FicWad

Author’s Note: Hello everyone! I’m sorry for being gone, but you’ve all been extremely amazing while I was away and I can’t thank you enough! I also must thank my beta RAfan2421 for being excellent and helpful, as always. To keep this short, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I do not own. This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and various publishers including – but not limited to – Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


Duality: Declivity
OoO


“Merlin’s pants,” Hermione breathed, flipping through Secrets of the Darkest Art, her wide eyes devouring the images and words on the pages. “This is… Well, the title is certainly fitting.”

“Bloody hell, is that a picture of the… er –” Ron was staring bewilderedly over Hermione’s shoulder down at the book, swallowing thickly. “What is it doing to him?”

“Soul extraction,” she murmured and Harry knew what they were looking at. His stomach turned, remembering that image, drawn and animated with excessive detail. It was burned into his mind, the way the victim’s pale corpse was twisted at the murder’s side as the potions that aided the extraction process took effect, making the killer’s body crack and invert, spewing the delicate soul shard – along with a number of other things.

The whole process was agonizingly repulsive and made his skin crawl just thinking about it.

He had no idea how Croaker could talk about something like that so lightly – and Daphne. She had looked through the book in more detail after they had left the Calendula Café, and she barely had much of a response to it before she passed it off to him.

How she could remain undisturbed after reading about it and seeing those images baffled him.

“You really think that Voldemort – oh, fine, Ron, You-Know-Who – made more than one of these?” Hermione asked him, Ron shuddering at her side. Her face was ashen and her jaw slack as Harry glanced up at her.

“Just a theory. He’s definitely made one – the diary. But… he doesn’t strike me as the sort to just stop at one, I imagine,” Harry said, shrugging his shoulders to ease the tension that had settled into his posture. “If he wants to be immortal, somewhat immortal anyway, without giving up his magic – it’s the only way.”

“But Croaker told you no one’s done that before,” Ron pointed out.

“No one sane,” Hermione replied, flipping back in the book. “If you look past all of the – ahm – well, the vile and evil things. It’s dangerous for a person to make just one – it mentions the danger of inverting your body like that right here.” She pointed to a small section in the book. “Making more than one could probably kill you or cripple you or… The side effects of this kind of magic are incredibly serious.”

Busying his hands with his red leather case, Harry plucked out a cigarette, lighting it and moving over toward the window by his bed to crack it open. “Like what?”

He hadn’t been able to stomach the book long enough to get to that bit.

Hermione shook her head. “I haven’t gotten through the whole thing yet. But it might explain Voldemort’s current appearance. There’s a section on recovery… That’s just for one horcrux though. That might not be enough if you’ve made multiple horcruxes. You can’t continually crack your body apart and invert it like that before something’s going to break down – I assume, anyway. Magic can’t fix everything…” She bit her lip, shaking her head again. “It’s amazing he’s still alive if he’s done more than one or two – maybe three.”

“But it’s possible to,” Harry said, blowing out a calming breath of smoke toward the window. “Or isn’t it? Because he’s definitely still alive.”

“Well, overlooking the danger, it probably is possible,” Hermione confirmed, her teeth worrying her lip. “And Volde – You-Know-Who could have used a snake for a reparative spell or potion or something... I’ve read about Dark healing rituals while looking for horcruxes in the Restricted Section. They might be powerful enough to keep him alive after inverting and splitting and...” she trailed off with a grimace, shutting the book in her lap.

They fell into a short silence, only the sound of the crackling of Harry’s cigarette floating between them until Ron cleared his throat.

“So – er – what do these things look like?” the redhead asked. “Y’know. The horcruxes.”

“They can be anything – an empty tube of lipstick; a carriage clock – it just has to have room to house the piece of soul, which doesn’t take much space at all,” she said, letting out a sigh. “And, if he’s made enough for two thousand years’ worth of horcruxes like Croaker mentioned, that’s… a lot of horcruxes.”

“…How many?” Harry inquired, his eyes widening a fraction.

“The average life of a wizard is about a hundred-and-twenty-five to a hundred-and-seventy-five years. That would make it eleven horcruxes – perhaps more or, hopefully, less. I doubt he’d be able to make that many and still be alive though.”

But he didn’t hear that last part. His brain seemed to pause on the numbers; they echoed through his mind.

Eleven.

“Fuck…” Harry breathed, leaning his head back against the cool window. “This is going to be a fucking nightmare. They could be pieces of bloody trash and unless Slughorn’s memory turns out to be a show and tell of ‘here are my ruddy horcruxes’, I don’t know how…” Scrubbing his hand over his face, he brought his cigarette back up to his lips, exhaling bluish smoke in an aggravated huff of breath.

“Well, there’s one thing you can do in the meantime that’ll help,” Hermione said, her brows creasing in concern and Harry threw her a questioning glance.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” she elaborated. “Basilisk venom is one of the few things that will destroy a horcrux and, if the carcass is still there, the venom will be viable. Even when improperly stored, it lasts for years.”

“But that’s only useful if we find a horcrux,” Harry retorted. “Which could be basically anything.”

“It’s something though!” Hermione asserted. “It’ll be good to be prepared, at least. It’s useless to go looking for a horcrux first and finding it and having no way to destroy it, especially if the way of destroying it is right under your feet! Why not have it handy?”

Harry flicked the ashes from his fag out the window. “Alright, fine, I’ll go down there.”

