An Impartial Judge - NinjaRiderWriter - Biohazard (2024)

Chapter 1: Dinner Announcment

Chapter Text

Feeling pleasantly full from a rich dinner, Harry debated with himself on whether or not to help himself to a large slice of treacle tart. The memory of Dudley having nothing but half a grapefruit during the entirety of summer break with only a spoonful of sugar to cope spurred Harry on, and he happily served himself a hearty slice.

Tucking into his dessert, Harry heard the conversations around him lull as many of his housemates spun their heads up towards the front of the Great Hall. Harry turned around to see that Dumbledore had stood up from his seat, great beard gleaming like polished silver in the torchlight, and walked up to the bronze-gilded podium that was carved into the form of an owl caught mid-flight.

Dumbledore cleared his throat once as he stared out across all four tables waiting for the chatter to settle. Harry nudged Ron, who was happily devouring his own dessert, in the ribs. Hermione was already twisting in her seat to focus upon the headmaster, her own sweet dish of candied fruit entirely forgotten.

“As you all well know, next week on the thirtieth will be when our brothers and sisters from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang shall join us for the remainder of this school year.” Headmaster Dumbledore began, his soft voice booming across the Great Hall. All around, students were turning in their seats to look upon the elderly headmaster with great interest. “I have received word from a spokeswizard from the International Confederation of Wizards that a delegate has been chosen to serve as an impartial judge for the entirety of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Whispers erupted throughout the Great Hall as people turned to their neighbors.

“A new judge?” Ron muttered under his breath, his attention directed fully on the headmaster. “What’d you reckon for?”

“To make the Tournament more fair, I presume.” Hermione answered back, though she looked a bit dubious. “What with all headmasters and British officials serving as judges, it would make sense to have someone who isn’t tied to the Ministry or any of the three schools to ensure fairness with the scoring.”

“And so,” Dumbledore continued on, his tone as pleasant as ever. “I hope that each and every one of you will be welcoming towards the Countess Alcina Dimitrescu once she arrives.”

Ron dropped his spoon into his half-eaten gooseberry fruit fool. He looked absolutely gobsmacked, and he wasn’t the only one.

Low, confused murmurs swept across the Great Hall from all four House tables like a roll of thunder. Harry saw from the corner of his eye that many of the older year Slytherins had begun to huddle together besides their neighbors. Turning his head, Harry could only just barely see Malfoy from over Milicent Bulstrode’s wide-set shoulders. The blond boy looked positively gleeful as he bent his head down to whisper something to an unfamiliar dark-haired boy seated beside him.

Harry’s stomach churned uneasily. Anything that made Malfoy happy has never meant well for anyone else outside of Slytherin House.

Dumbledore continued on over the whispers as though nothing had occurred. “Lady Dimitrescu shall be serving as a judge alongside each school’s respective headmasters as well as our Ministry’s own esteemed officials. Hogwarts will be pleased to host her for the entirety of the Tournament.” He said, and the whispers grew louder and louder until it nearly overtook the entirety of the Great Hall.

Harry, who had encountered both Ludo Bagman and Mr. Crouch earlier this summer at the World Cup, rather thought that a tad off. Neither of them had seemed very esteemed, what with Bagman’s seemingly lack of care towards authority and the overly serious Mr. Crouch’s attitude towards his house elf. He even turned back to make that comment to his friends, but stopped mid-way.

Hermione looked just as confused as Harry himself felt, but Ron was staring up at the headmaster as though the man had declared himself King of the Magical British Isles and pulled a screaming prepubescent mandrake out of the Sorting Hat to prove his claim. Just absolutely stunned.

“Ron?” Hermione, bless her inquisitive nature, asked with concern. The Weasley looked even paler than normal and he didn’t seem to remember how to breathe.

“The world’s gone mad,” was Ron’s simple, faint reply.

“Absolutely bonkers.” Fred supplied cheerfully as he sat down between Harry and Ron and then reached over to a platter of Yorkshire Pudding to help himself to a serving. George and Lee Jordan joined him a second later. “Dumbledore doesn’t look too happy, does he?”

Harry chanced a glance up towards the high table and saw that, true to Fred’s word, Dumbledore had seated himself again and seemed deep in discussion with a grim-faced Professor McGonagall. Even dressed in a set of merry lilac robes with shooting yellow stars did little to hide the tightness around Dumbledore’s eyes. The headmaster looked rather tense as he spoke with the Gryffindor Head of House.

“I don’t understand,” Hermione began, looking just as lost as Harry felt. “Just who is Alcina Dimitrescu?”

Ron, who had shakily brought his goblet up towards his lips, choked on his pumpkin juice. George had to slap him on the back several times before Ron turned to her.

“Cor, Hermione,” Ron whispered to her urgently, rubbing his chest with a grimace. “You don’t bring up a name like that in polite company is all I’m saying.”

“Mum would have our head if we did.” George agreed, helping himself to a bite of Ron’s fruit custard. Ron didn’t even seem to notice. “Bad luck to say the name. Not like You-Know-Who, of course, but still bad luck. Like what Muggles do in the mirror at night on a dare with that scarlet woman Mary, yeah?”

“What?” Harry asked blankly.

“Oh, for the love of-” Hermione began, looking exasperated as she turned towards the freckled redhead. “George, I’ve told you before that that is not how it goes.”

“Seems like something Muggles would do.” George countered back, shrugging his shoulders like it was all inconsequential. “Saying a name too many times and having to deal with the consequences. Sounds just about right.”

Hermione merely frowned disapprovingly at the older boy, seemingly unable to come up with a proper retort. Harry just stared blankly at them both, fully aware that he was missing something. He glanced back up towards the high table. Mad-Eye was talking low to both Professors Sprout and Flitwick, the light from the floating candles casting harsh, sharp shadows against the gouges about his face.

“I just don’t understand what the big fuss is about, is all.” Harry said aloud.

Hermione looked just as puzzled as Harry felt and was nodding along beside him, but Ron and his brothers looked uncharacteristically gloomy. The serious look Ron gave made something in Harry’s gut twist unpleasantly and he knew that he was, once again, revealing his ignorance of the Wizarding world. Raised by the Dursleys, Muggles who hated anything related to magic or freakishness, there were many things Harry didn’t know that wizards like the Weasleys took for granted.

Whoever this Countess Dimitrescu was seemed to be just another thing Harry Potter should have known about but didn’t. Hermione seemed to have come to the same conclusion if the tight, pinched look on her face said anything.

A quick glance around the Gryffindor table revealed many of Harry’s housemates, those he knew were raised in wizarding families, were clustered together and speaking undertone to each other or to their Muggle-born fellows who, collectively, looked rather lost and bewildered. Dean Thomas, Harry’s fellow age mate and a Muggle-born, was speaking with Seamus a few spaces down from them, and both boys looked rather grim.

“Harry.” Ron’s voice jerked Harry’s attention back to the redhead, who looked a bit green around the gills, for all that his tone was absolutely serious. “She’s a Dark Lady.”

Harry blinked at that, trying to wrap his head around it. He blinked again, and then again, before suddenly his heart seized as just what Ron just said finally hit him. “What, like Voldemort?” He asked incredulously.

Everyone around him flinched at the name and Neville, who was only a few feet up from them but obviously listening in, jolted so hard that he dropped his goblet and spilled pumpkin juice all over the crimson tablecloth.

“Blimey, Harry.” Ron hissed at him, voice low. “Couldn’t you just not say the name?”

Hermione recovered the quickest before turning her full attention upon the Weasley clan. If not for his own curiosity, Harry might have felt a tad bad for them; Hermione could be rather frightening when she wanted to be.

“So, she’s one of You-Know-Who’s followers then?” Hermione asked intently, leaning forward across from Harry’s left to look at the twins. “Dimitrescu is a Death Eater?”

At that, Harry couldn’t help but remember the World Cup over the summer and its disastrous end. That horrible scene with the Roberts family levitating in the air, mouths wide open in silent, painful screams. Cloaked figures swirling and laughing through the smoke, how their silver skull-like masks had gleamed in the torchlight. He shivered despite the warmth of the Hall, skin crawling uncomfortably like cold water had seeped down his back.

“No, not at all. She does her own thing, Dimitrescu.” George assured them, nicking a bite of Fred’s pudding for himself. “She sticks to her own part of the world. Though, I don’ reckon there hasn’t been a Dark wizard in the past few centuries that hasn’t tried to win her favor. Grindlewald tried, didn’ he?” The older boy directed the question towards Lee Jordan. “Binns mentioned it last year for our O.W.L.s before he went back on about goblin rebellions. She sent him packing.”

“Not all Dark wizards are Death Eaters, but all Death Eaters are Dark wizards. ” Lee told Hermione patiently. “Dimitrescu’s different. Always has been.”

Hermione seemed to have been caught up with a specific bit. “Centuries?” The girl asked, looking rather anxious. Harry’s heart clenched at the thought of someone like Voldemort living for centuries, killing who knows how many families and causing such wanton destruction.

“It’s one of the reasons why everyone is so afraid of her. There hasn’t been a Dark wizard who has lived nearly as long as she has.” Fred explained, batting away his twin’s spoon with his fork. “Most of the time they get themselves killed or caught sooner or later, but Dimitrescu has been around for ages. Even Grindelwald lasted only a few decades before Dumbledore stopped him and most wizards consider Grindelwald to be one of the strongest Dark wizards to ever live. I honestly doubt there’s anyone alive who can even say for sure how long Dimitrescu has been around for aside from, you know, ages.”

“And no one has thought to stop her?” Hermione asked them, looking absolutely horrified. Harry couldn't help but internally agree with her.

“No one can stop Dimitrescu.” Fred said, his tone almost casual save for the tight, grim line of his mouth that easily revealed his hesitance. “She’s been around for so long, knows so many spells and charms, that there isn’t anyone alive who can possibly challenge her. Maybe Dumbledore... She sticks to her own lot, Dimitrescu does. Keeps to herself most of the time. So most decide it’s just best to leave well enough alone, you know? No one wants to piss her off, else she’ll send out one of her daughters to deal with it.”

“What d’you mean?” Harry asked curiously.

“She’s like the bogeyman.” Ron spoke up. “You just don’t want her attention on you because nothing good can come from it. Parents will tell their children not to wander off or Dimitrescu will come and eat them, stuff like that.”

“Mum near had a stroke when Charlie announced he was going to be living at the dragon sanctuary in Romania,” Fred supplied cheerfully. “Mum was convinced Dimitrescu would find him and turn him into wine since that’s her territory and all.”

“... Please tell me that is some wizarding idiom I am simply unfamiliar with, Fred.” Hermione nearly begged, fingers running through her frizzy hair from stress.

The twins shared a glance between each other.

“All we’re sayin’ is that you don’t want to mess with anything related to House Dimitrescu. It’s all Dark Arts, Hermione, Dark as can be.” George told them. “They say if you even make the Countess even a tad angry she’ll send one of her daughters after you, and no one survives them. They’re absolutely mental. Dark witches as Dark as their mother. One of them was banned from dueling competitions a while ago, wasn’t she? Turned her opponent into a bloody smear and just laughed about it.”

Harry found it a tad unfair that neither had answered the question about the wine.

“Boys,” Hermione snapped at them. “The wine?”

Fred shrugged. “Dunno for sure. Most things are just stories and who knows how true they are, but most stories go that Dimitrescu has a penchant for taking the blood of virgins and turning it, or them, into wine. Most reckon she’s some sort of vampire.”

“Charlie would probably let it happen if it meant he got to see some of the dragons she has in her territory.” George smiled fondly. “According to him, Dimitrescu has several rare breeds you can’t find anywhere else.”

Lee snorted at that. “Your brother is mental about dragons.”

“And she’s just, what-” Hermione spluttered, her bushy-hair frazzled. “She’s just allowed into Hogwarts, a school, just like that?”

“Seems like it.” Fred shrugged his shoulders. “We’re as lost as you are, to be honest. She’s not the worst sort, not raving mad like You-Know-Who.”

“But not the best sort either.” Said George.

“How could Dumbledore allow such a thing to happen?” Hermione whispered, staring up at the high table. Mad-Eye had stood up from his chair to clunk his way over to Dumbledore’s side, bending low to mutter something in the man’s ear.

“I dunno. I suppose he doesn’t have much of a choice if the ICoW is the one sending her.” Ron said as he poked at his half-finished custard with his spoon, still looking rather queasy. “Blimey, they must be mad sending someone like that to Hogwarts.”

“Absolutely mad.” Harry had to agree.

Chapter 2: A Morning at Castle Dimitrescu

Chapter Text

“We should probably get up…” A voice sighs softly against the outer shell of her ear, warm breath tickling against her skin lightly.

Alcina cannot help but huff lowly at the very notion, drowsily stretching even whilst still half-asleep. She is careful to not move her legs, lest she awaken the small body pressed up against her thigh, but her outstretched arms collide with warm flesh and Alcina does not hesitate to wrap an arm around it to bring it closer.

“Mmmm… later,” She mutters underneath her breath, shifting in the bed slightly as she presses her face against the warmth. She doesn’t want to awaken fully just yet. There is something about this soft in-between of dream and reality, something tender and fuzzy that makes Alcina want to purr aloud and grab ahold of the warm bodies beside her and never let go.

There's a soft chuckle against the expanse of her neck as a pair of lips pressed up against the uncovered patch of skin laid bare by the exposure of her nightgown. Alcina shivers, and finally cracks open an eye to look down.

Ethan was staring up at her, his bright blue eyes half-lidded from lethargy even as the corners of his eyes crinkle from his smile.

“Good morning,” he greets her, voice roughened from sleep.

“Good morning, my darling,” Alcina murmurs drowsily. Her heart swells as he shifts closer to her, propping himself up on an elbow so that he can lean over her.

Ethan kisses her softly and lazily on the lips, just slow enough to gain her attention as though they had all the time in the world. She hums against him, smiling, as she raises a hand to cup his cheek, a thumb softly trailing along the fine ridge of his cheekbone.

For a few beautiful moments there is only the sound of birdsong, the soft beating of hearts, and shifting fabric. Alcina’s eyes flutter as she kisses him, her hand moving to card her fingers through his hair.

“Ewwwww!” A little voice interrupts them from where it pipes up sluggishly from a position lower in the bed. A tiny, sharp chin nestles itself against her waist as its owner burrows their face against the silken material of Alcina’s nightgown.

She could feel Ethan’s smile against her lips. “Looks like we have a bedbug,” her husband murmurs, pressing one last quick kiss against her lips and then her cheek before he shifts a bit to look down the bed at the small body pressed up against Alcina’s leg.

From behind the wispy strands of starlight blonde hair, big golden eyes blinked up at them sleepily. The child’s pale brows furrowed, nose wrinkling as she squinted up at them, her tiny fingers curled around fistfuls of the fine fabric that made up Alcina’s nightgown.

“I’m not a bug!” Rosemary told them grouchily, pale face set in a fierce scowl.

“Oh?” Ethan chirps happily, hooking his hands underneath Rosemary’s armpits to swiftly yank her up towards them. Rose giggled at the sudden movement, her cherubic face spread into a wide smile as she found herself sandwiched between the chests of her parents.

“What do you think, Alcina?” Her husband asked her, his own cheeky grin a mirror image of their daughter’s. “Do we have a bed bug?”

“Oh, most definitely.” Alcina lowered one hand to brush away the soft, pale hair that veiled her child’s eyes with a finger. “My sweet little slugabed.” She couldn’t help but coo aloud.

“Not a bug!” Rosemary pouted.

“Bed bug! Bed bug! Bed bug!” Ethan sang out as he began to tickle the girl’s belly without mercy. Rose shrieked giddily, twisting and squirming as she tried to avoid her father’s ruthless assault.

“Mama!” Rosemary managed through her shrieks of laughter. “Mama, help!”

Laughing, Alcina easily pressed her hand against Rose’s back to push the girl towards her and out of Ethan’s grasp. Still giggling, Rosemary curled up closer to Alcina’s bulk, pressing into her mother’s side to protect her belly.

“Is your papa being mean to you, Rose?” Alcina asked her warmly, rubbing a soothing hand through bright blonde hair as Rosemary curled up against her side like a cat. Ethan chuckled under his breath as he turned on his side to face her with his head resting on the pillow, their daughter nestled between them. He idly reached out to place his hand atop of Alcina’s own where it rested on Rosemary’s back.

Bright golden eyes stared up at her, and Alcina’s heart threatened to twist itself into a knot from the sheer amount of love and adoration that rushed through her. Her sweet girl. Her dearest girl.

Ever since Rosemary had realized that her mother leaving the castle for a trip meant being gone for a whole month, the girl had been a bundle of nerves, rage and stubbornness. One moment she would be clinging onto her mother’s leg like a limpet only to suddenly outright avoid her. Even with all the promises and assurances Alcina had given to her, it had done little to soothe the girl’s tears or temper.

Ethan had called their daughter a pinball, whatever that was, from how her moods had bounced around without rhyme or reason, utterly impossible to predict. One moment Rose would be clinging to her leg, the next she wouldn’t even speak to her mother until Alcina managed to coax a reaction until she forgot that she was supposed to be mad. Cassandra had found it all hilarious and had been most unhelpful.

Still, that the girl had wormed her way into their sheets while they had prepared for bed on Alcina’s last night made her heart flutter.

“I don’t know about you ladies,” Ethan yawned loudly, jaw popping. “But I’m hungry and today is a big day.”

Rosemary looked up at her father, wide eyed and eager. “Big day pancakes?” She asked hopefully.

Ethan nodded his head sagely. “Big day pancakes.”

Her shout of glee made Alcina’s sensitive ears ring. The child removed herself from her mother’s side to push herself onto her knees so she was leaning over her father’s face. “Do you think Cass will wanna have some? She’s gotta if it’s big day pancakes. It’s like pancakes but better.” Rose was so joyful that she was bouncing slightly in place.

“It’s still early so she probably hasn’t eaten yet.” Ethan’s eyes flickered from Rose back to Alcina in a silent question.

“Of course she will.” Alcina assured the girl. “I’m sure she’s already up and causing mischief without anyone to suitably distract her.”

“When’s Bela coming back, Mama?” Rosemary asked her curiously. “She’s been gone foreeeveeer!"It had only been four days at most, but Rosemary had inherited her father’s penchant for theatrics.

“Not for another week, my darling.” Alcina ran her hand through her daughter’s hair. “She still has to finish rooting out a small problem for me. Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit, hmmm?”

“Don’t you wanna get up?” Rose asked, bouncing a bit from excitement.

“Not particularly,” Alcina didn’t even have to fake the yawn that emerged. Her hands shot out to grab ahold of the girl to gently tug the child back against her chest. Rose giggled as Alcina wrapped her arms around her. “I’m just so warm and comfy, and you make such a wonderful pillow.”

“But Mama, it’s pancakes.”

“Oh, Rosie Posie,” her husband sighed aloud as he planted a whiskery kiss against Rose’s cheek. “You know how your mother gets when she doesn't get enough sleep.”

“Oh...?” Alcina asked him sweetly, smiling even as her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Whatever do you mean by that, my darling?”

Her husband, who has never once managed to correctly identify danger as something he shouldn’t poke, leaned down towards Rosemary conspiratorially.

“Your mama gets so cranky doesn’t she, Rosie?” He whispered to their little girl, only his voice carried rather easily. No doubt it was intentional; the traitor. “A sulky grouch goblin, yeah? A big mean grouch!”

“Grouch! Grouch! Grouch!” Rosemary chanted, spurred on by her father’s prompting.

Alcina reminded herself that, despite her rather busy schedule for the day, to save some time dedicated to throwing her husband out of a suitable window. He would survive. Until then: quick retribution. She removed her hold on their daughter to instead lightly whack at Ethan’s shoulder with the back of her hand. Her knuckles barely grazed him, but he flopped onto his back with a terribly fake groan of pain.

“Rosie, you have to run!” Her husband wheezed out, a tad far too dramatically in Alcina’s opinion, as he rolled over from his side and half onto her. “It’s the grouch goblin, you have to save yourself. I’ll hold her off for as long as I can!”

With a giggling shriek, Rosemary scrambled over Ethan, who grunted loudly when a knobby knee pressed against his gut, and jumped off the bed to run out of the room. Alcina’s ears ached at the sound of sharp claws scrabbling against hardwood from the foot of the bed as a big black beast shot after Rosemary, tail wagging.

“No running!” Alcina raised her head as she called out, though it was half-hearted at best. She sighed aloud, sinking back down into the pillow. None of her children ever seemed to listen to her when it came to that rule.

Still half-draped over her, Ethan nuzzled closer until his hair was tickling the underside of her jaw.

“... You’re incorrigible.” Alcina muttered to him.

With his face nestled in the crook of her neck, Alcina could feel Ethan’s mouth stretch out into a smile. “It worked, didn’t it?” Ethan kissed the hollow of her neck languidly, so slow it was more of a suck, and it brought a heated shiver to her skin, which suddenly felt very much awake. “It bought us some much needed alone time.”

“Oh?” Alcina arched her brow, even as she relished in his warmth and the press of his lips against her bare skin. “Did it now?”

“Mmm, there’s a lot to do today so we’ll have to-” He pressed another kiss against the hollow of her neck, before his lips trailed upwards.

“-make every-”

A kiss against the underside of her jaw.

“-second-”

A kiss pressing sweetly against her lips.

“-count.”

Alcina smiles against him as she traces the ridge of his nose and then along the curl of his lips with the back of a knuckle. She shivers a bit when he wraps his lips around the knuckle in a kiss, tongue flitting against her skin.

Oh, he was playing a very dangerous game trying to tease her like that.

“We’ve only got so much time.” Ethan mumbled, nuzzling against her. The prickling scrape of his stubble against her overly sensitive skin is a welcome sensation. “You’ve got a lot of traveling by propkey to do later today.”

“Portkey,” Alcina corrected distractedly, much more interested in trailing a hand down his back until it reached the hem of his shirt, at which she gladly snuck her hand under the worn cotton fabric. She dragged her fingertips over his tight stomach, delighting in how his breath stuttered.

“S-semantics."

Alcina can only just barely see the beginnings of the blue that made up her mark from where the collar of his shirt dipped, but the mere sight of it, however small, sends a flush of lustful heat to ripple through her. With an audible growl she grabbed him by the back of the head and pulls him against her, kissing him fiercely.

“Alcina, the door.” Ethan murmured against her lips, breathing heavily as his eyes darted to the doorway. “Rose might-”

With a quick wave of her hand and a flaring of her magic, the door slammed shut and locked itself.

“There we go,” Alcina pressed a chaste kiss against his lips, even as her hand eagerly explored the firm ridges of his muscle and bone. “Door is locked with no way anyone can hear anything from this side.”

Ethan rolled his eyes even as he smiled at her fondly. “Magic is such a cheat code, it’s not even fair.” Only his smile grew suddenly wicked as he lowered his lips against her chest, his next words ghosting against her skin. “But it sure is useful.” As though to prove his words, he licked a swift, uneven stripe against the valley of her breasts and grinned smugly at her sharp inhale.

His grin faded as quickly as it came though, his eyebrows furrowing as he slumped against her to put his chin against her sternum, his body a comfortable weight atop her. A puff of warm breath from his sudden sigh against the trail of wetness on her chest made her shiver.

“I’m going to miss you,” Ethan said, staring up at her with love-drunk eyes. It makes her heart flutter in place.

“And I, you,” she told him, and she meant it fully.

Alcina has never been away from her youngest or her husband for so long before, and even the knowledge that they would be reunited within the month did little to soothe her nerves.

“Perhaps it best I inquire about speeding up the process so that you and Rosemary can join me sooner.” It’s worded as a possibility, but already Alcina was seeing the benefits of such a thing. Yes, that would be for the best. It wasn’t as though they would dare to deny her wishes.

Though he was incapable of legilimency, her husband seemed to have picked up on her thoughts. “Please don’t terrorize a foreign government,” he pleaded to her. “You’ve already terrified that poor commissary from the IoWC into actual tears.”

“ICoW.” She corrected him patiently. “And is it not better to be feared than to be loved if one cannot have both?”

Her husband snorted. “That book might as well be your memoir if even half of all the horror stories people say about you are true.”

The majority of it probably was true, though she didn’t share that thought aloud. It might dampen the mood.

“So, which one do you prefer to have right now?” Ethan asked her, kissing her collarbone before nibbling it just like he knew she liked.

“Hmmm?”

“Fear, or…” One of his hands sneaked down to cup her breast through the fabric of her gown. “Love?” Alcina sucks in a short breath as he squeezes lightly, eyes fluttering shut as she arches into his touch, the hard planes of his muscle pressing quite nicely against her flushed skin.

Ethan leaned back up towards her mouth.

He kisses her so softly, so sweetly, with such awed reverence in his eyes, and the Dragon within her rumbles at the sight. Already her blood has begun to awaken at his attention, from his sweet ministrations, sluggishly casting off its weights.

Claim him. Own him. Never let him go.

Hers. Hers. Hers.

Mine.

“Ethan…” Alcina breathed out, eyelids fluttering shut.

His answering chuckle rumbles through his chest enough that Alcina can feel it reverberate through her own. “You’ve got a busy day, Alcina…” Ethan whispered against her lips. “Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s kissing her again as his hand slips underneath her gown to knead against her left breast, a calloused thumb expertly rubbing soft, sensual circles around her nipple. Alcina can’t do anything but shudder and flush against his touch, her hands rising up to curl tightly against the short strands of his hair as she pulls him closer against her mouth so tightly their teeth clack together.

She revels in his heat, his touch, his love, his worship.

Ethan’s thumb rubbed over her nipple, coaxing it to stiffen while flicking and twisting and pinching over and over, drawing little gasps out of her that he swallows eagerly, his tongue dragging lazily against the roof of her mouth.

Alcina cannot stop the purr that erupts from her chest as she kisses him, only to audibly growl out when he pulls away from her lips and retracts his hand.

“Hand’s at an awkward angle,” Ethan muttered an explanation even as he sat back on his heels, where he was wedged between her thighs. Both of his hands grabbed ahold of the hem of her neckline and pulled it downwards, the elastic fabric stretching far enough for her breasts to spill out. “Much better.” He chirped happily before he let go of the neckline, where it tried to snap back in place only to catch against her breasts, slightly pushing them upwards. Ethan’s breath hitched, and he stared at her hungrily.

“God, I love it when you don’t wear a bra.” Ethan breathed out, shifting in position as he moved up to straddle her waist so that he could rest his weight. Alcina let out a small gasp when he grabbed at both breasts, calloused fingers digging into the pliable flesh. Ethan groaned low in his chest, a tendon in his neck twitching as he clenched his jaw tightly.

“f*ck, just look at you.” Ethan groaned as he rubs a thumb over her hardened nipple before lightly rolling it between the pads of his thumb and index. “So f*cking gorgeous.” She flushes at the praise

He’s smiling down at her, and there is so much warmth in his eyes that it makes her heart swell.

Oh, how she loves him so. Truly, fully, without question.

Ethan’s voice was suddenly soft and tender. “Hey, guess what.”

“Hmmm,” Alcina hummed pleasantly, still relishing his touch. “What is it?”

“You’re my breast friend,” Ethan told her, sincerely and without a lick of shame.

Alcina groaned, only this time it wasn’t from lust, as her head smacked back down into the pillow. “Please do not. I will kick you out of this bed if you say another terrible quip. You’re not funny, love.”

Ethan had the gall to look offended. “Rosie thinks I’m funny,” he countered.

“Rosemary is six and thinks everything is funny.” Alcina corrected him. “I do not think she is a fair judge, nor is she deserving to be tormented by your terrible sense of hu-”

Alcina yelped when her husband suddenly squeezed both her breasts. “Sorry, my fingers twitched.” Ethan’s lips were pressed in a tight line that wobbled dangerously. She glared at him angrily, mouth opening to curse at him only to yelp as he brazenly squeezed again. “Whoops, muscle spasm.”

Her golden eyes narrowed dangerously, anger sparking to life in her chest, only her husband smiled without fear.

“Would you say my touch is magical, Alcina?” He asked her, utterly shameless as he continued groping her breasts.

She takes it all back. She hates him. She truly hates him.

“Maybe I should turn you into a fox since they often sound as though they’re laughing.” Alcina snarls, her magic coiling hazily around her as a pressure builds until it is a heavy, tangible weight. “You can continue to laugh at your own jokes. Perhaps Rosemary’s oversized beast can chase you through the underbrush. He does need rigorous exercise after all.”

“Nah, I don’t think you will.” Ethan told her, grinning. “You like me too much.”

By ancient magicks, Alcina has married an absolute idiot. What she had thought to be bravery and fearlessness, which had attracted her attention in the first place, were misguided. He was just a reckless idiot without any awareness of danger. Already she was debating on shoving him off of her now as punishment, only to recant it upon the realization that would be punishing herself as well. She settled for glaring at him, her magic whirling in her chest like dragon’s breath.

Ethan had that gleefully stubborn look in his eyes like he was ready to continue arguing, which was not what Alcina wanted her husband to be doing while he was straddling and leaning over her, his erection pressing insistently against her stomach, with both of his hands palming her naked breasts. Her breasts that he was now currently doing nothing with.

His mouth opened as he said something to her, only Alcina didn’t even hear it as her vision focused on his open mouth and was struck with a great thought.

Ethan’s argument broke off into a surprised squeak, a sound she purred at because that was just adorable, as she grabbed him by the shoulders and easily pulled him down towards her, hands locking to keep him pressed against her.

“Such a mouthy little thing you are,” she purrs into his ear, sharp teeth nibbling against his earlobe. “But, I think that mouth could be put to a better use.”

“Oh?” Ethan tried for nonchalance, but Alcina easily felt how his co*ck twitched excitedly from where it was pressed up against her thigh.

Directing his mouth towards the breast that had only been palmed was easy when Ethan was just as eager. He pressed a kiss against the neglected twin, his stubble lightly grazing against the sensitive flesh in a way that sent shivers up her spine, before he began to nip at her with his teeth. Little pinpricks of pain and pleasure erupting and swirling together until Alcina felt as though she could float away, anchored only by his hands and the sharp pinch of his teeth.

“Yes, yes, just like that…” she hissed out, fingers curling tightly around his shoulders as her nails dragged red lines against his back even through his shirt.

His teeth scraped lightly over her pebbled nipple, tugging at it just enough for it to sting before he quickly pressed a soothing kiss against her.

There is a burning, desperate ache in her loins that threatens to unravel her. If he didn’t start to touch her down there soon, Alcina very well might have to grab ahold of her husband’s face and force it southwards so that he might pleasure her fully.

“E-Ethan,” she gasped out. “Ethan…” Alcina will not beg, will never beg, but she does not have to.

His hand trailed down her side, his touch feather-light, to her thigh and he brazenly pushed up the hem of her nightgown to hike the fabric past her hip. She hums in approval as his palm rubs up the inner side of her thigh.

“Told you my touch was magic.” Ethan told her smugly, grinning in a way that showed off his teeth. “I just can’t keep my hands to myself.” Even as he spoke the other hand that had been at her breast slid down her torso to caress her bare thigh before he lightly squeezed the firm flesh. He hummed in appreciation. With his thumb, he rubbed gentle circles against her thigh in a slow, tender caress that excites her more than it soothes her.

She’s practically shaking by the time a knuckle ghosts against the fabric of her underwear, teasing against her throbbing c*nt. Ethan toys with the edge of her panty line, a thumb hooking underneath the waistband easily, and Alcina’s breath hitched low in her chest as he began to pull the flimsy garment down her legs.

Somewhere, distantly, there comes the terrified scream of a woman.

Alcina ignores it easily since it doesn’t belong to any of the children, but Ethan stops and removes his hand. His mouth, which had been doing delightful things to her breast, pulled away suddenly and Alcina cannot help but loudly growl out her displeasure.

Ethan ignores her as he sits up in the bed, frowning as he turns his head in the direction of the door. His hair is mussed from where she had run her fingers through it and his lips are beginning to bruise and it is such a satisfying sight.

The delighted shriek of laughter Alcina easily recognized as Cassandra’s erupted from somewhere far off in the same direction. She relaxes and is about to impatiently pull him back down to her, only Ethan’s brows furrow further.

“Damn it, Cass,” her husband grumbles lowly and then, before Alcina can think to react, he rolls off of her and the bed to stand up.

“Where do you think you are going?” She demanded indignantly, rising up by her elbows to stare after him.

“To stop a murder. What else?” Ethan hurried over to his dresser to grab a pair of jeans, his erection straining against the fabric of his boxers.

“I’m sure that’s not it,” Alcina is quick to tell him, hoping to lure him back to bed so that she might grab ahold and keep him there. It doesn’t work, unfortunately. “And if so, then she must no doubt deserve it. Come back to bed, darling.” She tries, only Ethan ignores her. Annoyance blossomed in her chest, almost bright enough to combat the burning ache between her legs.

“I think you and I are always going to have to agree to disagree on what constitutes as deserving murder.” Ethan tells her, and she barely has time to appreciate how the tight muscles of his ass clenched so nicely as he hopped a few times to hurry into the pair of jeans while edging towards the doorways.

“Can’t I have a farewell kiss, at least?” She called out from the bed.

“Nice try. You’d just grab me and pin me down.” Ethan sees through her plot instantly even as he finally yanks the jeans up to his hips and buttoned them shut. He pulled at his shirt, trying to get smooth of the wrinkles that had formed from where Alcina’s hands had run through. He didn’t seem to have noticed that her nails had cut into his back enough for the barest amount of blood to seep against the white fabric. “I need to find Cassandra quickly before she murders someone.”

And then, quite rudely, he left her with nothing but frustration and an urgent, persistent ache between her legs.

“I should have locked the door from both sides…” Alcina mutters to herself, falling back into the bed with a huff.

Chapter 3: The Dragon of Dimitrescu

Chapter Text

After a warm and quick soak in the bath, Alcina Dimitrescu finally rises for the day with bloody vengeance on her mind.

Somewhat sated, if still frustrated from her husband’s sudden and duplicitous withdrawal, the Dimitrescu matriarch quickly stalked through the halls of her ancestral stronghold on heavy, clipped feet. Her magic, which has always been a chaotic and restless thing, threatens to flare about her in a physical wave. Even now the furniture around her rattles and shakes; the heavy velvet curtains shifting and waving as though caught in some intangible ripple. The maids scurry out of her way like the little mice they were, desperate to avoid the Mistress’ direct attention. Alcina barely refrains from snarling at them all, her skin itching as though it was too tight for her true size.

Alcina will find whoever it was amongst the staff that had dared interrupt the last few moments of intimacy between herself and her husband and make them pay. She will give them a true reason to scream! She’ll strip the meaty flesh from their bones with her claws, slowly and meticulously so as not to sever the nerve endings, before making mincemeat of their flesh and forcefully feeding it to them!

Her husband will pay dearly for leaving her aching and needy, forced to satisfy herself by finding relief with her own hand. It was only a matter of when and where. Alcina has never claimed herself to be a kind or merciful ruler, much less forgiving, and she will not start now.

Truly, she has been far too indulgent with him.

Already, Alcina’s mind twists and turns with ideas on how to exact the perfect revenge upon her spouse. For all that she loves Ethan, truly and fully, it was foolish of him to cast her aside in favor of some dull-witted, hapless little maid. It was simply unfortunate for Ethan that Alcina so loved to derive joy from both his pain and pleasure, which often was so delightfully intertwined when it came to her husband.

Alcina breathes in deeply through her nose, carefully casting her mind throughout the massive space that made up the castle in an attempt to rid herself of the excess, restless energy. It is both habit and instinct to cast her mind and magic out fully to the very last inch of her ancestral grounds, cascading over every hallway and room easily with her vast, overwhelming power. She searches first, as always, for her children.

Alcina’s magic brushes against Cassandra’s own, which is oh so bright and brilliant, first. Her fiercest daughter was the only one of her eldest three that currently dwelled within Castlelul Dimitrescu at the moment, what with Bela having been sent out to deal with a pesky obtruder werewolf pack and Daniela off in the high north studying the native magical fauna.

The soft imprint of Alcina’s second child’s mind and soul brushing back against her own in greeting, oddly gentle considering Cassandra’s very nature, calmed Alcina’s nerves in more ways than could be explained.

Breathing through her nose, Alcina casts out further, her temper lessening and loosening already.

Smaller, but still so bright, is Rosemary’s presence when Alcina brushes up against her. The bright light flickers and shifts, tightly tuned as it was to the young girl’s mind and emotions. Rosemary recognized the phantom touch against her as her mother’s and tries to brush back. It is a rough, uncontrolled motion, less a direct touch and more an impulsive grasp, for the child is still so young and untrained with her magic still so volatile and ever-growing. Yet, what Alcina’s youngest lacks in control she certainly makes up for in effort. Rosemary has always been so eager to please.

Alcina basks in the suns of her daughters’ souls; twinning her magic against their own and looping every coiling thread with love and devotion.

It is only when she casts her mind out further, past the familial bonds of her dearest daughters, that Alcina finds Ethan’s essence. Dual-toned; a mixture of bright light and creeping shadow, like flowing water and dripping oil; her husband’s very being wraps around Alcina’s own without hesitation, guided on by the pathways laid out by her hand and magic prior. So easily, so trusting.

A careful, gentle tug via her mind and soul, and her own magic greets her from where it is coiled along the inked pathways scored deep into his body, humming and thrumming at her attention. Like a cord from an instrument waiting to be plucked from a gentle, if firm touch.

Alcina sighs aloud in the desolate hallway, the tension in her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as she leans into the solid warmth of her husband’s very being, nuzzling against the phantom barrier. For all that they were two bodies separated, their souls have long since been intertwined through Alcina’s powerful, almighty magic.

She leans into it, pressing up against the warmth and comfort that came from being so close to Ethan’s very essence. There is nothing quite like it, Alcina is sure.

What she had scribed onto his skin and into his soul to bind them together will always be Alcina’s masterpiece. The outcome of centuries of magical expertise and the collective knowledge of her daughter’s minds. She will never regret it, even as frustrated with him as she still is, when she now could feel Ethan pressed against her, mind and body and spirit. He calms her so easily, so readily; unlike anything else in the world.

… she’s still upset with him, however.

Now that all her family was accounted for, one last look at the protections before she left for the year was necessary. Breathing again through her nose, Alcina opens herself fully to the great, grand scale of Castelul Dimitrescu and its vast grounds.

Her power runs through her body easily, like a springtide river cast away from a waterfall’s current. It sweeps and surges away from her, gathering and collecting in great, powerful swells of ancient power. Alcina grasps it easily within herself, holding it close before she casts it further than before.

Her power scours across every hallway and room, through every corridor and stairway, burning brightly as it goes forward through every inch of naked soil and ancient stone like wildfire. Alcina spreads herself as far as she can, to the very last bit of her territory's barriers, and sinks in deeper.

