d failed to heed my warning in time. Pained, nasally wimpers echoed around our table, mostly near the younger years'' end. It seemed that after a few years, testing your food for potions was just a habit that older Slytherins picked up, maybe because of the Weasley twins, maybe because of each other. I wasn''t sure which option was sadder.


    In hindsight, perhaps I could have found a way to subtly warn only a handful of people. That might have made clear what being in my good graces could get them. I could sit back and act all-knowing while people considered what they''d offer me for my services.


    I snorted. That sounded pretentious as fuck even in my own head. Worse, it''d make me a shitload of enemies. There was being mercenary; then there was being an insufferable asshole. It was a fine line, one I wasn''t sure I could walk perfectly. I''d try to stay on the right side of it though, if only for my continued comfort.


    As it was, none of the first years drank. Neither did a handful of the second years who heard me in time. The ones with engorged noses were proof enough of the validity of my warnings anyway, no need to be a dick about it.


    "That''s what I''m talking about," I said, nodding to the second year. I tapped the goblet in front of me. "House elves, if you are listening, may I have a goblet of filtered water?"


    The orange juice in my cup disappeared, funneling through a drainage pipe effect. Seconds later, clear water bubbled up, replacing the goblet''s contents. I raised it to my lips and, when no vision was forthcoming, took a contented sip before thanking the elves.


    "Huh¡­ You couldn''t have warned us any sooner?"


    "I could not. I spoke up seconds after I received the vision. Really, being a seer isn''t nearly as all-powerful as people like to think it is."


    "Well thanks for the save, firstie."


    "House unity and whatnot. I noticed that none of the seventh years said anything though."


    "Why would they?" the older boy snorted. "The older years like to talk about unity, but it''s mostly hogwash. Don''t get me wrong, if you''re getting bullied or hexed in the halls, we''ll back you up, but unless something keeps you from doing well in class, the house likes to let you make your own mistakes."


    "So long as you don''t make the house look too bad with those mistakes?"


    "Exactly."


    "Well that''s nothing to worry about," Lyra spoke up from further down the table. She picked up her goblet and took a long sip. When her nose did not pop a boner, she smirked triumphantly. "You see? Those weasels are nothing."


    "Come off it, Malfoy," Daphne snorted. "You''ve got an enchanted ring that neutralizes most harmful potions."


    I almost laughed as her face pinched in consternation. Her hand went to a beautiful, golden ring on her finger. Enchanted rings were expensive as hell, often heirlooms, but they weren''t unheard of. I had one myself after all, albeit not enchanted with poison negation. I wondered if Lyra wanted to make herself seem mysteriously powerful.


    I rolled my eyes. Of course she did; this was Lyra Malfoy.


    "Ooh, is that an enchanted ring?" Millicent cooed. "No wonder you''re fine. Lord Malfoy must have spent a fortune."


    "Of course he did," Lyra replied, getting back in the swing of things now that she was showing off daddy''s money. "Father only gives me the best there is."


    "It''s beautiful too."


    I promptly tuned out the rest of their banter. Daphne''s eyes met mine, just long enough to nod subtly in acknowledgement. Maybe I hadn''t spoken up to help her and her cousin specifically, but I wouldn''t mind them thinking otherwise.


    Breakfast passed mostly peacefully after that bit of drama. The older years looked vaguely amused at everyone else''s plight. The ones who were suffering now, third and fourth years especially, were plotting revenge they''d likely fail at thanks to the Marauder''s Map. The younger years got to see me do something unambiguously seer-y firsthand. Really, it would have been perfect had it not been for the twins.


    The twins looked rather disappointed that only a few were caught in their pranks. They looked especially closely at us, the first years who''d gone completely unscathed. Judging by the way Parvati was chattering and their narrowed gaze at me in particular, they''d connected the dots, and quickly too. They were jerks, but no one ever called them stupid.


    I had a feeling I''d be the target of their pranks in the future. Testing themselves against a seer seemed like exactly the kind of thing they''d do.


    "Well, at least this year won''t be boring," I mused as I gorged myself on eggs, bacon, and toast.


    X


    "Let''s get started where we left off yesterday," Professor Flitwick said in his squeaky voice. His thick mustache was immaculately groomed and bounced jauntily with every twitch of his lips. "Who can tell me what a charm is? How about you, Miss Blustrode?"


    The half-goblin professor was an animated liked to lecture on the move, with big, flourishing motions of his hands. Because he was so short, the man had built several towers of thick tomes to act as pedestals from which he could observe the class. He hopped from one to the other, always with a surety that was as baffling as it was fun to watch.


    The pudgy girl started in her seat, uncomfortable with being the center of attention. Flitwick was quickly becoming my favorite teacher, but he had a habit of volun-telling students to keep us engaged. Part of me thought he liked seeing us squirm a bit.


    "Umm¡­ A charm is a spell cast through a wand?" she said, unsure of herself.


    "Corect! Take a point to Slytherin. Although, that''s not all of course. Tell us more, Mister Hopkins."


    The Hufflepuff boy, whispering with his seat partner, winced as the attention shifted. "Crap. Ah¡­ A charm is temporary and doesn''t change the form of something, unlike transfiguration."


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "Yes, that''s right, a point for Hufflepuff. Now listen closely. In full, a charm is a catch-all term for any named spell cast with a wand. Notice I said ''named spell.'' This means that accidental bouts of magic, with or without a wand, are not charms, strictly speaking. Miss Bones? Did you have a question?"


    "Yes, professor. You said charms are wanded spells. Does that mean transfiguration spells are also charms?"


    "My dear, it depends on who you ask. Why, Professor McGonagall and I have had fascinating debates about this very subject. There was a time in which they were considered charms, yes," he said with a sly nod. "The truth is that magical education has evolved over the millennia. As wizards and witches developed more spells, they found that this catch-all definition of the word ''charm'' wasn''t very useful, even if it is technically true. So, we as a society decided that transfiguration, the art of changing the form of a living being or object, should be addressed as a separate subject.


    "However, it''s worth noting that there is still considerable overlap and debate over where exactly one specific spell or another should be classified. For example, animated transfiguration, often seen in high-level dueling, combines both charms and transfiguration spells to devastating effect. Conjuration spells, such as avis, which creates a flock of birds, can fall under either branch but are often taught in transfiguration classes because the mental discipline needed to cast the spell most closely aligns with a change of form.


    "Oh, I''m getting a little off track, aren''t I? I suppose the takeaway is this: The taxonomy of magic is in fact a highly complex and nuanced subject. However, this taxonomy was made by men, for men, not by magic itself. It''s important to remember that going forward. Magic, in the end, is about flexibility. Does that answer your question, Miss Bones?"


    "Yes, professor," the redhead nodded with a smile.


    "Excellent. We''ll get to more discussion in the future. Let''s table my lecture on magic theory and taxonomy for the day and get to actually practicing some spells."


    With a jovial wave of his wand, the center of the classroom opened itself up, all of his books lifting into the air and slotting themselves perfectly onto the nearby shelves. I could have sworn there were more shelves now than there were when we came in. In fact, the room looked a bit bigger, though I couldn''t tell for certain if it was because of the sudden cleanliness or because Professor Flitwick just cast a silent space expansion charm.


    I wouldn''t put it past him. The little man was by all accounts among the most talented charms-masters in the world.


    He had us start with lumos again. Those of us who could cast it and nox flawlessly were permitted to come to the center space and practice the knockback jinx, flipendo, against conjured targets. This way, the ones who needed a bit of extra help could receive the professor''s attention while the rest of the class could continue to progress and begin to hone our aim.


    We were lined up in rows of four so as to not get in each other''s way. I stood at the back of one line, watching my classmates take their shots. The spell wasn''t particularly difficult, as were all first year spells. The goal of the year''s curriculum was to teach our bodies to channel magic through our wands and in a specific direction while gradually incorporating wand motions, incantations, and correct timing into our casting.


    In front of me, Theo looked back with a meaningful stare. He''d picked me out as his rival in the dorm now that I''d refused to step down from the monthly leaderboard. When his turn came, he stepped up with a confident smirk.


    He held his wand in front of his face like a sword and dipped his head in a quick bow reminiscent of a duelist. Then, with a flourish, he jabbed his wand towards the target and said, "Flipendo!"


    His wand sparked, but nothing came out. That didn''t stop him from strutting back with a swagger in his step though.


    To be fair, no one had gotten it so far and I was no different. When I went next, all I got was a dim glow of my wand. I returned to my place in line without a word. It was more challenging than expected, especially with my wand that seemed to shy away from aggressive spells. Or was that just my imagination?


    The advice Flitwick gave us was that we should perform the final jab as if we were pushing something back, but getting our magic to comply was harder than any of us had expected.


    In the end, I decided to study how others did it. I spread out my own senses much as I''d done in Diagon Alley. Back then, I''d been able to see the flow of the enchantment in the brickwork. I''d used it to determine the pattern needed to open the entrance.


    Observing spells as they were being cast proved to be noticeably more difficult, especially as I wasn''t holding their hand or anything. It didn''t help that Hogwarts was one of the most magical places on earth. The sensation of so broadly opening myself up to the world around me was akin to waking up and stepping out into the noonday sun. I found myself recoiling instinctively from the brightness of it all but forced myself to persevere.


    The first to get it right was Susan Bones, the busty redhead from Hufflepuff. It only took her two tries. I watched as her magic coiled around her, before jetting forward with her jab as if it was one of those spring-loaded boxing gloves in cartoons. She stood there, wand jutted outward, with a surprised frown on her face as though she herself hadn''t expected that to happen.


    "Bravo, Miss Bones! Ten points to Hufflepuff!" Flitwick cheered. "Remember, it''s all about visualization."


    "M-My aunt showed me the spell," she stammered, rosy-cheeked. It seemed she wasn''t the type to take praise well.


    Her familiarity with defensive magic made sense considering who she was related to. Madam Amelia Bones was the director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It didn''t surprise me that she''d teach her niece a little extra on the side.


    I smiled and watched the lines move forward. Each student took their shot, some better than others. I studied the way their magic moved. Some students'' magic poured out in force like a stream, which I felt put an overemphasis on their raw power, while others resembled something akin to a puff of air or a deflating balloon, pressured, but not nearly enough to give it range. I wondered what each said about their visualization process.


    I skipped my second turn to observe and decide on an image I wanted to replicate. Then, when it came time, I stood at a leisurely stance, left hand balanced on my cane and right hand holding my wand.


    I forced myself to still as I looked inward, reaching out for the magic I already couldn''t dream of living without.


    My wand was not a powerful one, nor one that embraced overt displays of magic. It was subtle and precise, shying away from committed strikes. If I had to liken it to a weapon, it was like a rapier; a little shorter than some swords, but lighter and with more finesse.


    With that in mind, I willed my magic into shape. A jab. A thrust. What was the difference? I didn''t need power here; I needed precision.I did my best to replicate Susan''s tight coils. Then, after imagining a spring-loaded gun, I jabbed forward.


    "Flipendo."


    A bolt of magic, a subdued red that wasn''t as Susan''s lanced out and struck the target. As the second to get the spell correct, Filtwick awarded me five points. By the end of class, most everyone was able to cast the spell, though I noticed I was the most accurate of us all.


    X


    After came potions, the most dreaded class of all, at least for three quarters of the school. This was less so for us Slytherins, but I''d be lying if we weren''t at least a little nervous. Our head of house had yet to step foot in the common room even once and he''d somehow managed to cultivate an aura of mystique, as though he were some great demon lord who should never be summoned for frivolous reasons.


    Personally, I was less intimidated and more curious. Severus Snape, or Prince if you wanted to be an insufferable nerd about canon, was the single most controversial figure in the setting. Even dismissing the rampant fan theories, he was either a redeemed martyr or a petty, unrepentant bully who took what vindictive joy he could from helpless students. Either way, he was a man who was mired in the past, both the memories of his first love and his bullies.


    What would he be like here? Would Violet''s gender influence their relationship? And if so, for the better or worse? Would she remind him more of Lily than James now that she didn''t have a penis? Would he dote on her and be some kind of silent guardian angel like he was in so many fanfics? Or would he find her to be a corruption of his image of Lily?


    Hell, there was a solid chance that if Snape tried the guardian angel schtick, Violet would just find him overbearing and creepy.


    Not that I''d blame her. My personal stance on Snape was that he was a huge fuckup of a man whose circumstances could pardon only so much. In fact, I''d even go as far as to argue that the bulk of his circumstances were created by his own actions. I wasn''t sympathetic.


    I''d had a lot of time to consider how I wanted to deal with Snape. Interacting with him would have been necessary, even had I not been placed in Slytherin, but especially now that I was a snake. Most of the benefits I wanted from topping the house leaderboards were things he could grant, which meant I''d have to impress the man regardless of my opinion of him.


    For that, I''d have to get his attention.


    I intentionally separated myself from my housemates and occupied a seat at the very center of the room, on the fringe between Gryffindor and Slytherin partitions. I tapped the table as Violet and Parvati passed, shooting the Girl Who Lived a pointed look before someone from my house could claim the seat next to me.


    The pair of them shared an unspoken conversation and separated. To my frustration, it was Parvati who sat with me.


    She noticed my annoyance and shot me an admittedly cute pout. "Are you really that unhappy to see me?"


    "It''s not you. I had something to give to Potter, that''s all," I said quietly. I pulled out a slip of parchment with a short, numbered list of seemingly random items and discreetly placed it on her lap beneath the desk. "Do me a favor. Go to Potter and pass this along as if you wrote it."


    As expected of the resident gossipmonger, her eyes positively glittered at that. "Aww, that''s so cute. Is this a confession?"


    "No. But if she doesn''t have this, she might be rather miffed with you. Please?"


    "Hmm¡­ I want a prediction from you then."


    I rolled my eyes. "Fine, just go, before Professor Snape sweeps in."


    She did so. I could feel Violet''s eyes staring at me in confusion, two seats behind and to my right. She''d figure out what it meant before Snape started asking his questions. Or she wouldn''t and it''ll be hilarious to be a smug little shit at her. Either way, she couldn''t say I hadn''t warned her.


    I wasn''t just doing this for the sake of messing with Violet of course. Truthfully, this was a bit of a litmus test on my end. Out of every canon character, Snape was the one who might have deviated the most as a result of Violet''s gender. I wanted to see how reliable the books and movies would be. If he made the same vainglorious speech and asked the same questions, that may or may not refer to flower language, then I could shape my future interactions with the man around that information.


    If he didn''t, then I''d have to observe him more before going to him for any favors in the future.


    Before I could ruminate more, a side door in front of the class slammed open, startling the students. Professor Snape swooped into the room, cloak fluttering like a bat. I''d always cringed at the description in fanfictions, but the man really did remind me of a budget Dracula.


    He didn''t waste any time before jumping right into his speech.


    "Put your wands away. There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don''t expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few who possess the predisposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even," he paused dramatically, staring out at Violet, "put a stopper in death."


    I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. The man was a drama queen of the highest order. Alas, we were his captive audience. I found my own lips moving along in boredom, mouthing his speech under my breath.


    "Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to not pay attention." He stomped towards Violet and sneered. "Miss Potter¡­ our new celebrity¡­"


    Yup. It seemed he''d be just as much of a pain in the ass as in canon. Whatever good he might do in the future, that didn''t change the fact that he was a colossal dick to his students. As a former college librarian, and an educator myself in some small fashion, seeing him pull this shit in real life annoyed me like nails on chalkboard.


    "I didn''t ask for this," Violet sneered right back. She was older; she wouldn''t be cowed as easily. "You think I want to be me? Sure, I''m so happy the day my parents got murdered is a national holiday to you wankers. Do you have any idea what that''s like? For the whole bloody world to dance on their graves? Do you, professor?"


    The whole class fell deathly silent at that retort. We had the unique privilege of seeing Severus Snape reel back like he''d been slapped.


    He studied her like she was an alien animal, some rabid thing he''d never seen before. Then, he collected himself and nodded. "Perhaps you are not the empty-headed dullard obsessed with undeserved fame. Twenty points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter, and detention for two nights."


    "What the fu-"


    "Three." Her mouth clamped shut with an audible click. "Let''s see if you''re just hot air, hmm? Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"


    "How should I know?" she demanded, more out of reflex than anything. Then her brain caught up to her mouth and remembered what I''d given her. I could tell the exact moment the dots connected because her eyes widened and flickered my way. "The draught of death or something."


    "Living death, girl. Let''s try again. Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"


    "The apothecary. Or goat stomach, I guess."


    "Once more. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"


    "They''re the same plant, professor," she bit out. The forced civility was obvious to hear.


    Snape looked at Violet disbelievingly. None of this was first year material. Even if it was, Snape was one of the few who were fully aware of Violet''s upbringing. He knew damn well that her stumbling on the information by coincidence was astronomically unlikely.


    He turned around, scanning the room to see if there was a trick he''d missed. Leontes had his hand waving like a loon behind Violet''s seat, but he largely got what he expected, a room full of stupefied teenagers.


    Until his eyes roamed the center of the class and found me.


    I locked eyes with my head of house and subtly nodded, confirming what was obvious. A seer arrives. A student appears supernaturally gifted. Snape wasn''t an idiot; he could do basic math.


    It''s not as though I was trying to hide. Hell, my entire plan could be summed up as refuge in audacity. This was just one part of that.


    I allowed my eyes to flicker towards Violet, then Snape, and wrung my hands in open nervousness. I looked at Parvati, who looked suitably mystified, and back at him. Then I seemingly steeled my resolve and did my best to stare him down.


    I wouldn''t be winning any Oscars, but my mediocre acting wasn''t important. The point was twofold, a two part message to Snape and to the school at large.


    Part one: Violet Potter had my help. Somehow, through an unknown price, she earned my support.


    That had merit on its own. Prestige itself was something Slytherins strived for and you couldn''t get more prestigious than the Girl Who Lived.


    I expected this to be a polarizing decision on my part. Some in the house would say I was a "traitor to the house," whatever the fuck that meant, while others would want to associate with Potter for one reason or another. It''d make life interesting for me, but I saw this as something that eventually had to happen regardless: I''d have to pick a side and it sure as hell wouldn''t be Voldemort''s.


    But by far the more important point was the message I sent to Snape. I was taking all his emotional buttons and stomping on them like a monkey on crack.


    A girl in Gryffindor? Check.


    A boy in Slytherin? Check.


    An abnormal display of fondness and protectiveness on the part of the Slytherin? Sure.


    Said boy''s willingness to isolate himself from his house to befriend her? That hadn''t been Snape. He caved to peer pressure in the end. And yet, whatever else he was, he was a man of a great many regrets. It wouldn''t surprise me if this was chief among them.


    That all of this was happening before his eyes between the daughter of his dearest love and a boy who, by all expectations, should have been as dark as could be?


    All arguments could be distinguished into three types: logos, ethos, and pathos. Logic. Morality. Emotion. And emotion was a powerful thing.


    This was the Snape I knew from the books and movies. If he wasn''t, he wouldn''t have asked these specific questions or made that specific speech. If he wasn''t, my slip of parchment would have been disregarded as nonsense and I''d never be in this position in the first place.


    But he was. He was the same Snape, the man who loved and lost so desperately that his patronus, the magical manifestation of his greatest joy, took on Lily''s form.


    In my opinion, the most powerful form of argument was pathos. People killed and died for their passions. People abandoned reason and morality in the name of their beloved. And I was leveraging every bit of my knowledge of the man to make this emotional argument: Blaise Zabini and Violet Potter were mirrors of Severus Snape and Lily Evans.


    What better way to receive his help, however subtle, than by playing on his sympathy? What better way to play on his sympathy than to force him to see himself in me?


    Professor Snape whirled to the front of the class, saying no more on the subject. Still, his attention never left my table, which was precisely what I''d wanted anyway.


    In the words of weebs everywhere: All according to keikaku.


    Author''s Note


    I figure even if Snape behaves as normal, an older, more rebellious Violet wouldn''t take that lying down. Blaise isn''t really a good person. If you think about it, he''s literally using a man''s dead love and childhood trauma to manipulate him.


    Animal fact in honor of the Weasley twins'' first prank: The male proboscis monkey has the longest nose among primates, jutting past their mouths and sometimes even past their chins. The longest nose on record was seven inches.


    Notice I said males. The proboscis monkey inflates their nose to make a trumpeting mating call. Scientists found that females find longer noses more attractive, meaning they''ve been selectively breeding themselves to have a seemingly pointless sexually dimorphic trait. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that I guess.


    And yes, their noses do look like dicks. Thank you, ZeFrank, you are a national treasure.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 11. Minerva, Goddess of War and Wisdom

    Chapter 11: Minerva, goddess of war and wisdom.


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    Our first potions class continued. We were asked to make a boil cure potion, one of the more basic potions in our textbook. It included a base of snake fangs, six per dose, crushed into powder and added to the cauldron to form a paste-like slurry. This was, according to our textbook, one of several standards bases for many forms of health tonics. The type and quality of the potion would vary based on the potency of the snake''s venom.


    For our purposes, simple garter snake fangs would do.


    Parvati and I worked well together. Despite common assumptions, she wasn''t a vapid fool. More to the point, she wasn''t at all grossed out by the fangs, or the dried out horned slugs, that we had to prepare.


    "Mom''s pretty good at potions," she said with a shrug, "made sure neither Padma nor I would get all precious about it. Why? Your mom didn''t teach you anything?"


    I snorted at the thought of Valencia Zabini teaching. "Mother? No, of course not."


    "Shame, potions is one of the few subjects you can teach someone who doesn''t have a wand. I mean, I had a training wand and all, but you know what I mean."


    I thought about how stepdads three and four were found. "You know? I do think mother knows a thing or two about potions now that you mention it."


    "See? You should write to her. Maybe she wanted to teach you and was waiting for you to ask? She could be secretly super disappointed," Parvati said with an innocent smile. It made me want to pinch her cheeks.


    "You''re precious, Patil."


    "What?"


    "Nothing. Take the cauldron off the fire for a few minutes before adding the quills."


    "Hmm? Sure, but I don''t think the fire''s that hot." She wasn''t wrong necessarily. In a kitchen, this would be considered a low heat, barely enough to slowly scramble an egg. But this wasn''t a kitchen; this was a potions lab.


    "Trust me, it matters."


    "What''s the wor-"


    Then there was a sudden bang as Seamus and Nevile''s half-melted cauldron rolled off their stand and onto the floor. One moment, the room was silent save for hushed mutters and the simmering of cauldrons, and the next, the Gryffindor side of the room descended into startled yelps.


    Professor Snape was on them in seconds, swooping down like Batman chasing a cocaine shipment.


    "That," I drawled.


    Parvati looked behind her, then at me with an accusing frown. "You knew that would happen."


    "I didn''t, actually."


    "Why don''t I believe you?"


    "Because you have an overinflated opinion of what it means to be a seer. Like looking around a foggy city, remember?"


    "You helped Violet."


    "Some things are clearer than others. Potter''s like Big Ben, a huge, fat thing sticking out of the fog. Even when you turn around, she''ll remind you she''s there, every hour, on the hour."


    "So¡­ I can tell her you said she''s fat?" She asked with a chuckle. "Didn''t you avoid the Weasley twins'' prank this morning?"


    "Yes. I also noticed you tell them how. Thanks for making me a target, by the way."


    "That wasn''t-"


    "I know, chirpy. I''m not actually mad. But to answer your question, their prank was easy to avoid because it was harmful to me. Think of the Sight like accidental magic. You know how those are triggered, right?"


    She nodded. Like this, she really looked identical to her sister. "Most people awaken theirs as children when they either really want something or because magic needs to protect them from harm."


    "Perfect. Since the potion would be harmful to me, my Sight triggered without active prompting on my part."


    "And since we''re seated far from Nevile and Seamus, their blunder didn''t affect you so your magic ignored it."


    "Right."


    This was one of the minor details from canon that I''d forgotten. Other than fuel Nevile''s phobia of our potions professor, this incident had no bearing on the story whatsoever so I''d shelved it into a corner of my mind. I truly hadn''t remembered until we began dicing porcupine quills ourselves.


    As it was, I decided to take this incident as proof that my memory wasn''t perfect. Unless I bothered looking, there was a chance I''d skip over more important details in the future, one more reason to refine my occlumency as soon as possible.


    The boil cure announced its readiness with a trail of pink smoke rising from the cauldron. Parvati and I bottled a dose each to present it to Professor Snape.


    X


    "You wanted to see me, professor?" I asked politely. My head of house had called me to stay after class while the rest of the snakes went on to astronomy.


    Severus Snape was not a handsome man. He might have been once, but years of slinking in the shadows left him with a pallor that reminded me of Gollum. Still, it did give him an intimidating glare.


    "You assisted Miss Potter today," he said, a statement rather than a question.


    "I did," I nodded easily. I never meant to hide it after all.


    "Why?"


    "Does it matter, professor?"


    "Humor me, Mr. Zabini."


    I hummed and leaned against my desk, twirling my cane in one hand. I wanted his support, which meant I needed his approval. It was why I so insistently drew those heavy-handed parallels between him and myself after all.


    "The Slytherin answer would be to say that she is a useful contact. The Girl Who Lived, woefully ignorant about our society, and heiress to the Potter fortune. And of course, an inside look at the house of lions," I said, looking into his eyes.


    Staring down a known legilimens was dangerous, but I couldn''t afford to look away; anything else would be considered a lie. I knew my past life''s memories, including canon knowledge, were protected so that wasn''t an issue. I had some rudimentary occlumency, as did most purebloods, but I didn''t think I could keep him out if he tried.


    By staring him down, I was all but inviting him to make the attempt. More importantly, I was indicating a lack of things to hide. It was a game of chicken played through body language. He could try, but I might notice. Or he could see in me the lovesick boy he''d once been.


    "We don''t always behave according to our house colors, Mr. Zabini," he spoke, his voice surprisingly soft.


    "Nor should we, professor. It is said that our houses define us, and that''s true to a point, but I don''t think that''s always a good thing. Who knows what I might miss out on with such a narrow perspective."


    "Oh?"


    "Slytherins are cunning and ambitious. It strikes me that I am more likely to succeed in my endeavors if I build bridges with the other houses."


    "Is that right? There are some in your house who would greatly disapprove," he said carefully. Even without my knowledge, it was clear he spoke from experience. "Some might consider your fraternizing a form of betrayal."


    I shrugged helplessly. "I can''t please everyone; I refuse to try. You asked me why I helped Potter and I gave you the Slytherin answer. Now permit me to be candid, professor. Truth is, she''s grown on me. I can''t say she''s a friend, but she''s got a fire to her that appeals to me. As for anyone who cares to tell me what I can and cannot do, they will be rather disappointed."


    "Worthy convictions. We will see if they hold," he said dismissively, but I could spy the ghost of a smile. How many times had he wished he''d said the same as a teenager? He then glanced at my cane. "Tell me, Mr. Zabini."


    "Yes, professor?"


    "How are you finding your other classes? I understand you have been in a rather traumatic incident towards the end of summer."


    "The rumor mill is impressive," I said sardonically. I''d planned to approach Professor Sinistra first, but since the opportunity presented itself¡­ "The classwork itself is fine, but I''m not sure how taxing astronomy will be."


    "Astronomy? That is your next class, I believe, the last for the day."


    "The regular classes are fine, but I don''t think I''ll be able to remain awake for the midnight classes. The healers noted that I now require something around twelve hours of sleep per day to be fully functional."


    "And when did you sleep last night?"


    "Seven, perhaps seven-thirty, professor. I had dinner and immediately went to bed so I could have an hour before class to myself."


    He nodded understandingly. He would, the man had eaten more than once crucio in his life, and from a wizard incomparably stronger than my dearly departed aunt. He pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write. "I can see how a midnight class might present an undue burden on your academic progress and recovery, presuming of course that you speak the truth."


    I frowned. I tapped my cane against the ground incredulously. "You think I''m lying about benig crucio''d so hard I need a third leg?"


    "I am skeptical of all excuses made by students by default. I''ve heard every excuse you''d care to name for academic allowance. My students like to think of themselves as being especially cunning after all."


    "I¡­ Yeah, fair point."


    "You do have a better excuse than others. However, I expect my students to excel, not rely on pity to scrape by."


    I took a deep breath. This fucker just¡­ I refused to lose my cool. With a slow exhale, I said, "I am not looking for pity, professor. I fully intend to excel in all classes, especially astronomy. The subject is rather important for my innate gifts."


    He studied me for a moment before nodding in approval. A test then, probably to see if I was the type of impulsive "dunderhead" who''d fly off the handle. Fucking bullshit is what this was.


    He handed me the parchment he''d been writing on. "You will visit Madam Pomfrey immediately after your classes today. You will comply with all tests and checkups she demands, for as long as she demands. You will obtain and maintain an exemplary academic record. If you do, I will exempt you from midnight classes."


    "Thank you, professor."


    "That note is for Professor Sinistra, both to explain your tardiness now and that she should see me after dinner to discuss your education."


    "Yes, sir."


    He leaned forward, his beady, black eyes narrowed with scorn. "Do understand, Mr. Zabini, should Madam Pomfrey tell me your health is not as dire as you claim, you will wish it was."


    I wanted to punch the bastard. Who said that to a kid? As a teacher? Still, I grit my teeth and forced myself to bow respectfully. He''d given me everything I wanted after all. Being an acerbic douche-canoe was a part of him.


    As I made my way out of the classroom, he gave me one final piece of advice. "You have a great gift, Mr. Zabini. Take care that you don''t attract the wrong sort of attention."


    X


    Convincing Professor Sinistra to excuse me from my midnight classes was a lot simpler than it could have been thanks to Professor Snape. Unfortunately, she ended up being the serious sort, the kind of professor who was very passionate about her subject. She refused to just excuse me from the "important practical lessons" without me making up for it somehow.


    And that was how I ended up with an extra lesson every Sunday after lunch. On one hand, as a former college librarian, I respected all professors who were dedicated to their craft. On the other hand, I was a student now and any kind of makeup class sucked.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    So I found myself in the medical wing of the castle. It was located on the first floor, a quick hop from the great hall. It, like the hall, headmaster''s office, four house commons, and a few other locations, did not move. A surprising bit of common sense from wizards.


    The medical wing contained eight beds placed side by side, with curtain dividers between. To one side, there was a smaller room that acted as the healer''s office. Another side of the wing was dedicated to a walk-in cabinet for potions, bandages, and other supplies.


    I found Madam Pomfrey in her office, poring over a thick tome with letters that seemed to move as I read them. She was a matronly older woman with graying hair and a kind smile. I heard she''d begun working here sometime during the late sixties. I tapped a little bell placed next to her office door.


    ''Hmm? Oh, hello, dear. Don''t tell me you''ve managed to hex yourself somehow. It''s only been two days!" she said, placing a bookmark onto the confusing pages. She got up and ushered me out of her doorway.


    "Ah, I haven''t hexed myself, ma''am," I said politely. I decided to be as succinct as possible. "My name is Blaise Zabini and a few weeks before school, someone kidnapped and tortured me with the crucio for several hours."


    Her mouth opened and closed dumbly. I could practically see her brain trying to discern whether or not I was lying. Finally, something seemed to click. "I-Ye-Yes, I do believe Professor Snape mentioned something of that nature."


    "You weren''t sure if he was kidding?"


    "The man sent over his patronus and he has¡­ a unique sense of humor," she said apologetically.


    "Understandable. In any case, I was told you could give me a checkup?"


    "Yes, go lie down on the bed there."


    I kicked off my shoes and stretched myself out on one of the cots. When I got comfortable, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand in my general direction. She muttered several spells under her breath, chaining them together with the finesse of a master duelist. Her wandwork was so fluid that I couldn''t tell where one spell began and another ended.


    Finally, after several minutes, she stopped and frowned. "This can''t be right."


    "You know, a healer telling me that never bodes well," I tried joking.


    "Oh, I''m sorry, Mr. Zabini. Do you have any magic artifacts on you?"


    "I¡­ Yes, actually. Does this affect your ability to read me somehow?" I asked curiously. I slipped the ring from my finger and placed it on the stand beside me.


    She picked it up and examined it for a second before nodding with comprehension. "Not normally, no, but you have a very potent enchanted ring, and one specialized for the use of healing magic. Episkey, correct?"


    "Yes, ma''am. I use it occasionally when the shivers get to be too much. I know it''s not a cure, but it does take away the symptoms. Should I not have?"


    "No, no, that''s perfect. That explains the strange readings I''ve been getting."


    "Do you mind explaining? I"d like to know just what''s happening with me."


    "Of course, dear. To start, you are aware that an episkey, while perfectly serviceable healing magic, will not purge dark magic residue from your body?"


    "Yes. Healer Alvarez, the healer who treated me in Italy, told me that my body would purge itself in time."


    "He''s right. Our magic knows and works towards our benefit, even subconsciously. Of course, it helps to know actual healing spells, have good nutrition, and other factors, but there is a general tendency of magic to do good for its wielder. This is why wizards tend to live longer than muggles."


    It made sense. I wondered if this too was why Harry, despite being the posterboy of child abuse, grew up to be a perfectly healthy, downright athletic adult. His magic must have been working overtime to cope with the bullshit he went through on the yearly.


    Hell, Healer Alvarez said that magic cores were like muscles. I could expect to become a stronger than average wizard because of the way I strained myself.


    "But if that''s true, how does episkey work? Shouldn''t the healing spell bolster the natural healing provided by our magic?"


    "Not as such. To explain in detail, I''d have to get into the arithmancy of the spell itself and what it can and cannot do," she said, somewhat apologetically. She looked excited to be talking about the subject. "I''m afraid you lack the background to understand the explanation, Mr. Zabini. The short of it is that though your ring cannot purge dark magic for you, it takes care of the symptoms, allowing your own magic to reroute itself towards the cause and thus speeding up your recovery."


    "That makes sense. So I''m recovering fine?"


    "Better than fine. Under normal circumstances, it would take you half a year, maybe longer. Thanks to that ring, you can expect to forgo this cane by the end of the month."


    "Huh¡­" That was wonderful news. I''d given up on things like the dueling club because though I could see the spells coming, it would do no good if I lacked the physical ability to dodge. I''d have to reconsider my options now.


    "Indeed. Congratulations, Mr. Zabini, you have quite the heirloom."


    "Yeah, I''m really lucky. So how does my narcolepsy play into this?" I asked. I knew of course that Somnolent was a drawback, something imposed before I even entered this world. But if there was even the slightest chance of getting rid of it, I had to try.


    She frowned at that. "Your magic core refuels itself over time. Most of this refueling is done while you are asleep. And since you are expending more of your magic daily to heal yourself, and this expenditure is a constant process that occurs even when you are asleep¡­"


    "I need more sleep to offset the way my magic core is working overtime," I finished for her. "Does that mean I''ll return to a more sustainable sleep schedule after I''ve fully recovered?"


    "Perhaps, but not by the end of the month. Now, I said you would be able to go without your cane by then, but that is not to say that you are fully recovered, merely that you will have your mobility back. Beyond that, I cannot say. You truly are a unique medical specimen; victims of sustained crucio are seldom your age and the effects of so much dark magic on a developing magic core is¡­ unexplored, to say the least."


    "I''m thrilled you find my condition fascinating, Madam Pomfrey," I drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.


    "Apologies, Mr. Zabini, that did sound rather insensitive, didn''t it?"


    "It''s alright. I understand what you meant. Honestly, this is interesting to hear."


    "Are you interested in healing magic?"


    "Honestly? I wasn''t until this conversation. It does sound interesting and it strikes me that learning how my ring works, and maybe a few diagnostic spells to supplement it, would be a good thing."


    "Unfortunately, healing is a NEWT-level course I teach a select few students. Only those with an Exceeds Expectations or better on both their charms and potions OWLs are permitted into my class. I do hope to see you here in a few years, Mr. Zabini."


    "Any chance you can recommend some preparatory reading?"


    "Not as a first year, no. Third, fourth year, perhaps. Now, I believe I''ve seen all I need for today. You will see me on Saturday morning after breakfast so that I can check to see if you are well enough to attend your first flying lesson."


    "I understand, Madam Pomfrey."


    "Good, run along then. I''ll inform your head of house that you are to be dismissed from your midnight classes."


    "Thank you," I said. "Do you mind if I have a note to show my housemates? I''d like to deal with any questions about why I get to skip class as soon as possible."


    "Of course, dear. One moment."


    After receiving the note, I bid her goodbye and headed for the kitchens. Dinner had already begun and I wanted to grab something light before going to bed. All told, I came away with more commitments but an uninterrupted sleep schedule on Wednesdays, which I considered more than worth the trade.


    X


    "Oh, this is so unfair," Heath said as we sat around the dinner table on Wednesday. "Why do you get to skip the midnight classes?"


    I cut up a portion of the toad in the hole and served myself. It was sausage baked in Yorkshire pudding, served with a side of onion gravy. Not what I considered good food, but it was archetypal British fare, proof positive that Brits lacked color in their lives. I made a show of languidly cutting a sausage before speaking, "Because I have a healer''s note."


    "Still not fair," Gregory muttered from a mouth full of food. He swallowed and continued, "That was months ago."


    "Weeks. Madam Pomfrey says I''ll recover by the end of this month though."


    The boys grumbled with dissatisfaction. In a way, I understood. They reminded me of a time when I was their age. A classmate tore his ACL and got out of PE for three months. Rather than show sympathy, I had been jealous of his "good fortune," not realizing the suffering that was his physical therapy.


    I''d been such a douchebag then. I couldn''t find it in me to begrudge my housemates their envy because I''d been the same.


    "So you really do need a full twelve hours, huh?" Theo muttered.


    I frowned. I could see the gears turning in his head. "No. Try to intentionally disturb my sleep and I''ll stop pulling punches. A contest for the suite is fine, but I''m warning you now, Nott, I''m very protective of my sleep."


    "I''m sure you are. But hey, if we happen to make a bit more noise than we thought, well¡­"


    Theo wasn''t ready for this. The drawback seriously hampered my abilities. The effects of insomnia seemed to set in faster and heavier with me than with others. Poor judgment. Scattered attention. Reduced memory. Risky and dangerous decision-making.


    The first night was manageable. The second and third too, but if he continued to hamper my sleep, there would quickly come a time when I''d quite literally be willing to maim him for five extra minutes.


    I leveled Theo with as serious a glower as I could manage. "You''re escalating and this is a mistake. I guarantee you I''m willing to do worse to you for five minutes of sleep than you are to keep me awake."


    "Do your worst, Zabini," he scoffed. His voice was filled with the undeserved bravado of a cocksure teenager. He saw an easy way to inhibit my progress and saw no reason to keep things quiet. He thought himself cunning, and he was, for a child.


    It was a trait I''d noticed about Slytherins: In some ways, we were even more bombastic than Gryffindors. The hallmark of a cunning plan was that no one knew you had completed it. However, Slytherins jockeyed for position based on said cunning, so how else would others know of your brilliance unless you strutted like a peacock? It left most of my house in a humorous dichotomy between quietly rubbing their palms like cartoon supervillains and¡­ shouting about how brilliant they were, also like cartoon supervillains.


    The latter was what Theo was doing, telling everyone he had a cunning plan to win the private suite. Trouble was, he hadn''t succeeded yet. He thought I couldn''t stop him anyway and so felt confident in telling me upfront. I''d just have to burst his bubble then.


    I''d have to tweak a few plans, plans I had regarding the twins, plans I''d worked on since my arrival in this world. Then again, it wouldn''t be bad to establish a rapport early. They were ingenious, resourceful, and strong wizards.


    "Fine, remember, you started this," I said nonchalantly.


    "You''re an idiot, Nott," Lyra jeered from a few seats over. "Why in Merlin''s beard would you tell him what you''re up to?"


    Theo shot her a dirty look. "Because he''s a seer, Malfoy. He''ll know what I''m up to anyway."


    "That doesn''t mean he knows everything, but congratulations, you''ve thoroughly ruined yourself."


    I wondered. Had that really been why Theo felt he should brag about disturbing my sleep? Had he overestimated my abilities and then ended up playing himself?


    I couldn''t help it. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Teenagers, even pureblood teenagers raised to live and breathe politics since we were children, really weren''t all that bright yet.


    X


    I got my twelve hours of sleep after all and joined the rest of the student body for breakfast. Colloportus, the locking charm, was not a difficult spell to learn. It was in fact part of the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 that Professor Flitwick taught from and the direct opposite of alohomora. As a first year spell, it didn''t require too much effort to learn and I managed to pick it up in an hour or so by practicing on my bookbag.


    Me locking my bookbag also proved that despite the name, "collo" from the Latin "to bind together," and "portus" meaning "door, it could be used more flexibly. A "door" was "an opening to pass through" and by that token, my privacy curtains formed a "door" I could "bind together." Magic was neat like that, I''d found.


    Thanks to that, Theo didn''t manage to get into my bed to bug me. Any noise he made outside was drowned out by Madam Pomfrey''s sleeping draught. Wonderful stuff, that. I made a note to learn a stronger locking charm. Theo wasn''t stupid; he''d soon figure out the counterspell.


    I couldn''t believe it. My first magical arms race and it was over keeping my privacy curtains shut. Magic school was fucking stupid¡­


    I consoled myself with the fact that they''d be useful spells in the future anyway and began to load up my plate with breakfast items. Eggs, toast, and roasted tomatoes weren''t bad, but I found that my body tended to crave sweeter things for breakfast.


    We were halfway through breakfast when the mail owls swept through the hall. They airdropped packages like they were German pilots flying over London. Missiles rained down from the sky onto bowls of scrambled eggs. One was deflected by an ablative armor of toast, stacked high in the middle of the table. Truly, wizards knew how to make breakfast interesting.


    I wondered what would happen if I purposely infected one owl with bird flu¡­ I could probably shut down the entire school for a solid week or two. Or maybe a few days, Madam Pomfrey was rather competent¡­


    ''And that, Blaise, is called an intrusive thought,'' I mused with a quiet chuckle.


    My Sight flared and I tossed a bowl of fruit behind me, emptying it of its contents just in time for a mud-brown owl to crash headlong into it. The owl filled the bowl like oatmeal and slid across the table, coming to a stop in front of me.


    I then heard a croaking screech, too quiet to be intimidating but not quite a hoot either. The table was enveloped in shadow as Minerva, my fuck-massive eagle owl, glided down below. The smaller owl that currently decorated my fruit bowl let out a squawk of terror before thrusting a crumpled piece of parchment towards me.


    I sighed and held out a hand to stop my owl. At the same time, I slid the fruit bowl across the table, out of MInerva''s reach. Quickly, I distracted her with a thick slice of bacon.


    "Are you bullying the other mail owls, Minerva?" I cooed.


    "Bwap," she chirped, doing her best to look innocent. Impossible, considering she was at least twice the size of most other owls, but still adorable anyway.


    "You can''t beat up every owl that gives me a letter," I chided. I tossed a few more pieces of bacon after the fruit bowl as an apology to the haggard mail owl.


    "Bwap." Her eyes promised she could and would.


    Despite the promise of violence in her eyes, she sat still and allowed me to groom her plumage. She nuzzled her head into my hand and stole a few more things off the breakfast table before hopping onto my shoulder. At almost seven pounds of fluff and pointy talons, it wasn''t a weight I could ignore. She reminded me of a Tibetan mastiff that didn''t quite know how big it was.


    She''d taken a liking to my wavy locks and ran her beak through my hair in a vain attempt to straighten them. While she did that, I unrolled the piece of parchment to find a cryptic letter. "Thowl art cordially invited to meet with the Mistress of Snowl, should thowl prove thyself capable of discerning this letter''s secrets. Can''t be too hard. It''s not owl-gebra."


    I held it transfixed. The puns physically hurt. I could feel a sudden urge to rinse my eyes in lemon juice to cleanse them of that travesty. "What the fuck?"


    "Huh, I think that means the owlery," Heath said informatively. He was looking over my shoulder at the letter, the awful, awful letter.


    "Thank you for that observation, Parkinson. Kindly avoid reading my correspondence."


    "Then get a politer owl," Theo laughed, "not one that''s a bloody bandit."


    "Bwap!"


    "Aah! Fucking hell! Get it off!"


    "Her name is Minerva," I replied smugly. "She will forgive you in exchange for half your breakfast in tribute."


    "There''s bacon over there!"


    "Bwap!"


    "She says it tastes better when it''s stolen from sniveling cowards."


    "Gah! Fuck you, Zabini!"


    A few minutes later, I smiled around a spoonful of scrambled eggs as Minerva gorged herself on a plate made up of half of Theo''s breakfast. Yes, meals were laid out buffet-style. Yes, Theo could get another plate. But it was the principle of the matter. If he wanted to pick a fight with seven pounds of fluff and talons, that wasn''t my problem.


    The boy in question sulked quietly, doing his best to pretend like he hadn''t just been mugged by my mailman.


    I thought more about the letter. As painful as it was to consider, the message wasn''t complicated: Meet me at the owlery. Even Heath could figure it out and he wasn''t exactly Einstein. Question was, who sent it?


    No, that wasn''t difficult either. There was only one "snowl" in the castle, a snowy owl by the name of Hedwig. At this point in the timeline, there ought to be only a handful of people who knew Violet owned a snowy owl, which meant she was relying on my knowledge to piece things together. Assuming Violet sent the note, I was glad she''d used a Hogwarts mail owl rather than her personal familiar.


    Now then, what did she want with me?


    Author''s Note


    Commission! Done!


    Not gonna lie, that conversation with Snape kicked my ass. I mean, it had to happen, of course the head of house is going to be interested in this weird, crippled seer. But I''m not a big fan of bashing fics so I tried to make him both reasonably competent-sounding and decently understandable. I don''t think I succeeded.


    I am once again pulling shit from my ass to justify CYOA choices via in-story lore. I consider it a plus that I get to flush out some of that magic core trope.


    Eagle owls don''t make hooting sounds. They also don''t make eagle screeches either. It''s a weird mix that''s hard to describe, so "bwap" it is.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 12. Fishing is a delightful and relaxing hobby.

    Chapter 12: Fishing is a delightful and relaxing hobby.


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    Violet Potter was an idiot. Either that, or she had a laughably inflated opinion of my abilities. That was useful sometimes, but not in the present situation: She hadn''t actually said when we ought to meet at the owlery.


    Fortunately, history was the last class on Thursday. I sat in the back of the class next to Gregory, full well knowing the beefy boy would be out like a light. Sure enough, he clocked out within seconds of the old ghost beginning his lecture on the tax reformation that started the third goblin rebellion. It was unexpectedly interesting stuff, an object lesson in why goblins weren''t fanon''s "misunderstood warrior society with honorable traditions and secret magics."


    They might have secret magics, no one else could forge goblin silver, but they sure as hell weren''t inclined to help wizards.


    I for one decided to use this time to experiment. What did it mean to have a "divination medium?" Divination Through the Ages went over different mediums ranging from entrails of sacrificed animals to tarot cards used by the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, but if anything, the book highlighted to me just how broad the definition of the word "medium" could be.


    That was how I ended up making a fortune teller out of parchment. It was one of those things I remembered obsessing over in elementary school. There were a few months in second grade when I was really interested in origami. I didn''t remember how to make everything, but a fortune teller was one of the simplest constructs in any origami guide book. I scribbled "yes" and "no" on each alternating side.


    Then, opening my inner eye, I asked myself: Will Violet be at the owlery today?


    Thinking about the question, I nudged Heath Parkinson in the desk beside mine and Gregory''s. "Psst, Parkinson."