“We will this weekend,” Hermione said with a nod. “After our Apparation lesson.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “You’re coming with?”

“We both are, mate – I wanna come too,” Ron piped in, his expression determined.

“Great,” Harry muttered tightly, taking a calming drag off his cigarette.

He’d hoped he’d never have to see that Chamber ever again – fat bloody chance at that. He should have known.

OoO

Ever since his enlightening conversation with Susan, Ginny, and Hannah in the D.A.’s new headquarters, Harry started to dread Tuesday and Thursday evenings when Andy Smudgley released his articles. With it came the storm of owls, which rained down upon dinner in the Great Hall. The number of subscriptions to the Evening Prophet had skyrocketed, spreading amongst the Hogwarts students at the same rate as the popularity of the Order of the Phoenix conspiracy.

But what was even more horrifying than the popularity was that people were starting to become more curious than skeptical, with some of them occasionally shooting glances up at the empty chair where Dumbledore usually sat for dinner. The Headmaster had been gone for weeks now and that only added to the inquisitive buzz that sparked in the Great Hall.

Intentionally late and dragging his feet across the floor, Harry plunked down onto the bench next to Hermione and glared at the front page of the newspaper lying across his empty plate, already waiting for him. Not looking forward to this, he braced himself as if he were ripping off a plaster and read Smudgley’s latest headline.

OPERATIVE OF THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX SPEAKS: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW

In response to the Evening Prophet’s exposition on the misdeeds of the elusive Order of the Phoenix, a male operative of Dumbledore’s secret coalition contacted our humble office. Careworn and tired of the dishonesty, this operative – who has wished to remain anonymous to the public – went into detail on the group’s culpability in the transgressions uncovered by this reporter’s team, offering to grant an interview for the exposé. Determined to bring our faithful readers the truth, it was only with the confirmation of this operative’s legitimacy – proven by cross-referencing his claims with several Ministerial documents and files from our own investigations (see page 9) – that this reporter met with the operative privately at an undisclosed location and progressed with the most enlightening interview on the matter to date… Cont., page 4.

“Oh, bloody fucking hell,” Harry groaned under his breath and his hands tore open the newspaper to page four, his eyes quickly skimming the article, the words blurring before him. Sections of it jumped out at him, catching his attention and forcing him to read slower, anger burning hot in his chest.

–Hardened by his years of service in the Order of the Phoenix, the operative calmly describes his experience of being party to the bewitching of nine-year-old Kenneth Brocklehurst on October 10th at the hands of Dumbledore’s secret coalition. For those who are unaware of the tragedy, the young boy – compelled by the Order of the Phoenix and not Death Eaters, as previously believed – proceeded, that evening, to execute his entire family via rudimentary Muggle means…

“Well, that’s shock value, innit?” remarks the operative. “The Brocklehursts were under Ministry protection and we were to show that weren’t enough to save them. No one suspects a little boy…”

…The operative’s account of the Order of the Phoenix’s involvement in the Brockdale Bridge disaster, resulting in the death of countless Muggles, is even further solidified in truth by the Auror Office’s report on the same incident. In concurrence with the operative’s experience, the report states that traces of Polyjuice Potion were found at the scene of the catastrophe, the very potion used by the operatives of Dumbledore’s secret coalition during the incident…

…“On the whole, we were instructed to ‘motivate fear’…” the operative explains. “I went along with it, of course, but what else can you do? Powerful wizard like Dumbledore’d do something about dissention – he often did…”–

There were pages and pages of the interview filled with never ending lies, with the ‘operative’ confirming every single one of Smudgley’s previously written articles on the fake ‘exploits’ of the Order – and more. The anger in Harry’s chest slowly rose, heating his cheeks and making his jaw clench.

“It’s Fletcher,” he seethed quietly. “It has to be! He sold out to that…” He let out a breath. “That… bastarding little…”

He should’ve strangled him last year when he had the chance.

“You don’t know that, Harry,” Hermione reasoned under her breath, leaning close to him and grasping at the pitcher of pumpkin juice. “Smudgley could be making this whole interview thing up like he has with everything else he’s written.”

“‘…modest middle-aged man, working as a self-employed entrepreneur by trade…’” Harry scathingly read Smudgley’s description of the ‘anonymous operative’, raising his brows toward her. “That’s just a ‘nice’ way of saying ‘petty thief who fobs off stolen goods in Knockturn and Diagon Alley’.”

He snorted in disgust, his lip curling up at the article as he shoved the newspaper aside, not able to look at it for a moment longer. Everyone around him was discussing it; he could hear their furtive whispers. Accusing glares were passed up to the empty Headmaster’s chair.

“Poor Mandy, I can’t imagine how she feels…” he heard someone say from the Ravenclaw table just behind him.

A whisper from down the Gryffindor table came in, loud and clear, “My sister was on the team of Obliviators for that incident – I always knew there was something dodgy about it when she told me.”

Smudgley was pressing too many of the right buttons.

“The scary thing about conspiracies is that they often have some truth to them,” he heard a Ravenclaw boy heatedly argue with Michael Corner and the temperature seemed to rise in the room, stifling him.

Balling up the paper in his fist, Harry stood up from the table and stalked toward the exit, brushing past Ron and Lavender and not sparing anyone in the Great Hall a glance. Getting out of those doors was the only singular goal in his mind and he breathed a sigh of relief as the Great Hall doors slammed shut behind him. The curious buzz of frenzied conversation was muffled and unintelligible, making it easier for him to calm himself and not do anything stupid on impulse, like set fire to everyone’s copy of the Evening Prophet.