Mentally running her fingers through the flowing gossamer threads interwoven throughout the various charms, curses, spells, enchantments and wards was always a careful, delicate task. Flaring sparks and shifting threads, an ever moving ocean of power and intent.

Alcina casts herself out against the bright tapestry and revels in it all.

For there is no place in the world quite like Castelul Dimitrescu. It is a place unlike any other, borne strongly from the spells and enchantments from the world all over. Its first stones had been cast down by Alcina herself when she had still been young, and her life’s blood had bled across the ancient setting stones that would soon build itself as the foundation of her stronghold. When Alcina had found Bela, and then Cassandra and then Daniela, she had opened the very heart of her being, the wards of Castle Dimitrescu, towards them so that they might imbue the knowledge they had sought and found from all corners of the world.

And they had. The protections within the castle were unlike anything else. Borne and bleed and strengthened by charms, wards, rituals and enchantments from all over the world, from the smallest bindrune to the grandest, bloodiest of rituals. And, of course, their own spells and enchantments sprung from their brilliant, cunning minds.

Bela, Alcina’s eldest and her Heiress, who had tutored dutifully beneath Alcina’s younger sister to learn the ways of the benandanti,learning the art of runes and threadmagic. Cassandra, her fierce she-wolf, who had traveled the steppes and plains of bloodied, warring magi to learn their spellcraft and battlewards. Daniela, her youngest and most eager, who had charmed her way through the finest academies and casteluls to learn all she could.

Alcina’s dearest daughters, her fierce trio, who had learned and battled their way through decades and centuries of hardship and adversity. And all they had learned, as all Alcina had learned herself, had been wrought and beaten into the very foundational stones of the Castle. It was a testament to the strength of House Dimitrescu that their ancestral stronghold was unbowed, untouched, unsoiled. Alcina doubted there was any one force in the world that could break the wards and enchantments.

Around her, invisible to all but those whose eyes were welcomed, threads of magic burst into being; a winding, ever weaving tapestry rich with magic.

Alcina threads her fingers through the twine and threading carefully, feeling gently at the hundreds of thousands of brilliant vibrant threads that hum and glow about her. She follows after one gently pulsating string that has wound itself through the perimeter of the outer battlements, an old ward tinged bloody red that marked it as one of Bela’s creations. Alcina plucks at it like a chord so that it sings and hums to her in a language so ancient it has been forgotten by all but herself and her children. The ward sings of determent and obscuration from the eyes of Mundies. It is an old ward, an aged thing. No doubt the specifics have been lost by time to all but those of her House.

By now, Alcina and her siblings might very well be the last born of a time where the tongue spoken was full of ancient magicks.

After all, it has been centuries that Alcina has lived and endured, has learned and absorbed all that could be gained, whether it be Mundane or Magical. Her daughters were no different. Ever since they had come into their majority they had flitted throughout the world in search of knowledge and power. Alcina had never been more proud of her children then, delighted by their thirst for knowledge, for all that her heart ached and yearned for their presence to remain close by her side.

For centuries, Alcina has lived and endured. A powerful, steady monolith. A place of power that her children could rest upon, a place of safety and refuge to the chosen few who were granted her acknowledgement and, thus, her protection. And Alcina had been content to endure it alone. A lone powerful standing stone for her people to gain strength from.

Only then, so suddenly and unexpectedly, she had found Ethan.

And, oh, the state she had found him in. Lost and aching and so full of a rage that was not fully his own. That terrible, treacherous rot that clung to him; so deeply sunk within that it had stained Alcina’s fingertips black when she combed through it. Such a fierce and furious decay unlike anything else she, in all her years, had yet to know.

Alcina had found him, lost and bereaved and grieving as the man had unknowingly trespassed upon Dimitrescu land, and something in her being had known. Without instinct or proof, Alcina had chanced upon Ethan and had simply realized, without hesitation or doubt, that he would come to mean something to her. And he would; he had.

And everything had changed.

She had sent Cassandra to bring the odd man thing to her, and, though he had fought and rebelled, he had come to her.

Of course, it had taken Ethan longer to recognize and understand the lure, the lull and pull that had driven Alcina so completely towards him upon their first meeting. It had taken an absurdly long time, a time filled with constant grief and rage and frustration, for him to recognize her for what she was.

Alcina blamed it upon his past life, the life he would soon one day give up willingly once he had come to realize her love for him, and he her, and they had bonded themselves together in a way no Mundane would know, much less even the most eldest wizard.

Alcina has never been one to half-guess. And, though she had been right in the end, it had taken so very long for Ethan to realize this, to acknowledge and accept it and her fully and truly. It had taken so long, so long it felt like a lifetime that by the time Ethan had said the words and looked upon her, finally, without fear, and Alcina hadn’t hesitated to take him then and there.

“Do you… will you?” Alcina had asked him that night, had almost nearly begged of him. The closest she has ever come to begging in all her years of living, and yet she has yet to feel an ounce of shame for it had been all worth it. It had been worth the chance of embarrassment and humiliation, because it had been for Ethan.

“Will you let me?” She had asked him.

And Ethan had looked at her, had truly looked at her, and he had said one word.

“Yes.”

Alcina had bound him to her that night, mind, body and soul, and has never once regretted it. Not when it ensured his safety, not when it meant that she could always reach for him. Even now it was so easy to cast out her mind and find his own, to snatch up his very being within her claws and never let go. Alcina would rather consume them both until there was nothing left but tasteless ash than to let him slip through her fingers.

She will never let him go now. Alcina has sunken herself far too deep into his soul, into the very marrow of his bones. To remove herself from him was like trying to extract his very heart.

“You are mine, as I am yours. From this day until my last day. One body, one heart, one soul, one love.”

He had said, had promised, had pledged. Alcina would never forget it, would always hold him to that. She will never forget that night. For all any other endless day and night blended together ceaselessly and continuously, she will remember that one night above all save for when she had chanced upon those she would call her daughters. She loves him. Truly. Fully.

She is still furious with him, of course.

But Alcina will have her vengeance. In due time.

But, for now, it is her last day within the castle. Her last day to enjoy herself with her family that is currently available to her, and Alcina will not waste it.

Chapter 4: A Dimitrescu Family Breakfast

Chapter Text

Alcina finds her family already seated at the table, waiting for her to join them in the informal family dining room. With both Bela and Daniela away, the table had been adjusted for the smaller extent of her family. Ethan was seated at the end of the dining table, opposite of Alcina’s own spot as the head seat, with Cassandra on one side and Rosemary at the other.

As she walked towards her well-deserved spot at the family table, sharp heels clicking against both flagstone and velvet carpet, Alcina could not help but raise a single, well-sculpted brow at the sight that befell her.

Cassandra and Ethan were locked in the midst of an intense staring contest; their frustration with the other practically tangible for how it might as well have lingered in the air like a foul, pungent stench. Cassandra was grinning sharply, both mirth and annoyance mixing together from her magical signature. Ethan, on the other hand, was simply glaring back at the brunette only...

One quick look at her husband, and Alcina couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out from her. Ethan’s hair had been charmed a bright and unsightly orange with his normally short hair spiked upwards like the spines of a hedgehog.

“You look utterly garish,” Alcina informed her husband in lieu of a greeting as she sat down at her seat, the annoyance that had been burning low within her momentarily forgotten at the hilarious sight. Cassandra’s work, no doubt. It was a testament to the brunette’s affection that the man still had his skin and all his organs.

Ethan just scowled at her, though he kept his eyes fixed solely on Cassandra, only his absurd hairstyle just made Alcina’s lips turn upwards. It was rather hard to take anything seriously with him at the moment when he looked as ridiculous as he did now. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes hadn’t been spared from the pigment change.

“Good morning, Mother.” Cassandra greeted without turning away from Ethan, sharp teeth gleaming.

The Dimitrescu matriarch simply sighed lowly at their theatrics. She turned her golden eyes towards Rosemary, who was impatiently swinging her feet and glancing at the doorway every few moments. No doubt too eager for breakfast rather than taking part in… whatever this was between Cassandra and Ethan.

“Whatever is up with your father and sister?” She asked the child curiously, for all that Alcina already had some sort of inkling.

Rosemary just shrugged her small shoulders. “Dunno. They said it was ‘adult’ stuff.” And with that she pouted, small nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Father decided to stop my fun,” Cassandra answered then, her tone clipped with irritation. “He ruined the hunt.”

“Your fun was literally murder,” Ethan shot back, orange eyebrows narrowed as he stared at her unblinkingly.

Cassandra stared back, golden eyes focused upon him like the fierce gaze of a bird of prey. Her older daughter and husband continued to stare at one another, trapped within a silly game of their own creation, neither one willing to bend or break before the other just yet. Alcina watched this happen with a small smile playing unbidden against her lips. How typical of them both. It reminded her of their initial interactions all those years ago.

Cassandra had been the slowest of Alcina’s trio to warm up to Ethan in the early days, and, in turn, Ethan had taken the longest to warm up to Cassandra. Alcina could not truly fault him when it had been Cassandra, Alcina’s greatest huntress, who had been commanded to bring the odd trespasser to her mother. It did not help matters that Cassandra has never been known for tenderness or her forbearance.

In the earliest months and foundational year, Ethan had warmed up considerably faster to Bela and Daniela. Bela, who was the least temperamental of her sisters and unlikely to lash out suddenly while Daniela, her sweet girl, was too warm and passionate and always so easy to love. Cassandra, however, could be... rather prickly.

If her third child was like the sun, bright and ever-drawing anyone close to her orbit, and her eldest the moon, ever constant and patient, then Cassandra was the void set in between them.

And yet, as time passed and Ethan had slowly begun to settle into his new place, the frost had thawed and their relationship had finally begun to bloom. Cassandra, always delighted by instruments of war and battlecraft, had fallen in love with the Mundie weaponry Ethan had carried upon his person. Ethan, in turn, had been delighted by the genuine interest and, perhaps eager to have something to teach them for a change, had taught her all he knew. They’d been as thick as thieves ever since, always working on some project or another.

It was Ethan who broke first.

Her husband’s lips twitched just a bit, and then he was grinning. Cassandra broke a few seconds after, sneer falling away as she grinned back at him, much more warmly than before. They shared a laugh, the tension in the air breaking and fading away almost immediately as they relaxed into their respective chairs.

Still grinning, her husband turned towards her. “Could you undo this?” Ethan asked her, gesturing at his hair.

Alcina is half-tempted to leave it as is, a small morsel of revenge to sate her until she can truly make him regret his actions… but it was their last breakfast all together for quite some time.

Alcina can be kind. She can be considerate.

Not to mention that it would save her eyes the sight of such lurid hair.

“I suppose.” She sighs out, sounding rather put out by it all, even as she was already threading phantom fingers through her husband’s essence, searching for that telltale glowing thread of honey-amber that was Cassandra’s distinctive touch.

It’s easy enough to unravel, unspooling the foreign signature and nipping it at its root so that it collapses in upon itself. Ethan’s hair quickly loses its bright color just as the spikes began to recede. Ethan ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down.

“Thanks,” Ethan said, looking at her with that roguish lopsided smile that has always managed to make her insides swoop. “I prefer to keep my hair blonde, or do you not remember that time Rose turned my hair blue when she got angry that it was time for bed?”

“You did look ridiculous.” Alcina couldn’t help but admit aloud, her lips twitching upwards at the memory. Truly, her husband had looked utterly absurd with blue hair while he was trying to calm a crying toddler.

Her husband, who was now looking at her suspiciously. “You undid that pretty fast just now,” he noted, frowning at her from across the table. “So why’d that time have me stuck with blue hair for three days before you managed to reverse it?”

“It was something that needed intensive research and much deliberation to undo.” Alcina lied easily, ignoring the weight of his stare as she raised the small silver handbell placed by her empty plate and let it ring lightly.

Immediately, the grand oaken doors opened as the maidens of Castelul Dimitrescu walked out, carefully carrying today’s breakfast. They moved on silent feet, graceful yet cautious in their movements as they moved about the table.

Ethan thanked the maid who handed him a full plate quietly. Alcina stared, golden eyes flickering back and forth between him and the suddenly nervous girl. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Which one…

A sudden tugging at her elbow tore the Dimitrescu matriarch from her murderous thoughts and she turned towards Rosemary who was blinking up at her.

“What is it, little one?” Alcina asked sweetly.

“D’you really have to go?” The girl asked, brows furrowed.

Alcina’s heart tore at the sight of the child’s frown, and she was quick to try and raise the girl’s spirits. “It is not so long, my dear. A month, and then you and your father will be joining me. You’ll see me by the next full moon, and there will be a whole new castle to explore. Won’t that be exciting? I’ve told you about the castle, yes? Do you remember the name?”

“... Pigfarts?” Rosemary asked her dubiously.

Alcina shouldn’t laugh at that, but her lips did twitch. “Hogwarts, my dear.” She corrected patiently.

Rosemary nodded seriously, before promptly returning her full attention to her plate of pancakes. Alcina couldn’t help but lean over and press a kiss against those soft, blonde curls, delighting in the soft giggle that came from her daughter.

“It’ll be fun for you,” Cassandra spoke up then, helping herself to a plate of half-cooked sausages. “Think of the adventures you’ll have.”

Rosemary perked up at that, turning to face her older sister. “You’ll still write to me, right? You promise?”

“I promise,” Cassandra told the girl, smiling softly. Always so soft and gentle for the young child. “It will be fun. Nothing ever quite shakes up the Wizarding world than when Mother decides to pay someone a visit. It will be exciting to see what happens.”

“Surely not that bad?” Ethan asked, a tad concerned. “Surely your mother has left for longer visits without anything terrible happening?”

“I hope there’s a coup,” Cassandra sighed dreamily, spearing her breakfast with her knife. “We’ve never had a coup before...”

“There will not be a coup,” Alcina told her daughter crossly, tableware creaking underneath the strain of her grip at the very idea.

“But it’d be so bloody, ” Her fierce she-wolf sighed again, sounding wistful.

“What’s a coup?” Rosemary asked brightly, curious golden eyes darting back and forth between her mother and older sister hummingbird-quick.

“Nothing that is of concern, little one,” Alcina assured her, ruffling the girl’s bright blonde hair with one massive finger. Rosemary scowled at that, nose wrinkling like she smelt something foul, before she went back to her stack of pancakes.

Cassandra, still smiling dreamily, cut into her own meal. Ethan followed soon after, cutting his pancakes into smaller pieces and drizzling a fair amount of maple syrup upon the flat cakes. He was quick to drizzle the thick syrup upon their youngest’s plate, though he soon stopped the flow and began to ply the girl into taking a large amount of the fruits available.

Alcina helped herself to a veritable spread of food, grabbing a slice of freshly toasted bread and grabbing the distinctly marked jar of preserves. One of Daniela’s delicious creations. She has only just begun to cut up her breakfast when one of the maids broke off from the rest to stand behind her at a respectful distance, heartbeat rabbiting in her vulnerable, mortal chest. Alcina pauses, tilts her head just a bit.

“My Lady,” the maid began, pale fingers twitching nervously about at her sides. “I know that to ask during a family breakfast, not to mention such a momentous farewell, but, well,” her face tinted a hideous red, whether from shame or nerves Alcina truly did not care. “It is only that, well, well, the -”

“Speak, before you choke on your own nerves, girl,” Alcina said impassively. Already her attention was slipping away from the maid to focus instead on her dearest daughters, who were leaning over the table and whispering and hissing secret conversations back and forth. Ethan was watching them both warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling from genuine mirth and Alcina was utterly helpless at the sight.

Oh, how she could lose herself within the warmth of his smile, cast away by the depth of his ocean eyes.

“The lady Nadja wished to speak with you before you started your preparations to leave.” The young woman told her. “She wanted to consult with you about the matter of the ICoW’s request on joining the International Dueling Ban.”

Cassandra cackled at that from her side of the table. “As if!”

“I will speak with her afterwards,” Alcina told the maid curtly. “For now, I am enjoying my last breakfast with my husband and children. Tell Nadja to expect me after we finish. No later, no sooner.”

The maid bowed her head quickly. “Of course, Lady Dimitrescu.”

Alcina didn’t even so much as spare the mortal another glance, more interested in her meal. The tasteful jam has left her feeling rather wistful, and Alcina could not help but wish that all of her children were home at this moment.

Only Daniela was still on her excursion far up north somewhere in the hills of Trøndelag following after a rare herd of Eikþyrnir, and Bela wasn’t due to come home for at least another week while she dealt with stamping out foreign dissidents that had been foolish enough to try and cause trouble upon Dimitrescu land.

There had been unrest in the southernmost part of their territory from an uppity, puffed-up alpha werewolf and his pack, outsiders who had entered her lands under false pretenses and claims for refuge, who had been trying to stir up dissent and chaos. Unfortunately for the outsiders, the people of Transylvania were slow to provoke and loyal to a fault and had been quick to alert their overlords. And so, Alcina had tasked her eldest to deal with the meddling outsiders and prove, yet again, the power and might of House Dimitrescu.

Still, Bela and Daniela’s absences were like missing a limb.

Alcina distracted herself from her sorrows by cutting up Rosemary’s strawberries into perfect little triangles. Her youngest scowled at her, a dash of syrup stuck to her cheek as she dragged her plate away from Alcina’s reach.

“I can do it, Mama!” To prove her point, the girl picked up her own knife, blunt with no serration of course, and began to roughly cut into the small red fruit.

“Oh… I suppose you can,” Alcina said, trying her absolute best to keep out the sadness from her tone, already retracting her knife and fork. Her fingers itched, gripping the soft grooves of the embellished metal, unable to figure out just what to do with the sudden restless, if downcast, energy.

The Countess’ heart ached as she looked at her little blonde spitfire. Where had the time gone? It felt as though it was only yesterday that Ethan could cradle the girl in the crook of his arm, and now here she was wanting to cut her own breakfast. The next thing Alcina would know, Rosemary would want to be moving out of the castle to stretch her wings and explore the vastness of the world like her sisters before her, leaving her poor mother behind as she sought out new, exciting adventures.

This was only the beginning. Soon enough Rosemary wouldn’t need her mama nearly as much. She wouldn’t need her mother to help dress her, wouldn’t be nearly as willing for kisses and nose nuzzles. Soon enough her sweet, darling Rose would be terrorizing the gentry and common folk just like her sisters, only now powerful and older and independent. No longer would Rosemary need to run to the comfort of her mother’s bed when a thunderstorm rolled through, wouldn’t burrow herself into the warmth of Alcina’s embrace as she hid away from the thundering rumble of crying skies. She wouldn’t eagerly race into her mother’s arms for snuggles, would no longer beg for nighttime stories sung in the most ancient of tongues, would no longer follow Alcina around like a second shadow, ever eager to be part of her mother’s day.

Where had all the time gone? Alcina wondered to herself, feeling almost helpless from it all.

“- don’t you agree, Mother?” Cassandra’s question cut through her maudlin thoughts, tearing Alcina away from the gray, doleful melancholy of her mind.

“Hmmm?” She looked up from Rosemary’s crowded plate, trying to shake away the phantom pain of a forlorn motherhood to focus all her attention upon her second child. “What was it you said, my love?” Alcina asked, blinking and trying to focus back into the current present.

Cassandra, her fierce huntress, rolled her amber eyes. “I said, don’t you agree, Mother?”

“... whatever am I agreeing to, my love?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Ethan said, rolling his eyes back at the brunette in fake mockery. “She knows I’m right but is too stubborn to admit it.”

“And I have told you, countless times, that it was through no fault of my own.” Cassandra scowled.

“I’m sorry, but who was it who accidentally blew a giant hole in the armory wall?”

Cassandra glared at him heatedly, fingering the edge of her knife. “I told you a thousand times that you must have gotten the ratio wrong. My runes were perfectly applied; there was no reason the matrix should have resulted in such a volatile reaction!”

“And yet when you activated it you nearly blew us both up and took out a good portion of the wall.”

Cassandra growled at him lowly as she began to roughly saw through her half-cooked sausage. She bit at the end and tears at it with her teeth. Alcina cannot help but frown at her second child, lips pursed. “No elbows on the table, dear,” Alcina warns her and Cassandra scowls but removes her elbows from the dining table all the same.

They resume eating. Alcina gestures towards one of the maidens, a flaxen-haired girl who served as cup-bearer, with a loose signal. The girl steps forward quickly, ornamented bottle grasped firmly in hand, and poured a generous amount of Sanguis Virginis into Alcina’s goblet, expertly stopping the flow with a small flourish. The maiden stepped back to her place against the wall, head tilted down and as quiet as a mouse.

The thick, heady bouquet of the wine filled her nostrils when she brought the goblet close to her lips, swirling the thick crimson liquid so that it breathed properly. She takes a sip, humming in appreciation at the rich, velvety burst of flavor that sings upon her tongue. Alcina relaxes into her seat, holding her glass, as she looks over her family with warmth. Cassandra and Rosemary were busying themselves with their respective breakfasts, but Ethan had paused. She focuses her attention on her husband, noting that his expression was a tad strained.

It was then that Alcina realizes, to her absolute and vindictive delight, that Ethan was grimacing uncomfortably to himself as he tried to subtly shift in his seat. Her golden gaze latches on to the pinched crease of his brow, how his fingers flex around the silverware uncomfortably, and she revels in it.

“Is everything alright, my darling?” Alcina cannot help but chirp cheerfully, her smile rising behind the silver rim of her cup at his obvious discomfort.

“I’m fine,” Ethan says, but Alcina can sense the very bald faced lie. His very scent suggested a frustration that she alone knew the cause of. It sent a twisted thrill through her and Alcina’s smile grew wider, sharper, and she happily cut into her own breakfast. It served him right.

Leaving their bed to play the shining knight, he would have had to hurry to wherever it was Cassandra had been playing her game, and after interrupting it her daughter no doubt hounded him all the way to the table. Cassandra was stubborn like that, a wolf gnawing on a bone and refusing to let go. Alcina beamed at her darling girl; for all that Cassandra likely didn’t have a clue as to what her actions had done, it was still a brilliant move.

Humming pleasantly underneath her breath, Alcina smeared a generous layer of jam upon her toast. The tart yet slightly sweet lingonberry and the rich velvet burst of iron was a welcome sensation on her palate. She hummed in appreciation, taking another delicate bite.

If there ever came a time where the Dimitrescu line were to ever abandon its vineyards, though unlikely, perhaps their special preserves would net a fortune for magical creatures who preferred their food a tad more on the raw side.

Truly, Daniela’s creativity and dedication to a good meal was something beautiful to behold.

Though it has been quite some time ago, her third child had been inspired by the local cuisine of the Danes during a long visit, especially an absolutely delightful dish known as blodpudding, and had spent decades after curating the perfect ratio of blood and lingonberry to create an absolutely wonderful jam spread. Cassandra was already reaching over the table for the glass jar of bloodied preserves to help herself, all while still ensuring that the jar wouldn’t be accidentally grabbed by Rose or Ethan.

Setting her toast down on the plate, Alcina grabs her silverware to begin cutting into her own set of half-cooked sausages and pancakes while using the leftover jam to dip her breakfast in. For several minutes the dining room was quiet as her family ate their breakfast, only broken up by the sound of utensils hitting porcelain and the dull murmurs of Ethan and Cassandra as they spoke to one another under their breaths.

The table suddenly jolted, tableware clattering violently and beverages threatening to spill, as it bucked up a few inches, as though something massive beneath it had hit it. From underneath the table was the unmistakable sound of sharp teeth chewing loudly.

Alcina slowly put down her fork and knife, eyes narrowing immediately onto Rosemary, who was trying her best to imitate a turtle by how her shoulders had risen up past her chin as she tried to shrink in on herself self-consciously. Her plate was suspiciously close to the edge of the table.

Ignoring how it galled her sensibilities to place her elbows upon the table, Alcina steepled her gloved fingers together to rest her chin upon them while golden eyes narrowed dangerously to focus upon her youngest. “What have I said about feeding him at the table?” She asked the girl calmly.

Rosemary blinked at her, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. Cassandra grinned into her glass as she watched on, ever eager for chaos or conflict.

“Uhhh, not to?” The young girl slowly hazard a guess, sounding unsure.

“Then why do I hear bacon crunching when I can distinctly see that your mouth is open and bereft of such a thing?”

Her youngest stared at her, wide-eyed. “Uhh, it was a ghost?”

“Nonsense!” Alcina scoffed at the very suggestion. “There are no ghosts dwelling within these halls. They’re too dreadfully dull and morose to ever be a proper houseguest. I won’t have them in my home.”

Ethan was grinning. Alcina glanced at him, eyes narrowing when he hurriedly took a drink of water to hide his face from her.

A large, wet black nose poked its way at the edge of the table, sniffing noisily.

Alcina watched the nose snuffle and move about the table’s edge, leaving behind a disgusting wet trail, with pursed lips. The Countess calmly, slowly, went to pick up her knife, gripping it lightly as she began to lean over the table’s edge -

“No,” Ethan said, cutting Alcina out of her murderous thoughts. She looked up, but Ethan wasn’t even looking in her direction; he had pulled out a small notebook and was flipping through the pages and showing its contents to Cassandra. Frowning unhappily, Alcina put the knife back down and tried her best to not begin to sulk.

“No feeding pets at the table.” She told Rosemary gruffly.

“Fell isn’t a pet!” Rosemary argued. “He’s my best friend! Best friends deserve bacon.”

Alcina didn’t quite know what to say to that. She looked towards Ethan for support, only her husband was just smiling at their youngest fondly.

“If the owls can get bacon snacks, I don’t see why Fell can’t.” He said, like that settled the matter entirely.

“Don’t remind me about owls,” Cassandra muttered. “Inigo showed up last night with a letter and now he won’t stop pestering me.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow as he murmured back to her. “Did you not open it?”

Though their voices had been low, Rosemary must have heard them. She beamed up at her older sister, her cheeks bulging from pancake like a greedy chipmunk. “Cath,” she began, mumbling around a mouthful of food in a way that makes Alcina wince. A stern look from her mother has the blonde swallowing before she asks her question. “Cass, does that mean you didn’t answer Dani’s letter yet? Can you give her something from me?”

“I’m not going to answer her letter,” Cassandra said shortly, angrily sawing at her breakfast, the serrated edge shrieking against the fine porcelain. “It’s just going to be full of stupid stuff. Like the people she's met, the friends she’s made.” Her entire face scrunched up in absolute disgust. “Magic forbid that it’s just her gushing and waxing nauseating poetry about how she’s finally found the One.Again.”

“But I drew her a picture!” Rosemary sulked, looking rather put out.

“If you want to be the one who has to deal with Daniela’s inane ramblings then by all means be my guest,” Cassandra groused.

The sarcasm was lost on the six year old, whose pout was instantly replaced with a grin. The girl leaned down in her chair and she whispered, “go get it, Fell!”

Cassandra rolled her eyes as the big, thick-furred black wolf shot out from underneath the table, massive tail wagging as he raced out of the room. Barely ten seconds had passed before there was the sudden shriek of surprise from a maid followed by what sounded like a platter of fine china shattering on the ground.

Alcina winced at the noise as she turned to glare at Ethan, whose shoulders were shaking just a tad as he tried to keep his laughter silent. It was all his fault, Alcina bemoaned silently. She had been perfectly ready to laugh in Karl’s face when he had brought the magical creature forward as a companion and protector for an infant Rosemary. Only Ethan had been moved, like a sentimental dewy-eyed fool, by the gesture and Alcina could only glare at Heisenberg with gritted teeth.

It was quite lucky for Rosemary and her beloved, if slobbery, companion that at that moment there was the sudden telltale flap of wings as a pair of familiar owls flew into the room and circled over the family once, twice, thrice. A handsome barn owl landed close by Alcina while the other, a brightly plumed Madagascar Red Owl, landed close by Cassandra, who groaned at the arrival. The barn owl hopped closer to the Dimitrescu matriarch, hooting lowly in its chest.

“Hello, Herodotus,” Alcina greeted, all thoughts of Heisenberg and magical wolves gone from her mind, as she brushed a gloved finger against the soft tawny plumage in acknowledgment. “Do you have a letter for me?”

Bela’s prized owl ruffled his feathers imperiously, stretching out a leg where the thick, leather pouch held the letter. Alcina couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the silver threading carefully inlaid against the leather. Truly, Bela’s threadmagic was a thing of absolute beauty and her enchantments were to be admired.

Alcina could practically feel the enchantments, meant to deter and prevent unwanted hands and eyes from prying between Lady Dimitrescu and her Heiress’ private correspondence, thrumming through the pure silver thread. The enchantments, humming with her eldest’s magic, allows her hand to unclasp the pouch and remove the letter without issue. She grabbed the letter and placed it on the table to read it later. If it were truly an emergency, Bela would have reached her through other means.

“Go away!” Cassandra’s low growl brought Alcina’s attention back to her. Inigo, Daniela’s owl, was ruffling his feathers for attention, fearlessly pecking at Cassandra’s hand with his beak.

“I’m going to carve you up and serve you as a dish, one of these days,” Alcina’s second daughter snarled at the owl, teeth bared.

Inigo simply tried to bite her fingers again, looking completely unphased by the threat of violence.

“Thrice-damned owl,” Cassandra muttered under her breath.

“Cassandra.” Alcina cut in, tone clipped, as she looked towards Rosemary pointedly. “Language.”

“Hi, Inigo!” Rosemary said cheerfully, stealing a piece of toast from her father’s plate and holding it up in her palm hopefully. The Madagascar Red Owl hooted happily as he hopped over to the girl, flight feathers dragging delicately across the pristine tablecloth.

“Rose!” Cassandra complained the very moment she noticed her sister’s double-dealing. “Don’t encourage him!”

“But he’s hungry, look!”

The amber-plumed bird happily took the offered food gently from her palm and swallowed it down. Rosemary giggled, running her fingers through his feathers carefully. The owl preened at Rose’s attention, affectionately nipping and pulling at the girl’s sleeve and hooting happily. Cassandra glowered at the bird, her grip on the knife white-knuckled.

“Go away. I’ve already taken your letter, so go back and freeze your feathers off with your mistress!”

Inigo tilted his head and merely blinked at Cassandra, clicking his beak reproachfully.

“Cassandra,” Alcina tuts disapprovingly at the young woman. “Answer your sister’s letter.”

“But I’m already going to be going up there in the next two weeks,” Cassandra complained. “I don’t get why she has to send me letters when I’ll be joining her soon enough.”

“If not for Daniela, then do it for Rosemary.” Alcina gestured toward the girl, who was bouncing in her seat and staring at her older sister with big, hopeful eyes.

“… Yes, Mother.” Cassandra sighed in defeat.

There was the sound of claws clicking against stone and hardwood as Fell came rushing back into the room, a small leather-bound journal carefully held in his massive maw. The magical creature trotted over to Rosemary’s chair and the girl gratefully took it in hand. “Thanks, Fell!” Rosemary said, scratching behind the creature’s ears in a way that made his tail thump against the floor. The girl opened up her journal to carefully tear out a brightly colored drawing.

“See, look!” Rosemary shoved the piece of paper at her sister’s face eagerly. “I drew it for her all by myself!”

“That’s a nice…” Cassandra squinted at the doodle. “... dragon?” She hazard a guess, sounding unsure.

Rosemary scowled, lower lip pursed out. “It’s Mama! See, there’s her hat.” She pointed at a vague, haphazardly drawn dark cloud that, if looked at carefully with one eye half-closed, might resemble headwear. Cassandra looked away from her scowling sister to stare at her mother pleadingly for rescue.

“I like how you drew my teeth,” Alcina praised. “Very pointy.”

Rosemary beamed at her.

“Is that you, then?” Alcina pointed at the very small stick-figure next to her drawn person.

“That’s Papa,” Rose told her, tone unimpressed.

“Hey, I am not that small!” Ethan cut in from across the table. Her husband had stopped eating from his plate and was leaning over to get a better look at the drawing.

“What was that, love?” Alcina asked him, smiling sweetly. “I couldn’t quite hear you from down there.”

Cassandra burst into a shrieking fit, and even Rosemary giggled. Alcina beamed at them. Truly, her girls were perfection.

“It’s not my fault everyone in this family is so freakishly tall,” her husband grumbled, mostly to himself. “ And six foot even is a perfectly respectable height.”

“Would you like to borrow my heels?” Cassandra asked him, still grinning. “Although I don’t think you could pull them off nearly as well as I do. Perhaps platform shoes?”

Ethan snorted at that, cracking a grin. “If I used footwear to get anywhere near your mother’s height I would need stilts.”

Everyone at the table laughed at that, Alcina most of all. Ethan grinned at her from across the table before giving her a sly wink, and Alcina’s stomach swooped.

Inigo snapped his beak loudly to bring the attention back to him, raising his wings stubbornly as he flapped them in Cassandra’s direction.

Herodotus hooted lowly at the sight, looking as disgruntled as an owl could be at Inigo, who by now was nipping and biting at Cassandra’s fingers with a gleeful passion. Cassandra noticed the barn owl’s gaze and glowered at the bird.

“Leave it to Bela to have a bird who is just as judgmental as she is,” Cassandra scowled while Herodotus stared back at her in judgement. “And for Daniela to have a bird that is just as feral as she is.” She added, jerking her hand away from Inigo’s snapping beak.

Alcina frowned at the brunette. “Cassandra, do not speak ill of your sisters when they are not here.” Internally, Alcina thought to herself that Cassandra’s owl, a fierce great horned owl by the name of Casimir, had a temper and bite as quick to rouse as his mistress, but wisely said nothing aloud.

Cassandra simply ignored her mother as she side-eyed Ethan, leaning back in her chair to stay away from Inigo’s reach, and quietly murmured to him. “… How much are you willing to bet that letter is not just Dani gushing about finding true love? I’ll bet you a few ducati.”

“I wouldn’t even offer a handful of bani.” Her husband snorted through his nose, forgetting his manners as he roughly stabbed his fork through a layer of pancake without mercy. “That’s a suckers bet, and you know it. Don’t you remember the last time she was off on her own? That time she met that… What was he, a merman?”

“A triton,” Alcina corrected, lips twitching upwards despite herself. While she didn’t approve of gambling at the table, much less on one of her children’s love lives, it was a tad amusing and informative since Daniela rarely told her mother much. “Somewhat similar in appearance, but an entirely different magical species.”

“The fact that she couldn’t breathe underwater should have been the first red flag, but Daniela always harps on and on about true love at first sight.” Cassandra smirked, ever gleeful to mock one of her sisters. Inigo puffed up his feathers to increase his size, as though preparing to fight Cassandra to protect his mistress’ honor. “At least that one she didn’t kill once she realized that their feelings weren’t as strong as hers... although that might have been because he fled into the depths of the Mediterranean before she could react fast enough.”

“Come now, Cassandra,” Alcina argued. “Do not be so harsh on your sister. She’s a romantic at heart, and is it so wrong to be so immediately taken by someone? She simply wishes to have found love at first sight like I was lucky enough to find.” Daniela had found her mother’s courtship inspiring, and Alcina loved her dearly for that.

“You and I have very different opinions on how our first meeting went.” Ethan told her offhandedly, more focused on spearing a strawberry with his fork.

Alcina frowned at him. “I suppose we had a bit of a shaky start, but -”

Her frown furthered deeper as Cassandra and Ethan both choked on their breakfast. Rosemary just continued chewing. There was a patch of syrup stuck to her cheek that Alcina swiped at with the edge of her napkin. Rosemary squawked, trying to lean away from her mother’s reach and Fell took that opportunity to lean up and lick at the girl’s sticky cheek.

“Oh, go away you dread creature,” Alcina shooed the beast away, wiping at Rosemary’s cheeks with her napkin. The girl tried to shy away, only Alcina’s reach was too great. “Honestly, my dear, why you allow him such liberties I do not understand.”

“But Mama…”

Ethan and Cassandra had abandoned the family conversation to murmur with one another as they looked over at the notebook.

“I suppose I could check the bindrunes of the matrix, see if there was something that went afoul. I know for a fact that the enchanting on the casing was perfect, but perhaps when the percussion cap was struck the force managed to alter a rune.” Cassandra said. “The powdered Erumpent horn and silver shouldn’t have created a too volatile reaction when the gunpowder ignited and we’ve tested it tenfold. In theory it should have worked.”

“Maybe we went wrong with the metallurgy?’ Ethan suggested. “Bela always said that different metals reacted differently to the same runes. Maybe that’s where we went wrong?”

“Copper and brass are standard metals that can sustain under most runic arrays,” Cassandra pointed out, sounding frustrated. “A copper-steel, or brass-steel, alloy should be able to work. Unless we have different types of metals for the different pieces, it shouldn't matter when what we’re trying to achieve is, in theory, rather basic if untested.”

“I can ask Karl what he thinks about the metal purity when we go see him tomorrow-” Ethan began.

Alcina’s full attention snapped to the pair’s conversation so quickly there was a crick in her neck. “What?” She demanded, straightening up in her chair.

“I’ll ask Karl when we go see him tomorrow?” Her husband repeated, blinking slowly at her surprise. “Alcina, I told you about this weeks ago.” The lack of surprise from either of her daughters was a point in his defense. Alcina stared at him blankly, trying to comprehend the last ten seconds. Then it clicked.

“Why that… that unrepentant little manslu*t!” She snarled out, the leather of her gloves creaking as she formed tight, shaking fists.

“Alcina!” Ethan complained, glancing at Rosemary who was blinking up at them all curiously.

Alcina barely even noticed, too focused on the sheer, utter rage that was roiling through her blood by her brother’s daring insinuations. It felt as though her very body were aflame from the sheer indignation. How dare her utter disappointment of a youngest sibling try to worm his way into her husband’s good graces the very moment her back was turned!

That incorrigible, lecherous greasemonkey!

Alcina’s feet haven’t even touched foreign soil, much less even left her ancestral stronghold, and already her absolute fool of a brother was trying to force his perversions on her sweet husband.

“When was this decided?” The Countess demanded heatedly, silverware groaning and straining beneath the strength of her grip.

“... He invited us over for tea tomorrow afternoon.” Ethan told her slowly, looking at her like she was about to claw at him.

“I rather doubt that grubby buffoon even owns a tea set,” Alcina was quick to counter. Truly, Heisenberg had no shame. “Why did you not tell me of this arrangement sooner?”

“Alcina, you were there when I sent the letter!” Ethan told her incredulously. “Don’t you remember that I asked for your owl so I could send it?”

She did not remember.

“... It is not my fault that Heisenberg is so utterly dull that any mention of him instinctively results in my immediate disinterest!” Alcina argued, gazing upon her husband passionately, hoping he would feel the truth in her words.

“Alcina…” Her husband sighed out, and she had to resist the urge to growl at him. Honestly, his exasperation was rather unbecoming of him.

“... are we not going to Uncle Karl’s?” Rosemary slowly asked, golden eyes darting back and forth between her parents.

“Yes/No.” Alcina and Ethan said at the same time.