    "Yes, Zabini?" he asked. Unlike Gregory, he was awake and reading our defense textbook. With Quirrell pretending to be a stuttering, anxiety-ridden imbecile, the common consensus among my housemates was that history should be used as a study period to keep up with our defense curriculum on our own.


    "Mind giving me a number? Between one and four."


    "Sure. Four," he said absently, not bothering to look up from his book.


    "Thanks." I began to fiddle with the fortune teller. "Again."


    "One. What''s that you''ve got there?"


    "An experiment." I unfolded the fortune teller to find a "yes." But that could have been sheer luck. I then asked myself again: Will Violet be at the owlery today before dinner?


    A few more yes or no questions followed. If this thing was right, Violet would be at the owlery during dinner, not before, nor after. But she''d also be there at four in the morning.


    "I''ve come to a conclusion," I told the taller boy.


    He looked at me with a raised brow. "And what''s that?"


    I should have known a muggle toy wouldn''t be a valid divination medium. I''d wondered if the "childish belief" of millions of children would somehow affect magic, granting some prophetic weight to the otherwise ordinary construct, kind of like how faith and acts of worship were said to give gods power in many other settings.


    If magic could be influenced by the collective psyche of sentient souls, then the humble fortune teller had not reached that threshold. Or perhaps I needed to make it out of something more permanent, with enchantments meant to harness the blind faith of children. Perhaps Japan''s onmyodo?


    Either way, my experiment was a dud. I crumpled the origami construct in my hand. "That I''m a bloody idiot and this is garbage."


    "Dare I ask what that was about?"


    "Just a game; don''t worry about it."


    "Fine. Have you done your DADA homework yet?"


    "Yes, actually. I did it yesterday evening."


    "It was assigned twenty minutes ag¨C" he shook his head in exasperation. "Of course you did. How do you get rid of an imp infestation?"


    "You can stun the little buggers with the knockback jinx. We learned it in charms. If you''re dealing with any that are hidden, you''ll want to lure them out. They eat insects so you could use that."


    "Thanks, mate."


    "No problem, Parkinson. That''s page twenty-six if you want to check. Although, you really shouldn''t ever have an imp infestation to begin with so the assignment''s a bit of a trick question."


    "What do you mean?"


    "Imps like swampy, marshland. Something about the high humidity and smell of stagnant water appeals to them apparently. Unless you''re building a house in the swamp, you really don''t have any reason to run into them. You''re more likely to find garden gnomes, doxies, and the like."


    "Well, yeah, but that''s the assignment. Quirrell''s no good, mate."


    I snorted. I wondered what he''d think if I told him the truth, that the Dark Lord who occupied a position of myth in his family was right here in the castle. "You''re right; Quirrell''s a dud. Better we study on our own."


    X


    I split off from my housemates and made my way upstairs. The owlery occupied the majority of the west tower. The tower, located atop a ledge overlooking the Black Lake, had a spiral set of stairs that curved up nine stories. Five of those were dedicated to the mail owls of Hogwarts.


    I navigated the stairs and thanked whichever headmaster had the foresight to install railings. The moment I walked into the fifth floor, I had to kick a vole skeleton away so I wouldn''t step on it and skid across the room on owl feces like the world''s shitiest figure skater. Crippled though I may be for the moment, I didn''t think my dignity could survive that.


    The entire floor was littered with clumps of straw and similar droppings. It was drafty and cold because the owlery was dotted with windows that lacked glass, allowing the owls to come and go as they pleased.


    As I climbed the tower, I peeked into the little nests carved into the walls. There were many more nests than there were owls, so much so that the interior of the tower reminded me of a honeycomb.


    Funnily enough, many of the nests on the lower floors were empty, too many for their occupants to all be out delivering letters or hunting. I also noticed that the ones that were occupied were occupied by older, more sickly owls. Their feathers were ruffled and unkept. Compared to them, the owls looked progressively better-fed the higher I climbed. It seemed there was some sort of striated society of mail owls here.


    I chuckled at the thought. If that was so, there was no doubt in my mind where Minerva would be. She was huge, a chonker by bird standards; she''d permit herself no other seat save the one at the peak of the tower.


    Sure enough, I was up to the seventh floor when the oversized feather duster landed on my shoulder. She let out an eager, croaking chirp. "Hey, Minerva, how are things?"


    "Bwap," she croaked, nuzzling into my cheek. She then looked around the room, glaring the other owls into submission from my shoulder, as if declaring to her newfound kingdom that I was indeed her human.


    "Are you still sore because someone else delivered my mail?"


    "Bwap!"


    "Aww, other owls will come to me if they belong to someone else, you know."


    "Bwap," she said indignantly.


    "Yes, yes, I''ll only use you if I ever need to send correspondence," I promised her.


    It was hilarious watching her glare at her fellows as I climbed the stairs. Then, when I reached the ninth floor, she flew up to the rafters, a dome with a hole in the center to let more light in. There, she''d made a giant nest for herself. I spied not just the fur of mice and voles, but also feathers, more than a few from other owls. The notion that she made other owls pay tribute to build her nest made me giggle.


    A few seconds later, she flew back down with an honest-to-Merlin dead fox. She presented it to me with a soft croon and puffed feathers. It seemed I had quite the conqueror on my hands.


    I spent a few minutes chatting with Minerva, brushing her feathers and pampering her with owl treats. It was peaceful here, the silence only disturbed by the rustle of feathers and the soft hoots of owls jockeying for position. Sure, the tower smelled like owl droppings, but I found that easy enough to ignore. And the view, the view just couldn''t be beat.


    My silence was broken by the arrival of the Girl Who Lived. She entered with Hedwig nestled on her shoulder and let out an impressed whistle. "Now that is a fat bird."


    "Evening, Potter. She''s about fifty percent fluff by volume," I said with a chuckle. "She only weighs seven pounds or so."


    "Yeah, Hedgwig''s only about half that. Maybe. What''s up, Zabini? Did you like my riddle?"


    I made an exaggerated scowl of revulsion. "Your puns are disgusting. I felt my soul shrivel up inside. Really, ''Mistress of Snowl?'' That was the best you could come up with?"


    "Hey, everyone else seems hellbent on giving me stupid names," she said with a carefree smirk. "I figured I may as well give myself one too. Besides, Hedwig''s awesome."


    "She is," I admitted. Her death honestly bothered me more than Dumbledore''s. I reached out to pet her, only for the snowy owl to nip at my fingers. "Gah, fuck!"


    "Bwap!" Minerva chirped in warning. She made to jump at Hedwig to enact feathery retribution, but I caught her and placed her on my lap.


    "No. No murdering Potter''s owl, even if she bites."


    "Hey, it''s your fault. You have your own owl anyway."


    "Fine, fine, I concede to your wisdom."


    "Good. We''ll forgive you if you hand over some of those owl treats. I forgot mine in my trunk."


    "Really? Emotional blackmail and extortion? Is this behavior befitting the Chosen One?"


    "You can kiss my ass with that Chosen One shite. I''m going to live my life however the fuck I want and bugger whoever says otherwise," she huffed, a bit of that defiant, Gryffindor spark showing through.


    I laughed and handed over half the treats in tribute. "Good. That''s a good mentality to have. So, what did you call me here for, oh Mistress of Snowl?"


    "What? Don''t know that already?"


    "Nope. Knowing everything would be boring."


    "I guess." She looked out over the lake. She folded her messy bangs to the side and tucked them behind one ear, hiding her scar from view. With an uncharacteristically quiet sigh, she whispered, "Thank you."


    "Hmm?"


    "For Snape¡­ Thanks for bailing me out."


    "You''re bad with emotions, aren''t you?"


    "Shut up!"


    "Hey, no judgment. Sarcasm and snark are perfectly fine coping strategies," I said with a quiet laugh. "And you''re welcome. Snape is¡­ a complicated man."


    "What''s his deal? With me? We''ve only had two classes with him so far and I can already tell the git has it out for me."


    "He doesn''t, not really."


    "Oh, yeah? Explain that shit to me. Please."


    I schooled my expression and pondered the question. How much should I tell her? Snape almost certainly didn''t want her to know and doing so might compromise my ability to use my head of house. Worse, he might cotton on to the fact that I was manipulating him if he knew I knew details about his past.


    I shrugged. "Who knows? He''s harsh on everyone though."


    "He''s a special prat to me."


    "Maybe. It''s only been two days, Potter. Give him a chance."


    "You''re only saying that because he''s your head of house."


    "Probably. I''m obligated to show some house spirit," I said. I changed the subject. "Speaking of heads of houses, did McGonagall show off her animagus form for you and the puffs?"


    A wide grin sprouted on her face at that. "Yes, it''s so cool! I also heard you drugged her to the gills by the way."


    "Oh?"


    "Padma told Parvati and Parvati told me. I can''t believe you got her high."


    "Correction. Patil and I got her high. Together. It was a group effort."


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "You know Padma''s right peeved, right? You made her an accomplice."


    "It was hilarious."


    "Oh, it was. Parvati still hasn''t stopped making fun of her though. You might want to watch out; Padma''s apparently very creative when she feels wronged."


    I nudged her shoulder with a friendly shove. "Is that why you called me out here? To warn me? I doubt Patil will do anything too drastic."


    "No. Yes, to warn you, but not about Padma. I wanted to let you know that the twins are looking for you. They said something about having a ''real challenge for once.''"


    "Aww, you do care."


    "Shut up, Zabini. I owe you one, that''s all."


    "Thanks," I said sincerely. Jokes aside, it was nice to see that there was some sincerity beneath the sass with her.


    The two of us fell into a companionable silence. Our owls in our laps, the sun starting to set in the Scottish autumn, and the scenic Black Lake made it all feel picturesque.


    Then I was reminded that I''d need to get Theo back for his shit. What better way than to sic the twins on him? "Say, Potter?"


    "What?"


    "Get me the twins."


    "Hmm?"


    "I want a meeting with them."


    "You think I can just order them around?" she asked incredulously.


    "Not quite, but you''re underestimating how much influence you have. Just tell them I want a meeting. And if they don''t listen, tell them that ''I solemnly swear I am up to no good.'' In those exact words."


    "''I solemnly swear I am up to no good,''" she parroted back. "Why? What''s that mean? Besides the obvious."


    "I''ll tell you eventually. Just do this for me? We''ll be even for the Snape thing."


    "Fine," she huffed, "keep your secrets."


    I stood and held my arms up high, letting Minerva climb to her seat atop her penthouse roost. I picked up my cane and began to head back. "Thanks, Potter. I mean it. The twins are useful."


    "Useful? Is that all you think about?"


    "Slytherin," I said, as if that explained everything.


    Violet rolled her eyes. "I''m so glad I turned the hat down. ''Make me great'' my ass."


    "Suit yourself. Remember, I solemnly swear-"


    "-that I''m up to no good. Got it. Later, Zabini."


    "Toodles. It''s my bedtime."


    "You''re such a grandpa."


    "Damn straight. I''m Gandalf."


    "Wait, you read Lord of the Rings? But that''s a muggle book!"


    I laughed and mimed looking at a watch as I turned down the spiral stairs. "Oh, look at that, a wizard with places to be¡­"


    X


    That night, I made good on my promise and sent a letter to Daphne. It contained a simple note: This Saturday, Lyra Malfoy will be responsible for Gryffindor acquiring their newest and best seeker. We will lose our game with the lions as a result. Do with that as you will.


    Come our first flying lesson, it should be damn obvious just who that seeker would be, and how Violet Potter got McGonagall''s attention. In canon, Oliver Wood would have hidden the identity of their seeker until the first game next month, but seeing how I had that knowledge, I didn''t see any reason to not use it against Lyra.


    The rumors wouldn''t ruin her, far from it, but given how obsessive most wizards were about that ridiculous sport, the simple fact that these rumors exist would harm her image in the house. If Daphne was smart, she''d be able to use that to her advantage, maybe a new groupie in Alice Runcorn, or even an in with the older years. It wouldn''t get her the suite, but it''d be a chink in Lyra''s social armor.


    That of course relied on a few conditions. First, Lyra and Violet must play aerial keep-away with Neville''s remembrall. Second, Lyra had to make a fool of herself in a way that was easily recognizable even by Slytherin''s dullest "masterminds.". For example, by ignoring a seer''s warning.


    The problem was, Lyra wasn''t stupid, far from it. She could be petty and impulsive, but she wasn''t so cartoonishly idiotic as to ignore a blatant warning from a confirmed seer.


    That just meant I''d have to get creative.


    X


    That was how I found myself lounging around in the common room with Heath at two in the afternoon on a Friday. Fridays were nice in that unlike the rest of the week, we got out of class an hour earlier. Being first years finishing up our first week, there was virtually no homework, none I couldn''t rush in a few minutes during history, which meant I was free to watch the dueling pit from my comfy leather chair.


    The two of us had claimed a small table that looked like it''d be at home in a bougie cafe. There were several of these, set aside so people could study or observe the ongoings below.


    Evan Yaxley, the fifth year prefect, had warned us first years that being seen to be dueling down there too often wouldn''t be good for our reputations, but context was important.


    Being known as someone who could only settle his problems with violence? That was bad in the house of snakes; it implied that you were incapable of foresight. Even if you won consistently, you''d look like a boor, at best an enforcer to add to a clique rather than a respected peer.


    Occasionally sparring with people? Taking part in friendly wagers? Practicing for the dueling club? All perfectly valid so long as you weren''t trying to settle a grudge.


    Down below, two fourth years were going at it, trading largely harmless hexes meant more for dodging practice than for closing a duel. According to the commentary, Samantha Selwyn and Cheryl Dupree were regulars at the dueling club last year. Cheryl especially, as the token half-blood in her year, and without a noble name like Greengrass to hide behind, had to get rather vicious with her wandwork.


    "So, who do you think is going to win?" Heath asked. He had his transfiguration textbook open in front of him but had long since given up on studying.


    I watched as Cheryl froze the ground with a glacius, before resorting to a series of knockback jinxes. First year spells though they were, they were especially effective with that setup.


    Rather than try her hand at ice skating, Samantha intentionally took a knee before firing a depulso into the ground. The banishing charm was weaker than a full blasting curse, allowing her to skid along the ground and break up the smooth ice to provide more traction.


    I hummed in thought before reaching for my crystal ball. Five seconds wouldn''t be very impressive, but my favored medium could greatly expand my abilities. There were only three possible outcomes to this duel after all: victory, defeat, and draw.


    I opened my inner eye and peered into the near future. I spoke aloud, enough for my voice to carry through the common room. "A galleon on Selwyn''s victory. Any takers?"


    A second year snorted from another table. "I''ll take that bet, firstie. Dupree''s a half-blood, but she''s quick with her wand. Heard she''s trying to go pro."


    "I agree. She''s the better duelist."


    "Wha-"


    "Just watch."


    Sure enough, Samantha seemed to be on the back foot for a few more minutes. Cheryl was quick with her wand. For every two spells Samantha managed, Cheryl cast three.


    Then, after a quick avis that provided her some much-needed cover, she whispered something under her breath that caused a pair of vines to erupt from the ground beneath Cheryl''s feet. The vines grabbed the girl by either leg and pulled, forcing her to do the splits. Cheryl let out a squawk of pain and surprise, just in time to take a stupefy to the face.


    I grinned smugly at the second year, hand outstretched for my payment. "Dupree''s the better duelist, no question, but Selwyn had a new spell in her pocket."


    He grumbled but eventually pulled a galleon out of his pocket and flicked it my way.


    Samantha cast a quick renmervate on the fallen girl and the two walked off, one smugly self-satisfied and the other wearing a sulky frown. The pair were replaced by a fifth year boy and a sixth year girl, apparently they''d wagered a date on the outcome. That caused a sixth year, presumably a friend of the girl, to ask me about the outcome, not for money this time, just idle curiosity.


    I spectated and predicted a few more duels before I saw my target. Lyra had just come through the common room entrance, Millicent tailing behind her.


    "Yo, Malfoy, Blustrode," I called, tapping the seat across from me and next to Heath. "Care to join us?"


    She came over, her face a mask of apathy. "Zabini. Parkinson. What do you want?"


    "Parkinson is pretending to do his transfiguration assignments. I''m seeing if I can predict the outcome of the duels going on down there."


    "Oh?"


    "Yup. Four for four so far."


    Millicent looked down curiously as an incendio was countered with a flame-freezing charm. The current duel, between a pair of seventh years boys, seemed a bit flashier than the others, and also a fair bit more dangerous. No one looked to be in any hurry to interfere so I assumed this was fine.


    "Who''s going to win this one?" she asked.


    "The blonde. His uncle''s the Norwegian champion duelist and he''s been getting lessons this summer."


    "Huh. Can you predict other things?"


    "Of course, Blustrode. Care for a fortune?"


    "Really?" she brightened. Then her expression became more guarded. "How much?"


    I pretended to consider the question. I needed an amount that was affordable for the wealthy, but excessive for everyone else. "For a general reading? Five galleons should suffice."


    She looked at me, then back at her purse with hesitation. It was hard to remember sometimes, but wizards had a strange relationship with money. Thanks to the wonders of magic, daily staples cost damn near nothing, usually only a handful of knuts, while things that were considered luxuries, such as a fortune reading, could be more exorbitantly priced.


    That meant that to most wizards, a galleon was a considerable sum, at least when compared to the daily expenses of a household. Entire families could live off a thousand galleons, Harry''s Triwizard money, for over a year. Comparatively, seven hundred galleons, the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw, was only enough for Arthur and Molly Weasley to visit their son in Egypt.


    And though the Blustrodes were technically part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, it was also a truism that they were often considered the political opposites to the Weasleys.


    They were poor compared to even middling noble houses like the Shacklebolts. Though it was impolite to point it out, they didn''t even have the excuse of having many mouths to feed or having withdrawn from elite society and politics altogether. No, they simply had the misfortune of having stupid lords for several generations in the seventeen hundreds and never recovered.


    That meant that despite my lack of a noble name, I had a fair bit more resources than Millicent did. There was a reason her father was so insistent on Millicent grabbing Lyra''s coattails. Five galleons was probably the bulk of her monthly allowance, if not its entirety.


    "That''s a lot," she tried to sound standoffish. "You won''t get many takers for that."


    I shrugged. "I know what I''m worth. How about you, Malfoy? Care for a reading?"


    Truthfully, I didn''t care for the money. Hell, I''d charged Daphne and Tracey considerably less. I was charging for the same reason I charged Daphne and Tracey to reveal the location of the kitchens; the image of this being a transaction was valuable in itself. More importantly, the high price tag was bait. A tuna needed bigger bait than a trout after all.


    Lyra shot the room a smug look and slid five galleons across the table. Lyra was a proud creature; being seen affording something that a classmate could not, even if five galleons wasn''t much to several others in the room, was reason enough to purchase my services. It allowed her to tell people she had money and that opportunity alone, no matter the product she was buying, was tantalizing to her.


    "Alright then, Zabini. Five isn''t too expensive," she drawled. "Impress me."


    "It''s not," I agreed with a placating nod, slipping the coins into my breast pocket. It was time to bullshit, to cast my line and let this chubby tuna hook herself on her own pride. Flattery was ever a wonderful social lubricant. "I might charge more later, but for now, having someone like you accept a reading from me is useful. Legitimacy, you understand."


    The beautiful blonde puffed herself up. If there was one thing that Lyra Malfoy was proud of, it was her family name. "Naturally. You should be paying me for the privilege of reading my fortune."


    "I''m not quite that desperate, Malfoy. Do you want a reading or not?"


    "Hmph! Fine. Go on, then. Show me my future."


    I held out my hands. "Give me your hands. It helps to have something to connect us."


    She paused, her hands hovering an inch above my own. I gently enveloped her cool fingers in my palms. Her skin was remarkably soft, proof of a girl who took incredible care of herself, or at least a girl with access to a professionally curated beautifying regimen.


    Even through the lukewarm lighting in the common room, I could see her cheeks take on a tinge of rosy red as I rubbed her hands soothingly. "I-Is this necessary?"


    "No, I just wanted an excuse to hold your hands," I shot back with a cocksure smirk. She tried to pull away but I clamped down and held her still. Next to me, Heath shot me a betrayed glare. "I''m joking. Think of the future like a foggy city. It helps to know what I''m looking for. Having you here? It''s like having a map, a beacon to lead me where I want to go."


    I felt a swift but weak kick against my shin. "F-Fine, get on with it."


    "As you wish, Miss Malfoy. Tell me, how are you finding Hogwarts?"


    "Really? That''s what you start with?"


    "It''s an earnest question. How are classes? Any trouble?"


    "Of course not. You''d know that if you weren''t a quack."


    I ignored her reflexive insult and continued to steadily but slowly massage the back of her hands. "Of course, of course. You''re Lyra Malfoy. You won''t have any reason to struggle with simple first year material. How about Club Day tomorrow? Silly name, that. It''s the whole weekend, not just Saturday. Any club you''re interested in?"


    "I''m starting to think you have no idea how this is supposed to work," she drawled. She''d recovered from her initial embarrassment. Her mask of ambivalent superiority was back in force, just in time too; my little show was drawing attention from the rest of the house. "I''m supposed to ask the questions, Zabini."


    "Apologies, Malfoy. I''m just setting the scene. Forgive a dotty wizard his quirks, hmm?" I said with a disarming smile. There were enough witnesses now. I channeled some magic into the crystal ball and watched the fog roll in. "Yes, I see it. Club Day is going to be a bit of a milestone for you, though I suppose it is for all of us firsties."


    "And?"


    "And I think you''re especially thrilled about our first flying lessons tomorrow. A big fan of quidditch, are we?"


    "I could have told you that," Millicent snorted. She leaned forward despite her words, captured by the novelty of a working crystal ball. "Everyone knows Malfoy is amazing on a broom."


    "Ah, but it''s more than that, Miss Blustrode. Tomorrow''s flying lessons will be something of a catalyst for her, the day that can determine a lot of other things in her future." I peered into the crystal as the fog thickened. I made a show of being entranced by the haze. "Yes, tomorrow will be special for you indeed."


    The obvious show of actual magic captured Lyra''s interest. "How so? How will it be special?"


    "It''s farther off in the future so the picture is hazy, but I think I see it. There is a figure on a broom. It looks feminine. She''s chasing something¡­ something gold¡­ A snitch then? Yes, that sounds about right. A seeker, and quite successful at that. Yes, you''re the cause of this."


    "Sorry, I don''t want to be a professional quidditch player, Zabini. Good guess, though," she drawled. She made to pull her hands back.


    I held her hands firm. Looking up, I met her icy-blue eyes, so blue they were almost gray. They really were quite lovely. Ignoring the gawkers, I spoke softly, "That wasn''t what I said, Malfoy. I don''t think this is a good fortune."


    "Obviously not."


    "Not in the way you think. It''s accurate, of that I am sure. Nor is this vision so far away as to be after our graduation."


    "The house team? I guess that''d be fun," she mused. She said aloud to Terence Higgs, the current seeker, "Keep the seat warm for me, Higgs."


    "It''s just, using you as the focus, I can sometimes see hints of what you feel about the matter in the vision. And you''re¡­ unhappy."


    "What? Why would I be unhappy about being the seeker?"


    "Look. All I can tell you is that tomorrow? You''re going to do something. Whatever you do, it''ll lead directly to a woman on a broom chasing a golden snitch. And you''re unhappy with the outcome. Who knows? It might not even be you."


    This time, I allowed her to pull her hands away. All the seeds had been planted anyway. In her, and also in the people watching. This was only partially a true reading, and partially a performance, one specifically designed to play on Lyra''s pride.


    She scoffed. "Come off it, Zabini. I cause someone else to become seeker? How the bloody hell would that work? Give a right little pep talk for Davis to try out next year, do I? Of course it''s me."


    "Not next year. This year. It''s far, but not that far," I said cryptically.


    "I think you''re full of it. Why would I be unhappy about becoming the house seeker? And everyone knows we''re not allowed our own brooms until next year."


    I shrugged and pulled out a cloth to polish my crystal ball. "I don''t know, Malfoy, but I don''t think I''m wrong."


    She studied me closely. This time, she fully considered my words. "You''re saying I can be the seeker this year?"


    "I''m saying someone can be the seeker this year," I corrected, "and that this happens as a direct consequence of your actions tomorrow. Maybe you prove yourself and somehow impress Professor Snape. Maybe he bends the rules for you. But I don''t think that''s likely. Like I said, you were upset by this outcome. Or maybe you meet a second year girl and convince her to try out, replacing Higgs. Either way, you''re the catalyst and perhaps not in a positive way. It is my personal suggestion that you not attend the flying lesson at all."


    She pulled back her chair and stood. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she said, "All I heard was that I should prove myself. If someone can be seeker, it''s going to be me. Watch, Zabini, I''ll show you what the best flyer in the school looks like."


    And she would, in her own, special way.


    Having said her piece, she stalked off to the girls'' dorms.


    "Did you mean that?" Heath said. He had a complicated expression on his face. On one hand, I did just spend several minutes holding his crush''s hand. On the other hand, the meeting hadn''t ended well enough to stoke his jealousy.


    The poor boy really needed to get a grip. I began to pack my bags and responded, "Yes, I did. No one''s going to get hurt or anything, but tomorrow? I don''t think it''ll make her happy."


    "Do me then. I want to know how I can make her happy."


    "Nope. That took a lot out of me, Parkinson."


    "What? Why? You have room for one more."


    "I don''t. There''s a reason I charge so much," I said, making sure those around me could hear my words. "In the end, Malfoy has her reading. How she reacts to the information is up to her."


    Author''s Note


    The owlery scene came out of left field for me. I really didn''t plan that, but it just kinda wrote itself. It fits so I''m keeping it.


    I think we''ve gone over this, but Blaise is a manipulative dick. It''s easy to be cunning when you both know what''s going to happen and have a good understanding of your victims'' personalities. Lyra isn''t stupid, but she is proud, and that makes her very vulnerable in ways she refuses to acknowledge.


    Related animal fact: Eurasian eagle owls, like Minerva, mostly eat rodents. They can, however, take down foxes, snakes, other birds, and even young fawns. No joke. Fawns. As in baby deer. Now give one of them improved intelligence and Minerva making sport of bigger game doesn''t sound all that outrageous anymore.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 13. Fly high, Icarus!

    Chapter 13: Fly high, Icarus!


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    Saturday morning found me awake and alert. I was the first one up, because no matter how much they puffed themselves up as the "pureblood heirs of magic," they were no different than any other teenager I''d ever known. No class meant no reason to wake up early. Hogwarts itself seemed to account for the weekend lethargy that plagued its students; breakfast started and ended an hour later.


    I grabbed a seat in the common room by the lake. Typically, this was the "seventh year section," the part of the common room reserved for the eldest, and presumably, the most talented, of us. But as it was now, virtually no one was up to shoo me away.


    Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched out across the entirety of this side, bathing the room in an eerie, green light. No doubt artificial, but beautiful nonetheless. Magic ensured the glass stayed clear, just as it ensured the lake''s depths remained visible despite the lack of natural light.


    A pack of grindylows swam through the water in pursuit of a colossal eel of some sort. It had two, black stripes down its back but was otherwise a pale, ghostly white. Glass-like fangs too big for its mouth kept its jaw open, but that didn''t seem to deter the water demons. Their tentacles grasped at the eel, latching on while they continually stabbed at the creature with spears made of lotus stalks. It was a death by a thousand cuts; I almost felt sorry for it.


    "Beautiful, isn''t it?" came a voice behind me. I startled; the underwater chase had captured my attention enough that I didn''t even notice I was no longer alone. "Really? And here I thought you''d see me coming."


    I turned to find Cheryl Dupree, the fourth year halfblood. She had charcoal-black hair, kept short and out of her gray eyes, and a dusting of freckles that were nearly invisible against her tanned skin.


    I glanced at the book on my lap, Zonko''s Pranks and Practical Jokes, then up at her with a pointed look. "Dupree, right? Good morning."


    "Yup. I read that. Zonko sells it as a pranking book, but a few of those can be useful for actual dueling."


    "Oh? Like what?"


    "I recommend the jelly-legs curse, locomotor wibbly. It''s dead-useful in a fight, and pretty easy to cast, not too taxing for a firstie."


    "Noted, thanks. Any other gems in this book?"


    "Ehh, some. Specific spells like the bat bogey hex can be funny, but they take a long time to cast, especially as it''s an intentionally bastardized conjuration. Doing it in a duel for what amounts to a gag isn''t as effective as, you know, just learning combat transfiguration," she said. She reached for the book. When I handed it over, she flipped through the table of contents before earmarking a few for me. "Learn these. They''re not great for dueling purposes, but they''re easy to learn and will train your magic to get used to offensive spells."


    "Thank you, Dupree," I said sincerely. She was known for being a capable duelist; I considered advice from her to be quite valuable.


    "So, was last night a one-off?" she asked casually, a bit too casual, like someone leaning against the wall with their arms crossed and whistling. It made her seem more conspicuous, not less.


    "Hmm? If you mean the reading, no, that wasn''t a one-off. My services are for sale."


    "Oh, good. I thought you were trying to get in Malfoy''s knickers."


    I laughed. "Sorry, she''s not my type."


    "What? Not into blondes?"


    "Not into the ego. At the risk of sounding misogynistic as hell, she''d be a lot more attractive if she smiled more."


    "Fair enough. So, how much?"


    "That depends on what you want. Some things are easier to see."


    "I need you to find my hair clip. Can you do that?"


    That made me arch a brow in confusion. "You found me in the morning, on a weekend, and gave me advice, so you could have me find your hair clip¡­"


    "It was my grandmother''s alright?"


    "Family heirloom?"


    "Nothing like that. It''s not enchanted or anything if that''s what you''re asking. It''s just a memento and I''d like it back."


    "Doable." I dug around my bag and withdrew my crystal ball. "Hand, please."


    "You''re not going to ask for payment?" she asked, surprised.


    "Your advice is valuable. I consider that payment," I said plainly. Then, with a teasing smirk, "You''re always free to donate to my poor, hungry wallet of course."


    "Hah, a firstie with a sense of humor?"


    "I''m hilarious. Now, hand, please." She placed her hands in mine. I opened up my third eye and began to search for what she''d done the night prior. "Let''s see, after you and Selwyn left last night, you¡­"


    She withdrew her hand with a scowl. "Nope. You don''t need to know that."


    "Yeah, sorry. I sometimes see more than anyone would like. Where should I start first?"


    "I left the hair clip on my dresser last night and now it''s gone. Find it."


    I nodded and continued looking. If she was so sure where she last placed it, the fact that she came to me meant she suspected someone of stealing it.


    I latched on to Cheryl, using her existence, her fate, as a trail marker of sorts. Sure enough, I saw her remove a silver clip from her hair and set it on her nightstand before heading back out of the dorm to wash up for the night.


    "Good news, you''re right. You did leave it on your nightstand. It''s the silver one with three amethysts lodged into wrought stars, right?"


    "Orchids, actually, my grandmother loved the flowers, but yes. And how is that good news?"


    "You''re not senile."


    "Har-de-har-har. Some bitch stole it! Watch, it''s Selwyn. She''s always been pissy that I don''t crawl on my knees for her pureblood princess bullshit."


    "You lost last night," I pointed out.


    She scowled. "I have a better record; she just caught me off guard. So, where''s my clip?"


    I shrugged. "I''ve been using you as a tether to find what I want. Seeing who took the clip, especially when you don''t know, is adding a degree of separation. Let me try again."


    It wasn''t much of a mystery. In the end, it wasn''t Samantha Selwyn. Their rivalry reminded me of Lyra and Tracey''s relationship, except Cheryl didn''t have a pureblood noble cousin to hide behind. So, Cheryl did the only thing she could: She got strong, strong enough that most people in her year didn''t want to mess with her. In that light, Samantha winning last night might have done more than just bruise her pride.


    At any rate, the one who stole Cheryl''s hair clip turned out to be a girl who orbited Samantha''s clique. She took it when Cheryl was taking a shower and Cheryl had been too upset at her loss to check before climbing into bed.


    I wasn''t sure of the motive; legilimency was hard enough by itself and legilimency through a vision was unheard of, but I could guess easily enough. She likely saw Cheryl''s star falling last night and decided to be proactive about "showing the half-blood her place" or something equally asinine.


    "Oh, thank Morgana," Cheryl said.


    I raised a brow at that. "Why is that better?"


    "I know her. She''s a bloody coward. I can press her to get my clip back, especially now that I know who has it. Selwyn? She''s a bitch, but she''s also competent." "And politically inconvenient to provoke," I heard, though it remained unsaid.


    "Fair enough. Are we done then?"


    "Yeah, we are. Thanks, Zabini."


    "Always a pleasure. If you have any tips on dueling, or useful spells, I''m always happy to accept those as payment."


    "I''ll keep that in mind," she said, smiling slightly. Then she put on a thunderous expression as she stomped back towards the dorms, no doubt to rip the thief a new asshole.


    Oh well, it wasn''t my business.


    X


    I made a show of looking up at breakfast. I wasn''t expecting an owl, but I knew who was. "Oh, hey, Longbottom''s got a gift."


    It drew enough attention from my housemates. We watched as he unwrapped the package, revealing a clear, glass sphere decorated with a golden band wrapped around the center.


    "It''s a remembrall," Theo said, "nothing special."


    "What''s it do?" Gregory asked.


    "It turns red when the holder forgets something." As if on cue, the orb in Neville''s hand filled with a crimson smoke. "Yeah, like that. Problem is, it only tells you that you''ve forgotten something, not what you forgot, where, or when."


    Lyra let out a dainty sniff of an upturned nose. "So it''s worthless then, like Longbottom, barely better than a squib, that one."


    I smiled enigmatically at her. Then I decided to goad her some more. "Don''t be so sure, Malfoy. I for one think Longbottom''s got a lot of potential. Who knows? He might be even stronger than you. I''d be delighted to help him find out, for a consultant''s fee of course."


    "Longbottom? Better than me? You''re hilarious. Your ''advice'' isn''t much better, Zabini. Watch, Slytherin will have a new seeker before the day''s out."


    I bowed my head in a flourishing bow. Her ego was a gift that kept on giving. "Of course, Miss Malfoy. I look forward to seeing the tapestry you weave. And as for the remembrall, who knows? It might be more valuable than it seems at first glance. Sometimes, just knowing you''ve forgotten something can be the key you need to start looking at all."


    "Whatever. Why are you so interested in it?"


    "It''s a form of divination."


    "How''s that divination?" Gregory frowned. He wasn''t all that bright, but he did try to remain engaged in the conversation, something that couldn''t be said for Vincent.


    "Divination is anything that gets you information through magical means. Things like the point-me charm is divination, so is a remembrall. If a spell tells you something you didn''t know before, it counts. Not all of it is about reading tea leaves and trying to guess the future."


    "Huh."


    "Now, remembralls, they''re interesting because they work with the past and present, not the future. I''m not sure how the enchantment works exactly, but if I had to guess, it uses the holder as a focus to follow their previous actions and associated memories. That''s really complicated stuff. I wouldn''t even know where to begin to cast something like that," I admitted freely. What I did with Dupree this morning was one thing, but for an object to know when the holder forgot something, it had to have access to the holder''s memories, at least to some degree. I doubted it was true legilimency, but it had interesting implications. "I really want to study it. I wonder if Longbottom would let me borrow it."


    "Whatever, Zabini. You can waste your time with a glass ball. Some of us have real magic to look forward to," Lyra jabbed.


    Despite her words, I could tell she''d remember my words. After all, magical artifacts, however limited, were quite rare. There was no such thing as mass, assembly line production in the magical world. Everything was bespoke, created on commission by an experienced enchanter.


    The remembrall had value, not only because Neville, a fellow noble heir, had one, but because I, a housemate, indicated my interest in it. Value was subjective and, hopefully, like a little magpie who just noticed something shiny, this little encounter would keep the artifact in the back of her mind.


    X


    Visiting Madam Pomfrey was a surprisingly painless affair. She just cast a few diagnostic charms, had me down a vitality potion for general good health, and then sent me on my way after confirming that I wasn''t slowly dying to dark magic poisoning or something. Apparently, she really wanted to update my medical files.


    That was how I found myself alongside the other first years from Gryffindor and Slytherin at the courtyard. As we heard it, the quidditch pitch had been reserved by the Gryffindors for the very first practice of the year. Wood was as obsessive over the sport as I''d been led to believe.


    I found it funny how, without even a single word, most of us lined up with our houses. In just a week, the colors of our ties became social identifiers that most of us didn''t even question.


    I was brought back from my musings by a loud clap from Madam Hooch. The flight instructor was a gray-haired, eagle-eyed woman in her forties or fifties, with a thin, athletic frame and a bit of a hooked nose that reminded me of a raptor''s beak. She had a piercing glare that instantly got us teens to simmer down.


    "Alright, class, good morning. I am Madam Hooch, the flight instructor here at Hogwarts. I know some of you have ridden toy brooms before, but this will be new for many others. You will obey my instructions to the letter. Believe me, injuring yourself because you were overconfident is never worthwhile. Are we clear?"


    "Yes, Madam Hooch," all twenty of us echoed as one. Flying, as the prerequisite of one of the few recognized sports in the magical world, was the one class that had all of our attention.


    "Very good. Stand to the left of your brooms. Hold out your right hand, and, from the gut, say, ''Up!'' Got it?"


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    "Yes, Madam Hooch."


    Then, just because there''s always one, Dean Thomas asked, "But, what if we''re left-handed, ma''am?"


    "Then stand to the right side and stick out your left hand," she said. "Let''s use a bit of common sense, shall we? Now, everyone ready? On my go. One. Two. Three. Up!"


    "Up," I said. And the broom¡­ did fuck-all.


    Blaise Zabini was not a flyboy. He would never have become a Top Gun maverick, and nor would I. Neither of us had the talent or ambition for it. Oh, he had a cruising broom, an older model Cleansweep he conned off stepdad #4, but he didn''t look up into the sky and imagine the freedom of birds or the whimsy of the four winds or whatever the hell real flying aces craved.


    No, he instead saw the sky as something to be treated with a healthy amount of caution. He''d go for a ride once in a while, but never farther up than six or seven feet off the ground. As far as he was concerned, falling from a considerable height was just one more possible vector by which he could have a "tragic accident."


    Even if Valencia had never demonstrated an inclination to harm him, he saw it as a pointless risk. In a house where "accidents" grew as seasonally as the fucking weeds, why tempt fate?


    And so, the Hogwarts broom remained inert. It was old, older than I''d been alive, maybe older than Corbin had been alive. The enchantments on it had begun to fray and it just wasn''t as responsive as the old Cleansweep back home.


    "You need to mean it, dears," Madam Hooch said, addressing those of us who''d failed to take our brooms. "From the gut! Command it!"


    I sighed but did as she said. It wiggled, just a bit.


    "Having some trouble getting it up, Zabini?" Parvati heckled across from me. She wore a cheeky grin and had her broom twirling in her hand. "Don''t worry, lots of men struggle."


    "Really? A dick joke, Patil?" I deadpanned. "Hilarious."


    "I kno-Eep! Vi!" she yelped as Violet jabbed her in the side.


    "Ugh, you''re impossible," the Chosen One griped.


    "Lies, you know you love me."


    "''Love'' is such a strong word."


    I ignored them in favor of getting my stupid broom off the ground. In the end, I was forced to cheat by opening my Sight and copying the way Madam Hooch''s magic flowed into the broom''s enchantments. It took several more tries, but having a clear example to mimic helped me out a great deal.


    Then I dropped it, only to do it again.


    It was fascinating to see how my magic triggered the enchantments on the broom. Unfortunately, because the enchantments were what allowed the broom to respond to such a simple show of intent, wandless telekinesis would have to remain a mystery to me for the foreseeable future.


    My suspicions were right. The enchantments had to have worn down over the years. I couldn''t understand the spellwork, not in any arithmetic sense, but I could feel some of my magic trickling out the sides for lack of a better term, like water forced through a pipe with leaky seams. Enough water got where it was supposed to, but it was also a bit more wasteful than it should have been.


    "What are you doing, Zabini?" Theo asked.


    I dropped my broom again. "Studying. Don''t mind me, Nott."


    "Right¡­ That there is called gravity. It is the principle which states that anything that goes up, must come down."


    "Thank you, your insight is valuable and appreciated," I said, clearly not paying attention. The broom flew back into my hand, this time without any vocalizations on my part. Getting my mana to bend in that specific way while remaining silent was a bit tricky, but I wondered if it could serve me well when learning silent casting for real.


    "Whatever, you''re nuts, mate."


    "Mhmm."


    The rest of class proceeded as scheduled. We mounted our brooms, a thousand dick jokes ran through my mind, and Neville lost control of his, taking off into the sky with a cry of fear.


    It was unfortunate; rather than make him a more confident person, the extra years under his overbearing grandmother left the boy a nervous wreck, perhaps even more than he was in canon. He did get better at masking his anxiety with good manners, but faced with a new experience and the judgment of his peers, that mask shattered like glass.


    I saw it coming yesterday. I could have stopped it, perhaps grabbed the broom or shoved him off while he was only a foot off the ground. He would have been embarrassed, maybe I would have lost some points because a Slytherin "bullied" a Gryffindor, shoved him like a muggle, but that would have been the end of things.


    And then my prophecy to Lyra wouldn''t have come true. She wouldn''t pick up the remembrall. Violet wouldn''t become seeker. And most of all, I wouldn''t keep my promise to Daphne, to give her the leverage needed for social jockeying in our house.


    Promises were important. I was loath to directly harm someone, but if it was the right of a seer to intervene, then surely the opposite was also true: It was the right of the seer to stand back and watch.


    Besides, a broken arm was nothing. It sounded horrible in a muggle context. Without magic, it would take a solid four to six months of recovery. But with magic? Madam Hooch didn''t even bat an eye. She took one look at Neville, sighed, and dragged him to his feet before marching him to the medical wing.


    The whole thing was considered little more than a papercut.


    At least, that was how I justified it to myself. I¡­ probably wouldn''t be telling Violet I could''ve stopped it. She considered Neville a friend and knowing I did nothing would probably poison her seeker appointment in her eyes.


    I shelved my thoughts for the moment. We were but actors and now that Neville had played his part, I had my own role to play. I''d nudge things along, but the choices they made would be theirs.


    I looked around to find the remembrall. Sure enough, it sat nestled in the grass, gleaming with the morning sun.


    Gesturing to the remembrall on the ground, I said quietly, so only my housemates could hear, "Oh, hey, Longbottom''s dropped something."


    Lyra, my fat, oversized tuna, chomped on the bait with relish. She wore her pride like a crown, not knowing it was in truth the noose that would drag her along. She sauntered up to the artifact and held it out for all to see with a smug, proud grin. "So this is a remembrall then? Nothing special, Zabini."


    "I told you, Malfoy, it''s a lot more valuable than you seem to think. Just like Longbottom, it''s an item with hidden potential."


    "Right, you''re still on about that? Longbottom''s no better than a squib. He can''t even control these training brooms."


    "That''s why I called it potential. As in, he hasn''t grown into it yet. Maybe you should return it, Malfoy. Remember what I said last night? Don''t do anything aside from the ordinary or you might regret your decisions today."


    This was it, her chance. My warning, delivered as plainly as could be. It was the final opportunity for her to take a bow and hop off the stage.


    To her credit, Lyra seemed to consider it for a moment. She looked down at the orb in her hand. Then her gaze flickered to the quidditch pitch, the three, towering goals that could be seen from even out here in the courtyard.


    Her expression firmed and I knew she''d play her part. "You know what I think, Zabini? I think you''re full of it. About this thing, about Longbottom, and about the dumb reading too."


    "Shut up, Malfoy," Violet barked. And the lead actress had arrived. I was counting on it. Violet was a punk, but she wasn''t too unlike Harry in truth: She was fiercely defensive over things she considered hers, friends especially. "Give it here; I''m going to return it to Neville."


    "And why should I listen to you, Potter?" Lyra scowled. It really was like watching a play. The way their personalities played off each other, I could almost imagine that this was some live-action take put on by a theater troupe. "It doesn''t belong to you either. The way I see it, Longbottom dropped it and left."


    "Give. It. Here," Violet growled. She stomped towards Lyra, hand outstretched and demanding.


    Lyra looked intimidated for a moment. Then she remembered she was a witch and a catfight was so very muggle. She slid the broom between her thighs and kicked off, rising with a controlled climb that admittedly put Neville''s earlier flight to shame.


    "You want it so much? Come take it."


    Parvati placed a hand on Violet''s elbow. "Don''t, Vi."


    "Yeah, Madam Hooch said we can''t," Leontes added.


    For the briefest moment, I wondered if I''d have to apologize. Perhaps I''d given my yearmates less credit than they deserved. I wondered if this would be enough for Violet to back off and do the smart thing, like getting a professor to handle this. It wasn''t as if it was some huge secret that Neville had a remembrall after all; he''d unwrapped it over breakfast.


    And then Lyra Malfoy opened her mouth.


    "Oh, is that right? Then I guess this is mine," Lyra taunted. For what it was worth, she knew how to get under Violet''s skin. "Come on then, show me what a Gryffindor can do, or are you a coward?"


    That did it. Lyra said the c-word. To a Gryffindor. All thoughts of the consequences fled Violet''s mind and I leaned back to watch the script unfold.


    Violet mounted her broom and rose into the air with a snarl. She was shaky at first, but she quickly righted herself as she fixed her eyes on the prize. The two engaged in a game of high-stakes tag as the rest of us watched from the ground below. Even those of us who could fly, I knew for a fact that Heath wasn''t a bad flyer, thought better of interfering.


    "So Potter''s the seeker?" Daphne whispered beside me. I hadn''t realized she''d gotten so close.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tracey making a small scene, distracting the rest of my housemates so Daphne and I could have a private conversation. Those two really did work well together.


    I coughed lightly into my fist. "I didn''t say that."


    "A feminine figure chasing a golden object. There''s a golden band around the remembrall. And Malfoy would cause it, but be unhappy with the outcome. I can put two and two together, Zabini."


    "Then don''t ask silly questions."


    We watched Lyra wind her arm back. She threw the remembrall as hard as she could, forcing Violet to dive after Neville''s artifact. She caught it with mere inches to spare, almost crashing through a window.


    Violet descended as a hero. The Gryffindors got one over on us "slimy snakes," Lyra took a hit to her reputation and bruised her ego, and I got to keep my promise.


    Daphne let out a low whistle. "She''s good, a natural even."


    "She is, isn''t she? Like a Hungarian horntail taking flight, that one."


    "Oddly¡­ specific¡­ comparison, Zabini. Anything you''d care to tell me?"


    "Hmm¡­ For this fascinating story? Three hundred thirty-three galleons and three favors on top of the one you already owe me. A third of the pot for a third of the story seems like a fair price to me," I said with an enigmatic smile.


    "You''re kidding."


    "I am not. It truly is a wonderful story, my favorite of the seven to be honest."


    "Hpmh, keep your secrets then," she huffed. And suddenly, I was looking forward to fourth year. Smugging at Daphne would be my entertainment for the year. And yes, that was a verb now. "Potter becomes the Gryffindor seeker¡­ I can work with this. But how will this lead to Potter becoming seeker this year?"


    "Whose window is that?" I asked in lieu of answering her.


    "How would I¡­ No¡­"


    "Yes."


    "I can work with this. Well played, Zabini. Well played."


    "I''ll be calling in that debt, Greengrass."


    "Of course. Nothing''s free."