That wouldn’t have been a good idea.

Instead, pulling out his wand, he did just that to his own copy, feeling the angered pressure in his chest start to abate as the newsprint crackled to ash at the end of his nonverbal Incendio.

“Evenesco,” he muttered, making the blackened flakes of paper disappear and he released a breath, setting off toward the Hogwarts kitchens for a much quieter dinner and pulling out his red leather case.

The whole bloody conspiracy was starting to get completely out of hand. Something had to be done about it, but he wasn’t certain what that ‘something’ was.

oOo

“I don’t know why Dumbledore isn’t doing anything,” Harry muttered, unable to focus on the homework spread over floor in his dormitory, which Hermione and Ron were working on. That bloody interview had been stewing in the back of his mind and, after going the entire day listening to the mad gossip of the student population, he couldn’t keep it in any longer.

Ron glanced up from the glass full of water that he was trying to nonverbally transfigure into air. “About… Smudgley?” he clarified, his brows raised. “Yeah, s’bit dodgy. But maybe he’s trying to deal with it when he goes off to wherever he goes.”

Shaking his head, Harry stood up and stretched, reaching in his back pocket for his red leather case as he stalked toward the window by his bed. “I don’t think so. If the Ministry and the news are as tied as Susan said, then Scrimgeour wouldn’t keep having him followed.”

“They would do if he’s gathering evidence,” Hermione supplied, barely looking up from the giant tome in her lap. “With enough proof, Dumbledore could make a good case against the Evening Prophet for libel and even more charges could be put on Smudgley – fraud, conspiracy, defamation… A case like that would be difficult for the press to ignore and, since he’s the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, legal action is the logical choice.”

Harry paused from lighting his cigarette, Hermione’s words acting like a momentary calming balm applied to the ends of his nerves. Yet… there was something not quite right about that possibility.

“But the Order doesn’t keep records of anything, so what could he gather? Witnesses?” He inhaled a deep breath full of smoke and cracked open the window, his brows furrowing. “The Order isn’t supposed to be public knowledge. And if he wants to keep what they do a secret from the Death Eaters or if he wants to keep who’s involved in the Order a secret…”

“He’s Dumbledore, Harry,” Hermione cut in, throwing him a shrewd expression. “He’ll find a way to manage without exposing the Order – or he’s waiting for Smudgley to stick his foot in his mouth. It’s not like everyone believes those articles. It’s going to take more than that to rally people against him. Fudge tried and failed at doing the same thing last year.”

“I wouldn’t say that he failed completely last year,” Harry retorted. “Or don’t you remember Umbridge?”

“The fact still remains that people will stand behind Dumbledore in spite of controversy.”

“Only because Voldemort showed up at the Ministry and proved them wrong!”

“But that’s not everyone and, honestly, the Prophet doesn’t have as much credibility anymore,” Hermione pointed out, letting out a breath. “Not to mention that Smudgley’s ‘proof’ behind the Order conspiracy is extremely circumstantial.”

“Sirius went to Azkaban on less than circumstan–” Harry hissed, stopping abruptly as there was a loud knock at the door. Ron honestly needed to break up with Lavender. Every time that the three of them were together, she always found a way to interrupt them. It was as if she had bloody radar for them.

Harry didn’t even bother to put his cigarette out as he answered the knock, surprised to find Romilda Vane standing on the other side of the door. The fag was dangling from his mouth and he was certain that he had an ugly look on his face.

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything…” she said sheepishly, clutching two scrolls against her chest. “I meant to deliver these last week, but they sorta got jumbled up with my notes for the O.W.L.’s.”

It was an obvious lie and he was half tempted to point that out to her, but he swallowed down his unpleasant mood with a deep breath.

“Right,” Harry muttered as polite as he could, taking the scrolls from her. “Thanks, Romilda.”

“You’re welcome! I’m always glad to help out Professor Slughorn. And…” she paused, throwing him a flirtatious grin, “if you need anything else…”

“Ah, no… no need,” he awkwardly replied, desperately wanting her to sod off and moving to close the door. “I’ll see you around.”

“Bet you ten Galleons that has a love potion or spell on it,” Ron proposed the moment that Harry rudely shut the door and turned back to the room.

Harry sent him a sardonic look to which Ron defended, “What? S’easy money.”

“No, really?” Harry said more than asked, plucking his wand out of his back pocket and throwing the scroll addressed to Hermione over to her. “Specialis Revelio.”

The scroll in his hands turned a bright red, revealing a golden string of equations across the seal, which dissipated slowly and he quickly tossed it to Hermione. “Do you think you can break the spell on that? It looks like Arithmancy.”

Hermione sighed. “I don’t think it’s worth the bother since it likely says the same thing as mine does. Slughorn’s having a birthday party this Friday and he’s inviting the entire Slug Club to it. Didn’t you say he mentioned something like this to you?”

“Well, he did ask me if I was coming to his little ‘leapling’ gathering last week. I just thought he meant that as another Slug Club meeting.”

“Leapling?” Hermione chewed at the end of her note-taking quill. “No. Leaplings are those who are born on February twenty-ninth. Leap year – ‘leaplings’.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“We’ll have to get him a present,” Hermione said with a sigh, tucking the scroll away into her bag.

“In three days?” Harry’s brows rose. “What in the world could we come up with in that time?”