The Countess’ brows narrowed dangerously upon her husband, golden gaze burning brightly and deeply. “... darling,” Alcina began, her voice a low and dangerous murmur that has made many a wizard and witch cower and fall to their knees in supplication.

Her husband, whose defiance of expectations was delightful except when it came to defying Alcina herself, just stared at his wife evenly from across the dining table. “Alcina, we already set this date weeks ago. We can’t just cancel at the last second.”

“Of course you can,” the Dimitrescu matriarch scoffed at that, angrily spearing a piece of pancake with her fork. Would that the sweet flatcake could be her youngest brother’s stupid, ugly mug. “It’s Heisenberg. He’s used to disappointment. Since he is one, of course.”

“Fell needs to have a check up before we head to England for half of a year,” Ethan argued back evenly as he buttered up his toast. She hated how calmly he was speaking, as though the thought of Alcina’s lackwit little brother didn’t warrant immediate disgust. “He’s never been outside further than Karl’s territory, much less across Europe. Considering Karl is the only one who has bred his species, I’d say it’s important that we have him looked at before such a big trip.”

“What if Fell gets sick?” Rosemary asked her mother, tears building in her golden eyes at the very thought. Alcina could only watch in alarm. “I don’t want Fell to get sick!” The girl leaned down, though she didn’t have to move that far, to wrap her arms around the black beast’s massive head for comfort. The thick-furred brute nuzzled at her, tail wagging.

“I’m sure he won’t, my dear,” Alcina assured the girl, looking towards her husband for help.

Ethan was quick to jump to her defense. “Of course not! It was just a hypothetical, Rosie. He’s a big, strong magic wolf!”

The beast licked at Rosemary’s face until the girl squirmed and giggled.

“Come on, Rose,” Cassandra declared quickly, standing up from her seat. “How about we go answer Daniela’s letter? I’ll write it for you.”

Blessed spirits, Cassandra was a gem for diverting the girl’s attention so quickly. Excited, Rosemary hopped down from her seat and headed over to her sister, though she kept a firm, fearful grip on the wolf’s nape. When on all fours, the wolf was nearly as Rose was standing, but he allowed her to guide them both easily. Cassandra was quick to scoop the six year old up into her arms easily, shifting the blonde on her hip as she swept out of the room, Fell following like a massive, dark shadow behind them.

“Cass, what’s a manslu*t?” Came Rosemary’s distant question. Alcina winced. She could feel Ethan’s eyes burning into her, which she decidedly ignored as she took a drink from her goblet.

Cassandra's laugh was easily heard in the distance. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“No, you won’t!” Ethan called out, though it was half-hearted at best. He turned his attention back to her across the table, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Alcina demanded, taking a fortifying sip of wine. The rage was still threatening to boil her blood, and she could feel her magic simmer about her like a heated haze.

He smiled at her and smiled softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. It calmed her slightly. “Nothing,” he told her, still looking amused. “It’s just that Karl isn’t so bad, you know.”

Alcina has to finally concede, after knowing him for so many years, that her husband was an odd man.

Chapter 5: Voivode

Chapter Text

Hours before she is to leave her ancestral lands for England, the Dark Lady sits at her desk within her private office with a quill in hand as she writes diligently. With practiced ease Alcina writes her response in perfect, fluid calligraphy honed by centuries of practice.

In her other hand is the official seal of her House, an ancient artifact carved beautifully from the fang of a basilisk inset with goblin-forged silver. Embossed upon the seal was a rosette set between two crossed swords and around it the curled, coiled form of a dragon chasing after its tail: the sigil of the ancient House of Dimitrescu.

Alcina carefully applies a small glob of blood-red wax onto the parchment and presses her seal against it, channeling a soft tendril of her magic to bleed from her fingertips to settle within the hardening wax. Her magic whispers, hums, within her, ever shifting and ever changing with her mood.

Bela’s letter sat open on her desk, the softer red wax seal fixed with her daughter’s personal sigil broken by Alcina’s thumb and magic. There was nothing truly worrisome about the letter, nothing that warranted concern. It was a simple update from Alcina’s Heiress regarding the current situation. All was well, Bela had informed her. She and her party had managed to locate the pack and had shattered them, scattering the group into fleeing. Her daughter’s letter was filled with delight at the thought of the chase, and Alcina couldn’t help but smile warmly. At least Bela was enjoying herself, for all that she hadn’t wished to leave the Castle at the beginning.

Still, there was a reason why Alcina had sent Bela instead of Cassandra.

Cassandra enjoyed playing with her food far too much, and often let them go so as to further the tantalizing game of cat and mouse. Alcina did not want these outsiders, who had come within her lands begging for supposed sanctuary only to reveal their false black-hearts as they tried to instigate dissent and discord within her ancestral lands, to escape. Bela would ensure they were eradicated, root and stem.

Perhaps it was, if she were to use one of Ethan’s favored parlance, ‘overkill’ to send her eldest daughter to deal with a single werewolf pack. And yet, these ill-bred and foul mannered wolves had come to her lands under false words to try and incite rebellion and chaos. The thought of it, their sheer arrogance and stupidity that they could even think they might succeed, had chafed. Alcina did not regret sending Bela.

House Dimitrescu protected its own with the ferocity of a ravenous wolf, hoarded with the fiery possessiveness of a nesting dragon mother.

Theirs was a people and land carved out in bloody swathes, stripped and rendered down to its very bones and built up in cold iron. Theirs were a people tried and true, ever loyal and ever lasting. These lands were hers, and the people who lived within were hers as well. Alcina will always pride herself on the simple fact that, out of all her siblings, it was her lands that many flocked to in times of crisis for refuge.

Herodotus hooted quietly from his perch and Alcina raised her head to look at the barn owl. Her Heiress’ favored messenger tilted his head to look at her, dark eyes wide and massive. Alcina cannot help but smile at him, for all that her shoulders remain stiff and tense.

“I got too lost in my thoughts again, didn’t I?” She asked the owl fondly, raising a hand to scratch near the bird’s beak. Herodotus hooted again, affectionately nipping at her finger. Chuckling, Alcina turned her attention back to her desk. The various letters and missives strewn about chaotically on her desk had the Dark Lady sigh through her nose. “Truly, the work never ends, does it, Herodotus?”

The barn owl hooted.

Smiling, Alcina reached for yet another document. Her eyebrow raised when she grabbed ahold of not an envelope but a calfskin vellum scroll. An oddity since most preferred to write letters on paper nowadays, but there were still a small few of Alcina’s allies and associates that still preferred the traditions of the old ways. The familiar and ancient raven banner pressed into the hardened blue wax made it obvious who was writing to her.

Alcina brushed against the seal with her thumb to gently guide a touch of her magic to bypass the enchantments meant to prevent anyone but her from opening the sealed document. When she broke the seal it tingled in her hand like static.

Written in a fine, sharp hand was nothing that belonged to the Latin alphabet but was instead the thin, angular Futhark runic symbols. If not for the raven banner signifying where the letter came from, then the writing surely would have. Only the nomadic Wizarding clans of Scandinavia actively wrote in the runic script in these modern times. Few outside of the Far North could read it nowadays aside from scholars dedicated to the history of ancient runes.

Inwardly hoping that her sweet Daniela hasn’t been chased out of Magical Norway, Alcina began to read.

“Great Mǫrnir,” the scroll began and Alcina had to resist the urge to roll her eyes at the ancient title of Giantess the Danes had bestowed upon her centuries ago. Although her stature was grand, Alcina did not actually have any giant blood.

The Dimitrescu matriarch read the scroll with a lone brow raised slightly, golden eyes sweeping across the thin, angular runes.It was an invitation, and a welcome one at that. She read it once, twice, and put it down on the desk to be addressed at a later time. As Lord, her days were already filled to the brim with documents and councils, whether it was ensuring peace within her borders or trying to swat away the bothersome gnats that were foreign ‘officials’ who thought it within their rights to decide what she should and shouldn’t do within her own lands. As though she has not been ruling those same lands since before their very most revered ancestors were but twinkles in their father’s eyes! Truly, it was a testament to her infinite graciousness and patience that she had not slaughtered them all the moment they opened their mouths.

House Dimitrescu did not bow, would not break, nor bend before anyone, much less these fragile modern nations who held onto peace and power so precariously. The mere thought was derisory.

Her neck prickles as she reaches for her quill and a sheaf of blank parchment.

I am feeling restless, Alcina deduces as she continues to swiftly write upon the parchment with an easy, liquid grace.

Now that she was to leave her ancestral seat for nigh on half a year it seemed as though the workload had suddenly tripled in size right before she was set to leave. She pitied her children who would have to deal with the bulk of these backlogs and pleas and written requests.

Alcina’s Court, the handpicked few who had proven themselves worthy of the Countess’ attention, would serve her daughters well. Nadja most of all, who has served as Alcina’s dutiful, if eccentric, attendant for nigh on a century by this point. For all that she had a truly terrible taste in men, the vampiress had been a true asset to House Dimitrescu for countless decades.

Still, Bela would do well as acting Lady Dimitrescu in her mother’s stead, reigning in pro tempore with her sisters close by to serve as both shield and sword. The lands would be left in the capable hands once all three had returned home to roost. Alcina had every bit of faith in her eldest’s performance in her absence.

The next letter she takes hold of has been sealed with the familiar emblem of the ICoW, a familiar sight. Sighing under her breath, Alcina breaks the seal to read over the bumbling written words of yet another official from the damned International Confederation of Wizards lobbying for her agreement to allow some law on the countermeasures and impediment of some jinx or charm to be followed by Transylvania. The reason cited was that it was Dark magic. Alcina sighs lowly, the frustration building within the center of her chest. The urge to break something with her hands is all encompassing, but Alcina keeps herself in check.

… Imbeciles, all of them.

Has the past few centuries produced nothing but nitwits and f*ckless wizards and witches too afraid of their own shadow? Where has the respect and recognition and fear gone from these newly born witches and wizards?

Chaos and Guidance. Nature and Order. Will and Intent. Dark and Light.

Terms and definitions thrown out like it was so easily said and done. As though it was either one or the other. That none could have both and that only one could be, must be, right.

Truly, how foolish it was of these modern sorcerers to divvy up pieces and draw lines on things they could never hope to understand, that they refused to rediscover. What did they know of magic and its properties, these malapert children born within peacetime, glutted on placidity without ever having to sharpen their teeth from dread and bloodshed?

Magic was the source of all. It was the song of the winds and tides, the thrumming heartbeat of steadfast stone and malleable clay. What did any of these politicians and leaders know of magic? True magic? Magic borne of blood and bone and sacrifice?

It seems as though it has all been lost to time and fear, and wizardkind has suffered silently for it. Dark magic in particular has seen the heaviest of blows in the past few centuries and was a field and philosophy of magic that has diminished in number and power.

One only had to take a look in the centuries past where many a witch and wizard styling themselves as the newest titleholders of mastery over Dark magic had come to stand before her throne room and bow before her, simpering and vying for her affections, for all that their minds and hearts had been false and untrue. None had come to pledge their lives nor wands to her, instead they had come to House Dimitrescu for aid as though they warranted the effort of Alcina even remembering their names. Karl had always been fond of calling them weak, whimpering pups and even Salvatore had found amusem*nt in their presumptions. Upjumped and puffed up those men and women had been, every one, none truly worthy of the title they assumed to adorn themselves around like silk. Their arrogance was exceeded only by their ambition.

The closest who had ever come within those long centuries had been a pale-skinned, ashen-haired young wizard by the name of Grindelwald though, in truth, Alcina barely remembered the boy. She had sent him off to her youngest brother, Karl, mostly in the hopes that she would be well rid of any aspiring mortal who thought to claim themselves truly Dark for a few decades more...

Scoffing underneath her breath, Alcina finishes replying with a nicely worded, if blunt, reply to the Confederation refusing to sign the request with a sharp scrawl, the nib nearly tearing through the parchment.

She is just pressing the dragon seal down into the soft, warmed wax to seal the response when she hears a knock against the door. Her magic flares, just slightly, and she relaxes when her senses brush against bright-oil-slick and the faint whisper of earth, redolent of petrichor and moss.

“Come in,” she calls out, already distracted by yet another letter, this one a missive from Alcina’s subordinate alerting her to yet another attempt of the British Ministry of Magic’s Department of International Cooperation trying to politely request, as they couldn’t strong arm, Transylvania into signing the International Ban on Dueling which… no, just no.

“Hey,” Ethan’s voice tears her out of her thoughts. She raises her head to find her husband leaning his body against the door jamb. He smiles at her softly, the skin around his eyes crinkling warmly. “Is Nadja done asking you 21 Questions, or did I come at a bad time?”

What little tension left in her shoulders deserts her entirely as Alcina looks upon her husband. “You are always welcome here, my love,” Alcina tells him easily, truly, and she means every word.

With a growing smile, Ethan pushes off against the door jamb and makes his way over to her. One eyebrow raises upwards as those pale blue eyes scan and skim over the various pieces of parchment strewn about her desk.

“Dealing with some last minute adjustments?” Ethan asks her with fond amusem*nt just as he hops up to sit on the edge of the desk to be beside her. “Hey there, Hero,” Ethan greeted the owl, raising a hand for the bird to affectionately nip at his fingers. Her husband smiles at her as he leans back on his palms, one of which crumples a half-written reply to the Eastern Branch of Gringotts’ request for her expertise regarding a rather finicky, if delightfully bloodthirsty, curse.

Alcina exhaled through her nose at the question, which was an answer in and of itself. Ethan’s hand rose up to rest on her shoulder, thumb rubbing soothing circles and she cannot help but close her eyes at the touch.

Her magic, as always, reaches out in a gentle swell to intertwine itself with Ethan. Like soft gossamer threads that catch and coil along the inked pathways scored deep into his skin, twisting and turning and unspooling as she reaches for him. His presence is a soothing balm against her frayed nerves, a cool touch to calm her frustrations.

“Sometimes it seems as though I am surrounded by lackwits and lickspittles and fools,” she confided in him then, tilting her head to the side so that he had better access. His fingers rubbed against the tight muscles, and Alcina breathed out through her nose.

“Lackwits and lickspittles and fools? Oh my,” Ethan drawled out. Alcina cracked open one eye to glare at her husband, who simply grinned at her as he waggled his eyebrows. “Anything I can do to help, Dorothy?”

“Has anyone ever told you just how vexing you can be?” She asked him, opening her eyes fully to stare at him.

“No, not even once.” He chirped at her brightly, heels still bouncing lightly against the desk. “Why, did you hear something?”

The Dark Lady huffed at her husband’s cheek. “For all the years you have lived here and have adopted our ways, you are still frustratingly American,” she couldn’t help but sniff at him.

Ethan took the insult as a compliment as he saluted her. “Texas born and raised, baby.”

Growling underneath her breath, Alcina turned away from him to focus her attention back on her letter. She hadn’t thought to put down her quill when Ethan had entered, and in her distraction a large blotch of ink had swelled and dripped from the nib to splotch against the pristine parchment. How annoying.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Her husband suddenly hopped up off the desk back onto his feet to walk over to the side of the room where one of many bookcases stand, each shelf stuffed with countless grimoires and writings of ancient manuscripts and treatises. They were Alcina’s personal belongings that she deemed too important to leave within the library which, though wonderfully warded, was not as secure as her personal office. Only her husband ignores the ancient books, texts filled with old magic and history that many a wizard would sacrifice their left hand for just an afternoon with a single page, to look at one shelf in particular. The shelf Alcina had given to him to store his own books for ease of access. “Ah, found it!”

On his way back, he nearly tripped over one of Rosemary’s many stuffed animals, a smiling lime-green tadpole gifted to her by Salvatore, and curses under his breath as he rights himself up, ignoring her smirk as he walks back over to the desk. He had a small book in his hands. It was a paperback worn and its pages dog-eared and creased.

He hopped back up onto the desk and handed her the book. “Here, take this.”

“What is it?” She asks him curiously as she peers at the book that was absolutely tiny in her hands. It was obviously a Mundie book from the feel of the starched paper and stagnant watercolor illustration. The cover featured a massive mountain range towering over rolling hills and a forest.

“Well, you’re going to Britain right? So, take this with you as some reading material. The author was a British Mundie, but I think you’d find it interesting.”

“The Hobbit?” Alcina read the cover aloud, honestly baffled by that last word. “Whatever is a Hobbit?”

“A magical race.” Ethan explained eagerly. “Well, a Mundane magical race. They’re also called halflings because they’re smaller than humans, but they aren’t actually human despite their looks. They’re kinda like a hybrid of a human and a dwarf, only they’re their own thing.”

From all the random and most odd sounding words coming out of his mouth, Alcina would have thought the man was speaking Gobbledegook had she not been fluent in that particular language. “Is this one of those things you love to reference and get frustrated when not one of us know what you’re talking about?”

He beamed at her. “Yeah, it’s part of Lord of the Rings. It’s one of the most popular fantasy books out there and it’s influenced a lot of Mundie perception on magic. There’s a whole bunch of lore before these books even begin. So, the world of Arda was formed by the Valar thousands of years before the First Age even began where the- ” Ethan startled at the look on her face before he hurriedly added in, “but for what this is I guess we just have to skip to at the forging of the great Rings of Power.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you have mentioned before that there was only one ring?”

“No, well, yes. Kind of. See, before the One Ring there were some other Rings made. The Nineteen Rings of Power.”

She didn’t understand a word he was saying. “And why is one different from the others?”

“Because there were supposed to be only nineteen but the Dark Lord Sauron forged another Ring in secret in the fires of Mount Doom.” Ethan regaled her eagerly. “A Ring that was greater than the rest. The One Ring to Rule Them All.”

“Mmmmmm.”

Alcina turned her attention back to her desk, trying to find wherever it was that she had set down her response to Bela’s letter. Has she even sealed it yet? Ah, there it was. Alcina was quick to seal the letter closed and bleed her magic through to activate the enchantments as she then fastened it closed in Herodotus’ pouch.

“- those nine kings became the Nazgûl, or the Ringwraiths, and with them Sauron -“

Herodotus ruffled his feathers importantly, rubbing his face against her offered finger before taking flight out of the open window. Would that Alcina could take flight with him, only her form wouldn’t fit through the window.

“Now the elves at this point have been-”

Her interest perked up. “Elves? I thought you said they were Hobbits?”

“There are Hobbits, but also elves. Humans are a thing too, and so are dwarves and orcs and a whole bunch of other races. Dragons are also a thing, but there are different types of dragons and it gets a bit complicated when you look back on-”

“Ethan.”

His mouth closed shut, and he raised a hand to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. “Right, sorry. Got carried away, didn’t I?”

Alcina eyed the rather thin width of the book dubiously. “Did any of what you just said even occur in this one novel?” She asked him. “I rather doubt it.”

“Well, some of it. I just wanted you to have the backstory before you start.”

“... If I find the time I suppose I shall give it a look,” Alcina assures him, though she rather doubts the book will be her first choice of entertainment when she has free time. “I’ll put it among my things.”

To prove it, she places the worn paperback on one of the stacks of letters that were to be stored away in her luggage. Alcina swore there were some documents that were longer in length than the novel and she couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t too late to revert back to her old ways and wage war on these nations solely so they would stop pestering her with mail.

Almost as if to spite her, an owl suddenly flew through her window to drop off another letter onto her desk. She glared at it, honestly tempted to set it aflame if not for the seal that revealed it to be from one of her subjects. Ethan snorted at whatever expression was on her face.

“I’ve never seen it this busy before. Do wizards have spam mail?” Ethan asked her as he shifted in place as he leaned over to see what she was reading. “Maybe it’s some past due notices from the magical IRS?”

“I don’t pay taxes. I am paid taxes, and you do know this is very private and sensitive information involving state secrets?” Alcina cannot help but note, although her tone was fond.

“Eh, who am I going to tell?” Ethan waved the concern away without care. As though the private correspondence between the Lady of House Dimitrescu and world governments was something minor. It was a testament to her love that Ethan could easily step through the doorway when Alcina’s office was filled to the brim of countless spells and wards meant to deter and deny. Granted, it wasn’t as though she would ever be one to deny his genuine curiosity or that she would ever not tell him anything.

“There is not too much to tell. Though I do currently have half a mind to set Britain’s Minister of Magic aflame when I meet with the man,” Alcina informed him crossly.

Ethan raised an eyebrow at that. “Any particular reason?”

Alcina growled out her frustration. “Take a look at this!” She grabbed a hold of two sheafs of paper and held it up to his face. “This one is yet another thinly-veiled attempt of trying to force us into signing this utterly idiotic International Ban on Dueling and this one is from the Magical Romanian president informing me that they have been receiving similar requests. These British officials twitter and tweet more than the common sparrow, how I tire of it!”

“Well, we both know that Romania won’t sign if you say so. They would never go against whatever you decide,” Ethan told her confidently as he grabbed hold of the letters to look at it. “I know you’re not going to sign, so they won’t. Cassandra would never forgive you if you took away one of her favorite pastimes.”

His confidence cheered her slightly, though it did little to rescind her half-serious urge to incinerate the bumbling man known as Cornelius Fudge for his constant pestering and pleading.

“Magical Romania is autonomous, you know,” Alcina reminded him, now half distracted as she tried to organize the mess of letters and scrolls. If Ethan was here then it must be getting close for when she was to leave. “They have their lands and we have ours.”

“And yet their president is writing to you asking you on how to best address this very concerning issue?” Ethan said back. “Or how about the fact that their Wizard Council won’t even so much as write up a parking ticket without consulting you and adapt your laws as their own? Admit it, they’re only autonomous because you would hate to have to have even more paperwork and laws to control in the day to day dealing.”

“I am voivode, of course they listen to my counsel,” Alcina sniffed, head held high. “Magical Romania has always been a special outlier in that it has been a protectorate of ours for countless centuries... and parking tickets are only a Mundane concept,” Alcina told him shortly, refusing to agree with him and having to deal with his smug smile. “Spacious street space is a wonderful byproduct of expansion charms and warding.”

“Well, then it’s going to be alright then, right? So you don’t have to set that minister on fire and start an international incident.”

“... but it would be rather fun if I did so,” she cannot help but murmur under her breath. Truly, would it be so terrible?

“Look, I know that I’m probably not the best advisor when it comes to something like this,” Ethan told her seriously. “You know, all this ancient and primordial magic and all that it means and what not…”

“It is more than that,” Alcina tells him earnestly, grabbing his smaller hand to bring it to her mouth so that she might kiss every scarred knuckle. “It is always ever more than that. So much has been lost to time and fear and expurgation… They have lost themselves,” Alcina cannot help but say, and there is such a small amount of empathy in her words, true sorrow addressed to a populace no longer worthy of her attention, and yet she still mourns it.

So much has changed.

A tiredness took hold of her bones in that moment as all the years and battles and wars, bloodied or merely spoken, suddenly sank down upon her. “Words are wind, and I am oh so tired of pretending to listen to those full of hot air.” Alcina tells him quietly.

“We have to respect their rules and laws while we’re in their lands, Alcina. I know you don’t like it, but we have to respect their customs. We have to listen to what this British Minister of Magic and this headmaster have to say, even if we don’t like it.” Ethan reminded her, kissing her temple and she can only slump her shoulders. “So let’s not set a world leader on fire, yeah? No matter how much they annoy you with their letters and pleas.”

Her husband’s words were true but, oh, how it galled her to follow along to the tune of these foolish, puffed-up politicians who thought themselves noble and great. Alcina could only bemoan the fact that it seems as though the scions of these ancient families and clans have grown stagnant, so full of themselves and their ancestral legacy they were practically fit to burst where they stood.

And now, here Alcina was. She, who has so graciously and benevolently accepted such a simple role as judge and administrator, and yet these people, these politicians and so called men of power, thought that they could advise her, worse, to command her!

Fools, all of them, and what was worse was that they likely didn’t even have the decency to be turned into a subpar wine.

Still, perhaps it was time to change the subject to lighter, less annoying matters.

“Hey, what’s this?” Ethan asked her curiously, and when she looked she saw that he was holding up the vellum scroll with the raven banner seal that she had opened up early. Her husband was staring at the runes curiously for all that he couldn’t read it.

“An invitation from Jarl Sigurdr for Bela, Cassandra and Daniela to attend his clan’s blót during the Winter Nights as I will not be present to conduct our annual traditions.” Alcina answered.

“How fun,” Ethan said dryly. “Nothing gets the girls more into the holiday spirit than a nice blood sacrifice. What, was there no volcano virgin sacrifice for you to conduct?”

“I have never, not once, thrown someone into a volcano,” Alcina informed him easily as she scans through another letter. “Witnessed it, of course, but I have never taken part. It is not as though the Carpathians hold a suitable selection of calderas to choose from.”

Ethan squinted at her. “See, you’re doing that thing where I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not when it comes to murder.”

She scrawls her signature on the parchment and looks around for the sealing wax. “Ritualistic murder is very different from murder, darling.” She tells him offhandedly.

Ethan handed her the block of wax without prompt. “It can’t be all that different if murder is still in the name.” He argued.

“Hmmmm,” Alcina offered distractedly as she set the finished letter aside before looking at all that was on the desk. Some she would have to take with her to Hogwarts to be addressed at a later date, but the rest Bela was more than capable of taking on.

She can hear the heels of his feet softly tap against the wood as he fidgets in place, never one to sit still for too long. Her husband has always been a restless, fretful thing for all that he would deny it until he was purple in the face.

“You’ve got that look on your face.” Ethan told her suddenly.

She blinked away her thoughts to focus her attention back upon her husband. “What do you mean?”

“Is everything okay?” Those blue eyes, so pale they were almost gray, almost seemed to darken as he pressed a scarred hand against her cheek, his thumb brushing lovingly against her skin. “Are you hungry?” Ethan asks her, face furrowing in concern as he leaned closer. “You know I don’t mind if you or the girls need it,” Ethan told her earnestly, always so eager to please. “You know that, right?” His hand, rough and calloused and scarred so heavily, rests upon her own and Alcina can feel her very heart tremble and unravel.

Oh, how she loves him so.

“I am fine, my love. I had my fill last night.” And yet as she spoke, Alcina simply could not help herself as her hand drifted down to tug at the flimsy cotton material of his shirt’s neckline, her fingers brushing lightly against the skin stretched taut and thin over the ridge of his clavicle. His skin was rough and scarred beneath her touch, but still so warm. She hummed in appreciation, smiling. Ethan’s left shoulder was an utter ruin of upraised scar tissue still red-raw from where her teeth had bitten and torn and ravished his delicate flesh from the night before.

Just the sight made her gums throb with thirst. Alcina’s mouth watered at the sight of him, lust and hunger and love and want twisting and churning and burning within her insides.

In truth there is very little that Alcina loved more than the sight of her beloved husband pinned down by her greater strength, writhing and panting underneath her with his face contorted in sheer ecstasy or pain, but seeing him bruised and bloodied and marked up so prettily by her teeth and nails certainly came close.

“Oh, Ethan…” Alcina cannot help but sigh out as she leans against him, head lowering so that she could press a sweet and proper kiss against the raised flesh of his ruined shoulder. Her lips brush against the pale skin, teeth teasing at the edges as her tongue darts out playfully to swipe against the scar tissue. She shudders at the scent and taste of him, even just the barest whiff. Alcina has always been so very susceptible to him.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” Her husband murmurs against her skin, lips grazing against the outer shell of her ear in a kiss.

“Yes, but you could always say it more.”

She presses a gentle kiss against the slope of his neck even as her fingertips lightly trail downwards to run along the roughened scar tissue. Those beautiful marks, the tender and wicked testament of her love, would heal in a short time without her attention and the thought of that rankled. “You are beautiful, too,” she tells him, her breath warmly puffing against his skin.

Ethan chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple before he leaned back on his palms to see her face. “I knew it. I’m just a blood bag with a hot piece of ass to you, aren’t I?” Her husband teased her, waggling his eyebrows in such a ridiculous motion that it tore a laugh through her throat.

“Not to mention humble. Don’t forget that,” she jested, smiling. He always has been so capable of making her smile, for all that his humor could be hit or miss.

“Hey,” Ethan looks at her with such softness in his eye that she cannot help but stare, spellbound by him, her magic twirling through them both like a bloodstream. “Do you want to come take a walk with me?” He kisses her cheek softly. “You’ve been cooped up all morning finalizing your things and… well, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

It was such a nice day outside and it would be so long until she returned. Yes, a quick stroll through the grounds with her husband sounded absolutely lovely.

“A walk sounds wonderful.” She presses a kiss against his whiskered cheek. “I am rather tired of sitting in this chair finishing what I can with the time I have available. Truly, it seems as though work never seems to cease,” Alcina sighed out tiredly, rubbing a thumb against the middle of her brow even she stood up to walk out of the room. “The amount of micromanaging it takes to get anything done these days, urgh, the world is filled with fools.”

“What fools,” Ethan echoes dutifully as he stands up to follow her.

Chapter 6: Farewells

Chapter Text

Castle Dimitrescu was a massive estate, in truth. Even when Alcina had cast down its first stone all those many centuries ago, back when the land around her was dark and forbidding and hostile to all, she had dreamt of greatness. She had dreamt of strong, thick walls and stalwart bulwarks, of great battlements and towering turrets, of ever winding, serpentine hallways and grand halls. A palace of her own creation, a safe haven away from the witch burnings and bloodied swords of marching armies. Even when Alcina had been young, she had always dreamt of more.

Perhaps it was the eagerness of her youth, that buoyant energy and the all consuming need to prove one’s self, but when Alcina had first bled herself upon the foundational stones and coaxed her magic within the core she had aimed to create something greater than herself, grander than anything else in the known world. And the castle was indeed great and grand nowadays, a stronghold so sturdy and unyielding that nothing could ever hope to tear it down. With the grounds expanding as time went on, there were now dozens of courtyards and terraced patios throughout the castle, but there is only one garden in the entirety of the stronghold that is private only to the Dimitrescu line.

As they walk through the grand, ornate hallway Alcina cannot help but inwardly reflect on the castelul itself. Perhaps it was the approaching moment where she was to leave her home that has made her reflective. When the girls had been young and Alcina had first opened up the wards to them, she had allowed each of them a piece of the castle grounds to do with as they wished so that they might impart their legacy within the castle. It had been a gift of sorts, an allowance for them to bring forth their own designs and to carve out their own place that was theirs and theirs alone.

And her children, oh how they had done so marvelously! They have always been Alcina’s pride and joy, faultless and perfect in her eyes, but that time they had gone above and beyond her expectations.

Bela had carved out a collection of rooms within the lower recesses of the castle to serve as laboratories for her experiments. Many a miraculous spell and charm had been created within the bowels of the castle’s depths, and even many a newfound potion or ingredient reaction had been found.

Cassandra had staked her claim in what had once served as an outer bailey in the western side, transfiguring the stones and lumber into a massive workshop where the witch could fiddle with her creations. Above it was her own personal armory where Cassandra stored all the weapons and trinkets that had caught her eye during her travels.

Daniela had been the only one of her sisters to insist upon using one of the outdoor courtyards to establish a private garden accessible only to their family, a place where they could seek refuge without being hassled by a servant or subordinate. A testament to Daniela’s love and long-lasting expertise with plants, the private family garden was the red-headed witch’s pride and joy.

It was to that very garden that the Dimitrescu matriarch followed her husband to now.

“Where are the girls?” Alcina asks Ethan as they make their way down the hallway, for the matriarch cannot help but wonder at the miraculous silence that has overtaken Castelul Dimitrescu. For once there is not a single peep of a raised voice, not a single explosion of some far away curse, no familiar singsong trill of a laughing daughter. The castle is silent and peaceful in a way that makes Alcina, who has been a mother for quite some time, immediately suspicious.

“Cassandra took Rosemary down to the Reservoir,” her husband told her, shrugging his shoulders. “I think she said something about wanting to show Rosie the kelpie foals.”

Pursing her lips at that, Alcina can’t find any fault in her husband’s words. Still, past experiences with Cassandra, who so dearly loved chaos and conflict and was always more than eager to lead her younger sisters on… well, there was a reason to worry.

“Well, they’re only out of sight for an hour at most,” Alcina said then, trying to sound confident. “The grounds shouldn’t have too many craters by the end, hopefully.” Even with that said, Alcina still doubted the veracity of her own words. Cassandra, may Circe bless her, was rather prone to explosive bouts of temper when bored. Truly, Alcina hadn’t a single clue as to where her second eldest child got such a horrible habit from. No doubt an influence from Heisenberg, that ill-behaved lech.

They rounded one last hallway and walked down a short flight of stairs to where the entrance to the private garden was, and already Alcina looked forward to walking its grounds after a morning cooped up in her office. The Dimitrescu matriarch couldn’t help but despair inwardly that she would not see its beauty for half a year, and she rather doubted the British wizards could ever hope to have something as wonderful and grand as this garden.

Alcina had been the one to prepare the first earthworks, but Daniela was the one who had painstakingly plotted out the architectural and vegetal composition. It had been Daniela who had laid out the pathways and encouraged the introduction of both magical and Mundane flora, Daniela who had set up the foundational wards to encourage sunlight and to regulate the temperature, Daniela who had carefully cultivated the growth to flourish. And for centuries Alcina’s third daughter has cared for the garden herself, always eager to introduce a new species that would thrive there, to tweak the wards and enchantments for better results. Every few decades or so the witch would reorganize the garden, changing the pathways and introducing new flora.

As the garden’s use was exclusively for the Dimitrescu family gaining access into the grounds were only achievable if one were keyed into the wards. When Alcina and Ethan walked through the doorway, Alcina having to duck her head, there was the faint sensation of static as the wards let them through as they stepped into the warm sunlight. Though it was nearly autumn, the air was warm and humid in part due to the wards carefully carved along the stone terraces.

It was almost unnatural how bright and warm the garden was in comparison to the rest of the castle and its grounds. The forests that surrounded Castle Dimitrescu itself were deep and forbidding, a defense as formidable as the sharp mountain ridges that cut through it. The forest was a place where the sun rarely shone through the dense canopy of the massive trees that clustered closely to one another, a place where the unwary could easily lose themselves within its heart to never see the full sky again. The woods were a dark, primal place filled with many a creature that the modern wizard would grow faint at the thought of facing. But here, in this garden courtyard, the air was bright and airy and filled with the sweet sound of birdsong.

Daniela, always so sensitive to the needs of her plants, had cleverly crafted a simple lighting system to keep the grounds alight without harming the more fragile plants. As Alcina and her husband walked down the cobbled pathway they passed by leadened glass globes filled with bright werelight floating high above them. Dozens of these glowing globes littered the intimate grounds of the garden, each one carefully inlaid with golden symbols that had been etched and carved with an expect hand into the glass so that they might glow and give off warmth. Daniela had been most adamant about their inclusion, both as a useful light source and a way to allow certain species to flourish underneath the heat.

Alcina breathed in through her nose, her sharp-tuned senses delighting in the floral notes and fresh air. Her ears caught the sound of running water from the fountain, which drew her attention to it.

The large circular stone fountain that stood near the center of the garden was Alcina’s favorite ornament in the garden. Its centerpiece was a nesting mother dragon, its breed clearly the Great Romanian Balaur, carved from veined white marble. The dragon’s wings were half-raised as though the creature was ready to rear up on her hindlegs and blood-red roses, their stems made of silver and their petals cut from polished garnet, sprouted up along the dragon’s claws.

Past the fountain an ancient elder tree towered high above all else; its great boughs draped over with brightly colored ribbons of silk and hand woven cords of rope from which tiny bells jingled lightly as they swayed in the breeze. Alcina’s sharp eyes spied a jobberknoll silently cleaning its feathers atop one of the branches while a bowtruckle skittered along a root.

Her husband had grown worriedly silent, his shoulders stiff and tense, but he still reached out to take her by the hand, his own so much smaller that hers nearly swallowed it whole, as they walked along the cobbled path together. The gripping grass that grew along the sides, a distant and tamer cousin to devil’s snare, lived up to its name as it tried to reach out over the path to try and wrap itself around their ankles. A subtle flaring of her magic had the magical plant quickly retracting.

Ethan had always been partial to the fire lilies, which pulsed and emitted a warm glow like burning embers, but he walked them past the patch without even so much as a quick glance. Alcina raised her eyebrow at that and turned her head so that she could properly look at him.

He’s worried about something, Alcina thought to herself, staring intensely at how his brows were furrowed and how he had begun to chew on his lower lip.

“Hey, can you sit down here for a second?” Ethan asked suddenly, his rough and calloused hands gently clasped around her wrists, even as he began to lead her over to one of the benches situated beneath the elder tree.

A tad bemused, Alcina sits herself down on the stone bench, crossing her feet at the ankles as was proper for a woman of her station. Seated like this, she and Ethan were matching in height that if he were to step in front of her, Alcina would need only tilt down her head instead of her spine to meet his eyes.

“So, I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and I just… look, so I know that it’s literally last minute but I’ve just been thinking that, I mean that I just - f*ck,” Ethan roughly ran a hand through his hair. “This sounded so much better in my head.”

Though she has long since despaired over her husband’s vulgar tongue, and especially his proclivity to use it when stressed or emotional, Alcina cannot help but watch Ethan fumble over his words with a fond soft of amusem*nt. Only her husband had begun to pace in front of her, hands clenching and unclenching into tight fists as he was wont to do when nervous. She watches him pace about, golden eyes glowing softly in the light of the sun.

“Look, I know that you decided it was just faster and easier to go to Britain on your own, but now that it’s happening I’m starting to have second thoughts,” he confides in her. “I don’t like the idea of you being on your own for something like this. What if something happens? What if they decide to try and attack you?”

Alcina simply raises a single well-sculpted eyebrow at him, honestly amused by the idea. “If they were foolish enough to try, then I will slaughter them all with ease and take their heads as trophies. A rat can’t run from the dragon’s claws, after all.”

“But you’re only one person and this is a literal foreign country,” Ethan interjected worriedly, running a hand through his hair. “What if they all just decide to jump you? Magic is weird and it doesn’t make sense most of the time to me, how can you really know for sure that you can handle it?”

“You’re afraid for me,” Alcina deduces, watching him carefully.

Her husband’s brows furrowed further down, those dull human teeth sinking into the flesh of his lip as he worriedly chewed on it. He was looking up at her with those wide, beautiful blue eyes and there was so much love and concern in them that her heart cannot help but seize at the very sight. Oh, how she loved him so. She has always loved him.

“Do you really have to go alone though?” He pressed on, rubbing a palm against his face worriedly. “At the very least take Cassandra with you. God knows she can take care of herself or anyone if push comes to shove.”

“And I cannot alone?” Alcina raises a lone brow at him, a tad bemused.

“I know you can,” Ethan tells her easily. “It’s just… I don’t like the idea of you going alone, is all. You should have someone you trust completely watching your back, especially if I’m not there.”

His concern for her warms her heart.