    Our conversation ended when the door to the castle flew open. As predicted, out came McGonagall, here to act out the final part of this little play.


    "Miss Potter!" she shrieked, making Violet freeze like a deer in the headlights.


    "Y-Yes, professor?"


    "With me. The rest of you had better not step anywhere near those brooms. Are we clear?"


    "Yes, Professor McGonagall," we chorused.


    X


    As exciting as our first flying lesson was, it really only took two hours, leaving me an hour before lunch to spend as I pleased. I spent it looking over the spells that Cheryl earmarked for me this morning.


    She was right; they had simple, sharp wand movements that I could see chaining easily into other spells. Every last one of them could be dispelled by a simple finite, found in the Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, but they were solid distractions and a good introduction to combat magics in general.


    It also helped that some of these, like the rooster hex, was honestly kind of funny. It made people do the chicken dance and particularly powerful users could even make the victim crow like a rooster. Considering how reliant most wizards were on wand movements and vocalizations, I put that down as a priority to learn, along with the general counterspell of course.


    While reading in the common room, I saw one of the older girls run for the hospital wing, clutching her distinctly elephantine nose. Judging by the smug look on Cheryl''s face and the conspicuous, silver and amethyst clip in her hair, I could hazard a guess as to her victim''s identity.


    Lunch came and went. Daphne looked pretty stoic through it all, but I could tell by the not-so-subtle smirk on her cousin''s face that they''d already begun to move. Really, these girls were vicious and I didn''t want to know what went on in their dorm.


    In other news, this weekend was Club Day. The Hogwarts quidditch teams would be holding tryouts all throughout next week, and a friendly pickup game at the pitch later today for those of us with brooms, but this was the chance for the less popular clubs to attract some new blood.


    The fifth year prefects, Gemma Farley and Evan Yaxley, handed out schedules of various events held over the weekend as the Hogwarts Choir, including their toads, sang for us in the middle of the great hall. It was¡­ certainly interesting if nothing else. No, wizards didn''t typically sing with toads as accompaniment. This wasn''t a "wizards are fucking weird" thing, this was a "Hogwarts is fucking weird" thing, with a healthy dash of "Dumbledore doesn''t understand music."


    Still, it made lunch interesting if nothing else.


    I did my best to ignore the insult to good taste going on in the front and looked over the slip of paper that Evan handed me. All told, there were ten clubs at Hogwarts: quidditch, broom racing, chess, charms, choir, art, dueling, magizoology, astronomy, and enchanting. Herbology didn''t have one because Sprout had limited greenhouse space, transfiguration because McGonagall was too busy as deputy headmistress, and potions because Snape could barely stand children even in the limited doses he was exposed to, which left Flitwick as the only head of house who oversaw a club for his own subject.


    Of these, quidditch and broom racing were locked for most of us first years seeing how we had no brooms of our own. Magizoology was similarly locked until third year and though it sounded fascinating, enchanting was available to NEWT-level students.


    There was a broom racing competition held around the Black Lake in two hours. There was also a dueling competition tomorrow morning, a mini-tournament held in a king of the hill format: Two people dueled and the winner remained on stage, trying to rack up as long a streak as possible. It was, of course, separated by year to be fair to us firsties.


    Discounting those two time-specific events, the other clubs had open invitations to visit their club rooms throughout the day.


    "So, where are you headed, Malfoy?" I heard Heath ask our resident princess. He''d been trying his best to make her feel better after, from her view, the disaster of their first flying lesson.


    "Not the quidditch pitch, that''s for sure," Daphne snarked cattily.


    A flustered blush crawled up Lyra''s cheeks. "Oh, you think you''re just brilliant, don''t you, Greengrass?"


    "Not as brilliant as you, clearly. Congratulations, Malfoy, you''ve managed to make Potter the youngest seeker this century. I''m sure she''ll be delighted to hear you did all this on purpose."


    "I did no such thing! Why the bloody hell would I want Potter to be seeker?"


    "No? You mean that wasn''t your plan?" Daphne gasped in mock surprise. "You mean you didn''t pay a confirmed seer for information and act to anoint a first year seeker? Whyever did you bother hiring Zabini then?"


    Heath glared fiercely at Daphne, then at me. She obviously thought to strike while the iron was hot. The rest of the students seemed content to watch the fireworks. I could hear some of the older years begin to ask what happened.


    Lyra, her mask thoroughly cracked, flew through an array of emotions before settling on anger. She looked around for a target to blame and found me. "You! Zabini''s the one who set me up!"


    I shrugged helplessly. "I did no such thing, Malfoy. You paid me five galleons to give you a reading. I told you in that reading that there may be a first year seeker, and that you are likely the catalyst. And then I advised you not attend the flying lesson at all as you seemed rather upset by the outcome. Please do not involve me. I know you and Greengrass have your little rivalry, but I want nothing to do with it. I was paid to provide a service and I have done so. Your actions are your own."


    "Y-Yeah, well, I bet you were working for Greengrass."


    "I do not disclose my clients nor what they want. You wouldn''t want me spilling secrets about your personal life, would you?"


    She glared mulishly at me. "I don''t believe you. You set me up. I don''t know how, but you did."


    I shrugged and picked up a sandwich. It was one of those lovely, crustless sandwiches made for teatime. Cucumber, mayo, black peppers, and watercress, a personal favorite. "I know what I said. You know what you heard. In fact, most of the house saw me give you the reading yesterday evening. Face it, I''m neutral in this matter, and all future matters actually."


    "T-There''s no proof that Potter''s going to be seeker."


    "Truth. Thank you for correcting me. It''s sometimes hard to draw a line between the vision itself and any preconceived notions I may have. I saw a young, feminine figure on a broom. She chased a golden object. I assumed it was a snitch, but I guess I could be wrong. The remembrall does have a golden band wrapped around the clear orb after all."


    "Hah! It''s no big deal; I told you."


    "Maybe¡­" I drew out my words as if deep in thought. "But I recall you being unhappy about this. Not just now, but throughout the year. Whatever comes of today is something that will bother you for the rest of the year. At least. Well, I can''t tell you much more than that; visions are tricky business, even for me."


    I shut my trap. I could continue to tear Lyra down, but I just didn''t have it in me. She heard my words, acted on them, and now she''d suffer the consequences. I didn''t see the point in humiliating her further, even if it''d ingratiate me with Daphne.


    In the end, I''d solidified my chops as a seer and that was enough for me.


    Author''s Note


    Remember the Halloween omake? That represents the absolute extreme a seer can go to. That''s the seer who sees the script and throws it in Fate''s face, saying "Nah, I can do better," even if it means burning bridges and destroying relationships.


    I see Blaise as more of a guiding hand. Manipulation is inevitable, both as an SI and especially so as a seer, but Blaise isn''t the type to remove all choices from a person. That''s the compromise he''s come up with for himself: He''ll set the stage, but the final decisions are their own.


    I''d like to remind you that despite appearances, Lyra isn''t stupid, just stupidly prideful. She doesn''t see herself as a chess piece (even if she arguably is to Blaise), because Blaise''s manipulations aren''t obvious from the outset. He isn''t blackmailing her. He isn''t hexing her. He''s simply leading her to the well and waiting to see if she''ll take a drink.


    The toad-choir thing is canon¡­ for some reason¡­


    Daphne is everyone''s "good girl" Slytherin in fanon. I wanted to try to portray her as something more than just a caricature. Sure she''s Blaise''s ally (in the sense that she owes him shit), and yeah she loves Tracey to bits, but she''s also a cruel, ruthless bitch who ticks off all the teen diva checkboxes.


    Let me know what clubs you''d think would be interesting to see. No promises, because the US proves democracy is a failed experiment, but your thoughts are always interesting to read anyway.


    No animal fact, but I''ve been listening to Miracles of Sound''s "Whatever Comes Our Way," a song they made in tribute to Baldur''s Gate 3. Oh, and TeamFourStar''s "Day of Fate," because my god is that thing hype even after so many years.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 14. Function? To inspire SAINT of course!

    Chapter 14: Function? To inspire SAINT, of course!


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    Club Day, or really, Club Weekend, began right after lunch. All things considered, it wasn''t too dissimilar to what I remembered as a university librarian. Most of the older students were focused on catching up with their friends or enjoying their hobbies. That was what clubs were for after all. There wasn''t some all-consuming rush to "claim the fresh blood" or whatever. This wasn''t a shitty slice of life anime; the school wasn''t going to disband a club if they didn''t get any firsties this year.


    It was, all in all, a relaxed event that reminded me of a festival, or at least as close to a festival as a school with such a low student population could have.


    I leisurely took a walk around the first floor of the castle, enjoying the ambiance. This was what I imagined when I thought of a magical school, children using magic in creative ways to have fun, or just to fuck with each other, not dark lords and convoluted plots revolving around secret prophecies.


    The rest of Slytherin house had scattered to the four winds. We were generally advised to stick together, but it wasn''t as if the rest of Hogwarts took every chance to give us shit just for wearing green.


    I decided that I''d tour the indoor clubs first before heading outside. Maybe I''d catch the broom race in an hour and a half; those were entertaining enough to watch even if I myself was a shit flyer.


    "Hey, firstie, care for a game of wizard''s chess?" I heard a senior call. He was a heavily freckled boy with dark skin that almost made said freckles invisible. If I had to guess, I''d peg him as a fourth year.


    I was about to say no, chess didn''t really hold my interest in my past life, but I saw a mop of red hair inside the classroom and I couldn''t resist the chance to meet the youngest Weasley. What was he like now that he had a few years to mature outside of Hogwarts? How had Violet''s existence changed him?


    Would he be the same boy who was defined by his loyalty and jealousy in equal measure? Or would he be the Gryfindor version of Heath, pining after his house''s golden girl? Hell, had Hermione being a boy in this life somehow made him gay?


    I had my doubts on the last, but I truly didn''t know. In this world, anything was possible. Curiosity got the best of me and I offered the older boy a friendly smile.


    "You know what? I think I''ll take you up on that," I said. "I know the rules but I''m not really an expert if that''s okay."


    "We all start somewhere, mate. Besides, I''m not either if I''m honest. I mean, I do alright in competitions, but you should see the real grandmasters out there."


    "There are competitions for wizard''s chess?"


    "Of course there are. It''s a competitive sport no different than dueling. Mind, I know it''s nowhere near as popular, but it gets loads of support from the wealthy, traditional crowd. I know you Slytherins are big on culture and such," he said. I had to give it to him; he was a good salesman if nothing else.


    "Smooth. If you play like you talk, I think I''ll be in real trouble."


    "Heh. Nah, mate. I need to watch the door and lure people in so how about you go inside? There are a few other club members who''ll play with you."


    "Thanks¡­"


    "Oh, sorry. Patrick Hopkins."


    "Zabini."


    "Wait, the new seer?"


    "Rumor''s getting around, huh?"


    "Huh. Go easy on them, yeah?"


    "The Sight doesn''t work that way," I lied as I walked inside.


    I stood around and watched for a few minutes as Ron played against a fifth year. Both were good, though I had to admit I wasn''t sure how good. It was akin to watching a figure skater. The tricks were nice, but I wasn''t necessarily sure how a "great" skater differed from an "Olympic" counterpart.


    When they finished, I slid into the seat opposite Ron. I watched with mild interest as the chess pieces stood up and rearranged themselves properly.


    "Afternoon, Weasley," I greeted cordially. "Care for a game?"


    "What are you doing here?" he asked, suspicious but not quite hostile.


    "Well, Hopkins sold me on at least trying a game. I didn''t want to play against someone who''s been at this club for years so I waited for you to finish."


    "What? Can''t take losing?"


    "I don''t mind losing, but I don''t think I''ll learn much from someone so much better than me. You though¡­ Well, let''s see what you''ve got."


    "Hmph. Who says I want to play with you?"


    I smiled outwardly but let out a mental sigh. This was the same boy who told Harry every dark wizard came from Slytherin. Sure, the irony of him housing Pettigrew was funny, but his attitude at the moment was somewhat disappointing.


    I knew who he could become. He was loyal and strong, a competent wizard in his own right. He was brave and passionate, though sometimes too ruled by his emotions. He could be ingenious when he was properly motivated and was capable of incredible kindness.


    And yet¡­ The Ron Weasley from the latter books was nowhere to be found. This one? This one had a great deal of growing up to do.


    Perhaps I could nudge him along. It certainly wouldn''t hurt to leave a decent impression.


    I dug around in my pocket and withdrew a galleon. Ron was poor. Money was, unfortunately, one of the things he was extremely sensitive about at this stage of his life. I watched as his eyes tracked the coin and knew I had him.


    "How about a bet?" I said, sliding the coin across the table. "You win and the galleon''s yours."


    "I don''t need your charity."


    "It''s not charity. It''s a contest. I want a good game and I''m willing to pay for it. That''s fair, right?"


    His greed warred with his dislike of Slytherins before he tapped the board, triggering a rune that started the game. "Fine, but I''m white."


    "Done."


    "White to E-4," he said, determined now that there was a prize and he''d decided to compete.


    "Ooh, a bit of bloodlust," the pawn said, cackling madly.


    "A grudge match? Count us in! You know, the white bishop on the left is a right tosser," another pawn, from my side of the board, shouted. "Let me at him!"


    The pieces then descended into a squabbling mess. Somehow, they''d come to the conclusion that Ron and I were mortal enemies or something. That caught me off guard. I knew the pieces could speak sometimes, but I didn''t think they were that responsive. Enchanting truly was a wonderful thing.


    I didn''t even think about it. I moved my own pawn to contest the center. Though even calling me a casual enjoyer of the game was being generous, I did know that whoever had the middle four squares had a big advantage in the game.


    Only four moves later and I could feel myself being pressured. Ron didn''t hesitate. He moved each piece within seconds like he knew every possible move I could make. He wasn''t a chess prodigy like some fanfictions made him out to be, he''d lost to the fifth year by a significant margin, but he was most certainly better than a rank amateur like me. I was only down two pawns at the moment, but I had no doubt he''d widen the gap.


    "I thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning," he said with a satisfied smirk.


    "Chess is a game, Weasley. Enjoy it."


    "Oh, I''m enjoying clobbering you."


    I frowned as my knight fell to his bishop. "Well, if you''re going to be like that, then I suppose I''ll get serious."


    "Bring it," he said with a confident grin.


    I smirked inwardly and flooded the board with my magic. The Sight worked best where there were fewer variables. It was why I couldn''t see anything past five seconds or so without my crystal ball.


    But then again, chess was a solved game. Moreover, I didn''t need to predict every piece, just Ron''s next piece. I was no grandmaster, but I wasn''t an idiot either. I could finish drawing the picture when the dots were pointed out for me.


    Was it petty as fuck to use the Sight to play a chess match? And for a single galleon at that?


    Yes. But I never claimed to be a good person.


    The game became far more even after that. Ron adapted, because he really was that much better than me, but I in turn predicted his movements. Before we knew it, half an hour had passed and we were each taking minutes to consider each move.


    "Zabini? Ron?" we heard.


    We turned to find we''d drawn a small crowd. It was Parvati who spoke. Judging by the look on her face, she was here because Padma dragged her to the club.


    "Chirpy. Nerdy. Hello there," I said.


    "Parvati. Par-va-ti. It''s not hard to say," the more active sister huffed.


    "Shh! We''re playing," Ron cut in, going right back to thinking. How he ignored the commentary from the chess pieces yet thought this was disruptive, I didn''t know.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Blegh. I hope Zabini wins."


    "What? You''re a Gryfindor. Where''s your house pride?"


    "For a week, Weasley. We''ve been Gryfindors for a week. Lay off."


    I sighed and moved a rook. He would move his in response and open up a path to his queen by mistake. I wondered if continuously playing chess via Sight like this would eventually teach me the ideal moves. It ought to condition me towards moves that succeed at least, right?


    We played back and forth, trading pieces fairly evenly. I began to overtake him. When I noticed, I slowly stopped using the Sight. At first, I only looked ahead at every other move, and then every third move, and so on. It left the impression that Ron had grown accustomed to my playstyle and was making a slow but steady comeback.


    Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, I tipped the black king over. I reached out a hand for him to shake. "Good game, Weasley."


    He shook it with a much friendlier smile. "Not bad. I''m better of course, but you''re not an amateur."


    "We''re all amateurs. Unless some of the club members get paid at competitions. Speaking of," I slid the galleon over. "You won so it''s yours."


    "Heh, thanks. Come back when you want to lose more money."


    I snorted. Cheeky brat. "Hey now, I might win next time."


    "As if."


    As I stood, Padma dragged me over to the farthest table for a more isolated game. We wordlessly began playing, trading off an opening series of moves that looked remarkably like my previous game.


    "You let him win," she said quietly.


    "Now why would I ever do that? My money was on the line," I replied with a ghost of a smile.


    "I don''t know. You want him to like you for some reason? Or you want him to be overconfident. Or maybe you just want him to underestimate you in particular. But you were using your power. You wouldn''t have lost if you didn''t want to."


    "And how do you know I was using the Sight?"


    "Because you''re tired. More than you should be. I know the Sight isn''t something you can keep using forever."


    "You''re paying an awful lot of attention to me, Patil."


    "And because you''re playing like shite right now," she said. She took my rook with a cheeky smirk. Her eyes danced with mirth as she looked at me like a puzzle to be unraveled.


    "So I am."


    "So you lost on purpose."


    "Clever girl. And they say ravens are all just book-smarts. You got me. I''m actually pretty terrible at chess," I admitted easily. "I just didn''t want to embarrass myself too much."


    "Then why bet a galleon on the match? You didn''t need to bet."


    "It was the only way to get Weasley to play with me."


    "Because you''re so fond of blokes, are you?"


    I mimed a gagging motion. "Please don''t say that. No shade on men who swing that way but I prefer women."


    "So what''s your game then?"


    "Chess. We''re playing it right now."


    She shot me an unimpressed stare. "Don''t be obtuse, Zabini."


    "I feel attacked right now. Why do you think I have ulterior motives? Why can''t I think Weasley is a good bloke and want to be his friend?"


    "Really? You made me drug a professor," she hissed.


    "Correction. I made you an accomplice while I drugged a professor," I said.


    "Zabini." She didn''t look all that happy with the semantics.


    "Okay, fine. So I may have an idea. It really depends on a few things."


    "Is your plan going to involve my sister?"


    "Probably not."


    "Does it have even the slightest chance of making life hard for her?"


    I considered it. "How hard? Like ''I made you an accomplice in drugging our professor'' hard or-"


    "Yes," she growled. Then she let out a soft sigh before eating my bishop. "Look, I don''t think you''re a bad person, Zabini. I just¡­ You weird me out and I''m not sure what to make of you."


    "Yeah, that''s fair. But for the record, I want Chirpy to be happy too."


    "Good. Oh, and checkmate in three."


    "Wha-Fuck, I hate this game."


    "You know, I could also use a spare galleon¡­" she trailed off with a teasing grin.


    "Dream on."


    X


    "I didn''t take you for the artsy type," I told Daphne as we sat next to each other. In front of us were two easels, each with a canvas braced against the wood. A set of paints sat on each of our lefts, the three primary colors and black and white for shading.


    "We all have our hobbies. Outdoor activities were risky for me," she said coolly. I understood: her family curse probably meant she was encouraged to seek less exciting pursuits. "I took a liking to painting and music. I''m surprised you''re here, Zabini."


    "What can I say? I figured I''d broaden my horizons. I''ll visit all the clubs and decide what I like as I go."


    "I hope you''re more decisive about your ambitions than your hobbies. I don''t like owing favors."


    "Of course. Say, your family fortune is in potions correct?"


    "Partially, yes. You have something you want."


    "I do."


    Daphne hummed in thought. "I am willing to provide you with a potion in the Hogwarts curriculum. Anything more advanced than that will require significantly more assistance on your part."


    "That sounds reasonable," I smiled. "I have an idea, but not one I can enact right now. Once I''ve fleshed out the details, I''ll come to you for what I need."


    "Understood."


    "Thank you, Greengrass. I mean it."


    "It''s just business," she said, as frosty as ever, but I spied the ghost of a smile as she turned back to the front of the classroom.


    As more people filled the other easels, the president of the club, some sixth year from Ravenclaw, clapped her hands. "Hello! Can I have your attention? Hi, I''m Clara Warren and I am the president of the art club. We mostly do paintings in this class, and that''s what we''ll do today, but you may have noticed the lack of brushes. That''s because you''ll be painting¡­ with your wands!


    "Now, don''t get me wrong, we do have brushes, but art is ultimately about the creative expression of your imagination. Rather than hold an introductory course on brush strokes or different shading techniques, I thought it''d be neat to teach you a new spell instead. The spell is called cogita pingere, or the brushwork charm. What it does is it takes the caster''s thoughts and translates them onto the canvas, provided the paint''s all there of course."


    She demonstrated with a swish that turned into a slanted spiral. The paint floated into the air and began to spread itself, forming what turned out to be the Hogwarts Express, but with wings along its sides. There was even a set of train tracks made of clouds.


    "So how does this differ from just levitating the paint?" someone asked.


    "Good question. Cogita pingere is a very specialized spell which loosely means ''paint my thoughts.'' It draws from the image you have in your mind, whereas if you were to levitate each cup of paint, you''d simply be right back to relying on your brushstrokes.


    "Originally, this spell was devised by aurors to make obtaining witness testimony easier, I think muggle detectives have professional sketch artists who do something similar, but it fell out of common use in law enforcement because the caster can easily use the spell to mislead investigators. The president from four years ago introduced the spell as a neat way to let people who aren''t very good at the mechanical aspects of painting to still express themselves. Does that answer your question?"


    "Yeah, it does."


    "Great. Remember, keep a clear image in your mind now. It can be anything at all. I''m going to go around and teach you all the spell if you''re having trouble. If you''re serious about painting and came here to do that, feel free to go grab some from the front of the class. It''s okay to just have fun for today though," she said, waving to the teacher''s desk where there were several cups filled with all manner of brushes.


    It was a clever way to get students in the door. Most people had never painted before and would shy away from a blank canvas because they felt intimidated after all. By offering to teach them a new spell, and removing the possibility of them embarrassing themselves via shoddy technique, Clara had made a much more welcoming environment.


    Question was, what did I want to paint?


    My canvas remained blank even as Daphne sat down again, several brushes in her hand. I hadn''t noticed her get up but it seemed by the unexpectedly eager look on her face that she really enjoyed painting.


    "You''re not going to paint?" she asked.


    "I am, I''m just trying to decide what I want my first piece to be."


    "Something from the future. Or perhaps the past. Warren did say the spell will paint anything on your mind."


    "Are you trying to get a free prediction?" I asked with a wry smile. Still, I dug inside my bag and pulled out my trusty crystal ball.


    "No, you''re not that gullible. You''d just make something that I lack the frame of reference to understand. Can''t a girl be cordial?"


    "You''re right. That does give me a good idea."


    "Oh? Care to share?"


    "Well, I had a funny dream the other day¡­ I''m hoping my crystal ball will help me retrieve the memory."


    The crystal began to fog up, though I had no intention of using it. It was good for appearances if nothing else. I placed one hand on the crystal ball and began to cast.


    My paints rose into the air and began to form the background. It was important to work by layers after all, or something like that. I did paint a bit for fun in my old life, but the hobby had fallen to the wayside after graduating with my degree. Thankfully, it was a skill one never fully forgot, kind of like riding a bike.


    The classroom fell into a comfortable quiet, interrupted only by the swishing of brush heads on canvas or the gentle whispers of Clara and the other art club members as they guided people through some impromptu lessons.


    A while later, I had my piece. It was of a middle-aged, ginger man sitting at a desk. He was clearly a wizard, evident by his robes and wand, though he wasn''t doing anything particularly magical. Rather, he looked like he was studying something intently.


    On his desk was¡­ a yellow, rubber duck.


    "Is that supposed to be someone?" I heard Clara ask. "And is that a rubber duck?"


    I shrugged guilelessly. I didn''t really know why I chose this particular scene either. It was, of course, Arthur Weasley, technically "Lord" Weasley if I wanted to get on his nerves, pondering the great, muggle mystery that was the rubber duck.


    I didn''t actually know what he looked like. The movies were fresh in my mind thanks to the CYOA, but I''d already confirmed through Neville, Ron, and other, non-genderbent canon characters that the actors didn''t look exactly like their magical counterparts. They were actors in the end, hardly the genuine article. Some of them were close, real close, but there were always subtle differences.


    Or perhaps, the multiverse was vast and slight changes were to be expected. I didn''t know. It didn''t really matter.


    It also wasn''t as though this scene in particular came up in the films. The painting was an extrapolation from Arthur Weasley''s question to Harry: "What exactly is the function of a rubber duck?"


    "It is. I don''t really know why I made this either. Maybe my crystal ball is broken," I joked.


    "Looks like a Weasley. Maybe Lord Weasley?" Daphne said, looking over from her seat. "He works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office."


    "Could be. Or it could be any redhead. I did just get done playing a game with Weasley, Ronald, I mean, so maybe my mind latched onto that."


    "And what does this mean?"


    "Who knows? Sometimes, the rubber duck is¡­ just a rubber duck."


    Clara Warren nodded happily and began to take the painting off the easel. "It''s well-done. Even with cogita pingere, the clear image shows you have a focused mind. Did you have a name for this piece?"


    "Let''s call it¡­ ''To be a Toy,''" I said, shooting Clara a small, devious smile.


    Clara looked a little unnerved by that. Did I mean Lord Weasley was my toy? Or perhaps the entire family? Or maybe I really was referring to the rubber duck? I could, of course, just be fucking with her. Seers were known for being rather quirky.


    As Daphne said, she lacked the right frame of reference to understand, and it made me want to chuckle.


    In the end, I decided to join the art club, if only so I could keep leaving ominous signs. I''d have to think of more "dreams" I could access in the future.


    And, truth be told, I enjoyed painting. Beyond just being a troll, as was my self-appointed mission, there was a simple pleasure in the act of creating something new. I found myself looking forward to picking up this long-forgotten hobby of mine again. Perhaps next time, I''d even bother to refine my brushwork.


    It was also nice that the club was highly informal. The classroom we used was well-stocked thanks to the help of alumni. Formal hours were Tuesday and Saturday afternoons but members could come and go as we liked or our schedules permitted and largely operated on the honor system. The only "officer" was Clara, whose main job was to organize the year-end gallery and restock the materials from a mail-order catalog. All told, it sounded like a wonderful way to kill some stress.


    As for my first piece at Hogwarts, I left that with the art club. They held on to everything made by the club members and rented out a gallery in Diagon Alley towards the end of every school year. I looked forward to people visiting, just to try and figure out what the bloody fuck I meant by anything I did.


    Author''s Note


    Ron''s character is one that I loved to rag on but grew to appreciate as I grew older.


    The movies did him a disservice by giving so many of his lines to Hermione, even if Emma is pretty great. The movies highlight his worst traits and overshadow his best. They''ve encouraged a lot of bashing and it''s a shame because I always thought Ron''s flaws made him very relatable.


    Hermione comes off as an exposition machine, or even as JKR''s favorite self-insert medium. Harry gets led around by the nose, a slave to forces beyond his control. Yes, I know both are gross oversimplifications of the characters, but my point is that of the three, Ron''s the one who is most fleshed out and relatable to me.


    I didn''t used to think this way. When I was a teenager, I wanted to bang Emma and wished I was as perfect as chadbro-Harry in fanon. But now that I''m a bit older and I look back on all the dumb shit I said as a teenager that I wish I could take back, I find myself sympathizing with Ron.


    Yes, I know that''s not how Latin works. No, I don''t care. If JKR is allowed to butcher Latin, so am I.


    Thank you for giving me the art club idea. You know who you are.


    Also, I promised a Spoon marathon so look forward to it.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 15. The Foundation

    Chapter 15: The Foundation


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I was so caught up in answering Mr. Weasley''s famous question in art club that I missed the scheduled broom race. It was apparently three laps around the Black Lake, with obstacle courses in the form of floating rings set out to make things interesting. Still, there were more clubs to see so I took my time roaming the grounds.


    I was greatly disappointed by the charms club. Not to say that Professor Flitwick wasn''t great, but that clubs rarely saw visits from club advisors. He might not be as swamped as Professor McGonagall, but he was still a head of house and Ravenclaw would always be his primary focus. It turned out that rather than learn anything new, it was mostly used as a semi-formal review session. I noted the location and hours just in case but moved on; my own divination-based studying was more useful than this.


    Though the president of the enchanting club told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn''t join, he did permit lower year students to sit around and watch a demonstration.


    The demonstration had a neat premise, though with a somewhat lackluster execution: Club members, and NEWT-level students who knew the right spells, were each given a suit of armor from the Hogwarts corridors and told to animate them for combat. They held a little tournament that honestly looked a little like something out of pokemon.


    Unfortunately, these were wizards, not trainers. Or boxers. Or swordsmen. Not one of them knew the first thing about close quarters combat and it showed. The armors mostly just ran at each other until their joints fell apart or they got pushed out of bounds. I wasn''t an expert either, but I couldn''t help but feel that I could have done better had I known the spells.


    After the assault to my eardrums at lunch today, I felt no need to visit the school choir. My singing voice sounded like an opossum getting a barbed wire colonoscopy anyway.


    I did hear Neville joined with Trevor the toad. I hoped the club would teach him to come out of his shell a bit.


    In the end, I decided to take a bit of time out and head back to my room in the dungeons. School had only just started but I already had people who owed me things, and others I felt I could call on for minor favors. I had the skeleton of a plan to deal with Quirrell. Pettigrew as well¡­ Actually, perhaps I ought to deal with Pettigrew before Quirrell¡­


    I was brought out of my woolgathering when I felt the now-familiar tug of my power activating on its own. A single step took me away from the line of fire as I turned the corner. The cream pie that would have struck my face sailed harmlessly by.


    "Cute, Weasleys," I drawled. Sure enough, the twins were just around the corner, already wearing their best innocent grins.


    "Afternoon, lovely day-"


    "-we''re having, eh, chap?" they said. I had to give it to them. They were weirdly in sync, in a way that definitely wasn''t just because they were twins.


    "Hello, twins," I nodded. "Are you going to throw pie at me every day until I let you hit me?"


    "Nah, it''d be boring if you let us win," the one on the left said. While he was talking, I saw the other vanish the mess they''d made. Silent casting, impressive, though perhaps it made sense that this was the one spell they got a lot of practice with. "That one was just to test the waters."


    "We''re going to need to be a little more creative if we want to overcome our greatest challenge yet, brother."


    "That we will. This is just us saying hello-"


    "-and to let you know that ickle Violet gave us her message."


    "So-"


    "-what do you want?" they finished, looking at me expectantly.


    I kept walking, cane tapping rhythmically on the stone floor. The twins took either side of me. A passing Slytherin fifth year arched a brow, a silent question if I needed help or not, but I simply nodded and walked by.


    "Huh¡­ You know, I haven''t fully decided," I told the twins truthfully. "I thought it''d take longer for you to get back to me."


    "We thought about making you wait-"


    "-then you said the magic words. So-"


    "-consider us curious. What do you know?"


    "Who were the Marauders?"


    I thought about it. Who were they, really?


    There was precious little in canon about their school days. Much of what I knew didn''t paint them in a positive light either. They were pranksters, yes, but also bullies. Sirius could well have gotten Snape killed by arranging that encounter with Lupin during the full moon.


    They were reckless but well-meaning. Foolish, but in a way that made me believe they could have been better people as they matured. By all accounts, James Potter had become a better person for Lily Evans.


    I said none of this. "Messers Prongs, Padfoot, Moony, and Wormtail."


    "Yup. You know about the map."


    "I do. And I also know their heir. Only one had a child, but they''re in Hogwarts. Will you return their birthright? Or will you play dumb and keep it for yourselves?"


    "That depends, doesn''t it brother-mine?"


    "That it does, brother-mine. Blood isn''t the only thing that makes an heir-"


    "-no matter what you snakes may think-"


    "-we must also consider their spirit of mischief. A worthy prankster-"


    "-is one with a creative mind-"


    "-and an adventurous heart."


    I nodded along. It didn''t matter if they gave Violet the map anyway. "That''s fine. Hang onto it for now then. Just know that they will need it one day."


    "Oh? We could decide if we had more information, you know."


    "Nope. Nothing is free. If you want to know the history of the map, its creators, and the one who holds their legacy, you''ll have to pay like everyone else."


    "Pay? Surely not!" They gasped as one. "Goes right against the prankster spirit, that does."


    "Feel free to keep trying to prank me then," I said with a shrug. "I do take payment in the form of services, you know. Just think of this as an advertisement of sorts. Like you said, a ''hello,'' nothing more for now."


    "So it is, Zabini. We''ll be-"


    "-in touch. Let''s call this a declaration of war-"


    "-not quite, brother-mine, a declaration of friendly competition? Yes, that sounds right."


    They walked off with a synchronized wave. It was a little disconcerting; even Padma and Parvati weren''t this coordinated.


    I really didn''t know what I wanted of them quite yet. My original idea was to use them to acquire Scabbers, but that didn''t seem wise. Rumors about my abilities had probably made their rounds by now. With people from different houses making it clear that I was the real deal, it wouldn''t surprise me if Ron talked about me in his dorm.


    In which case, if I just tried to buy the rat off Ron, he would naturally be suspicious. It was natural to wonder what I knew that he didn''t. Worse, Pettigrew might hear that the buyer was a confirmed seer. He was a coward, but I didn''t think he was so dumb as to just let me take him.


    No, my efforts to advertise my ability did have downsides. Simply trying to buy the rat directly was unlikely to end in my favor.


    I''d think of something. The twins would be useful connections to have even if I didn''t involve them in the Scabbers issue.


    X


    The impromptu meeting with the twins did mean I didn''t have enough time to go to my dorm before the last thing I wanted to see today: an exhibition duel between two seventh years hosted by the dueling club.


    The clubroom was actually two classrooms that had been merged into one. Similar to the setup from the movie, a long platform had been built in the center. It was draped with a deep, midnight-blue carpet with golden stars intricately detailed along the sides. A full moon marked the halfway point, fading in either direction with the various phases until the duelist''s circle was denoted by the pitch-black of the new moon.


    On each end of the stage stood two students, one from Gryffindor, stereotypes were stereotypes for a reason, and the other from Hufflepuff. Both looked confident and had been a part of the club for years. The two joked with each other in a way that made it clear they didn''t take this seriously. No matter who won, there wouldn''t be any bad blood from this.


    The club president, a Ravenclaw girl with a hawkish nose, held out a hand for silence. "Alright, you lot. Let me start by explaining the rules of dueling as a sport. It''s quite simple: One, there are three judges per match in an official tournament. Two, duelists may not cross the halfway mark, here marked by the full moon. Three, the duel ends when a duelist is deemed incapable of fighting back. Note that I said ''incapable of fighting back,'' not that they be disarmed. The two are not the same thing. Can anyone tell me why?"


    "Several cultures around the world do not rely on wands," Evan Yaxley drawled. "Uagadou, one of the other seven major wizarding schools, has an entire track for wandless wizards."


    "Correct. Though European wizards favor wands, this might not be the case depending on where the witch or wizard is from. When the International Confederation of Wizards adopted dueling as an internationally recognized sport in 1892, they instituted some new rules to include other magical traditions. Now, immobilizing or stunning someone, such as by petrificus or stupefy, or the local equivalent, is considered the winning play.


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "However, in tournaments, duels sometimes have timers to move things along. If the timer runs out and both duelists remain able to continue, it will come down to a decision by the judges. The same applies should a duelist be accused of cheating, such as via potions taken beforehand, or by the use of illegal spells.


    "By ''illegal'' here, I mean spells outlawed by the tournament, not the ministry. The list of banned spells differs depending on the tournament organizers and hosting country so it''s important to have a look beforehand. Some spells, such as the unforgivables and fiendfyre, are universally banned. For our purposes, Abbott and Poole will be dueling with our club''s own banlist in effect, which you can read at a later time. Now, are both duelists ready?"


    "About time, Parsani," the Gryffindor, I had no idea whether he was Poole or Abbott, said. "You talk too much. I''ve got five galleons riding on this, you know."


    "Oh, shut it, Poole. Now, in tournament fashion. Bow to each other."


    The two stood ramrod straight before holding their wands in front of their faces as if they were swords. They took a bow, stooping to forty-five degrees while still maintaining eye contact. It reminded me very much of fencing.


    Then, when they rose, Parsani slashed her wand down, creating a loud bang.


    The badger started off with a rapidfire string of hexes, most of which I didn''t recognize. The final stroke of each wand led directly into the next in an unending river of weak but numerous spells. Avis into stupefy into the locomotor wibbly and a dozen more varieties that I wouldn''t be learning until much later on.


    I was impressed. The spell chain was one that was obviously well-practiced. It included a nice combination of spells meant for distraction and spells that could potentially end the fight right away.


    And yet, the Gryffindor didn''t seem worried in the least. He sidestepped the first few spells and froze the birds using immobulus, the freezing charm Hermione used to stop Lockhart''s pixies in second year, before holding his ground with a protego maxima. He seemed content to turtle behind his shield, waiting out his opponent.


    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cheryl Dupree, the fourth year who''d asked for help finding her hairpin, approach. I wasn''t surprised to see her here; she was supposedly a talented duelist and a member of the club.


    "Any predictions for a quick galleon?" she asked, only partially joking.


    "Nah. Knowing takes the fun out of it, no?" I replied with an easy smile.


    "Hmm¡­ The Hufflepuff house motto, how quaint," she drawled, gaining some dark looks from a group of puffs standing nearby.


    "I''d appreciate any insights you have about the duel though."


    "Sure, why not. Poole there favors a dueling style that heavily relies on defense. He''ll frustrate his opponent and then try to finish the duel with one or two decisive counterstrikes."


    I eyed the Gryffindor appraisingly. "Isn''t protego taxing? Protego maxima especially?"


    "It is," she allowed, a hint of grudging respect for the older boy in her voice. "He has a lot more magic than others in his year for whatever reason so he can afford to be a bit wasteful."


    "And a shield means he doesn''t have to try to find a counterspell for everything Abbott has?"


    "Yup. There are some shieldbreakers out there, but they take a long time to cast and Poole knows to look out for them. No guarantee they''ll work on a maxima variant either."


    "And what about Abbott?" I nodded to the Hufflepuff. He had yet to tire even once, relentlessly battering away at Poole''s protego. "He likes fast, weak spells I take it?"


    "Yup. He tries to chain spells together and overwhelm his opponents. It works too. Poole''s one of the few students in the club he can''t beat this way."


    "Huh. And which style is better in your opinion?"


    "Tough question. It depends. I know that sounds like a copout answer, but it does," she said. "Abbott''s spellchains? Those were popularized by Professor Flitwick. He used to be the international dueling champion, you know."


    "I do. More than once if I remember right."


    "Yup. The problem with that style is that it can be predictable and lock you into a set pattern of behavior. Abbott''s fast with his wand, but pretty much everyone in the club knows what spell comes after what by now. Professor Flitwick became champion by being able to innovate on the fly and that''s not something a lot of people can do."


    "So it''s fast but mechanically predictable unless the duelist is very creative and has a really large library to draw from."


    "That''s right. Poole on the other hand? Well, that much is obvious, right?" she asked. We watched as he cut his shield and dodged out of the way of a shieldbreaker. "What happens when a shield isn''t strong enough?"


    "Point. And your own style?"


    "Wouldn''t you like to know."


    The two of us continued to watch the duel, Cheryl tossing in her own commentary once in a while. By her own admission, both students were better than her by a fair bit, but not so much that she couldn''t recognize all of the spells being used. It seemed that at their level, the difference was not necessarily in knowledge, but experience, speed, and power.


    Poole won in the end, his defenses too much for Abbott to overcome, but it was close. The duel left both men visibly exhausted. Abbott handed over five galleons as promised, though without any hard feelings.


    "So, thinking about joining?" Cheryl asked. "I could show you the ropes."


    I considered it. The offer came with strings attached, because of course it did, but it wasn''t necessarily a bad idea to latch onto a competent upper year, especially one with friends in the dueling club. I didn''t doubt that I would one day be forced to rely on these skills. Hell, even if I decided to leave Violet to hang altogether, given who my mother was, there was a good chance some jilted lover would want to kill me to get back at her.


    "Maybe," I muttered. I tapped the ground with my cane for emphasis. "Ask me again in a month or two?"


    "Ah, right. You''re going to need to be a lot more mobile unless you want to adopt Poole''s style."


    "Yeah."


    There was also the Room of Requirement to consider. I didn''t think I''d be lacking access to spells, at least not anything the dueling club could provide me. More than anything, I wanted to master the Sight. Turning it into a haki-equivalent would go a long way to keeping me safe, even if my own repertoire lagged behind slightly as a result. After all, I didn''t need a dozen different kinds of bullets; I just needed one, and the perfect opportunity.


    X


    The next day was supposed to be a continuation of much the same, but I opted to skip out on that. Other than the broom-centric clubs, the only clubs I hadn''t seen were choir, which was an unredeemable shitshow I refused to acknowledge; magizoology, which was hosting a petting zoo of all things; and astronomy, which sounded rather unhealthy for my already delicate sleep schedule.


    Besides, I had astronomy today. While Professor Sinistra was willing to allow me to skip her midnight class on account of Professor Snape''s notes, that came at the cost of spending Sunday afternoon in one-on-one tutoring.


    "You''re on time," Professor Sinistra said. Aurora Sinistra was an extremely tall woman. She stood a full head and shoulders above me and wore a set of elegant, navy robes that sported dancing constellations. She had her hair teased into tight cornrows and studded with silver stars that contrasted nicely with her dark hair. "Good, I had wondered if you would conveniently forget about this lesson."


    I had the sneaking suspicion that I wasn''t her favorite student. Then again, if some kid made me work on a Sunday, I''d probably feel pretty miffed as well.


    "This is a class, professor," I said diplomatically. Winning her over shouldn''t be too difficult; I actually liked the subject. "Being late would waste both my time and yours."


    "So it would, Mr. Zabini. Please, take a seat." She gestured to the seat nearest to her. "Take a seat. I take it you have kept abreast of the material you missed Wednesday nigh?"


    "Yes, professor. You had us reading up on the planets in our solar system and the Greek zodiac."


    "Good. We''ll start with a little, informal quiz to make sure you''ve been reading. Get out your notes and write down anything you don''t know. We can talk about those more as we go. Which of the planets is most commonly found in texts concerning divination?"


    "Mars, though I believe it to be because of selection bias on the part of wizards, not because Mars is in any way more magical than the other planets. People are more interested in foretelling conflict and strife rather than good harvest, benevolent rule, or love," I said.


    "Yes, I suppose that would be an easy one for you. Name one magical creature whose life cycle is influenced by the celestial bodies."


    "Werewolves if you consider them magical creatures."


    "And if I do not?" she asked with an arched brow.


    "The glimmershoe crab mates once per year on the night of the brightest full moon. Their eggs can only be harvested on that night because the eggs become intangible shortly after being laid."


    "Correct, in part. The eggs can be harvested during subsequent full moons as well as they phase in and out of existence with the moon''s wax and wane. The Orion''s lament, what is it?"


    "It is a type of herb that is harvested only once per year."


    "When?"


    "Ah¡­"


    "Why is it called that?" she asked, nudging me along.


    "Because¡­ Because the plant''s flower opens each night to follow the Scorpio constellation. It chases Orion across the sky, and so is his lament," I answered, the story giving me the nudge needed to remember. "It can only be harvested for a short while when Scorpio is rising just past the horizon."


    "Not quite. Professor Sprout knows more, but it is a plant that can be harvested at several points throughout the year. However, the plant''s medicinal properties differ and ''Scorpio''s dawn'' variants are the most sought after."


    I dutifully wrote that down. That wasn''t in the book, but I doubted that excuse would fly with her. Professor Sinistra was well-aware that astronomy was boring for most. A class dominated by rote memorization would never compete to hold children''s interests against the likes of charms.


    To offset this, she liked to give us practical examples in which knowing astronomy might help. Orion''s lament was worth a mere nine knuts. The Scorpio''s dawn variant? More than six sickles depending on the year. She also knew a great deal about mythology and history, both the muggle and magical variants, and did her best to tie in little anecdotes whenever she could.


    Having her to myself like this, I realized that she was a much better storyteller than a teacher. I wasn''t interested in astronomy beyond its implications in divination, but she talked about the stars with such passion that I found myself captivated anyway.


    All things considered, it wasn''t a bad way to spend Sunday afternoon.


    X


    The rest of my weekend was uneventful. I helped someone find his lost kneazle, did my homework for Tuesday, and made a note of the painting of Barnabas the Barmy so I could find the Room of Requirement when there weren''t quite so many people wandering about. I then headed up to the owlery to have dinner.


    The owlery smelled stale, of bird poop and musty feathers, but that was a small price to pay for the company of the queen of this roost. Of course, the privacy afforded by its isolation wasn''t bad here either.


    I gave Minerva a quick hug and called, "Tubby? May I speak to Tubby the house elf?"


    There was a soft pop and the house elf in question, one I''d learned to recognize by a distinct crinkle in his left ear, appeared. "How can Tubby be helping Young Master Blazey?"


    That evening with Daphne and Tracey hadn''t been the only time I''d visited the kitchens over the past week. In fact, it was a bit of a tossup as to whether I''d be present for meals at all. One might argue that this deprived me of opportunities to influence my classmates, or perhaps to make connections and alliances, but I would argue that I was making connections and alliances.


    The Hogwarts elves were an absurdly underutilized resource. They were a group of brownie-like entities who could apparate in Hogwarts, had incredible magical power, and possessed an innately favorable attitude towards students. So long as I remained polite, didn''t get in the way of their duties, and didn''t harm Hogwarts or its students, they would be accommodating. More than that, they''d be delighted at the notion of getting more work.


    In that lens, what greater ally could I hope to make than a house elf who liked me personally?


    And so I''d taken to learning the name of one elf in particular, asking for his personal assistance as much as I was able. To my delight, he had taken to calling me "young master," not unlike Pooky, the Zabini family elf, did. We didn''t have a magical bond or anything, but he too had learned to differentiate me from the other students and that was a great sign.


    "I think I may have lost track of time taking care of my owl," I told him. I put some of that Zabini family charm to work and gave him the most benign smile I could. "Minerva is such a fussy lady, you know. I know it''s not proper, but would the kitchen elves mind if I took dinner here instead of the great hall?"


    "Of course, Master Blazey. Tubby will bring you a plate."


    "Thanks, Tubby, you''re the best."


    "Tubby be doing his job, Master Blazey."


    "Say, if you ever find a dead rat around the castle towers, please toss it Minerva''s way. I''m sure she''ll appreciate it."


    "Tubby will be doing that, sir."


    "Thanks again. What would Hogwarts do without you?"


    He let out a happy giggle and popped away. Not ten seconds later, I had a plate of mince pie and mash. I happily scooped out a spoonful of steaming mince and placed it on my hand for Minerva to try. Really, elves were the unsung heroes of the wizarding world.


    They were also so delightfully simple to manipulate.


    Author''s Note


    No, I''m not going to make a "house elf hit squad," though that would indeed let me check one more square off my tropes bingo.


    No, I did not update any of my stories last Friday. I was off in California for a wedding. It was nice, if a little too "clubby" for me. I felt old watching everyone dance.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 16. Boris

    Chapter 16: Boris


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    "Yes, the first Hogsmeade weekend will have sunny weather. Enjoy your date, a picnic sounds like a lovely idea. This isn''t terribly vital information so let''s just say a sickle''s worth of sweets from Honeydukes. I''m partial towards darker chocolates. Yes, I''m sending you on an errand. Deal with it."