“I don’t know. It’ll have to be mail-order and quick though.”

Letting out a breath full of smoke, Harry leaned against the cold glass of his window. On the upside, Slughorn’s birthday party would give him an additional opportunity to get even closer to the plump professor. And it also would serve as a decent distraction from Smudgley’s articles since there wasn’t really anything he could do about them.

Or, actually, maybe there was something he could do…

He vaguely wondered what Ginny or Luna were up to and quickly got to work on sending memos. Slughorn wasn’t the only one with a ‘club’ full of well-connected people.

oOo


“We have an issue,” Daphne said, pressing an ostentatiously wrapped gift box into Harry’s arms, shortly after entering their usual meeting room in the Hall of Hexes. The box contained an expensive velvet smoking jacket that she pulled out of some dark corner of her resources for him in less than half a day.

Daphne was even quicker than the DA, which was rather astonishing.

Harry’s forehead creased in concern as he watched her fish out her silver case and light up, waiting for an explanation to the beginning of her tirade, but Daphne didn’t seem to be all that forthcoming at the moment.

“What’s the issue?” he prompted, setting the gift box aside and accepting a proffered cigarette.

“Cornfoot’s on to me,” she said quietly, even though Harry had sufficiently warded the room as he waited for her earlier.

His stomach sunk briefly, but he pushed the feeling aside. “And what makes you think that?”

“He’s not stupid – in fact, I think that he’s smarter than Draco could ever be. The way that he conducts himself when he’s around us-” –‘us’ meaning her, Dahlia Runcorn, and the Carrows– “-his actions are calculated. I can tell. He’s trying to play an unassuming role just as much as I am. But I’m not exactly sure of his entire game plan.”

“I still don’t see what makes you think that he’s on to you exactly – he might be ‘playing the unassuming role’ because he doesn’t want to make you suspicious of him,” Harry optimistically suggested.

“It’s more than that. He pulled me aside yesterday after I left the Ravenclaw common room and asked if we could spend some time alone together, without the others around. He left it rather open to suggestion – kind of impressive – but I truly think he asked me that because he’s onto me.” Daphne paused, blowing out a long breath of smoke. “I’m still not sure how I’m going to approach it.”

Harry’s insides froze. “What’d you say to it?”

“I obviously agreed,” she replied with a casual shrug. He had no idea how she could remain so calm. “It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.”

“I suppose,” he rationalized, letting out a sigh. “Could be dangerous as well. You could have just told him you’re involved with someone and took it that way.”

“And put myself under Dahlia, Flora, and Hes’ microscope? Not to mention Sylvia… I’d rather deal with Cornfoot. Though I suppose I could have used Theo… but, no – if I can use this as a way to get even closer to Cornfoot, it’ll be worth the risk.”

Inside Harry’s mind, all of the horrible possibilities – the worst case scenarios – were flowing through at a mile a minute. He tried his best to tamp them down and push them aside so he could think more clearly, but he could only come up with one conclusion.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “When are you meeting him?”

Daphne’s brow arched. “If you come along with me, I’ll have to throw you to hell if he discovers you. It’s not that hard to detect someone under an invisibility cloak.”

“I’ve gotten a lot better at sneaking around in that thing. I’ll silence my clothes and shoes – put myself under Disillusionment.”

“Still doesn’t protect you from Homenum Revelio and I wouldn’t put it past Cornfoot to use it.”

“Then ‘throw me to hell’ if he does,” Harry consented, determined. “It could only earn points in your favour.”

Considering him carefully, Daphne took a drag off of her cigarette. “Alright,” she said finally. “We’re meeting tomorrow in front of the statue of Swarfin the Shrewd at five.”

While everyone else was going to be at dinner… It made alarm bells go off inside Harry’s head, but he let out a calming breath full of smoke, nodding.

“I’ll be there.”

oOo

Sitting around and watching Cornfoot try to fix a broken Vanishing Cabinet couldn’t have been further from the type of spying that Harry preferred. Sometimes he wondered if he had a subconscious death wish. The type of spying he enjoyed made his heart feel like it was ten fast-paced staccato beats away from a myocardial infarction; the way the adrenaline rushed through his veins in those moments made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt at any other time.

This was spying. It was less intense than optimal, but intense enough to keep him on his toes.

He had to admit that Cornfoot was a careful bloke. He kept a watchful eye on the corridors around him while he waited for Daphne in front of Swarfin the Shrewd, his eyes brushing by Harry – hidden under his cloak – like he wasn’t even there. That gave him hope that his disguise was sufficient.

The minutes ticked by until Daphne arrived right on time and not a second later.

They made amicable chit chat about classes as they walked off, with Harry following them at a safe distance – just enough to hear everything, but far enough away that he could dodge a spell if Cornfoot found him out. The boy in question seemed to be leading Daphne toward the Clock Tower, which was an extremely unusual place for dates if they were seen together by someone involved in the rumour mill, making it a good choice for a secret rendezvous. It would most likely be assumed that they’re study partners at the most.

Tamping down any jealous feelings that started bubbling up – if this indeed was a secret rendezvous – Harry wondered if Cornfoot and Runcorn were actually an item or if that was just a farce. That, perhaps, Cornfoot was using her. Apparently Runcorn’s father had a lot of connections in the Ministry and was very possibly a Death Eater, according to Daphne. Dating a child of a fellow Death Eater would probably make Cornfoot seem more loyal amongst the Death Eaters. And, if Cornfoot was as calculative as Daphne seemed to think, Harry was willing to bet that dating Dahlia Runcorn was a calculated move – probably on both of their parts.