Were it anyone else, save for her children, who dared to think to voice such concerns for her, Alcina’s hackles would raise. She would take it as a doubt towards her abilities, a sting to her pride, and would swiftly remove that person’s tongue long before they had even finished their sentence. But this was Ethan,her sweet love. For him, Alcina would forgive any transgression, would ignore any insult, for she loved him so. Deeply, truly.

Her husband knew she was more than capable of taking care of herself, was more than able to defend herself, and yet his worries were simply for her wellbeing. He did not doubt her strength with his worries; his love for her and his past experiences have simply stirred up fear. After so many centuries of being the Big Bad Wolf to most wizards and witches, Ethan’s genuine concern for her is lovely, practically refreshing, for all that it truly isn’t warranted. She can take care of herself in more ways than one. Magic was not the only thing she was proficient in, after all.

Alcina has lived for untold centuries, has learned and lived through so much bloodshed and horror. These puffed up wizards of Great Britain could hem and haw as much as they wanted, could even dare to raise their wands against her, but they were simply brightly-dressed mice that would scurry at the first sight of a dragon’s teeth. The only one she might even pause at was the Hogwarts headmaster, but he was but one man and a mortal. She did not fear them, and it was almost laughable at the idea of them being any sort of genuine threat to her.

Only Ethan doesn’t seem to see the humor as he continues pacing before her, hands pushed down into the pockets of his jeans. “Alcina, their police force is literally trained solely to fight Dark witches and wizards. Bela told me that they considered themselves Dark wizard catchers first instead of law enforcement like there isn’t a difference between the two. I don’t trust any of them around you as far as I can throw them.”

“You overestimate them, my love,” she is quick to assure him, hands reaching out to pull him close to her so that she might press a soft kiss against his brow. “They fear me. That is all the safety I need, in truth.”

Ethan shook his head, stubble grazing her cheek, stubborn as ever. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is when it’s me.”

“Alcina, they hate people like you and the girls,” Ethan pressed. “Worse still is they’re terrified of people like you. People who are scared enough of something means they’re unpredictable. I don’t care how much people say that you’re some all-powerful, ancient eldritch being that wouldn’t look too out of place from some f*cked up Lovecraftian horror-”

Alcina cannot help but preen at the comparison

“-You're my wife, of course I’m going to be worried.” He presses up against her, arms wrapping around her shoulders. With her seated, she is at a level with his eyes, which flicker worriedly. “You’ve said it before that most modern-day wizards hate Dark magic and you're… well, you’re you.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Alcina cannot help but ask him, plush crimson lips turned upwards from amusem*nt.

“No. ” Ethan tells her quickly, easily, so easily. “Never. I just hate the idea of you going alone. If it were anywhere in Transylvania I wouldn’t care, ‘cause I know that you’d be fine. Only… Just… I wish you had some sort of back up. If you at least had one of the girls with you or, if they have to be here, then having Elena or Coën or Leonardo go with you, f*ck even László, maybe with some others… Just… f*ck, I’m worried, all right?”

“Ethan-” she starts to say, only then he’s kissing her, those lovely calloused fingers running through her hair as he pulls her tightly against him. He kisses her fiercely, desperately, as though she were the air in his lungs, and Alcina cannot help how she leans forward to kiss him back just as desperately, a massive hand rising to grip against those short, sun-kissed strands and pulling, tugging, him closer and closer.

“Take me with you. Please.” Her husband whispers, practically begs, against her lips as his scarred hands rise to cradle her face. When he looks at her, there is genuine fear in his eyes, a terror burning deep and low within him. “Take me with you and we’ll keep each other safe. Like always.”

Alcina presses a kiss to the middle of his brow as though to soothe away the worried crease carved there. “Our daughters need you here,” Alcina tells him softly, resting her forehead against his. “ Rosemary needs you here.”

Something twists painfully in Ethan’s face at that. “Rose is safer here than anywhere else in the world, you’ve told me that time and time again,” he tells her quietly as he tightly clutches onto her wrists. “But you’re going alone into a foreign country that hates people like our family with no one watching your six. Alcina, please, take me with you. I know that I’m not the best when it comes to trying to figure out magic, because magic is absolute bullsh*t and makes no sense, but maybe that’s a good thing. I can’t do the things you or the girls can do, but I’m damn good with a gun and-”

“Ethan…” she cannot help but sigh out, hands rising to cradle his face. “I can defend myself well enough, especially if I do not have to worry about one of our own being in the crossjinx.”

“I just don’t want you to go alone on this trip,” Ethan told her, his voice roughened. “I don’t have the best record on that. Mia had-” and just like that his face twisted in a sudden anguish as a searing pain blossomed through their bond like a hot iron brand.

Alcina stiffens, ever so slightly, and it is as though something within her very being is cracking and splintering. There is a sudden fuzziness in her head like someone has stuffed her ears full of wool, and Alcina can feel the blood rushing through her body like a surging tide.

Ah, so that was the root of this. Her… the other woman.

The Dragon within her recoiled at the thought, snapping and snarling with flames ready to spew forth from a massive maw, and Alcina can’t help herself for how she goes to hold onto Ethan, for how her fingers go to grip on tightly to him as her sharp fingernails extend to dig into the meat of his shoulders. Ethan winces in pain, but Alcina didn’t even notice for how much her mind runs wild.

Pressing Ethan against the bulk of her body, her husband cannot see how Alcina’s crimson-stained lips curl backwards into a fierce snarl at the very thought of the once Mia Winters. Her magic crackles around her like static and sparks, flowing and swelling within her in a way that Alcina cannot even bother to control. It seeps out of her like blood from an open wound. She holds onto him tightly, protectively, possessively.

Ethan was hers and no one else’s.

Only ever hers.

Always only hers.

Alcina’s magic, always so tightly tuned to her emotions, flickers and flares brightly within her, eager to be cast out and burn everything to smoldering ash. She reaches for him, and he flinches away from her. The bond between them suddenly widening as though he was moving away, but even then Alcina could still feel the phantom ache of an old wound that has never fully healed. And then it is like a flooding river changing its course, and Alcina comes back to herself in a way that leaves her blinking.

Ethan’s eyes have gone dark and dull, like he was lost in thought or a waking nightmare. Alcina has always hated that look, for she has always felt useless in the face of it. Alcina has not been useless in anything ever, has always been better and greater than the weaklings and milksops around her, but in this she felt helpless and, oh, how it hurt. The anger is gone immediately, snuffed out and reduced to ashes.

“Ethan, look at me.” Alcina takes his shaking hand in her larger ones, pressing so tightly that any more and she might crush him. Ethan’s eyes dart to hers, but the pupils are thin and jumpy, seeing without truly seeing. She raises her hands so that she might press a soft kiss against the scarred knuckles of his hand even as she coils her magic around him, threading it carefully through him so that it seeps into his every pore as though she can banish the phantom chill. Ethan shudders against her, blinking rapidly as though he was suddenly torn from a nightmare. “There you are…” she says softly, holding onto him almost reverently.

Ethan shudders and shakes beneath her touch, blinking rapidly like he is trying to banish away a bad dream. He flushes a bright, burning red at the cheeks, almost embarrassed.

“Alcina,” he begins to say, voice cracking at the end. She cannot help herself for how she rushes forward to press her lips against her own, for how her hand rises to clutch at the back of his neck to bring his smaller form flush against her. The anguish that still lurks in the back of his mind, the rot that still crept through his spirit, it shivers and trembles at her very touch. She wants to snarl and score her claws deep to tear it out of him, root and stem, only it ducks and darts away like water falling through her cusped fingers. How frustrating.

“I-I’m sorry,” he rasps out, his entire body trembling even as his hands curl tightly around her shoulders as though she were the only thing that could keep him steady. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Shhhh,” Alcina soothes softly, cradling him close in the vast expanse of her embrace. She nuzzles against the vulnerable hollow of his neck, nose tracing against the tense ridge of tendon and cartilage as her lips press a slow and sweet kiss against that spot where his heartbeat pulses so strongly. “There is nothing to forgive. Just breathe for me. Nothing will happen, my love,” she soothes. “I am Lady Dimitrescu, grand matriarch of my most noble and ancient bloodline, a witch of such power that I fear no man, and I am more than capable of defending myself. None shall harm me.”

Unlike the other one, is what she does not say, though her tongue is so eager to say it. She wants to, oh how she wants. How she wants to use those words to draw blood as easily as Ethan had done to Alcina by saying that woman’s name as both penance and flagellation, but Alcina loves her husband. She can be kind; she can be forgiving even when she has reason not to be. Still, though… even the smallest reminder of her husband’s first wife, and oh how it stung to even think that he had ever thought of another, much less deluded himself into loving… it hurt, truly, and Alcina couldn’t help but want to exact her pain upon him as he has her: through blood and agony… only she was to leave soon, and the day was so very lovely and the flowers were in bloom…

Perhaps it was a truly good thing that Mia Winters was either long dead or long gone. In truth, Alcina did not know. Ethan certainly didn’t seem to and, if he did, has yet to tell her. Even after all these years, after all their shared nights and collective days he still hated to speak of his time before he had come to live here in the castle. She wished she could be angry at it, that she could hold it against him, but whenever he looked upon her and smiled so warmly at her…. Well, it was rather easy to forget herself.

It wouldn’t matter. If the woman were still alive and Alcina were to ever discover such a thing… Well, Alcina Dimitrescu has never been one to shy away from violence.

But this conversation was not about Ethan’s first wife. It was about now, about them, about Alcina heading off on her own to a foreign country filled with strangers who have no doubt been plotting and planning the very minute it was revealed her presence would be assured at the Triwizard Tournament. Alcina might have little care for that, but Ethan… well, he was such a sensitive man by nature.

“You know what you and I have always agreed upon: It’s not paranoia-” Alcina began.

“- if they’re truly out to get you,” Ethan finishes. He smiles at her, and it is such a soft and tentative thing, so fragile it might crumble like spun sugar at the slightest touch, but it is a smile Alcina knows so well. It is a smile meant for her and only her. She cannot help but press a soft and sweet kiss against his lips, delighting in how his shoulders relax.

Her husband’s strong arms wrap around her tighter than before, stubbled face tickling against the bare expanse of her neck. “Just…” he breathes out softly. “Just be safe, okay? For me?”

“Of course,” Alcina promises even as she revels in his warm touch, in how perfectly his body melds against her own. A purr breaks out of her chest, rumbling thunderously, as she gathers him in her arms, holding him close, while resting her cheek against the top of his head. Her eyes flutter shut as she breathes in his scent: worn wool from his clothing, that delightfully delectable hint of earth and soil, earthen and ancient, woodsmoke and the sandalwood from his cologne.

For a few long and beautiful minutes they simply stay there. They do not speak, for there is no need for words. There is no need for anything but the warm press of their bodies against one another, their hands softly wandering.

It is utterly perfect.

Alcina runs a hand through his hair before guiding it down to cup his cheek. Ethan’s head twists so that he can grab ahold of her hand with his own to press a kiss against her knuckles. His thumb moves to trace the delicate curved ridge of her wrist and when he looks up at her his ocean-blue eyes shine with such love that it has never failed to take her breath away.

By the ancient magicks, how she loves him so.

Truly, fully.

Alcina would do anything to keep that beautiful smile, would obliterate any obstacle that might ever dim those beautiful eyes from looking at her with such love. Her arms tighten possessively around her husband’s smaller, though sturdy, frame. He is hers, always and forever.

She would set the world aflame and bring it to its knees if it meant that he continued to smile at her so beautifully. How she adored him. Ever since she had first caught sight of him she has adored him. And in the years that have come, her love and adoration has only grown. Like one of her sister’s winter bulbs that flourished and blossomed in the warmth of spring

“All will be well, my love,” she assures him, pressing a kiss against the crown of his head. “I promise.”

“I know,” her husband murmurs back, pressing himself even more closely against her, strong fingers gripping her so tightly she might have bruised without her regenerative abilities. “It won’t stop me from worrying though.”

“I know,” she tells him quietly. “I know…”

Ethan’s breathing evens out, the tension in him long gone as they sit there on the bench and look upon the verdant garden. A bowtruckle marches past their feet as it heads towards the great trunk of the elder tree, and Ethan smiles at the small little creature and how its sharp-angled arms are full with squirming woodlice. He’s always been so delighted by magical creatures.

“I think this will be a good opportunity for us,” Alcina spoke up then.

“Hmmm?” Ethan looked up at her. His spirit was calmer now that dreadful dark anxiety had fled. “What do you mean?”

“The Tournament,” Alcina clarified. “I think it will be good for us. You’ve yet to experience the Wizarding world outside of these lands and the domains of my siblings. It will be good for you and Rosemary to see the sights. Hogwarts is a rather marvelous building, ancient and teeming with old magics so clearly its founders knew what they were doing, though I doubt its current inhabitants will be stimulating.”

“It seems like it’ll be fun.” He agreed, gripping her hand tightly. “I can’t deny that I’m curious to see how different high school is when you’re a wizard, but what are we going to do about that reason that had you deciding to stay in Hogwarts in the first place? Are we just going to keep an eye out?”

Ah, of course he would bring that up…

“It is as we have discussed together,” she said. “You know I’ve spoken with the Romanian Wizard Council and mine own court regarding the potential concerns over the rumors that have reached our ears. It will be good to be directly involved. I’ve just the plan to set in motion.”

“Oh? And what plan is that? Should I be prepared to duck for cover?”

“Not at all. Simply put, there are two types of people, my love.” Alcina tells him while smiling widely, practically indulgent. “There are those who arrive, and those who make an entrance.”

Ethan’s eyebrows furrowed suspiciously as he frowned. “Why is it that I have a bad feeling that you’re going to be fashionably late to whatever you’ve already agreed to do just to mess with people?”

Delighted by his wit, Alcina cannot help but favor her husband with a genuine smile. “The element of surprise can oftentimes reveal more about a host’s character than timeliness and courtesy.”

Ethan just stared at her tiredly. “Alcina… what are you going to do?”

Her smile only grew wider, sharper. “Me? Nothing dramatic, I assure you.”

“Alcina…” Ethan looks at her, and there is something so tired in his eyes that she cannot help but bristle like a startled porcupine. “I don’t believe you at all.”

She frowns at that. “I am telling you the truth, Ethan. I have little need for pomp and splendor,” Alcina tells her husband honestly, a tad annoyed at his suspicions. “While these suckling newborn nations seem to have the urge to puff up one’s chest with false pride and bravado, I have no usage for such overblown statements. Simply put, I have no need for fanfare trumpets or panache to herald my arrival. I simply need to be only myself.”

Her sweet husband simply stared at her with utmost suspicion and no small amount of dread. “... I know you meant that as reassurance, but all you did was literally make me feel even more nervous than before,” he tells her honestly.

She frowns at him, dark brows furrowed deeply. “What do you mean?”

“Alcina, you can be a bit…” Ethan trailed off uncertainly, clearly hesitating on what to say next.

Alcina watches him with unblinking eyes, head tilted to the side ever so slightly. “A bit what, exactly?” She asked him pleasantly, but around her body magic began to crackle like static before a thunderstorm. A terrifying warning all on its own.

Ethan watched her warily, and when he spoke it was slow and hesitant like he was trying to pull out a tooth. “… you can be a bit melodramatic at times.”

Alcina blinked and then blinked again. Her head tilted further to the side as she looked upon her husband. His words ran through her mind, over and over, and her brows furrowed dangerously deep in thought. Her magic flared about her, heating up so suddenly that Ethan shivered at the phantom sensation.

“... Well, I suppose I do enjoy a bit of theater every now and then,” Alcina allows. “And perhaps a tad bit of pageantry, but I wouldn’t say that I was dramatic.” She kindly waited for her husband to support her words, to assure her the validity of her statement, only Ethan just continued to stare at her blankly in such a way that his ongoing silence rankled her.

Suddenly frustrated, the Dimitrescu matriarch pressed a massive palm onto the stone bench to stand up to her full height so that she might glower at her husband down her nose. “When have I ever been needlessly dramatic?” The Dark Lady demanded to know heatedly. “Name one time.”

It was a command spoken in a tone that has made many a witch and wizard tremble and fall upon their knees to beg forgiveness only Ethan, damn him to the seven circles, has never been one to fear her. Even now he looked at her as though he were judging.

“Would you like the list to be in chronological order? Because if so then literally every moment since we first met,” Ethan told her shortly. “But especially the first week we knew each other.”

She scoffed at that, barely able to resist the childish urge to roll her eyes. “Oh, now you’re over embellishing.”

Ethan stared up at her in disbelief. “... Alcina, you cut off my hand.”

Oh, this old argument again?

“Need I remind you that you stabbed me soon after?” Alcina reminded him, one well-structured brow rising high as she pressed a loose fist against the dip of her waist. “I would consider that tit for tat. Do you still truly hold that small fit of passion against me?”

“Yes,” Ethan told her bluntly. “Because right before that you had kidnapped me, locked me in a room and then when I managed to escape you cut off my hand.”

The utter theatrics of this man!

“Oh, for the love of - I didn’t cut off your hand because you tried to leave, I have told you this countless times!” Alcina argued back heatedly. “I cut off your hand because you hurt Bela during your rebellious tantrum. And your hand was absolutely fine as you very well know! You put it back on well enough without any help. In comparison to your past exploits I was rather tame with you all things considered.”

“But you didn’t know any of that at the time!”

“And yet it all worked out well in the end, didn’t it?” Indignation burned brightly in her chest like dragon fire. “We are getting off track, Ethan! That was years ago, and I am a much changed woman.” Alcina pressed a palm against her chest, lips pursed in a sensual pout. “Name another time.”

Ethan just continued to stare at her in utter disbelief. Her skin roiled at the indignity of it all. Truly, did he think so lowly of her?

“Okay fine. Then how about that thing with Karl literally this morning at breakfast?”

Alcina’s nose wrinkled in utter disdain on reflex. “What about that disgusting little grease stain?”

“Well, considering that he’s your brother -” Ethan began, and she balked at the insinuation.

“Not by blood, thankfully!” Alcina was quick to interrupt, genuinely insulted. “I doubt I would ever survive the embarrassment if we were truly related. My bloodline is quite free of fleas, as you very much well know! And even without a true blood relation, you know how I still must suffer shame by association to this very day.”

“See, you’re doing it again.” He rolled his eyes at her. How childish of him. “But fine, your brother by oath then.”

“Do not call me out for the reckless mistakes of a misguided youth.” Alcina argued, trying her best to not purse her lower lip out further. Her husband knew just how much she loathed Heisenberg. “I have not judged you for your drunken university years and how you and your agemates decided to try your best attempts at aerobatics over trash collectors.”

“Okay, first of all, getting drunk and letting your equally drunk friends talk you into trying to do a backflip over a trash can is very different from doing freaky blood oath magic.”

Oh, honestly. And here she had been so concerned about him not too long ago, and yet here he was now, trying to get a rise out of her! Why she indulged him so… it’s made him rather self-centered and bratty.

“Nonsense. We have all done things we regret, Ethan, and I do not understand why you-” Alcina had been ready to continue lambasting her husband, temper already rising from the mention of Heisenberg, when Cassandra’s magic suddenly reaches out to her. The warm amber-gold energy twines through Alcina’s very being, tugging almost gently, and Alcina’s mouth snaps shut as she turns towards the source. “... You are lucky that it appears it is time for me to depart,” she tells her husband shortly as she strides towards the doors. “Otherwise I would have delivered a verbal lashing so spectacular you would have been kneeling before me begging for my forgiveness.”

“Sure. I’m sure that is exactly what would have happened,” Ethan stood up from the bench with a low grunt, stretching his shoulders. “I feel like a real idiot right now.”

“Hmph.” The Dimitrescu matriarch didn’t even so much as look at him, nose held up high. She, at least, had manners.

“Are you sure you don’t want to borrow one of my guns?” Ethan pressed, yet again, at her side. “I know that there’s no way you can hold a pistol, but Cassandra and I have been working on this self-expanding enchantment on one of the M1897s. Or, I guess since we’re in a time crunch, I think you might be able to hold one of the grenade launchers with one hand-”

“I will be fine without your firearms,” Alcina told him, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. He’s been offering non-stop since the garden, but Alcina would rather have her husband armed than take away his weaponry. “While I do prefer spellchaining, spellcasting alone isn’t the only weapon I have. I have my strength and transfiguration.”

“Not going to lie, just imagining you superplexing a wizard is hilarious.”

“I’m unfamiliar with superplexing, but I assure you nothing about me is hilarious. I am terrifying, darling.”

“Right, right,” Ethan chuckled, walking through the doorway to enter the great hall.

The grand receiving hall was as long and glorious as befitting a Dimitrescu, with great columns and majestic statues framed within their respective alcoves. All the silver sconces were lit with werelight that casted a warm glow against the marble, shadows flickering and creeping by the columns. High up, Alcina knew, the sigil of House Dimitrescu was carved deep into the marble: the rosette placed atop crossed swords as a dragon curled around it.

They walked down the long red and gold-threaded carpet that ran between the twin rows of grand marble columns, the warm werelight catching along the marble veining in a way that almost made it glow like gold. Near the banded iron doors at the entrance were Alcina’s personal effects that had been stored away in a useful storage-seal trunk.

“Got everything?” Ethan asked her, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“Indeed, but if there was anything I forgot I will be sure to write to you so that you may include it with your own luggage.”

“Always happy to be the pack mule of the family,” he teased as they reached the entrance.

Alcina bends down to press a kiss against his lips, and Ethan raises his head even as he cups her cheek. His thumb brushes along her jaw reverently as he kisses her deeply. “… don’t actively try and traumatize the British wizards.” Her husband murmurs to her underneath his breath.

Her lips quirk upwards despite herself. “No promises,” she murmurs against his lips before she stands back up to her full height.

Ethan simply chuckles at that. “I’ll take what I can get, I guess.”

In a burst of fitful giggles, Cassandra swarmed in through a sideroom sporting a savagely sharp grin that showed off all her teeth. “Looking for someone?” The brunette sing songs, voice tilting as she steps forward with swaying hips. Rosemary was with her, Fell faithfully walking behind them, holding onto the brunette’s hand only to quickly break off to run to her mother on tiny feet.

Rosemary practically tackles her mother’s legs, tiny hands pulling and tugging at the soft silken material of her dress. Her shoulders had begun to tremble and Alcina could smell the salt from her tears.

“Hush now, my little one,” Alcina coos softly, lifting the girl up easily into her arms. “This will not be for long, I promise you. You and your father will join me soon enough. Until then, continue your studies and try not to cause too much trouble with your sisters, hmm?”

“I don't want you to go, Mamă!” Rosemary cried out, pressing her face against the crook of Alcina’s neck. Alcina could feel tears and snot sticking against her bare skin.

Oh, how her heart aches at the very sight of her sweet girl’s tears, but she must hold as strong as goblin-forged steel. Still, Alcina cannot help herself from pressing soothing kisses against her youngest’s temple, her nose, against both of her tear-stained cheeks. Alcina taps a fingernail on the blue stone of the young girl’s necklace. “Do you see this necklace, my dear? This will keep us together even as we’re apart; magic binds you and I together, Rosemary, just as it binds your sisters and father. You are a Dimitrescu, and there is nowhere in the world that you will ever be without our love and presence.” She murmurs into the girl’s ear, pressing one last kiss to her temple. “Be good for Tată now, my sweet dove.”

Alcina turned to Cassandra then, one eyebrow raised pointedly and lips pursed.

“We both already know that I won’t,” Cassandra said plainly, smiling.

And yet the brunette held out her arms so that the matriarch could gratefully deposit a sniffling Rosemary into her second eldest’s embrace. “Dry those tears, little dragon,” Cassandra cooed, rubbing away a tear with her thumb. “This will be a fun month! With Mother and Bela out of the castle just think of all the fun and exciting things we can do without them nagging us about rules and safety hazards!”

Ethan side-eyed them warily. “You know that I’m still here, right?”

“You are, but with Mother gone that means I am the current reigning Lady Dimitrescu,” Cassandra informed him gleefully, golden eyes glinting brightly. “I will rule with an iron fist fitted in a velvet glove: gentle at first touch, and then cruelly, but with passion. All will look to me with despair.”

“God help us all…” Ethan muttered lowly under his breath. Alcina couldn’t help but smile a bit at that.

“Mmmmmm,” Cassandra sighed dreamily, ignoring Ethan’s remark. “My first act as reigning Lady Dimitrescu is reinstating jus primae noctis throughout the land.”

“You will do no such thing, and I have yet to actually leave, Cassandra,” Alcina reminded the brunette, amused. “And do try to not antagonize your older sister too much while I am gone.”

“I can give no promises. Bela is an overachiever who cannot handle the slightest bit of teasing. She makes it way too easy,” Cassandra tells them with a scoff. “Blessed oaks, the look on her face once she realized I would be the one remaining within our stronghold when you would take your leave, Mother! I will treasure her look of despair for all of eternity.”

“... I’m here,” Rosemary muttered petulantly, still pressed tightly around Cassandra’s waist.

“Sorry, Rose,” the brunette flicked her sister’s nose playfully. “When you get to my age you don’t count anyone as a big kid unless they’ve reached their first century. You haven’t even gotten to your first decade yet, so you’re stuck as the baby.”

“Four years is forever though!” The girl pouted, scowling further when Cassandra only laughed aloud.

Smiling, Alcina gives each of her girls one last kiss to the temple, Cassandra grumbling but not shying away, before turning to her husband for one last kiss. “I will write to you all soon enough, but please refrain from burning down the castle. Farewell, my loves.”

With that all said and done, Alcina allows her magic to surge forward in a rushing torrent. She channels it with her willpower and guides it with her intent and with an almighty, earth-shattering crack! Alcina Dimitrescu and her belongings are gone.

Ethan stared at the spot where his wife had been moments before and ran a hand through his hair worriedly. “You don’t think she’s going to break Wizard Britain, do you?”

Cassandra merely threw back her head and cackled aloud, obviously delighted by the idea.

“Cassandra, I’m serious!”

Chapter 7: The Village of Shadows

Chapter Text

“... House Darrhon derived its namesake from the founder of their Family, the lowborn Darrhon of Pella who would later in life go on to serve as personal Healer to the great ruler Alexander III of Macedon, son of Phillip II, who strove to conquer the non-magical world.”

Harry read and reread the paragraph again with dull, weary eyes. Leaning his elbows up against the edge of the table, the young wizard drowsily flipped over to the next page of the old, worn textbook only to then inwardly despair as yet another massive wall of text greeted his tired eyes. Harry’s mind had long since grown numb to the constant onslaught of words and archaic terminology, but he still read on determinedly, if rather sleepily.

“Within the ranks of the great king’s army, Darrhon proved himself to be a powerful Healer of such considerable skill that his acumen surpassed even the now modern-day Wizarding standard.

When the king’s dearest companion, the noble and leal Hephaestion, son of the brave general Amyntor, who was soon struck down by an arrow to the shoulder in battle, the wound was left to fester and soon mortified. Although both magical and ordinary means were attempted, Hephaestion’s wounds continued to worsen when none of the poultices and concoctions could cure his ailment, and death was soon to come. The great conqueror despaired, begging to his gods for aid when all hope seemed lost. It was then that the young Darrhon, using his inborn gift of Parseltongue, convinced a local Lamia to shed a single tear and bargained with a passing Zmei to give up an old tooth. Using those rare and mystical items brewed together with a fistful of hemlock placed within a draught of mulled wine sweetened with honey, Darrhon crafted a poultice so potent that it revived the dying Hephaestion to full glory. Grateful beyond words the great king, armed with celestial steel, anointed the Healer as a Lord. From his line sprung forth -”

There was a sudden and terribly loud thump! right next to him and Harry startled so much at the noise that he nearly fell out of his chair when he flailed about for purchase against the table’s edge. Ron was no better, as the Weasley jolted so suddenly in his seat that he dropped the massive tome of Notable Magical Names of Our Time onto the table.

“I think this might be something!” Hermione declared triumphantly, eyes gleaming brightly as she gestured towards a large stack of ancient looking books that she had just set down on the table.

“Merlin’s shaggy beard, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed lowly as he eyed the now precariously tall stack of books with open dread. “Did you gut an entire section of the library for all those? Pince will tan your hide and use it for her book covers if you don’t put that all back where you found it after.”

The redhead then looked around their table nervously as though half-expecting the overly strict librarian to swoop out of the shadows from between the bookshelves like some terrible, formidable bird of prey.

“Nonsense, Ron,” Hermione said offhandedly, more focused on organizing the tall stack into a series of smaller ones, no doubt organized perfectly in her mind. The young witch tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Of course I’ll put the ones I won’t check out back where they belong. Luckily I still have some space in my bookbag for a few more books for some light extra reading.”

Harry eyed his friend’s book bag, which was already filled with so many books that it looked ready to burst out at the seams already, dubiously. He couldn’t help but remember last year when Hermione had taken all those extra classes and was lugging around what seemed like her entire weight and then more in books.

Surely that book bag has gone through more strain than any of Dudley’s old jumpers, Harry reckoned, though he kept the thought to himself.

“Well, did you find the one you were looking for at least?” Ron raised an eyebrow at the stack of books, looking rather dubious. “‘Cause it seems to me it looks like you found more than one if I’m to be honest.”

“I’ve only found Great Wizards and Witches of the Twentieth Century ” Hermione admitted, running a pale hand through her thick, curly hair with no small amount of frustration. “I skimmed through it, of course, but it only includes those who were born within the time period mentioned in the title, so of course Dimitrescu wouldn’t have been mentioned. You’re mentioned in it though, Harry, did you know?”

Harry blinked at that sudden newfound information, a tad unsure on what to say. Ron shifted in his chair, distractedly scratching at his neck.

“Well ‘course he is,” Ron said, almost casually. “Harry’s, well…” The boy flushed a bright scarlet when Harry looked at him and Ron, almost embarrassed, muttered low underneath his breath. “... He’s the Boy Who Lived, ain’t he? ‘Course people know his name...”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat at that, thin fingers flexing restlessly. Ron looked at him and then shrugged in silent apology.

“Well,” Hermione said briskly, a bright gleam in her eyes that signified that the young witch had found a challenge she was more than willing to tackle as she pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. Even then some of her wild, loose curls still relentlessly fell down past her eyes. “I suppose we’ll just have to read on and see what we’ll find, won’t we?”

Ron groaned audibly aloud at that, head falling back to thunk! against the wooden top rail. Harry fiddled with the sharp nib of his quill from where his hands rested against the meat of his thighs underneath the table, head ducking down in a way that had his uneven bangs veiling over past his eyes. The quill’s sharp tip poked against the worn callus located on the side of his thumb, and Harry rolled the writing instrument around in his hand listlessly, letting the barely noticeable pain of the tip digging into his skin become a focus for him.

“-rry? Harry?” He jerked up at the sound of Hermione’s voice, blinking rapidly. His friend was looking at him worriedly. “Is everything alright, Harry?”

“I- yeah, I’m fine,” Harry said, voice oddly level despite the brisk beating of his heart. “Just… Just thinking, is all.”

Hermione looked at him with open concern, thin dark brows furrowed just so slightly. Harry swallowed thickly, pale fingers trembling underneath the table where they rested on his knobby knees as Harry tried to keep his face calm and even. The sharpened tip of the nib was a comforting weight from where it dug into the callus. A constant, reassuring presence.

At last Hermione looked away, those far too inquisitive brown eyes falling down to look at an open page of some random textbook, and Harry allowed himself a moment to just breathe. It shuddered in his chest and barely made it out past his throat. There was an itchiness to his eyes that didn’t go away even when he rubbed at them.

Harry swallowed again, unable to feel but like there was some great weight pressing down onto his shoulders. It felt as though in the last week or so Harry and his friends had spent more time in the library than they had in their own common room. Ever since that night at dinner when Dumbledore had announced to the entire school that Lady Dimitrescu was going to be judging the Tournament, and staying at Hogwarts while at it, only Hermione had been adamant about learning all that they could about the infamous Dark Lady.

“You can’t just say what others say and then nothing else, Ron,” Hermione had admonished sternly when Ron had first complained that very night, and during that very moment Harry could have sworn that Professor McGonagall must have been possessing his friend just by how much Hermione had sounded like their Head of House when she had sternly lectured at them both. “Source text is needed! Primary sources and written accounts are better by far than conjecture, after all!”

And then, with a frenzied energy that usually only came in during the end of year exams, Hermione had all but dragged Harry and Ron towards the Hogwarts library without a second to spare. And so here they were now, nearly a week later, with their spines now practically melded to the backs of the uncomfortable wooden chairs from where the three huddled tightly together around a singular table. The trio of Gryffindors must have surely spent every moment they could in the library, what with how they would sprint from the Great Hall during lunch with only a handful of sandwiches eaten on the way and the odd moment in between lessons. It was frustratingly similar to their First Year when they had tried to find out all that they could about Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone.

Harry blinked the sleep away from his eyes, glancing down tiredly at the horribly long walls of text before him. “I don’t think this one is any use,” he told both of his friends shortly even as he shut the book and slid it over to the side. “This only covers magic families that don’t exist anymore.”

Hermione bit down on her lip at that, looking discouraged. “I know that House Dimitrescu is really, really old and they haven’t had anyone new be born into their family in centuries… I’d hoped that something about them might have been in it.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, ‘Mione,” Ron spoke up then, running a pale hand through the short strands of his bright red hair. “People don’t want to write about a House like that. At least good folk don’t want to write about them.” The boy’s pale, freckled nose curled up as though he had suddenly smelled something foul and grimaced. “I bet people like Malfoy write a whole bunch about her, the slimy gits. Probably got all sorts of books on her; the type that has to be hidden away when the Ministry gets called on them, I reckon.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, dark brows furrowed.

Ron glanced around the library, carefully eyeing a group of Seventh Year Ravenclaws that were seated at a table close by, though none of the older students seemed to be paying them any mind.

“... I’d bet more than anything that the Restricted Section has absolute loads on her,” Ron muttered to them both underneath his breath. “A Dark witch like Dimitrescu… s’no wonder we can’t find that much out here. Oi, Harry, what say we use the map and cloak to get in tonight? See what we can find?”

Hermione bit down on her lip; the risk of being caught out of bed and her desire for knowledge clearly warring in her head. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think it’s worth the risk,” she admitted then. “Not when the professors are so on edge as is. You’ve seen how they’ve been, and Filch has been even worse with those extra rounds of his from what I’ve heard..”

“I’ll say,” Harry muttered underneath his breath, still keenly aware of how the prickly caretaker had been like a shark scenting blood in the water by how the man had been constantly ambushing students left and right demanding that they show him the inside of their pockets; his squashed, ugly nose practically twitching for even the slightest whiff of a dungbomb or stink pellet while Mrs. Norris stared at them with those unblinking, lantern-like eyes.

It has never been this bad before in Hogwarts, Harry felt, save for the middle of their Second Year when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Back when the spree of petrifications had been at its height and everyone had been terrified; a time when even Harry’s own fellow housemates of Gryffindor House had looked at him with terrible suspicion. Their professors were more stricter than usual and it only served to give the entirety of Hogwarts a dark and gloomy air filled with a tense suspense. It felt as though in the past few days all anyone could talk about was the Triwizard Tournament.

Before, barely a week or so ago, it was all about the Tournament itself and the upcoming arrivals of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students. There were rumors and gossip all over as people speculated on who was going to put their name in, the method of how the champions were chosen and who they reckoned would be the Hogwarts champion.

Before, Harry had hoped that whoever represented Hogwarts would be someone from Gryffindor House; though if it were an upper year from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw Harry supposed it wouldn’t be too awful. So long as no one from Slytherin was chosen. Harry rather doubted he would enjoy the Tournament anywhere near as much if someone like Flint was chosen to represent the school.

… Only now it was hard to muster up any excitement for the Tournament at all. Ever since Dumbledore had revealed that the Dark Lady Dimitrescu would be a judge, there seemed to be a near noticeable tension in the air as though the entire castle was holding its breath. Before it had been a pleasant anticipation, like the days leading up to an important Quidditch match, but now it felt as though Harry were lugging around a lead weight in his gut.

It felt as though no matter where Harry went all manner of discussion was about the newest judge for the Triwizard Tournament, despite that person being the most notorious Dark Lady in Wizarding history. So many stories and tales and rumors followed that dreadful name for all that it seemed as though no one could agree on what was and what wasn’t true. And yet, with every new rumor and grim story that sounded straight from a horrific slasher film, Harry felt his gut sink deeper and deeper as he listened on.

Harry had never heard the name ‘ Dimitrescu’ before Dumbledore had said it back then during that dinner announcement, but now the name seemed to follow after him like a persistent shadow, constantly hounding his steps as though one of Aunt Marge’s dogs was trying to snap at his heels.

Whether or not the rumors were true or false, it didn’t change the simple matter of the fact that the most infamous Dark Lady of all time was going to be coming to stay at Hogwarts for the entire year.

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy had mocked him at breakfast the very next day; the boy’s pale face had drawn up in a tight, wickedly sharp sneer. On his shoulder the boy’s familial eagle owl had sat haughtily, having just dropped off some sort of important letter. “How many of you want to place bets on how long Potter will last? I bet at most till the end of the month!”

Crabbe and Goyle had chuckled dumbly and Pansy Parkinson had all but openly cackled in glee. Hermione had clutched tightly onto his arm then as she had all but dragged him away towards Charms Class before Harry could even think to respond. “Don’t listen to him, Harry. Just ignore it!” She had hissed to him, but even now the memory of it made Harry’s hands clench into tight fists, his chewed fingernails dully digging into the callused flesh of his palms. Ron had shouted something back at the Slytherin boy, though Harry hadn’t heard anything over the ringing in his ears.

Harry couldn’t help but inwardly wonder just how many people were placing bets.

. “... I wonder if there is anything in the aisle over,” Hermione mused aloud, shaking Harry away from his dark thoughts. “I swear I remember reading the name Daniela Dimitrescu somewhere while studying for last year’s potions exam…” She yawned tiredly, a small hand rising to cover her mouth.

“Come off it, ‘Mione, there’s nothing here. The best we can find for what you’re looking for has to be locked away deep in the Restricted Section,” Ron said brusquely. “I’ve told you all the stories. It doesn’t really matter what’s in books, just trust me when I say that Dimitrescu is bad news…. Oi, Harry, you alright?” The redhead turned to look at him, concerned.

“I’m fine,” Harry managed to say automatically, even as he dropped his quill on the table in genuine startlement. “Just thinking, is all….”

Ron and Hermione shared a worried glance between each other that Harry pretended not to notice as he distracted himself by putting the Ancient Houses and their Most Ancient Histories onto the ever growing pile of discarded books. Ignoring the stares of his friends, Harry tried to pretend to scrawl something on his loose sheet of parchment and his friends, mercifully, continued to talk to one another.

“I’ve read and reread The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts twice now, and I found barely a single mention of Dimitrescu or her daughters.” Hermione informed them. “The most are an odd mention or two of when a specific Dark Lord or Lady tried to gain an alliance, but it never goes into much detail.”