    "No, your girlfriend isn''t cheating on you. She''s been busy preparing a birthday gift for you. That''ll be five galleons. Why is it so expensive? Because you''re projecting your own insecurities onto someone else. And more importantly, making it my problem. You can pay, or she can hear about you asking at all."


    "There will be a pop quiz in sixth year charms next Tuesday. That''ll be eight knuts. No, that''ll be a full sickle because you''re going to tell your friend and Travers didn''t study. Get compensation from your friend if you don''t like it."


    "Your kneazle prefers mice to fish or poultry. Why do you need a seer''s help for this? Never mind, I don''t care. That''ll be four knuts."


    "For the last time, no, he doesn''t like you. Me telling you his favorite flavor of ice cream won''t change that."


    "Are you seriously going to pay me to tell you that you shouldn''t ignore your little brother''s birthday? Fuck. Just take this money and get him something from Zonko''s, you blithering idiot."


    ¡­


    Three weeks passed and I grew to regret opening myself up to so many commissions. As it turned out, most requests were banal in nature. Sure, Hogwarts was a magical boarding school, but sometimes, the emphasis should be placed on boarding school. Most teenagers wanted teenager-like things from me, such as whether "Mr. Kneazle," yes, that was the cat''s unfortunate name, preferred chicken or fish.


    The smartest use of my power was from a seventh year Hufflepuff, who wanted my help locating a rather rare book in the library. A quick query saved the young man a good few hours of searching, only to find that the book had already been checked out by an enterprising Ravenclaw.


    The book on gaseous conjuration seemed a bit niche, and far, far beyond what I could make use of currently, but I made a note of the title anyway. If two NEWT-level students were fighting over it, it probably had some good material.


    I closed the door to the Slytherin dorm room. The rest of the boys were off doing something or other and it was a good chance to get some time to myself. I found myself doing that more often than not. I felt no real animosity for any of them, even Theo stopped trying to wake me in the middle of the night once I sicced the twins on him, but I found I couldn''t really relate to them either. They were off bullying some hapless badger and I didn''t feel like pretending I found their nonsense funny.


    More to the point, my time was precious. With Somnolent eating up the hours in my day, I found myself careful with the time I had available to me. I saved a lot of time on schoolwork thanks to divination, and future-Leontes, but that just meant I was studying for the things that interested me rather than doing homework.


    At the moment, my priority was on occlumency. The CYOA automatically guarded my thoughts, at least where my past life and "canon" were concerned. The protection extended beyond legilimency to cover compulsions and even veritaserum. If Somnolent was so thoroughly kicking my ass, and the golden vial of fate-breaking felix felicis was still there in my trunk, it stood to reason that the rest of the CYOA was equally valid.


    However, I quickly realized that the protection did not extend to information I acquired throughout my time here, including things I learned as a seer. If I wanted to preserve the privacy of my clients and guard my ongoing plans, I''d need to learn occlumency beyond the basics that Blaise had known.


    Blaise wasn''t lazy per se, but he strove to become an unremarkable wallflower. His ambition was to have no ambition, to do nothing that might draw the attention of his mother or her enemies. He lived life like a shrimp swimming amongst sharks. What little he knew of occlumency was enough to bat aside the sloppiest of attacks but little else.


    He would at least be able to tell when his mind was under attack, but that wasn''t any great accomplishment. There was no such thing as a "stealthy legilimency probe" because the art drove one''s own consciousness into another''s; no amount of delicateness would allow for a legilimency attack to go truly unnoticed. As Valencia Zabini put it, "The mind is the bastion of the self. Anything that is not of the self sticks out like a splotch of red in a world of black and white."


    That was the first time she had ever taught him anything. It was a memory he cherished and dreaded all at once. Her legilimency probes had not been gentle.


    Unfortunately, for me in the present, the lessons stopped once she realized her son''s mind was too terrified of her to absorb the lessons properly. She''d then promptly lost all interest in him, until I came along and brained dear Auntie Carmen.


    Which meant it was up to me to learn to protect myself.


    Minerva had been delighted when I sent her on her very first errand, to deliver a letter to mother-dearest. I explained my burgeoning affinity for divination, there was no way to hide that anyway, and then asked her for recommendations on protecting the mind. She''d apparently had Pooky raid our primary residence in Sicily before sending Minerva back with To Be as Nothing several days later.


    The book itself was thin, not even a hundred pages. It was a journal from one of my ancestors who was apparently a hit wizard for the organization that would eventually branch off into the Sicilian mafia, as if my family wasn''t sketchy as fuck already.


    Old-Blaise would have feared her too much to ask for a recommendation in the first place. Even had he drawn up the nerve, he would never have trusted the book''s contents for fear of sabotage. I at least knew that she had some affection for me, if only in the sense of a kindred murderer, so her recommendations could probably be trusted. Valencia Zabini was a great many things, but no one ever called her incompetent.


    I''d read this book cover to cover now, and Dario Zabini was a fascinating man. He was someone who rejected traditional avenues of power to become an assassin. According to him, anything more than the usual cutting charm was unnecessary in combat. From blasting curses to the unforgivables, he rejected them all as exorbitant wastes of energy. Worse, dark magic was much easier to trace and raised more alarms, both unredeemable downsides in his opinion.


    His preferred spell repertoire included everything from basic disillusionment to spells that could erase a man''s scent, negate the homenum revelio charm, and block scrying attempts. I hadn''t even realized that the last one was a possibility save for extremely rare spells like the fidelius charm. Unfortunately, most of his spells, some self-created, were far beyond my ability to cast at the moment, but this would be a book I''d be returning to for years.


    Naturally, his emphasis on stealth extended to hiding the mind. To Be as Nothing was as literal a title as could be. From him, I learned that the essence of occlumency was not to build a "mind palace" as was so popular in other fictions, but to become a void to all external stimuli.


    Snape once suggested to Harry that a great occlumens could project false memories indistinguishable from others. Those memories were so flawless that even Voldemort, a master legilimens, was unable to discover the spy in his midst. He wasn''t even aware that Snape knew occlumency.


    Dario Zabini did things differently. Instead of moving on to the "projecting faux memories" phase, he''d expanded on the "emptying the mind" phase to unheard of levels. By turning his mind into a void filled with nothing but his sole objective, he could ignore all external stimuli, whether that be legilimency, obliviation, or torture.


    According to him, he was even able to walk past a dementor, the soul-sucking creature incapable of sensing his emotions at all and so treating him as part of the scenery. Bogarts likewise stopped manifesting for him as well, incapable of discerning his greatest fear. I had no idea how true that was, but I wanted that kind of void for myself.


    Not only would this keep my thoughts private, it would give me an almost supernatural drive needed to accomplish the goal I set. And, if I was honest with myself, someone using my services and then oblivating me to keep the acquired information secret was a major fear of mine.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    So I worked to empty the mind according to Dario''s instructions. It was, in some ways, a walk of faith. I wouldn''t know how effective my training was until I had a legilimens probe it. And the only one I trusted was, funnily enough, my mother.


    She was a monster, but she was a monster I knew. I knew her motives. I knew her methods. I could trust that she didn''t want me dead. Had she wanted to mold me into a puppet, she would have done so already.


    She was, as paradoxical as it was to say, safe.


    A wand of silver lime was supposed to be great for esoteric arts, including legilimency, but I didn''t know how much that would help with its opposite. I''d just have to see how much progress I could make in a single semester. I had plenty of motivation: If nothing else, disappointing my mother was likely to be an unpleasant experience.


    X


    It was the first of October and many of my house''s younger students were gathered in the common room. It was a little funny how we gathered around the announcement board like a flock of pigeons crowding an old man at a park bench for breadcrumbs. Today was the day we''d find out who had the private suite for each year and gender after all.


    Well, that was the case in theory. In theory, the first of each month allowed the brightest, most cunning, or most influential students to brag about their accomplishments. The castle decided and the rest of the house was left to wonder exactly why the castle made this decision. A healthy spirit of competition would be nurtured and the subsequent months would see a shift in who occupied the private suite.


    In practice, most everyone knew who would win each month. We lived with each other and largely attended the same classes after all. This was especially true of the first month, in which few if any schemes were seen through to completion. The rankings were based almost exclusively on the amount of house points earned in that case.


    I spotted only one seventh year, three sixth years, and four fifth years amongst the crowd. Despite the castle''s best efforts, the social pecking order solidified by that point and only a few tried to compete for the top spot each month, seeing it as too much trouble for too little gain. They were all used to living together at that point; why bother?


    To be fair, the first year winners weren''t a surprise either. Daphne hadn''t been idle since Lyra''s slipup during our first flying lesson. With Club Day being over and Violet''s status as the newest seeker confirmed during Gryffindor''s first practice session, she approached some of the older years to gain their support.


    Granted, I had a feeling that our upperclassmen were bemused more than anything at Daphne''s power play. Or perhaps they were disappointed with the Malfoy scion and felt like expressing said disappointment in a tangible but largely harmless way that wouldn''t directly constitute an insult against House Malfoy as a whole.


    No matter, the result was the same: I didn''t know what Daphne promised them, I didn''t care to dig up the answer, but I knew that at least one third year was spending time with Tracey out of class, probably teaching her a few useful spells. Whether Daphne could turn this arrangement into permanent allies remained to be seen, but for now, she was easily the most cunning Slytherin.


    As for the boys¡­


    "Oh, that is bloody nonsense," Theodore whined. "What part of you is cunning?"


    I shrugged and offered him a guileless smile. "What can I say? Maybe the castle likes that I''m an entrepreneur making his own spending money."


    "Anyone can think of that."


    "True¡­ Say, do you remember our first transfiguration class?"


    "What about it?" he asked sulkily.


    I laughed. Not only did I drug a teacher, I made said teacher reward me for the privilege. And then, just to be sure she wouldn''t single me out afterwards, I made her reward the Ravenclaw too. McGonagall''s own pride wouldn''t allow her to retaliate after that.


    That was what people could figure out, if they cared to look. Theo also knew I''d sicced the twins on him, though he obviously couldn''t prove it. And then there was what I''d done with Snape, getting him to see himself in me so I would hopefully have an easier time of things in the future. Though, for obvious reasons, I wasn''t going to go around bragging that I was manipulating my own head of house.


    "Professor McGonagall doesn''t have a cat," I called back as I headed out for lunch.


    X


    "What are you up to this time, Zabini?" Clara Warren, sixth year president of the art club, asked as she strolled by my easel. "Making one of your weird paintings again?"


    I twirled a brush between my fingers. "I think I''m going to paint a dream I had."


    "Could be interesting. You know, I used to keep a dream diary."


    "Oh? Get anything good out of it?"


    "Not in a divination sense, no. It taught me a lot about filling in the gaps of my own dreams. I don''t remember all my dreams clearly so the strings of words I wrote out became really cool prompts for me to experiment with."


    "Huh, neat. I bet it''s a good creative exercise. I heard you sell your paintings."


    "I do," she said happily. "I''ve got a client who wants me to paint her portrait."


    "Really? Nice. Magical or muggle?" I asked, mildly interested.


    "Magical, obviously. There''s almost no market for an unmoving portrait. I''m thinking about doing this full-time when I graduate," she said with a sigh. She was a muggleborn, which unfortunately closed off higher-level ministry jobs for her. That she''d found herself a niche despite societal prejudice was impressive.


    "How do you make a magical portrait?"


    "You paint them like usual. Well, the paints and canvas need to be treated with potions. And it helps if the frame has runes carved into it for preservation and such. Oh, and the subject needs to be present so as to impart a copy of their personality and memories into the finished product; a photo won''t do."


    "Sounds a lot more involved than I expected," I hummed. My brush glided across the canvas, slowly forming the face of a middle-aged blonde man in a muggle suit.


    "It is. It''s a lot of fun though. And, no offense, but highly skilled or niche magic is about the only way muggleborns like me can get decent jobs."


    "None taken. It''s true," I said simply.


    "So¡­ Who is that? I didn''t expect you to dream about a muggle."


    I leaned back to admire my work. I''d seen marked improvement in the past three weeks. At first, painting resulted in my hand cramping every few minutes as the convulsions wracked my body. Making anything visually distinct without the use of cogita pingere was impossible. I asked Madam Pomfrey about it and she promptly told me to keep at it. Apparently, painting was a good way to reacquire fine motor skills.


    And she''d been right. My body was almost fully recovered now, I technically didn''t need my pimp cane, and the paintings I made now actually looked like the intended subjects. They weren''t masterpieces by any stretch, but I thought I''d fully regained the mediocre skills I had as Corbin, perhaps even a bit more.


    The subject of my painting was an overweight, blonde man in an ill-fitting suit. His tie was the British Union Jack and his hair was all over the place, looking like an entire flock of seagulls picked their way through it. Despite the windswept look, he wore a wide, cheery grin, showing off a collection of yellowed teeth. In his hands was a tray with several mugs of hot tea, as if he was offering it to the viewer.


    "That, my dear Warren, is your future," I told her.


    "Har-de-har. Do you have any idea how many times I''ve heard you lot compare muggles to gorillas?" she frowned. "The joke got old years ago."


    "I''m not insulting muggles. And this man isn''t a gorilla, more like an orangutan." I quick-dried the painting with a severely underpowered ventus minima, another useful spell Warren showed me. Then, with a flick of my wand, my name, date, and the piece''s title etched themselves into the corner. I rolled it up and handed it to her. "I swear I''m not making fun of muggles. Frankly, your government does enough of that on its own. Just take it, okay? And, if you ever rejoin the muggle world, you''ll get a good laugh someday."


    She eyed me suspiciously. "You said you dreamed it."


    "Of a sort."


    "Bloody seers¡­ Who the hell is Boris?"


    X


    "So, this is my new crib¡­" I muttered as I checked out my suite for the first time.


    It was, in a word, luxurious, far grander than a boarding school dormitory had any right to be. Truthfully, it had more amenities than my own room at the Zabini manor.


    The walls were a deep, black marble, over which banners of Slytherin-emerald hung. The silver serpents coiled and writhed inside each banner, as if searching for prey. In one corner of the room was a four-poster bed lined with the same green and silver sheets and curtains. There was a desk, two empty bookshelves lodged into a corner to make a miniature library, and my very own fireplace and sitting area, albeit without floo powder.


    Those were all standard amenities, things that the castle provided to every student. Looking around, I could see that the castle had somehow adjusted itself for my personal use.


    Off in the corner was an owl''s perch. It was made of lacquered rosewood and elegantly shaped into the form of a striking cobra, reminiscent of my cane. It was also a size or two bigger than other perches I''d seen, fit to house the new queen of the owlery when she deigned to pay me a royal visit.


    Even the ceiling hadn''t been left untouched. It had been turned into a skylight of sorts. It opened out into the shores of the Black Lake, somehow without bringing in the chill of the Scottish autumn.


    Minerva could come and go with ease, but I saw creatures pass by as if they hadn''t seen anything. How that worked, I had no fucking clue; I could only assume it was something similar to the windows in the common room that looked out into the lake Judging by the star chart and self-updating lunar calendar attached to one wall, the scenic view into the night sky was no accident.


    At the center of the room was a circular standing desk, more like a bar table, with a little, three-fingered stand that formed a grasping sphere. I placed my crystal ball inside and, sure enough, it was a perfect fit.


    Truly, magic was fantastic.


    Author''s Note


    I lost a bet with Azayel, meaning we won. It''s wild. I was ADC. I fucking suck at ADC. Our mid hadn''t played LoL since the Summoner''s Rift got a visual update. We should have lost. I have no idea how we won.


    A patron asked me if Blaise is going to make jokes about Trump. I told him that a painting of Donald with his itty-bitty hands saying "Covefe" would be something he''d make for the giggles. But then again, Britain has its own blonde idiot; they don''t need to outsource the job to America.


    Animal fact? Sure. The largest predator species on Madagascar is the fossa. It looks like a cross between a cat and a dog and is a part of the Eupleridae family, a family that refers to the ten or so carnivorous species native to Madagascar. Yeah, scientists decided "fuck it" and gave Madagascan carnivores their own branch on the taxonomic tree.


    Despite the "largest Madagascan predator" title, they''re actually only about 31 inches long from head to tail and weigh 19 pounds. Unlike in the movie Madagascar, they are solitary predators.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 17. Daphne the Drug Dealer

    Chapter 17: Daphne the Drug Dealer


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    "I have good news and bad news," Madam Pomfrey said. We were in her office in the hospital wing, sharing a box of her favorite scones. Most students didn''t make a habit of visiting the hospital wing; I''d managed five visits in as many weeks. I doubted I was setting a new record or anything, but I was now a familiar figure to the old matron. "Which would you prefer, Mr. Zabini?"


    I shrugged with an easygoing smile. "What can I say, Madam Pomfrey? Call me an optimist."


    "Very well, you can forgo your cane whenever you want. I''m sure you''ve noticed, but the shivers caused by dark magic residue should have stopped."


    "You know, now that you mention it, it''s been a few days since I''ve felt anything. Am¡­ Am I cured?"


    "No, not entirely. The absence of one symptom does not mean your body has completely recovered. It is a good sign that progress is being made, no more than that."


    "Unfortunate¡­ You know, I think I''ll keep the cane," I said as I buttered a scone. I eyed the gaudy, golden cobra leaning against the chair next to me. It really did look like a pimp cane. What the hell was Valencia thinking? Still, I was of the opinion that it was always better to be underestimated. Besides, who knew when I''d need to club someone silly? Or maybe I ought to have it modified into a cane-sword in the future? "It''s grown on me. It''s a bit ostentatious but mother did get it for me."


    "Suit yourself," she said with a shrug. "Far be it for me to question your tastes, however questionable they may be."


    "Ouch. So that''s the good news. What''s the bad?"


    "Has your sleep schedule improved at all?"


    "Ah, a little¡­?" I said hesitantly. Today was the fifth of October and I''d moved into my new suite on the first. "I''ve been sleeping better, but that could just be because I have an entire suite to myself now."


    "Ah, House Slytherin''s monthly wager. Congratulations, I suppose. No change in the number of hours you need?"


    "No, at least, none I''ve noticed. It''s not like a minute or two makes that much of a difference."


    "That lines up with what the scans show. With your body repaired, your magic will likely begin to repair and reinforce your magical core at an accelerated rate. I do not know when your sleep schedule will return to normal. However, it should be a gradual shift."


    "That''s great news. Why did you say that was a bad thing?"


    "Because I''ll expect you to attend your midnight astronomy class as soon as you''re able," she said with a wry chuckle.


    "Ah, shit."


    "Language, Mr. Zabini."


    "Does this mean I should intentionally sleep less than twelve hours? Maybe wean myself off of sleep until I have something resembling a normal sleep schedule?"


    "Absolutely not. The fact that you need more sleep is evidence of your still-recovering magical core. Denying your own magic the time it requires sounds like an especially stupid way to see me more frequently," she admonished.


    "Noted. Well, thank you for all this, Madam Pomfrey," I said earnestly. She ''d been nothing but fair to me, even going out of her way to set out snacks and tea on occasion. She really was the motherly type. Although, if I developed diabetes in the future from my newfound love of clotted cream, I now knew who to blame.


    "Your thanks is appreciated. Now off with you. I''m sure you''d rather be enjoying your Saturday elsewhere."


    I polished off my scone and bowed respectfully. I had my own suite. My body had fully recovered, even if my magic had yet to catch up. Things were looking up.


    X


    I loved my suite. I woke up practically drowning in a pile of plush blankets at seven in the morning, usually as my lovely owl flew in from a night terrorizing the local rodent population.


    Minerva would offer me an affectionate nibble and drop what mail I received on my desk, far away from prying eyes. Usually, that was the Daily Prophet, a monthly subscription to the Quibbler, and letters written by students who wanted my help yet didn''t want to be seen with me for whatever reason. Minerva would then take her well-earned rest before flying off back to the owlery to make sure none of her lesser cousins got any ideas while the queen was away.


    While she did that, I took to my own daily routine. Each morning, for an hour, I practiced some of the meditation exercises recommended by Dario Zabini, my scary, assassin ancestor who may or may not have had shit going down with the Sicilian mafia. To Be as Nothing was a useful primer, but I wasn''t entirely sure how effective my training was. I wouldn''t know until I had someone to test myself against.


    Still, I remained diligent. Even though I could not gauge my own progress, I had to admit, there was something soothing about the meditation exercises. They left me noticeably calmer and made me feel like I was starting each day on the right foot. Perhaps this was why people did yoga in the mornings?


    I then asked myself my regular set of questions such as "Is anyone wishing me physical harm today?" and "Who is scheming to harm my position?" It wasn''t perfect protection, divination just didn''t work that way, not unless I somehow became truly omniscient, but it was a good start.


    Already, my daily paranoia helped foil a second year''s attempt to draw me into his sphere of influence. Granted, his attempt was to pay me to do something illegal and then hold it over my head, like every gang initiation ever, but it was nice to know my divination sessions were working.


    Of course, I could not let that stand. To start, I had one of his roommates steal me a quill he used. I then used that as the jumping off point to scry his dealings and found that he worked with some upper years to smuggle contraband in and out of Hogwarts. He was the patsy upper years used so they could avoid criticism. Nothing illegal, more along the lines of firewhiskey than cursed artifacts, but that was a vulnerability I could hit.


    I then found his associated owl. For several nights, Minerva patrolled outside the school perimeter, and more importantly, the school''s wards. A week later and he was in hot water with the upper years; firewhiskey wasn''t cheap and he''d failed to deliver for a start of term get-together he''d been asked to supply. If I so happened to have a few bottles of Ogden''s finest in my trunk, well, that was surely just a coincidence.


    Minerva received much bacon and headpats that week.


    As for today, I already had a good idea of what to expect, which was why I wasn''t surprised in the least when Terence Higgs, third year and seeker of our house quidditch team, called me over. He was a tall, brunette boy with hair gelled up to give him a windblown look. Next to him were two members of the Slytherin quidditch team, Miles Bletchley and Adrian Pucey. They were both chasers if I remembered right.


    "Zabini, if it isn''t our new seer," Adrian said. He was a fourth year who''d been on the team since his second year. From the whispers, Marcus Flint was captain by seniority but Adrian was his second, the one with actual charisma and something resembling leadership skills.


    "Pucey. Good morning," I said neutrally. "What can I do for you?"


    "You fucked us over," Terence accused. He''d never struck me as the patient sort and I was glad to be proven right. He would have been easier to deal with had he been alone. "You made Potter seeker."


    "I did no such thing. I don''t make my predictions come true, Higgs. I only answer the questions posed to me. Miss Malfoy asked how our first flying lesson would go and I answered her. I specifically advised her against acting rashly; some of you were there if I recall."


    "You owe us, Zabini. Now Potter''s even got a Nimbus 2000."


    I remembered that. It was a big deal when it happened. I didn''t know what possessed McGonagall to airdrop the broom into a landing strip of pancakes and muffins over breakfast, but she did.


    "I have no control over what Professor McGonagall does with her finances, Higgs," I drawled. "I wish I did, but I don''t. Really, you''re giving me more credit than I deserve."


    Miles socked his yearmate on the shoulder before he could say something else. "Sod off, Higgs. Forget about him, Zabini, he''s upset Potter''s a better flyer than him."


    "Is she?" I asked, playing dumb. She was, of course, a natural on a broom. I knew her to be the better of dragons, and that with barely three years of experience under her belt. Someone like Terence, though far better than myself, didn''t really compare.


    "She''s not!" Terence protested. He shoved Miles away with the point of his shoulder. "She''s just a fucking firstie!"


    "She is," Adrian said calmly. "We saw some of her practices. She''s good, real good."


    "It''s just the bloody broom. Anyone could be that fast with a bloody Nimbus 2000."


    I looked at the other two boys. The way they rolled their eyes told me that wasn''t the case, nor was this the first time Terence argued such. "So? I assume you gentlemen want something from me?"


    "Yeah, you owe me! My job just got harder because you couldn''t well keep your trap shut!"


    "I reject that notion," I replied icily. "I owe you nothing. If you truly want remuneration for Gryffindor acquiring a competent seeker, find Miss Malfoy. She was the one who commissioned my services, and also the one who promptly ignored my advice to do the contrary."


    Miles snorted. "Like that''ll happen. Higgs is terrified of Lord Malfoy."


    "I''m not, you tosser."


    "You are, but that''s a perfectly reasonable stance to take," Adrian joined in. "More to the point, we''d like to hear from you. To start, can we win the cup this year?"


    "You can." I didn''t even hesitate. "I don''t even need my ball for this so consider it a freebie. She''s still inexperienced. Whatever talent she has, she''s not so incredible as to be untouchable, yet."


    Canonically, Gryffindor couldn''t field a substitute seeker after Harry got himself hospitalized via Quirrell. Not having a seeker meant the opposing team could choose to end the game whenever they pleased so the loss was obvious.


    I wasn''t sure what I''d do about that whole encounter. My intention was to screw Quirrell of course, but whether I''d need her to play the gallant heroine had yet to be decided. Nonetheless, even if she never gets hospitalized in this timeline, it wasn''t as though she was unbeatable on a broom, just unfairly talented.


    "How do we guarantee that Higgs catches the snitch before Potter?"


    "Get Higgs to train harder perhaps?"


    "I train hard. I''d like to see you on a broom, Zabini," said boy muttered sullenly.


    "I''m terrible on a broom," I agreed, "which is why I really don''t care who wins the house cup. I''ll be honest; I have very little interest in quidditch as a sport. I can''t even name three professional players."


    "Come on, have some house pride," Miles said.


    "Pride is bad for business."


    "Fine, I hear you," Adrian said. "What do you want for your help?"


    I gave the three boys a once-over. They were purebloods, as most Slytherins were, but I wouldn''t say they were important. They were Magical Britain''s equivalent of upper-middle class, wealthy, but not to the point of mindless leisure like much of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, or even my mother. I felt a little bad about thinking of teenage boys like vending machines, but that was the path of a merchant in the end.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Still, just because they lacked the resources of noble houses didn''t mean they couldn''t give me anything. After a minute, I came to a decision.


    "One spell," I told them, "one spell, I demand of you. Whether it be a copy of a page from a book in your family library or an hour on a Saturday morning teaching me yourself, you must provide me with one spell. The caveat is that it must be a spell I''ve never heard of before. Not, a spell I cannot perform, but a spell I cannot recognize altogether."


    "That seems excessive. You''re asking for spells from our family libraries to help us win a school competition."


    "Not necessarily. I''d greatly appreciate a spell from your family libraries, but this doesn''t need to be the case. Any spell, no matter the difficulty, that I do not recognize will qualify. Household charms, defensive spells, curses, or even a prank jinx from the latest edition of Zonko''s catalog if you prefer."


    "How do we know you''ll just say you recognize a spell when you don''t?" Miles protested. "You could do that to get better spells off us."


    I nodded at the fair question and offered them my most disarming smile. "Trust. You must trust that I am dealing with you in good faith, that the information I provide is accurate to the best of my Sight. By the same token, you''ll just have to trust that I truly do recognize the spell you''re offering me."


    Adrian nodded slowly. "And if we can''t even trust you to do that, then any information we receive from you would be similarly suspect. Clever."


    "Hardly clever. My business is an advisory one. As a consultant, establishing a foundational level of trust between both parties is mandatory. I am not responsible for the actions you take or do not take, but I will endeavor to give you reliable information. If nothing else, I require a good, honest reputation for the sake of future business dealings."


    This would likely result in me getting a lot of useless spells, but the cluttering of my personal spell library was something I''d have to live with. Given my ability to see mana directly, I was of the opinion that no spell was truly useless. With enough of a sample size, I ought to be able to manufacture my own spells, hopefully without blowing myself to kingdom come like Pandora Lovegood.


    More than that, by leaving the exact price they paid up to them, I was pressuring them with choice: Would Zabini give me more help if I gave him a more useful spell? Could I convince him to actively take measures in my favor?


    I had my own designs of course, but so long as they thought this way, they weren''t likely to give me complete garbage.


    "Fine, I''ll give you a spell right now, from the fourth year textbook."


    "Did you think I would set a price like this and not look through the Hogwarts curriculum? You''ll have to try harder than that. Besides, we haven''t agreed on a question you''d like me to answer yet."


    "We did. Help us win the cup."


    "Not specific enough," I said with a shrug. "For reference, Malfoy asked for information about a specific day. I told her then that I did indeed see a female figure riding a broom and chasing something golden."


    "Then what good are you?" Terence huffed. The guy was really sore about being shown up by Violet. Not that I could blame him; he reminded me of a few guys in high school who were like that.


    "I could tell you which chaser on their team is most likely to fly for points, who''s going to relay passes, and who''ll be running interference in any given game."


    "And what if we asked for which side of the pitch the snitch will be flying in during the first thirty minutes of the game?" Adrian asked. He was the smart one of the group, the one who had more than two brain cells to rub together.


    "Now you''re getting it. Specific details, I can do. Complex commands like ''Win the cup for me?'' That''s too vague."


    "That''s good to know. You know what, Zabini? You and I have a deal."


    I took his outstretched hand. Was I going to make Violet''s life more difficult? Sure, marginally, but she''d have bigger worries than quidditch anyway.


    Hell, even with quidditch, someone would be hexing her broom. Now that I thought about it, I ought to get on top of that¡­


    X


    I had a quick breakfast with the rest of my yearmates before ambling off by myself. I felt I''d put it off long enough. Now that the hustle and bustle of the first few weeks of school had died down, it was time to find the Room of Requirement.


    That wasn''t difficult. Climb to the seventh floor. Take a left. Find the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy and his ballet-dancing trolls. Imagine what you want as you walk back and forth through the hall, and presto! Magic room.


    No, the trick was to ask for what I wanted in such a way that replication from the outside was impossible. If anyone made the same request, they would be let inside and I fully intended for the Room to be my personal sanctum. Which meant it behooved me to be very specific with my request.


    ''I want to stand atop the flight deck of the HMS Queen Elizabeth,'' I thought as I began making tracks.


    I couldn''t help the bark of delighted laughter that left my lips when I opened the door. The sea breeze assaulted me with its salty tang, an impossibility that was nonetheless present before me. The HMS Queen Elizabeth was the largest aircraft carrier commissioned by the British Royal Navy by the time of my death. From end to end, its flight deck was more than two hundred eighty meters long, something I only knew because one of my old colleagues I worked with was really into naval history.


    The scene around me was perfect, not least because it confirmed something for me: The Room was able to read my mind, at least when it came to my desires as the space was being molded. Sure, it was ultimately just a really flat space that happened to look like the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, but that extra layer of specificity was important for protection.


    Now, it should be impossible for anyone else to ask for this space specifically. Not only was a muggle aircraft carrier a foreign concept to the vast majority of wizards, the HMS Queen Elizabeth hadn''t been commissioned yet. Never mind the launch ceremony, the ship wasn''t even in its drafting phase at this time.


    I planned to build on this space. Each time I returned, I''d request something like "I want the flight deck of HMS Queen Elizabeth, but with a coffee table and a lounge chair for me to relax in." After a while, it should become a sanctuary that defies easy description for anyone but myself.


    I put all thoughts of an annoyingly complicated Room request out of mind and began to stretch. As things stood, precognition was the single most powerful tool in my arsenal. Already, I could avoid ambushes from the Weasley twins and had been doing so for several weeks now.


    I couldn''t maintain the Sight for long, but that would change in time. My ultimate goal was to have combat precognition comparable to the Color of Observation or the Omega InForce. I didn''t just want to be a strong wizard; I wanted to be untouchable.


    Which meant I wasn''t allowed to be out of shape. One of the biggest weaknesses of a combat precog was their body''s natural limits. Seeing a spell coming meant shit if you couldn''t move away in time. Keeping up the Sight forever wouldn''t save me if I exhausted myself running around like a headless chicken.


    Now that Madam Pomfrey gave me a clean bill of health, I had no excuse to put this off. Physical conditioning wasn''t my idea of a fun time, I was a librarian for fuck''s sake, but the war I knew was coming was a good motivator.


    And so my self-torture began.


    X


    "You look like shit," Tracey sassed as I slumped into the lunch table. I heard a few people cough awkwardly to stifle their laughter. Really, no one else in Slytherin was as crass as her.


    The hall was emptier than usual. I could see that the majority of the badgers and lions were missing. There were more ravens and snakes around but with enough holes in our number to be noticeable. I had to think for a minute to remember why: Today was Hogsmeade weekend, the first Saturday of October.


    I''d honestly forgotten because it wasn''t as big a deal in this weird alternate universe. There was a Hogsmeade weekend on the first weekend of each month starting in October. And, since Hogwarts started at fourteen, first years were allowed to leave the castle as well. Not that many did. This being the first month, we didn''t quite feel cooped up here.


    There wasn''t anything innately special about Hogsmeade after all. Unlike how the muggleborns might see things, to those who grew up in the magical world, Hogsmeade was¡­ just a village. It was fine, no different than any other magical settlement. Old-Blaise had been there before and his opinion on the town was thoroughly lackluster. There was a main street that led from the train station; it was filled with a great selection of shops that I was admittedly curious about, but visiting them wasn''t a priority or anything.


    Evidently, Daphne and Tracey felt the same way. I shot the latter a tired glare and began to load my plate. "Thank you for noticing, Davis. I feel like shit too."


    "Dare we ask what happened?" Daphne asked primly. "If you are being harassed by other houses, I think it would benefit us to know who to be cautious of."


    "Nothing like that happened. Believe it or not, I did this to myself."


    "Oh?"


    "Don''t mind it. I was just trying something on my own."


    "Well scoot over because you reek of sweat," Tracey sniped.


    I obliged, moving to the very end of the table. I was far too used to her insults by now. "Fine, but pass me those pork rolls."


    We ate in relative silence, not companionable, but still more comfortable than it was a month ago. After I''d choked down my second pork roll, Daphne tapped a finger to the table to get my attention.


    "Care to walk with me, Zabini?" she asked insistently. "There are some matters I''d like to discuss with you."


    I looked at her, then back down at my nearly empty plate. Then, just to get on her nerves, I picked up another pork roll. "I''d be delighted with your company, Greengrass. However, I''m quite famished at the moment."


    "We can wait," she said, in a tone that said she knew exactly what I was doing.


    Were the meaningless power plays necessary? No. And yet, I couldn''t help but want to tweak her nose, especially because Tracey wasn''t nearly as good as her cousin at hiding her irritation.


    Eventually, I finished gorging myself and stood. I felt like a new man. I hadn''t bothered to calculate exactly how far I''d run in the Room of Requirement, but it was enough to give me a newfound appreciation for food.


    X


    "Have you considered what you want from me?" she asked after she led me inside an unused classroom. Tracey closed the door behind us and stood against the wall like the world''s most adorable bouncer. "I loathe being indebted to others. Perhaps a spell you do not recognize?"


    "Heh, heard about that, huh?"


    "I did. It seems like a far more affordable price to pay than an unknown favor."


    "They''re them and you''re you. Having them research niche spells for me is about as much use as I can expect to get from them. You though? You''ve got resources and connections worth leveraging."


    "I''m flattered," she drawled. "Well?"


    "I have, actually. A single vial of a potion of my choosing. That is your family business, yes?"


    "Among other things, but I must object. While I acknowledge that your help has left me in a favorable position in the house, ''any potion'' is far too lenient for me to allow," she said, in full business mode now. It still took me aback how quickly she could switch between a largely normal teenage girl and the heiress to a vast fortune on a dime.


    I hummed in agreement. I''d never expected her to agree to it. My help wasn''t worth a felix felicis in the first place, even if she could somehow convince her father to mail me one. As heiress, her reach was limited and she wouldn''t want to promise something she might not be able to deliver. "Fair enough. Then let''s negotiate, you and I. It strikes me that some of my plans would be made easier if I had ready access to well-made potions."


    "It would help to know what exactly those plans were," she probed. "I am confident I can source most potions, but your advice isn''t quite that valuable. I am willing to provide you with a vial of any potion equal to or below the value of fifteen galleons."


    "Denied. Monetary worth is a terrible way to gauge the value of a potion. If money was all that mattered, I could simply purchase it myself. How about this? You acquire for me a potion that does not require a master''s certification to brew."


    "That''s not fair either, Zabini. Don''t take me for a fool. You know how hard it is to acquire a mastery. Only excluding potions that require a master is like saying any spell but the Unforgivables.'' That''s too broad."


    "Then what would you suggest?"


    "OWL-level. I can procure any potion up to the OWL-level."


    "NEWT-level. Anything taught in the Hogwarts curriculum sounds like a fair compromise."


    "Some of those NEWT-level potions can be dreadfully expensive," she said leadingly. "Not that I could not afford one of course, but I am ultimately held accountable by my lord father."


    I nodded. That was a fair concern. It''d be really weird if Lord Greengrass didn''t take any interest in his daughter''s life. She hadn''t dismissed my offer out of hand, which meant she thought she could talk her father around but wanted something more for the hassle. "Fine, I could be convinced to answer a question for you in addition to the service I''ve already provided."


    "Excellent. Runcorn. How do I win her over?"


    "Have you tried asking her to be your friend?" I asked with an innocent smile. Alice Runcorn was a very tall girl, the tallest student in our batch, and maybe among the second years as well. Old-Blaise remembered her as something of a wallflower, self-conscious about her height that left her a full head above even some boys.


    "It''s not that simple," she said. Her expression betrayed nothing but the way her eyes flickered briefly to Tracey said everything I needed to hear. I didn''t know how Alice felt about half-bloods, but her family''s stance was relatively well known.


    "You understand that any information I provide won''t make her more tolerant of your cousin?"


    "I do. I want leverage. The carrot would be nice, but if I need the stick, then so be it."


    "Why do you want to win her over anyway?"


    "You know why. Bulstrode follows Malfoy like a puppy, so does Parkinson. Nott thinks he''s clever but Crabbe and Goyle would drop him the moment Malfoy even remotely mentions her father. And you¡­ You''re neutral."


    "That I am."


    "I need a faction of my own if I don''t want the rest of my time at Hogwarts to be a living hell."


    I acquiesced. "Overly dramatic perhaps, but you do have a point. Fair enough. I''m going to need something of hers if you''d like me to scry her specifically."


    "Like what?"


    "A possession, a lock of hair, fingernails, blood, or any other bodily fluid would do for that matter. I need something to focus my Sight on."


    "I''ll see what I can do. And the potion you want?"


    "The Draught of Living Death," I said simply. "It''s a sixth year potion."


    "It is," she said hesitantly, "but its uses are¡­"


    "Are for me to consider. You just need to find me a vial. Of course, I expect you to be discreet."


    "I owe you nothing after this."


    "Agreed. In fact, I owe you information on Runcorn."


    She held out a hand. "Then we have a deal. A pleasure doing business with you, Zabini."


    "Likewise. Now if you''ll excuse me, I think I''d like a shower."


    Author''s Note


    Brought to you as a part of a bet with Azayel. You deserve this chapter for that game. That Lux had the single worst aim I''ve ever seen¡­ and I''m fucking blind.


    Minerva is a very big bird. Eagle owls are unexpectedly territorial as far as owls go. Yes, she mugged someone else''s owl out of Hogwarts grounds.


    For some reason, the draught of living death is a potion you brew in the Hogwarts curriculum, as if the potion that instantly and semi-permanently induces a coma is knowledge any graduate should know how to make. Weird, but I''m not questioning it.


    Before anyone asks, as far as I''m concerned, Pandora''s already dead. I don''t know exactly when she died, but I decided against having Blaise send her a mysterious letter to prevent her accident. I like Luna, but also, fuck her.


    Blaise is exactly the kind of little shit who''d use future knowledge to ask the Room for something that doesn''t presently exist just so he could have his private clubhouse.


    Animal fact: Pufferfish, some of which is served in sushi restaurants as fugu, is incredibly toxic. More specifically, they possess a type of bacteria that produces tetrodotoxin, which inevitably kills roughly six people per year.


    There are more than 120 species of pufferfish in the world, but the torafugu, or tiger pufferfish, is the most sought after as a delicacy. Humans being humans, it shouldn''t come as a surprise that the torafugu is also the most poisonous.


    On an unrelated note, pufferfish teeth, sometimes called beaks, do not stop growing similar to rodents. This is because they prefer shellfish like crabs and mussels.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 18. Hogsmeade

    Chapter 18: Hogsmeade


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    Professor Sinistra had asked me over the last astronomy class to turn in my worksheets in the morning. I''d thought nothing of it but now I knew that it was because she had plans in Hogsmeade. Judging by the deep, violet lipstick and pearl necklace that stood out against her dusky skin, I could only assume she had a lunch date and didn''t want to bother hosting class just for one student.


    Understandable. At this point, I''d thoroughly proven my ability to retain information. She treated my Sunday astronomy lessons almost like a kickback, inasmuch as a grown woman could hang out with a fourteen year old. She collected my homework, asked me a handful of questions about the assignment to check I''d paid attention, asked if I had any questions for her, and used my answers as a jumping off point to go on a lecture about whatever struck her fancy.


    I was of two minds on the matter. On one hand, she could be rather verbose. I now knew why her second cat had been named Orpheus, despite his god-awful caterwauling. Funny story, if utterly useless trivia about her teenage years.


    On the other hand, the woman really knew her subject. When she wasn''t constrained by class sizes and the textbook, she happily imparted the secrets of the stars to me. How the positions of the rings of Saturn affected arithmancy calculations in rituals, the advantages and disadvantages of the Chinese model of dividing the lunar cycle into twenty-eight phases, the intricate ways Jupiter''s moons influenced some obscure magical plant, I knew them all.


    Well, no I didn''t. Most of what she rambled about went over my head. I lacked the education in arithmancy and other subjects to fully appreciate the woman''s depth of knowledge. Sometimes, it was all I could do to scribble down a few hastily written notes so I could research a topic on my own. And yet, there was no denying that this one on one instruction was incredibly valuable.


    So when she took my homework and dismissed me before breakfast, I was mildly conflicted about my newfound free time. I still didn''t think Hogsmeade was anything special, but¡­ but perhaps a day trip wouldn''t be so bad? I was several days ahead of my classwork and had some free time. Nor could I force myself to exercise again; I''d pushed myself a bit further than I ought yesterday and was still sore.


    Thusly decided, I began to walk over to the thestrals. Many of the carriages had gone already but there were several awaiting any bored students.


    X


    Heath Parkinson was the last person I expected to be spending my Sunday with. I wasn''t even sure how it happened. One moment, I was getting off the carriage in Hogsmeade. The next, Heath grabbed me by the arm and tugged me along like a stuffed animal.


    He didn''t trigger my passive Sight, I wasn''t in any danger, but nor could I break away. He was half a head taller than me and had naturally broad shoulders that let him wrap an arm around my scrawny frame with ease.


    I sighed and resigned myself to this kidnapping. "Parkinson. Good morning to you as well."


    "Hey, Zabini, buddy, mind if we hang out for a bit?"


    Seeing how I wasn''t actually being given an option and I didn''t have anything specific planned, I opted not to kick him in the shins. Instead, I decided to fuck with him, just a bit, and pointed him towards The Magic Neep. "Eh, you know what? Fine. That way, please."


    "There? What do you want from there?"


    "You should always tip your drivers, Parkinson. It''s the polite thing to do."


    "With what? Produce?"


    I ignored him and strolled inside the store. It was Hogsmeade''s equivalent of Tesco, a grocery store filled with the essentials. Being located in a small village, The Magic Neep placed a bigger emphasis on fresh produce and farm-raised animals than the supermarket giant, but that was a plus in my book.


    I walked up to the butcher with a friendly smile. His setup looked more or less mundane; the only signs of magic were a levitating scale and a magic brush that cleared away all the meat scraps, leaving a pristine work surface. There had to be spells for cutting uniform meat, or at least something he could repurpose, yet here he was, using a normal cleaver.


    I put the thought out of my mind. Perhaps he just enjoyed the profession or lacked the fine control necessary to use cutting curses in this manner. "Hello, sir, mind giving me four pounds of top round? I''d like them cut into long strips, about an inch wide should do."


    The butcher, a big-boned, potbellied fellow with a handlebar mustache, looked at me like a strange new animal. Then again, Hogwarts students didn''t exactly need to go grocery shopping. "Eh? Top round? You know this ain''t cooked, right?"


    "Of course. Raw is good."


    "Seriously, what are we doing here?" Heath asked.


    "I told you, tipping our drivers."


    "The carriage isn''t pulled by anyone."


    "Then I suppose I''m tipping no one."


    The butcher decided he''d best get rid of me as fast as was polite and cut off a nice, fat chunk of beef. "Alright, strips, eh? You sure you don''t want ''em cubed? Better for stews that way."


    "It''s not for stew. Nice, long strips," I said with a happy grin.


    "Right, here you go, lad. That''ll be twenty-four knuts, eight per pound."


    "Thank you, sir. You have a nice day now."


    I hummed and left the store with a jaunty wave of my pimp cane. Was I the strangest Slytherin these folks had ever seen? Probably. The bewildered look on Heath''s face as he followed me out like a confused puppy just added to the image.


    Then, back at the carriage, I tossed him my cane and rolled up my sleeves. Pulling out a strip of meat from the bag, I clicked my tongue. "Come here, yeah, you guys. You deserve a snack don''t you? You''re so unappreciated."


    "Zabini, who in Merlin''s beard are you talking to?" Heath demanded. He was getting frustrated now, which made his square nose scrunch up in a way that reminded me of a pug.


    "I told you, Parkinson. I''m tipping our drivers."


    "There''s nothing the-" Then, the first thestral took a bite of my meat. Despite their vaguely equine appearance, they were carnivores, with the razor-sharp fangs that implied. Heath saw the strip of top round get shredded before being slurped up into thin air like spaghetti. "What the hell was that?"


    "That was one of our drivers," I said dryly. Cool as a cucumber, I pulled out another strip and began feeding a second thestral. I''d have to apologize to Luna next year for stealing her schtick but this was too fun. "You didn''t think the carriages drove themselves, did you?"


    "I thought they were animated¡­"


    "Nope. I''m sure someone like Professor Flitwick could if they wanted to, but that''s not the case. They''re driven by thestrals."


    "What''re those?"


    "Invisible carnivores that look like a mix between a skeletal horse and a dragon. They have big, leathery bat wings, fangs, and a draconic tail."


    "And you can see them? Bloody seers."


    "Hah, I can see them, but that has nothing to do with the Sight."


    "What? How then?"


    I waved him over and placed a strip of meat in his hand. "Go on, hold it out. They don''t-Okay, they definitely bite, but they''re not assholes about it unless you go out of your way to mess with them. They''re quite gentle, really."


    "Woah¡­" Heath gasped as the thestral I''d pointed him at made his meat disappear. "How do you get to see one?"


    "Thestrals are visible only to those who have seen death," I said with deadly seriousness. I looked down at my cane he''d been holding and then up at him. I lowered my voice until it was barely above a whisper. "Do you know what that means?"


    And just like that, the magical wonder was gone, replaced by a stark reminder of just why I used that cane. Despite having half a head on me, he gulped nervously. "I-Yeah, I-I think I do¡­"


    I clapped my hands and plastered on a wide, shit-eating grin. I took back my cane and twirled it in the air like a marching band''s color guard. "Excellent! They''re fascinating creatures, aren''t they? As gentle as unicorns, you know."


