Ranobes » The Supreme Lord Donghuang » Chapter 326: Enemy Attack
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Chapter 326: Enemy Attack
The Supreme Lord Donghuang

Faced with Yun Lu's anxious questions, Freezing Wind's expression turned even more ugly. He turned to look at Zhou Donghuang as if there was something he wanted to say but was unsure about.

"Go ahead," said Zhou Donghuang seriously.

"Young Master."

Freezing Wind took in a deep breath and said, "Senior He Jin and I headed to the Xuesha Sect, and found that all the adepts who were above the Primal Core stage had left, and..."

At this point, Freezing Wind paused momentarily before continuing, "Behind the courtyard in a corner of the Xuesha Sect, I also found the decayed carcasses of two flying beasts. From the shape of their wings and their body sizes, I thought that they could have been Big Gold and Little Gold."

The moment Freezing Wind's words left his mouth, Yun Lu burst into tears. Then, her cries suddenly stopped, and she collapsed into Zhou Donghuang's arms.

After confirming that his sister had only fainted, Zhou Donghuang heaved a sigh of relief, but his eyes were furious.

"To confirm this, I grabbed some Xuesha Sect disciples nearby and questioned them, and they confirmed the identity of Big Gold and Little Gold.

"Because Big Gold and Little Gold had gone to the Xuesha Sect many times in the past and frightened many of the Xuesha Sect's disciples, most of the Xuesha Sect disciples recognized them.

"A while ago, a powerful adept had appeared in the Xuesha Sect, and even the Sect Leader and the Golden Essence elders of the Xuesha Sect were all very respectful towards him.

"Some time ago, Big Gold and Little Gold headed to the Xuesha Sect again, and the Xuesha Sect Leader asked for help from that powerful adept in killing both Big Gold and Little Gold.

"I was told that he used just two blows to kill them."

Freezing Wind took a deep breath and looked at Zhou Donghuang with a tinge of worry.

"Young Master, please accept my condolences," he comforted.

Freezing Wind was well aware of the relationship that Zhou Donghuang shared with Big Gold and Little Gold.

Their relationship was nothing less than the relationship Yun Lu had with the two eagles.

Zhou Donghuang looked at He Jin.

At the same time that Zhou Donghuang turned towards He Jin, He Jin added, "From the injuries that they sustained, it was definitely the act of an ultimate Dharma adept.

"After they died, all their essence was taken away, and it was definitely used to aid someone who had practiced an evil technique."

He Jin shared what he had found out.

"Ultimate Dharma stage?"

Zhou Donghuang's eyes flashed coldly. Just an ultimate Dharma adept, but being so arrogant and acting in such an unrestrained manner on the Ziyun planet… and even killing Big Gold or Little Gold!

"Big Gold, Little Gold..."

Zhou Donghuang was reminded of how he had first met the two golden-crowned eagles in the past and the times that he had spent with them. The fury in Zhou Donghuang's eyes grew like flames burning in a field, growing brighter and brighter!

"Someone is here."

Zhou Donghuang was still reminiscing the times he had spent with the two golden-crowned eagles when He Jin seemed to have noticed something, and he suddenly looked into the sky.

Upon hearing him, Zhou Donghuang turned to look up right away. With his senses, he easily discovered a group of people approaching from beyond the clouds.

The same time that Zhou Donghuang discovered them, a voice traveled in from a distance, "Donghuang Sect Leader, Zhou Donghuang, I heard that you are the most powerful person on the Ziyun planet, so I have come to learn from you!"

When they finished speaking, the group of people had already broken through the clouds, and they were led by a middle-aged man dressed in a long, gray robe. The party appeared in the skies beside the Donghuang Peak.

"It is the new leader of the Xuesha Sect, and the two Golden Essence elders of the Xuesha Sect!"

Even from this distance, Freezing Wind was able to identify the three men standing behind the man in gray.

"Young Master, the man standing in front must be the one who killed Big Gold and Little Gold."