“Well you’ve got your answer in the title. She’s been around for forever, Dimitrescu has, so it wouldn’t make sense for her to be mentioned when she hasn’t risen or fallen in the past few centuries. They don’t call her a Countess or Dark Lady for nothing.” Ron supplied then, fingers flexing against the bone ridge of his own, worn out quill. “She controls the entire region of Magical Transylvania. It’s home to some of the worst sort of Dark creatures, a safe haven for the Dark Arts if there ever was one. No one has ever tried to step in and stop it considering Dimitrescu’s been around for ages that no one really can stop her.”

Hermione frowned at that, brows furrowing. “What do you mean that-”

“I mean what I said,” Ron told them both earnestly. “Haven't you noticed in all of our Defense classes how the worst sort of Dark creatures are almost always in Romania or Transylvania? It’s all because of Dimitrescu. She protects them, gives them sanctuary, and stops any Wizarding country from getting too close. Don’t you remember First Year with Quirell’s run in with Romania vampires over the summer?”

And Harry, he couldn’t help but pause mid-breath, his inner questions and demands suddenly stopped short. Because Ron wasn’t wrong at all. Hadn’t Professor Lupin advised, time and time again, about the Dark creatures that lived within the great forests of Romania and Transylvania?

But there was one other thing, something that Ron and Hermione didn’t know because only Harry and Dumbledore knew: vampires hadn’t been the only thing their Defense teacher had run into in Romania. Quirrell had spent at least the entire summer in the dark woods of Romania, only to come back with the Dark Lord Voldemort stuck to the back of his head.

“I just don’t understand it, is all,” Hermione said, almost bitter, oblivious to Harry’s growing panic. She looked down upon the dozen score books with a short temper. “I just can’t understand it all. I know I’ve heard the name Dimitrescu before in my studies, but I just cannot for the life of me find it.” She blinked at them, almost anxiously. “Why is that? Why does no one seem to write about her?”

“‘Cause it’s all Dark Arts, like I said.” Ron said, like it was that easy an explanation. “She’s as Dark as you can get, and everyone around her is almost near as bad. Best to just leave her alone. It’s like what Fred and George said, innit? She keeps to herself most of the time.”

Harry grabbed one of the few useful sources of information they had managed to get their hands on: a stiff-backed piece of pentagonal cardboard. He flipped it over and over in his hands, fingers running over the worn edges carefully.

“We did get this,” Harry interjected and he held up the folded cardstock so that both of his friends could see it; the occupant stared down at them with abject boredom and utter apathy. “It was smart of you to think of this,” Harry told Ron then, though it was honestly just an attempt to change the subject. And it had been a brilliant idea, though Harry reckoned Ron had only thought of it purely because of how much frustration their search for Nicholas Flamel had been back in First Year.

Ron grinned sheepishly. “Just thought it might save us time, you know? It’s a good thing Neville let us borrow it.”

“I still cannot believe she has her own chocolate frog card,” Hermione huffed out, lips pursed tightly as she glared at the card in Harry’s hand. “Honestly, what were they even thinking having someone like her?”

Ron shifted in his seat. “I mean, chocolate frog cards are usually about witches and wizards who have done extraordinary things, good and bad. ‘Course nowadays you won’t see them have a card on Grindelwald or You-Know-Who but… well, the older ones…” he trailed off uncomfortably. “You’ll still see a few names that aren’t of the best sort. I mean, they’ve got a card on Herpo the Foul and even one for Morgana, who's got to be one of the worst sorts. Dimitrescu and her daughters, well, guess they’re just a tradition at this point. Can't really get rid of them. And they’ve done a lot of amazing things, bad things for sure, but… ”

“After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great.” Ollivander's wispy voice breathed out in the far recesses of Harry's memory.

Harry stared down at the chocolate frog card, staring into the bright, golden eyes of its occupant. Even stuck in the small picture, the Dark Lady managed to stare down her nose at him imperiously. Lady Dimitrescu’s eyes were a bright and metallic gold. Harry had never seen eyes quite like those before. He hadn’t even known that someone could have golden eyes; the closest he’d seen had been Moony on the full moon and even then the werewolf’s eyes had been a bright and sickly amber.

Was it just further proof that she wasn’t human? Ron had mentioned that people had thought her to be a vampire, but when Professor Lupin had taught them about vampires last year all the books and lectures had said that vampires had blood-red eyes. But maybe Professor Lupin hadn’t been quite right with that? Everyone said that Lady Dimitrescu had three daughters, but vampires couldn’t conceive natural born children; so either her daughters were adopted or they had been born before Lady Dimitrescu had been a vampire and then later turned themselves.

Harry fiddled with the chocolate frog card, idly watching the pale-faced witch sneer at him. He would have to thank Neville later, the next time they saw him, for letting them borrow the card. When Hermione had begun talking about textbooks and literary sources, Ron had been quick to grab their fellow Gryffindor and his formidable collection of chocolate frog cards.

“I was afraid me nan would throw them in the rubbish if I left them behind,” their round-faced yearmate had explained as he had leafed through a thick leather-bound binder filled with dozens upon dozens of chocolate frog cards before he had carefully pulled out the one they’d asked after. “Could you give her back once you’re done though? I’ve only got the one, you see.”

Ron had been impressed by the collection, especially when Neville had shown that he had an Agrippa and a Hygeia card. Harry hadn’t recognized the names, but Ron had looked terribly jealous.

Harry fiddled with the chocolate frog card, flipping it over in his grips as his restless fingers ghosted over the worn edges. The Dark Lady continued to smirk and sneer at him, bright red lips pulled back to reveal a row of bright white teeth.

His eyes, tired beyond belief, scanned across the small amount of text written upon the magical stock board.

Alcina Dimitrescu (???? - present day)

Conteša (Countess) and Voivode of Magical Transylvania, the Dark Lady Alcina Dimitrescu has served as the reigning Lord of Magical Transylvania for several centuries. A welcome friend to Dark creatures and a patron of the Dark Arts, Lady Dimitrescu founded the infamous Order of the Dragon in the late 13th century to serve as both sword and shield against the countless witch burnings. To this modern day, the Order of the Dragon boasts a membership of some hundred wizards and witches.

In her free time, the Countess prefers to spend time within her vineyard, well-known for its famed vintages. Aside from her skilled mastery of the Dark Arts, Lady Dimitrescu is known for her most impressive height and her conservation efforts with dragons.

Alcina Dimitrescu is the mother of the famed Dark witches Bela, Cassandra and Daniela Dimitrescu.

“-the other source informed me that vampires only pretended to dislike garlic in order to encourage their victims to eat it as it apparently made them taste more seasoned, which is utter rubbish. It was a good thing that Professor Moody assigned us a respectable required text that easily put down that theory with several credible sources.”

Harry blinked and looked away from the chocolate card, glancing back up at his friends as he realized that he had entirely missed the conversation.

“Where’d you even hear that bit about garlic not working?” Ron asked her.

Hermione blushed a bright and terrible red as she fiddled with a dog-eared page of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection; Professor Moody’s required text for his lessons. She mumbled something under her breath, so quiet Harry only heard the ending. “… it was mentioned in Voyages with Vampires...”

“Voyages with Vam-, wait, you don’t mean,” Ron began, looking absolutely horrified. “You don’t mean Lockhart’s book, do you? Don’t tell me you read them again after what happened in Second Year!”

“Of course I reread them!” Hermione exclaimed, looking scandalized. “I had to fact check every page so that I would know for sure of what was and wasn’t utter hogwash. It took me much of summer break to compile my sources and cross reference. Honestly, the amount of discrepancies I found was appalling; whoever edited them must have been Confounded themselves. The sheer amount of inaccuracies…! Merlin knows how many people he’s misinformed throughout the years!”

“But it’s all utter hogwash!”

“I know that now, Ron!” Hermione huffed out. “Do you know how many letters I’ve sent to his publisher demanding a redaction or even to pull those books off the shelves? Countless! Think of us muggle-borns who would have had to read the books and had no reason to not find it faulty! Honestly, with our lack of experience with the Wizarding world because we didn’t grow up learning about magic, surely someone has gotten hurt from his lies.”

Ron just stared at her in open amazement and no small amount of amusem*nt. “Maybe we can have Harry write to the publisher, see if Lockhart had some upcoming book squirreled away about his adventures,” the boy couldn’t help but tease, grin growing larger and larger as Hermione turned a bright red. “Maybe he managed to romance Dimitrescu and with his lovely charm swayed her away from the Dark.”

“Ron, honestly y-” Hermione began, still blushing furiously.

“Romance in Romania,” Ron interrupted her, hands spread out as though he was imagining it written out on a giant sign. A sign that no doubt had the beaming face of Gilderoy Lockhart charmed on it so that it would wink down at wandering passersby. Harry could see it so clearly too, and he couldn’t help but smile just a tad. Ron has always managed to lighten a mood.

“Dancing with the Dark Arts,” Harry quietly offered.

“Dancing in the Dark Arts,” Ron tweaked, and both boys shared small, tight grins.

Hermione frowned at them. “Ron, be serious; this isn’t the time for jokes. First the World Cup fiasco with Death Eaters popping back into existence after so many years dormant and now the most infamous practitioner of the Dark Arts is spending the year at Hogwarts? Tell me that you find that at least a tad suspicious!”

“Maybe she just wanted a vacation?” Ron offered weakly. “Hogsmeade is quite nice this time of year.”

“What if she’s after Harry?” Hermione demanded heatedly. “What if she wants revenge for what he did to You Know Who?”

Harry’s gut sank lower and lower, and he tried his best to not let them see how his hands were shaking against his knees.

“Come off it,” Ron said, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable. “... no, that can’t be it. Besides, she’s just here for the Tournament, remember? She can’t do much outside of that, right? You heard Dumbledore, only the older Years can participate so she can’t even so much as look at Harry without someone noticing. There’ll be Ministry officials posted everywhere, the Minister himself will be at the events and that’s not even mentioning Dumbledore. They’ll keep an eye on her and make sure she isn’t doing what she’s not supposed to.”

Harry wanted to point out that Ron had said multiple times just today about how no one seemed able to stop Dimitrescu from anything, but his throat felt like there was something lodged in it.

“Besides, she can’t do anything at Hogwarts with Dumbledore here,” Ron said confidently.

Hermione looked mollified by that reminder, but Harry’s insides still felt like they were a squirming pit of snakes.

He’d take a hundred double Divination classes with Trelawney predicting his terribly painful death over having to deal with yet another moment of this awful, fearful cold that had settled itself in his gut. Sometimes it felt like the fear was rising up his chest and squeezing at his throat until Harry couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.

Because Harry has seen it for himself that, for all that Dumbledore was headmaster and the greatest wizard of all time, not even he could go against the Ministry of Magic. Dumbledore hadn’t been able to stop Hagrid’s unfair arrest in their Second year, or to stop the Minister from locking up Sirius to await the Dementor’s Kiss.

It had been different with Voldemort. Dark Lord or not, he’d had to skulk and scheme and sneak his way past the protections that Hogwarts provided. But Dimitrescu? From what the older students were saying, it seemed as though the Dark Lady was being given the keys to the kingdom by how easily and quickly the International Confederation of Wizards had bent over backwards to accommodate her.

“Fine then!” Ron’s annoyed huff broke him out of his deep and dark thoughts. Harry blinked at his friend, trying to remember where it was that he was. The Weasley was glaring at Hermione even as he, rather suddenly, stood up and walked towards an aisle on the other side of the library, impatiently scanning the clustered rows.

Harry blinked confusedly, wondering what it was he had missed. Hermione looked annoyed, but when the girl turned to look at him the annoyance was immediately replaced with worry.

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione asked, and her voice was so terribly gentle that Harry wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor at that very second.

“So, Dimitrescu,” Harry began, a tad desperate to get those worried look off his friend’s expressions. “S-she’s…” He fumbled for words and Hermione’s expression gentled even further and Harry could feel the tips of his ears burning.

Luckily Harry was saved from what was surely about to be the most awkward encounter of his life by Ron coming back to the table and shoving a worn, leather-bound book into Hermione’s arms.

“There,” the redhead sat back down in his chair, arms crossed. “Happy now?”

Harry craned his neck to the side to try and read the slanted, golden script that gleamed against the worn spine.

“The Tales of Beedle the Bard?” Hermione read aloud, one brow arched up high in disbelief. Brown eyes glanced between the book and then to the Weasley. “Ron, honestly, we’re looking for real, credible sources not… not children’s tales!” She spluttered.

“I promise you,” Ron said. “It’s all there. Here, look.” And with that he took hold of the old book and flipped it to its index, one finger ghosting alongside the referenced stories.

Harry, curious, did his best to scan the newfound information set before him. It was a long list of story titles written in a flowing, scrawling hand in half-faded ink.

The Wizard and the Hopping Pot.

From Riches to Rags.

The Fountain of Fair Fortune.

The Whispering Werewolf of the North.

The Wizard Who Thought He was a Kneazle.

The Warlock’s Hairy Heart.

Over the Garden’s Wall.

Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump.

The Tale of Three Brothers.

And, there, the last one -

“That one!” Ron exclaimed, pressing a finger down against the parchment. “It’s that one there.”

The Village of Shadows.

“… I don’t understand,” Hermione confessed, frowning down at the book.

“It’s supposedly the origin of the four Great Houses.” Ron told them. Harry just stared at his best friend blankly, completely aware that he was unaware of the words the redhead was using so freely while Hermione simply glared. “It’s a children’s story. Everyone read this when they were a kid. Well,” his pale, freckled cheeks flushed slightly. “I mean if they were a wizard, of course. It’s a proper story, like Babbity Rabbity and her cackling stump.”

Children wizard fairy tales, Harry hadn’t thought that might be a thing before.

“So, there are four Great Wizarding Houses from the ancient times: Beneviento, Dimitrescu, Heisenberg and Moreau.” Ron began, counting each one off with a finger. “They’ve been around for ages, but most people barely remember that they’re still around. Honestly, the only ones that are still active enough to this day are Dimitrescu. The other three keep to themselves and their borders.”

“I know Heisenberg!” Hermione said excitedly. “Professor Snape mentioned the name during Defense classes when Professor Lupin was recovering from the full moon, don’t you remember? He called out House Heisenberg by name during the segment on werewolves.” She scowled at their blank looks. “Oh honestly, don’t you two retain information after classes are done?”

Ron shrugged his shoulders. “All I remember is the insane length of parchment Snape wanted for homework.”

“And this fairy tale is real?” Harry asked. Were other fairy tales, the Muggle ones like Red Riding Hood and Sleeping Beauty something that had actually happened?

“Well, no one actually says it, but everyone knows that it's about the Four Families. Just look at the symbols drawn here.” Ron pointed down at a spot on the page where four crests were carefully drawn at the very top of the first page. Harry squinted and moved closer. Below each of the crests in tiny writing was a helpful description of the heraldry that went from top left to right.

House Dimitrescu: a rosette set between two crossed swords encircled by the coiled form of a dragon chasing after its own tail.

House Beneviento: the crescent moon and rising sun in splendor.

House Moreau: a mermaid in her modesty above per fess undy.

House Heisenberg: a thestral head set within a horseshoe open up.

“What’s a thestral?” Harry asked curiously as he looked at the House Heisenberg crest. It looked like a horse, but it was oddly withered and skeletal.

“It’s a type of winged horse,” Hermione explained. “But it’s considered rotten luck to come across one. They’re invisible to most wizards… Oh, I think I recognize this symbol,” Hermione pointed at the crest of House Moreau. “Yes, I’m quite sure I’ve seen this during my summer trip to France. When I went to see the magical side I saw those on fountains and water spouts.”

“Well 'course you did. Depending on where you are, a lot of the older Wizarding towns will have it carved near wherever water is. Like wells and springs and such. People would put them by the docks too, carve them on the posts so that way the mer and other water creatures knew they weren’t looking for trouble,” Ron said. “You’ll find a lot of things like that in the older areas. The Four Houses are ancient and have a lot of roots, ‘specially in Europe.”

“Why haven’t they come up in our classes then?” Harry asked. He would have much rather preferred learning about this in their History of Magic Classes; it sounded much more interesting than goblin rebellions.

“Well, they kind of keep to themselves nowadays, I guess.” Ron shrugged his shoulders. “House Dimitrescu is the only one of the three to have more than one member so they’re more active. The rest are just the Lords, no heirs. Though I’ve heard some some people say that Lady Beneviento has a daughter, but they were probably just talking straight out of their ars-”

“Ron!”

“Sorry, ‘Mione…”

It wasn’t long after that the library began to close, Madam Pince shooing away several Seventh Years trying to study for their NEWTS, forcing the trio to head back up to the common room before curfew.

Harry didn’t remember walking back up the seven flights of stairs or speaking the password, balderdash, to the Fat Lady. He barely remembered entering the warmth of the common room and biding an early goodnight to his friends, didn’t remember climbing up the spiral staircase or even getting ready for bed until he had already drawn up the velvet curtains in his four-poster bed.

“Lumos,” Harry whispered quietly, and the tip of his holly wand glowed softly.

Somehow, although he must have carried it throughout the castle, Harry was a tad surprised to see that he was still holding onto the old leather-bound fairy tale book. Had he even checked it out, or was Madam Prince now on the prowl? He didn’t quite know, much less cared.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

Harry traced an idle finger over the golden lettering, following the swoops and sudden curves. The leather was worn and cracked from age and use.

Had his parents owned a book just like this? Ron had said all magical families shared this story, just like how Muggle families would read the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or Sleeping Beauty. Timeless classics read to children by their parents.

It had just never occurred to Harry that wizards would have their own fairytales.

Had his mother read these stories to him, to Harry, when he had been a baby? Had his father acted out scenes or made up voices for each character? Had a baby Harry Potter gone to sleep on these stories he now didn’t recognize?

Harry didn’t know. He couldn't remember. He couldn’t remember much before that night when the Dark Lord Voldemort had come to his house, killed his parents and tried to kill Harry himself, only to fail at the very end.

All he remembered of his parents was the green flash of light, his mother’s last desperate words begging for mercy, his father calling out for Lily, Harry’s mum, to run and to take Harry with her.

A sharp flash of green, a shrieking laugh, his mother’s dying scream.

Harry shook his head, like a dog did when wet, as though to physically rid himself of the memory through the action.

He remembered nothing of his parents but their last moments. Everything else: their faces, their smiles, their stories, even their very names would only be given to him after he had turned twelve and had entered the Wizarding world proper.

Aunt Petunia had no photos of her sister in her ordinary, no nonsense house. It wasn’t until Hagrid had gifted him with a homemade photo album that Harry had even seen true evidence of what his mother and father had actually looked like.

For so long, Harry had wondered and doubted. Growing up with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, who had always been so quick to label Harry’s parents as disruptive, reckless miscreants, Harry hadn’t had the clearest idea of who his parents were, or what they had been like. His aunt and uncle had clearly been eager to let it be known that Harry Potter’s parents had been good-for-nothing drunks who’d gotten themselves killed in a car crash, and the story had soon spread across Privet Drive and had even followed after Harry at school thanks to Dudley.

And children could be so cruel. Crueler than adults.

They called his father a wastrel; his mother a whor*.

And what could little Harry Potter do? Harry, with clothing far too big for him, who knew nothing of his father’s family -only that they must surely be good-for-nothings- and barely anything of his mother from her family -only that she was a nutcase better left forgotten, a kooky lunatic, a freak -

Harry could do nothing then but listen silently, fingernails digging deep into the flesh of his palms until it left reddened half-moon crescents.

And even now, though Harry knew that his parents had loved him, had even died for him -but why couldn’t they have lived for him? Why had they tried to fight when they could have run? They’d died for him, but dying was easy, why couldn’t they have just lived for him?- he couldn’t help but wish that things had been different.

And Harry has always felt so very guilty about those thoughts.

His parents had died fighting against evil, they’d died fighting the Dark Lord, but Harry would have rather had them run and live so they could have been a family. They could have had a normal life, Harry would have grown up knowing what love truly was -it was watching Dudley being doted on, watching the hugs and smiles from behind the metal screen in his cupboard- and why did they have have to die? Why did they have to leave him behind?

And so, in the comfort of his own four-poster bed, where no one could bother him, Harry Potter cracked open the worn leather book and began to read.

“Long, long ago…” The story began, written in an ancient, flowing script. “ A young witch went with her mother to pick berries for her father, who was hard at work.

But the forest greeted them with a dark, cold silence; the bushes empty of fruit and the trees empty of life, from the great unicorn to the humble bowtruckle.

Yet, determined to find the berries, the young daughter bravely broke free from her mother’s grasp and vanished into the trees.

Mother’s worried cries faded fast as the girl ran on; over vine, and under branch. Across flowing creeks and spinney copses, the girl ran on and on far into the forest deep, until she could run no more.

She stopped for breath and, looking around, realized that she had run into the forest’s dark heart with no sign of Mother or Father to be found.

Scared and feeling strange eyes upon her, the girl recalled her mother’s scary bedtime tales of the Dark creatures that called the forest’s heart home, and her throat became bone dry. The girl, once so brave, broke into tears.

Then the Dragon Lord appeared!

She greeted the human child warmly and bit her own wing. “Come, child. Quench your thirst,” the Dragon Lord said, and lowered the weeping wound close to the girl’s mouth.

And so the girl drank the thick, dark blood and smiled with joy.

Braver now, the young witch continued on until she came upon a graveyard. The headstones were old and cracked, and the mist was heavy and cold.

The girl was shivering in her thin clothes.

Then the Weaver Lord emerged from the mist: a pale woman dressed in all mourning black. The woman said not a word, merely studied the girl before her. The girl shivered from both fear and cold.

From the Weaver Lord’s fingers erupted bright strings of light that sank into the ground. Corpses rose from their graves, the strings attached to their limbs, and the dead began to dance.

Delighted, the girl laughed and clapped her hands.

With a click of the Lord’s fingers, the threads of magic removed themselves from the dead, who fell back in their graves happily, and weaved itself into a beautiful dress robe.

“Come, child. Warm yourself,” the Weaver Lord coaxed.

So the girl clothed herself and smiled with joy.

The young witch continued past the graveyard where the dead danced and slept, past the rolling hills and over the creek until she came upon the coast.

Across waters deep and ominous she went, hoping a boat she found would carry her home.

But hunger’s grip tightened and her heart grew heavy.

Then the Fish Lord appeared from beneath the murky deep and kindly offered one of his many fins.

“Come, child. Eat your fill.”

So the girl ate and smiled with joy once more.

Continuing on, she soon left behind the dark and scary waters and found herself back in the forest’s dark heart.

Only, instead of the Dragon Lord the Iron Lord, a thestral shrouded in shadow, appeared bearing a beautiful golden gear.

The creature said nothing as the girl approached…

… and snatched what she thought was another gift.

The thestral grew angry and with a great bellow of rage charged at the girl.

Shrieking, the girl’s magic wrapped around herself and spirited the child away. The Iron Lord snarled and bellowed, the trees shaking from his rage, but the girl was now far away.

The girl appeared in a clearing, only it was a Dark place. A place much scarier than even the forest’s heart. Suddenly, a woman appeared. A witch, like the girl’s own mother, but Dark.

“Gifts they gave, but from me you’ll have nothing,” the Dark witch snarled. “In fact, I believe I’m owed my due!”

In the blink of an eye, the girl was trapped inside a mirror.

Her parents, though had searched all day and, at last, arrived.

With a scream of rage, Father drew forth his wand and fought the Dark witch while Mother’s bright charms shattered the Dark enchantment that bound the girl in glass.

But the Dark witch was strong, far stronger than Mother and Father, and so the wizard yelled, “Save our daughter!” and threw himself back into battle, sending spell for spell back at the Dark witch. Only the Dark witch was strong, and with a cackle she summoned forth a burst of fiendfyre that swallowed the clearing in wicked flames.

So Mother bore their child to safety as the forest was consumed.

Even now, the burnt forest is a grim reminder of the father’s sacrifice.

To this day, any child who stares too long into the charred wasteland will be haunted by nightmares of getting lost while picking berries."

Harry had already begun to drift off near the end of the story, hanging on only to know how the story truly ended. A simple, desperate need to know how the story would end, as though reaching the final sentence would spark some distant memory far back in his mind, like how the grim reach of the Demetors had plucked out his mother and father’s dying screams.

Only nothing had come of it. No distant spark. No Lily Potter speaking softly and sweetly, no James Potter making croaky, over exaggerated voices. Nothing. Only the memories of his father’s dying shout, his mother’s desperate wail. Only that. Always only that.

“Lily!” His father’s voice. “Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! The only time Harry has ever heard his father’s voice. So young, so scared and yet so determined even as the fear had shaken his voice to a fine tremble. “Go, run! I’ll hold him off!”

Only all Harry could remember was the bright green flash and a sharp laughter that was almost inhumane. His mother’s shriek.

“Not Harry!” Lily Potter wailed. Her last, desperate breath freely given to beg for the life of her only son.

And Harry Potter fell asleep still holding the old book of Wizarding fairytales close to his chest.

Chapter 8: The Foreign Schools of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

Chapter Text

“Longbottom!”

Snape’s snarl was as quick and sudden as the crack of a whip. Startled, Harry looked up hastily from his cauldron, eyes darting over immediately to the Potions master right as there was a sudden, loud phoomph! of acrid green smoke that burst out the top of Neville’s copper-bottomed cauldron.

Harry coughed and sputtered as the smoke drifted over to his side of the Potions classroom, Ron gagging just barely a moment after him as the air suddenly smelt strongly of rotten eggs and burnt hair.

“Stupid, idiot boy!” Snape snarled nastily and, with an ugly scowl that has never meant anything but absolute punishment for anyone wearing a gold-crimson tie, came striding over across the musty flagstones of the dungeon classroom, black robes fluttering behind him like a second shadow. Neville, his ears red and shoulders slumped, looked positively terrified as the sallow-faced, hook-nosed Potions master loomed over him like some terrible bat out of Hell.

“What have I said about adding white myrtle petals before the mandrake extract?” Snape demanded brusquely. “Well? Answer me, boy! Are you hard of hearing, or just too incompetent to follow simple basic instruction?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Neville stuttered out, cheeks burning a bright cherry red. “I didn’t mean to, to, I forgot about the mandrake bit, sir. I’m s-sorry, sir!”

Snape was, as ever, unmoved by Neville’s apologies, and when he spoke next it was in a horrible, oily murmur that raised the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck to stand up. “... Perhaps then, Mr. Longbottom, we should test your antidote first and see how effective it is, since you seemed so confident in straying away from the written prompts…”

Malfoy was practically glowing as he watched the exchange, not even trying to hide his smirk. Harry wanted nothing more than to grab a handful of chopped ekimmara liver and chuck it at the blonde’s stupid, smug face. Besides him, Ron was bristling and even Hermione was biting down on her lip.

“Longbottom, do try your utmost best to not embarrass your country and school in front of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons delegates tonight,” Snape said. “I suggest that you stay in the back of the crowd.”

All the Slytherins laughed loudly at that, even as all of the Gryfindors were doing their best to not snap and speak up. Poor Neville looked as though he was trying his best to blink back tears.

Snape, still smiling cruelly, tilted his head to the side, his black beetle-like eyes glinting unpleasantly as he announced to the room at large. “Due to Longbottom’s blundererous error, you all will be tasked with writing an extra assignment of coursework. I expect a detailed analysis on the effects of white myrtle petals in a brewing potion meant for antidotes and how grievous of an oversight it would be to misplace the timing. Two rolls of parchment should be enough to gather your thoughts, I would wager.”

That was an entire afternoon’s worth of research and writing!

Harry fumed silently, glaring at the Potions master as Neville shrank down in his seat as a plethora of angry glares focused on him. Piled on with the rest of their homework, which was already so much longer and harder this year in preparation for the OWLs, Harry doubted that there would be any free time this weekend between Snape’s homework, Flitwick’s insistence on extra reading in preparation for the Summoning Charms, Professor McGonagall's insistence on perfecting the Switching Spell, a spell which Harry has continuously struggled with, and even Hagrid’s passionate invitation to visit their own Blast-Ended Skrewts in their free time.

Now even some of their fellow Gryffindor looked angry, loaded up as they were with homework assignments from all the rest of their classes. Neville might as well have been trying to pretend to be a turtle by how low his head sunk down against his raised shoulders.

When Snape turned his head, his eyes met Harry’s. Harry met them dead on, even as his stomach churned in both indignant rage and frustrated fear. He wasn't scared of Snape, he wasn’t.

Harry couldn’t help but remember, rather gleefully, the imagine of Snape wearing a moldy old hat with a nesting vulture and a granny’s worn old dress. It was that image that Harry kept in mind as he met Snape’s eyes calmly.

Faintly, up above them, came the pealing of bells from the clock tower. Immediately, students were straightening in their seats as Snape finally looked away from Harry.

“Class dismissed,” the Potions master said curtly. “Head to the Great Hall to prepare for the welcoming ceremony. Remember, two rolls of parchment on top of your written essay on the lasting effects of the Bucksblood decoction when imbued...”

“Miserable old git,” Ron was still seething even as they had long left the dungeons behind, the three of them now winding up and around the old spiral staircase that led from the lower recesses of the castle towards near the entrance of the Great Hall. “Honestly, I-”

“Ron, just save it,” Hermione said tiredly, looking exhausted. “I know that Professor Snape is-”

“ Oh, Professor Snape is it?” Ron sneered angrily, the tips of his ears still burning red. “Come off it, Hermione! You know that he’s a miserable old bat! Just because he’s a professor doesn’t mean that he can’t be a real right bastard!”

Hermione flushed slightly at that, but didn’t say anything as they arrived on the correct floor and went down a hallway. No doubt she secretly agreed, but her respect for authority figures left her reeling.

“Still, two rolls of parchment because of one mistake?” Ron bemoaned just as they reached the Great Hall’s entrance. “We’ve already got Binns having us write an essay every week on stupid goblin rebellions, and now this? It’s not even our O.W.L.s year!”

“It’s in preparation for our O.W.L.s,” Hermione pointed out crossly. “Don’t you remember what Professor McGonagall said on our first day back? Fifth Year is a most important year for our magical education!” She spoke up as though quoting a passage from a textbook, and Ron glowered.

“Filch,” Harry murmured underneath his breath to his friends, watching as the mean-tempered caretaker suddenly rounded around the corner with Mrs. Norris at his heels. Ron, who looked just about to complain to Hermione, snapped his mouth shut.

“Weasley!” Filch barked out, bulbous eyes directed fully onto Ron. “Trying to cause trouble, eh? Try and ruin Hogwarts’ image in front of the other foreign schools, aren’t you?”

“No, sir,” Ron said sourly, barely able to hide his scowl.

Filch sneered at him, jowls jiggling as he pointed a gnarled finger at the redhead accusingly. “No doubt your nasty brothers have something in store, eh? You tell them me and Mrs. Norris are keeping an eye out for any troublemakers… Nasty Weasleys, worse than the pox the lot of you are. Surely Dumbledore will let me do more strict punishments when it’s the school’s image at stake, oh yes. I doubt your brothers will be half as likely to try something if I string them up by their thumbs.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Filch,” Hermione hurriedly began, tugging on Ron’s arm as the boy's pale face turned a terrible beet red. “We have to get to the Great Hall. It’s the Welcoming Feast, you see.”

Filch squinted at Hermione suspiciously. “Granger, is it? Don’t think I won’t keep an eye out on you too.”

“Of course, sir. I mean, I’ll make sure everyone stays in line,” Hermione gibbered, fingers digging into Ron’s shoulders when the Weasley opened his mouth. “Not a toe out of line.”

Filch grunted. “See to it then.” The Hogwarts caretaker shouldered past them and stalked down the hall, his cat following close behind like a second shadow.

“Mental, that man is. Absolutely mental!” Ron grunted underneath his breath as the three quickly headed towards the massive iron doors of the Great Hall.

“Well, hopefully he’ll be kept busy once the other schools are here. Hogwarts must keep up to its standards,” Hermione soothed. “Still, I am rather curious about the other schools. I wonder who will be their Champion.”

“Who’d you reckon will be Hogwarts’?” Harry asked her curiously. It had been a subject of great debate ever since the Tournament had been announced back on their first night, but Harry didn’t remember if Hermione had said who she thought would be it.

“It’ll be a Gryffindor for sure,” Ron said confidently.

Hermione raised a dark eyebrow at that. “What makes you so certain that the champion will be a Gryffindor?”

Ron boggled at her. “Of course it’s going to be a Gryffindor who’ll be Hogwarts champion. Who else would it be?”

“This is supposed to be a school-wide event, not just one House, Ron,” she argued. “I heard straight from Susan Bones in Arithmancy class that Cedric Diggory is going to be entering, and it seems like Hufflepuff House is confident that he’ll be picked.

Ron snorted at that. “As if. Can you imagine Diggory as the Hogwarts champion, Harry?”

Hermione frowned at them both. “You both just don’t like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch last year!”

“You mean he cheated is what he did!” Ron argued. “You saw how the Dementors swarmed the pitch during that storm. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Diggory grabbed the Snitch when he did! Wasn’t fair at all!”

“And Cedric was the first to argue for a rematch once it became clear that the game was interrupted. I’ve heard that Cedric is a great student, top of nearly all of his classes, and he’s a Prefect,” Hermione said importantly, as that was all that truly mattered.

“You only think that because he’s handsome,” Ron accused, crossing his arms.

“Oh, come now, Ron,” Hermione argued, even though Harry swore that her cheeks flushed just a tad. “Well, would you rather have Flint or Warrington as champion then instead of Diggory?”

Ron made a terrible, sour face at that, as though Hermione had outright told him that the Chudley Cannons would never make it to the top of the league in the next century. “You know you don’t have to act so-”

“Can’t you two just shut it for once?” Harry couldn’t help but snap tiredly, rubbing a thumb against his temple. “Just… just leave it, alright?” His head was throbbing as though a nail was being driven into the side of his skull.

His friends settled into an awkward, but blessed, silence as they waited for the professors to arrive. Dumbledore was one of the last to enter from the faculty door nestled behind the High Table, the Head of Houses following at his heel.

The Headmaster stepped up to the podium, beaming at them from the dais. “Welcome, Hogwarts students! I hope you all enjoyed your half-class! The time is coming soon; in the next half hour we will be sitting back in this Hall with new friends and faculty. Well, I shan’t keep you all waiting; everyone please fall in behind your respective Head of House out onto the grounds.”

All around them, the Great Hall had fallen into chaos as students of all years stood up and spoke over each other. Each of the four Head of Houses were doing their best to round up their students into an orderly formation.

“Gryffindor… Gryffindor House!” Professor McGonagall called out over the ruckus; the top of her pointed hat barely visible over the crowd of students. “Gryffindor House to me…! First Years in front, Seventh Years in the back if you would so please! First Ye-, no pushing now! Don’t think I don’t see you, Mr. O’Sullivan!”

“C’mon,” Harry muttered to his friends, standing up from the table to follow the sea of students out of the Great Hall and out to the castle grounds.

They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing between Ron and Hermione in the fourth row from the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other First Years.

“Well,” Harry began, searching about the cold, empty grounds for any sign of movement. “How do you reckon they’ll show up?”

Ron checked the old, battered watch fastened to his wrist. “The train?” He guessed aloud, though he didn’t sound entirely certain.

“I doubt it,” said Hermione confidently.

“How, then? Broomsticks?” Harry suggested, looking up at the starry sky as though half expecting to see a dozen or so people to drop right out of the sky as is. “Or maybe the Knight Bus?”

“Nah, Knight Bus doesn’t work overseas. Be a right mess to go through the water, wouldn’t it?” Ron checked his watch for what felt like the eleventh time. “Still, it’s just about nearly six. They should be here by now, shouldn’t they?”

“Maybe they’re running a bit behind?” Hermione suggested, shifting on her feet as she scanned the empty castle grounds. “It is a rather long journey, especially for Durmstrang.”

“Maybe they’re coming in through international Portkey?” Ron suggested. “Might explain why they’re running a bit behind; maybe there was some mixup at the Ministry. Or they could Apparate — maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?”

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to tell you?” said Hermione impatiently.

Ron shared a look with Harry that was both exasperated and fond, and Harry couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“You don’t reckon Dimitrescu will be with them, do you?” Hermione asked then worriedly, shifting from foot to foot nervously. “It didn’t say anything about her on the noticeboard.”

“Nah, Dumbledore would have mentioned it at breakfast,” Ron said confidently. “He probably knows down to the minute when she’ll show up. He’s got to let her through the wards right? You know how you always go off about Hogwarts’ defenses; not even she can just waltz up through the gate unannounced.”

Harry felt some of the worry in his gut go away at that simple, reassuring truth. No matter the things that had happened within the castle in the past years, the outer wards and protections had always held back the worst sorts.

Feeling better, he allowed himself to shift on his feet, trying his best to bring his robes closer to him to fight away the chill, as he joined the rest of the school in looking for the oncoming magical schools. He wished he had thought to bring a scarf or at least gloves…

“Aha!” Dumbledore cheerfully called out from where he stood with the other teachers and Filch. “Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

“Where?” said many students eagerly, all looking in different directions.

“There, look! Above the Forest!” yelled a Sixth Year Hufflepuff, pointing over the Forbidden Forest where something dark and absolutely massive was flying towards the castle grounds at breakneck speed. Harry watched on with his school, excitement and dread burning low in his gut as the shape revealed itself to be the carriage for the Beauxbatons school.

Whether Harry Potter liked it or not, this was the definitive start to the Triwizard Tournament.

“I still can’t believe it,” Ron breathed out, still staring wide-eyed across the Great Hall at the Slytherin table. “Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!”

The stout, solemn-faced international Seeker had followed the rest of his peers over to the Slytherin table and had even sat down nearby Malfoy, who looked even more pleased with himself than normal as he bent closer to say something to Krum. As the Durmstrang students began to strip away their many layers of thick furs, it was revealed that their school uniform robes were a deep, almost bloody, crimson.

Ron wasn’t the only one staring at Krum; dozens upon dozens of boys and girls of all ages were looking at the famous Seeker with wide eyes. From a few spots down the table, Harry could hear Lavender and Padma giggling over one another as they debated on what they should ask for him to sign. Hermione was scowling at their fellow agemates. “Oh honestly, ” she sighed. “I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s only a Quidditch player.”

“Only a Qui-” Ron’s voice nearly broke as he stared at her in absolute horror. “Only a Quidditch player? Hermione, you saw how he played at the World Cup! Krum is one of the best Seekers in the world! I just had no idea that he was still in school.”

“Don’t let Wood hear you talk like that,” Harry couldn’t help but tell her, eyeing his teammate from over Lavender’s head. “He’d probably throw a gauntlet down at your feet to duel for Krum’s honor, most like…”

Sure enough, Oliver Wood, the overly zealous captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, was staring so intently at Viktor Krum that Harry was sure the older boy hadn’t so much as blinked since they had come back into the Great Hall. Wood looked ready to either start swooning or half a second from standing up, grabbing the Seeker to start comparing training regimes and techniques.