After all, they didn’t seem that close when he and Zabini had spied on them in the Room of Requirement. Outside of that room, they appeared to be much closer, which was something he hadn’t really realized until now.

“We can speak more freely up here,” Cornfoot said as they reached the topmost level of the drafty Clock Tower. Harry was glad that he didn’t forget his robe – the air coming in from the swinging pendulum of the clock was on the uncomfortable side of cold.

“What makes you think I haven’t been speaking freely in the first place?” Daphne questioned, leaning against the railing. Harry passed her to settle into a dark corner of the room, out of the way but close enough to listen.

Cornfoot’s lips pulled into an arrogant smirk and he took a seat on one of the low horizontal beams lining the room for structural support. “Your ‘nice and polite’ act is good, but it doesn’t fool me. I know a lot more about you than you think.”

Daphne gave a snort. “Relying on rumours? That always goes well.”

“Why not? You do it. It turns out that we’re not that different from each other.”

“Did you save that line especially for me, or is that what you tell most people you ask to meet in secret?”

The smirk that cut across Cornfoot’s face morphed into a smile. “That’s not going to distract me.”

“What a shame,” Daphne vaguely intoned, plucking a cigarette from her silver case and quickly lighting it. “It’s a double edged sword, you know.”

“Mm,” Cornfoot agreed, “but my sources are probably correct.”

Remaining casual, Daphne replied, “And who would that be?”

The Ravenclaw boy gave a laugh. “You’re smart enough to know that I wouldn’t answer that; why even ask?”

There was a small bout of silence where Harry couldn’t help but wish he knew what both of them were thinking as they surreptitiously sized each other up. The atmosphere changed in that second and tension rolled thickly through the room like an ominous fog. Harry fingered his wand that was hiding up his sleeve just in case. There was no predicting what could happen. The miniscule changes in the lines of Daphne’s face gave him the impression that she wasn’t the least bit pleased.

“If you want to drop all pretenses, Steven – this isn’t the way to go about it,” she finally said, pushing herself off of the railing at the top of the stairs and pacing closer to Cornfoot, practically towering over the short-statured boy. “I mean, it might work in some cases. The ‘We Know All’ approach is what the Unspeakables call it, but your use of it is extremely flimsy.”

Harry’s brows rose. He didn’t even consider that Cornfoot was using a tactic; she picked that out ridiculously quick.

“And your insults aren’t going to get me to admit anything. Is that another Unspeakable ‘approach’?”

‘Ego Down’, Harry’s mind supplied. Daphne was right – Cornfoot wasn’t an idiot in the least.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “If you’re not admitting, I’m not admitting.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that you like trades,” Cornfoot drawled. “Much like you enjoy bribery and blackmail – and blood. That’s just the ‘B’s’.”

“Right. Because you seem to know so much about me.”

Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Cornfoot and he gave a laugh. “Could say the exact same thing to you.”

“Okay then,” Daphne said, blowing out a breath of smoke. “If we’re so much alike as you presume, give me an example.”

“You can’t find one for yourself? Maybe I’m overestimating you.”

“You sure do like to beat around that bush.”

“I think we should work together,” he said without any further preamble.

That seemed to give Daphne pause. “What makes you think I’d be interested?”

“You’ve a proclivity for collecting secrets,” Cornfoot proposed, all business and deception. “It’s a decent trade. You work with me, I’ll tell you secrets.”

Daphne let out a derisive huff of laughter through her nose. “Baiting. That’s a very nice try.”

“I reckoned you’d say something like that,” Cornfoot responded dryly. “So I’ll give you a little batch of secrets up front and you can consider my offer.”

“Go on.”

Harry watched Cornfoot closely, carefully observing every ounce of his body language as he spoke.

“You were the one who got Crabbe expelled, which isn’t a secret to you, but I also know that you don’t want it spread ‘round.”

“Does this mean that you also know my motive?” Daphne taunted, completely undisturbed by the blackmail. “Since you know me so well and all.”

“Possibly.”

“Take a guess then.”

“That would lead to another secret and I’m not willing to part with that until you agree,” Cornfoot said, almost as if he was chiding her.

“Such a tease.”

Cornfoot’s dark eyes ghosted over her and his lips tugged into that irritatingly arrogant smirk of his. “I’ve yet to see any indication of what Draco mentioned to me about you, so that makes two of us.”

“I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“Don’t play thick. It’s insulting.”

“If you’re looking for a psychopath for hire, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

‘Psychopath for hire?’ Harry’s brows furrowed as he glanced over at Daphne.

“I know better than to take Draco’s word at face value,” Cornfoot recovered. “And I’m ninety percent certain that I’m looking in the right place.”

“That’s a high percentage.” Daphne’s head tilted and her eyes narrowed toward Cornfoot. “Do you view me as a friend or an enemy?”

“Either would be beneficial. Perhaps more – though I’ve doubts about those rumours.”

“I don’t think Dahlia would be too happy with you.”

“She doesn’t need to know. You’re good at lowering suspicion about those sorts of things.”

“You just told me who one of your sources is,” Daphne pointed out, disapproval marring her expression.

“Intentionally,” Cornfoot said slowly, the word rolling off his tongue.