Freezing Wind looked again at the man standing in front, his eyes filled with a murderous glint.

Whoosh!

The moment that the words left Freezing Wind's mouth, Zhou Donghuang took Yun Lu, who had fainted in his arms, up into the skies. Instantly, he appeared in front of the party from the Xuesha Sect led by the man in the gray robe.

The next instant, He Jin and Freezing Wind had both appeared behind Zhou Donghuang.

"Sect Leader."

At the same time, Su Mo had also appeared with a gush of wind, dressed in his scholarly robes. Behind him, Zhou Han and Zhou Feng had also appeared.

Besides them, many other figures came flying in from all directions.

Among them were He Mengxi and Da Zhuang.

In fact, even Lin Lan, Yang Zixi and Ren Jiapei had all appeared.

In the last few years, Yang Zixi and Ren Jiapei have been staying at the Donghuang Sect, training hard in order to catch up with Zhou Donghuang.

Now, just like Lin Lan, they were both Primal Core adepts who could fly.

Within just ten breaths, a huge group of people had gathered behind Zhou Donghuang, all made up of the highest-ranking people in the Donghuang Sect.

"Greetings, Sect Leader."

The group of them bowed in greeting to Zhou Donghuang, who was standing in front of them. Their tone was reverent.

At this time, people had gathered from everywhere. Any space that could be stood on was now filled with someone.

These people were all disciples of the Donghuang Sect.

"Is that the mysterious leader of the Donghuang Sect who nobody has ever seen before?"

The eyes of the Donghuang Sect disciples were locked on Zhou Donghuang's back, their gazes filled with excitement.

Every single Donghuang Sect disciple viewed Zhou Donghuang, their Sect Leader, as an idol.

Even if they had never seen him before, this did nothing to dampen their devotion towards him because Zhou Donghuang's reputation on the Ziyun planet was simply that impressive!

Not only was Zhou Donghuang the youngest Primal Core adept born on the Ziyun planet, but he was also widely recognized as the most powerful person on the entire planet!

"Zhou Donghuang..."

Hong Yunfei was a part of the crowd. As he looked at the young man in white floating a distance away, his expression was complicated.

Since Zhou Donghuang was not calculative and had not taken revenge on him last time, he guessed that Zhou Donghuang probably wouldn't find trouble with him anymore.

However, that was only a guess on his part.

After that incident, he was still worried about Zhou Donghuang, and it was only recently that his worry had lessened.

"Who would have thought that someone would dare to come to our Donghuang Sect and challenge our Sect Leader. Are they doubting the strength of our Sect Leader?"

Now, not only were most of the Donghuang Sect disciples thinking this way, even some of the elders of the Donghuang Sect who were floating behind Zhou Donghuang also thought this.

"Who is this person? Our Sect Leader is clearly the most powerful person on the Ziyun planet, but this person is here to challenge him!"

Many people looked curiously at the man standing in front of the Xuesha Sect people. His long gray hair fell behind him.

Behind this middle-aged man was an old man dressed in red, his face radiant, as well as two other aged men.

"It's the Xuesha Sect Leader, Wang Jin! At his side are the two Golden Essence elders of the Xuesha Sect, Xue Chan and Meng Yidong!"

Among the high ranks of the Donghuang Sect, someone had quickly recognized the three people behind the man in the gray robe. They were none other than the strongest and highest-ranking people of the Xuesha Sect.

At the same time, many other people of the Donghuang Sect also realized that the three from the Xuesha Sect were all sect elders.

And all of them were Primal Core adepts.

"They're from the Xuesha Sect!"

"This Xuesha Sect has always been known as the weakest among the top five sects of the Ziyun planet. How dare they come and challenge our Donghuang Sect! Are they out of their minds?"

"Who is the man in gray? Even the Xuesha Sect Leader and the two Golden Essence elders are all so courteous towards him and even standing behind him."

"He... could he be the backing of the Xuesha Sect?"

...

After realizing that the group of people behind the man in gray were from the Xuesha Sect, the elders and disciples of the Donghuang Sect were all fuming.