    "R-Right¡­"


    "Well? Come along, Parkinson. You''re the one who wanted to chat, eh? Now that we''ve tipped our quiet drivers, let''s hit the town."


    With that, I walked away, humming the chorus of "Uptown Funk."


    X


    Heath Parkinson


    Blaise Zabini was a scary bloke.


    I followed behind him, still not sure how I ought to take that. I wasn''t even sure what that was. Things went from weird, to cool, to terrifying, and then right back to weird all over again. And he acted like that crazy whiplash didn''t just happen as he hummed along to a song I definitely didn''t recognize.


    He didn''t used to be like this. He used to be a smarmy prick, with that quiet, self-satisfied smirk on his face whenever we met up at events and whatnot. Now, he still had that, but there was something more, something deeper that I didn''t know how to describe.


    I still didn''t know exactly what happened over the summer, but I knew that someone died. His aunt or cousin or something. I hadn''t been paying attention when I heard but now I wished I had. Dad said that Zabini might have been the one to kill her, which made the whole thestral thing even scarier.


    I was having second thoughts about this. Zabini was one scary bloke, not the kind who could beat me up but the kind that dad said I should be wary of, the kind who knew stuff.


    "Now, where should we go?" he asked, his cane tapping on the cobblestones impatiently. "You wanted to talk, right?"


    "Ah, yeah, sorry, mate," I stammered. I''d been spacing out, too caught up in Zabini''s Zabini-ness. There was nothing for it but to continue. Dangerous people were good to have as friends, right? Right. Dad said so. "Let''s walk and talk."


    "Sure, Parkinson. Well?"


    "So¡­ There''s a girl¡­"


    "Malfoy. Yes, we all know you''d wank it to her used socks if she''d let you."


    I felt my face heat up at the thought. "I wouldn''t¡­"


    "Hey, no judgment. She''s gorgeous," he said idly.


    "Y-You don''t fancy her, do you?" I asked, a pit forming in my stomach. Zabini was¡­ better than me¡­


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    His mum was one fine bird and he''d inherited every bit of her good looks, with a handsome face, high cheekbones, and a delicate nose that made me jealous. He looked like the perfect pureblood gentleman. He was slim and elegant, a little like Lord Malfoy. He kept his hair wavy and messy, but even that served to make him more roguish instead of just sloppy.


    Hell, he was even magically powerful. I''d never seen him fail to figure out a spell by the end of class, never mind being the only true seer in our generation. If he liked Lyra, then¡­


    "Hahaha!" he doubled over laughing. "Her? Hahaha!"


    His laughter was reassuring. And I wanted to punch him. And he still fucking terrified me. How was someone my age so complicated?


    He caught his breath and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Parkinson, Heath, she''s all yours, mate. But I have to ask: Why? Why her? She''s pretty, sure, but there are plenty of pretty faces."


    That was true. Magical beautifying products were common, even I knew that. They were so popular that entire house fortunes had been founded on them. Given how much money some families had, a lot of purebloods looked more or less the way they wanted to.


    "I know, but she''s Lyra Malfoy," I said.


    "As if that explains anything."


    "It does," I insisted. "She''s just so¡­ Have you seen her?"


    "Everyday. I find her quite dull, actually," he drawled. At my glare, he held his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, fine, I won''t question it. So? What about her?"


    "How do I get her to like me?"


    We turned into Dervish & Banges at the end of High Street. It was an old shop that sold wizarding equipment, toy broomsticks and the like.


    "In here," Zabini said.


    "What do you want here? If you''re looking for toys, Zonko''s has better stuff."


    "They do, but it''s been a while since I''ve been here."


    Shrugging, I followed him inside. The store boasted floor-to-ceiling shelves, each filled to bursting with knick knacks of all kinds. I saw toy broomsticks, stuffed plushies with animation charms cast on them, mirrors that critiqued your outfit, music boxes that sang songs in different composition styles, and similar.


    Nothing here was especially useful, not like the magic ring Lord Malfoy gifted his daughter. That one protected her against virtually every known poison, muggle or magical. Real enchantments, the sort that could be life-changing, weren''t found here.


    Zabini knew that. There was no bloody way he didn''t. And yet, here he was, wandering through the aisles like some kind of mudblood. Was he trying to tell me something?


    "What are you looking for?" I ventured.


    "Anything that catches my eye." He picked up a sneakoscope and fiddled with it for a moment. It looked like a glass, spinning top. "Lights up, whistles, and spins when someone untrustworthy is nearby¡­"


    "You want one of those?"


    "No, of course not. We''re Slytherins. It would never shut up if I took it to the dorms," he said with a wry smile.


    "Heh, yeah, I guess that''s true. But what if you hid it somewhere? It''d annoy the pants off everyone in the common room until someone found the damn thing."


    "True, but I don''t want to piss off the upper years just for a laugh."


    "Guess you''re right. They''ll make us pay for that for sure." I looked around, more out of boredom than interest. Then, just as Zabini''s hand glided past a flower pot, I spotted a gold chain that had been pooled haphazardly at the bottom of the empty pot. I drew it out and smiled when I saw the music note-shaped pendant attached.


    Did¡­ Did he do that on purpose? I examined it more closely. It was real gold, though I wasn''t posh enough to tell the exact purity. Pretty high quality craftsmanship, too. "Zabini, look, think Lyra will like this?"


    "A song for Lyra, eh? Sure, why not? It''s pretty enough. Let me see it for a second?" I handed it over. He focused for a moment, then stroked the pendant. A simple melody filled the store, soft and pure.


    "Can''t you tell me for real?"


    "Nope. I don''t have my crystal ball on me. And even if I did, I''d need something personal from her to scry her in any detail."


    "Come on, can''t you help a bloke out?"


    "Unfortunately, no. There isn''t much I can do to make her like you, or anyone else for that matter. I see things; I don''t change reality."


    "What''s that mean?"


    "It means she''s quite happy with her own reflection, Parkinson," he said. He picked up a deck of cards. "Hmm, I think I''ll take this."


    "What is it?"


    "Tarots. They''re used by both wizards and muggles in divination, though obviously one has a lot more success with it than the other."


    "Right. C-Can you read my future?"


    "If by ''future,'' you mean your chances with Malfoy, no. Tarots seldom tell the future as you''d like it. Rather, they can be likened to mirrors that show a person''s reflection. They reveal facets of you, past, present, and yes, occasionally future. Think more in line with personality, strengths, and shortcomings rather than ''You will do such and such,''" he lectured as he paid for the deck.


    "Well, how can I get Lyra to pay attention to me then?"


    We walked out of Dervish & Banges and headed across the street to J Pippin''s Potions. "You can try to become the kind of man Malfoy likes."


    "And what kind is that?"


    "I don''t rightly know because I have no interest in her. Look, Parkinson, people change for those they love. That''s natural and it will happen, probably without you noticing. The question is whether or not that change is worthwhile. Some relationships are too costly, too expensive, to keep."


    I followed him into the store. I didn''t want to let this go yet. He was the guy everyone was talking about. Nott liked to think he was the best bloke in our year, but everyone could see how the chips were falling. I wanted his help no matter what.


    He browsed each potion with barely a glance. He probably knew exactly what he wanted. It made me jealous. What was it like, never doubting yourself?


    "Are you saying Lyra and I can''t work together?" I asked him more directly. "I can get her to like me, right?"


    "No, that''s not what I''m saying. I don''t know what Malfoy wants in a lover. What I do know is that you will try to change for her. I''m telling you to keep in mind who you want to be, that''s all."


    "Gee, thanks¡­"


    We explored the shop in silence. The store''s inventory was unexpectedly good, I even saw a few of the rarer potions like wolfsbane. That made my mouth curl in distaste. Werewolves weren''t banned from magical society, but they ought to be.


    Then, a vial of pink liquid caught my eye.


    "Hoh? Have an eye on someone, do ya?" said the proprietor, presumably Pippin. "That there''s a love potion. Not amortentia, but just about the next best thing."


    I was tempted. If I could make Lyra drink this, she''d finally give me the time of day. I reached out and picked up the vial to examine it closer. It was such a lovely pink.


    "Don''t take that," Zabini said, snatching it out of my hand and putting it back on the shelf.


    "What? Why not?"


    "Take it from a seer: Choice is the most precious thing a person has, Parkinson."


    "It''s not permanent¡­" I mumbled. Sure, the infatuation wouldn''t last, but maybe I could convince her to give me a shot¡­


    "Oh? And what will she think of you when the potion wears off? Or, have you forgotten her ring? I suspect this exact reason is why Lord Malfoy splurged on that gift for her."


    I sighed and let him pull me away. It was a shame but Zabini was right, as usual. I doubted a potion like this would fool Lyra''s ring. And, and she''d be bloody pissed even if it did work. The thought of what Lord Malfoy might do to me if he found out made me shiver.


    I watched as Zabini purchased a brown tincture I didn''t recognize and followed him out the store.


    X


    Blaise Zabini


    Fucking moron. Heath Parkinson was a fucking moron. I wanted to slam my cane upside his head; it wasn''t like he''d miss anything up there.


    I''d forgotten JKR''s ridiculous notion of "love potions." Maybe it was my modern sensibilities, but they were more akin to date-rape drugs in my book. Shit like that made their rounds around the colleges I''d worked in, and we admins took it seriously every time. Even if nothing physical happened, I meant what I''d said: Choice, free will, was the single most valuable thing a person had.


    Perhaps free will was an illusion, the hand-written letter I''d received from Fate certainly hinted at a broader destiny, but it was all the more precious because of it. The thought that any entity less than a cosmic force would deprive another of that choice, and for some cheap thrills, made my blood boil.


    I steadied my breathing and palmed the rat tonic I''d purchased. It was meant to improve the health of rodent familiars. I''d gotten what I wanted, along with a reminder that morality in the wizarding world could be best described as¡­ flexible.


    Perhaps I ought to have allowed Parkinson to make the mistake. Perhaps he''d deserve whatever Lucius Malfoy did to him.


    I sighed. Too late now; I''d acted without thinking.


    I was about to head back to the castle, but a commotion caught my attention. Health hurried along after me.


    When we arrived, we saw some of my housemates squaring off against the badgers. I spotted Theo, Vincent, and Gregory, wands trained on Zacharias Smith, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Wayne Hopkins, and Kevin Entwhistle.


    I looked at them and felt tired. Already, I could guess what happened.


    What was it about today? It was like everyone in my house suddenly felt that today was the day to demonstrate their stupidity to me. First Heath, and now suddenly these three morons. Did the boys think it''d be a good idea to confront four puffs outnumbered? Or in the middle of the street?


    How very Slytherin of them.


    I was reminded once again how young they were. Cunning, they said. Clever, they said. It was all bullshit. We weren''t either of those things because we didn''t have the mental maturity to grow into any of those things. As far as I could tell, the hat sorted by the traits we admired, not necessarily the traits we possessed.


    I wished things were otherwise, but as it turned out, fourteen year olds weren''t much better than eleven year olds. Sure, they were more mature, but they were also more temperamental, or maybe "hormonal" was a better word.


    Now I needed to think about how I wanted to play this. Did I let the boys have their scrap? They might learn an important life lesson. Did I join in and beat on the puffs? We outnumbered them if I joined.


    Or, I could just walk away, that was always an option. I could act like it wasn''t my problem, because it wasn''t. I had no obligation to engage in a schoolyard scuffle just because some morons I unfortunately had to associate with dove head in.


    Before I could decide, Heath, like the loyal fucking leming he was, moved to stand by our housemates.


    "There''re five of us. What now, Smith?" Theo taunted. "Can you duffers count that high?"


    I let out a sigh of utter disappointment. Hogwarts may have been a magical school, but it was a school, with all the pointless posturing that implied. "Four. Leave me out of this, Nott. I''m not getting involved in your squabbles."


    "Bloody coward is what you are, Zabini."


    "No, I''m neutral, and that means not taking sides when you idiots do stupid shit. How''d this start anyway?"


    "The duffers are getting mouthy, that''s how."


    "Like hell, Nott," Zacharias said. "You''re the ones who called Kevin and Justin mudbloods. Don''t act like you didn''t start this."


    "What''s wrong with calling a dog a dog? They''ve been here long enough; it''s time they learn where they stand in polite society. Specifically, away from it."


    "Never mind, I decided I don''t give a damn," I cut in before they could start arguing again. I spun my cane and made a show of leaning against the nearest wall. "But you know what? I could use a show. Go ahead, four on four; that seems fair. Duke it out, here and now."


    Zach spat on the ground. "Sod off, Zabini. You think you''re so special. You''re the same as Nott."


    "You think so? But here you are, still running your mouth. And here I am, letting you. Go on, weren''t you going to fight? Defend your Hufflepuff pride?"


    I didn''t want this. I didn''t enjoy being the bad guy, nor did I like acting like everyone was beneath me. And yet, I couldn''t think of a better way to get them all to stand down.


    I could join Theo and the rest of the bigoted imbeciles. It''d make them bold enough to start slinging more than mean words. We''d beat on the puffs, or maybe get stopped by a prefect when one inevitably showed up. Either way, I''d end up with a reputation as a bully and a bigot, something I was trying to avoid.


    I could walk away. Theo would probably try to spin this as me being cowardly, maybe try to tarnish my reputation in the house. The worst case scenario was that he made me out to be a blood-traitor, a reputation that would be increasingly dangerous to have in Slytherin as the years passed.


    Weighing my options, I chose¡­ to do nothing.


    I loved cartoons. It was why I could make references to obscure digimon or observe and interact with magic like the malleable tool it was. Beyond the Sight alone, I simply had a breadth of exposure to new ideas that no one in this age could match.


    And one of my favorite characters was Bumi from Avatar, the Last Airbender. Not the titular avatar, or any of the main cast, but Bumi, the insane king of a city state who chose to do nothing as his home was conquered by an invading army.


    In his iconic conversation with Aang, he talked about "jing." Or perhaps "posture" would be the better word. "Positive jing" for attacking, "negative jing" for defending, and "neutral jing" for those who wait for the right moment. My situation wasn''t quite the same and I sure as shit couldn''t grow rock candy at will, but the old fart wasn''t wrong either.


    I leaned back with a cocksure smirk, one I knew would infuriate both sides. I stared down each boy and silently dared them to throw the first spell.


    The puffs weren''t stupid. I was counting on at least one of them being able to take a step back and do some basic fucking math. There were four boys on both sides now, but they had no assurance that I wouldn''t interfere if it looked like they would win. They had a natural suspicion of us snakes, which meant that was probably what they were expecting me to do.


    The snakes were idiots, but they weren''t exactly brave idiots. Theo wasn''t the type to like even odds. He was the kid who had to have the best of everything, which naturally included the edge in any confrontation. I wouldn''t call him a coward necessarily, but he wouldn''t want to escalate to actual wandwork unless he was sure he could win, or at least come out looking good. And by now, he knew me well enough to know how few fucks I gave about his antics.


    Not knowing how I''d act in the end, or if I''d act at all, both sides were paralyzed into a stalemate. I crossed my arms and raised a brow in an open challenge.


    Sure enough, neither side could stand the awkward atmosphere and broke almost in tandem. Heath and Justin pulled at Theo and Zacharias respectively.


    "Come on, they''re not worth it," Justin said, shooting me suspicious glances.


    "Forget about the mudbloods and the blood-traitors, Nott. Let''s go," Heath urged.


    I watched them shuffle away. They kept eyeing each other but I remained leaning against the wall.


    Finally, I let out a tired sigh. "Ugh, what a shitty day¡­"


    Author''s Note


    Part two of Fable losing bets...


    Seriously, Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Hog''s Head¡­ What''s JKR''s deal with pork anyway?


    Zabini doesn''t make threats. He introduces people to death-horses and lets them come to their own conclusions.


    The thing about the beautifying products is sorta canon. Fleamont Potter, Harry''s grandfather, made his fortune off the Sleekeazy''s Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment. He even outsourced production to China.


    Animal Fact: The black mamba is not black. It''s gray or brown with a lighter underbelly. It gets its name from the black inside of its mouth, not its scales. It''s considered to be a very territorial snake that will often choose to bite bigger animals rather than quietly slink away.


    The black mamba is also the longest venomous snake in Africa, the longest specimen being over 14 feet long. If you thought "King cobras are longer," you''d be right (by 4 feet or so), but wrong as they''re not native to Africa. King cobra are native to India and Southeast Asia.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 19. Black Thumb

    Chapter 19: Black Thumb


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    The next morning, I stepped out into the common room after my Monday routine and noticed Gemma Farley waiting for me. She was lounging on one of the plush loveseats and motioned me over with a finger as I emerged.


    The older girl wore her chestnut hair in a simple, high ponytail, something that stood out from the usual styles common in the house. A single lock of hair fell over her forehead artfully, a nice contrast from her otherwise immaculate uniform. The shiny prefect badge caught the light over her left breast as she set down the book she''d been reading.


    "Good morning, Farley," I greeted with a suppressed yawn into my palm. "I thought you were done babysitting us firsties."


    She rolled her eyes and stood. "I was. Let''s walk and talk."


    "Oh? Does a prefect require my services?"


    "No, not really. I heard there was a bit of a spat in Hogsmeade."


    "What of it? Nott, Goyle, Crabbe, and Parkinson were having a standoff with the puffs."


    "I know. He''s been going around saying how you watched and did nothing."


    I raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying I should have jumped in to help them?"


    "No, but I wanted to hear your side of the story. You''re not an idiot, Zabini. At least, I don''t think so. You didn''t jump in. You also didn''t come to get a prefect."


    "House unity is only for when they''re not doing something stupid. I have no obligation to support them when they''re squaring up in the middle of the street like Gryffindors. As for getting a prefect, I had no idea where any of you were. If I left, they were likely to start slinging spells."


    "So you stuck around to see if they''d be entertaining?"


    I offered her a small smile. "Partially. I admit that would have been fun to watch, but I stuck around to keep either side from escalating. The puffs don''t trust me so they''d all think I''d join in right away, right?"


    "Mhmm. And Nott knows better by now. Don''t look at me like that. Part of my job is keeping up to date with the little games my underclassmen are playing. I know you''ve been running circles around him all month."


    "Right. He''s an opportunist. He doesn''t like even odds and the other boys took their cues from him. So neither side wanted to make the first move. And, if you keep them in a stalemate long enough, they start feeling awkward. You can only stroke your own ego and hype yourself up for so long before you realize you look like an idiot."


    "Then they left because people hate awkward pauses," she finished for me. She pushed aside the doors of the great hall and ushered me in. "You let both sides save some face without escalating or requiring a prefect. Clever."


    "Thanks."


    "Or that''s what you''re saying now to justify your cowardice and indecision after the fact."


    "If you say so," I replied with a shrug.


    "Hmm, good. Don''t get thrown off by people''s words."


    "I try not to, Farley."


    "Good. I like you, Zabini. I think you''ll go far."


    "I am grateful for your vote of confidence."


    "Yeah, yeah. I''ll make sure nothing comes of this. Thanks for keeping an eye on them. Snape would have chewed us out if you firsties got into a fight that big in the middle of Hogsmeade," she said, waving me off to go sit with her friends.


    X


    I walked to herbology with a smile on my face and my cane twirling like a baton. It''s been a few days since Madam Pomfrey gave me a clean bill of (physical) health, but the elation caused by the good news had not entirely faded. Without the idiocy of my housemates to bring down my mood, I was feeling quite well this morning.


    A blast of warm, humid air hit me as I followed everyone inside. The greenhouse smelled like a combination of mulch and a dozen different herbs and flowers I couldn''t begin to name. Most of them were probably safe, probably because the common sense of wizards was¡­ questionable¡­ at the best of times.


    "Come in, come in," Professor Sprout said. She was as cheery as ever, with a wide, welcoming smile on her portly face. Her jovial expression soured noticeably when she saw me.


    We didn''t hate each other. On the contrary, I liked and respected her a great deal. She was a gentle, motherly figure who had a kind word to say about everyone. And, so long as we put in genuine effort, she never got mad at us students. She was a teacher who loved her subject with a passion and wanted to share that joy with the next generation.


    I could respect that. As a person, Pomona Sprout was someone I would have been delighted to call a colleague in my past life, an educator and nurturer through and through. Unfortunately, my Black Thumb had other thoughts on the matter of the Hufflepuff head of house.


    In my defense, the drawback seemed like such a minor thing when I filled out that CYOA. I of course didn''t know I''d get isekai''d like a shitty fanfiction protagonist, but I''d filled it out in good faith. Compared to being bad at other, more practical fields, an utter ineptitude towards herbology seemed like a cheap price to pay for more points.


    Little did I know, herbology was ubiquitous in the wizarding world. Entire family lines had built their fortunes on the cultivation of a handful of plants. Countless groundbreaking potions had been made using one obscure herb or another. And while not being good at gardening would be fine in the future, in the moment, it was a part of my life I absolutely, unconditionally failed at. My only saving grace in this class was my written work, perfect via deus ex Leontes.


    It baffled Professor Sprout, how I could write perfect papers, know all the material, and still fail all but the most basic of practical exercises. So far in the year, I''d accidentally mixed mulch into the consistency of liquid cement, released every bouncing bulb simultaneously, and nearly turned the greenhouse into a literal powderkeg while trying to harvest puffapod spores. Just about the only thing I did right was¡­ trimming hedges and putting soil into flower pots.


    At this rate, I was worried I''d turn the devil''s snare into a Japanese stereotype once we got to it. On the plus side, I was quite proficient with the incendio charm.


    I shuffled next to Padma and gave her a pitiful look. Theo had started out as my herbology partner but had quickly retreated in favor of literally anyone else after I''d almost drowned him in a birdbath. On accident. I''d like to think I wouldn''t have failed had I done it on purpose.


    Padma snorted but made way for me. "You''d better not blow us up or something, Zabini."


    "I doubt that''ll happen, Patil," I said as I put down my schoolbag. The class often began with ten minutes or so of note taking as Professor Sprout went over what we''d be working with that day.


    "I wouldn''t be so sure, Mr. Zabini," Professor Sprout said with a fragile smile. "Today, we''ll be working with dittany. Class, can anyone pick out the plant from my shelf? How about you, Miss Brocklehurst?"


    A mousy girl with brown hair and freckles replied, "It''s over there, beneath the puffapods, professor. It has very distinctive circular leaves."


    "That''s right, take two points for Ravenclaw. Dittany is among the most commonly used medicinal herbs. It is the primary ingredient in the wiggenweld potion, which can be used both to heal injuries and to reawaken those who are under magical slumber. However, the essence of dittany, oils extracted from these pretty, plump leaves, can be drunk by itself for a lesser healing effect. In fact, just the plant on its own can be consumed or applied via a topical paste for burns and abrasions.


    "However, though it is a staple of magical society and commonly cultivated all over the world, dittany can be tricky for the beginning herbalist," she said, casting an anxious glance towards me. "Dittany persistently releases flammable vapors so there shall be no incendio in this greenhouse."


    "Yes, professor," we chorused. I made sure to sound extra loud to be heard.


    "We will be trimming the dead leaves and repotting them with fresh soil today. If you forgot your gardening gloves or hand shovels, you can get a spare from the bin over there."


    Padma and I wore our gloves and picked up a small plant from the cart laden with them. Now knowing that these things were extra-flammable, she eyed the plant in my hand nervously. Then, grumbling, she plucked it from me.


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    "It''s not going to explode because I happen to be holding it," I protested weakly.


    "You never know. Seriously, how do you get perfect grades at everything else, but fail so completely at herbology?"


    "I have an Acceptable in this class."


    "Because you write well. If it was just the practicals, you''d have a Troll for sure," she sniffed.


    "Yeah, yeah, please have mercy on this helpless loser, oh gracious one."


    "You can start by filling two empty pots with fresh soil. I''ll do the actual moving."


    "That works. Thanks for being my partner, Patil," I said honestly.


    "We''re friends," she shrugged as if this was the natural thing to do. "Don''t sweat it."


    Maybe it was for her, but the comment reminded me that I had zero friends in this life. I was well into my fifties counting old-Blaise''s memories. Flitwick was probably more my emotional equal than Padma, not that the teacher would take me seriously. It felt¡­ a little lonely, honestly.


    We worked quietly. Potting the plants didn''t take too long and I didn''t have any disastrous accidents. After that, I stood back and let Padma trim the plants.


    From what we''d read, ambient magic could react with the plants we worked with in both positive and negative ways, kind of like potions ingredients. It was why we still used mundane gardening tools despite having perfectly serviceable wands. Something about my magic made plants wig out, made them excitable and wild.


    For all I knew, getting in contact with the dittany plants would make them spew more of that flammable vapor. Something similar happened with the puffapods we worked with two weeks ago, which was how I''d ended up covered in their spores and dizzy like a drunkard.


    "Say, Zabini?" Padma called as she carefully cut out a browning leaf.


    "Hmm?"


    "What do you do after classes?"


    "How do I spend my time?"


    "Yeah."


    "I study, exercise, and occasionally answer a few commissions. I sometimes play chess at the chess club with Weasley or visit the art club when inspiration strikes. Oh, and I enjoy playing with my owl, Minerva. Why do you ask?"


    "Well, we have a study group. I was wondering if you''d like to join in sometime."


    "Maybe¡­ When do you meet? And who''s involved?"


    "Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after class and Saturday after lunch at the library," she informed me. "We have people from all the houses now, well, you''d be the only Slytherin but you know what I mean."


    I snorted. In many fanfictions, Daphne Greengrass was the token "not all Slytherins are bigots" Slytherin. I just realized that somehow, I''d become Violet''s token Slytherin. "Maybe. I don''t exactly need help with homework."


    She shrugged. "Suit yourself. Parvati just wanted me to invite you when I saw you. You don''t have to drop in all the time, just whenever you feel like hanging out."


    "Sure, I''ll show up at some point. How''d this start anyway?"


    "I wanted to see my sister more often and Parvati''s unexpectedly studious. I mean, she''s not dumb, but she''s never been as interested in academics as me. I think Violet''s a good influence on her."


    "Potter? I didn''t take her for the bookish type." I had to remind myself that Harry wasn''t, but that could have been due to Ron''s influence in canon. He could be deeply focused and dedicated when he needed to be, such as when he practiced for months to learn the patronus.


    "She''s not, really. I mean, more than Parv, but that''s not saying much. She''d rather be out flying than anything but she''s been willing to put her nose to the grindstone when it matters."


    "Perhaps she''s as interested in seeing you as you are in seeing them," I pointed out. "Could it be that she sees studying as a way to spend more time with you? You are one of her first two friends here. It could be that you''re the one who''s a good influence on Potter."


    "Maybe. Anyway, show up sometime, okay?"


    "As you please."


    "Violet says thanks, by the way."


    "Hmm?"


    "She loves quidditch."


    "I had nothing to do with Malfoy''s nonsense."


    "You say that, but the rumor mill says she ignored a prediction from you."


    "Which means that I wasn''t responsible for Malfoy''s actions."


    Padma stared at me with narrowed eyes. "Oh? I believe this is an example of reverse psychology. Or, ''Zabini being a manipulative prat,'' as Violet says. You goaded Malfoy into being her dumb self."


    "You don''t know that."


    "I do, or you wouldn''t have made that prediction at all. I don''t know why you did, but Vi says thanks."


    I sighed and gave her a subtle nod. The smarter Patil twin was unexpectedly clever, even for a Ravenclaw. "I didn''t do it for her, but she''s welcome anyway."


    She nodded. Then, her eyes gained a cruel gleam. She suddenly stomped on my foot as hard as she could.


    Or, she tried. I moved my foot out of the way just in time. A heavy thud echoed in the greenhouse as her heel met the paved ground.


    "Ow! Fuck!" she swore. "You''re not supposed to dodge, Zabini."


    "I will if I don''t know what I''m being punished for. Why do you suddenly feel the need to enact violence upon my person, Patil?"


    "Longbottom, you jerk. You let him get hurt."


    "I didn''t. Again, I didn''t know exactly what would happen," I said, lying through my teeth. "And you know that a broken wrist is about ten minutes of Madam Pomfrey''s time, if that."


    "Which is the only reason Vi hasn''t jumped you herself. I convinced her that it wasn''t a big deal."


    "Patil, I see the future sometimes. But that doesn''t mean I have an obligation or responsibility to care for the wellbeing of every student in the school," I told her patiently. "You are, once again, attributing far too much power to the Sight."


    "I still want to hit you once," she grumbled.


    "Oh? And why is that?"


    "Because you''re a smug prat and it''d make me feel better?" she asked with an innocent smile.


    I knew better. I didn''t trust that smile. As Parvati once said, her sister could be deceptively vindictive and she''d held a bit of a grudge ever since the Catnip Incident.


    Really, it was always the quiet ones.


    X


    The defense classroom always had me on edge. Quirrell had yet to do anything of note; he was still pretending to be a stuttering imbecile, but he didn''t need to. Voldemort''s presence was enough to make me feel uneasy.


    At first, I used to be worried about legilimency, even despite the CYOA''s assurances, but my own research confirmed what I knew from canon: Very few practitioners could pull off a probe without a wand and eye contact was absolutely mandatory. As hidden and weakened as he was, that was one worry I put to rest.


    "Runcorn, would you care to sit with me? I know you''re good with charms and we have a practical session today," Daphne said with an innocent smile, probably an attempt to reach out to her more.


    I shuffled past them to my seat. I did promise to help Daphne, but I had no interest in eavesdropping; I knew too much about the school''s many cliques as it was.


    I didn''t know what was said but Alice took her customary seat at my table. Daphne had been making these little overtures towards Alice for weeks now, little gestures of friendship that would have flattered most people. For her part, Alice looked largely uncomfortable with it all.


    Curious, I asked, "I thought you''d be sitting with Greengrass today."


    "I decided against it, Zabini," she said. Her voice was as quiet as a dormouse.


    "Can I ask why? Greengrass was trying to recruit you, you know."


    "I''m aware; I''m not stupid."


    "So why hesitate? Or are you holding out for something you want from her?"


    "I''m not. Why are you interested anyway?" she asked suspiciously. "Since when does the great seer care about house politics?"


    "That''s true, I don''t," I agreed, giving her a devious smile, "but I do care about what people want. Ambition is the defining trait of our house, no? And, ambition makes for the best sorts of customers. Anything I can help you with?"


    "It''s not that. I don''t really want anything from her. I just don''t like Davis."


    "Because she''s a half-blood?"


    "My father has very strict opinions on propriety."


    "So why not Malfoy then?" I probed. We had our notes out in front of us but we''d long since given up on trying to get anything useful from Quirrell''s stuttering lectures. Instead, I slid my notes on the fumos charm across the table so she could copy it. "If you won''t join Greengrass'' little clique, that means you should join Malfoy''s, no?"


    She nodded gratefully. "I''d rather be neutral like you. I know I''m not the politically savvy type like you or Greengrass."


    "I wouldn''t say I''m particularly savvy either; I just happen to have certain advantages others don''t."


    "Either way, you know what I mean. Getting involved just isn''t worth it," she said quietly. "The easiest way to avoid trouble is to simply not play the game."


    "You know that''s not really possible, right? I get away with it because I''m me."


    "I know¡­"


    I did say I''d help Daphne. And it did seem like much of Alice''s hesitation came from Tracey''s blood status, or rather, her father''s possible reaction to said status. Unfortunately, I didn''t know much about her father. Albert? Alfred? Something of that nature. I was pretty sure he wasn''t the family head, which explained why old-Blaise didn''t care to remember him.


    On the plus side, that suggested that her distaste towards Tracey was fairly mild, which suggested that it was more something she parroted from her family rather than a deeply held sense of superiority.


    "I think Davis is telling," I began.


    "She wears her emotions on her sleeves," Alice replied with a light scowl. "She''s dragging down her cousin and she doesn''t even know it."


    I thought back to my interactions with the two so far. "Oh, she knows, alright. But that isn''t what I meant. I meant to say that Davis is a good benchmark for Greengrass'' personality, even if Greengrass herself is very good at pretending to be a porcelain doll."


    "Enlighten me with your wisdom, oh great oracle," she replied dryly.


    I, in my infinite grace, chose to ignore the quiet girl''s sass. "She cares for Davis a great deal. Whatever you think of Davis'' intelligence, Greengrass at least knows exactly what having a half-blood attached to her at the hip is doing to her reputation in the house, yes?"


    "She does. What''s your point?"


    "My point, Runcorn, is that Greengrass hasn''t dropped Davis like a dungbomb despite Davis being exactly that. Instead, she''s doubled down."


    "So she''s stubbornly loyal. Are you saying she should''ve been a puff?"


    "No, she doesn''t make friends nearly that easily to fit in there. All I''m saying is that Greengrass is the kind of person who will look after her own."


    "So she is. You say you''re not taking sides, but you seem awfully favorable towards her."


    "I call it like I see it," I shrugged. I then leaned in a little closer. "Look, Runcorn. I like you. No, not like that. You''ve been a solid partner so I''m just sharing my observations, that''s all."


    "Malfoy is richer and more powerful. She can give me a lot more, especially where Lord Malfoy is concerned," she pointed out. "If I''m doomed to get caught up in their rivalry, shouldn''t I join the winning side?"


    "Maybe. But ''winning'' is rather subjective. This is a school rivalry, Runcorn, not a matter of life and death."


    "My point stands."


    "It does. I''m not going to tell you what to do. In fact, I think we''ve talked about them long enough so I''ll leave you with this: If I were forced to choose, I would side with the princess who would value me more."


    "That''s¡­ a fair point. Thanks, Zabini." She looked at me with a teasing scowl. "You''re not going to demand payment, are you?"


    "No, no I am not," I chuckled. "Call it a favor for a friend."


    Author''s Note


    Somnolent is oppressive. Divination is incredible. So why wouldn''t Black Thumb be equally prevalent?


    More house politics, yay!


    Blaise is neutral like Americans don''t think Taiwan is a real country. Which is to say, he pays lip service to the idea of neutrality, but he most certainly has his preferences.


    Animal Fact: Barn owls are monogamous, as is typical of most owls. They can stay together for several years, or even their lives. However, if breeding is unsuccessful, they have a "divorce" rate of about 25%.


    Comparatively, Americans have a first marriage divorce rate of 40-50% according to a 2022 report by the American Psychological Association.


    Birds are more faithful than we are, which is why I am a very lonely spider.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 20. Smoke and Mirrors

    Chapter 20: Smoke and Mirrors


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    The defense classroom quieted down as Professor Quirrell called for attention. He was practically impossible to take notes for, what with his incessant stuttering, but he did more or less follow the curriculum outlined by the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.


    Outside of his stuttering, there was no attempt to ¡°sabotage the next generation¡± or somesuch nonsense because that would imply that Voldemort considered anyone short of Dumbledore a threat. Judging by what I knew of canon, that adherence to the established curriculum would likely change next year when Lockhart did his level best to teach us about why lavender was the superior choice of color for dress robes.


    ¡°W-We will be pra-practicing the fumos cha-charm t-today,¡± Quirrel said.


    I let out a sigh and zoned him out in favor of trudging to the front of the class. Practicals were practicals, his ¡°speech impediment¡± aside. And, to be fair, the smokescreen charm was one I was eager to learn.


    Our setup wasn¡¯t unlike the one in charms. Only four students were allowed to cast the spell each round so as to avoid flooding the room, after which Quirrell vanished the smoke with some feigned difficulty.


    When it was my turn, I stood with Alice, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnegan. The wand movements were simple, just a clockwise spiral from the inside out.


    I felt my magic stir. There was something about this charm that agreed with me, for lack of a better phrase. Most other spells, like flipendo, required a few tries for me to get them down. My wand was at its best in the schools of divination and legilimency. I''d usually taken to observing the way magic flowed in my classmates to replicate the spells, but this charm in particular resonated with me.


    Professor Flitwick liked to say that mindset was just as important as the right wand motions or incantations. In that case, what did my magic say about me? That I was a shady bastard? Or that I¡¯d prefer to hide or mislead rather than confront others directly?


    I let out a snort as a plume of smoke erupted from my wand and formed a thick cloud around me that obscured the class. It wasn¡¯t wrong; I really didn¡¯t see myself as a confrontational person. More to the point, the smoke cloud was comforting almost, I was quite literally blanketed by my own magic after all.


    ¡°B-Bravo, M-Mr. Zabi-ini,¡± Quirrell said as he vanished my shelter. Beneath the facade, he had a curious look in his eyes that made my spine crawl. ¡°T-ten points to S-Slytherin. D-Do stay after c-class, won¡¯t you?¡±


    I sighed. Perhaps I ought to have curbed my enthusiasm, even if this was the first charm that really stood out to me. Then maybe he wouldn¡¯t have had the excuse to call me in.


    No, that didn¡¯t matter. Quirrell was a professor; he¡¯d find a way to call me into his office one way or another. If anything, it would be better to get this over with.


    I knew what he wanted: the philosopher¡¯s stone. I¡¯d made no secret of my abilities so it was obvious he¡¯d approach me eventually.


    X


    I couldn¡¯t say I felt perfectly calm as I packed my bags. I remained even as every instinct said I ought to bolt for the door. The Dark Lord¡¯s interest wasn¡¯t good for my health.


    And yet, good sense told me to remain. I¡¯d made my decision to broadcast my abilities so this was inevitable. No, even had I hidden, such anonymity would not last. I wasn¡¯t sure how I knew, but I felt it in my bones. As with Snape, the trick was to meet Voldemort on my terms.


    ¡°You wanted to see me, professor?¡± I asked, voice steady with a confidence I did not truly feel. I was nervous; my heart hammered in my ears. This conversation would set the tone for how I dealt with Voldemort. Or rather, how he dealt with me. ¡°I do have transfiguration after this.¡±


    ¡°S-So y-you do,¡± Quirrell said. ¡°T-This w-won¡¯t take long. I-I must admit t-to s-s-some curio-osity c-concerning your i-innate talents.¡±


    ¡°You mean as a seer of course. Alas, professor, I must insist that I am a businessman. If you have a question for me, I require something of equal worth in payment, even for faculty.¡±


    ¡°N-Not at all, Mr. Z-Zabini. R-Rather, I was concerned ab-about a-any i-infringements up-upon aca-academic integrity.¡±


    ¡°You believe I am cheating for others?¡± I drew myself up to look him in the eyes. ¡°If I am being accused of cheating, I must insist that Professor Snape be brought into the discussion as my head of house.¡±


    He looked anxious at the mention of my head of house. If I didn''t know better, I might have even believed him. ¡°T-That¡¯s not it. N-No ac-accusations are being m-made, but y-you can see w-why w-we m-might be concerned.¡±


    I wanted to roll my eyes. There was no ¡°we¡± here because it was effectively impossible to prove I was using divination to cheat. Quirrell was using this avenue of inquiry to figure out what my divination could and couldn¡¯t discern.


    ¡°Of course, professor. I can see where you¡¯re coming from,¡± I said, playing along with this farce. ¡°What can I do to ease your worries.¡±


    ¡°Well, h-how about w-we d-discuss s-some of those com-ommissions?¡±


    I nodded and began to talk. I wasn¡¯t terribly concerned with legilimency, at least not in this situation. The incantation could be skipped, as could the wand movement, but only by the greatest of masters. And, no matter what, eye contact was absolutely necessary. It had something to do with the eyes being our ¡°windows to the soul.¡± As it turned out, that was a little more literal among magicals.


    Voldemort was severely weakened, facing the other way, and his face was covered. More to the point, Quirrell wasn¡¯t any more magically powerful than he was before he became possessed, at least as far as I knew. Unless he was a master comparable to Voldemort or Dumbledore independent of the possession, he would need to draw his wand to read my mind.


    ¡°Of course, though I suspect they¡¯d bore you. As it turns out, even Hogwarts is a school first and foremost. I¡¯ve helped an upperclassman find a hair clip that her grandmother lent her. It turned out that a jealous girl in her dorm stole it,¡± I rambled. ¡°Oh, and I also found out that my classmate¡¯s kneazle prefers chicken over tuna. I mean, I don¡¯t see why that¡¯s important seeing how kneazles can eat both just fine, but I made money off that so who cares?¡±


    ¡°Y-Yes, w-what else, M-Mr. Zabini?¡±


    I made a show of letting my head drop to the desk with a dull thump. The exasperation wasn''t entirely feigned. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t believe one of my other classmates, professor. He¡¯s got a giant crush on Malfoy and it¡¯s frankly obnoxious. I mean, yeah, I¡¯m getting paid, but there are only so many times I can answer questions about Malfoy¡¯s favorite color or food or fashion magazine before I want to pull my hair out.¡±


    I rambled. I bitched and moaned like only a fourteen year old boy could. I whined about every stupid question I¡¯d been asked to date. It was honestly kind of fun.


    Until, finally, even Quirrell couldn¡¯t pretend to be interested. He interrupted me with a stuttering cough. ¡°T-That will b-be enough, Mr. Z-Zabini. I-I see th-that y-you a-are un-uninterested in pro-providing a-academic ass-assistance to y-your cl-classmates.¡±


    ¡°Of course not, professor. I have a vested interest in making sure I stand head and shoulders above the crowd,¡± I sniffed pridefully. ¡°Why would I help others compete with me?¡±


    ¡°H-Have y-you seen a-any un-unusual happenings i-in the c-castle? A-As the defense pro-professor, I-I am v-very sec-security m-minded, you see.¡±


    ¡°Of course, I understand. Hmm¡­ Unusual¡­ Oh, the twins have it out for me. I think they¡¯ve gotten it into their heads that a seer is the greatest challenge for their pranking skills. I¡¯ve evaded all of their attempts so far.¡±


    ¡°Y-Yes, y-your ri-rivalry i-is quite w-well known. How ab-about the th-third floor?¡±


    ¡°The third floor corridor? Professor Dumbledore said we¡¯d die painful deaths if we went in,¡± I said incredulously. ¡°Professor, I am a Slytherin, not some hotheaded Gryffindor. If the headmaster wants to keep something secret, I have no interest in prying. I suspect such secrets would be rather hazardous to my health.¡±


    ¡°Q-Quite right. A-As the d-defense -ag-against the dark a-arts pro-professor, I w-wished to be c-certain of y-your d-discretion,¡± he said. But I could see him studying me carefully.


    ¡°Understandable, professor. For what it¡¯s worth, I promise not to seek whatever is in the third floor corridor. I am convinced that whatever I might gain from my endeavors is not worth the risk, both physical and the ire of the headmaster,¡± I said with a dry chuckle. I grabbed my bookbag and slung it over my shoulder. ¡°I do believe I¡¯ll be late to transfiguration if I tarry much longer. May I be dismissed, professor?¡±


    ¡°Y-Yes, you may, M-Mr. Z-Zabini,¡± he said, waving me off. I could feel his gaze on my back as I walked away, studying me.


    He was probably trying to figure out a way to goad me into peeking inside the box for him. Of course, as a professor, he couldn¡¯t rightly ask that I scry the corridor for him, certainly not without raising suspicions, but I doubted that¡¯d fully discourage him. I would have to be mindful of any plans involving my person.


    I was playing the fool, a money-grubbing Slytherin stereotype who thought himself cleverer than he actually was. Theodore, in other words. The goal wasn¡¯t to take his attention from me, though it¡¯d be great if that happened. No, the goal was to get him to underestimate me while I firmed my position.


    I couldn¡¯t believe it. I was officially looking forward to Lockhart. Hell, perhaps I¡¯d even avoid ruining his life for a while. At least he was stupid-stupid instead of stupid-evil.


    X


    That evening, I sat atop the owlery, best bird in my lap. Dinner with my housemates was overrated anyway. Why would I want their company when I could dine with the queen of the roost?


    I took a bite of my toad in the hole, British-speak for sausage baked inside Yorkshire pudding batter. I wasn¡¯t a big fan of the dish normally, it was basically just carbs and salt, but there was something about seeing the sunset from the owlery that whet my appetite. Or maybe, the house elves were just that good at cooking.


    Speaking of, my favorite kitchen elf popped into the room and placed a big, fat rat several feet away.


    ¡°Hello, Tubby. Did you bring a rat for Minerva?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Mr. Blazey,¡± he said with a toothy grin. ¡°Tubby and the other elves be doing as Mr. Blazey asked when wes done with the chores.¡±


    I nodded in satisfaction. I¡¯d asked him to pick up any dead vermin, rats especially, and deliver them to Minerva in the evenings like this. After all, Minerva was a big bird. And whatever she didn¡¯t finish, she could dole out to the lesser owls as a generous queen ought.


    ¡°I¡¯m glad. Thank you for your hard work, Tubby,¡± I said with a smile. Really, house elves were so damn helpful that it was impossible to dislike them. I let Minerva free from my lap so she could hop to her own food. ¡°Would you like to join us for dinner?¡±


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    He gasped audibly. ¡°Mr. Blazey would eat with Tubby?¡±


    ¡°Of course. You¡¯re my friend, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Tubby is Mr. Blazey¡¯s friend???¡±


    I let out an internal sigh and left him to his gratitude-induced freakout. One of these days, I¡¯d meet an elf who didn¡¯t react like an Oliver Twist orphan who just found a pound sterling whenever he received anything resembling positive attention.


    Strange creatures, elves. Nice, but strange.


    After dinner, I spent some time in the Room of Requirement, doing my best to improve my agility. The Room assisted by creating little obstacle courses and ankle-deep pitfalls for me. Then, to train my Sight further, I cast fumos, blanketing the deck of the HMS Queen Elizabeth in a thick layer of smoke.


    One of these days, I¡¯d be able to keep up my Sight and dance through a hail of spells blindfolded. Until that day, I¡¯d have to live with rolled ankles.


    X


    I walked into potions class the next day and took a seat by Violet. Ever since that first Q&A session with Professor Snape, he¡¯d taken an inordinate amount of interest in us. Our relationship probably had little resemblance to his and Lily¡¯s , even before he took a giant shit on it, but Violet¡¯s blood and our houses were enough to draw his eye.


    ¡°Hey, Zabini, got any ominous prophecies for me?¡± she muttered.


    ¡°About potions? No, Longbottom will not accidentally kill us all today,¡± I replied dryly.


    ¡°He¡¯s not that bad,¡± she said a little defensively. I was glad, Neville was a great bloke and he could use more friends.


    ¡°He¡¯s really not,¡± I agreed. He wasn¡¯t eleven years old for one. He hadn¡¯t done anything truly explosive since the mishap with the porcupine quills at the start of term. ¡°He¡¯ll forever get shit for being the kid who melted his cauldron in his first class though.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a right tosser, you know that?¡±


    ¡°Oh, absolutely. I¡¯m quite proud of it, thanks.¡±


    ¡°Of course you are.¡±


    Snape then swooped in. A foul-smelling trough floating behind him. He glowered at us like we were collectively worth less than the muck between his toes. ¡°I must admit to being moderately surprised at your ability to arrive punctually for class.¡±


    ¡°Is he ever less of a dick?¡± Violet whispered under her breath. I snorted a laugh that I quickly turned into a cough.


    ¡°Seeing how a few dunderheads almost managed to create an airborne poison last class due to the mishandling of ingredients, I have decided to put the curriculum on pause in favor of a unit on ingredient preparation.¡± He grinned cruelly as he gestured towards the trough. He didn¡¯t say it, but it was clear this was meant to be some form of collective punishment. ¡°We will begin with flobberworms and their mucus extract. Nott, what is flobberworm mucus used for?¡±


    Theo, already straight in his seat, somehow sat straighter, as if a rod of steel had been jammed into his spine. ¡°A-Ah, flobberworm mucus is used to thicken potions, professor.¡±


    ¡°Correct. Five points to Slytherin. You are each required to present a pint of flobberworm mucus by the end of class. Well? What are you waiting for? Form a line.¡±


    The students moved sluggishly, no one particularly eager. Already, the smell of the trough filled the dungeon. The smell was pungent, like moldy onions and lemons crossed with a litter box that hadn¡¯t been cleaned in months.