Harry’s brows furrowed even lower as he listened to them, his mind trying to connect what they were talking about to any piece of information that he knew and coming up far too short. Their conversation sorely reminded him of being back in the warehouse again, listening to Nott and Daphne have a chat that was mostly in their heads with very few spoken words exchanged.

A mental chess match – ‘mental’ in more ways than one.

“I’m not sure whether to be impressed or disgusted by that.”

“When I’m interested in something or – in this case – someone, I give it my all, which is probably one of our most astute similarities.”

“I’m hardly as narcissistic,” Daphne countered. “Unlike you, I have no urge to fuck myself.”

“I doubt that I could stand up to the physical prowess of Blaise Zabini anyway.”

“Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you, Cornfoot. You don’t mean it.”

“Caught me,” Cornfoot replied with a shrug, as if he couldn’t care less. “So, do we have a deal?”

Daphne didn’t answer at first, seeming to take her time to really think it over, but Harry knew that she had already made her decision and was possibly lying though her teeth. But he couldn’t do anything about it but sit there in the corner and watch, his heart sinking in anticipation.

“What will you do if I say ‘no’?” she asked, amusement shining in her eyes.

“You won’t.”

Daphne shrugged. “Grant me a hypothetical.”

“I’m sure you can come up with one on your own that would be sufficient enough,” Cornfoot stated confidently.

“Just because you strongly believe that something will happen doesn’t mean it will pop into existence.”

“Yeah, and playing with your food won’t make it lay down and die, no matter how much you want it to.”

“Nice.” Daphne took a drag off her cigarette, blowing her smoke up toward the drafty ceiling. “I’ve a few conditions,” she said, not looking at Cornfoot and preferring to stare distantly toward the grounds of Hogwarts below.

Cornfoot crossed his arms over his chest. “Which are?”

“I’m allowed to deny any request. I don’t torture without reason – no murder, no maiming. Setting up plots to expel people will cost you extra. And I won’t risk any sort of incrimination if you’re ever caught. That’s your arse. As far as you’re concerned, I’m an outside contractor and my name stays out of it at all times.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very beneficial deal for me.”

Daphne glanced over at him from the corner of her eyes, her lips curving into a smile. “You wanted to bait me until I was just as incriminated as you are. I know.” She paused, taking a small drag off of her cigarette. “The downside of being so apparently ‘similar’ to me is that you’ll act as I’d expect you to – which is nearly exactly what I’d do. So, if you want my help, those are my terms. You’d do the same if you were in my position. Actually, this is the same deal you had with Draco, isn’t it? Only he wasn’t very discreet – I trust you will be if we’re truly anything alike.”

Cornfoot’s expression barely shifted throughout Daphne’s reply, but Harry got the distinct feeling that there was a sudden chord of respect between the two of them. Like they were comrades on the opposite sides of a line, dipping their toes onto it and pulling away without ever crossing.

“Alright, I accept your deal,” Cornfoot said with a nod. “What does it cost for a favour?”

“Depends on the favour,” Daphne considered, turning toward him.

“I need a way to smuggle things past the secrecy sensors.”

Daphne’s brows rose. “In person or through the mail?”

“In person,” Cornfoot replied, but Harry could tell that he was filing away the fact that Daphne knew how to sneak things through the mail.

As if she was expecting it, Daphne immediately rattled off her price, “Fifty Galleons.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m not cheap. If you want something that works, you’ll have to pay for it.”

“How many secrets would bump the cost down to twenty?” Cornfoot haggled cautiously.

“Depends on if I get to ask the questions or if you get to select the information given,” Daphne answered.

“Three questions,” Cornfoot said curtly. “You get to ask.”

“I could have it to you tomorrow for five questions. Three is a bit stingy.”

“Four questions and I’ll give you forty-eight hours,” Cornfoot stubbornly negotiated.

“Ah, but you’re mistaken. You need something from me and I’m the only one who can feasibly deliver without a trip to Knockturn – and even then you’ll have to get out of the wards, ask around, and risk running into an undercover Auror – so I have the power here. Not you. Five – plus twenty Galleons – and you’ll get it tomorrow – safe and sound and very little risk involved,” Daphne argued plainly, all hardened edges in a way that made even Harry feel slightly intimidated by her.

It reminded him of what she was like when she was with Johnson, from the small glimpse that Harry had gotten of that. It made her seem older – more experienced and untouchable, as if he could fire an Unforgiveable at her at the moment and it would just bounce right off.

Cornfoot’s jaw clenched a fraction, stepping up to her intimidation. “Four and I won’t spread it around that you were the one who got Crabbe expelled.”

“Five and I won’t tell Dahlia, Sylvia, and the Carrow twins that we snogged in the Clock Tower and you could barely control yourself. Maybe I’ll even muster up a giggle about it.”

“Dahlia wouldn’t believe that.”

“But Sylvia, Flora, and Hes would. I wonder how long it would take for it to reach her dear daddy that you were cheating on his perfect pureblooded daughter with a halfblood like me.”

Cornfoot snorted contemptuously. “We’re more alike than I previously thought.”

“Sure,” Daphne said, impossibly calm. “But I know where you stand – you don’t even have the slightest inkling about me.”

Thick tensioned silence fell over them once again, seeming even more malevolent and ominous than before. Cornfoot let out an exasperated huff of air.

“Okay,” he conceded, his jaw visibly clenched tight. “Five questions – twenty Galleons. You’ll have it to me tomorrow.”