Still, Harry couldn’t help but be silently grateful that, at the very least, Krum’s presence meant that people weren’t staring at him. After Second Year, Harry would honestly love nothing more than to give up the awful spotlight for the year to the famous Bulgarian Seeker and he wouldn’t have a single word of complaint.

“Harry. Harry, look,” Hermione suddenly nudged him, nodding her head towards the High Table where Dumbledore was gesturing for Maxime and Karkaroff to sit down on either side of him. Madame Maxime’s chair was so large that it dwarfed all the others, save for Hagrid’s. Only, oddly enough, their neighbors weren’t even teachers even if they were familiar faces.

Harry blinked. “What are Mr. Crouch and Bagman doing here?” He asked, confused.

Because, sure enough, Percy’s strict boss was seated beside the massive Madame Maxime, looking as prickly as ever in his severe wizarding robes, while Ludo Bagman, quite the opposite, was beaming brightly from where he sat besides Karkaroff. The Durmstrang headmaster, Harry was quick to note, didn’t seem all that pleased with the seating arrangement.

“Well, they helped organize the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t they?” said Hermione. “I suppose they wanted to be here to see it start.” Her expression soured slightly. “Of course, I’m sure that the oh so esteemed Mr. Crouch wou-”

“Oh, come off it, Hermione,” Ron interrupted her, looking irritated. “Look, Crouch seems like a right berk, but lay off it for once, wouldn't you?”

Hermione flushed a bright crimson, mouth opening as though to say something before closing shut behind thin, tightly pursed lips.

Harry did his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed their conversation as he fiddled with his hands, chewed-on nails scratching at the calluses on his palm. His gut was sinking low, and his hands fidgeted restlessly. He didn’t like it when Ron and Hermione fought, especially when it went from simple teasing to sharp retorts at the sudden drop of a hat. It reminded him too much of Uncle Vernon when the insults turned to raised fists in the blink of an eye. Not that his friends were anything like his uncle, of course, but Harry has never been comfortable with heated arguments, which was something his two best friends had in spares.

Harry turned his attention back to the faculty table, ignoring his friend’s squabbling. The two foreign headmasters had long since sat down in their seats besides either Bagman or Crouch, but Dumbledore remained standing as he patiently waited for the conversations to quieten.

A hush fell over the Great Hall as all the students, no matter if they wore black, blue or crimson robes, turned away from their neighbors to stare up at the Hogwarts headmaster. There was a noticeable air of excitement hovering in the air; a tension so strong it might as well have been a heavy weight pressing down on them all.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and - most particularly - our esteemed guests,” said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

“... D’you think any of the Durmstrang students will stay in Gryffindor Tower?” Ron asked hopefully, still staring avidly at Krum. “I wouldn’t mind it one bit.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and, barely loud enough that Harry could scarcely hear her despite sitting right next to her, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Lockhart!’

“The Tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” Dumbledore continued, still smiling widely as blue eyes twinkled merrily from behind half-moon spectacles. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

The moment the aged headmaster sat down the empty golden plates immediately filled with foods of all sorts. Ron eagerly began to pile his plate with bangers and mash, but Hermione was leaning over to inspect a saucer of some sort of thick, white soup Harry had never seen before.

“Oh, look!” Hermione exclaimed happily. “Vichyssoise!”

“Gesundheit,” Harry said on reflex, already half-distracted as he reached for a serving of shepherd’s pie.

“No, it’s a French dish,” Hermione explained while she was ladling some of the soup into her bowl. “I suppose it’s for the Beauxbatons students. A little bit of home away from home, I suppose. I bet some of those fish dishes are for Durmstrang, I’ve certainly never seen them offered before.”

Even as she said that, Hermione’s face was getting stormier by the second, no doubt angered by the extra effort the house elves must have put in for the new, exotic dishes. Harry hurriedly began to shovel mashed potatoes and minced meat into his mouth less Hermione turn that foul mood on him.

Luckily, Hermione held her tongue and simply ate her soup, though she didn’t look entirely pleased.

A half hour must have passed by the time that the golden plates had been cleaned on dinner. Harry ate sparingly, his stomach still sensitive from nerves, but Ron made up for it by helping himself to a third serving. The Weasley boy was eagerly regaling the two of them with all that he knew about Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. He told them how the French school was known best for its studies on charms while Durmstrang, rather fittingly, was known for its loose restrictions when it came to the Dark Arts.

“You know, Grindelwald went to Durmstrang,” Ron said knowingly. “Loads of Dark Witches and Wizards come out from that school; my mum is always going off about it. Someone should really get around to having them to ease off with the Dark Arts. Just ain’t proper.”

Hermione frowned slightly in thought. “Didn’t Malfoy gloat a week or so ago in Potions that his father wanted him to go to Durmstrang?”

“What doesn’t he brag about?” Harry couldn’t help but snip, spearing a green bean with his fork. “Would have been nice though. He would never have been able to buy his way to Seeker with Krum on the team.”

“Still,” Ron sighed wistfully. “It would have been nice if the git had gone to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts. A shame his mother loves him…”

Harry nearly choked on a green bean.

“And, blimey, those Beauxbatons girls,” Ron said, now looking at the girl who looked like a veela. “They sure don’t make them like that at Hogwarts… This is going to be a great year, Harry, I just know it is.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s genuine excitement, a small bit of the fear that had been lodged in the back of his throat slowly thawing. It would be a fun year, wouldn’t it? This Tournament was for the older students, after all. Harry could finally just sit back and watch the mayhem from the sidelines for once.

Ron saw his smile and returned it with a cheeky grin that stretched from ear to ear. “Gryffindor champion?”

“Gryffindor for sure.”

“Boys!” Hermione rolled her eyes at them, but even she smiled and Harry felt his heart soar with a sudden and fierce love for these two friends of his, who have stood by him through thick and thin. This year would be their year; Dark Lords or Dark Ladies be damned. Let the older years deal with the danger this time around; this time Harry could watch from the stands with his friends.

Smiling genuinely for what felt like the first time since Dumbledore had first said the name ‘Dimitrescu’, Harry happily tucked into his desert and allowed himself to be swept away by the genuine excitement and anticipation of his fellow Housemates.

Only then, suddenly, there was a loud, thunderous BANG! like the crack of thunder, followed by a harsh creaking like the world was suddenly splitting like a cracked egg.

The sound was so sudden that many students screamed in surprise, clutching at their cups or plates as the floor shook underneath them even as the glass-stained windows high above rattled violently in their frames.

“Blimey,” Ron swore, wringing his hand where his goblet of pumpkin juice had spilled on his sleeve. “That’s some bad thunder.”

Hermione was frowning up at the ceiling. “I don’t understand… there isn’t a storm tonight,” she murmured quietly, barely heard as all around them students were muttering to their neighbors.

Harry couldn’t help but look up at the enchanted ceiling then and, sure enough, the stars were out and shining with barely a cloud in sight.

“Skrewts?” Ron asked them, unable to hide his shudder. “I was only joking about them getting loose, you know…”

“Dumbledore doesn’t look worried,” Harry pointed out, looking at the Hogwarts Headmaster who had, when the thunder had struck, looked up from his plate in concern but was now talking to Madame Maxime.

Hermione relaxed in her seat. “It must be nothing then.”

A few more minutes passed by quietly, the students all relaxing back in their seats once their plates of finished dinner vanished and the platters in the middle of the House tables were replaced with dessert. Ron helped himself to a slice of bread and butter pudding and Harry plucked a single roll from the nearby platter of brandy snaps.

“Oh, Ron, Harry, look: creme au caramel!” Hermione said excitedly, showing them a plate of what must be some sort of French desert. It looked like one of those vanilla pudding cups Dudley enjoyed but turned upside down and solid, only the top had a golden brown crust. “You two must simply try it.”

Shrugging, Ron took a small portion of it with his clean spoon, Harry following soon after. Harry hesitated to take a bite; it looked rather sugary and sometimes sweet things made him feel ill. Only Ron made a sound of appreciation when he ate it so Harry took a tentative bite and was a bit surprised by how creamy and silky the desert was.

“That’s good!” Harry said, surprised. “Bit rich for me though.” He doubted he would be able to stomach an entire helping.

“I wonder what desserts they made for the Durmstrang students,” Ron mused, turning his head to stare over at the Slytherin table. “What desserts do you think Krum likes? You think he’d like treacle tart?”

The debate on whether or not the international Seeker would have liked treacle tart or not was never to come, however, as at that very moment the noise in the Great Hall began to rise again as Dumbledore stood up from his seat to walk towards the podium. The moment he rested his hands upon the bronze wings of the owl, all noise died so fast it might as well have been from a Silencio charm.

“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket.”

The what?

“Let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation” — there was a smattering of polite applause — “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.” There was much more enthusiastic applause for the retired professional Quidditch Beater.

“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament. and they will be joining myself, Profess-”

Ron was suddenly nudging an elbow into Harry’s gut. “Harry, Hermione. Look, Filch! ” He hissed to them urgently, and Harry tore his eyes away from Dumbledore, whose speech was suddenly dying off, to see whatever it was Ron was looking at.

Filch was hurrying down the center aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. The mean, cantankerous caretaker was huffing for breath as he did his very best to walk as quickly to the High Table as possible without running. By this point Dumbledore had fully stopped his speech as he watched Filch who, at least to Harry’s eyes, looked absolutely panicked come up to the faculty table. Dumbledore bent his head down low as Filch frantically whispered something in his ear and -

- and Harry, watching on, saw, for the briefest moment, what looked like true, genuine alarm cross over Dumbledore’s kindly, wrinkled face -

Harry’s gut sunk like a stone as something cold washed over his back as though someone had dumped ice water over him. “You guys…?” He began, only it was hard to talk past the sudden lump in his throat. “I think something is wro-”

Harry hadn’t even had time to finish his sentence when the towering, massive oak-and-iron entrance doors suddenly burst open with a great and thunderous BANG! and smacked against the wall so forcefully Harry was sure that they would fall off of their hinges.

There were a hundred shrieks of surprise as all heads turned towards the entrance doorway as some of the teachers stood up on their feet. Harry didn’t even notice that, too distracted by the fact that the second largest woman Harry had ever seen had just stepped into the Great Hall. She wore a white dress with black leather gloves and a massive low-brim hat that was tilted at an angle Harry couldn’t quite see her face, and her head was bent low with her arms still spread… had she physically pushed the massive doors open?

And the woman, smaller than Madame Maxime but still utterly massive, straightened up to her full height and the angle of her hat tilted back enough that Harry finally saw her face.

It was like Dudley had punched him in the gut as all the breath left him, because Harry knows that face from the chocolate frog card. He’s had those golden eyes creep into his nightmares.

There was a terrible, terrifying silence in the Great Hall that was only broken by the sound of footsteps as Lady Dimitrescu stepped forward. The sharp clack of her heels against the worn flagstones were all that was heard as every student, foreign or not, stared on in absolute silence as the Dark Lady walked forward towards the High Table. Hermione’s grip on his arm was so tight her nails were digging into him, but Harry barely even felt it.

“It’s her…” Ron whispered, voice strangled. The boy’s face had drained of color so quickly his freckles were like spots. There was bile rising in the back of Harry’s mouth, kept down only by the sheer terror squeezing his throat closed as he watched the massive woman in white, the Dark Lady Alcina Dimitrescu, stride down the main aisle without a moment’s hesitation as though she owned the place.

“Lady Dimitrescu!” Dumbledore greeted, only even he sounded caught off guard. And how was that? How could Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, be caught off guard by someone who has entered his very own Hall?

The Dark Lady’s blood-red lips curled upwards into a smile as cruel and sharp as a Glasgow, and Harry felt as though he were slowly drowning. Hermione was clutching onto his arm so tightly his arm was going numb, and Ron looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe.

“Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore,” Lady Dimitrescu greeted, her voice low and dulcet enough that it was almost a purr even as it rumbled loudly enough for all to hear. “A pleasure…”

Chapter 9: Arrival

Chapter Text

There is a buzzing about her like the relentless murmuring of a beehive suddenly startled into frantic activity. It is the sound of surprise, of awe, of fear and utter horror and Alcina cannot help but revel in it all, simply cannot help but just bask in the glow of such glorious energy.

The massive doors of oak bound by enchanted iron bindings are quick to slam shut behind her with a deep, thunderous boom! All around her are frantic whispers as Wizarding children went to lean in from across all four large tables to whisper to their neighbors. As they make noise like chirping sparrows, Alcina allows herself but a brief moment of respite to breathe in through her nose, enhanced senses taking in the scents of the Great Hall. She smelt the remnants of dinner, but it was the living that she focused upon.

Alcina couldn’t help but smile just a bit when the delicious, heady scent of fear swirled in her nose like a mellow, full-toned blood-wine left to breath. Fear, after all, was something she has long since supped on even when she was still young and mortal. There are hundreds, thousands, of whispers spoken rapidly around her, as friend turns to friend in worry or awe.

Yes, this absolutely was the perfect entrance. No doubt they were all absolutely mesmerized by her.

Alcina stands there before the front of the massive entrance way with a smile and one lone raised eyebrow. Whispers continue to erupt from a hundred mouths in several different tongues, but what binds them all together is the fear and awe that flavors their voices as they try to rise above their neighbors in order to be heard.

“I thought you’d said she would be-!”

“Oh, bugger all that-”

“It’s Lady Dimitrescu…”

“She wasn’t on the noticeboard, why’s she here now-!?”

“Dama Dimitrescu…!”

“Bloody hell, it really is her, ain’t it....”

“Dennis! Dennis, look! It’s her! It really is her!”

“Mon Reynard, Madame Dimitrescu!”

“I can’t bloody believe it-”

All around her whispers and murmurs continue to rise in pitch and intensity, some small few speaking with absolute awe and all the rest muttering in fearful horror.

Alcina cannot help but preen.

“Lady Dimitrescu!” The elderly man dressed in such dreadfully garish robes with half-moon spectacles exclaimed from where he was standing on a raised dais. Ah, so this was the famed Albus Dumbledore?

Alcina had expected someone taller.

Still, let it not be said that Alcina Dimitrescu was one without impeccable manners. And so she allows herself to smile at the elderly mortal, bright teeth bared in a mockery of greeting. Her nerves are still so restless and sensitive after nearly three days of utter boredom when dealing with the British Ministry of Magic.

“Hello, Headmaster Dumbledore,” Alcina greeted, her voice practically purring as she surveyed the area around her. “A pleasure…”

Even as she speaks, Alcina’s eyes dart about around her to categorize everything within reach and just further beyond. She has not lived near as long as she would have had she not been cautious, after all.

With an easy, languid grace that befits one of her station, Alcina allows herself to begin to walk down the main aisle between the two large tables whose colors differ greatly from one another. On Alcina’s left were a collection of young witches and wizards wearing black robes accented by yellow highlights and the table on her right sporting a combination of bronze and blue trimming. Alcina’s sharp gaze immediately noticed the powder-blue silk raiments so reminiscent of Wizarding France fashion that sat alongside the bronze and blue robes.

Ah, so the Beauxbatons students had already chosen their own seating arrangements then? Now, where was Durmstrang?... Ah, yes, of course they had made their place beside the students of Slytherin House.

“I had thought that you would be remaining in London for the next few days,” Dumbledore said then, his tone light as though he were jesting with her, but Alcina could see how his eyes were staring at her unblinkingly. “Minister Fudge seemed quite insistent about showing you the very best of British hospitality.”

Although her face is impassive, Alcina cannot help the sudden frustrated swell of irritation that built up from within her, gathering in the depths of her lungs and burning in the back of her throat like dragonfire. Oh, the Hogwarts Headmaster was quite fortunate that she is minding her sharp tongue. Ethan had teased her for months and even had an ongoing bet with Daniela going on about how long it would take for someone to gain her full ire, and Alcina simply refused to allow her husband such a petty victory.

“Oh, he did indeed offer such an opportunity, but I had thought it best that I come a few days early to this most esteemed school of witchcraft and wizardry,” Alcina lied pleasantly. “I’ve been so involved in all these political talks between foreign nations that I simply couldn’t have missed the Tournament’s commencement for anything else in the world. It’s been quite some time since I last saw the Tournament, as I’m sure you understand.”

In truth, had Alcina been forced to endure yet another hour of Cornelius Fudge’s constant saccharine flattery she might very well have just killed the man right then and there.

Oh, how Alcina truly detested sycophants and their chicanery. Even Salvatore would have tired of the British Prime Minister’s meaningless lickspittle within the first hour or so, and Alcina’s younger brother was a weak-spined milksop desperate for attention! It was an utter miracle that she hadn’t raised her hand and smashed the blustering man-thing into a mere smear of blood and tasteless fabric.

Honestly, who in their right mind would willingly wear pinstripes in their attire!? The Minister was an utter embarrassment.

“I see!” Dumbledore said cheerfully, only the corners of his eyes didn’t quite rise to match with his wide, welcoming smile. “Well, won’t you come and have a seat with us?”

“Thank you,” Alcina says in a tone that is saccharine-sweet, her voice practically rumbling in her throat in a deep purr. She smiles at the Headmaster, red lips stretched upwards sharply and decidedly ignores every urge that wants her to claw out the man’s eyes.

Alcina has long since played this sort of game of manners and propriety, and she doesn’t so much as miss a heartbeat to respond. Alcina Dimitrescu was an aristocrat, a noble who has long since learned to battle with words and smiles just as much as spells and steel. In truth, if Alcina were to have to kill every individual who wished to deny her hospitality, the world would have long been flooded in red.

Alcina turns towards the right to walk alongside the table that hosted the Hogwarts faculty and visiting Headmasters with but a smile and the slight tilt of her head. She walks slowly, purposefully, fully aware of how every second is being watched intently by every occupant in this Hall. Only, once she rounds the corner of the table, there is a moment of silence as, all about her, everyone just continues to stare. It amuses her, truly, when an utter silence brought upon by the sheer terror and horror when one gazes upon her most terrifying visage.

Alcina easily steps past the numerous seats of the unexceptional Wizarding faculty that has somehow found their home within these most ancient of walls. Many of them were openly staring at her with dread. One of them, a painfully thin, middle-age woman whose watery blue eyes were magnified significantly by her glasses, clutched at her colorful shawl so tightly Alcina half expected the sheer fabric to rip. The woman, to Alcina’s amusem*nt, quickly raked three of her ring-clad fingers across her heart before pushing outwards: an ancient hand gesture once favored by Greek enchantresses to ward off evil.

The moment Alcina nears the middle of the table one of them, a middle-aged man with dark hair and bright blue eyes sitting to the immediate left of Dumbledore’s empty seat, stood up so suddenly Alcina wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d somehow sat himself upon a nest full of Doxies.

“Please, my Lady,” the man offers his chair eagerly, his English roughened by his accent.

Well, here was someone who actually understood manners!

“Thank you,” Alcina allows herself to say, already stepping past the offered chair and, with but the blink of an eye and the gathering of magic that swirls within her heart, a great and grand throne manifests itself into being between the man’s and what must be Dumbledore’s seat.

Her chair was a beautiful thing, made of silver and mother of pearl with intricate detailing of both human and goblin runic arts. Of course it was not her true throne, the one left behind within the Grand Hall of Castelul Dimitrescu. No doubt Cassandra was lounging about upon it even now, inwardly gleeful with Bela much too far away as she personally dealt with rude, impertinent werewolves to pay attention to her younger sister.

The chair floats just barely above the ground as Alcina frowns at the space between, a space much too small. Her magic unfurls quickly, spreading out like eager flames, and there is more than a few startled yelp from the faculty as their chairs rose suddenly, their knees banging against the underside of the table, and wrenched in place.

“Wonderful!” Alcina declares as her chair settles down with more than enough arm space between Dumbledore and the other man’s.

Settling comfortably in her seat, Alcina looks upon the silver haired, bright-eyed Hogwarts Headmaster with something halfway between amusem*nt and simple curiosity. She cannot help but think, once again, about the man’s reputation. This was the man that many have claimed to be the greatest wizard of the past two ages? The one who the British were so eager to claim as the most powerful wizard of all time?

She wasn’t impressed.

The Headmaster stares at her, looking rather unsure on what to do next. Alcina can hear more than one of the faculty angrily muttering to themselves about aching knees. Ah, she’d had the chairs go too high, didn’t she? In her defense, Alcina was more familiar with the height of her personal dining table.

“Please,” Alcina permits, the very picture of utmost manners and grace, as she rests her elbows on the table and leans just a tad forward with her chin nestled in her gloved palms. Honestly, it was a show of great restraint that she managed to keep from batting her eyelashes at him in mockery. “By all means…”

“Ah, yes, well,” Dumbledore began, still sounding a bit unsure. “Where was I… oh, yes…” and with a stiff jerk of his head, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry turned his attention back unto the hundreds of students, both foreign and domestic, with a beaming, if forced, smile.

“Well, as I was saying before,” Dumbledore begins, his tone mirthful as though the past few minutes were entirely expected.

Alcina watches the Hall from her seat while the Hogwarts Headmaster prattles on about the tireless efforts of the British Ministry of Magic in reviving the long believed stagnant state of the Triwizard Tournament. And, already, Alcina barely could refrain from reminding Dumbledore about how it had been from the President of Magical France who had first brought up the idea of reviving the Triwizard Tournament, and how both France and Germany had co-speared the proposal.

“Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman have spent countless months tirelessly organizing the Triwizard Tournament.”

Ah, yes, a stalwart commendation for the British officials and without a single word about the efforts of the French officials and the various countries that oversaw Durmstrang Academy. Still, Crouch… that was one of the older British old-blood families, wasn’t it?

Alcina allowed her attention to fall away from the Hogwarts Headmaster to instead focus upon her immediate surroundings. Frowning slightly to herself, Alcina raised a golden goblet that was placed upon her table set with a raised eyebrow.

It was a golden monstrosity embossed thickly with the coat of arms of Hogwarts: a quartered shield whose parts were signified by each reigning House. The top-left was the gulesfield with the golden lion rampant of House Gryffindor that faced the vert field and the argent serpent of House Slytherin. Below the proud lion of Gryffindor was the stalwart Badger of Hufflepuff, emblazoned with black and raw umber as it met the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw that sat within a field of azure. And underneath the quartered shield was the motto of the school: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus.

Alcina couldn’t help but smile just a bit when she read the script carefully embossed upon the fine metal. Never tickle a sleeping dragon, hmm?

Oh, how Alcina wished that she could show them all what it meant to truly annoy a dragon… only Ethan would surely argue that her show of power would be a means of winning the bet with Daniela who, so sweetly, had defended her dear mother’s virtue and had bet that Alcina wouldn’t slaughter anyone within the first few months.

Circe damn it all, she truly couldn’t win at the moment, now could she?

“Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman shall be joining myself, Headmasters Maxime and Karkaroff and Countess Dimitrescu on the panel to serve as judges for the entirety of the Tournament on the champion’s efforts,” Dumbledore continued.

Alcina inspected the goblet further, her upper lip wrinkling upwards just a tad as she saw that it was, although well-polished, made fully of gold. Truly, how garish. Silver was much more practical and sensible.

“My Lady?” The man who had offered her his seat murmured to her, low enough that Dumbledore would not have heard.

“It is of no matter,” Alcina declares aloud, speaking to no one but herself. Held delicately within the gloved grasp of her hand, Alcina watches passively as the garishly decorated golden goblet flickers before her vision, seemingly melting in her hand before it rebuilds itself. A thin, but strong stem rising upwards to branch out to grasp onto thickened crimson glass; her innate magic does the rest as it settles upon the edges to create a beautiful embossment of the Dimitrescu coat of arms. The moment the transfiguration is done, Alcina watches as the glass fills to the near brim with the sweet, succulent bounty of a truly alluring red.

“Beautiful, my Lady,” the blue-eyed man speaks then, his tone absolutely awed as he watched the transfiguration occur and as the glass finished filling itself with blood-wine. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Frowning slightly towards herself, Alcina finally allowed her gaze to look away from her glass and instead onto the man seat towards her left. Her gaze flickered from the man’s long Roman nose to the carefully-kept black goatee that had begun to go gray. Alcina’s brows furrowed ever so slightly as she realized she didn’t recognize the man, although he must be, by the indication of his thick fur robes, the Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute. Which meant that the delightfully large woman seated to Dumbledore’s right must be the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

“And you are?” Alcina asks impatiently, although not unkindly.

Ignoring how the mortal looked upon her so eagerly with such bright, watery eyes, Alcina allowed the thick, heady taste of her wine to coat onto the back of her tongue. She could barely resist the urge to hum her pleasure aloud.

Oh, what a delightfully fruity taste! It was a rich, full and pleasantly rotund flavor accentuated by a near zestful mineraly tang that so often accentuated a well-done blood-wine. Oaky, with a slightly smoky taste that lingered upon her taste buds like the sinfully-sweet inhale of a cigarette.

“Please, my Lady, call me Igor,” the man, Igor, said, his chest suddenly puffing forward like a showy peafowl. “I am Igor Karkaroff, Headmaster of the most ancient and respectful Durmstrang Institute.”

“Oh, I see,” Alcina said politely, pausing to take another sip of her wine.

In truth, Alcina had long since lost track of who overlooked the magical institute that took upon the magical citizens of most of Europe. She would have to write a letter to Daniela, who surely had kept up with the magical academy more than her busy mother.

“We must talk later,” Alcina tells the Durmstrang Headmaster then, even though she only barely means it, but the man beams at her so brightly it might as well have been as though she had offered him the world. Truly, would it hurt the wizard to blink? His mouth opens as though to speak further.

Luckily, Alcina is saved from having to utterly ignore whatever it was the man-thing was ready to spew out of his audacious mouth as Dumbledore, once again, cleared his throat and spread out his arms to silence the hundreds of students seated before him. Almost immediately, the whispers that had been born from her sudden appearance die away into faint murmurs as all turn their heads upon the dais where the Hogwarts Headmaster stood alone.

The attention of the students, whether it was Hogwarts, Durmstrang, or Beauxbatons suddenly drifted back onto the Hogwarts Headmaster as a new, more excitable tension gathered in the air. Dumbledore smiled at them as best he could, but Alcina can easily see how stiff the slope of his shoulders were.

“The casket!” Dumbledore declared cheerfully, arms still spread wide. “If you would, Mr. Filch?”

At the Hogwarts Headmaster’s words, to Alcina’s utter displeasure, the rude and unkempt man Alcina had met when she had first past through the gateway unto the Hogwarts grounds and had then completely ignored his spluttering complaints and begging to stop, appeared from a side doorway holding with both hands an old wooden casket encrusted with old, dusty gemstones.

Holding back her sneer at the man’s moldy, old tailcoat- because surely a school as noble and as ancient as Hogwarts had some sense of decorum?- Alcina’s gaze flickered towards the front of the Great Hall as the grubby-haired, hunchbacked man stalked forward on eager feet, gnarled hands clutching tightly onto a rather unassuming casket. If not for the near super nova-like energy that was barely contained within the binding ruins embossed upon the simple casket, Alcina might have been fooled.

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” Headmaster Dumbledore said as the grubby caretaker placed the chest carefully on the table. “And they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways… their magical prowess, their daring, their powers of deduction and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

Alcina merely watched on now, the rim of her silver goblet raised towards her lips as she looked on curiously as an observer. Besides her, the Durmstrang Headmaster was practically leaning off the edge of his seat in eager anticipation.

“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore went on to explain, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

The British Headmaster then took out his wand with a flourish, and Alcina’s brows narrowed just a bit at the sight of it. Something tickled at the back of her memory as the Hogwarts Headmaster tapped the tip of his wand three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open and the Hogwarts Headmaster slowly reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

To the outward eye, the Goblet was but a roughly-made wooden cup, but to Alcina, who has long since learned to feel with her senses and her innermost magic, the simplistic cup was, quite literally, lit ablaze both physically and by how greatly its magic shone in her innermost eye. What a beautiful, ancient thing this Goblet was. A relic of a time now long since lost.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the Goblet,” said Dumbledore as he closed the casket shut before placing the Goblet carefully on top so that it would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the Goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.”

Alcina chanced a glance to her left and right, where the Headmaster and Headmistress of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons suddenly straightened in their seats. No doubt all of the students who had been selected to come would be putting their written name within the Goblet by the end of midnight’s stroke.

Still… to commence the Tournament officially underneath the moon on Samhain night seemed a bit… risky. An odd choice.

“To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation,” Dumbledore continued on, this time with a bit of genuine humor coloring his tone. “I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.”

There was a low, angry mutter that rose from all four great tables as neighbor turned to neighbor to complain. Alcina couldn't help but smirk behind the rim of her glass; no matter the century, children were always daring.

Dumbledore didn’t even so much as blink at the sudden exasperated outrage. “Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the Goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the Goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

With a loud, outward groan echoed by what must be dozens, if not hundreds, of students, the Hogwarts Great Hall slowly, oh so achingly slowly, began to disperse as they followed after their fellow peers and comrades. The Headmistress of Beauxbatons rose to her feet and, with a poise Alcina approved of, bade them all a good night before striding over to where her students were waiting for her.

Dumbledore gestured for a heavily scarred man missing a leg over. “Alastor, would you kindly escort Gryffindor House to their tower?”

“Sure thing,” the man, Alastor, gruffed out before he awkwardly stepped down to follow after the students with red and gold accents on their robes. Odd. An eccentricity of the Headmaster or just a strange show of favoritism?

“My Lady Dimitrescu,” the Durmstrang Headmaster was practically salivating as he turned towards her hopefully even as he stood up to go to his own students. “You must join me and mine aboard our ship. I assure you that you will receive the finest of a northern European welcome from us. It has been too long, much too long, since Durmstrang has hosted a member of the House Dimitrescu…!”

Alcina smiles politely at his offer, but she is quick to cut down his fervent suggestion. “I thank you, Headmaster Karkaroff, for the invitation, only I have been told that suitable rooming has already been provided by Hogwarts.” The man’s face fell at that, but he nodded and, with one last farewell towards only her, walked towards his own students.

Alcina noted with amusem*nt that many students from all schools kept turning their heads back towards the High Table where she sat. The Dark Lady turned her attention back unto Dumbledore, who had now turned from the dais to face the High Table. His wand, Alcina was quick to note, was nowhere to be seen, though no doubt it was being kept quite close.

“Ah, yes, the matter of your living quarters,” Dumbledore agrees jovially, bright eyes all but twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, but Alcina could easily spy the stiffness in the man’s lips no matter how much he tried to smile genuinely. “I believe that your tower is awaiting you. We have done our very best to accommodate your wishes.”

“I will have to see it to believe it, but I am sure that you and yours did an… adequate job,” Alcina tells him, inwardly delighting on how the Headmaster’s lips tighten just a bit. “Of course, I will have my own touching up to do; a good home needs a woman’s touch, after all.”

The first priority would be to lay down her own wards and defensive enchantments before ensuring that every inch of her newfound living quarters weren’t hiding little secrets or dangers. Rosemary would be coming to live with her and Ethan for the entirety of the duration of the Tournament and Alcina would be damned if she did not provide every assurance of safety and comfort when it came to her youngest.

“Furniture and furnishings are welcome to be changed at your pleasure, Lady Dimitrescu,” Dumbledore began, and the way his tone had changed made Alcina’s eyes narrow. Sure enough, the man continued to speak. “However, due to the intricacy and intimacy of the Hogwarts wards, many of which have been set in place since its very inception, I simply cannot allow you to implement your own warding for fear that it might affect Hogwarts’ own wards as a whole. My deepest apologies, but you-”

“- was personally assured by your Minister of Magic that I will be allowed to do as I wished when it came to implementing personal security and living comfort so long as it remained within the bounds of the provided rooms,” Alcina cut through the man’s feeble attempt to protect without mercy. Several of the Hogwarts faculty bristled or openly stared in surprise as though they had never seen their Headmaster ever be interrupted. Well, weren’t they in for quite a year.

Now genuinely annoyed, Alcina vanishes away her goblet for another time, instead pulling out her much beloved cigarette-holder and lights it. Perhaps it is petty of her to light it at the table while in mid-conversation, but Alcina wouldn’t deny seeing Dumbledore’s face twitch gave her some small bit of pleasure.

“See now, young man,” Alcina tells him, barely able to keep her tone from mocking as she breathed out a cloud of sweet smoke. “I assure you that I am quite adept with wardmaking and maintenance. I certainly know better than anyone else here or in this country. When I included being able to take control of my own personal security for both myself and my family as a requirement for joining this Tournament, your Minister assured me that I would be allowed to do so.”

Dumbledore blinks at her, looking rather thrown off and Alcina breathes in a lungful from her cigarette. The sweet taste of tobacco was a soothing balm against her frayed nerves, a necessary comfort lest her restraint slip. It has been but three days since she had left her ancestral grounds, and already she is restless.

Alcina misses her children and her husband. She misses Bela’s steadfast presence, Cassandra’s exuberant energy, Daniela’s sly mischief and Rosemary’s impish grins. She misses her husband, misses his voice and the warmth of his skin against her own.

Around her, the rest of the faculty had begun to stand up from their own seats to speak with one another underneath their breaths. They all stood about awkwardly, giving unsure glances towards Dumbledore.

“Ah, excuse me for a moment, Lady Dimitrescu. I must consult with my deputy headmistress about this matter,” Dumbledore said apologetically, looking rather put out. She flicked her hand in a dismissive motion, content to smoke, and the man quickly walked down the other side of the table to speak undertone with a witch whose hair was pulled tightly into a severe bun.

Alcina has barely been able to indulge herself another lungful when, rather rudely, someone else stepped forward.

“Minister Fudge,” a cold, curt voice suddenly spoke up. “Has quite the unfortunate habit of blustery. Worse still, he has the tendency to believe himself able to give permissions that he certainly has no right to give. Such as allowing a Dark Lady of such ill repute to twist and potentially sabotage the defensive wards of Britain’s academic stronghold is the height of foolishness.”

Alcina’s eyes flickered upwards to see who had spoken to her so brazenly. It was an older man with short gray hair and a thin, well-kept toothbrush mustache, who had come to stiffly stand in front of the High Table right before her. He looked at her with his teeth gritted so tightly it was a wonder his molars hadn’t cracked.

Now, Alcina was quite used to people staring at her, only when the man-thing looked at her there was true hatred in his dark eyes.

Alcina’s eyebrow raised at the man-thing’s brazen display of emotions and a small, lazy smile curls at her lips as she breathes out a soft cloud of silver smoke. Oh, finally, something more stimulating.

“And you are?” Alcina asks, not even caring about whether or not her tone was sharp or not. She’s barely been able to indulge in her smoking, she deserved a bit of bite to her tone.

“Bartemius Crouch, Head of International Magical Cooperation for the British Ministry of Magic,” the man said, rather rudely.

Alcina blinked at him, tilting her head just a bit from amusem*nt. “Well, I must say that you are doing a phenomenal job showcasing that cooperation, Mr. Crouch.”

In the corner of her eye, Alcina saw that Dumbledore had finally noticed that Crouch was speaking to her.Looking positively alarmed, the Headmaster immediately stopped whatever conversation he was having with the witch and was hurrying over.

“By all means, please tell me how you intend to stop me,” Alcina breathed another lungful of smoke. “I assure you that I’ll put it all back the way I found it at the end of the year.”

“All you Dark wizards and witches are all the same,” the man seethed, disgust written in every wrinkled line of his mouth.

“Oh, darling,” Alcina purrs, smoke pooling out of the corners of her mouth. “There is no one like me.”

Crouch flushed pink. “Such arrogance and the incapability of -”

“Bartemius! You look quite pale,” the elderly woman in emerald robes Dumbledore had been speaking with was quick to interject herself between them. “And your robes look so loose on you, have you been eating well? Merlin knows how much stress from work at the Ministry has affected your health. Poppy, dear, won’t you come here and take a look at the esteemed Mr. Crouch?” She directed the question towards another witch who must be the school matron.

“Of course, Minerva!” The matron stood up and hurriedly moved close to the scowling Mr. Crouch. “Come now, Barty, let’s see you. Alumnus or not, Hogwarts is always ready to provide. Perhaps a nice Calming Draught or even a Pepperup Potion? It has been quite chilly lately. Ludo, my dear, would you like to join us for old times’ sake? It’s been quite a while since I last saw you in my infirmary.”

With a rather impressive display of speed and skill, the elderly matron was all but shoving the protesting Mr. Crouch away from the High Table as the other British official scurried after them.

“Farewell, Mr. Crouch. I simply cannot wait for our further association during the Triwizard Tournament,” Alcina doesn't even care to try and hide the glee in her voice as she watches the man stiffly walk away.

Crouch looked back at her, hatred etched across every line in his face, and his mouth opened to say something back, but Bagman was quick to speak up and over whatever it might have been.

“Come now, Barty, don’t be like that!” The soft-bellied Bagman laughed awkwardly, looking rather nervous as he helped frog-march the older man down the aisle with the matron. “Where’s your sense of hospitality?”

Dumbledore was quick to swoop in, obviously hoping for damage control.

“Please do forgive Mr. Crouch, Lady Dimitrescu,” Dumbledore said gently. “He’s quite overworked and has had much occur to him in the last few months that have quickened his temper. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, but of course. I understand that the excitement of the commencement of the Tournament can rile up the blood,” Alcina says kindly, smiling gently even as all she wishes to do was to scrape out those twinkling bright eyes with her nails and roast them on a spit. “Still, perhaps it is best that we retire for the night. I would like to put away my belongings.” And also to scour every inch of her rooms for any sign of surveillance charms.

“Of course, of course. I must see to the Age Line before any Weasleys try anything too nefarious,” the Headmaster said, eyes twinkling. Alcina’s attention caught on to his words.

“Headmaster, I do not mean to impose, but,” Alcina began, fully intending to impose. “Would you prefer it if I did it? As I’ve said, I’m quite apt with wardmaking and, in doing so, will create a much more secure deterrent.”

In truth, she doubted a modern wizard’s capabilities, even with someone who was so esteemed by his countrymen. Alcina, to put it simply, was just better.

“Oh, no, there is no need,” Dumbledore said apologetically, but Alcina caught a hint of steel behind the twinkle in his eyes. Oh, a backbone?

“Very well, I shall leave the Goblet’s restrictions to you,” Alcina allows, deciding that surely the man Britain was so quick to claim as the second coming of Merlin could do a simplistic warding circle to keep out any daring underage teenagers from submitting their name into the ancient artifact.

Later on in the near future, Alcina will berate herself for not insisting further although she will very much prefer to instead curse Dumbledore’s so-called competence.

“Ah, yes, Minerva, would you be a dear and show Lady Dimitrescu the way to her quarters?” Dumbledore turned his attention to the witch in emerald robes who had been quick to interject herself in front of Crouch.