    Violet and I took off our outer robes and got in line. Without her ankle-length robes, I noticed she had a single black and red sock that ran up to her left mid-thigh. It went well with her red and gold tie. Even the stud in her earlobe had been exchanged for a matching red quartz.


    ¡°Bloody hell, what did we do to deserve this?¡± I heard Ron grumble, not nearly quiet enough.


    ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure someone in Hufflepuff did something,¡± Lavender answered. ¡°Hannah said something but I wasn¡¯t listening then.¡±


    ¡°Ugh, gross.¡±


    At the front, I saw that the trough was filled to bursting with flobberworms, cabbages, and heads of lettuce. The vegetables were half-eaten, with some obviously starting to get mushy.


    ¡°Ugh, any advice, Zabini?¡± Violet groaned as she tied her hair into a ponytail.


    ¡°Not really, just get it over with,¡± I told her. Putting deeds to words, I reached in and grabbed the fattest one I could find. Grabbing the worm was a little like touching a water balloon filled with hair gel instead of water. Its mucus was thick and slimy but I managed. ¡°Not everything about magic is pleasant.¡±


    ¡°A-Are some of these dead?¡±


    ¡°Looks like it. Flobberworms are prone to overeating, sometimes to literal bursting. Give them a good squeeze before you pick them up. If they twitch or try to squirm away, they¡¯re good.¡±


    ¡°Ewww¡­¡±


    ¡°Just think of them as jelly donuts.¡±


    ¡°I thought your Sight was supposed to warn you of these things.¡±


    ¡°Dangers, Potter. Flobberworms aren¡¯t exactly going to harm me.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re harmful to my nose,¡± she whined as she gingerly reached inside.


    We headed back to our seats and began the disgusting task of milking giant worms. Some of the larger ones were as long as our forearms, making them truly uncomfortable to look at.


    Violet put one down on the middle of her cutting board and jabbed it with a knife. ¡°You know, looking at it individually like this, it¡¯s almost cute, in a disgustingly hideous sort of way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s delighted to hear that,¡± I quipped back.


    ¡°Eh, I¡¯m used to it now. How are we supposed to do this?¡±


    ¡°Get the mucus into the jar. It¡¯s not that complicated.¡±


    ¡°Alright, then you do it, genius.¡±


    ¡°Alright, watch.¡± I rolled up my sleeves and obliged. I began by taking out a hand towel and wrapping my own flobberworm like a burrito. I then folded it in half and cut off both ends, effectively creating two, hollow tubes. ¡°Flobberworms have two heads and can eat from either end. They have little plates in their gullets that scrape at the cabbages. Cut those off first.¡±


    I then held it over my jar and began to twist, wringing out the mucus. The viscous liquid quickly soaked through the hand towel, but the fabric kept it from splattering all over me. The mucus, under pressure and with two convenient nozzles to leave from, dripped into the jar.


    ¡°There,¡± I told her as I unwrapped my now wrung dry flobberworm. I reached for another. ¡°Easy, right?¡±


    ¡°You know, it kinda looks like you¡¯re milking a cow,¡± Violet said with a giggle. She took out her own towel to copy me. ¡°Good with your hands, are you, Zabini?¡±


    ¡°Get your mind out of the gutter, Potter.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m just saying. You have a future on a dairy farm if all your hocus pocus nonsense doesn¡¯t pan out for you.¡±


    Before I could retort, Snape cut in from behind us. ¡°That will be ten points from Gryffindor for your crass humor, Potter. And ten points to Slytherin for instructing your duller classmate.¡±


    ¡°Ugh, git,¡± Violet grumbled under her breath once he walked away. ¡°Your head of house is such a prick, you know that?¡±


    ¡°I do. He does too actually. I¡¯m pretty sure he derives pleasure from making students miserable.¡±


    ¡°Why is he a teacher again?¡±


    I shrugged helplessly. ¡°Who knows?¡±


    ¡°You. You do. You¡¯re supposed to know everything.¡±


    ¡°I know about the time you locked your cousin in a zoo exhibit.¡±


    ¡°Heh, good times¡­ Wait, how do you-¡±


    ¡°You''re like Big Ben in the London fog, remember?¡±


    ¡°I know you think you''re answering my questions, but you''re really not.¡±


    ¡°I enjoy your frustration,¡± I replied with a smug grin.


    ¡°Ugh, bloody seers.¡±


    After we turned in our pints, Professor Snape had us dice the wrung out flobberworms into flat medallions. Lacking most of the mucus, they were now shriveled and flat, with a rubbery texture that made the simple task a challenge.


    ¡°I have a feeling flobberworm fritters are on the dinner menu,¡± I said, for once looking about as displeased as my peers. Not even I could keep my cocky smirk when it came to those abominations to the culinary arts.


    ¡°Wait, these things are edible?¡± Violet asked, horrified.


    ¡°Yup. And no, they don¡¯t taste any better than they look.¡±


    ¡°Out of morbid curiosity¡­ How exactly do you cook these?¡±


    ¡°Batter and fry them like any other fritter, really.¡±


    ¡°Ugh¡­ You¡¯re kidding me¡­¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Zabini? If our friendship means anything at all, please tell me there is an alternative,¡± she begged. It was cute, like a shaggy, black-haired puppy.


    ¡°Hmm, this is the last class and we have two hours before dinner. Sure, why not? Meet me outside the great hall at dinnertime.¡±


    ¡°Seriously? No flobberworm fritters?¡±


    ¡°No, for I am a gracious and merciful god.¡±


    ¡°Piss off, Zabini.¡±


    ¡°Sounding real grateful there, Potter.¡±


    ¡°Die,¡± she snarked. Then, more gently, ¡°Say, Padma invited you to our study group, right?¡±


    ¡°Hmm? Yes, she did. Is today one of those days?¡±


    ¡°Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Eww, saying it aloud, that sounds like entirely too much studying for me.¡±


    ¡°I take it the nerdy twin was the one who set that schedule?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but we love her anyway. You coming?¡±


    ¡°No, not this time.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on. What are friends for if not mutual suffering?¡±


    ¡°Laughing at someone else''s suffering, of course. Remember, if it happens to you, it''s called tragedy. If it happens to someone else, that''s called comedy.¡±


    ¡°Ass.¡±


    ¡°Seriously though, I think I¡¯ll stop by the chess club instead, have a quick match with Weasley.¡±


    ¡°Ron? Why? I mean, I¡¯ve heard you¡¯ve been playing him once a week or so.¡±


    ¡°Rarer? Not quite once a week, but yes. And why not? He¡¯s quite good, you know.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s been bragging that he¡¯s more cunning than ¡®that slimy snake,¡¯¡± she said.


    ¡°Is he now?¡± I hummed. ¡°Fantastic.¡±


    She narrowed her eyes at me. ¡°You¡­ You¡¯re letting him win. Why?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    ¡°You can see the future.¡±


    ¡°Only five-¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t give me that tripe. You know I know that¡¯s a crock of bull.¡±


    ¡°Well, Potter, a man like Weasley is driven by two things: his ego and his cock. Seeing how I refuse to stroke the latter, the former it must be,¡± I replied with a carefree shrug.


    ¡°One, eww. Two, why?¡±


    ¡°Nothing harmful, promise.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    I offered her a smile that wouldn¡¯t melt butter. ¡°Would I dare lie to my darling friend?¡±


    ¡°If it amuses you? Absolutely. You''d lie your pretty little head off in a heartbeat,¡± she said, throwing my own words back at me.


    I couldn''t help it. I cradled my face in one hand and batted my lashes at her. ¡°Y-You think I''m pretty? Really?¡±


    ¡°Piss off, Zabini. Get back to squeezing your worm.¡±


    ¡°Heh, that''s what she-¡±


    ¡°Finish that sentence and I''ll shave you bald.¡±


    ¡°Heh.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    I fucking hate writing Quirrell. Remember, he¡¯s not dealing with Voldemort directly, just Quirrell. That¡¯s an important distinction. It¡¯s not like he was going to have some huge confrontation right off the bat. For now, setting the stage is enough.


    Yes, I wrote over a thousand words on flobberworms. No, it doesn¡¯t advance the plot in any way. And yes, flobberworm fritters are canon.


    Food Fact: A fairly common Korean street food is beondegi (BEON-de-Gi). It is the pupae of a silkworm which has been boiled in a soy sauce solution. The food doesn¡¯t have any special traditional significance, but it is high in fiber and protein and a natural byproduct of the silk-making process. You need to do something with the pupae after you take away the cocoon after all.


    I used to love the stuff when I was a kid. I don¡¯t like it quite as much now, but I¡¯ll occasionally order a can (they sell them in cans now, too) purely for nostalgia. The broth really takes me back to elementary school in Korea. Back then, I used to buy a little paper cup of the stuff from a street cart in winter.


    As for the taste, it¡¯s really hard to describe. Soy sauce, obviously, but there¡¯s also a rich depth that almost reminds you of beef broth. It¡¯s got a lot of umami flavor and has a soft chew. The pupae pop in your mouth like little pearls too. Definitely an acquired taste, but it¡¯s nowhere near as bad as you¡¯d expect.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 21. Lion Meets Snake

    Chapter 21: Lion Meets Snake


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I sat across from Ronald, a wizard¡¯s chess set between us. The lanky ginger leaned forward for a better view, not that he needed it. It was a habit of his whenever he was deep in thought, along with a subconscious twiddling of the thumbs.


    This was the second game tonight. Our games usually didn¡¯t last this long, especially since I liked to move within a few seconds rather than ruminate pointlessly. I wasn¡¯t interested in mastering different traps and maneuvers to perfection after all, merely nudging Ron away from some of his worse tendencies.


    To that end, I¡¯d been holding back progressively less. I used to use my power to predict his next move once every few turns but was now doing it a little more frequently. Not only did it prove to be an excellent way to train my Sight, it also gave the illusion that I was rapidly improving at the game.


    Until, finally, ¡°I believe that¡¯s checkmate in two moves.¡±


    ¡°What? No way,¡± Ron protested.


    ¡°Look as hard as you want then.¡±


    ¡°Wait¡­ No, that won¡¯t¡­ You¡¯re bloody kidding me.¡±


    ¡°The board doesn¡¯t lie, Weasley.¡±


    ¡°Fine, that¡¯s still your first win to my¡­¡±


    ¡°Eight,¡± I told him honestly. ¡°This is our fourth session and we¡¯ve played a total of nine games. We¡¯re eight to one in your favor right now.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that. Don¡¯t get cocky just because you won one,¡± he said.


    I smirked internally but didn¡¯t let it show. Ron was a competitive person. This was both a good and bad quality to have. On one hand, it had made him a jealous friend at times to Harry. On the other hand, he¡¯d used that sense of inadequacy to push himself, becoming an indispensable asset in times of crisis.


    I was intentionally stoking that competitive spirit knowing he¡¯d come back looking for another contest. And, I was doing it through chess, in a way that forced him to acknowledge a ¡°slimy snake¡± as a rival rather than just an enemy.


    It was a crude attempt at exposure therapy, but it was working. Truth was, Ron¡¯s dislike of Slytherins wasn¡¯t anything personal, despite what he thought. It was an inherited bias derived from his family, most likely his brothers or Arthur complaining about Lucius, which, fair. And without a ¡°Draco¡± Malfoy making things worse, he¡¯d gotten much milder since our sessions began.


    ¡°One more?¡± I asked, tapping the board so it would reset itself.


    ¡°Yeah, I want that galleon.¡±


    ¡°Then win it from me, Weasley.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯re on.¡±


    We started another game, this time flipping the board so he was white. Minor as it was, advantage belonged to the loser after all.


    After a few minutes, Ron bragged, ¡°We¡¯re totally going to crush you snakes. Violet¡¯s amazing on a broom.¡±


    That was another reason to do this. It was a good chance to feel out Gryffindor. True, it was usually inane gossip that didn¡¯t matter to me in any way, and all of it was colored by Ron¡¯s narrow perspective, but seemingly miscellaneous information could help bolster the Sight when I was asked to investigate one thing or another by a commissioner. The more I knew about a situation going in, the better my predictions.


    ¡°Yes, that does seem likely, doesn¡¯t it?¡± I said with a smile. ¡°I saw her, you know. Or, I think I did. A woman on a broom chasing a flash of something golden.¡±


    ¡°You should¡¯ve known it wasn¡¯t Malfoy,¡± he said, moving his rook forward. ¡°There¡¯s no way she¡¯s as good as Violet.¡±


    ¡°I had my guesses, and explicitly warned her that she wouldn¡¯t be happy with the outcome. She¡¯s the one who chose to disregard my advice.¡±


    ¡°Well, now Gryffindor¡¯s finally going to get the quidditch cup.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, but can I ask you something, Weasley?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, what?¡±


    ¡°Why do you care?¡± I asked bluntly. ¡°I mean, you¡¯re not on the team. If Gryffindor does win, you will have contributed nothing to their victory. Is it brotherly pride in the twins?¡±


    ¡°I guess? They¡¯re my team. I¡¯m a Gryffindor,¡± he said. And really, it was that simple. He had no other reason to like the team beyond that, nor did he need one. ¡°And yeah, I guess I¡¯m happy for my brothers.¡±


    ¡°Interesting.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±


    ¡°It means I don¡¯t personally care who wins the cup. I also don¡¯t have any brothers to root for either. I¡¯ll probably attend the matches, but more because that is what¡¯s expected of me than because I enjoy watching quidditch.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t like quidditch?¡± He asked as if I was an alien. The notion that someone might not enjoy quidditch as much as he did was wild to him, like a muggle seeing a unicorn for the first time. ¡°Bloody hell, you¡¯re like Leontes.¡±


    I hummed and feigned ignorance, moving my bishop to shield my queen. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ Oh, that¡¯s Granger, right? What about him?¡±


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t see what the big deal is about quidditch either, thinks it¡¯s all just a distraction from his precious books.¡±


    ¡°Oh? A Gryffindor with sense? Tell me it isn¡¯t so,¡± I mock-gasped. ¡°Truly, Hogwarts is a miraculous place.¡±


    ¡°Sod off, Zabini. He¡¯s a right bother, he is, always going on about studying and trying to round us all up to do the same.¡±


    ¡°So what? That doesn¡¯t sound like a bad thing. Why not go along with it once or twice?¡±


    He scrunched his nose in distaste. ¡°Merlin, no. He¡¯ll never shut up, then. It¡¯s no wonder he doesn¡¯t have any friends.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he should have been a Ravenclaw.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about it. Or a girl, then maybe he wouldn¡¯t bother us blokes every night.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m pretty sure the girls have a study group of their own. Patil, the one in Ravenclaw, organized it and roped in her twin.¡±


    ¡°Wait, how do you know?¡±


    ¡°Because I¡¯m acquainted with the Patils. And Potter. I thought everyone knew that by now.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the weirdest snake I¡¯ve ever seen.¡±


    ¡°Hoh? Have you considered that I¡¯m the snake that¡¯s doing it right? Tell me, Weasley, what are the values of House Slytherin?¡±


    ¡°Being a slimy git?¡± At my disappointed frown, he gave me a sheepish smile. ¡°Fine, cunning and ambition.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. And wouldn¡¯t you say that a man¡¯s ambitions might be best achieved by having lots of connections? Friends, you might even say.¡±


    ¡°I suppose¡­¡±


    ¡°Which is why I try to get to know at least one person from every house,¡± I nodded, satisfied. ¡°I haven¡¯t found a bloke in Hufflepuff yet, but I will eventually.¡±


    ¡°Is that what this is? You, making connections?¡± Ron asked, half amused and half suspicious. He could be dense at times, but let it never be said that he couldn¡¯t connect the dots.


    ¡°It is,¡± I admitted easily. ¡°It¡¯s also a chance to enjoy a game of chess with minimal stakes.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re still bloody weird.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, back to what I was saying, everyone has things that matter to them. For you, it¡¯s quidditch and chess. For Granger, it¡¯s his grades.¡±


    ¡°And what about you then?¡±


    I decided to steer the topic a little. ¡°Why, my adorable owl, of course. Her name is Minerva and she¡¯s crazy brilliant. Big, too. She¡¯s twice as big as most other owls. She sometimes even bullies Nott for his bacon in the morning.¡±


    ¡°Lucky,¡± he grunted. ¡°All I have is Scabbers.¡±


    ¡°Scabbers?¡± I probed gently. This was good, another thing I wanted. If anyone ever asked why or how I found out about Scabbers the rat, I could take some of the attention off my Sight and lay it directly at Ron¡¯s feet. ¡°What¡¯s a Scabbers?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Scabbers is just the name of my rat. He¡¯s not good for much, doesn¡¯t even do any tricks. He¡¯s just fat and lazy.¡±


    ¡°Then why do you still have him? Why not a kneazle if you don¡¯t like owls for some reason?¡±


    His face colored a little. ¡°He was my brother¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Huh, nice. He could just be getting on in years then,¡± I told him. ¡°Maybe he¡¯s a grandpa rat and just likes to sleep quietly.¡±


    ¡°I guess so. Check.¡±


    I moved my king out of the way. ¡°You know, with all the galleons you¡¯ve won from me, you could probably buy yourself an owl over the winter.¡±


    He brightened at that. He really was overly sensitive about his financial situation. And really, he had no reason to be. Truth was, the Weasleys weren¡¯t impoverished, Arthur was a department head for fuck¡¯s sake; they just happened to have a lot more children than was typical. ¡°Hey, you¡¯re right. And mum can¡¯t even say I didn¡¯t earn this money for myself.¡±


    ¡°True enough. You won this money in a game of wits,¡± I agreed easily. I would be taking that fucking rat soon enough. True, I was doing everyone a favor, but I was still depriving a kid of his pet. A replacement owl was fair compensation in my book.


    X


    I met up with Violet in front of the great hall, a little before dinner. Parvati trailed behind her best friend with an eager smile and a cheery wave. I really should have expected the two to come together.


    ¡°Patil,¡± I greeted. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Being Violet¡¯s bodyguard, duh. I mean, we can¡¯t have a slimy snake whisking our dear Violet away, can we?¡± she said imperiously. ¡°Who knows what sorts of dastardly plots you have in mind for her.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s me, here to gain Potter¡¯s trust by saving her from the horrors of flobberworm fritters.¡±


    ¡°Ya, that too. Those things taste nasty,¡± she said, making a face. ¡°I mean, really, I don¡¯t need to be a seer to know what Snape¡¯s going to do with the flobberworms we chopped up. He probably got a kick out of it, probably has something else to eat in his office.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t deny that. Giving the potions ingredients to the house elves for us to eat sounded like a Snape thing to enjoy. Unfortunately, the Hogwarts menu wasn¡¯t always as diverse as seen during feasts. Usually, there was a much more reasonable starch, entree, and one or two sides. ¡°Weren¡¯t you in a study group earlier? So why isn¡¯t the other Patil here too?¡±


    She looked at me like I was an idiot. ¡°You know, this is how we can tell you¡¯re an only child.¡±


    ¡°What? Why?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re twins, Zabini. If we find an opportunity to delight in one another¡¯s misfortune, we absolutely will. Oh, I have her back through thick and thin, but you can bet I¡¯ll rub this in her face later.¡±


    I laughed. Really, that sounded about right. ¡°Alright, fine, but may the geeky twin¡¯s wrath fall squarely on your shoulders then. Come along. Let¡¯s go beg the elves for something different.¡±


    ¡°House elves? You know where the kitchens are?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Also, that¡¯ll be a galleon from each of you for the trouble.¡±


    ¡°Really? You¡¯d charge your best friends?¡±


    ¡°In a heartbeat. Gimme,¡± I said as I led them down towards the kitchen. They let off some token grumbles but each pressed a golden coin into my outstretched hand anyway.


    The hallway beneath the castle was interesting. Somewhere nearby was the Undercroft, though I¡¯d never played the Hogwarts Legacy game. I¡¯d overlooked the game because Hogwarts didn¡¯t feel like Hogwarts without Harry Potter and the main cast, something I regretted now. I knew a bit about the game through cultural osmosis, but that was all.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Where even was it anyway? The name, ¡°Undercroft,¡± implied that the secret base of the Gaunts was under the castle somewhere but there were no obvious entryways, at least along this hallway. If I had to guess, given the Gaunts¡¯ connection to Slytherin, I would assume it was near the Slytherin common room, or perhaps even connected to ol¡¯ Sal¡¯s Chamber of Secrets.


    It was probably protected somehow, maybe with a tailored notice-me-not charm that needed Gaunt blood to unravel. Then again, for all I knew, the name was a joke and the entrance to the Undercroft was actually near the owlery. That sounded like something a ¡°sneaky¡± Gaunt would think to do.


    Towards the end of the hallway, I found Tracey and her cousin. They were moments from tickling the pear and had turned at the sound of our footsteps. The two looked mildly surprised to see us. Clearly, they¡¯d had the same idea as me.


    ¡°Greengrass, Davis, good evening,¡± I said with a cordial smile.


    ¡°Zabini, what are you doing here?¡± Tracey said with obvious suspicion.


    ¡°Showing Potter and Patil the kitchen, in exchange for fair compensation of course. Not a fan of flobberworm fritters, I take it?¡±


    ¡°Who is? They have other food, right?¡±


    ¡°Probably, if nothing else, they¡¯d have something prepped for tomorrow¡¯s breakfast and we can all have breakfast for supper instead.¡±


    ¡°Very well, we may as well eat together. Let¡¯s go in,¡± Daphne said.


    The kitchen was about a third of the size of the great hall. One wall was lined entirely with brick ovens, stacked in such a way as to remind me of a honeycomb. A stream of food flowed in and out of those ovens like worker bees seeking the flower patterns on the serving plates. There was a prep station set next to a giant cauldron of bubbling oil where elves were deep-frying the fritters. It looked like mushy peas and carrots were to be the side dishes.


    The elves soon noticed us and ushered us off to a corner of the room where a table had been set aside for visitors. It wasn¡¯t long before one of the elves got us a set of cold-cut sandwiches.


    ¡°How are you finding Hogwarts, Potter?¡± Daphne asked, making polite conversation.


    Her eyes kept wandering to Violet¡¯s pierced ear, three on her upper helix and a fat, red stud on her lobe. Violet had also foregone her school uniform after class, changing in favor of a black, Bon Jovi t-shirt and a matching choker. A dark denim skirt and sole stocking completed her outfit.


    I decided then and there that I¡¯d lean back and enjoy the show. Daphne was sheltered, in a way that even many magicals were not. This was probably her first exposure to ¡°alternative¡± fashion, or anything muggle-related for that matter. Perhaps Tracey had some knowledge with a muggleborn father, but I doubted Lord Greengrass was very accommodating of such interests.


    I waved down an elf. It seemed I¡¯d found my entertainment for the evening. ¡°Say, do you have any popcorn? Just a small bowl, please.¡±


    X


    Violet Potter


    Zabini was laughing at me. Somehow, he¡¯d gotten the prissy princess to eat with us. I didn¡¯t know what he found so funny about this, but he did. I could see it in that smarmy smirk of his.


    The rat bastard even had popcorn!


    I had to keep my cool. Daphne Greengrass was the ¡°other¡± Slytherin princess, but she was a hell of a lot better than Malfoy. She didn¡¯t spread nasty rumors or act like she was the boss of everyone while throwing around daddy¡¯s name.


    Actually, seeing her now, I realized I knew precious little about other Slytherins besides Malfoy and Zabini. One was a spoiled bitch and the other was a smarmy, know-it-all, money-grubbing git who somehow ended up being my friend. Greengrass wasn¡¯t anything like either though. She mostly kept to herself and Tracey Davis. Maybe she¡¯d be alright.


    ¡°How are you finding Hogwarts, Potter?¡± she asked after taking a dainty bite of her sandwich. God, she even made wiping mayo off the side of her mouth look elegant. It wasn¡¯t fair. I felt like I was attending a job interview, not that I¡¯d ever been to one.


    I couldn¡¯t have that. I tried to lighten the mood. ¡°Oh, the castle¡¯s great, but it¡¯s got a bit of a pest problem, way too many snakes.¡±


    Daphne¡¯s eyes narrowed. She upturned her nose and sniffed. ¡°Excuse me? If our company isn¡¯t to your liking, the door¡¯s that way.¡±


    ¡°Yeesh, take a joke, princess.¡±


    ¡°Princess?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, ¡®cause your dad¡¯s some pureblood bigshot, right?¡±


    ¡°If you mean a lord of the Wizengamot, then yes. Clearly, no one¡¯s taught you anything resembling manners.¡± She looked me up and down and frowned. ¡°Or how to dress¡­¡±


    That was a little hurtful, damnit! ¡°Hey! What¡¯s wrong with the way I dress?¡±


    ¡°Where do I begin?¡±


    ¡°This is called style, princess.¡±


    ¡°Really, now? I¡¯m not sure you know what that word means,¡± she said, one dainty eyebrow raised in judgment.


    I made a show of looking her over as well. ¡°As opposed to what? The Hogwarts uniform? Sorry one of us dares to have a personality. When you find yours, let me know.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t act like you know me either.¡±


    We stared at each other, trying to figure out how to handle this. We were clearly very different people, not that I expected anything else, but I didn¡¯t think we¡¯d immediately start sniping at each other like this.


    I¡­ technically may have started this, but it wasn¡¯t my fault she got catty over a joke! Next to us, Parvati and Tracey didn¡¯t look like they knew what to do either.


    Then we were brought out of our little staring contest by the sound of Blaise noisily munching on popcorn. Daphne heard too, and an unspoken armistice passed between us. Almost in perfect synchronicity, we turned towards the likely orchestrator of this mess. Even if he had nothing to do with us meeting like this, he probably deserved it for something, the smarmy jerk.


    ¡°Are we just entertainment to you?¡± Daphne asked with an annoyed huff.


    ¡°I mean, I wouldn¡¯t want to be rude,¡± he said with his usual smug grin. ¡°You ladies sound like you¡¯ve got some things to hash out, no sense interrupting.¡±


    I snorted. Since when did Blaise give a damn about manners? ¡°Get it off your chest, you prat. I know you¡¯re dying to.¡±


    ¡°Fine, I was just thinking that it¡¯s like watching a pair of seagulls arguing over nothing because both are social cripples and neither speak the same langua-Ow! You said to get it off my chest,¡± he whined, rubbing his shin.


    ¡°I don¡¯t recall saying I wouldn¡¯t kick Zabini, do you, Greengrass?¡± I asked with an innocent smile.


    ¡°You know, I don¡¯t recall you saying that either.¡±


    We shared a moment of mutual comradery. If the princess and I could agree on one thing, it was that Blaise could use a bit of humbling once in a while, or as frequently as was convenient, really.


    Then I remembered that the rat bastard was a seer. He¡¯d been making a fool of the twins all month. Blaise didn¡¯t get hit unless he wanted to, not by anyone our age. Which meant he let me hit him to relieve the tension. Which meant, for whatever reason, he wanted us to get along.


    I looked at him again and, sure enough, he shot me a subtle wink.


    I sighed, resigned to letting the bastard pull me along like a puppet, and held out a hand for Daphne. ¡°Sorry, let¡¯s start again. I¡¯m Violet Potter and I¡¯m a sarcastic bitch. I was making a joke about snakes because the way you talk all formal makes me feel like I¡¯m at a job interview.¡±


    She put her hand in mine. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ fair, I suppose. Daphne Greengrass. I-I admit I am not used to socializing with other people outside of a more structured context. I did not mean to mock your clothes upon first meeting; I apologize.¡±


    ¡°Just the first? So they¡¯ll be fair game on the second meeting then?¡±


    ¡°Quite,¡± she said, mouth upturned in a faint smirk.


    We fell into an awkward silence, picking at our food like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Even Parvati, the chatterbox, didn¡¯t seem keen on talking.


    Surprisingly, Blaise wasn¡¯t the one who broke the silence.


    ¡°So, Potter,¡± Tracey said. ¡°Bon Jovi, huh? They¡¯re a band, right?¡±


    That caught me by surprise. ¡°You know them?¡±


    ¡°Eh, kinda. I¡¯m a half-blood and dad was a muggleborn.¡±


    ¡°Was?¡±


    ¡°My parents died six years ago. Werewolves. It¡¯s why I live with Daphne. Dad was pretty big into music. He was saying something about a new American rock band. Runaway I think?¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry to hear that¡­¡±


    ¡°It happened,¡± Tracey shrugged. ¡°Fuck werewolves, but I¡¯m done being all broken up over it. So?


    ¡°Yeah, Runaway was their first single. The band¡¯s name is Bon Jovi. I heard they¡¯re really popular in the States. Less so here, but still good.¡±


    ¡°Huh. I have some cassette tapes lying around somewhere. Aunt Selene let me keep them since they were dad¡¯s. I have no idea how to play them but they¡¯re supposed to store music?¡±


    ¡°You need a little machine that reads the tapes for that. It spins the little wheel-thingies inside and that somehow produces music. Don¡¯t ask, I don¡¯t know how they work either.¡±


    ¡°Neat. So why all the piercings?¡±


    I frowned. ¡°It¡¯s going to make me look super lame.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a story.¡±


    ¡°Eh, alright, fine. There was a boy¡­¡±


    Parvati nudged my side. ¡°A boy? Do tell, Vi.¡±


    ¡°Not that kind. He was kind of gross, actually. And older than me. But he wanted to be a tattoo artist, have his own shop and everything. He did little designs for people using a needle and ink in the boy¡¯s restroom at the school I went to.¡±


    ¡°The teachers let him do that in muggle schools?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say I went to a good school. Actually, I¡¯m pretty sure he got expelled for it,¡± I said with a wry chuckle. ¡°Anyway, he also did piercings for money. I don¡¯t know if he was any good, but I¡­ I wanted to fit in.¡±


    ¡°You? Fit in? You¡¯re the Girl Who Lived!¡± Tracey gasped, shocked at the idea. Shows what she knew; she equated being gawked at like a zoo exhibit with popularity.


    ¡°Not in the muggle world, I¡¯m not. So, yeah, I asked him for a piercing but he said I didn¡¯t have enough money and kicked me out.¡±


    ¡°Wait, then how did you get your ears pierced?¡±


    ¡°My friend, Holly. She¡¯s the best bitch anyone could have, you know? Always had my back since she kneed my cousin in the dick when we were six.¡±


    ¡°I see how it is. I¡¯m just a replacement, huh?¡± Parvati moaned. She could be such a drama queen sometimes.


    ¡°Do you want to hear the story or not?¡±


    ¡°Shutting up now.¡±


    ¡°Well, there isn¡¯t much to tell. Holly said that if he wouldn¡¯t give me a piercing, I should do it myself.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re kidding.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± I leaned forward a bit and tilted my head so they could get a good look. ¡°See? There¡¯s a bit of scarring because I did it wrong the first time. I stole a needle from the nurse¡¯s office, heated up one end with a lighter Holly stole from a liquor store, and then¡­¡±


    ¡°D-Did it hurt?¡± Daphne asked, morbidly curious despite herself.


    ¡°Heh, yeah. I bled a lot but I got the piercings I wanted I guess.¡±


    ¡°That is¡­ impressive discipline¡­¡±


    ¡°You can call me a moron, you know. I deserve that one.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t see why I would,¡± she sniffed. I decided then and there that it would be my goal to teach her to swear.


    ¡°Come on, you know you want to. It was really stupid.¡±


    ¡°It was, but some of us have this thing called decorum. Perhaps you¡¯ve heard of it?¡±


    ¡°Oho, is the snake princess showing her fangs?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you fangs if you don¡¯t stop calling me that ridiculous nickname,¡± she huffed. But there was none of the bite from earlier. Maybe, maybe these two weren¡¯t all bad. ¡°Oh, Zabini, here, before I forget.¡±


    Daphne took something out of her purse and slid it over. It was a quill, one of the more expensive ones with a bronze tip for smoother writing.


    Blaise took it in hand. ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Runcorn¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that¡¯s fair. And my payment?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll get it when you give me the information I need. I¡¯ve got an upper year scoped out and a letter of introduction penned for a potions master my family works with.¡±


    ¡°Very well. It shouldn¡¯t take me long.¡±


    ¡°Hold on,¡± Parvati said, ¡°Runcorn? As in Alice Runcorn in our year?¡±


    ¡°Yes, is there a problem?¡± Daphne asked.


    ¡°What about her?¡±


    ¡°None of your business, Patil. As unexpectedly pleasant as this dinner has been, I have no intention of telling you my plans.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a Slytherin thing,¡± Blaise said, waving his housemate off. ¡°We all make plans. It¡¯s good practice. It just so happens that Greengrass is smart enough to ask a seer to make sure her plans are actually good plans.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re all bloody nutters,¡± I said. ¡°That¡¯s Runcorn¡¯s quill, right? If you¡¯re not going to tell us, why give it to Zabini in front of us?¡±


    ¡°Again, it¡¯s a Slytherin thing. We¡¯re caught in this weird paradox, see? On one hand, if a plan is truly, perfectly cunning, no one else will know about it. On the other hand, our house rewards cunning plans with social standing. So people like Greengrass here try to strike a balance between actually enacting schemes in the dark and showing off to everyone else so you can see that she¡¯s got schemes.¡±


    ¡°That sounds really bloody stupid.¡±


    ¡°It is. It¡¯s like a cat bringing home a dead pigeon. You don¡¯t need it for anything, but it¡¯s a way to show they care, I guess.¡±


    Daphne flushed red at that. ¡°Shut it, Zabini.¡±


    I laughed. The more I heard about Slytherin, the happier I was to have avoided it. ¡°So what¡¯s Greengrass planning then?¡±


    ¡°Better not tell you now,¡± Zabini said.


    ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±


    ¡°Reply hazy, try again later.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s doing that dumb magic 8 ball thing,¡± Parvati said with an exasperated sigh. ¡°Vi, can you kick him again?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t,¡± I said. I tried halfheartedly anyway, only for his cane to jab my inner thigh, just above the knee. It made my whole leg go numb for a second. ¡°Ugh, he¡¯ll just see it coming.¡±


    ¡°Fine, let the sneaky sneaks keep their secrets.¡±


    ¡°Right. We can tell everyone there¡¯s a Slytheirn-only prank war that the twins aren¡¯t invited to. That¡¯ll be interesting.¡±


    ¡°I would greatly appreciate it if you don¡¯t sic the twins on us for your own amusement,¡± Daphne drawled.


    ¡°Hmm¡­ How about you buy my silence then?¡±


    ¡°Extortion? My, I wasn¡¯t expecting this from the Gryffindor.¡±


    ¡°What can I say? I¡¯m a girl with hidden depths.¡±


    She smiled and offered me a nod of mutual respect. ¡°A shoddy attempt, but not terrible all things considered. We¡¯ll make a Slytherin out of you yet.¡±


    I let out an exaggerated shudder. ¡°That sounds like a tragedy, no thanks.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Ron is playing chess but Blaise is playing his own games, weaving a web around the castle at large. One of these days, Ron might realize that real cunning and wit aren¡¯t things you can find on a chessboard. That day sure isn¡¯t now though.


    I see Violet as a bit of ¡°soft punk¡± if that¡¯s a thing. She¡¯s not really down for the full anti-establishment, anti-capitalism agenda inasmuch as she isn¡¯t politically conscious at all. The only authority figure she¡¯s interested in rebelling against is Aunt Petunia, and to that end, she¡¯ll happily pick up any fashion that her aunt disapproves of, including piercings, choker, mismatched socks, etc.


    Does she realize Bon Jovi is not very punk at all? Probably, but Aunt Petunia doesn¡¯t like yankees so that¡¯s good enough for her. Could she recognize any song from them besides Livin¡¯ on a Prayer? Debatable.


    In a way, she¡¯s built up this identity around being ¡°independent from my relatives,¡± not realizing that this rebellion is in itself allowing her family to have an outsized influence on her identity. Otherwise, she¡¯s a bit of a blank slate.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 22. En Garde!

    Chapter 22: En Garde!


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I found Daphne in the library after classes on Friday. She was, as always, with her cousin, jotting down notes for a transfiguration essay. McGonagall had introduced us to the avifors spell, a jinx that turned small objects into birds.


    The full incantation and instructions were listed in The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2, but she had us reading up on the theory anyway. It was a little like how grade schoolers learned about shapes and basic geometry before actually taking geometry in middle school. Apparently, the spell was a very useful one for demonstrating certain principles as it did not distinguish between living and nonlivng targets.


    ¡°That book doesn¡¯t have what you want,¡± I said as I set my bookbag down in front of them. I pointed out another book they had in their pile. ¡°That one¡¯s got a more in-depth explanation for why some spells don¡¯t care about the living-nonliving distinction.¡±


    Daphne looked down at the tome in her hand before closing it with a sigh. Grumbling under her breath, she picked up the right book. ¡°I¡¯m not paying for this.¡±


    ¡°Of course not. It was advice freely offered.¡±


    ¡°Hmph. And I take it you¡¯ve already written this essay?¡±


    ¡°Yes, four days ago.¡± With little else to do, I¡¯d expanded my lead on my coursework. Not only was magic fascinating, it was also great practice with my crystal ball. ¡°It¡¯s fascinating stuff, really. Want some help?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll pass.¡± She reached into her bookbag and withdrew a glass vial. It had been cut and faceted like a diamond, giving the liquid inside a shimmering, gem-like quality. She set it on the table and slid it to the center, allowing it to catch the light. ¡°I take it you have something for me?¡±


    I pulled out a sheet of parchment with the notes I¡¯d taken the night prior. The draught of living death wasn¡¯t a cheap potion; I did my best to be thorough. ¡°I do. Let¡¯s start with the biggest question: She doesn¡¯t hate Davis because she¡¯s a half-blood. Her family hates Davis because she¡¯s a half-blood.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t bloody get it,¡± Tracey glared at nothing. ¡°What? Do half-bloods have some stench no one¡¯s telling me about? And when the hell did I even meet her family?¡±


    ¡°At a yule ball some years back,¡± I said as Daphne took her hand. ¡°Far as I can tell, her father learned about how Lord Greengrass is taking care of his half-blood niece and decided that you don¡¯t deserve to show up at those events.¡±


    ¡°Well bloody fuck him then.¡±


    ¡°Sure, but I bring it up because Runcorn herself doesn¡¯t have anything against you. She¡¯s been taught that she¡¯s your better, but that¡¯s par for the course. If I had to describe her feelings towards you, it¡¯s mild distaste and general ambivalence.¡±


    ¡°Joy, because that makes me feel so much better.¡±


    ¡°It should. It means that since Runcorn has no strongly held personal convictions against you, she can be coerced or bribed into tolerating being associated with you.¡± I felt terrible saying that. I was telling a fourteen year old girl that she needed to bribe people to get friends. And yet, this was exactly what Daphne paid for, a way to get Alice on their side before Lyra stole her away.


    ¡°We get it,¡± Daphne said before Tracey could grow more agitated. ¡°So how can we get her to work with us?¡±


    I thought about everything I¡¯d learned during last night¡¯s deep dive. Much of it was private and I was unwilling to divulge too many of her secrets, but perhaps I could steer them together in a way that would help ameliorate some of that underlying resentment. Otherwise, either Tracey or Alice would do something that¡¯d cause a lot of pain on all sides. As civil as Daphne had been with me, that was because she needed me. I knew how catty she could get.


    From what I saw, Alice really wasn¡¯t a bad person, just someone who grew up in less than ideal circumstances. She could, with the right friends, get out of her shell. Making her Daphne¡¯s lackey was hardly the same as making her a proponent for equality, but, baby steps.


    I opted to be candid with them for the most part. ¡°She¡¯s insecure, and about more things than your average teenage girl.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need you to tell me she looks like a beanpole, Zabini,¡± the blonde said snidely.


    ¡°No, Greengrass, I don¡¯t mean Runcorn is insecure about her appearance, though there is a fair bit of that too. It comes back to her family.¡±


    ¡°What? Are they too bigoted for her delicate sensibilities?¡± Tracey scoffed.


    ¡°They¡¯re too talented. Her uncles are unspeakables. Her father is a spellcrafter, one of the few true masters in the British isles Her mother is a potions mistress and you already know how rare that is. They¡¯re all great at what they do and-¡±


    ¡°And she¡¯s not,¡± Daphne said dryly. ¡°She¡¯s utterly mediocre, maybe with some modicum of talent in charms.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say that. We¡¯re in our first year; give her time to come into her own.¡±


    ¡°Is that a prediction? Or are you just playing devil¡¯s advocate?¡±


    ¡°More of the latter, but I do think diligence trumps natural talent in most cases. Don¡¯t dismiss her ambition, especially not in our house, Greengrass.¡±


    ¡°Point. What else can you tell us about her?¡±


    ¡°She values her heritage, as she¡¯s been taught, and feels that she needs to excel in at least one field to live up to her parents¡¯ accomplishments. The way I see it, you could easily build inroads with her if you¡¯re willing to tutor her in charms.¡±


    ¡°She wants to be a spellcrafter like her father, I take it?¡±


    ¡°Yup. So play nice, offer her some help without making it look like pity, and you should have a loyal friend soon enough.¡±


    ¡°Or she can decide she¡¯s jealous.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s up to you. Don¡¯t tell me the princess is lacking her social graces.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that. I had enough of that from Potter,¡± she said.


    ¡°Fine, fine. Any other questions for me?¡±


    ¡°Are there any personal interests I can use to lure her in with?¡±


    I handed her a slip of parchment at that. ¡°She¡¯s a big fan of the Holyhead Harpies, has a sweet tooth, and likes to collect gobstone marbles. By sweet tooth, I mean she prefers fruity snacks over chocolate frogs. She went to the States a few years back and developed a taste for pears and peaches in particular. Oddly enough, she doesn¡¯t like playing gobstones much; she just thinks the marbles are pretty to look at. It¡¯s all there, though I recommend you lose that sheet after you learn it. If you let slip that I gave you a cheatsheet into her good graces, I¡¯m going to laugh at you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Zabini. We can work with this.¡±


    ¡°Good luck. Hope you make a new friend.¡± I reached out and took the vial on the table. ¡°Please understand that if this is a dud, I¡¯ll be quite upset with you, Greengrass. I don¡¯t think I need to promise vengeance, do I?¡±


    ¡°Of course not. Don¡¯t say the obvious. I admit giving you a potion like this makes me wary, but it¡¯s the genuine article. I suspect you¡¯ll be able to check its authenticity long before you need to use it.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯m impressed. It didn¡¯t take you long to source this.¡±


    ¡°I bought it from a sixth year in exchange for introducing him to a potions master who works for my family. Whether he can leverage that letter into an apprenticeship over winter break will be up to him,¡± she said with a shrug.


    ¡°¡±Excellent, a pleasure doing business with you.¡±


    ¡°Likewise, you are¡­ not unpleasant to work with.¡±


    I laughed. That was as good as glowing praise coming from her. ¡°And I think you can use more friends. Do be nice to Runcorn, won¡¯t you? Both of you.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll make a genuine effort, but we won¡¯t bend over backwards to accommodate her.¡±


    ¡°As you please. Care to walk with me to dinner?¡±


    Tracey looked at me strangely at that. ¡°Really? Will you be gracing the rest of us with your presence? And here we thought you preferred the company of house elves to your housemates.¡±


    I shrugged and smiled. ¡°I do, actually. Between Nott taking snide shots at me or having a house elf give me yet another scoop of cobbler, I know what I¡¯d prefer.¡±


    ¡°Point,¡± she said with a snigger. Then she realized she¡¯d been laughing with me of all people and schooled her expression.


    ¡°Although, I don¡¯t eat in the kitchens. Most of the time when I¡¯m not in the cafeteria, I¡¯m actually in the owlery.¡±


    ¡°The owlery? Why? It smells like musty feathers there.¡±


    ¡°True, but that¡¯s not their fault. There¡¯s only so much even a freshening charm can do when there are dozens of owls in one space. Besides, Minerva¡¯s worth it.¡±


    ¡°Minerva? You named your owl after our transfiguration professor?¡±


    ¡°After the Roman goddess of wisdom, whose iconography predominantly consisted of owls,¡± I sniffed. It¡¯s not my fault if any of you rubes jump to the wrong conclusion.¡±


    ¡°Fine, whatever. Let¡¯s go get dinner. Daph?¡±


    Daphne began to pack up her bookbag. She picked up the book I¡¯d initially pointed out to check out for later. ¡°Very well, let us be off then.¡±


    X


    We were in the second floor corridor, the library happened to have its exit there today for some reason, when I felt my Sight trigger. I took a step to the side and used my cane to tap Tracey on the shin.


    ¡°Ow! What the hell, Zabi-¡± she yelped. Before she could even finish cussing me out, a water balloon sailed past her head.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Davis.¡±


    ¡°Bloody twins. We know you¡¯re there!¡± she shouted, actually stamping her foot in rage. I didn¡¯t think anyone did that; it was kinda cute.


    I tapped her shoulder and pointed towards a corner of the hall, above and behind a torch. ¡°Not the twins. Peeves.¡±


    ¡°The poltergeist? Ugh. Where is he now?¡±


    ¡°Here I am!¡± Peeves cheered as he popped into the visible spectrum, hovering behind a suit of armor. He held his arms wide like the ringmaster at a circus awaiting applause. A dozen water balloons floated in a halo around him. Slung over his shoulder was a sack which undoubtedly contained more. ¡°Hahahaha! Is ickle snakesies mad at poor Peevsie?¡±


    ¡°Damn it, I so don¡¯t need this right now.¡±


    ¡°I thought you were supposed to be able to avoid things like this,¡± Daphne said under her breath.


    ¡°Flattering, but you give me too much credit, Greengrass,¡± I muttered back. Morning predictions kept me away from plots of consequence, not these instances of simple bad luck. If I tried to account for every little thing, I¡¯d be too tired to get out of bed at all.


    ¡°Peeves wants to see firstie snakesies run!¡±


    He juggled the water balloons in his hands like a jester before giving us a malicious grin. Then, with a flick of the wrist, they flew towards us one by one.


    Or, they flew towards me one by one.


    I heard a set of twin footsteps behind me. There was no need to turn around to check; those two ditched the cripple without a second thought. I wasn¡¯t sure what I expected, that was the Slytherin thing to do, but it still stung a bit.


    Sighing, I stepped out of the way of two and ducked under a third before bringing my cane up to parry a fourth. The liquid inside distorted awkwardly, sending it bouncing away at a strange angle before popping against the stone floor.


    ¡°No fair! No fair! You¡¯re supposed to get wet!¡± Peeves whined.


    He then threw more, two at a time now. But with five whole seconds to look ahead and a body no longer wracked by uncontrollable spasms, I deftly dodged them all.


    Ten. Twelve. He ran out of the ones he¡¯d been telekinetically controlling and began to dip into his sack. The balloons curved like baseball pitches but I continued to slip through his barrage, much to his growing agitation.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    I knew why he was doing this. I wasn¡¯t special; he had no unique grievance against me, nor the girls. Peeves wasn¡¯t a true ghost. Rather, he was a spirit of the mischief of children, the embodiment of Hogwarts¡¯ more playful zeitgeist.He feared the Bloody Baron and Headmaster Dumbledore. If I had to guess, the former because he looked terrifying from a child¡¯s perspective and the latter because the headmaster¡¯s seat granted him some authority over all spirits here, perhaps even enough to banish the poltergeist.