“I’ll owl you in the morning with a time and place for the exchange.” Daphne flicked the ashes off of her cigarette, heading toward the stairs, only to halt in her step and glance back over at Cornfoot. “Unless there’s something else?”

“Plenty. Though nothing to do with you at the moment. You can go.”

A too-polite smile cut across Daphne’s face and Harry wondered why she was just standing there and not leaving. With the atmosphere as charged as it was, he’d want to leave as quickly as he feasibly could before any wands could be drawn – especially since Cornfoot was apparently no slouch in the brains department. But she seemed to have other plans.

“Did you know that there’s a specific area on the chest vulnerable to trauma and can cause commotio cordis if ‘touched’ just right?”

Cornfoot glanced up at her from underneath his fringe. “That threat would mean something to me if I knew what ‘commotio cordis’ was.”

“Unfortunate. I’d show you,” Daphne replied in a flippant tone, moving toward the stairs, “but where would the fun be in that?” She paused on the first step, not bothering to look at Cornfoot as she spoke, trailing off meaningfully, “If you dismiss me again though…”

“You may be able to act like it, but you’re never going to be like us,” Cornfoot scornfully retorted, causing Daphne to smirk as she whirled back around to stare him straight on.

“And why do you say that?”

“Playing Muggle music during a Slytherin party, and getting detention for causing a riot over it? That’s not usual amongst our kind.”

Daphne let out a huff of laughter. “You have no idea of my kind. And you certainly have no idea of what I can do to you if you were to cross me, so let’s leave it at that, shall we? It’s not worth the pursuit.”

Glaring at Daphne’s back as she retreated down the stairs and making no move to follow her, Cornfoot retorted quietly, “Maybe Draco was right about you.”

If she heard him, she didn’t give any indication.

Harry didn’t linger long after, getting up from his spot in the corner and feeling vaguely strung out from all of the mental whiplash. His bones were practically aching for a fag and he itched to sit Daphne down and ask her to explain everything.

But, knowing her, that would be an exercise in futility and he wasn’t feeling masochistic enough to attempt it at the moment.

He just had to grit his teeth and bear it as usual. Fortunately, he was getting better at that.


oOo


Daphne was at Slughorn’s party with Ron.

Again.

It nearly felt like a dream when Harry had heard about it just an hour earlier. In one small instance, Ron was going on about how Lavender had broken up with him – tears building up in his eyes – and in the next instance, he was all gung-ho about going to Slughorn’s birthday party with Daphne Greengrass. His entire world had gone completely mental and he had never felt so disconnected from everything.

He shoved his gift into the giant pile of elaborately wrapped gift boxes in the corner of the room and spotted Daphne and Ron talking to the Carrow twins and Cornfoot, who was a guest of Hestia’s. Daphne was drinking out of a flask she had pulled from the inner pocket of her robes and passed it over to Ron, who winced as he took a sip.

Harry could vaguely hear their conversation from where he was standing.

“Apparently Hardbroom slipped him a love potion as a prank, so I’m just going with it really,” Daphne said with an amused smirk tugging at her lips.

Ron, next to her, was surprisingly smooth as he emerged from her flask. “Eh, don’t sell yourself too short.”

He handed off the flask to her and Cornfoot expressed interest in it, to which Daphne replied, “Unless you want a dose of Compulsion Philtre that I’m immune to, I’d stay away. Slughorn’s serving much harder stuff over there. Firewhiskey’s not my taste.”

Internally, Harry hoped she wasn’t being serious; yet, Ron’s calm demeanor wasn’t helping much with that. He could have been under the effects of the Compulsion Philtre or maybe Daphne had filled him in on everything before the party. It didn’t seem as if Ron was completely clueless, after all.

And Ron could occasionally pull of a surprising amount of manipulation…

Cornfoot’s lips curved into a smile. “What exactly is ‘your taste’?”

“Dark and handsome with green eyes and glasses.” Daphne’s eyes briefly glimpsed at Harry and her grin widened. He quickly averted his eyes from their conversation, burying himself in his pint of mead. There was no doubt in his mind that the entire group was staring at him now.

He sorely hoped that Daphne had planned that to covertly inform the group that he was ‘listening in’ and that she wasn’t slipping up.

“Come on, Weasley – I don’t think I’ve introduced you to Sanguini before. Don’t mention his teeth. He’s frightfully sensitive about the subject.”

Glancing up underneath his eyelashes, he caught Ron and Daphne’s retreat. The smooth skin of her enticing back was exposed by the obscenely low draped crimson gown she wore to the party. He was left with Cornfoot staring up at him, almost glaringly, from behind the shadow of Flora and Hestia Carrow as Harry looked after her but he moved on, trying to appear as if he hadn’t overheard anything.

Thankfully, Harry was saved by the spectacle that Zabini and Hermione were making in the centre of the room. They were dancing to what would probably be considered ‘inappropriate Muggle music’, which was probably Ginny’s doing – judging by the vaguely disguised pleased look on her face – and making a show of it. He couldn’t help but be heartened by the display and all of the people gathering around to cheer them on.

Mid-song, Daphne took the hand of Slughorn, as if summoning him from the crowd beyond Sanguini, and led him next to the couple. Slughorn seemed to be intent upon a box-step waltz, but Daphne added undulations to it that made the all-too-proper dance seem far more modern. It was pure Muggle style that made him smile, even if it internally sent a flutter of despair.