“Of course, Albus,” Minerva agreed stiffly, pushing up her rim-speckled glasses. “This way if you would, Countess Dimitrescu.”

Alcina stood to her full height, staring down her nose at the witch. The woman didn’t so much as tremble or waver but instead gestured for Alcina to follow her. Ah, a woman with a backbone and competence. How lovely.

“Goodnight, Headmaster Dumbledore. I look forward to being here for the remainder of this school year,” Alcina tells the man and she cannot help but delight at the way the man’s face twitches at her words.

Oh, yes, this would be quite an interesting year.

Chapter 10: The Goblet of Fire

Chapter Text

Alcina awakens early in the morning within a bed made larger and colder by the empty space beside her. Even then her hand still cannot help but brush instinctively to the side, her fingers searching for the welcome, familiar heat of her husband’s body.

Only her fingertips simply scratch upon a cold linen surface devoid of any warmth.

Almost immediately, as was her habit, Alcina instinctively casts her mind outwards, drowsily hoping to thread herself against any familiar energy that she might recognize. Only there is no Ethan, no Bela, no Cassandra, no Daniela, no Rosemary. Alcina is alone now, her magic searching for an emptiness in space that had not been present since her eldest three had first thought to wander far from home in celebration of their majority. Even with all her charms and enchantments, her careful planning and attentive forethought, her mind and soul barely manages to press against her husband’s being with such a vast distance between their bodies.

Alcina might have composed within his very bones and marrow the symphony of her being, had carefully sculpted and written her word and law but even distance has its power. Not to mention that Ethan was rather unskilled when it came to reaching back.

There is a frustrated growl building deep in her throat at that realization. One golden eye cracks open upon that awful realization, her nose breathing in the stagnant scents of washed linen, old stone and the open English air. Alcina hates it immediately.

She hates that there is no familiar biting chill that nips at her senses, no icy fog gathering about the grounds from her window to suggest the possibility of autumn or winter. There is no familiar underlying scent of petrichor and earth in the sheets and the air of her bedroom. There is no child of hers that demands immediate attention; no Bela to confer with, no Cassandra to duel with, no Daniela to raise her spirits and no Rosemary to sing to.

There is the sudden urge to throw something, anything, that might calm the inferno suddenly burning through her veins.

All Alcina truly wants is for her husband to be with her now. How she yearns for Ethan’s voice murmuring against her ear, the roughened stubble scratching against her cheek, the soft swell of his lips as she leans in to kiss him.

Only Ethan was not here. At least, not yet.

He was with Rosemary and Cassandra back in Castelul Dimitrescu, safe and sound with no worries of danger. No doubt even now her husband was doing his absolute best to temper Cassandra’s more murderous steaks even while trying to balance against Rosemary’s innate desire for mischief.

Alcina curls herself around an errant pillow, one long forearm pressing it tightly against her body. How she wishes to sleep further, but the sun has already risen well above the horizon and to dally any more would be but a waste of time.

The Dark Lady opens both her eyes then, clear gold burning and gleaming in the morning sun, as she slowly rises from slumber. What she sees around her is but an impression of a memory. The canopy above her is nearly akin to that of her own personal bedchambers, only the material is different. All her personal furnishings were woven with arachne silk, a rare material wizarding standards. This fabric is rougher in texture, lighter in color.

“Hrmmph,” Alcina mutters aloud, her broad body stretching and spreading against the vast, open mattress. Despite the long hours slept in, there is a faint tiredness in her bones and an aching pressure behind her eyes. It had taken some effort to break through Hogwarts’ wards last night, after all. It lingers even now, beneath her bones and seeping into her consciousness.

She is still tired and troubled, even after having spent what must have surely been the majority of last night pain-stakingly going over every ebb and flow of the protective wards, carefully inspecting every twist and bend of magic that had been threaded into being for any signs of malign.

Alcina might have been welcomed, however reluctantly, by Headmaster Dumbledore, within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but she knew that her presence was not well received by the majority of the castle’s occupants. Her name was far too infamous, too bloodied, too Dark, to ever be fully welcomed by the likes of Albus Dumbledore, whose fame stemmed primarily from the defeat of a Dark Lord. Caution was expected.

Alcina is ancient, she is enduring, she is proud, but Alcina is no fool. She has not lived so long without learning how to defend herself and her loved ones.

For hours on end, Alcina had carefully placed layer upon layer of her own personal magical protections upon every surface that she could, even twining her own magic with the Hogwarts wards that breached through so that they might co-exist before she would remove them at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Alcina must have spent countless hours late into the night scouring and scrounging across every inch of every room upon every floor within the tower that would serve as home for the remainder of the British school year. She still didn’t quite know if she found the fact that there wasn’t even the smallest, most deviously hidden surveillance enchantment to be charming or jaw-droppingly idiotic.

These would be the rooms that her dearest husband and youngest daughter would come to call home for the next half of the year whilst Alcina served as a judge for the Tournament, and Alcina had no intentions of denying her family anything, much less their safety. Ethan, she knew, was more than capable of taking care of himself, but even after all their years together there was much he was unaware of when it came to magic, and Rosemary was but a child.

Alcina breathed out of her nose even as she rubbed tiredly at her eyes, going through the motions of dressing for the day listlessly. Though she had done an admirable effort last night before retiring to bed, there were still greater, more intricate fail-safes and protections that still needed to be implemented. She is much too distracted with planning for what enchantment should go where, how this charm couldn’t co-exist so easily with that charm and so on.

It is mere minutes after Alcina has put the last touches of her make-up on that there is a sound almost akin to a ringing bell and a steeled fist rapping against thick wood somewhere below the floor. Someone was at the door, apparently.

Gathering herself, Alcina drifts from her personal chambers down the winding staircase that connects the rest of the tower to the other floors and their rooms. She passes by the homey if rather drab looking, leather furniture situated around a crackling hearth towards the door that led out into Hogwarts proper.

When the portrait door swung open, the same stern-faced witch in ink-bottle green robes who had escorted Alcina to her private rooms the night before stood below the step.

“Hello,” Alcina says politely. For, no matter what Ethan might tease her, Alcina was a Lady with manners.

“Good morning, Lady Dimitrescu,” the elderly witch says. Her tone is entirely curt and no-nonsense; Alcina cannot help but be somewhat charmed by it. It has been so terribly long for anyone outside of her own husband to think to speak to her own person without thinking to walk about on eggshells. “Considering the excitement of last night, the Headmaster thought it best if I were to be the one who might show you around the grounds of Hogwarts. My name is Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Head of the Transfiguration Department and Head of Gryffindor House.”

“What a verbal repertoire!” Alcina declares, barely able to hide away her amusem*nt and honest merriment. Surely, what else could there be in Britain that would do nothing more than to serve her pleasure and stoke her laughter? Alcina does not offer her an introduction. There was no need when everyone knew of her.

McGonagall stiffly nodded her head, saying nothing more. One might have thought it rude, but Alcina barely minds it as she steps down to stand beside the mortal; the witch would have been considered tall to anyone else, but the tip of her pointed hat didn’t even come close to tickling Alcina’s chin.

“Well, shall we?” Alcina’s question is more an amused purr.

“Yes, I-” McGonagall begins to speak, only to be quickly interrupted.

“Farewell my Ladies, both beloved and dreaded!” The subject within the painting that had, supposedly, volunteered to act as gatekeeper to Alcina’s personal quarters spoke up loudly then. Alcina had almost forgotten. It was a peculiarity to be sure, but it was apparently something of a time-honored tradition at Hogwarts for their portraits to serve as guardians and gatekeepers.

“Thank you, Theodane,” McGonagall said then, glancing at the portrait with something almost akin to restlessness. “That will be all. Please return to your duties.”

The portrait’s subject saluted her before standing back to resume his vigil. The stern-faced witch turned back to Alcina, her lips pinched.

“Headmaster Dumbledore hopes to show you, Headmistress Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff a more dedicated tour and welcome once things settle. With the excitement of tonight’s selection, well, today will likely be a rather short day.” Alcina noticed that the woman spoke with a subtle Scottish brogue.

“Well, shall we?” Alcina asks her, delighted with the opportunity to see the property and to see how this no-nonsense woman tick. It would be a rather fun experience no doubt, and one she would love nothing more than to intrude in.

“Lets,” Minerva McGonagall agrees, but there is an obvious discomfort in her tone that Alcina simply revels in.

And it is then that the Dark Lady Alcina Dimitrescu is given her first official, if admittedly brief, tour of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Alcina’s first thought, aside from the fact that there are simply too many moving portraits, is that Daniela would have been delighted by the moving staircases.

“There are one hundred and forty two staircases, give or take,” McGonagall informs her once Alcina voices the comment aloud to her. “Sometimes one or two disappears for a day or so, but it will show up again.

Their tour descends level by level. Alcina and her newfound tour guide rarely find themselves sharing a stairwell with anyone else; the students seemingly turning around and ducking into some odd portrait door upon first sight of Alcina. As they make their way down to the ground floor the Deputy Headmistress informs Alcina about the various ins and outs of Hogwarts, with many an informed comment regarding the many minutiae that ranged from the number of moving staircases, the contents of each level of the school ranging from classrooms to clubrooms, to the storied histories of the subjects taught at Hogwarts since its inception. It was rather obvious that Minerva McGonagall had a studious, cutting mind. A good thing to have in a teacher.

For the next few hours, Alcina follows her guide as the mortal shows her around the castle’s interior.

“Hogwarts is rather quaint,” Alcina tells the woman as they continue to walk.

“Quaint…” McGonagall echoes, and there is something in her expression Alcina can’t quite pinpoint.

She isn’t wrong; there is a certain whimsical charm to Hogwarts. It is so very unlike Alcina’s own castle, which had been built and expanded with the thought of protection and security always in mind. Hogwarts… it was an odd thing, in truth.

It was a school built within the remote moorlands of Scotland, its entire territory painstakingly obscured and fortified by many an obscure charm, ward or enchantment that has been lost to modern times. It is a grand castle built with battlements and towers aplenty. The strongest of all, from what little of the castle Alcina has managed to fully focus upon, had been the Grand Hall. A suitable place for a last stand if there ever was one.

And yet, despite its origins, there was this odd sense of lightheartedness and warmth. After all, it hadn’t taken Alcina that long to find a loophole through the outerwards that allowed her to break in with one, sure strike.

It is a playful type of magic, and it is a place that is so very unlike her own home. This castle seemed almost a castle for comfort, rather than mere protection. Perhaps at its founding Hogwarts had been a more foreboding and intimidating place, but centuries of peace from hiding away from the Mundane had gentled the cold stone fortification into something softer, something kinder.

Alcina’s own lands had not had the same luxury as this desolate school. Transylvania and its neighboring lands had been trapped within a nexus point of contention between western and eastern armies since Alcina had been born. From the Romans to warring Khans to marching Ottomans allied with royal Habsburgs, crusaders and would-be conquerors; their land was a bloodied one with a bloodier history.

For it was often in those older times for armies to follow. The Mundane men would march with steel and fire, and obscured behind them would be the Magical battlemages armed with wand and staff.

Alcina has not forgotten the fall of Nagyvárad and how the Mundane princes of Transylvania had lost their crown and autonomy to the Hungarians after their alliance with the constantly encroaching Ottomans. The Mundane territory had been taken and absorbed, but House Dimitrescu still ruled the Magical territory. House Dimitrescu might have succeeded in fending off invaders, both magical and Mundane, but they had never let their teeth dull as centuries of peace settled.

Alcina’s inward reminiscence of those long-gone days is suddenly interrupted as McGonagall suddenly stops halfway down a stairwell. Further down is a large cluster of Hogwarts students shrieking as they raised their book bags over their heads to shield them from several water balloons that were being dropped down onto their heads.

Alcina looked up to see a short, squatly little man with a bell-covered hat and a garish bright, orange tie floating at least a dozen feet in the air. The cackling creature hovered above the crowd of students like some menacing storm cloud, and in both hands was holding some sort of odd bundle. The creature burst into a terrible cackling laughter, his pale face twisted into a devious and rather mischievous grin as he watched on from above.

“Peeves!” McGonagall barked out, her shout a surprisingly loud boom considering her thinner and smaller stature. The Deputy Headmistress looked positively furious as she glared up at the troublesome ghost, a long fir wand held at the ready within her right hand. “I told you at the start of this term that throwing water balloons at any passersby was not acceptable!”

Blowing an absurdly wet raspberry, the troublesome wraith played with one particularly large water balloon in his hand as he looked down at McGonagall in something almost akin to a thoughtful silence.

“Peeves, don’t you dare-!” Minerva began.

Grinning wildly, the poltergeist hefted the water balloon in preparation to throw it at the Deputy Headmistress, only those beady eyes flickered over to look at Alcina. The Dark Lady raised an eyebrow as she stared up at the floating specter, whose grin immediately went away. With a loud pop! almost akin to the burst soap bubble, the poltergeist disappeared.

Alcina couldn’t help but smile at that, a bit of teeth shown. The students mutter to themselves darkly, many of them spelling away the water clinging to their robes, only to quickly move aside once they notice Alcina and her tour guide descending the stairs. And yet several older looking students with green and silver ties, as well as the odd blue and bronze coloring, openly stared.

McGonagall looked rather annoyed as she marched down the stairs.

“Forgive the disturbance, Lady Dimitrescu. Unfortunately no Headmaster or Headmistress has ever quite managed to fully control Peeves,” McGonagall told her, and there was a genuineness to her words that hadn’t been there previously. “Even Albus has trouble with him. The only one Peeves ever seems to truly listen to is the Bloody Baron, the patron ghost of House Slytherin.”

“I see,” Alcina drawled. It was a result of centuries of manners that allowed Alcina to prevent the sneer that wanted nothing more than to curl her lips in mockery.

So, the great Albus Dumbledore was incapable of commanding the respect of a resident within his own castle. How shameful.

Still, Alcina held her tongue as she followed after the Deputy Headmistress. They continued to descend until they had reached the ground floor, and once they had entered into what Alcina assumed to be the Entrance Hall, considering its position to the Great Hall, it was there that Alcina saw the Goblet of Fire once more. There was a Hogwarts student placing her name inside the Goblet once they arrived by the doorway.

The ancient magical artifact had been placed upon a rather unassuming wooden stool. Encircled around the Goblet was a thin golden line that glowed brightly from its enchantments. Alcina was half-tempted to take a look at the line and see what enchantments Albus Dumbledore had thought to imbue within, but McGonagall was walking purposefully down the hall towards the massive doorways that opened up to the Hogwarts grounds. Already, Alcina can smell the Scottish countryside and the cooling air of the encroaching autumn.

“Tell me, Minerva, what do your students prefer to do on a beautiful day such as this?” Alcina asks politely.

McGonagall blinks at the question, but answers dutifully. “Since today is a Saturday, I’ve no doubt that the majority of the Upper Years are spending their free time indoors within the Library study or elsewhere upon the school grounds." Our newer teacher of Care of Magical Creatures is rather…” Her lips twitched slightly. “A well-rounded fellow when it comes to magical creatures, and he encourages his students to come visit the various creatures they might be caring for.”

“And the younger students?”

Alcina had only asked to continue the polite small talk, but something in McGonagall seemingly stiffs, though it is rather subtle. Alcina can see how the witch gathers her nerve and steel her back. “No doubt the majority of the Younger Years are eating breakfast or sleeping in today.” The witch tells her, her lips pressed tightly together.

They step out onto the expansive, green grounds of Hogwarts. By now the shining sun had begun to slowly lower towards the horizon before the dark surface of the large lake to their left was as smooth as glass. Anchored near the shoreline was the ship the Durmstrang Headmaster had offered her quarters upon. It was decidedly massive, its hull oddly skeletal and patched as though it had been risen from its sinking and made to sail again. Its blood-red sails were raised at the moment and even in the light of day Alcina saw that the ship’s various portholes glowered brightly from what appeared to be a misty werelight.

“Beauxbatons has fastened their living quarters besides the home of the professor of our Care of Magical Creatures,” McGonagall spoke up then, nodding pointedly down the rolling grounds towards the edge of the forest where a powder-blue carriage the size of a small house was stationed a few hundred yards away from what was most decidedly a hut. “Durmstrang has chosen to remain on their ship on the Black Lake.”

“So it would seem,” Alcina agrees. Did the woman think her blind or merely stupid?

There was no time, Minerva informed her, for them to tour the grounds. With the quickly approaching selection there simply wasn’t time to tour the Quidditch pitch, Herbology greenhouses, the Boathouse or even the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

A pity, to be sure, but when McGonagall suggested that they head inside to the Great Hall to wait for the rest to gather, Alcina had no reason to say no.

The Hogwarts Great Hall was filled with levitating pumpkins whose skins were flayed open into many a grinning and beaming jack o'lantern. Above the floating pumpkins were swarms of bats that fluttered to and from the ends of the Great Hall.

Alcina’s nose wrinkled at the sight. Hopefully these bats were mere conjurations. If not… urgh, the hygiene and cleanliness of this school would have to be inspected closely. Apparently this school had their mail arrive at the same time as breakfast or dinner. Just the thought of having hundreds of owls flying inside with all the food uncovered made the Dark Lady suddenly wonder if she should have simply eaten within her personal chambers.

There are a few members of the Hogwarts faculty already gathered by the High Table. A younger, dark-haired witch was speaking with a much shorter wizard who surely had some sort of goblin heritage somewhere in his family tree. The two stop their conversation as soon as their fellow teacher and Alcina walk down the main aisle.

“Charity, Filius,” Minerva greets them.

“Hullo,” the witch greeted, dark eyes flickering to Alcina before they go to settle on McGonagall.

“Ready for the choosing, Minnie?” Filius asked with forced cheer. “I was just telling Charity about our ongoing bet with Severus and Pomona.”

“Oh?” Alcina asks curiously, though it was truly only for the sake of small talk. She’d only said a word, but Filius’ pale face seemed to turn white as though she’d just announced she was going to curse him.

“The Heads of House made a small wager,” Minerva rushes to explain. Honestly, what was with everyone stepping around eggshells? Granted, Alcina very much deserved their deference and respect, but their jittery nature was beginning to grow tiresome. “Whoever's House the Hogwarts Champion is selected from will receive an extra-aged single barrel bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky.”

“How delightful,” Alcina said, if only because there was nothing else to say. “It will be an interesting selection, to be sure. Many would consider it ill luck to have such a momentous occasion occur upon the eve of Samhain’s night,” Alcina cannot help but mention, for it has been something that has been lingering in the back of her mind since she had first discovered the date. Almost immediately the mood darkens further, an uncertain and uncomfortable tension gathering in the shoulders of the faculty. Alcina raises an eyebrow at that, not quite certain on what it was she had said that had made them so tense. She’d merely spoken fact.

“... Most of us no longer call it Samhain at all,” the Deputy Headmistress said then, and there was a stiff purse on the woman’s lips and a tightness around her eyes. Her disapproval could not have been made more obvious. “Considering its history and… well, its more ghastlier traditions and grim practices…”

Oh, for the love of Circe. What you mean is that anything you believe distasteful means Dark and, thus, evil, Alcina thought to herself wryly, barely able to withstand to strong urge to roll her eyes at their idiotic sense of self-rightousness.

It was obvious the views on older magics and ancient traditions had drastically shifted since Alcina had last come to the British Isles some odd centuries ago. Dark Magic especially seemed to have become vilified, and was even illegal in almost all circ*mstances according to modern British laws.

Death has become such a sensitive subject in the last few centuries. Honestly now, Alcina rarely dabbled in Death magics and yet, judging by how these Hogwarts professors tried their best to subtly hide their obvious dread and trepidation when looking at her, one might have thought that she was Donna!

“Most call it Halloween now, my Lady,” the short, stout wizard, Filius, spoke up then, no doubt to rescue his colleague from the dark glower of Alcina’s unblinking gaze. “It is a newer holiday, but more welcoming.”

“It is a terrible thing to think to look past the Veil for those who have passed on,” the younger witch spoke firmly, though she wasn’t brave enough to look Alcina in the eye at that. “Death magic has no place in Hogwarts.”

“... You have ghosts, do you not?” Alcina tilted her head at them, tone cutting. “And even call some of them House ghosts as though they are endearing team mascots.”

The younger witch and wizard blinked stupidly at her for a few moments, obviously taken aback. Alcina turns her gaze away from them, already bored by them now that they had proven themselves hypocritical. They had several dozen ghosts in residence, at least four of which were given titles of House ghost which seemed to signify some sort of acknowledged respect and authority, and even a rather troublesome poltergeist.

The thought of Samhain’s practices, of celebrating death and the spirits of ancestors and venerating the passage from this world to the next being hidden away like it was some shameful secret when they had several undead lurking about was the height of idiocy and short-sightedness.

“I suppose I shall take my seat whilst we wait for the rest to gather,” Alcina spoke shortly to McGonagall. Without even waiting for a response she turned on her heel and went towards her own personal seat. If she stayed for a second longer there would be too much temptation to curse someone.

Alcina has given her warnings, has even thought to voice her concerns; let these modern witches and wizards learn that her words carried more than simple merit.

She has barely seated herself down and poured herself a well-deserved glass of wine when Dumbledore, Maxime and Karkaroff arrive.

“Ah, Lady Dimitrescu!” Dumbledore greets cheerfully. “I do hope you enjoyed the quick tour of Hogwarts. Tomorrow will be a more thorough introduction, to be sure.”

Like an eager puppy looking for attention, Karkaroff had already come to sit beside her. Alcina couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed; she’d hoped to exchange pleasantries with Madame Maxime, but the Headmistress seemed to have been looped into a conversation with Dumbledore. Instead she was now forced to listen to the Durmstrang Headmaster as he informed her about Daniela, even though the last time her daughter had visited the school Igor Karkaroff hadn’t even been born. It didn’t stop him, however, from spewing forth a slew of word sludge.

“One of our flagstones in the Great Hall still bears her mark,” Karkaroff informed her proudly. “One of my predecessors decided that the scorch marks should be preserved as a… a bit of an informal badge of honor, if you will. There is nothing wrong with reminding the current generation of their school’s storied history and their venerated alumni, after all!”

It sounds as though your caretakers don’t know sufficient cleaning charms, Alcina thought to herself, sipping from her glass. And I doubt Daniela would be considered a true graduate when she only comes and goes throughout the centuries for a year or two.

“So much has happened since we’ve had the honor of hosting a member of House Dimitrescu! Why-”

To Alcina’s horror the Durmstrang Headmaster seemed determined to inform Alcina about every little new thing the school has been up to since Daniela had last visited.

By the time he had finished the entirety of the Great Hall had been filled and the feast had begun. The moment the food appeared Alcina turned her head away from Igor so that she might eat in peace, a physical tell to the man that she was not interested in conversation. It worked half-way, as Karkaroff seemed eager to speak enough for the both of them. Now he seemed eager to boast about himself and how Durmstrang had flourished under his care.

Circe, save me before I pull out the man’s tongue.

The food was rich and extravagant, no doubt in part to show off in front of the foreign Wizarding schools. To Alcina’s pleasure there were even a select few traditional Transylvanian and Romanian dishes nestled amongst the array. Alcina spotted Tochitură, beef tripe soup, ciorba de Perisoare, various sweetbreads and even sângerete. She helped herself to the latter and plucked a roll from a basket.

“Young Natalia managed to produce an incorporeal patronus at fifteen and after some remedial studying with one of our professors, successfully managed to conjure a corporeal patronus just after seventeen. I believe hers took the shape of a jackdaw; a notably clever bird.”

Alcina swirled her wine as she listened on lazily.

Although the food was palatable and the decorations superb, the students were evidently restless. From the way they continued to constantly turn their heads towards the High Table, their youthful faces eager and impatient, it was obvious that they would much rather prefer for the feast to end sooner rather than later. Practically everyone, but the older students and foreign students especially, looked well ready for the food to disappear and for the adults to have finished their meals.

“Now, of course, Durmstrang’s finest were brought to compete in the Tournament,” Igor continued, still oblivious to her displeasure. “A Headmaster shouldn’t pick favorites, of course, but I have a feeling that young Viktor will be the one chosen by the Goblet. Have you heard of Viktor Krum, my Lady? A brilliant boy, already competing in professional Quidditch despite still being in school and my personal prote-”

Alcina tuned him out, more content to observe the enchanted ceiling.

Dinner finished and was soon followed by dessert, which Alcina barely paid mind to. Igor continued to speak, but she had long since lost track of the conversation.

At long last, just as Alcina was debating on cursing Karkaroff, Dumbledore stood from his chair after the last morsels of his meal were banished away. “Sit down everyone, if you would so kindly!” The Headmaster called out. Almost immediately all conversations within the Great Hall died out as the students saw that, at long last, the feast was over.

“And now, at long last, the moment that you have been waiting for. The Goblet is almost ready to make its final decision,” Dumbledore continued on. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the Champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” — he indicated the door behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving their first instructions from our judges and officials.”

Dumbledore took out his wand then, only because of how he was standing angled from where Alcina was seated she couldn’t even see it. She barely saw it for a moment when he made a great sweeping wave with it before the Great Hall. Within a second all the candles, save those dwelling inside the grinning jack-o-lanterns, extinguished themselves and left the Great Hall in an odd state of semi-darkness. With only the stars and moon half-hidden behind cloud cover in the enchanted ceiling and the flickering light from the pumpkins, the Goblet of Fire shone brightly. Its magical flame was a silvery blue-whiteness that was almost painful on the eyes to look at directly, and the way the flame dipped and waved reminded Alcina more of liquid quicksilver than flame. The Goblet’s bright light against the semi-darkness changed the atmosphere almost immediately into something more powerful, a building tension of anticipation and the slightest hint of nervous fear.

The entire Hall was deathly quiet as though everyone were holding their breath. All eyes were on the Goblet, still flickering merrily.

Alcina felt it first before she saw it. There was a sudden surge, like a dam bursting, of ancient power as the flames inside the Goblet suddenly turned a bright red. It is so sudden and powerful that Alcina blinks in surprise; it has been quite some time since she has felt something so ancient that did not belong to her House or any of her siblings. She wants nothing more than to inspect the Goblet closer, to twin her magic through its enchantments to unravel whatever it was that made it truly tick.

Sparks began to fly from the Goblet then. The next moment a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped. Alcina did her best to not roll her eyes at; it wasn’t that impressive. They should see some of the marvels her daughters have crafted over the centuries. Their creations were truly deserving of the term ‘breath catching’.

With a rather surprising display of acceptable hand-eye coordination, despite the wizard’s supposed grand age, Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment easily. Smiling at all the faces that were watching him closely, the Hogwarts Headmaster held the small slip of parchment at arm’s length so that he could clearly read it even with the dim light of the flames. Already, the Goblet’s flames had turned back to its incandescent blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang…” Dumbledore read aloud slowly, no doubt to build the tension that was so close to reaching its peak it was likely to snap if even a second was wasted for dramatics. “Will be Viktor Krum.”

A verifiable storm of applause and cheering erupted across the hall as people roared to life. Even then, it was the table that belonged to House Slytherin that managed to outdo even the other three Houses and Beauxbatons. The House of Serpents and the children of Durmstrang all rose to their feet to stamp and scream as Viktor Krum, a tall yet thin and sallow-skinned teenager with a head of dark hair and a strong, curved nose, rose from where he sat. Around him his neighbors were yelling and slapping the Durmstrang student on the back, and even a select few had pulled out their wands to shoot small bursts of colorful sparks into the air.

Only, somehow, the loudest applauder of all was no fellow classmate of Krum’s, nor even the most ardent Serpent. That specific distinction was reserved for the Headmaster of Durmstrang, Igor Karkaroff, who, rather unfortunately for Alcina’s ears, was seated to her left.

“Bravo, Viktor! Bravo!” Karkaroff boomed loudly, clapping enthusiastically as he rose from his seat to stand as his pupil stalked by the High Table. “I knew you had it in you!”

She should have seated herself besides the Headmistress of Beauxbatons. Alcina observed the man from the corner of her eye, not even attempting to hide herself as she judged him openly. Karkaroff seemed too caught up in the theatrics to notice her staring.

Alcina watched, while clapping politely if a bit more forcefully -it actually was Durmstrang whom Alcina hoped would see excel in this Tournament, though she refused to play favorites when it came to scoring- as Krum slowly skulked down the Hall towards the back where a door would take him to a secluded room where he and his soon-to-be selected rival Champions would be briefed by the committee about the upcoming First Task.

It took nearly a minute for the applause to calm, Karkaroff being one of the last - “I knew it would be him! One of Durmstrang’s finest, I always said!” - and once the cheering finally died down all eyes returned back to the Goblet of Fire, which turned red once more. Alcina had to hide her smile behind the rim of her chalice at that; it seemed as though the ancient magical artifact had a sense of dramatic timing. Alcina approved.

Within seconds of turning red, the Goblet sent up a flurry of sparks and a second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled high into the air by the flames before it slowly fluttered down into Dumbledore’s awaiting hand. From the corner of her eye, Alcina saw that Headmistress Maxime was leaning forward into her chair in eager anticipation, dark eyes gleaming with excitement.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore declared aloud with abundant cheer, “is Fleur Delacour!”

There was applause from all four Halls, although it was nowhere near as energetic or as deafening as when Krum’s name had been pulled. The perks of being an international Quidditch player, Alcina assumed. Still, there was an acceptable amount of cheering, the loudest coming from the Table with wizards and witches clad in blue robes and bronze gilding and even with the soft-blue robes of Beauxbatons.

A tall, thin wisp of a girl barely entering womanhood stood up from amongst her French peers from where they all sat amongst their peers of House Ravenclaw. The young girl’s hair was a bright and silvery blonde that suggested little else but some sort of a magical inheritance. Considering the coloring of her hair and the soft luminescence of her pale, fair skin… A veela, perhaps? Or, rather, a half or perhaps quarter veela if she were attending Beauxbatons. Full veela were notoriously guarded and preferred to teach their young themselves away from human interference, after all.

Glancing around as the possible veela-hybrid left the Hall, Alcina couldn’t help but think to herself that, although a heartfelt reaction, just how many of the girl’s fellow Beauxbatons students were upset that they themselves had not been chosen. Two witches in the powder-blue robe were openly sobbing into one another's arms. It was rather classless in Alcina’s opinion; it would have been best for them to hold their emotions and present a united front before Hogwarts and Durmstrang, but, alas, teenagers.

Alcina clapped politely as the girl walked down the Hall and towards the door that young Krum had left through. The moment the Beauxbatons Champion disappeared from sight a newer, more intense anticipation began to build as all the students of Hogwarts turned towards their neighbors to mutter their guesses and hopes while keeping their eyes on the Goblet.

There was an intensity in the air now, the heavy weight of several hundred pairs of eyes, eager faces grinning in the eerie torchlight.

And then the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

With a dramatic movement of his wrists that was almost a flourish, Dumbledore read the small slip of parchment with the Hogwarts Champion’s name written upon it. The silence was so intense, so visceral, that one might have dropped a pin and still have been able to clearly hear it hit the ground. Alcina leaned forward in her chair.

“The Hogwarts Champion,” Dumbledore said aloud, voice booming throughout the Great Hall. “Is Cedric Diggory!”

The sudden uproar that erupted from the table that housed the young wizards and witches garbed in black and yellow might as well have served as a thunderstorm by how loudly they cheered. As one Hufflepuff House rose to their feet screaming and cheering and whistling; some even hugging their neighbors as they jumped up and down in joy. Their cries of joy were so loud that it almost took Alcina aback; one might have thought they had won the Quidditch World Cup from how loudly they cheered and screamed.

The rest of the Hogwarts Houses were more subdued in comparison, no doubt wishing one of their own had been chose, but many cheered on as a tall, lanky boy with tousled brown hair stood up from the Hufflepuff table, grinning from ear to ear, before he too walked down the Hall towards the chamber behind the High Table where his newly chosen rivals awaited.

Alcina clapped politely just as she had done for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Only the applause never seemed likely to die down as the Hufflepuff House continued to scream and cheer that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily when, at long last, the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three Champions.”

Alcina is the first to feel it. Perhaps she is the only one, judging by the lack of reaction from everyone else, even Dumbledore.

There was a twang of something, like the rupturing of a blood clot, the violent snapping of a violin string. Something wrong, like a piece of a puzzle pressed into a wrong spot and made to fit by forcefully pushing down on it. It is wrong wrong wrong.

Alcina could not help but frown, placing her chalice of wine down on the table as she leaned forward in her seat, golden eyes staring intently at the Goblet. It looked like it had before the selection, its blue flames fluttering like liquid, but its magical core…

“I am sure I can count upon all of you,” Dumbledore continued his speech. “Including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your Champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your Champion on, you will contribute in a very real —” And Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the Goblet had just turned red again and errant sparks were sputtering out of it as though someone had thrown floo powder on it.

And that wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. The Triwizard Tournament had commenced, its three Champions chosen. It made no sense at all for another, for a fourth, Champion to be chosen.

Only tonight was Samhain night, and by this time the moon must have surely begun to reach its peak. A dread, fell omen, surely. Alcina could only watch as the Goblet’s flames flared even brighter before spitting out a single slip of parchment.

Almost automatically, the Hogwarts Headmaster reached out with his hand to grab onto the tiny slip of parchment. Alcina turned a bit in her seat to try and see the name written on the parchment, but at this angle Dumbledore’s body hid it from view enough that she couldn’t parse it even with her enhanced eyesight. Whatever was written on the slip, or rather whoever, it must have been something dreadful by how Alcina noticed the man’s throat bop when he swallowed thickly, his long fingers tightening around the almost innocuous slip of paper enough to crinkle it.

While everyone in the room, whether they be student or teacher or even Alcina herself, stared at Dumbledore, an awful tension began to build and settle upon the Great Hall like a physical weight. Curiosity, excitement, but overall a terrible nervousness swept across the Hall as some students even stood up from their seats to stare at the Hogwarts Headmaster.

There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore simply stared down at the slip in his hands, obviously thrown off-kilter by whatever was written on it. And then the elderly Hogwarts Headmaster cleared his throat and read out the name —

“Harry Potter.”

Chapter 11: The Fourth Champion

Chapter Text

“Harry Potter.”

Harry cannot help but sit there with his head buzzing and his thoughts slow as though Dudley had clipped him upside the head. Harry hears the two words, he truly does, he understands the pronunciation of syllables, knows that those syllables formed his name, and yet he cannot accept it as a whole.

“Harry Potter?” Dumbledore calls out once again amongst the uneasy silence, and the elderly Headmaster’s voice almost rings in the Great Hall.

There was no applause. None at all. It felt as though everyone had decided to hold onto their breaths and did not dare even to move an inch.

And Harry could do nothing but sit there at the Gryffindor table, fully aware of the overwhelmingly multitude of eyes aimed towards him and yet… Harry could only sit there on the wooden bench. He was stunned. He felt numb. He was surely dreaming. It just didn’t make any sense at all. Surely it was all but a dream. Harry must not have heard Dumbledore correctly. Surely Dumbledore was mistaken. It was the Triwizard Tournament, after all. Krum, Delacour, Diggory. Three schools, three Champions. So why....?

“Harry Potter!” Only Dumbledore’s call is more a shout than a question, and finally Harry is terribly, awfully aware of how almost every single head in the Great Hall had turned towards him. Whether it be Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, or Slytherin, the heavy weight of their eyes was simply awful. Some students were even standing up on their feet to get a better look at Harry where he sat frozen in his seat.

Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall had got to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman, Headmaster Karkaroff and Lady Dimitrescu to whisper urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning slightly.

Harry turned to Ron and Hermione; beyond them, he saw the long Gryffindor table all watching him, openmouthed.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said to them blankly. “You know I didn’t.”

Both of his best friends could only stare just as blankly back.

“Harry!” Dumbledore called again just as Professor McGonagall stepped back a foot or two behind the elderly Headmaster, her wrinkled mouth set in a pale, tense line. “Up here, if you please!” Dumbledore called out kindly.

Harry half-turns, still a bit dazed, when Hermione’s short fingernails suddenly dig deeply into the meat of his forearm as she lunged across the Gryffindor table, as though she had half a mind to keep him latched to the table through some grand physical feat. There is an awful, terrible fear in her eyes.

Harry can’t help but gently push at Hermione’s thin wrist, decidedly ignoring how both their hands were shaking even as he slowly got up to his feet. When he turned to walk towards the Headmaster they caught in the loose hem of his robes and he might have fallen flat on his face in front of everybody and their mother in the Great Hall had he not reeled back in time. Heart thundering in his chest, Harry glanced around and saw hundreds of eyes on him.

In a moment of weakness, Harry couldn’t help but look back at his friends for comfort, for the slightest reassurance. Hermione was staring with that same fear in her eyes, her face dreadfully pale. Ron was just staring at him with his mouth slightly open. There was an awful stillness to his face that Harry couldn’t read, a coolness in his eyes.

The distance between Harry and the High Table felt like the length of the Quidditch pitch as he slowly walked towards Dumbledore in a stunned daze. The eyes on him felt like ants crawling against his skin and his head was practically thrumming from the beating of his heart. Harry dared look over to the Headmaster’s left at Lady Dimitrescu, who was staring at him intently, golden eyes gleaming in the firelight. The weight of her gaze made his skin crawl.

“Well… through the door, Harry,” Dumbledore told him, his voice oddly soft and gentle for all that his characteristic smile had long since been wiped away. Behind him, McGonagall was fully staring at him with sharp, flinty eyes. Harry couldn’t quite read anything past her stony expression.

His body felt oddly floaty as he silently followed Dumbledore’s soft order and headed to the door behind the teacher’s table where the others had gone. Hagrid was seated right at the end. He did not wink at Harry, or wave, or give any of his usual signs of greeting. He looked completely astonished and stared at Harry as he passed like everyone else. Without a word, because it felt like something was squeezing his throat, Harry went through the door out of the Great Hall.

The room he went in was one Harry had never been in before. It was a smaller room than most in the castle with almost every inch of wall space taken up by paintings of various witches and wizards.

Fleur Delacour, Viktor Krum and Cedric Diggory were huddled around talking amongst themselves in front of a roaring fireplace. Against the firelight, their forms were more like shadows and Harry couldn’t stop the tingle of dread that crawled up his spine. His mouth felt dry. They looked so much bigger than him, older. More wiser, by far, and much more experienced.

Cedric was two years ahead of him and a Prefect to boot. He’s already taken the O.W.L.s while Harry’s year had only just begun to prepare for them. That wasn’t even mentioning the foreign students, Merlin knows what they were taught at their schools -especially Krum at Durmstrang- while Harry couldn’t even get a spell as simple as the Switching Spell right on his first try.

He must have made some sort of noise because Fleur turned from the conversation to look at him. A pale, well-arched brow raised upon her beautiful, fair face. “What is it?” She asked, her voice light and airy like tinkling bells. “Do zey want us back in ze Great Hall?”

They thought he was just here to give a message. They didn’t know. They had no reason not to know.