    Unfortunately, I was neither so I¡¯d have to lean in a different direction.


    ¡°This is a game, Peeves, and you haven¡¯t scored even one point yet,¡± I said teasingly. If I wanted to get anywhere with him, I needed to speak his language. I held up my cane like a fencer¡¯s sword and bowed. I then took a fencer¡¯s stance and pointed the cane at him with an exaggerated flourish. ¡°You must first bow to start the duel, don¡¯t you know? Now, have at thee!¡±


    ¡°A game? Snakesie wants to play with Peevsie?¡± he asked in genuine confusion. Slytherins didn¡¯t typically indulge the poltergeist.


    ¡°That¡¯s right. How about this? Every time I avoid getting hit by a balloon, I get a point. If you can hit me, you get a point. And, whoever loses has to listen to the winner, okay?¡±


    ¡°No cheating!¡±


    ¡°No magic, promise,¡± I said solemnly. ¡°This shall be a grand duel, and a duelist lets his sword do the talking.¡±


    ¡°Those ones don¡¯t count,¡± he insisted, waving at the puddle around me. ¡°Now we¡¯re for realsies!¡±


    ¡°Then come!¡±


    I allowed myself to slip into my more juvenile impulses. Life wasn¡¯t all about plotting after all, not even for a seer in the house of snakes, even if that seer was a reincarnator older than his years.


    I dipped and ducked, sometimes dodging aside with a flamboyant twirl like a ballerina. I briefly hid behind a suit of armor, only for Peeves to call me out for ¡°cheating.¡± From then on, I stood in the center of the room and slashed the air with my cane, deflecting and popping every balloon as if I was an anime swordsman weathering a hail of arrows.


    Until finally, Peeves ran out of ammunition. He panted with seeming exhaustion, though I had a feeling that had more to do with the conclusion of the ¡°game,¡± the end of ¡°playtime¡± as the spirit knew it. Conceptually, as the spirit of mischief and childlike wonder, he¡¯d been thoroughly satisfied.


    ¡°This is solidly my victory, Peeves,¡± I told him with a smile.


    ¡°It is! It is! But Peevsie will be back for ickle firstie snakesie-sword! Just you wait!¡± he said. He flew off with a cackle before I could call in my winnings, leaving me standing alone in the middle of a giant puddle.


    Pity, it would¡¯ve been nice to have Peeves listen to me, few knew the castle better than the immortal poltergeist, but I didn¡¯t mind too much. There would be other days, other duels between the poltergeist and ¡°snakesie-sword.¡±


    Though that was a distraction I hadn¡¯t foreseen, it was, if I was being honest with myself, also a lot of fun. I¡¯d made a habit of exercising of course, and the Room of Requirement did provide me with a moving obstacle course, but dodging projectiles, competing against someone else, felt different. It was an indulgence I wouldn¡¯t mind once in a while.


    X


    ¡°You¡¯re not wet,¡± Tracey noted with mild interest as I took a seat across from her in the great hall.


    I scooped myself a plate of mushy peas and shepherd¡¯s pie. I rolled my eyes and jabbed a fork in her direction. ¡°An astute observation, Davis. I appreciate you two sticking around, by the way, a sterling example of house solidarity there.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, we don¡¯t know the shield spell yet,¡± Daphne said calmly.


    Tracey nodded. ¡°Exactly, you weren¡¯t realistically going to run from that.¡±


    I almost forgot because I barely noticed anymore, but I still carried my cane. I was still excused from midnight astronomy classes. As far as they knew, though I hadn¡¯t tripped over myself in weeks, a hurried hobble was as best as I could manage.


    Which meant that in their view, it was like being chased by a bear. So long as you were faster than the slowest person in your group, you didn¡¯t need to outrun the bear.


    ¡°And mutual suffering in the name of house solidarity is for Hufflepuffs, is that right?¡± I drawled.


    ¡°See? You get it, Zabini,¡± Tracey chirped, her brunette tresses bouncing with faux cheer.


    ¡°You¡¯re a riot, Davis, truly, you are.¡±


    We ate in silence for a minute before Daphne spoke again. ¡°So what happened?¡±


    ¡°Hmm?¡±


    ¡°Color me curious. You obviously got Peeves to leave you alone somehow. Care to share any tips?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve come to an agreement, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°So long as you continue to keep him away from us.¡±


    ¡°Now there¡¯s an idea¡­¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t dare,¡± she growled. Her green eyes looked like chips of emerald, dazzling but hard and frigid.


    ¡°Me? No, of course not,¡± I said with an impish smirk. ¡°I would never convince our resident poltergeist to target you specifically, Greengrass. But then again, who knows? A little schadenfreude does sound entertaining and accidents do happen.¡±


    ¡°Zabini¡­¡± she trailed off. It was probably supposed to sound low and menacing but only managed to remind me of an angry kitten.


    ¡°Greengrass~¡± I sang back.


    ¡°Ugh, please don¡¯t ever use that tone with my name.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that sounded disgusting to me too.¡±


    ¡°Fine, whatever. I¡¯ll pay you, happy? Name your price, within reason.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m kidding, really. Besides, extortion and coercion are horrible business strategies in the long-term.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you were smart enough to think in the long-term,¡± she sniped.


    ¡°Well, if you insist¡­¡± I couldn¡¯t hold back a chuckle at her mulish look. She was unexpectedly fun to rile up. ¡°Again, joking. I¡¯m not actually sure if I can get Peeves to do anything. He does get more manageable once you understand just what he is.¡±


    ¡°And he is?¡±


    ¡°A poltergeist, not a true ghost.¡±


    ¡°How does knowing that help?¡±


    ¡°It helped me well enough.¡± I polished off the last of my shepherd¡¯s pie and stood. ¡°Anyway, lovely chat, but I¡¯m going to head off to bed. Good night, Greengrass, Davis.¡±


    X


    Today was Halloween. In other words, today marked the first major ¡°station of canon¡± in Violet''s life. If I had to be honest, I would admit that today made me nervous.


    Classes let out early for the feast and I¡¯d decided to spend what little free time I had in the library, looking up new spells to learn. I wandered from shelf to shelf without any rhyme or reason. I did that once a week or so, or when the mood struck me. It was relaxing to browse the titles and surround myself in the smell of weathered pages, a reminder of what I used to be before I was Blaise.


    The Perfect Teatime


    Twenty-Four Spells to Tell Time


    The Siren Song: Music and its role in magical history


    To Live a Glorious Life: A memoir of Hans Viktor Wagner


    The library truly was a place of marvels. The whole place was perfectly organized at all times, Madam Pince wouldn¡¯t have it any other way, but it still never failed to surprise me in little ways. It was as if the castle had its own personality, a will which it enacted upon the library to keep things fresh, yet familiar.


    I picked up the memoir, the name of the author sounded vaguely familiar, then paused. There was a quiet groaning coming from the nearby corner. It wasn¡¯t two students trying not to get caught while fucking, I knew what that sounded like from unfortunate experience, so I made my way there.


    There, I found Leontes Granger himself, my personal homework-mule, though he knew it not. He sat at a small lounge chair, one of many dotted throughout the library¡¯s little nooks. His wavy hair made him look a little like a mushroom and partially obscured his face, though not enough to hide the big bruise on his cheek.


    I could leave. Shamefully, that was my first impulse. Oh, I didn¡¯t need to be a seer to take a good guess, but Leontes¡¯ troubles weren¡¯t any of my business. I¡¯d gain nothing from helping him.


    And yet, I was a librarian. I was an educator of sorts. Walking away didn¡¯t sit right with me so I quashed my first impulse and tapped on a nearby shelf to announce my presence.


    ¡®I suppose I owe him for mooching off his homework,¡¯ I mused.


    He jolted in surprise; he hadn¡¯t expected to be found. ¡°Zabini? W-What do you want?¡±


    ¡°Not much, but you look like you could do with Madam Pomfrey¡¯s attention,¡± I said neutrally.


    He turned his head, trying to hide the blooming bruise on his cheek. That just showed me his opposite eye, and the fat bruise covering it. ¡°It¡¯s fine. It¡¯s nothing.¡±


    ¡°You sure, Granger? Because that¡¯s a hell of a shiner you¡¯ve got there.¡±


    ¡°Go away.¡±


    There was no other seat available, but I made a show of leaning against the shelf. ¡°Hmm, I wouldn¡¯t be much of a Slytherin if I took orders from a Gryffindor, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°Please go away?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Sod off!¡±


    ¡°Nah.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll hex you.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re in the library.¡±


    ¡°Bastard.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯ll have you know, whatever other aspersions might be made about my mother-dearest, my parents were married when I was born,¡± I said with mock-offense.


    ¡°Whatever.¡± He huffed and plopped a book in his lap, louder than strictly necessary. He was very insistent on pretending I wasn¡¯t here.


    I couldn¡¯t have that. I slid to the ground and took a seat before doing a bit of light reading of my own. Then, after a few minutes, I tried again. ¡°Wanna talk about it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Not going to see Madam Pomfrey?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. It¡¯ll go away on its own.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself, Granger.¡±


    I read the first chapter of Wagner¡¯s memoir. He was a man who lived during the Age of Sail, a curse-breaker and Order of Merlin, Second Class who dedicated his life to finding Atlantis. He failed, but the mere attempt was fascinating to read about.


    The man had a bombastic personality that was at once cocky and charismatic, a bit like an old-timey Indiana Jones. He talked about walking through the ruins of Pompei and finding traces of wards that had been long since shattered. Not quite Atlantis, but further than anyone else had managed. Though my original intent had been to look up random spells that caught my eye, the account of his travels expanded my understanding of what was possible with magic.


    As usual, the Hogwarts library never failed to disappoint.


    ¡°Zabini?¡± Leontes spoke after half an hour of silence.


    ¡°Yo.¡±


    ¡°You also have perfect ¡®O¡¯s right?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do.¡± Thanks to him.


    ¡°How do you do it?¡±


    ¡°Ugh, I¡¯m not playing the pronoun game with you, Granger. Do what? What is ¡®it?¡¯ You¡¯re going to have to be more specific. I¡¯m a seer, not a mind-reader.¡±


    ¡°Just¡­ be you. Not have people hate you¡­ be popular,¡± he whispered.


    That made me blink in surprise, but it made sense, I supposed. From the perspective of a lonely nerd, the foremost information broker in the school must have seemed quite popular. Affection and necessity weren¡¯t the same thing however. ¡°The easy answer is that people can¡¯t afford to hate me. Slytherin isn¡¯t like the other houses. We don¡¯t really have house-wide friendships like Hufflepuff, or to a lesser extent, Gryffindor. Instead, we have alliances of mutual benefit and those shift all the time. There is no expectation of lasting friendship barring some select examples.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ That sounds more like a business convention or the Parliament than a school dorm.¡±


    ¡°It does, doesn¡¯t it? Maybe that¡¯s because it¡¯s how many of us were raised. In some ways, Slytherin House is a microcosm of pureblood society, a chance for us to cut our teeth before the real thing, and we treat it as such. There are many of my housemates who will one day sit on the Wizengamot so that Parliament example isn¡¯t far off. This transactional nature of House Slytherin is also what makes me almost untouchable. Information is power and I can find out lots of valuable information.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re left alone because you¡¯re valuable?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s part of it. The rest is that I was raised to interact with other purebloods within the expected social conventions. My family isn¡¯t British nobility like the Malfoys, but it¡¯s very widespread across southern Europe and quite wealthy. Like the rest of my house, I have many acquaintances, few friends, and absolutely no one I would pour my heart out to,¡± I said. Though, unlike most, the latter was because I lacked an emotional peer rather than any intentional distance I enforced.


    ¡°That sounds lonely,¡± Leontes said. ¡°I thought¡­¡±


    ¡°You thought¡­?¡± I coaxed.


    ¡°Hogwarts is the oldest and greatest magical school in the world,¡± he whispered, no doubt quoting a line from Hogwarts: A History. ¡°I thought people would be as interested in learning as me.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in the wrong house for that. Besides, that ¡®best school in the world¡¯ thing is nonsense. There are eleven major magical schools in the world registered and recognized by the International Confederation of Wizards, of which Hogwarts is one. Each specializes in different subjects. Hogwarts does have the most well-rounded education in my opinion, but I wouldn¡¯t necessarily say it¡¯s the best.¡±


    ¡°R-Really?¡±


    ¡°What? Where do you think wizards in Japan go to school?¡±


    ¡°I just¡­ I guess I never thought about it.¡±


    ¡°Mahoutokoro in Iwo Jima, if you must know.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­¡±


    ¡°So? What happened to your face?¡± I asked now that he wasn¡¯t brooding.


    ¡°I fell.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t insult my intelligence, Granger.¡±


    ¡°Well why do you care anyway?¡± he huffed.


    I sighed. He was being stubborn, like most teenage boys. I could keep pressing, but I didn¡¯t think he¡¯d be willing to tell me. He¡¯d probably just clam up again. ¡°Fine, don¡¯t tell me. But you should still go to Madam Pomfrey before the feast.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I want to go to the feast tonight. I¡¯m not really in a celebratory mood.¡±


    ¡°Ugh, you¡¯re really going to be like this, huh?¡±


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°Fine, guess I¡¯m pulling the ¡®I¡¯m a seer¡¯ card after all. Look, I came to find you because I felt something really bad might happen if you skip out on the feast.¡±


    ¡°What? Will McLaggen not have someone to laugh at?¡± he shot back, then realized he¡¯d said too much.


    I gamely didn¡¯t comment but pocketed the information for later. Bullied, and by an older year then. I supposed that was more likely than him getting into a slugfest with Ron of all people. ¡°Not that kind of bad. Do you really think I¡¯d come find you if I thought the worst you¡¯d have to deal with is some name-calling? If you skip the feast, there is a chance you might get seriously hurt.¡±


    I didn¡¯t know that. I couldn¡¯t know that. Simply being born a boy would mean Leontes wouldn¡¯t be found in the girl¡¯s bathroom. The troll, if it did end up roaming the halls later tonight, should miss Leontes entirely.


    And yet, I knew Fate was a thing, a conscious, sentient entity. I didn¡¯t know if Leontes had her attention, but it couldn¡¯t hurt to be sure.


    ¡°I-What? Is this a prophecy?¡±


    ¡°No, seers don¡¯t usually remember those,¡± I pointed out. ¡°Just a bad feeling, okay? If you really want to skip the feast, don¡¯t leave the Gryffindor tower tonight.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ Fine. And thanks, Zabini,¡± he said hesitantly.


    ¡°You want me to sic the twins on McLaggen? Free of charge, one time offer.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need help.¡±


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡± I rose and dusted myself off. ¡°My warning¡¯s delivered. I suggest you heed it.¡±


    ¡°Fine, whatever. Goodnight, Zabini.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Avifors was shown to transmute blast-ended skrewts into birds along with nonliving objects.


    Some of you might remember, but Blaise has a ring that is enchanted to cast episkey at will. He used it to mitigate the symptoms of the cruciatus curse for himself. He could have fixed Leontes¡¯ bruise but held off on that because a wandless heal is the kind of thing he wants to keep in his back pocket.


    Animal fact? Sure. Lobsters have their bladders in their heads. When males jockey for dominance, it¡¯s fairly common for them to squirt each other with their pee. So yes, ¡°pee on them to assert dominance¡± is a valid strategy for some animals.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 23. Troll in the Dungeon!

    Chapter 23: Troll in the Dungeon!


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I looked around the great hall. The feast was every bit as impressive as the movies suggested, with seemingly every dish under the sun. I saw whole chickens, porchetta as long as my arm and thick as my head, and at least four types of savory pies. There was both beef stew and seafood chowder as well as a spicy pumpkin soup that smelled of cinnamon and cloves.


    As enticing as the feast was, my attention was on one person, or rather, his absence. Sure enough, Leontes was nowhere to be found. Hopefully, he''d made good on his promise to spend the evening in Gryffindor Tower. Other than him, I didn''t notice anyone missing at a glance.


    Across the hall, Violet looked utterly miserable. She tried to smile and laughed at something Parvati said, but it looked oddly plastic. Today was the day her parents died after all, and though she didn''t actually remember James or Lily, her shitty relationship with her relatives made her fixate on the idea of James and Lily, parental figures who loved her so unconditionally that they willingly died for her sake.


    I was drawn from my amateur psychoanalysis by the idiot of the hour. Professor Quirrell stormed in, delivered his line perfectly, notably with none of that god-awful stuttering, then fell over onto his face with a dramatic sigh.


    And I¡­ did nothing. I was tempted to laugh, as some did, but I held myself in check.


    In my opinion, the danger this first year posed was sorely underestimated by the fanbase. Not until the final battle would Voldemort ever step foot in this castle again. Not the diary, an inexperienced sixteen year old boy, but the Dark Lord in truth. As silly as Quirrell seemed, I refused to forget that Voldemort, in all his experience, was here, right this moment.


    As diminished as he was, there was no doubt that his knowledge was intact, and a wizard''s worth was measured by said knowledge. Qurirell had been possessed over the summer. What could he have learned from his master in all those months? No, I had reason enough to be cautious.


    A not insignificant part of me wanted to step in, to interfere in a huge, game-changing way. I thought about calling Quirrell out, maybe doing something to snatch the turban off his head and expose Voldemort to the school. Or, were I so daring, perhaps even plan an assassination by weaponizing the love of Lily Potter. If it all went well, I could spare Violet so much grief later on. The world would know the Dark Lord was back; she''d never have to fight her battles alone.


    If it all went well.


    And if things went wrong, I would be dead. So would dozens of students attending the feast. Even if Dumbledore managed to defend us all and chase Voldemort away at the same time, a possibility given Voldemort''s weakened state, my relative anonymity would be over.


    Right now, I was a curiosity. A seer, true, but also crippled, young, and inexperienced. No doubt Madam Pomfrey told the faculty that I would eventually recover, but I was largely seen as a youth with immense potential, not currently an asset. It was an image I actively cultivated.


    I played the fool, a greedy Slytherin hopped up on his meager schoolyard "cunning." I made money, impressed my classmates, and acted like my wisdom was a sagely gift to be treasured. I went out of my way to make myself seem harmless, doing nothing to suggest that I was aware of either Quirrell or the philosopher''s stone.


    Losing that carefully cultivated image, and for such a risky plan, was unacceptable. I knew I must choose a side more definitively one day, but today was not that day. Acting boldly now, when so much could go wrong, was the least Slytherin thing I could do.


    Neutral jing and all that.


    Besides, I had other plans in motion, other pans in the fire that would improve Violet''s chances, and in less riskier ways. Quirrell''s time would come. For now, I would watch and wait.


    I held up my goblet and offered the "downed" professor a toast. To myself, I muttered, "You''re a bit late, professor. The troll rather likes the dungeon."


    X


    The first weekend of November was, like the first weekend of every other month: We could visit Hogsmeade. Unlike the previous month however, I had a reason to visit the village beyond killing time. I purchased some extra quills and parchment rolls from Scrivenshaft''s Quill Shop before making my way to the post office.


    The post office was located on the main street and was much larger inside than out. It was so large in fact that a sign proudly declared that they had two hundred twenty-three owls of all shapes and sizes. I had no idea that Hogsmeade needed that many, but the town did serve as the regional nexus for the magical community of Scotland so perhaps people from other, smaller settlements came here for their post-related needs.


    I stepped inside and offered the clerk a friendly smile. The interior was sparsely decorated, with the bulk of the space taken up by rows and rows of shelves, each shelf filled with cubbies for rental owls.


    "Hello, ma''am," I greeted the middle-aged woman. I was in casual wear, a nice pair of slacks, sweater, and winter robe to ward off the Scottish chill. "My friend''s birthday is coming up and I wanted to get him a surprise gift. Do you deliver to Hogwarts?"


    The woman returned my smile. "Of course, dear. It''s no trouble if you don''t have an owl of your own. We offer a small discount to Hogwarts students."


    "No, no, I have an owl. It''s just, she''s a little¡­ recognizable. I''m pretty sure half the school could pick her out by now. This is supposed to be a surprise, you know?"


    "Oh, I see. Well, why don''t I help you pick out the right owl for the job? How big is the package?"


    I pulled out the flask of rat tonic I''d been saving. It smelled foul to me, but apparently was quite appealing to rodents. It had been mixed with the draught of living death at a carefully curated concentration.


    Daphne had provided me with the sleeping draught about three weeks prior and I''d spent that time testing to ensure that the rat tonic would not interfere with the draught''s coma-inducing effects. A drafty castle wasn''t exactly lacking for rats to act as test subjects. Better, because the rat tonic was made to be appealing to rats, the scent masked the addition.


    "Just this, ma''am. It''s a rat tonic for my friend''s pet," I said with a smile that wouldn''t melt butter. "I hope he''ll like it. He''s been telling me his rat hasn''t been very energetic lately."


    "Oh, I''m sure he will, dear. The vial has been charmed unbreakable? If not, I can do that for you."


    "Yes, ma''am. I made sure of that already."


    "Splendid. Would you like to write him a note? I know it''s supposed to be a surprise, but that doesn''t mean you can''t write him a nice letter, just don''t sign it."


    "You know what? You''re right. May I have some parchment?"


    "Or course you can."


    I thanked her and considered what I wanted to write. Then, figuring I should tip the scales even more, I wrote:


    Dear Ronald,


    Scabbers looks like he could use a pep in his step. I hope this rat tonic will help set him straight.


    Signed,


    A Distant Admirer


    I rolled it up and tied it to the vial. It was intentionally misleading. I did admire him, or at least, the man he could become. But no one else could possibly understand the context of those words. When he read the letter, he''d come to the obvious conclusion, a romantic admirer.


    This was especially likely given that my penmanship was rather elegant. It had been one of the many lessons forced upon old-Blaise as the scion of a wealthy, respected pureblood house. In Ron''s mind, he would associate my penmanship with a young girl''s. Just to further enhance the illusion, I slipped in a random flower I''d plucked near the Forbidden Forest in between the parchment and bottle.


    "There, it even looks suitably like a present, don''t you think so, ma''am?"


    "Of course, dear. For something like this, I would recommend our short-eared owls. They''re big enough to deliver the potion and look quite adorable."


    "Sure, can I pick one out myself?"


    "Yes. The shelves are color coded based on the distance each owl can fly, but that won''t matter in your case."


    I bowed politely. She was, whether she knew it or not, helping in the capture of a dangerous mass murderer. "Thank you for your help, ma''am. This is really important to me."


    I soon exited the store and grabbed a quiet lunch by myself at the Three Broomsticks. Thankfully, there was no Heath to drag me into any house-related drama. Before I left, I purchased a small cage from the local pet store, paying a few galleons extra to have it charmed unbreakable.


    X


    The next morning, I watched carefully as Ron received his package. He looked confused at the bottle, then ridiculously happy as he read the note. I felt bad; I was playing on a teenage boy''s emotions to guarantee that Peter drank the draught. He''d soon realize it was poisoned and his rat was "dead" and all his boasting would taste like ashes in his mouth.


    That said, I couldn''t think of a better way of neutralizing Peter than this. Had I simply offered to buy the rat from him, Ron might have been suspicious. Or he''d have outright refused, thinking I intended to feed his pet to Minerva; for as petty as he could be, he wasn''t cruel. Worse, had the rat heard that the seer wanted to purchase him, Peter would obviously have done a runner.


    No matter. I would make it up to Ron eventually. I didn''t know how yet, but once Sirius got his trial, the truth came out, and Peter died like he should have fourteen fucking years ago, I''d make sure to do something nice for him.


    I spent most of that Sunday practicing new spells and working out in the Room. When I got sick of that, I found myself in the art club, sketching idly on a loose sheet of paper. They didn''t have pencils, but they did have charcoal. My crystal ball was in hand and I allowed my mind to roam idly, not in search of anything specific, simply out of habit. For fifteen minutes or so, I was alone.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    "You''re not normally out here on a Sunday, Zabini," said Clara Warren, the club president. Behind her floated a mortar and pestle, along with what looked like several red tiles. "Feeling the creative itch?"


    "I suppose you could say that. I had a bit of time to myself and thought I''d experiment."


    "Swell. What''d you draw?" I turned the sheet around so she could see. "That''s¡­ Why does that look familiar?"


    It was Arnold Schwarzenegger, future governor of California. But for the less politically inclined, he was best known as the Terminator. I''d drawn a rough sketch of him, half his face melted off to reveal the machinery beneath.


    Clara Warren was a muggleborn. She probably had a relative who liked movies, especially since Terminator 2: Judgment Day came out sometime this summer. But if she didn''t know that, then how could I refuse this golden opportunity to fuck with her?


    I feigned a look of shock and licked my lips nervously. "Oh, oh no¡­"


    "What?"


    "I sometimes do a few idle sketches. You know, not think and let the charcoal take me where it may."


    "I do that too. Why do you look so worried?"


    "Lately, I''ve been having some¡­ I hesitate to call them visions, but," I waved at the paper. "I mean, some of this looks like muggle machinery."


    She looked at it more carefully. "It does¡­ Are you saying this is something real?"


    "Maybe¡­? Look, Warren, all I know is that I''ve never been out in the muggle world before. Yet here it is." I allowed a hint of fear to color my voice. "I keep getting this foreboding feeling. It''s why I really came here today, to try to see what would happen if I let myself go."


    "Zabini, you''re starting to freak me out."


    "I''m freaking myself out. Warren? You''re a muggleborn. What the hell am I looking at?"


    "I¡­ I''m not sure¡­ Can I take this? I have some friends in Ravenclaw who are more involved with the muggle side of things. I can get some answers."


    "Normally, I''d want payment for anything related to my third eye, but¡­" I slid the paper her way. "I want some answers myself. Please let me know what you find. If the muggles are making what I think might be metal inferi, I want to know."


    "Yeah, I will."


    "What''re all the red stuff for though?"


    "Oh, this?" she tapped the mortar full of the red tiles. "These are fragments of fire crab shells. They mostly get used as cauldrons, but they need to be shaped first and these are what''s left. I want to see if I can make a new shade of paint by grinding them up. I know it can be done, but it''s supposed to be real challenging for amateurs like me."


    "Huh, that sounds pretty interesting."


    "Right?"


    I picked up my things and began to walk out. "Let me know how that goes. And the sketch too."


    "Yeah, have a good day, Zabini."


    "You too, Warren."


    X


    Nothing happened on Monday. I''d begun to fear that my plan had not worked, that for whatever reason, Ron had not given Scabbers the rat tonic. Then Violet put my worries to rest the following morning. I stepped into the great hall for breakfast when the Mistress of Snowl called me over to the Gryffindor table.


    She was seated between Parvati and Lavender and was gesturing to a seat she''d forced open by prodding the blonde away. Across from her were the first year boys, with the twins not far off.


    "Hey, Zabini, over here," she called. Her face was a rictus of stormy wrath. Judging by the pitying looks she sent Ron, the reason was obvious.


    "Good morning to you, too, Potter," I drawled. "You must not be a morning person; perhaps the early hour has caused you to forget your manners."


    "Yeah, yeah, good morning to you, too. Sit down; I''ve got a job for you."


    "Oh? Do you now?" Despite the sass, I took a seat between Lavender and Violet. I began loading up my plate with waffles, eggs, thick-cut bacon, and charred berry tomatoes before pointedly setting aside the syrup in favor of the fruit preserve. "One of these days, the twins are going to get more creative, but today is not that day."


    "Oi, we''re plenty creative," Fred said from down the table.


    "Yeah, we''re just testing a few things," George added.


    "We''re busy, firstie."


    I snorted. It probably wasn''t a good thing to goad the twins like this, but they did make my life more interesting. "Of course you are. That was a marvelous silent switching spell though."


    George grinned and brought out an identical bottle of syrup from beneath the table. "You caught onto that? Not bad."


    "You had to have some way to make sure only I suffered from your prank."


    "True that."


    "So, what can I do for you, mighty Chosen One?" I turned back to Violet. I loved watching her nose scrunch up in annoyance.


    "First off, you can start by never calling me that again," she said. "Scabbers is dead. How?"


    I made a show of acting surprised. "Well, that explains why the whiniest Weasley is moping. For a moment, I almost thought one of you finally taught him table manners."


    "Sod off, Zabini," he grunted.


    "I would, but I don''t think Potter will let me."


    "Hold on," Dean Thomas spoke up. I hadn''t had any dealings with him personally, but Parvati spoke well of him. "How do you know who Scabbers is?"


    "Scabbers the rat? Weasley''s pet."


    "Yeah, that''s pretty suspicious mate. You keep saying you don''t care enough to find out every little thing, but here you are already knowing whose rat that was. You sure you didn''t have anything to do with this?"


    I was ready for that one. It was why I''d bothered with chess at all. "Perceptive. I like you, Thomas. But if you must know, Weasley and I play chess on occasion. I mentioned having an owl, he whined about having a hand-me-down rat. I remember saying I''d lost enough galleons to him that he could probably buy himself a owl over winter."


    "Oh."


    "Yes, we might be in a magic castle, but not everything needs some mystical explanation. So, tell me about it."


    "Ron''s rat died," Neville filled me in. "A letter came from a ''distant admirer'' with rat tonic. Ron fed Scabbers and then Scabbers went stiff as a board. We want to know who did it."


    "Thanks, Longbottom. Now you, Weasley. What are you offering for me to find this person? Actually, hold on. Can you show me the rat? It''d help to have the body."


    "No," Ron glared at nothing. "We can''t find Scabbers at all. We woke up and he was gone!"


    "So¡­ Scabbers isn''t dead?" I asked. That was good to hear. If they saw the rat go stiff, that meant the draught took hold. I''d played along with this farce to make sure.


    There were one of two things that could have happened to the rat after he drank the spiked tonic. First, Ron might have kept the "corpse" on him for some reason before burying it. As much as he would have preferred a more active pet, Ron would have felt some sorrow if his pet died on him. I could easily demand the rat as a catalyst by which to gather more information.


    The second option was what happened here. There was an elf around, one of several I''d been courting all semester. I''d showered the elves with positive attention before telling them repeatedly that the owls needed feeding, and oh, how "Young Master Blazey" cherished his owl. I''d told them that they should keep an eye out for any dead rodents while cleaning. Sometime during that night, when they''d gone to bed and the elves began to clean, one of them must have stumbled on the rat.


    I made a note to check the owlery. The beauty of spending time with Minerva was that I knew she''d listen to my instructions. A simple "don''t eat the rat with any missing toes" would suffice.


    "He was completely stiff." To my surprise, it was Percy who spoke. He''d walked over, prefect badge gleaming golden. "I was the one who checked. I think I''d recognize a dead rat, Zabini."


    "Fair enough. But you not having a body for me is still very troublesome. I need something to at least begin my search. Divination isn''t some all-seeing eye. Did you at least keep the bottle?"


    "We confirmed that it was rat tonic. There had to be something else mixed in though."


    "You suspect that the rat was poisoned. It strikes me that Professor Snape would be the right man to ask."


    It was like I''d asked them if anyone would like to give Voldie a blowie. Every single Gryffindor within hearing distance recoiled like vampires splashed with holy water. Even "perfect prefect Percy" frowned with frustration.


    "Ask Snape?" Parvati gasped. "Are you insane?"


    "I feel like I should take offense on behalf of my head of house."


    "He hates us!"


    "He does, but he is also the foremost potions master in the British Isles. If anyone can tell you what''s been mixed into the tonic, it''s him."


    Percy slid a bottle over. It had a bit of the tonic''s residue on the bottom. "We''ll leave that as a last resort, Zabini."


    I accepted the bottle. "Very well, but there is the matter of payment. I don''t do anything for free."


    Violet slung an arm around me. She looked at me with her best attempt at puppy eyes. Unfortunately for her, she wasn''t nearly as cute as she thought she was. "Come on, buddy ol'' pal. Not even for me?"


    "It''s not for you; it''s for the youngest Weasley," I said, booping her nose and pushing her head away. "But for the record, no, not even for you. I am a businessman first and foremost."


    "Fine, what do you want?" Ron asked resignedly.


    "Well, it strikes me that this ''distant admirer'' is someone who is willing to poison someone''s pet. That doesn''t sound like an entirely stable individual. I don''t know if I want to make an enemy of someone like that."


    "We''ll chip in," one of the twins said. "Scabbers has been in the family for years."


    I pretended to be taken aback by that. "Years? Like one or two?"


    "Try more than ten."


    "You¡­ You do realize that Scabbers is far older than a rat should be? Even if he was a magical rat, maybe his time came? The rat tonic might have been too much stimulation for an old bloke like that."


    "We hadn''t considered that."


    "You''re saying this unknown person might not have been malicious and the tonic might just be a normal tonic?" Percy mused. "That''s a fair point actually. I''d still like to be sure. I''ll pitch in as well."


    I nodded and dug out my crystal ball from my bookbag. "Very well, eight galleons, two from each of you brothers. With this, I''ll dive into the contents of the vial, see if it really had been tampered with. If it had, I expect further payment to dig deeper. Again, I don''t want to deal with a bloody crazy person without you making it worth getting involved."


    They winced at that. The twins made to reach into their pockets. To their surprise, Ron stopped them before setting the full amount on the table. "It''s fine. I can afford this."


    I wanted to laugh. Those were my galleons he was returning to me. He looked constipated at the idea of parting with his coin like this. He really was a good man.


    Alas, I had a reputation to keep. "Thank you. Now be silent, please."


    I made a show of waving my hands over the crystal ball. It accomplished fuck-all, but it did look suitably spooky to the gathered audience. The ball filled with mist and I began to speak.


    "I was wrong, my apologies, Weasleys," I said, staring intently into the fog. "The rat tonic has indeed been tampered with. I cannot be sure what was in the bottle, but I can tell you that it was the cause of what happened to Scabbers."


    "Well? Who did it?" Ron demanded.


    "No idea." I pulled myself away from the ball and allowed the fog to fade. "The person who made whatever was mixed into the tonic is not the same as the person who sent the letter. Do you have the letter?"


    "We do, back in Ron''s trunk," Seamus said. I knew the Irish lad from his tendency to blow himself up in charms.


    "I might be able to gather more information if you give me that. However, I don''t want to. I don''t want some crazy person out there with a grudge against me."


    "We''ll pay more," Ron said. "I''ll give back everything I won from you."


    "Nope. Not good enough, Weasley. I have money; what I gave you is nothing, certainly not worth making an enemy out of someone like that." I looked squarely at the twins. "There is only one thing you Weasley brothers have that I might consider fair payment."


    The twins looked at each other. They knew I knew about the map; its passphrase was how I''d first caught their attention.


    "I thought you didn''t want it," Fred said.


    "I didn''t and don''t under present circumstances, but it represents safety and awareness. If I dig into this letter, circumstances would change, wouldn''t it? You''re asking me to take on a fair bit of risk here; I therefore want something to ameliorate those risks."


    "I¡­ I don''t know," George said.


    "We''ll have to talk about it," his twin added.


    "That''s worth a lot to us-"


    "Both for our pranking, and our business."


    I polished off my plate and stood. "Suit yourselves. As things stand, all I can offer you is the confirmation that Scabbers was drugged."


    "You really can''t do us a solid?" Seamus asked. "Don''t be a bloody coward, mate. It''s just a name."


    "I am not a Gryffindor. I place no value in personal courage. Rather, what you often describe as courage looks a lot like foolish recklessness to me. I''ve made the price for my help clear, Finnegan. I suggest you stay out of negotiations if you don''t know what is being demanded."


    "Hey, just saying. You could help a friend out."


    "That implies we are friends. We are not. You are customers."


    "Fine, whatever. What do you want from the twins anyway?"


    "None of your business. You know my terms. If you''ll excuse me, I have charms with the Hufflepuffs."


    Author''s Note


    I kept thinking about what I wanted to do for Halloween. In the end, I decided that nothing going wrong would be the weirdest thing that could happen. No Hermione in the girl''s bathroom. No sudden meeting with a troll who''s not where he''s supposed to be. No injury or death.


    The only way I could have written this differently and still had Blaise be in character was if he had a foolproof plan to kill Quirrell. But then that''d just turn into the omake and Blaise just isn''t good enough to account for every variable like that anyway.


    Animal Fact: The average ostrich egg weighs 3 pounds. It has 2,000 calories and 245 grams of protein. For comparison, a person should be eating 50-175 grams of protein per day.


    PS: Happy birthday, Peaches. You''re the best deer-fucker a guy could ask for.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 24. Legacy of Steel

    Chapter 24: Legacy of Steel


    Clara Warren


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    ¡°How¡¯s art club going?¡± Monica asked as she plopped down next to me on the couch. She kicked off her shoes and placed her feet on my lap.


    ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°My feet are sore. I mean, why do we have to climb five flights of stairs just to get to our common room anyway?¡± she whined. She was my best friend, but by god, she could be annoying.


    I let out an exasperated sigh but began massaging her feet anyway. ¡°It¡¯s not that bad.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re tall! I¡¯m short, with stubby little legs! You don¡¯t understand my pain!¡± she said, making a walking motion with her index and middle fingers to emphasize the point.


    I ignored her complaining. This was routine by now. ¡°Art club was fine. We¡¯ve gotten a few new firsties, though how many will stick around is up in the air. You could join, you know.¡±


    ¡°Even my stickmen look disfigured.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why the club exists, to learn.¡±


    ¡°No thanks, I have enough on my plate trying for NEWTs in arithmancy and runes.¡±


    ¡°You picked those classes. You don¡¯t get to whine about them.¡±


    ¡°Of course I do. I can¡¯t become a wardmaker if I don¡¯t have them but they¡¯re so hard, Clara. Distract me. I need my besties to take my mind off things.¡± I eyed the petite girl with fond annoyance. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a quill, and jabbed the point into her sole. ¡°Hehehe! C-Clara! Stop!¡±


    For a girl of nineteen, Monica was tiny, shorter than most first years. She hadn¡¯t gained an inch since she was twelve from what she¡¯d said. Locking down her legs while I tickled her into submission was literal child¡¯s play.


    ¡°Are you going to stop whining?¡±


    ¡°Hahaha! Okay, okay! I give!¡±


    ¡°Hmm¡­ You don¡¯t sound repentant.¡±


    ¡°S-Seriously! I¡¯m going to pee myself!¡±


    ¡°Alright, fine,¡± I acquiesced. I let her go and she quickly sat up straight, pulling her feet away from my quill.


    ¡°You¡¯re such a bitch, Clara.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Then, I had a thought. ¡°Say, you know a lot about muggle culture, right?¡±


    ¡°Umm, yes? I mean, I¡¯m a halfie, but mom¡¯s a muggle, not a witch. I guess I know more about the muggle world than most but probably not as much as you?¡±


    I pulled out Zabini¡¯s charcoal drawing from my bookbag. It was easily the most interesting thing a firstie¡¯s ever given me. I handed it to Monica. ¡°What do you make of this?¡±


    ¡°Oh! I recognize this! It¡¯s the Terminator!¡±


    ¡°That sounds familiar.¡±


    ¡°You know, like the movie.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Yeah, now that you mention it¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s got Arnold what¡¯shisface. My cousin loves those movies.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ Wait¡­ Hahahaha,¡± I started laughing. This was a movie, as in, completely fictional.


    ¡°Why? Why are you laughing?¡±


    ¡°Okay, so get this: You know Zabini, right? The firstie seer?¡±


    ¡°How can I not? He¡¯s taken over the rumor mill lately. Did he make this? I thought he was a pureblood. Does he even know what this is?¡± she asked.


    ¡°He did. He said he¡¯s been getting these little dreams accompanied by a foreboding feeling. I caught him sketching this in the clubroom on Sunday, said he wanted to put his visions to paper.¡±


    ¡°Huh, that¡¯s interesting¡­ Wait, so he doesn¡¯t know?¡±


    I giggled. ¡°No! That¡¯s the best part! He¡¯s been obsessing over some kind of muggle machinery that doesn¡¯t actually exist!¡±


    ¡°Hah, that is pretty funny. His own power¡¯s messing with him.¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    Then a devious glint entered my best friend¡¯s eyes. The twins were the preeminent pranksters in Hogwarts, but sometimes, I wondered if that was because Monica didn¡¯t care enough to take the crown from them.


    ¡°Say, Clara, you know what would be hilarious?¡±


    ¡°I know that look.¡±


    ¡°What if we played a little prank on him?¡±


    ¡°This is a bad idea.¡±


    ¡°You haven¡¯t even heard it!¡±


    ¡°Monica, the last time you had this look, you bought Professor Flitwick a pair of stilts. You¡¯re lucky he has a sense of humor,¡± I said patiently.


    ¡°I got him those because he has a sense of humor. You know he loves me.¡±


    ¡°For some inexplicable reason, yes, he does.¡±


    ¡°Come on, Clara, just a teensy prank?¡±


    ¡°Against my better judgment, fine. Lay it on me.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s barely a prank, promise,¡± Monica winked. ¡°What if you just¡­ went along with it?¡±


    ¡°You want me to¡­ act like the Terminator is real? What? Tell him that there is some kind of muggle superweapon that¡¯s half man and half machine?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Imagine, all the purebloods will think there is some great muggle conspiracy! It¡¯ll be hilarious!¡±


    ¡°Or, they¡¯ll all think muggles are nuttier than they already do.¡± I found myself smiling despite myself. That would be funny, and I could set the record straight whenever, maybe even drag him to the movies over summer to prove it if he freaks out too much. ¡°Well, Zabini does take himself a little too seriously sometimes¡­¡±


    ¡°Exactly! And anything that bugs the purebloods can¡¯t be a bad thing. Like, what if we tell him that it¡¯s an enchanting experiment gone wrong? Don¡¯t tell him it¡¯s fake, or that it¡¯s a movie, if he even knows what those are. Just tell him that it¡¯s an urban legend or something and you had no idea it was real until he drew a picture of it. Then act all freaked out and let him come to his own conclusions.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a terrible person. What if he really believes there¡¯s a muggleborn dark lord or something turning muggles into mechanized inferi?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll get a good laugh out of this?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ You know what? Fine, but I¡¯m going to tell him the truth if he gets too stressed. I don¡¯t want to get chewed out for bullying a firstie.¡±


    ¡°Sure, sure. Maybe it¡¯ll be a good lesson for him to not jump to conclusions, especially because he¡¯s a seer.¡±


    I rolled my eyes as Monica told me all about the Terminator movie. It sounded interesting enough. I mentally apologized to Zabini. He probably didn¡¯t deserve this, but it did seem like fun.


    What could go wrong?


    X


    Blaise Zabini


    The twins did not pay, of course they wouldn¡¯t. I knew that even before going into negotiations. Their willingness to part with the Marauder¡¯s Map was something I¡¯d looked into long ago. Hell, even without the Sight, I would have come to the same conclusion. The map was just too important for their future endeavors.


    Right now, they dominated a small corner of the Hogwarts black market, if it could be called that. They tested joke products in hidden corners of the castle and smuggled in contraband from Hogsmeade for money. Once in a while, they might use their pranking talents for others, for a fee of course. It was all for the sake of their dream, to open a joke shop of their own.


    No, if I had them pegged right, and I liked to think I did, they¡¯d run their own investigation using the map. Not only was this a way they could be good brothers to Ronald while preserving their treasure, this was their chance to prove they could outwit the seer.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    That, and they were Gryffindors. I''d dangled bait, the promise of adventure and mystery both. I''d be more worried if they didn''t bite.


    Let them go on their wild goose chase. They¡¯d waste time looking for a ¡°distant admirer¡± that didn¡¯t exist while I took care of one of the series¡¯ major problems. They wouldn¡¯t know until much later on, but this was to be my little prank on the twins.


    Which brought me to the next part of my little scheme. It was the riskiest in the sense that I genuinely had no idea if I could pull this off. Sure, I was reasonably confident, but I was dealing with an alien mind here. Getting a prideful owl like Hedwig to do me a solid was legitimately the trickiest part of this plan.


    I found myself eating supper in the owlery as I often did. However, unlike other times, the owlery was the site of a heated negotiation.


    In front of me was a plate full of premium owl treats, the best my considerable allowance could buy. Next to it was a small, wooden box that had been charmed unbreakable. In it was, of course, the rat.


    ¡°Please, oh great and merciful Hedwig! This unworthy soul begs for your assistance,¡± I beseeched. I clapped my hands over my head and bowed at the waist, as near to kneeling as I''d ever get.


    ¡°Hoot!¡± she sniffed. I didn¡¯t know owls could do that, but mail owls were practically their own breed, closer to pokemon than normal animals as far as I was concerned.


    ¡°Please, you just have to deliver this rat to Professor Dumbledore.¡±


    ¡°Hoot! Hoot!¡± She glanced from me to my owl, the queen of this roost.


    ¡°Minerva?¡±


    ¡°Hoot.¡±


    I looked to the side to see my oversized owl. She was pouting. I didn¡¯t know how she was doing it with a beak, but she managed. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Minerva knows that this package must be delivered by you.¡±


    ¡°Hoot?¡±


    ¡°Bwap,¡± Minerva said, pecking my shoulder irritatedly.


    ¡°You know why. I know people will connect the dots, but it''s about keeping up appearances. I don¡¯t want anyone to have any evidence of my involvement and you¡¯re too magnificent. Everyone knows you¡¯re my owl,¡± I told her. She refused to look at me and hopped away when I tried to scratch her neck. ¡°Don''t be like that, Minerva. You did a splendid job guarding the rat.¡±


    ¡°Bwap.¡±


    ¡°I''m serious. Would it help if I promised you a full box of owl treats to yourself?¡±


    ¡°Bwap.¡±


    ¡°Look, the only reason I''m having Hedwig deliver the rat is because this rat is actually a human like me. It would be poetic irony if his animagus form was brought in by Violet''s owl.¡±


    ¡°Bwap,¡± she continued to sulk. I did promise that she''d be the only owl I used. Still, I saw her tilt her head in curiosity despite herself.


    ¡°Yeah, really.¡± Perhaps I''d gone a bit dotty but talking to the owls like this was comfortable. It felt right somehow. ¡°Have I told you that Violet¡¯s parents are dead?¡±


    ¡°Bwap?¡±


    ¡°Well, they are, and this rat did it. He''s why she''s such a lonely little owlet, and why she''s living with her horrible relatives.¡±


    That was a mistake. Hedwig was already quite attached to Violet, to the point that I sometimes wondered who was the mistress and who was the familiar.


    Hedwig screeched before lunging with murderous intent at the box.


    A not insignificant part of me was sorely tempted to let her rip Pettigrew apart, but I couldn''t, not right now. I snatched the box out of the way. ¡°No, Hedwig! If you really care about your human, he needs to be delivered alive!¡±


    ¡°Hoot!¡± She made to peck me, but Minerva held out a much larger wing to shield her human.


    ¡°I know, but she needs him alive for human things. I promise he will die, but humans have our own way of doing things. Violet deserves to have her revenge, right?¡±


    ¡°Hoot¡­?¡±


    ¡°Do I promise he will die?¡± She nodded. The raw malice in her eyes would not have been out of place on a serial killer. Then again, that was exactly what owls were: feathered assassins. ¡°Yes, I will personally ensure it. Him dying will make everyone a lot safer, but not right now.¡±


    Hedwig studied me carefully before letting out a dissatisfied hoot. She held out her foot. It took me a moment to realize she wanted me to shake it. I didn¡¯t know where she picked up the human custom, but I obliged her anyway.