She was risking things by doing this. He knew that and it was that slightly rebellious drive within her that drew him to her. Her whole display sent mixed messages – she was both a Slytherin and Gryffindor in that way. How she could act just as ‘high and mighty’ and posh as the purebloods and yet get down to the ‘Muggle earth’ at the same time was probably calculated. From the looks of it, Cornfoot didn’t know what to think and neither would Harry if he didn’t actually know her.

Yet, at the same time, it felt shameful to stand on the sidelines as a halfblood and not be able to embody the term as well as she could. Even though he was ‘Harry Potter’ and was as engrained into the wizarding world as a wand was, he still wasn’t integrated himself.

He was still an outsider in this crowd, deep down.

If he was going to win the war, he was going to have to rectify that soon. He was counting on Luna to get back to him on that memo he sent about Smudgley’s articles and, hopefully, within that meeting, he could make something that could start to turn the tide to his side.

In the meantime, Slugnhorn looked ripe for a dose of Thaumaturgic suggestion. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity…

oOo


Apparation, as it turned out, was a lot bloody harder than Hermione, Daphne, and Zabini made it look during their Christmas holiday together.

Harry couldn’t even bloody splinch himself into the stupid little hoops set out for them in the Great Hall by Wilkie Twycross. And even though Hermione was there for the lessons and Harry knew that she knew how to Apparate, she put on a very good show of failing like the rest of them. It probably would have looked suspicious if she had showed up and was able to Apparate on the first try. Daphne and Zabini weren’t there, of course – they were waiting to take the test in April to get their British licenses. Nott was there, however, but Harry wasn’t certain if Nott could Apparate since he had never Apparated while they were at the warehouse. If the Slytherin boy knew how, he also made a good show of trying like Hermione.

Susan seemed to be the only first-timer that could truly manage and the result was too macabre for him to ruminate upon.

“I swear I felt something tingling in my fingers,” Ron muttered as they spoke of the lesson, entering the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.

“Apparation is a central feeling, Ron. If you feel it in your limbs, you’re going to splinch,” Hermione replied quickly, handing Harry his Firebolt after he pocketed his invisibility cloak and warded the lavatory door.

Ron’s brows furrowed. “How would you know that?”

“How do you think I got around half the time during Christmas hols?” Harry rhetorically questioned, stalking over to the very sink that held the Chamber of Secrets.

It wasn’t as if he was ready for this, but he couldn’t delay it too much longer – the war was enclosing upon him, closer and closer every day.

“Hold on – you know how to apparate?” Ron exclaimed, his mouth gaping.

Hermione shrugged. “It wouldn’t look good if I already knew, would it?”

“Shh – I need to focus,” Harry hushed, squinting toward the snakes and trying to muster up the right language to get the thing to open. He swayed from side to side, causing the glowing jeweled eyes to look more alive.

“Open,” he hissed, looking side to side at his fellow Gryffindors for confirmation more than the sink.

The sink, however, was faster. It clunked to life and spread open slowly, revealing the familiar pipe that he’d gone down less than five years ago. It built a sense of deja-vu inside of him that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but he could only ready his broom, take a glance at his friends on both sides of him, and recklessly charge down the shaft without their consent or warning. He remembered the Chamber of Secrets as if it were yesterday. He remembered the descent, the antechambers, and the Chamber itself like the back of his hand. There wasn’t any way he could forget it.

After he opened the inner Chamber beyond the crushed rock, the three stalked forward toward the large decomposing carcass of the Basilisk he’d only slayed just a few years ago. For years of decaying, it looked nearly new, but it didn’t smell that way. The reek of the rotting carcass was apparent from the moment they set foot into the massive space. As they grew closer, they shielded their faces with their robes in order to block out the scent of rot that seemed to permeate everywhere.

“So, we need to start from the back and then work our way forward for the most… productive collection, according to what I’ve read,” Hermione instructed, hoisting herself up the side of the decaying corpse of the Basilisk like it was a simple pile of rocks and already plucking at the back of the massive snake’s mouth.

Harry and Ron looked at each other uneasily before following to help her. He found that it was easier to maneuver around the Basilisk using his broom, rather than pulling off Hermione’s deft acrobatics. Slowly, they carefully chipped the teeth out of place with their wands and stored them into charmed lambskin sacks that Hermione said would be the best at retaining the properties of Basilisk fangs and venom. Yet, the sack seemed to grow warmer and warmer at his hip, even then, and he gasped as he stared down at his trousers.

“Bloody hell, that’s hot – ow!” Harry hissed through his teeth. Upon realizing it wasn’t the lambskin sack that was burning through his trousers, he pulled the smoldering scrying mirror case from his pocket and let it clatter to the stone-covered ground of the Chamber, trying to blow cold air onto his fingers from the resulting burn.

“Merlin. That’s Blaise’s alert sequence!” Hermione said in panic, her eyes widening as she stared down at the now-glowing case. The light it emitted seemed to pulsate from red to white hot, only growing with intensity.

Harry’s heart plummeted and his slightly burnt fingers became the farthest thing from his mind. “But the magical restraint bracelets you made... They can’t break out – you tested it! They can’t possibly escape without help or–”

Letting out a breath as she tried to cool down the scrying mirror case with her wand, Hermione reasoned, “It’s either that, or someone’s trying to get in to the warehouse. But, if that’s the case…”

Staring up at the corpse of the partially de-fanged basilisk, Harry cursed.


oOo

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading and please review!