Many people now turned to look at the man in gray standing in front.

Some old Donghuang Sect elders were the first to become wary.

"The Xuesha Sect Leader and the two Golden Essence elders definitely would not come to seek death... they are here with unfriendly intentions."

"Who exactly is this man standing in front?"

After a moment, many Donghuang Sect elders looked at the man again, curious as to his identity.

Just now, it was this man who had challenged their Donghuang Sect Leader.

"Zhou Donghuang, we meet again."

At this time, Wang Jin, the Xuesha Sect Leader who was standing behind the man in gray, now glared at Zhou Donghuang with eyes filled with hatred.

He declared through clenched teeth, "In the past, you killed my senior... today, our Xuesha Sect will avenge his death!"

"Your senior?"

Zhou Donghuang glanced slightly at the man but could not remember if he had seen him before.

Perhaps he had seen the man in Xuanyan City during the Ziyun Feast back then?

"The Xuesha Sect Leader who you killed five years ago in Xuanyan City!" yelled Wang Jin coldly.

"Oh, it's him. I remember now." Zhou Donghuang nodded, then simply said, "So you are here today... just to challenge me?"

"Of course not," Wang Jin answered arrogantly. "Today, we are here to annihilate your entire Donghuang Sect!

"Come to think of it, because of you, your Donghuang Sect was very fortunate that we came here as our last stop.

"The Qianqiu Sect, the Shenguang Sect and the Tianwu Sect have all been destroyed by our Xuesha Sect! From this day on, our Xuesha Sect will rule over the entire Ziyun planet and be the sole power on this planet!"

As he spoke, Wang Jin's eyes shone brightly.

Hearing his words, Freezing Wind, He Jin and the rest were all taken aback, their expressions changing.

"The Xuesha Sect destroyed the Qianqiu Sect, the Shenguang Sect and the Tianwu Sect? Is this for real?"

"From the looks of Wang Jin, the Xuesha Sect Leader, he seems to be speaking the truth."

"Is the Xuesha Sect even capable of doing that?"

"Maybe not in the past... but now, it's possible. After all, this group takes this man in gray as their leader, and this man had said that he wanted to challenge our Sect Leader."

"He can't be a simple man... he is very likely a Dharma adept!"

"So what if he is a Dharma adept? Five years ago, our Sect Leader had killed a Dharma adept. After five years, his powers must have gotten even stronger with his talent and skill."

"It was no secret that back in the day, our Sect Leader killed a Dharma adept, and his martial arts talent is also known to all. For the Xuesha Sect to come here, they must really have a lot of confidence in this man in front."

The Supreme Lord Donghuang
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    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.

    “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 ocnstellations. 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.
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      Gopher
      Gopher
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      Preface

      Here's the first of three Troll chapters owed this month. Also, I've decided to run a flash live of A Colorful Life, mostly so I can figure out how that last scene is going to go and what I need to do with the interludes. If you don't read that one, don't worry about it.

      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? Fu#k. 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 f#ck 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.

      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 f#cking 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

      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 “f#ck 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.
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        Gopher
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        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 f#cked 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 f#cking 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.

        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 f#ck’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

        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, f#ck 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.
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          Gopher
          Gopher
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          Preface

          Here's the last of this month's stories. It seems that the majority opinion is that I should remove the victor of each month from next month's poll so starting May, that's what I'll do (April's poll is over and Troll won again).

          Chapter 18: Only wizards would make mead out of pork.

          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 f#ck 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…

          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 f#cking 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. They weren't normal playing 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

          Fu#king moron. Heath Parkinson was a f#cking 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 f#cking 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 f#cking 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 f#cks 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

          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.
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            Gopher
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            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.

            "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! Fu#k!" 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

            Here's the first of the monthly poll winners.

            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.
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              Gopher
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              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?"

              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 f#cking 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.
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                Gopher
                Gopher
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                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 f#ck'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 f#cking 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.

                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. "Fu#k 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.
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