    I grasped it and winced as she squeezed harder than strictly necessary, a reminder that her claws were very sharp. If Pettigrew lived longer than strictly necessary, I knew she¡¯d make her displeasure known.


    The snowy owl held my gaze, her glare as frigid as the winter. Then, slowly, she let me go. Little lines of red dripped from my hand. The pact was sealed in blood. ¡°Hoot.¡±


    I laughed nervously. My very first murder and it would be because I¡¯d have a feathered missile after me if I didn¡¯t. Somehow, I doubted that excuse would hold up in court.


    ¡°Thank you, Hedwig. You won''t regret this.¡±


    She let out one final hoot before digging into the feast I''d prepared for her.


    Having her deliver Pettigrew wasn''t just for a spot of irony. The more detached I could remain, the safer I would be. If something went wrong, if anyone else looked into matters or Pettigrew somehow escaped in the future, I wanted as little linking back to me as possible.


    The Gryffindors would know nothing save a ¡°distant admirer.¡± The house elves were seldom questioned. The post owls couldn¡¯t talk. And now, if anyone ever tracked this box, they would find that it was delivered by Violet Potter¡¯s owl, not mine.


    X


    Having set that little pebble rolling down the hill, I headed to my room to do some studying. I had a sizable collection of books, some from my family library and others from Flourish & Blotts; it seemed like a pity to not read them, especially considering how little use the actual divination textbook was in comparison.


    I opened up my copy of Divination through the Ages and began to read. This book was easily my favorite in my collection. Though it only provided two or three examples, if that, of actually usable divination spells from each culture and century, the breadth of material covered couldn¡¯t be matched by any other tome I owned.


    ¡°I once met an Armenian witch in Croatia. She was a gypsy, traveling amongst a muggle band of performers and using her magic to add a smidge of mystical flair to their shows while hiding in plain sight,¡± the author wrote. I¡¯d found the man to be a rather morally flexible individual by the name of Pierre Dupond. ¡°She would often use a ritual to look for valuable pieces of muggle and magical history in whichever town she visited, only to sell the wares back to interested parties at extremely profitable prices.


    ¡°What was most curious about this little ritual was that it seemed to bypass anti-scrying measures set up by the magical community. The ritual¡¯s scope included areas of the towns that were warded by magicals. Though I will not incriminate myself with the means, I was able to convince her to part with the ritual.


    ¡°According to her, it did not directly scry into the present, and therefore the warded areas. Rather, it read the ¡®memories of the land¡¯ to acquire pertinent information.


    ¡°I¡¯d heard similar notions throughout my travels of course, that the world was alive. Usually, it was a philosophical concept taught to children to emphasize the value and interconnectedness of nature and human society. However, this was the first time I¡¯d encountered a magic that specifically hinted at such a thing being more than a mere moral statement. Whether the land truly had a memory or the gypsy misunderstood her own ritual, I opted to record it for posterity.¡±


    I sat up straight at that. Scrying, the art of looking into far away places using magic, was one of the few subfields of divination that was considered reliable. Not many people attributed it to divination, but their ignorance was irrelevant.


    It was relatively simple to accomplish and could be done using a variety of mediums. Hell, it was so common that James Potter and Sirius Black used it during their Hogwarts years in the form of a two-way mirror. Sirius speaking with Harry through the fireplace was another example of such.


    However, this widespread usage also meant there were wards that blocked this kind of magic. They tended to be fairly all-purpose, rendering most mediums worthless. Even with my crystal ball, I couldn¡¯t scry the philosopher¡¯s stone.


    I¡¯d tried several times since my conversation with Quirrell. I wanted to be certain that the philosopher¡¯s stone was in the third floor corridor because there was a common fan theory that Dumbledore used a fake as bait to lure Voldemort in.


    Given that the tests were simple enough for first years to bypass, it wasn¡¯t an unreasonable assumption to make. Sure, Voldemort would have failed the trial with the Mirror of Erised under the rules presented, but hinging Voldemort¡¯s return on a single enchanted artifact, no matter how potent, was obviously risky.


    Was the stone fake all along? Or was this just a quirk of JKR¡¯s inexperience as a writer? Perhaps she never expected to write more than the first book. Maybe the plot contrivance that allowed Harry, Ron, and Hermione to bypass the trials was never meant to be expanded upon because it was supposed to be a children¡¯s story, not the beginning of a seven-part epic.


    The fan theory had been a neat thought at the time, but now that I was living in this world, the distinction became crucial. It would influence how I approached the problem at the end of the year. Hell, if the stone was fake, there was zero need for me to even bother and I¡¯d steer Violet away from it altogether.


    Unfortunately the corridor was warded quite thoroughly against scrying. But even that wasn''t an indication of the stone¡¯s authenticity. If I were Dumbledore, I would naturally want to protect the fake as if it was the genuine article to prevent Voldemort from doing this exact thing.


    So, I read. If there was an easy way to get around the anti-scrying wards, I wanted to know about it.


    ¡°The ritual was conducted thusly: First, on a night of the full moon, she proceeded to burn an even mix of frankincense and myrrh, enough to fill a single handful. Atop the fragrant flame, she tossed four pieces of ivory, each as long as her index finger. The ivory had to have come from four separate elephants, one for each cardinal direction.


    ¡°Then, as the smoke began to waft, she breathed it in and sank into a deep meditation. She was then permitted three questions. She would begin broadly and narrow down on a target. The ritual, the land itself by her estimation, would then provide her with information concerning the most magically or historically significant detail within the scope of the question. Location, person, or object, it mattered not.¡±


    What followed was the tale of several objects she¡¯d ¡°appropriated.¡± Most were mundane items, such as watches or paintings that had belonged to prominent members of the town¡¯s history, but she did occasionally luck out with magical artifacts. If she could not find the owners or the owners¡¯ descendants to sell to, she would carry them with her to the next town.


    It was fascinating to read about, but I unfortunately could not replicate the ritual right away. For one, I didn¡¯t have four ivory pieces from four different elephants. There was something about elephants being symbolically tied to wisdom and long memories.


    The college librarian in me filled with random trivia recalled the ¡°elephant graveyards¡± that certain herds returned to regularly when their eldest members were near death. They could also hear vibrations along the earth through spongy pads on their feet so maybe they really were tied to the land on a more conceptual level. If I remembered correctly, the Hindu god Ganesha was both the god of wisdom and good fortune, and symbolized by an elephant.


    I had a sneaking suspicion that the ivory pieces were relevant on multiple levels.


    As for the moon, that was self-explanatory. I wondered why the frankincense and myrrh were necessary. As far as I knew, the two came up in the story of Jesus Christ. The three wisemen offered these gifts to Christ in the manger. Wizards didn¡¯t tend to be religious so I doubted that was the relation.


    Unfortunately, I didn¡¯t know enough about herbology to guess an alternative explanation. That would require a bit more research. All in all, this seemed like a ritual I could attempt, perhaps over winter break.


    Author''s Note


    Yes, Ravenclaws are nerds. No, that doesn¡¯t make them especially wise. Then again, if Blaise wasn¡¯t an isekai protagonist, the ruse would probably work.


    By the same token, yes, Blaise is a seer. No, that doesn¡¯t make him especially cunning either. Is this the best way to get rid of Pettigrew? No, probably not. But it made me chuckle and the idea wouldn¡¯t leave my head so here it is.


    If the gypsy¡¯s spell sounded familiar to any of you, that¡¯s because the book is describing Legend Lore, a D&D spell from the divination school.


    Have one more elephant fact: Elephant penises are not only massive, they¡¯re also prehensile. Bulls use it sometimes to scratch their underbellies or swat away flies.


    Does Corbin/Blaise know this? I¡¯d like to think he does for the same reason I do: supreme boredom.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.</a>

 25. Of Mice and Men

    Chapter 25: Of Mice and Men


    Albus Dumbledore


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    I was the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. I was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I was a student and later research associate of Nicholas Flamel, defeater of Grindelwald, and an Order of Merlin, First Class.


    And yet, for all my many titles and decades of experience, I couldn¡¯t help but be filled with wonder each new school year. Some of my colleagues liked to think they¡¯d seen it all, heard every excuse for missed assignments or youthful mischief.


    I disagreed. They were missing the point in my opinion. There was more to Hogwarts, more to education, than what went on in the classroom. There was a certain sense of novelty that Hogwarts never failed to instill in me, whether by its countless secrets or, occasionally, through its eclectic student body.


    I was taking a great many risks this year. It had been an unexpectedly easy task, getting my old mentor and his wife to part with the philosopher¡¯s stone.


    The event had felt momentous despite their cooperativeness. There had been a sense of finality to it, the feeling that this might truly be the beginning of the end for my old friends. I would of course do my best to safeguard the stone and return it to them once Tom had been neutralized, but there were always risks, risks that they¡¯d accepted. Even now, they were getting their affairs in order with the small cache of elixirs they had stored up, just in case.


    I had thought that would be the biggest change this year. Violet Potter, the philosopher¡¯s stone, and Tom¡¯s impending return would all play a part in the fulfillment of a prophecy. Like actors in a play, they would all gather at the grand stage that was Hogwarts. And of course, I too would play my part.


    If I was lucky, I could lure Tom to the seat of my power, defeat him and stall his return for a few more years, but I doubted things would go my way. Gambling against Fate was something even I could not do.


    So, I promised I would do the best I could. If my part was not to vanquish yet another Dark Lord, then I would pave the way for the one who could. It was a decision I¡¯d long since resolved myself to, ever since that fateful night Sybil uttered those words.


    And then he came, the seer. Blaise Zabini was a once in a century talent, of that there was no doubt. I would dare say that not even Gellert was young Blaise¡¯s match in the field of divination.


    He reminded me of my old love: handsome, daring, with eyes brimming with ambition and love for magic, and oh so brilliant. It wasn''t simply his flawless understanding of the material, something not even Minerva or Pomona could dispute.


    It was how he carried himself. The young man knew more than he said, always presenting himself with meticulous care. He could fool his peers, most of my professors even, but I''d known too many master manipulators to be taken in. As prodigious as he was, he fell short of those with decades of experience.


    I couldn''t help but wonder at the cruel machinations of Fate. Surely there was a reason for the young seer''s arrival here, in the same year as the prophesied savior of the magical world. Here, at the cusp of Voldemort¡¯s second rise, was a young man who reminded me so dearly of Gellert.


    Whether willingly or not, he would play a role in Violet Potter''s story. Of that, there was no doubt. The two were already friends, possibly more according to Severus.


    That, coupled with his clear cunning and his mother''s reputation, concerned me deeply. I wondered how genuine he was. He would hardly be the first to tug at a young woman''s heartstrings for personal gain. I would have liked to claim I was free of bias, that I would not hold a boy''s heritage against him, but there was one scion of a dark family I''d already taken a chance on. Some suspicion was healthy.


    Voldemort would rise again, as mandated by Fate. But I also felt it in my bones; he would fall just as swiftly. Perhaps it was fitting, that the tale forged by the tongue of one seer, would come to a close by the hand of another.


    But what would come after? Would young Violet have to die to end Tom¡¯s reign of terror? Or would she survive, only to find that her dearest love had taken the mantle of her greatest foe? Would Blaise become Violet¡¯s Gellert? Or would they lead the magical world into a new age side by side, accomplishing what Gellert and I failed to do?


    I did not know. For all my power and influence, I could not know. I saw them and I hoped and feared in equal measure. These were heavy thoughts.


    Perhaps, I ought to take a heavier hand. I could call him into my office, impress upon him the importance of Violet''s role and why he should not interfere.


    But that would alienate him, possibly even pushing him further into the dark. He might act against me, and by extension Violet, purely out of spite. Being a seer offered greater knowledge, but greater knowledge did not automatically imply greater maturity.


    It would also risk revealing more of the prophecy than I wished to at this time. Perhaps he knew, but I suspected that he did not. Prophecies were finicky things, and exceedingly rare. How could he know to look if he did not know one existed in the first place? And if he did not, I would not be how he found out. Giving him such information before he was ready would likely end in disaster.


    No, a gentler hand was needed. He was too great an asset, if not now, then in the future. He could become Violet''s greatest champion, her most stalwart ally and protector. I would need to nudge him carefully, and he would need to be watched of course, but a seer with his level of control had not been seen since the time of Nostradamus.


    As I was contemplating the best way to approach him, I heard a knock outside my window. Turning, I was surprised to find young Violet''s owl tapping on the glass.


    Strange. Letters were delivered at dawn, no matter how far an owl had to travel. The magical familiars had certain enchantments that guaranteed such. That the snowy owl was here now meant this was a missive for my eyes alone.


    Curious, I opened the window and offered the gorgeous creature a treat from Fawkes¡¯ stash. She offered me a hoot of thanks and perched next to my fiery friend.


    Violet¡¯s owl, if I remembered correctly. Hagrid purchased her for her. He always did have an eye for the best sorts of creatures.


    Though Violet was the child of prophecy, I had not done anything to indicate such. Her teachers were explicitly told not to show her any form of favoritism. I wanted her to enjoy her youth and sense of normalcy for as long as possible. And, like most teenagers, I doubted she would seek out her headmaster without good cause. Even then, her first choice ought to be Minerva, not me.


    Which raised the question: Why?


    I hummed in thought as I opened the wooden package. In it was a letter, and what appeared to be a dead rat. Either this was a prank in horribly poor taste, or Hogwarts has managed to surprise me yet again.


    The missive was short yet cut me to my core: ¡°You owe it to Padfoot.¡±


    X


    Violet Potter


    I¡¯d just brushed my teeth, taken a shower, and took a seat on the porcelain throne to tinkle before I turned in for the night. It was only about eight in the evening, but I tried to wash up fairly early because I usually spent an hour or two chatting with Parvati or reading a book before bed and getting up when I¡¯d just gotten comfortable was a pain in the ass. Besides, I loved Parv, but she and Lavender hogged the bathroom.


    That was when the glorified KFC Cluck Bucket flamed into the bathroom a foot away from my face. If Magical Britain had anything resembling common sense, it would have a fire safety code and this fucking arson-turkey wouldn¡¯t be allowed anywhere near polite society, but it didn¡¯t, so here it was.


    ¡°Aahhh!¡± I shrieked. I startled backwards, hit the raised toilet lid, and fell over.


    On the plus side, I didn¡¯t need to pee anymore. On the downside, I stubbed my toe on the ceramic tiles.


    ¡°Bwap?¡± the soon-to-be rotisserie squawked. It was laughing at me. I didn¡¯t know how I knew, but I knew.


    ¡°Fuck¡­¡± I groaned in pain.


    ¡°Violet? You okay in there?¡± I heard Parv call through the door. ¡°I heard a crash.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good,¡± I lied through my teeth. How the fuck was I supposed to make ¡°I pissed myself because a puffed up chicken jump-scared me,¡± sound believable? ¡° ¡°I just¡­ I stubbed my toe!¡±


    ¡°Alright, don¡¯t hit your head now¡­¡±


    I heard her walk away and let out a relieved sigh. I glared up at the bird. I¡¯d never seen it before, whatever it was. It looked like an eagle and had red and orange feathers that seemed to glow with an inner light. Pretty, but I wanted to wring its little neck.


    ¡°What the hell are you?¡± It let out a musical trill that soothed my irritation somehow and held out a leg. Attached was a note. ¡°For me? From who?¡±


    ¡°Bwap.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, fine¡­¡±


    I untied the letter from its leg and began to read:


    Miss Potter,


    Please see me immediately in my office. My office is around the corner immediately following the second floor corridor. There is a gargoyle to mark the entrance. The password is ¡°sugared sockeye.¡±


    Signed,


    Headmaster Dumbledore


    PS: As I¡¯m sure you are curious, Fawkes is a phoenix and my familiar. He would greatly appreciate an owl treat for his trouble.


    ¡°Owl treat my ass,¡± I grunted. ¡°You¡¯re lucky I don¡¯t stuff you in a pot.¡±


    The smug bird chirped and preened itself over the sink. Alas, I would not be getting my revenge on the foul fowl today. The headmaster would probably drown me in detentions if his bird went missing. Really, what kind of lunatic used an undercooked roast chicken as a mail-bird anyway?


    Muttering to myself, cleaned up and got in the shower again. I threw on some clothes and headed out the door.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Vi? Where are you going?¡± Lavender asked.


    ¡°I forgot I was supposed to meet a teacher for something,¡± I replied. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll be back before curfew.¡±


    ¡°Ooh, are you in trouble?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so? We¡¯ll see.¡±


    X


    ¡°Come in, Violet,¡± Professor Dumbledore said, eyes literally twinkling. That had to be a spell. Or a geriatric disease.


    Unsure of whether I¡¯d catch some magical disease by proximity, I looked around the office. It was¡­ wild. Quirky? Dotty? I wasn¡¯t sure how to describe it, except that it was as colorful as the headmaster¡¯s usual dress.


    The office was a tall cylinder. Above, from the ceiling to about a third of the way down, the walls were lined with moving portraits. Judging by how they were dressed, they were all important, probably past headmasters or famous alumni. That was where ¡°normal¡± ended.


    The rest of the wallspace was covered by bookshelves save two openings: one was the stairwell, which I assumed led to the headmaster¡¯s quarters, and the other was some kind of marble basin filled with fluid.


    No fucking wonder the Cluck Bucket was such a pain in the ass. He spoiled the damn thing and built a goddamn birdbath in his office!


    The bookshelves weren¡¯t much better. Half of it was filled with books, as I¡¯d expected of the most learned man in Magical Britain. The other half was filled with trinkets and gadgets that made all sorts of noises. It was like if someone tried to explain the idea of steampunk to a nomadic tribesman who¡¯s never seen machinery before, and only managed to get the ¡°lots of whistles and shiny parts¡± down.


    At the center of it all was my glorious headmaster, the off-brand Gandalf himself. He was stroking his cock, and thankfully in the best way that phrase could be interpreted. I briefly glared at my new nemesis. Lyra Malfoy could go fuck herself; she¡¯d been replaced by Dumbledore¡¯s cock.


    Surprisingly, Hedwig was there as well, perched next to the puffed up peafowl. She offered me a fond hoot as she pecked at an owl treat. Her eyes barely left a box on the headmaster¡¯s desk though. I¡¯d never seen her glare like that; she reminded me of a mad dog almost.


    ¡°Good evening, professor,¡± I said politely. He was still the head honcho here. ¡°And Hedwig? What¡¯s she doing here?¡±


    ¡°Ah, your wonderful owl has delivered a pleasant surprise,¡± he said. He slid over a box on his desk. Inside was a note and one dead rat, minus one toe? Finger? I wasn¡¯t sure what appendages were called on rodents. The note was simple enough but it meant nothing to me so I put it aside.


    I could connect the dots. ¡°Is this Scabbers?¡±


    ¡°He was called that, much to my regret.¡±


    ¡°Umm¡­ I don¡¯t get it. How did Hedwig find Scabbers? Why would she bring you a dead rat? And who¡¯s Padfoot?¡±


    ¡°Curious¡­ You do not know.¡±


    ¡°Uh, yeah? I mean, that¡¯s gotta be a nickname, right?¡±


    ¡°You are correct, Violet. To be specific, they were the aliases used by a quartet of rather prolific pranksters about sixteen years prior. Padfoot, Moony, Prongs, and Wormtail.¡±


    ¡°Wait, this is about something that happened before I was even born? What¡¯s that have to do with Scabbers?¡± This was getting more and more confusing.


    ¡°If my hypothesis is correct, Scabbers is in fact Wormtail.¡±


    ¡°Wormtail. Like a rat¡­¡±


    ¡°Indeed. You see, these names referred to the animagus forms used by each prankster. Prongs was a stag, Padfoot was a dog, and Wormtail was a rat. I have confirmed that the rat is in fact an animagus, and that he is not dead, merely drugged into a deathlike state via the draught of living death.¡±


    ¡°What was Moony?¡± I asked, curious in spite of myself. He might have been crazy, but the old man was great at telling stories.


    He did that eye-twinkle thing and ignored me completely. ¡°You might be more interested to know that Prongs was a young man by the name of James Potter.¡±


    ¡°Dad? Dad was a prankster?¡±


    ¡°Yes, he drove poor Minerva quite spare at times¡±


    ¡°C-Can you tell me more about him?¡± I asked, hating the way my voice quivered. But this was dad. No one ever told me anything about them except that they were heroes, that they died fighting.


    It hurt, knowing how they died, but not how they lived.


    ¡°Perhaps another day,¡± faux-Gandalf said with a sad shake of the head. ¡°I bring this up, Violet, because the friendship did not last. During the war, James and Lily went into hiding. Their home was placed under a powerful spell called a fidelius. It is a ward that prevents anyone from learning of a secret unless told by a secret keeper.¡±


    I felt my stomach sink. ¡°The secret keeper betrayed them.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Sirius Black, Padfoot. He has been in Azkaban, the most secure wizarding prison in Magical Britain, for thirteen years.¡±


    ¡°Good fucking ridance then,¡± I spat. Cluck Bucket moved down my list. Some bitch got my parents killed and left me with the Dursleys. I¡¯d get even for that, one way or another. Then the rest of what he said registered. ¡°This¡­ This is Wormtail? Percy said he had him for over ten years! Why? Why would he pretend to be the Weasley family rat for so long then?¡±


    Professor Dumbledore seemed to age a decade. He always looked old, all wise and beardy and shit. Now, he just looked tired.


    Leontes liked to drop random facts and I knew there was some big war in the wizarding world that paralleled World War Two, and that the old man ended it in some kind of epic showdown with the big bad evil guy. He never seemed like a warrior though, more like the weird, old grandpa. I could believe it now though, he looked like he¡¯d shouldered the weight of the world, and for far too long.


    ¡°Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, died, murdered by Sirius Black,¡± he recited as if by rote. The twinkle was gone. His eyes looked so dead inside. ¡°He died a hero, confronting his Death Eater friend, but failed to protect the lives of twelve muggles from a magical explosion. So violent was the explosion that the only thing that could be recovered of Peter was a finger. He was posthumously awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class for his courage and sacrifice.¡±


    ¡°That makes no sense! Then Scabbers can¡¯t be Wormtail. He¡¯s¡­ He¡¯s older than he should be and¡­ missing a finger¡­ Holy fuck, Scabbers is Wormtail¡­¡±


    ¡°That is what the letter implies, yes. And Sirius is in prison.¡±


    ¡°Which means Sirius Black didn¡¯t kill Peter Pettigrew. The story is a lie.¡±


    ¡°That is what I called you here to find out,¡± he said. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew two vials among many. ¡°I felt that you deserved to know, no matter how painful the truth might be.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re those, professor?¡±


    ¡°The first is the wiggenweld potion, the simplest way to awaken someone ensorceled by the draught of living death. The second is veritaserum, though muggles would call it a truth potion. The rat is an animagus, though whether it is indeed Peter, I cannot say for certain until I force him to turn back.¡±


    ¡°Either he¡¯s Pettigrew and we have an innocent man in prison, or he¡¯s not and there¡¯s a second rat animagus missing a finger. In either case, someone¡¯s been pretending to be the Weasley family pet for over a decade.¡±


    ¡°Quite, Violet. Both merit some serious questions, I should think. Although, just because Sirius did not kill twelve people and his old friend does not mean that he did not betray your parents.¡±


    I stared at the vial. In the beginning of the year, Snape gave us some grandiose bullshit about how the subject he taught was oh so great. I had no interest in fame or glory. Putting a ¡°stopper in death¡± sounded like the kind of thing that came with tons of capital ¡°c¡± Consequences.


    But¡­ But truth? That, I could get behind. If he led with that, I might have paid more attention in class. Maybe Snape wasn¡¯t full of shit after all.


    ¡°I want to be here for this,¡± I told the professor.


    ¡°I thought you might. I¡¯ve always considered Hogwarts to be a place for new discoveries. It strikes me that even a century later, this castle never fails to surprise me,¡± Professor Dumbledore said with a wan smile. He waved his wand, an ornate thing with some kind of berry vine wrapping along the length. ¡°Well then, Violet, shall we discover the truth together?¡±


    I nodded jerkily. Then, everything I knew about my parents¡¯ deaths was flipped upside down.


    X


    I glared hatefully at the man. He was a fat, ugly thing, with buck teeth and an unwashed appearance. Even as a man, Peter Pettigrew was a rat.


    I¡¯d never hated anyone this intensely before. I knew now why Hedwig wouldn¡¯t stop mad-dogging the rat. She deserved all the owl treats, as soon as I got done feeding this bastard his own testicles. He¡¯d been stunned to keep his damn mouth shut.


    I swallowed thickly and blinked away bitter tears. The wizarding world wasn¡¯t all sunshine and roses, I knew that now. ¡°How, professor? How did Hedwig get Pettigrew then?¡±


    That twinkle was back now, though nowhere near as bright. And it was just as annoying as the first time. ¡°You truly knew nothing of this?¡±


    ¡°No, professor, I swear.¡± Even as I spoke, gears began to turn. Hedwig¡­ The rat was drugged by a ¡°distant admirer¡­¡± ¡°Zabini! Zabini¡¯s the only one who Hedwig might listen to besides me!¡±


    ¡°An apt conclusion, and one I suspect is true.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­ Then that fucker knew my parents¡¯ murderer was alive and didn¡¯t tell me?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps he wanted me to verify the truth in his visions,¡± Professor Dumbledore said. ¡°Or perhaps, he would have sent Hedwig to me even had he known the truth in full. If we called him now, I suspect he would feign ignorance.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit. Who else could it be? Call him over!¡±


    Professor Dumbledore shook his head with a sad smile. ¡°I will not. It¡¯s not about what we know. I doubt he ever intended to hide his involvement from us.¡±


    ¡°From other people then¡­? Is this one of those ¡®Everything is a message,¡¯ things? He said that before.¡±


    ¡°Indeed. He would call it plausible deniability. Your father still has many enemies within Slytherin.¡±


    ¡°And getting my dad¡¯s best friend freed from prison might put him in danger?¡±


    ¡°That seems likely. His mother is likewise very dark. Though uninvolved with politics in Magical Britain, she would not approve of his actions. In that context, I suspect any fitting reward I grant him would be little better than a poisoned chalice.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not fair,¡± I muttered. He¡¯d done more for me than anyone else alive. He¡¯d given me the truth. He¡¯d set my godfather on the path to freedom. ¡°He¡­ He deserves something. Credit. Money. Something.¡±


    It rang hollow even as the words left my lips. He liked to act like life was a series of transactions, but what could I give him that was worth this? Had he acted because he knew how much I hated my relatives? Because he knew how much I wanted to know about my parents?


    He hadn¡¯t told anyone about the Dursleys either. I knew he knew because he hinted at it on the train. If this got out, never mind his house, his own mother might disown him. I knew how important secrets were to him, but I¡¯d always dismissed it as him being a little quirky. It was only now that I fully understood why.


    ¡°He deserves a reward,¡± Professor Dumbledore agreed. ¡°However, it strikes me that we ought to respect his wishes for anonymity.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair.¡±


    ¡°For a boy who has granted me the chance to right a heinous wrong? No, no it is not. However, I believe I can spare a hundred points to Slytherin, for the greatest exemplar of his house¡¯s virtues in a generation. Cunning and ambition can be quite admirable traits, wouldn¡¯t you agree, Violet?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s so dumb,¡± I said with a watery smile.


    ¡°We do what we can, and however minor, this is what we can give at this time.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­ What now?¡±


    ¡°Now, you return to bed, young lady.¡± He stood tall and I saw a little hint of the great wizard that featured in my history books. ¡°I must insist on an appointment with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.¡±


    I wanted to go with him. I felt like I should see things through to the end. ¡°Professor¨C¡±


    ¡°No, Violet. Go back to your dorm. I assure you, I will do everything in my power to see justice done. After all, I owe it to Padfoot.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Here be Albus. There isn¡¯t a perfect way to reconcile the first book with the rest of the plot, but my headcanon is that the Flamels gave up the stone because they were already considering moving on decades prior and saw this as a good chance to cut ties with the world while gifting their magnum opus to their student.


    No, I¡¯m not a teenager. Yes, I still laugh at toilet humor. Sue me.


    Keep in mind that Violet has never met Dumbledore up to this point. Her first impressions of the man are hilariously wrong.


    I opted to skip the obligatory veritaserum interrogation. You all know the story by now. Hope I did the emotional bit some justice.


    Animal Fact: Pigeons produce milk. Well, kinda. They produce ¡°crop milk,¡± which acts in much the same way to provide necessary antioxidants, fats, proteins, and other nutrients for their young. They are some of the few birds, alongside doves and emperor penguins, that do so.


    Hey, if soy, almond, and cashew ¡°milk¡± qualify as milk, ¡°pigeon vomit¡± should as well. At least it¡¯s an actual animal byproduct.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs</a>.

 26. Praise the Omnissiah!

    Chapter 26: Praise the Omnissiah!


    Blaise Zabini


    Hogwarts, Great Britain


    When I joined my classmates in the Slytherin common room the following morning, it was to find a strange sort of hubbub. Strange in that it technically wasn¡¯t much of a hubbub at all. Us snakes weren¡¯t known to make a ruckus after all.


    Still, there was a small crowd of people milling about the fireplace. They were looking up at four hourglasses that occupied the mantle, each filled with gems of a different color. The setup was a scaled down copy of the display in the main hall that tallied the house points throughout the year.


    At the bottom was a series of point totals. While we¡¯d not been looking, Slytherin had left the other houses in the dust with a full hundred points. We¡¯d already been in the lead by a fair bit thanks to Snape¡¯s favoritism, but this all but guaranteed the cup at the end of the year.


    More importantly, earning house points was the surefire way to acquire more prestige in the house. It was an easy way to secure the top spot in the monthly leaderboards, which in turn could mean tangible benefits, maybe even a pass to the forbidden section of the library. It was why Slytherins so often strutted about, showing off how ¡°cunning¡± they were.


    Curious, then, that no one had claimed credit for the house¡¯s sudden good fortune.


    I smiled and kept my head down. I could only assume Dumbledore had rewarded me in the only way he could while keeping me away from the spotlight. As meaningless as the house points were, the gesture was appreciated.


    X


    Hogwarts breakfasts were great. They were typical English fare, and probably not very healthy, but always well-made. Today, I had two savory scones, cheddar and chives, with a delicious helping of sausage gravy.


    I polished off my meal and guiltily reached for a bowl of charred tomatoes when Heath nudged me on the shoulder.


    ¡°Hey, Zabini, is it just me or is Potter making doe-eyes at you?¡± he said, shooting me what was probably supposed to be a conspiratory smirk. Just what he thought we were conspiring together on, I had no fuckign clue.


    I gamely ignored him and filled my cup with another helping of orange juice. ¡°No she¡¯s not.¡±


    ¡°She is,¡± he insisted, whispering harshly. ¡°Look!¡±


    Sighing, I complied and immediately regretted it.


    Sure enough, Violet was doing her honest best to stare a hole into my head, though I wouldn¡¯t call it ¡°doe-eyes.¡± More, ¡°Why the fuck didn¡¯t you tell me anything?¡± eyes. Or maybe, ¡°Bitch, I will find you,¡± eyes. There was gratitude there, fondness certainly, but also the kind of determination I typically associated with crackhead and military connoisseurs of Crayola flavors.


    She was going to shake me down as soon as possible. Given Heath lacked context, I could see why he thought the Girl Who Lived might have a crush. She really did have lovely eyes, big and expressive.


    I sighed. Whether or not Dumbledore respected my privacy would be moot if Violet kept staring at me like that. Sooner or later, people would connect the dots, especially when Sirius Black suddenly went on trial.


    Leave it to Violet to throw off my plans without even trying.


    ¡°She does seem rather fixated on me, doesn¡¯t she?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, what¡¯d you do?¡±


    ¡°I charmed her with my dashing good looks, a candlelit dinner, and a long, moonlit walk by the lake,¡± I replied sarcastically, flipping my hair like I was in a shampoo commercial. ¡°I have no idea what she¡¯s on about.¡±


    ¡°Really? When did you have time for that?¡± Heath asked. How someone who grew up in pureblood society could be so oblivious, I had zero clue.


    ¡°He¡¯s pulling your leg, Parkinson,¡± Nott scoffed.


    ¡°Oh¡­¡±


    I clapped the taller boy on the shoulder. ¡°Seriously though, I did a few commissions for her and gave her a big discount.¡±


    ¡°Why would you do that?¡±


    ¡°Why else? She¡¯s the poster girl for the light faction. If I can make her believe I¡¯m on her side, I can have more influence with her lackeys later on.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I get it. It¡¯s an investment then.¡±


    ¡°Yup. I didn¡¯t think it¡¯d be so effective though. I guess she thinks we¡¯re closer than we really are,¡± I made a show of looking at her. ¡°Then again, she is rather fetching, isn¡¯t she?¡±


    I left it at that. Heath would likely take me at face value, but others at the table would draw conclusions on their own. Some might think I was manipulating Violet, nurturing her infatuation towards me for some future plan only I could see. Others might think I fancied Violet myself and was using business as an excuse to be kind to her without appearing vulnerable or easily led by emotions.


    It didn¡¯t matter in the end. That was just the way the game was played in Slytherin: One person said one thing and half a dozen amateur politicians interpreted the words to mean half a dozen things.


    By the end of the day, the whole house will have forgotten what exactly I¡¯d said. By the end of the week, the school-wide rumor mill will be so clogged with variations of the ¡°truth¡± that anything else Violet did to capture my attention would itself inspire as many interpretations.


    X


    ¡°Oh, good afternoon, Zabini,¡± I heard Clara call as I entered the art club. There were more people today; about half the easels were occupied.


    ¡°Warren,¡± I nodded to her. ¡°Any success with the paints?¡±


    ¡°Pai-Oh! No, not really. I mean, I got some paint out of it, but it turns out, fire crab shells don¡¯t have a lot of pigment. I would need loads more than a few fragments to make it worthwhile.¡±


    ¡°I could have told you that, Warren,¡± Daphne scoffed. She¡¯d entered behind me and taken her place nearby. ¡°Fire crab are crystalline. While some of their vibrant color comes from their pigment, a good bit comes from the crystalline structure of the gem-like shells. The shells form prisms that refract light and reflect red.¡±


    ¡°Huh, more you know. Where¡¯d you learn that?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not something you¡¯d pick up in a textbook. My lord father took me to a cauldron-maker two years ago. He showed my sister and I how fire crab shells are turned into cauldrons.¡±


    ¡°That sounds really interesting.¡±


    ¡°Indeed it was,¡± she agreed as she resumed painting, something she¡¯d been working on off and on since early September.


    Daphne didn¡¯t often come to the art club. She was there during club day, but she seemed to prefer to paint in seclusion rather than in a group. Or maybe her studies and schemes kept her away. Either way, she¡¯d been working on the same piece for over a month now.


    It was a picture of a little, blonde girl. She was seated on a marble bench overlooking a small, tranquil pond. At her feet was a white kneazle with pronounced tufts of fur protruding from its brows. Judging by the young girl¡¯s waifish, almost malnourished figure and the same, olive-green eyes as Daphne¡¯s I could only assume this was her sister, Astoria.


    ¡°It¡¯s a gift,¡± Daphne said, answering our unasked question. Clara and I had been staring too long. ¡°My sister¡¯s birthday is coming up and I wish to show her that I am still thinking of her in Hogwarts.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s sweet. I¡¯m sure she¡¯ll be thrilled,¡± I said honestly. ¡°You¡¯re a very considerate person, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, it really is wonderfully done,¡± Clara said. ¡°You have a good grasp of perspective and shading.¡±


    ¡°Thank you. She is my sister. She means a lot to me.¡±


    After several minutes, our club president turned to me. She looked like she was steeling herself for something. Then, she held out a familiar picture: my charcoal drawing of Arnold Schwarzeneggar as the Terminator.


    ¡°So¡­ Zabini,¡± she began. Her feet shuffled nervously. ¡°I asked a few of my friends about this piece and¡­ You know how you said you drew this by impulse?¡±


    I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Yes? I¡¯d almost forgotten. I have many dreams, you know. I probably forget most of them.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, my friend recognized it.¡±


    I nodded. That wasn¡¯t entirely unexpected. The Terminator series was iconic for a reason. There was bound to be someone who¡¯d seen it before.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Still, I remembered my bit and inserted a slight quiver into my response. ¡°O-Oh? What is it exactly?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s an urban legend, you know, a modern folktale of sorts. Muggles have a few of those stories,¡± she said haltingly. I was surprised to see that she looked as nervous as I was pretending to be. ¡°There¡¯s this one about a half-man, half-machine thing, a destroyer who is called the Terminator. I didn¡¯t think the stories were real, but if you dreamt of one¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡­ Are you saying that this drawing is¡­ real¡­?¡±


    ¡°Maybe? I want to say no, this level of technology is beyond what muggles have, but you saw it. You¡¯ve never been in the muggle world before, have you?¡±


    ¡°N-No,¡± I said. I couldn¡¯t believe it. Clara was going along with this nonsense. I expected her to laugh, make fun of me a bit, then try to explain what a movie was. Instead, here she was, feeding my nonsense.


    Next to me, Daphne had set aside her brush in favor of peering at my charcoal drawing. She took one look and scrunched up her pretty, button nose.


    ¡°That is grotesque. Muggles really have stories about this?¡± she asked derisively.


    ¡°Not stories, folktales,¡± Clara corrected. ¡°Urban legends are stories someone swears is true. When enough people say it really happened, then¡­¡±


    ¡°Then even hearsay gains some weight. You said muggles don¡¯t have technology like this. It looks like the metal has been fused into this man¡¯s face with a charm, or maybe alchemy.¡±


    ¡°D-Do you think that¡¯s what happened?¡± I asked, voice trembling but cackling inside. ¡°What is impossible for muggles becomes very possible where magic is involved.¡±


    ¡°Come off it, Zabini. The Statute of Secrecy¨C¡±


    ¡°Says muggles aren¡¯t to be told of magic. Wizards can perform magic in the muggle world after our age of majority. Besides, if the muggles in question turn out looking like this, then maybe the Statute is being upheld because there is no one who¡¯s sane enough to tell the story.¡±


    ¡°Oh, my god,¡± Clara gasped. It was a bit too exaggerated to be genuine, but I gave her points for effort. ¡°Are you saying there might be a wizard making these things?¡±


    I nodded solemnly. We¡¯d drawn a bit of a crowd now, the rest of our club having gathered around us. I couldn¡¯t stop the act now; that disturbed look on Daphne¡¯s face alone made this worthwhile. ¡°Inferi. It¡¯s very dark magic, the reanimation of the dead. It¡¯s highly illegal, and for good reasons, even us dark families will tell you that. W-Warren, do you think this might be some wizard¡¯s experiments to bypass those regulations?¡±


    ¡°No one would dare, Zabini,¡± Daphne said. ¡°Muggles might be expendable, but this is the kind of thing that merits a lifetime stay in Azkaban.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Greengrass. I saw what I saw.¡± I pulled out my crystal ball. ¡°It¡¯s probably nothing, but I can¡¯t shake a foreboding feeling whenever I think about this.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave you to your silliness then. Really, muggle inferi,¡± she muttered, shaking her head.


    I was dying inside. It took all my budding occlumency to not burst out laughing. Clara probably thought she was pranking me, not the other way around. She¡¯d probably let me stew in my ¡°ominous visions¡± for a few weeks before telling me, not knowing that I probably knew more about the muggle world than she did.


    Well, when provided with such a splendid opportunity, how could I not respond? Prank me, will she?


    My crystal ball shimmered as its enchantments responded to my magic. I didn¡¯t need it for anything, but it was a wonderful source of legitimacy. Just the fact that I had it out served as a constant reminder of my credibility.


    I worked in silence for close to two hours, occasionally looking into my crystal ball intently. Joke was on them, I wasn¡¯t seeing some horrible reality. Rather, I was digging into my own memory, a hobby I¡¯d dabbled in in my past life. Specifically, Warhammer.


    I drew upon memories of the Fabricator General of the Adeptus Mechanicus. I sketched out tubes and wires that linked directly into the face of a gaunt, one-eyed man. The left half of his face had been replaced by many lenses, seemingly embedded into his face without rhyme or reason. His nose was stripped away, shaved down until the nasal cavity of his skull could be seen. His mouth had been replaced by a breathing apparatus.


    This was Kelbor-Hal, Fabricator General of Mars who reigned during the Great Crusade and the Horus Heresy. He resented the God-Emperor of Man and believed him to be a false god. Though he sided with the Heresy, he was a character who stood out in my mind in vivid detail.


    I tried to copy that dead-eyed stare in the artwork, but I couldn¡¯t quite capture the look in my opinion. Still, his appearance was shocking enough to have the desired effect. He was clearly mechanical yet distinct from the Terminator, with an imposing, scheming air that contrasted nicely with the Terminator¡¯s brute strength.


    On the bottom of the sketchpad, I wrote:


    Praise the Omnissiah! Praise the Machine God. Embrace the Glorious Evolution! Let the Red Planet rise!


    I leaned back with a satisfied grin, which I quickly replaced with a shuddering sigh. Taking the crude sketch off the easel, I handed it to Clara with trembling hands.


    ¡°H-Here, this is what I saw in the crystal ball,¡± I said, completely honestly. ¡°Can you ask around? See what this is?¡±


    Clara looked at the drawing, a little creeped out now. ¡°O-Okay, what is the Omnissiah?¡±


    ¡°The Machine God¡­ I don¡¯t know. I just know that this person worships it. Maybe he made the Terminator.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s impossible!¡±


    ¡°Hmm? Do you know something?¡±


    ¡°Ah, n-no, of course not. The urban legend says that the Terminator is some kind of man and machine.¡±


    ¡°This man, he worships machines,¡± I stressed, ignoring her little slip. Now, the question was, would any muggleborn in Hogwarts recognize a Warhammer character? I wasn¡¯t sure, but the series was far less popular than Terminator. ¡°All I know is that he is someone who thinks perfection can only be achieved by surpassing the human body.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ll ask around.¡±


    ¡°You do that, Warren. You do that.¡±


    My daily trolling quota met, I spent the rest of the day practicing my occlumency. With Wormtail in Dumbledore¡¯s custody, I could now turn my attention on Quirrell and the stone.


    X


    ¡°You¡¯ve been avoiding me,¡± Violet hissed as she slid into the seat next to me.


    Today was Friday, which meant a double period of potions with the Gryffindors. By this point, no one questioned it when the Girl Who Lived chose to sit with a snake.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re¨COi,¡± I hissed, moving my foot out of the way. ¡°Violence is not how civilized people show gratitude, Potter.¡±


    ¡°Guess I¡¯m a brute then. Now hold still!¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re going to kick my shin!¡±


    ¡°Why are you avoiding me?¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help it. I shot her the smuggest grin I could. ¡°Your frustration is delectable, like a fine wine.¡±


    A dozen emotions flew across her face before she settled on a disbelieving laugh. ¡°You¡¯re such an ass.¡±


    ¡°Lies and slander. Have you considered that I do not appreciate my affairs being made a public spectacle?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ But¡­¡±


    ¡°But nothing, Potter. I act because I wish to. I don¡¯t need acknowledgement for my actions, yours or the old goat¡¯s.¡±


    ¡°You¨C¡±


    She was cut off by the sound of the door slamming open. Professor Snape stormed into the dungeon as he always did, cloak billowing like Dracula himself. He glared out at the room menacingly, making even us snakes sit up straight. If nothing else, he really knew how to command a room.


    His gaze settled on us, me specifically. As always, I met his eyes coolly. To turn away would mean I had something to hide. Or, that I feared legilimency even if I wasn¡¯t supposed to know he could do that. So I engaged him in a game of mind reading chicken.


    Did the heir of a pureblood house that could date itself to the fall of Rome know occlumency? Did he dare risk it anyway?


    No doubt he¡¯d been briefed on what happened. Dumbledore didn¡¯t hide much from his pet Death Eater. That said, I genuinely didn¡¯t know how he felt about Pettigrew¡¯s capture.


    On one hand, Snape loathed Voldemort, perhaps more than anyone else alive, because he saw Voldemort as the one who took Lily away from him. Pettigrew¡¯s capture and probable death via dementor¡¯s kiss might even make the man smile.


    On the other hand, Snape¡¯s hatred for Sirius Black was probably only marginally less toxic than his grudge against Voldemort. Not only were the Marauders nowhere near as admirable as people said they were to Violet, it was Sirius who¡¯d arranged for a young Severus to encounter Remus as a werewolf. Whatever Snape¡¯s own role in that mess, I couldn¡¯t deny that he had good reasons to hate Violet¡¯s godfather.


    After what felt like an eternity but was probably a barely noticeable few seconds, he moved on. He waved at the board as a set of instructions appeared.


    ¡°Oculus potion. Well? Get to it,¡± he snapped grumpily.


    The potion was the most difficult thing we¡¯d brewed thus far. It was a fairly niche tonic, used to heal those afflicted by the conjunctivitis curse. It could soothe the eyes and reduce itchiness and swelling. It was also one of the only restorative draughts I knew of that did not require the use of dittany leaves.


    I took a thumb-sized chunk of unicorn horn and went about grinding it under my pestle. As usual, wands were prohibited in the classroom, which meant we had to grind these things down by hand. I doubted they were magically reactive like erumpent horn; Snape probably thought it ¡°built character¡± or something.


    Then again, since when did he need an excuse to give students a hard time?


    I added the wormwood powder, stirred, and began to sprinkle in the ground unicorn horn. Slowly, the potion turned a muted orange, which according to the board, meant I was doing something right.


    Just as I was about to add the stewed mandrakes, I felt a sudden pressure on my sleeve, tipping the bowl in my hand. A lot more of the stewed mandrake went into my potion than necessary, about one and a half more.


    I looked up to try and catch the culprit, only to find Snape already swooping down on me.


    ¡°Zabini,¡± he barked. ¡°Do you find simple directions difficult to follow?¡±


    I scowled. I saw him stow his wand discreetly. I glanced pointedly at his own sleeve, then up at him. ¡°Apologies, professor. My hand slipped. Can I proportionately increase the quantity of other ingredients to make up for it?¡±


    ¡°No, you fool. They must be added sequentially. You¡¯ve ruined the whole potion. I suppose being a seer is no substitute for true knowledge, is it? See me after class.¡±


    That made some of the class snicker, Theo, Tracey, and Lyra especially. It wasn¡¯t often I was humbled. Next to me, Violet looked insulted on my behalf. I stepped on her toes before she could say anything.


    Snape was a right bastard, but he was also known for playing favorites. He didn¡¯t punish Slytherins for anything unless he was forced to, and sometimes not even then. Dumb bullies like Marcus Flint were proof of that. I¡¯d given him no cause to hate me, quite the opposite, so he must be trying to tell me something.


    ¡°Of course, professor. I see enough to know how much I do not know,¡± I replied coolly. I could only assume this was his attempt to meet with me quietly.


    In which case, perfect.


    I didn¡¯t give  a damn about being told off in class. He hadn¡¯t even given me a detention like he so loved doing to Gryffindors, just asked me to stay after class.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Last chapter got too serious. Let¡¯s change that with some Warhammer lore¡­ There¡¯s a brand new sentence for you guys.


    Yeah, even in a fic about magic, we praise the Omnissiah. Watch me turn this into yet another tinker fic.


    Animal fact? Sure. Pelican bills are not lunchboxes. They don¡¯t store food in them for later. That said, they can carry up to three gallons of water in those beaks.


    Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs</a>.