Harry opened his mouth, not even knowing just what it was he could even say, but it didn’t matter because words couldn’t come out anyway. In all honesty, Harry might have just stood there staring at them like an idiot forever if not for the hurried arrival of Ludo Bagman entering the room with an expression of joy that was, Harry distantly felt, deeply unwarranted.

Mr. Bagman grabbed ahold of Harry’s arm and tugged him closer toward the chosen Champions, never mind the fact that Harry was immediately trying to tug himself out of the man’s surprisingly tight grip.

“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Harry’s arm. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen... lady,” he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three students. “May I introduce — incredible though it may seem — the fourth Triwizard Champion?”

There is a very awkward minute where the others look at one another from the corners of their eyes, obviously disbelieving and waiting for Bagman to get to the punchline. At least, until Mr. Bagman continued to press on to the fact that Harry Potter was selected, and that he simply had to participate. Fleur, Krum and Cedric’s expressions turned even darker as Ludo continued to inform them about Harry’s new status as the fourth Champion: confusion, disbelief and then, for Fleur and Krum, quick outrage. Only Cedric refrained, and even then it seemed like the Hufflepuff Prefect looked genuinely bewildered, as though he was still half-waiting for the punchline to fall.

Harry listens to it all, hears Ludo’s exaggerated, near dramaticized renditions of how the Goblet had spat out Harry’s name, watches from a distant fog as Delacour, Cedric and Krum seemingly react to the absolute absurdity that was Harry’s very own life.

“No, no, my dear,” Ludo Bagman says when Fleur scoffs. He might be the only one within the next hundred square miles who had some sort of excitement. “Harry Potter’s name was pulled straight out of the Goblet of Fire, ask anyone!”

Harry is, thankfully, saved from the attentions of the older students as the doors connected towards the Great Hall violently open as a large group of people came into the room in a swish of fabric: Professor Dumbledore in the lead followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall and -to Harry’s dismay - even Professor Snape.

There is a low pounding in his head, throbbing at his temple, as Harry just stands there as the arguments begin to form and voices rise high. He barely notices what is being said around him through the roaring in his ears.

“Madame Maxime!” Fleur was quick to turn her outrage towards her massive Headmistress, who looked equally outraged so much so that the Frenchwoman didn’t seem to notice that she nearly knocked her head into the chandelier. “Zes men are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!”

Somewhere underneath Harry’s numb disbelief was the slightest ripple of indignant anger stirring in his chest. Little boy? He was fourteen, not twelve.

“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” Headmaster Karkaroff said, his genteel smile still in place for all that there was a frostiness to his words and in his eyes. “Otherwise we would have, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.”

“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff,” Snape murmured softly, dark eyes gleaming with malice while his tone is insistent and slimy enough that it makes Harry bristle on reflex. “Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here -”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore interrupts softly, but firmly, and Snape goes quiet even though Harry can feel the Potion Master’s eyes burning into him. Only Harry, for all that he wants nothing more than to curse Snape into vomiting up slugs, had eyes for Dumbledore, who had likewise turned to focus his attention onto him. Dumbledore looked quiet and grave, so far away from the normally jovial, if oddly eccentric wizard that Harry had come to know in the past three years. From how the aged Headmaster looked at him, Harry might as well have been looking into the eyes of a complete stranger.

“Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” Dumbledore asked calmly.

“No,” Harry said immediately.

He had told nothing but the absolute truth, but even he could already see that the majority of the people in the room didn’t believe him for even a second if he were to go by judging by the genuine disdain in Madame Maxime’s derisive scoff and Headmaster Karkaroff’s twisted scowl. Even Snape couldn’t help but make a noise of impatient disbelief, the absolute dodgy tosser. It was only Dumbledore who didn’t react, only Dumbledore who appeared calm, though he did give a thoughtful little hum.

“Did you ask an older student to put it in the Goblet of Fire for you?” Dumbledore asked patiently.

“No, ” Harry said.

“Ah, but of course ‘e is lying,” Madame Maxime declared immediately, great opals clinking against her neck.

“Quite right, Madame Maxime, quite right!” Karkaroff was quick to jump in. “See here, Dumbledore, when we agr-”

“Enough.”

The single word is spoken from a deep, yet distinctly feminine voice, like rich velvet thunder. Harry has never heard it so close before, barely even recognizes it, but the way that all the adults quickly stop their arguments and swivel towards the source… With his heart in his throat, Harry couldn't help but turn as well.

Lady Dimitrescu is so tall that she has to bend her back -but not her head- in order to fit her giant form underneath the door frame, one gloved hand grasping onto the door jamb as she shoves her massive body through. The way she does it sends the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck standing up, the odd fog that’s been inside his skull suddenly vanishing at the sight. There is something in how fluid she moves, despite her size, that distinctly reminds Harry of the big cats prowling about at the London Zoo. It is with a languid, careless grace that she moves about so easily in a way that belies the immense weight she must have. She’s absolutely massive, after all. Not nearly as tall as Hagrid or Madame Maxime, but still easily nearly thrice Harry’s height. Her skin is so very pale, made even paler by the raven-black locks of hair that curl artfully about her sharp jawline, and her eyes were as bright and golden as a freshly minted Galleon coin.

“You bicker amongst yourselves like quarreling children,” Lady Dimitrescu continues on, her tone almost chiding even as her head then tilts to the side in a way that makes it very apparent that she was, quite literally to all but Madame Maxime, talking down to them all. “Surely we can behave like civilized people, yes?”

Though it is worded like a question, the hard look in Lady Dimitrescu’s eyes showed it for what it truly was: an order. Even in the few moments it takes for Dimitrescu to duck underneath the doorway, Headmaster Karkaroff’s harsh arguments have already died down the very moment the Dark Lady had spoken.

Those golden eyes flicker then to Dumbledore.

“I do believe an explanation is in order, Headmaster. I have heard enough stories of your supposed mastery over magical studies, certainly enough that I had thought you understood one of the most basic rules of runes and warding,” Dimitrescu says cooly. “Even the most carefully designed warding line can be circumvented when expertise and a sharp enough mind can act quickly. Only it appears that you’ve been outsmarted by a teenager or, worse still, a person entirely unknown to you.”

“You might be quite right, Lady Dimitrescu,” Dumbledore says politely. Beside him, Professor McGonagall practically snorts aloud from sheer indignation.

“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!” said Professor McGonagall angrily. “Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the Age Line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for everybody else!” The Head of House for Gryffindor shot a dirty, angry look at Professor Snape.

“Perhaps,” Snape acquiesces with an oily voice, but his tone was still thick with doubt.

Harry might have said something terrible towards Snape then, and it would have certainly been well earned, but whatever words the Boy Who Lived might have said quickly died in the back of his throat. He can’t help but stiffen when the Dark Lady’s gaze flickers away from Dumbledore and then onto him. Her golden eyes are piercing, as though she could see the vulnerable, quivering soul hiding beneath fragile flesh and bone. Not to mention just how tall she was.

“Lady Dimitrescu, Misters Crouch and Bagman,” said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, “you are our - er - objective, impartial judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?”

Lady Dimitrescu said nothing at all. She merely stared at all the occupants within the room with a distributing glare; those terrible golden eyes flitting hummingbird-quick from Krum to Fleur to Cedric and then onto Harry himself. Harry wanted nothing more than to fold in on himself once those awful, glowing eyes fell on him, but he kept his spine straight and his head high.

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, seemingly for help. The older Ministry official was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his stern face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. “The rules must be followed as they did once before long ago, no matter the current circ*mstance,” when he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice, for all that his eyes are full of hatred as he stares at Lady Dimitrescu. “The rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Tournament or else risk the terrible consequences.”

“This is outrageous!” Headmaster Karkaroff exclaimed, his face turning a terrible, ruddy red. “The sheer audacity against mine own school is an affront against all negotiations given in the past few years! Surely, Dumbledore, you have something better than mere words to give such an excuse for such a thing as… as this! ”

“Directeur Karkaroff,” Madame Maxime began. “Surely we can agree that such a thing must be corrected, yes? Ze’s boy is a child, unfit for such a monumental task such as the Triwizard Cup!”

And still the adults continue to argue over one another, Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff snarling bitter retorts at a placating Dumbledore. It sets Harry’s teeth on edge just to watch. Even Professor McGonagall looks like she was fit to burst at the seams from sheer indignation as she retorted, time and time again, that Dumbledore couldn’t have made such a mistake and that Harry couldn’t have been able to put his name in the Goblet. Lady Dimitrescu doesn’t say anything as the rest of the adults argue and bicker; she merely stands close by the doorway in observation. Harry’s skin crawls whenever her eyes go to focus on him. It's like being underneath the awful gaze of a microscope studying and noting his every flaw.

Harry can feel the horrible sensation of dread pressing down on him like a physical weight upon his shoulders. Lady Dimitrescu had spoken but once, but the moment she ducked into the room it felt as though every hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He felt heavy on his feet as the atmosphere around him turned awfully quiet and tense.

“— in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!” exploded Karkaroff towards whatever it was that Bagman had been trying to explain. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”

“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a voice from near the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?”

Moody had just entered the room from right behind Lady Dimitrescu. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk.

“Convenient?” said Karkaroff, a tad distantly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.” Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but the man’s hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into tight, shaky fists. Harry, as the nephew to his Uncle Vernon and a cousin to Dudley, knew what such a gesture really meant. Instinctively, he can’t help but pull himself a few inches away from the Durmstrang Headmaster. Wizard or not, some habits simply die hard.

“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. The Auror’s scarred head twists to the side, broken lips and scarred cheeks pulling at the ruined seams of his face. “It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that Goblet knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.”

“An’ why not?” Fleur bursts out aloud, still obviously infuriated. “Why should ‘e complain? Zis boy ‘as ze chance to compete, ‘asn’t ‘e? We’ave all been ‘hoping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! Une thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!”

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Professor Moody growled out. The moment he said it, it felt as though the temperature in the room dropped. Everyone’s breath seemed to catch then, not daring the slightest sound or movement as so many eyes flicker between Professor Moody and the Dark Lady Alcina Dimitrescu.

For Harry himself, he can’t stop the awful feeling of his heart sinking down low in his chest. He can’t breathe, can barely think at all. All around him are shouts and yells and arguments as the adults, strangers mostly -why was it always strangers?- tried their best to yell over the other. Madame Maxime sounded incredulous, disbelieving, more annoyed than anything while Headmaster Karkaroff seemed more offended and angry.

And still, Harry just can't get his Defense Professor’s grim words out of his head.

Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it. The words repeat themselves over and over and over and over again like a death knell.

Somehow, rather foolishly, Harry had thought that this school year might have been different from the rest. He’d been a right fool for thinking that this year, when a Dark Lady had decided to come knocking and make herself right at home like a dragon did in a cavern, nevermind if someone else was living in that same cave.

It was all just… it was all just a sickening combination of fear and horror, an awful weight of dread and unease. It is something that lingers in the tense atmosphere of the room. Harry felt ready to throw up. His nails dug deep into his palms as his spine stiffened; the room felt awfully crowded as everyone seemed to be moving and talking, but Harry could only just stand there as the numbness spread across his face, his chest. All he could do was try and breathe without bringing attention to himself, and through it all the fear burning in his chest felt like it was about to consume him whole.

Karkaroff was saying something scathingly to Mad-Eye, his pale face splotched red and white from rage and indignation, while Moody looked rather fed up with the Durmstrang Headmaster as he all but began to spit vitriol in the Durmstrang Headmaster’s splotchy face.

“It seems like all those years spent being a craven have loosened your memory, Karkaroff. It is my job to think the way Dark wizards do,” Moody growled aloud to the Headmaster just before his magical eye swerved to stare at Lady Dimitrescu.“… and even the way Dark Lords do…”

If there hadn’t been a palatable tension in the room beforehand, Harry thought a tad hysterically, it certainly was now after Moody’s accusation; the tension was so thick that a butcher knife wouldn’t be able to cut through it. Even Dumbledore looked aghast by Moody’s too direct charge.

“Oh?” Lady Dimitrescu drawled out then, but there is a stillness in her expression that makes Harry’s heart race. “I suppose you have something to say?”

The Dark Lady’s face was perfectly blank, golden eyes unreadable. In that moment where she loomed over all of them, save for Madame Maxime, Harry could understand then that this was someone who has lived for untold centuries and whose very name struck fear whenever heard. For a moment, Harry saw Lady Dimitrescu as Evil Incarnate.

“How do we know that it wasn’t you?” Mad-Eye growled lowly at the Dark witch. “How do we know that you're not the one who put Potter’s name in the Goblet in the hopes of killing him?”

The question hung low and heavy in the air like a cold, leaden weight. Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe, like there was an ice-cold fist gripping at his insides before slowly pulling them out through his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Cedric shifted on his feet uncomfortably, his handsome face deathly pale as the Hufflepuff Prefect looked over at Harry worriedly. Even the Beauxbatons girl, who had dismissed him so easily, glanced his way with what almost looked like concern in her silvery-blue eyes.

“And what reason would I have for doing such a thing?” Dimitrescu asked Mad-Eye, lips curled into a sneer as those terrible, golden eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Come off it, Dimitrescu,” Moody growled. “You can’t play it off like you don’t know just who that boy is or what it is he’s done. I bet that makes you rather nervous, eh?”

“And what do you mean by that?” Dimitrescu, to her credit, looks more annoyed than anything else as she raises one well-arched brow at Professor Moody. “If you wish to accuse me of something then might I suggest getting to the point? I do so detest those that beat around the bush and waste my time.”

“I believe what Alastor is trying to say, however bluntly,” Snape spoke up then, his voice a cold and slimy whisper. “Is that how can we know for sure that you aren’t working with You-Know-Who?”

It’s so very hard to simply breathe. Even Cedric looked horrified.

“… Who?” Lady Dimitrescu asked.

For a moment, Harry thought that the woman was being sarcastic or just being difficult, but when he looked up at her cold, beautiful face he saw what looked like genuine confusion.

“Severus speaks of Voldemort,” Dumbledore said quietly, and all around everyone -save for Harry himself, Dimitrescu and, oddly enough, Fleur and Krum- flinched violently at the name. “Perhaps better known as the Dark Lord.”

Harry could only look at the headmaster with a numb and ever growing horror. He felt sick to his stomach, like there was a bludger trapped in his gut trying to break out. When his name had been called out, he'd been numbed by simple shock. Now, though? Now it was fear. Pure, unadulterated fear that lingers in every moment of his life since Harry had first heard the name “Dimitrescu’ spoken aloud.

After all, he’s been targeted by one Dark Lord before, so why would a Dark Lady be any different? Why would this Dark Lady not seek vengeance upon the one who had managed to banish a Dark Lord? Was Lady Dimitrescu not the same as Voldemort or, rather, worse than? This was someone who has lived so long that the most ancient history books can do nothing more than argue on which century it was that the Dark Lady had been born.

A Dark Lady, who was currently staring at Dumbledore with a look that dripped contempt, her face calm without even a single crack to hint at any wrongdoing. If anything, Lady Dimitrescu looked almost offended.

“The Dark Lord?” Lady Dimitrescu questioned, one well-sculpted brow rising up incredulously. And then, without a care or thought about the implications, she said aloud, “well, that is rather presumptuous of him.”

Harry stared at her, and he wasn’t the only one. Everyone stared wide-eyed at the Dark Lady, like they had no clue on how to respond to such a thing.

“What?” Dimitrescu asked, only it sounded more like a demand than a question.

No one seemed brave enough to answer her. Cedric shifted on his feet uncomfortably, still looking a tad faint from hearing Voldemort’s name.

“Which one was that again?” Dimitrescu asked, continuing on like she hadn’t just said something so momentous that Harry was still trying to get his brain back to working again. “When you’ve reached my age many Dark wizards can be confused for another, especially the ones that only lasted for a decade or so.”

There’s a short silence where everyone in the room just sort of stares at the massive woman in awkward disbelief. Even Ludo Bagman had lost that boyishly-bright grin, and Mr. Crouch looked so furious that his narrow toothbrush mustache quivered.

Dumbledore looked like he had no idea on what to say, caught off guard as he was about the Dark Lady’s words. His mouth opened and closed several times, like a gaping fish, before the Headmaster seemed to gather enough of his wits to explain, no matter just how odd it was, the bloody legend of Lord Voldemort. With a somber voice, Headmaster Dumbledore began to speak of the many atrocities that Voldemort had done.

“… never has there been a wizard quite so depraved, nor so wicked, as him,” Dumbledore has yet to take his eyes off of the Dark Lady as he spoke, tone grim and tired as he recalled the atrocities that left even the normally upbeat Ludo Bagman looking pale and full of morose.

Only Lady Dimitrescu didn’t even do so much as bat an eye while she stared down her nose at Dumbledore.

“… Was that the one who got himself blown up by an infant?” She asked instead, still looking distinctly unimpressed.

“Why you-!” Professor Moody made a sound like a whistling kettle as he turned a deep red, which was patchy and looked absolutely horrible when contrasted against his numerous scars and missing bits of skin and flesh. Harry has never seen the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor so furious before in a way that left the grizzled, scarred man seemingly incapable of speech. Not even when Malfoy had tried to curse Harry when his back was turned had Professor Moody so upset.

Lady Dimitrescu ignored the Auror’s spluttering easily. “The proper addressment would be the Dark Lord Voldemort, if we choose to be traditional with titles,” the Countess explained patiently before she turned her head just enough so that she could look down at the retired Auror with a rather patronizing smile. Like an amused adult trying to explain something to a rather particularly dense child.

“The Dark Lord,” Dimitrescu muttered to herself, scoffing. “Honestly….”

Harry couldn’t tell if he was supposed to laugh or be utterly furious at that. On one hand, seeing this foreign power not knowing anything about Voldemort, something the man would no doubt hate, was almost hilarious. On the other hand, this was Voldemort, the man who killed Harry’s parents and countless others, the man who had terrorized Britain so greatly that even now no one spoke his name, and Dimitrescu couldn’t even be bothered to remember which Dark Lord he was?

It was both hilarious and utterly infuriating.

“You must understand, my Lady,” Dumbledore was the quickest of them all to recover enough to speak. “That Alastor means well, however blunt his words may be. Surely you understand our hesitancy. That young Harry, of all people and despite circ*mstance, has been chosen suggests a culprit may be close at hand.”

“... I beg your pardon?” Dimitrescu demanded heatedly, golden eyes burning.

“Countess Dimitrescu, you must understand -” Dumbledore, to his credit, tries his best to salvage the awkward situation from all sides.

Only Lady Dimitrescu did not look understanding at all; if anything, she looked rather angry. “Is this how Hogwarts treats its guests? You think to accuse me with baseless claims and even now seem to be preparing for action without even the smallest pretense of legality, much less any common sense. I have nothing to do with any of this mess. You merely assumed by my philosophical outlook on life and the intricacies of magic to be enough to warrant my guilt.”

“See here now, Dumbledore!” Headmaster Karkaroff was quick to jump to the Dark Lady’s defense. “I must agree with Lady Dimitrescu. I remember a time where Hogwarts’ legacy was spotless and its doors always open to those who ask. And yet, here we are, with the rules of the Tournament blatantly disregarded to give Hogwarts the upper hand, and now you think to shift the blame onto the esteemed Lady? On what grounds? Or is your opinion, and your opinion alone, all that matters?”

“There was once a time where the Houses of Slytherin and Dimitrescu were sworn friends by oath,” Dumbledore pointed out. He didn’t say it accusingly, but Harry rather thought it was an accusation all the same just by how the headmaster somehow managed to peer over his half-moon spectacles as he looked sternly at the massively large woman.

Lady Dimitrescu’s forehead wrinkled faintly about the corners as she frowned at the elderly wizard. “And what does that have to do with anything?” She asked, seemingly confused by the question.

“Not so very long ago, but before I became Headmaster of this esteemed school for all that I taught the Transfiguration post, the youth that would become Lord Voldemort declared himself as the Heir of Slytherin,” Dumbledore said, blue eyes no longer twinkling with mirth, but colder than ice. Harry had never seen the Headmaster so serious before. “You claim innocence, and yet was it not your own House, you yourself included, that declared ever-lasting friendship with the House of Serpents?”

Harry hadn’t known that.

Harry stares at Dumbledore with wide eyes, breath still caught somewhere in the back of his throat. How the elderly man managed to stare deep into the golden eyes of the Dark Lady Dimitrescu, he might never know. He feared to even breathe aloud, so nervous was he to hear Dimitrescu’s response. It would be a forced admittance of guilt, surely? The question Dumbledore had asked had stricken everyone in the room in their place, though Headmaster Karkaroff’s face had splotched most unpleasantly in a pattern almost like curdled oatmeal.

And still, despite it being Albus Dumbledore asking such a piercing question, the Dark Lady Dimitrescu appeared entirely unbothered.

“Was this supposed Lord Voldemort ever properly acknowledged by your Wizengamot?” Dimitrescu asked brusquely, tone clipped. “I know for a fact that no word of an Heir or Lord Slytherin reached my ear, and I’ve rather a large selection of sources to tap from. Gringotts certainly never reached out to me about a defunct House reemerging.”

“I assure you, he was of Salazar Slytherin’s blood.” Dumbledore told her quietly, grimly, looking far too old at that very moment.

The sight of him makes something in Harry’s chest twinge painfully, even as he cannot help but remember the horrors of Second Year and the apathetic cruelty of one Tom Riddle Jr. Harry cannot help but remember the wet musk of the Chamber of Secrets, the massive statue of Salazar Slytherin from which the ancient, deadly basilisk emerged with bared fangs and deadly eyes. The fate of the poor muggleborn Myrtle Warren cursed to a life of haunting the girls’ loo on the second floor, killed for her supposed ‘dirty’ blood. Dumbledore’s question might make everyone else pause and shiver, but for Harry it might as well have been a physical blow.

Only Dimitrescu continued to look completely unimpressed.

“And?” The noblewoman asked, her voice practically an irritated drawl. “Salazar Slytherin had many sons and daughters, and through them countless descendants. Even now some of those descendents live within my lands, though they are from the lines of younger sons and daughters with no true claim to Lordship, but blood they have nonetheless.”

“Voldemort is of Slytherin’s line,” Dumbledore assured her. “Of that, there is no doubt.”

Ludo Bagman looked close to vomiting as he quietly spoke up, nothing left of the bravado the World Cup had given him when he’d spoken to the crowds. “Could we perhaps use ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’?” He asked, wiping away the sweat gathering on his brow.

“Oh, please,” Dimitrescu scoffed, looking like she wanted nothing more than to roll her eyes at them all. “If this Dark Lord of yours truly has Slytherin blood then he is but a withered sprig from his ancestor’s trunk. Now, answer me this: did he have a true claim or not, Dumbledore?”

Harry didn’t quite understand why that even mattered. Tom Riddle was a parselmouth who had set a basilisk on his own fellow students before eventually killing an innocent muggle-born and calling it following his ancestor’s wishes. Surely doing all those monstrosities made him a fitting Heir of Slytherin?

“He has Slytherin’s blood,” Dumbledore answered, echoing Harry’s own thoughts by the somber finality of his tone that allows such a small amount of words to ring so terribly.

Harry knew just how much the terror and panic the young Tom Riddle had unleashed upon Hogwarts when he had reopened the Chamber was something that still weighed heavily on Dumbledore’s heart. How could it not when Moaning Myrtle still haunted the bathroom that became her grave and now spent her time bemoaning her unfortunate fate to anyone who would listen?

Even then with Dumbledore’s obvious grim finality, Lady Dimitrescu looked more annoyed than anything else. “Your lack of a suitable answer to my reasonable question is an answer by itself. This sounds like bastard blood to me. I care little for an unacknowledged claim. If the ancient magicks have not acknowledged him as Heir or Lord then it matters not what he thinks to call himself. Even then, when House Slytherin was considered defunct following your country’s Conquest, the ancient magicks that bound our oaths were dissolved as well. House Dimitrescu has no preemptive to aid some lowborn by-blow.”

Harry’s jaw drops at that insult. Everyone he’s ever met, save Dumbledore, were too afraid to say Voldemort’s name, but not even Dumbledore had ever been so dismissive. Snape, to some small bit of Harry’s delight, looked like he’d been hit in the face with a brick. Mad-Eye looked one second away from raising his wand, which might be why Professor McGonagall had a tight grip on the man’s arm.

And still, despite all but throwing everyone within the room through a terrible mental loop, Dimitrescu continued on, although by this point it sounded as though it were a frustrated rant. “Besides, it was not solely our two Houses who swore oaths to one another,” Dimitrescu said. “Houses Mehen, Coronis, Visconti, Lynderly and Darrhon swore the oath as well, though time has stripped away their power and numbers as their Houses dissolved as time went on.”

“But you did swear oaths, then?” Dumbledore pressed, the corners of his mouth tight and grim.

“Does it even matter?” Dimitrescu scoffed. “That time has long since passed. House Slytherin has been dissolved and, with it, our oaths to one another. Alwyn was the last Lord of Slytherin House, and when he and his sisters all died without issue while fighting against the Normans, the main line died with them.”

Dumbledore wasn’t deterred. “And yet Slytherin’s line lives on.”

“You seem quite concerned about oaths given long before you were a twinkle in your father’s eye, Headmaster Dumbledore.” Lady Dimitrescu told him shortly. “Houses Slytherin and Dimitrescu were allied once, yes. We shared knowledge and offered safe passage through our respective lands as well as granted the option of refuge to one another, as we did with all other Houses that held the same inborn gifts we shared. Only House Slytherin is no more, and I have little desire to care for one bastard offshoot.”

“Seems more like you’re trying to convince us,” Mad-Eye seemed to have recovered from his shock as he snarled at the Dark Lady. His ugly face was made even uglier by the scowl that twisted his scars and highlighted the missing chunks of nose. “Why wouldn’t a Dark Lady join with the Dark Lord in allegiance? Especially when your Houses are tied together? Are you an oathbreaker as well?”

“You seem to misunderstand, young man. The oaths given were promises of shared knowledge and of readily given protection. They were, at its heart of hearts, an everlasting promise for sanctuary to those who might ask of it. They were not oaths made for world domination. ” It is right then she almost looks amused, crimson-stained lips curling back into a smile that was halfway between amusem*nt and contempt.

“Be fortunate that I do not take out your tongue with hot pincers for such an awful, unfounded accusation. Many and more before you have done less to raise my ire, but I can be merciful. I have no wish nor desire concerning this child,” Dimitrescu nodded her head at Harry himself.

“Ah, but you can’t prove you had nothing to do with Potter’s sorting now, can you, Dimitrescu?” Mad-Eye drawled out. “How unfortunate for you.”

“Actually, I can prove it.” She had not raised her voice, had simply spoken evenly and calmly, but the gold in her eyes burned like hellfire and Harry felt as though a great, unseen force was pressing down on him.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence as the adults all seemed to blink, like she’d said something that had put them all on the back foot.

It was Professor Moody who recovered first, stamping forward while his wooden leg dragged against the flagstone. “You would swear it?” Mad-Eye sneered, scoffing unbelievingly. “A solemn swear? You know the consequences for lying are fatal.”

“I would,” Dimitrescu sneered back, looking down upon the retired Auror like he was something foul she’d found stuck to her shoe. It reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia and how her nose would curl up whenever she saw a streak of mud on her pristine kitchen tiles. “I would when my House’s honor is called into question.”

“My Lady!” Karkaroff almost seemed to leap out of his skin and furs from how quickly he had surged forward. “There is no need! No need at all for your very word, your most hallowed promise, is as good as gold, as the goblins would say.” Harry had thought the man angry in the beginning, once his name had been revealed, but now the Durmstrang headmaster looked positively furious. The man turned towards Mad-Eye angrily, curly mustache bristling from sheer rage. “You dare insinuate that the Lady’s word is not true, not-”

“Enough, Karkaroff.” Lady Dimitrescu spoke, and it was as though it were a master telling its dog to heel by how quickly the man all but bent over backwards to fulfill the not-so subtle command. The Durmstrang Headmaster closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. “The Swearing punishes only those who seek to lie or attempt to deceive. I see no harm when I know that I have had no part in…” Her golden eyes flickered to Harry, to Moody, then to Dumbledore, before settling back on Moody. “Whatever this is.”

And with that said and done, the Dark Lady calmly began to take off her black leather gloves. Harry watched her closely, and when the gloves came off they revealed only normal, if massively-sized, hands with long, perfectly manicured fingernails. He didn’t know quite what he was expecting, maybe scars or blackened veins or rotting fingertips, but the Dark Lady’s hands looked perfectly normal. Lady Dimitrescu held out her gloves to the side, looking bored, and there was a moment’s pause before Headmaster Kakaroff leapt forward to accept the gloves.

Then the Dark Lady procured a massive and thin black stick - a wand- with its top inlaid with what looked like silver. The tip glowed brightly, like an ember caught at its most heated state. Harry has never seen a wand quite like that before. Looking around, Harry looked towards Dumbledore and saw something that truly took him aback.

For the first time ever, Harry saw what looked like open astonishment on Dumbledore’s face. His brilliant blue eyes were open so wide his spectacles were in danger of slipping right off his nose. Even Snape looked on in disbelief, mouth slightly agape. Everyone but Harry, who had no idea what was happening, looked shocked beyond words.

Lady Dimitrescu, unlike all the other adults in the rooms, looked almost bored as her wand glowed brighter and a sudden thin ring of brilliant red-white flame erupted from the tip of her wand to wrap its way around her forearm. Around and around it wound, like a snake trying to chase and eat its own tail. It was such a beautiful flame, and the looks on all the headmasters and ministry officials told Harry that, whatever this was, it was significant. Otherworldly.

“I, Alcina of the House Dimitrescu, Lady and Voivode of the lands of Magical Transylvania,” Lady Dimitrescu began, voice practically booming in the silent room. “Do solemnly swear that I did not input Harry Potter’s name within the Goblet of Fire, nor did I attempt to deceive, charm or bewitch the Goblet into accepting it. I solemnly swear that I had no inkling of the proceedings that would occur tonight in that Harry Potter would be chosen as a Champion in the Triwizard Tournament.”

The massive woman paused for a moment, her head tilting to the side as though in thought of what to say next. Her golden eyes gleamed like hellfire against the witchlight. “Nor have I commanded any of my family, or any of my followers, to do such a thing, whether through direct orders or simple suggestions. Nor have any of us allied ourselves with the Dark Lord known as Voldemort. This I do so solemnly swear.”

The massive woman lowered her wand right as the thin band of fire wrapped tight around her forearm suddenly dying out. The world seemed to hold in its breath. She raised a well-sculpted eyebrow at them, as though their gaping mouths were something to marvel at, or to mock.

“Expecto Patronum, ” the Dark Lady drawled lazily, over enunciating every syllable almost mockingly so it rung loud and true.

Something great and winged and leathery shot out of her wand in a rush of glowing silver; its massive form rushing forward with an inhuman roar that rattled his senses to fly around the room before it lost shape like mist against sunlight as she dismissed the spell. Both Madame Maxime, Karkaroff and Ludo Bagman openly gasped at the sight, their breath hitching low in their chests. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was completely silent.

Lady Dimitrescu raised her brow again, looking down at them all as though they were all roaches in need of a good, hard heel. “I expect this clears me of any sense of wrongdoing?” The Countess asked politely, for all that her tone was cold and clipped.

Everyone in the room was still openly staring at her, Harry noticed. Ludo Bagman’s mouth was hanging so openly he was in danger of catching flies, while Mr. Crouch looked rather disgruntled.

“... Indeed, my Lady,” it was Dumbledore, just like before, that would finally manage to find the wits to speak again. “Though there was no doubt, of course. No doubt at all.”

Harry had absolutely no idea on what had happened or what was even happening now. What oath had Lady Dimitrescu sworn, why had everyone been so surprised by her offer of giving one, and why. So she hadn’t done it, and people believed her that easily? Only it couldn’t have been ‘easy’, not when everyone was still staring at the Dark Lady with wide eyes, even Dumbledore and McGonagall. Whatever it was she had done, Lady Dimitrescu had cleared herself of any suspicion.

“How wonderful…” The Countess said coolly. Only then that well-groomed eyebrow rose up higher and higher as she looked at him, as though waiting for something.

“My deepest apologies, Lady Dimitrescu,” Dumbledore said quickly.

“Your apology is considered,” Lady Dimitrescu told him shortly, her focus already elsewhere.

Harry blinked at that.

“Albus…” Professor McGonagall spoke up then, still looking rather pale. “Perhaps we should allow the students to return to their respective holdings for the night? I’m sure they are eager to celebrate with their classmates, and I think they’ve had enough excitement for the night, yes?” She worded it like a question, but it was obvious that it was all but a demand.

“Oh, yes, Minerva, it is getting quite late, isn’t it?” Dumbledore tried his best to smile at them all, but it was forced. “Well, off to bed!”

Harry had only the time to blink before he was being herded out of the room by Professor McGonagall. Behind them, Madame Maxime was saying something angrily that Harry couldn’t understand.

McGonagall was awfully quiet as she herded Harry through the now empty Great Hall. “I trust you know the way. No detours, Mr. Potter, straight to the Tower with you.”

“Professor.” His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like it was stuffed full of wool. “I didn’t put my name in the Go-”

“I know, Harry,” his Head of House interrupted him, but something in her pinched expression softened just a bit. “I know.”

The Transfiguration Professor watched him start the climb up the staircase before turning back to the Great Hall, no doubt to go see Dumbledore. Harry, still a bit thrown off by how suddenly things had ended, could do nothing but head back to Gryffindor Tower and think on all that had happened.

He should be thinking about the Tournament, about the dangers he’d have to face because, like it or not, Harry Potter was a Champion and would, apparently, have to compete. And yet…

I solemnly swear…

Harry had said those words before many times when tapping his wand on the blank sheet of parchment that hid the Marauder's Map from prying eyes. Had Harry been giving out magical oaths this entire time without realizing it? Was ‘solemnly swear’ actually a venerated magical ritual that Harry’s father and friends had decided to mock? From what little he’s been told about his father and their Marauding days, it seemed like something they would do. A bit of fun poking at stuffy old tradition by using it ironically.

Ron would know what the oath was. It must have been important considering the looks on everyone’s faces, and how no one seemed to think Dimitrescu was the culprit now. Whatever it was she’d done, it had apparently cleared Lady Dimitrescu of guilt.

But, Harry realized as he slowly walked up in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, that still left one important question.

If Lady Dimitrescu hadn’t put Harry’s name in the Goblet of Fire for Voldemort, then who did?

Chapter 12: In the Days After

Chapter Text

Harry could hear the snickering from behind him. It tickled the back of his awareness like an itch that he just couldn’t quite reach to scratch. It stuck onto him like a spiderweb: soft, clingy, slightly off-putting and just a tad bit too invasive.

Still, determined to ignore the giggling, again, Harry tried to focus on his class textbook. Only the words were so small and cramped, written in a loose-hand scrawl that made Harry’s eyes automatically slacken and lose focus. How could anyone in their Year even so much as read through this awful slog of magical and technical jargon without wanting to throw themselves as a human sacrifice to the Giant Squid in the Great Lake for some respite was a mystery.

“... still can’t believe it. Who is he trying to fool, honestly?” Someone behind Harry forgot to soften their voice as they talked about him. Another person laughed at their words.

Harry’s skin prickled all over, goosebumps rising up on his skin while the scar on his forehead suddenly felt like it was stretched too tight across his face. Ignore it, Harry scolded himself. Shifting in his uncomfortable seat, Harry turned the page only to be greeted by yet another wall of cramped text.

“- You’d think he already has a big enough ego, only then does something like this… Who even is Potter trying to dupe?” Someone asked. Harry scowled to himself as he ground his teeth together. That group that had been whispering and talking amongst themselves about Harry instead of focusing on their own schoolwork for the last hour or so, not that they had seemed to notice that Harry had caught on to their whispering. They mostly kept discussing about Harry’s ever so apparent need for validation in order to feel some semblance of positive attention, or whatever it was they had been saying fifteen minutes earlier when Harry had been trying to focus on his reading material. Harry’s teeth ground down as he tried to read about the chapter’s subject matter, but it was so hard with the staring and whispers. They were in the library for Merlin’s sake, a place that was supposed to be quiet and where its occupants are not to not be disturbed. Only, someone had forgotten to tell that to the group of older students blithely chatting in each other’s ear behind him about him.

Was that what they were going on about? Validation? Honestly? Even now the mere thought stung. When has Harry ever tried to gain validation?

Because Harry knew that a lot of people, not just those ones, were talking about him. After Second Year and how so many had openly thought him to be a murderer, Harry had come to develop the skill of appearing unaware while listening well. Still, where was Madam Pince when Harry needed her? Or was she still keeping too close of an eye on the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students in case they tried to smudge their fingerprints on her rarer, foreign texts? Either way, Harry saw neither hide nor hair of the terrifying librarian, even though he knew that she must be lurking somewhere in the corners.

Without a doubt Pince must still be glowering darkly at Viktor Krum, the highly acclaimed international Bulgarian Seeker and Durmstrang’s very own Champion, who had taken a small table in the corner by the northern window for himself an hour or so ago. Though, to be fair, the librarian’s ire seemed more directed towards the small crowd of girls huddled against the closest aisle as they giggled with one another. No doubt the librarian was furious that the girls had been leaning against her precious books and fouling the clean air with their pungent, fruity perfumes. Harry wished he could figure out how Krum could ignore the attention and whispers so easily. Aside from glaring balefully at Harry and Hermione, the professional Bulgarian seeker had been seemingly lost in his own world as he read from some heavy text about ancient warding techniques.

“... -k at him. Always been a bit dodgy, ain’t he?…” The snickering behind him intensifies, and Harry is quite sure that he had heard his name right before that.

“... what an absolute nutter!...” Someone laughs, high-pitched and mean, and Harry grits his teeth down harder, knuckles whitening about the edges of the book.

“This is so stupid,” Harry declared aloud, although it was under his breath despite his genuine anger. After all, Pince could still be lurking anywhere like some errant spector of terror just waiting to swoop in and Harry would not let the Hogwarts rumor mill run wild with stories of how he’d been kicked out of the library.

“You just have to ignore them, Harry.” The one voice of reason he might even think to listen to spoke up then. Even now, no matter how much he’s angry and upset and bitter, Harry can’t help himself as he turns his head towards Hermione, a dark scowl setting in place as his eyebrows furrowed down deeply.

“ You try having everyone constantly in your face telling you off for being a cheater, a liar or a self-conceited narcissist who is only looking to get more glory to his name practically every single moment of each day,” Harry snapped at her. “It’s been a week, Hermione, and people still don’t believe me when I tell them I didn’t put my name in.” The last words are muttered bitterly. In the oncoming days since the Triwizard selection, Harry Potter must have spent every minute of every hour of every day in absolute misery.

While it was nice to know that the Dark Lady who was currently living in the same castle as him for the remainder of the year had apparently proven without a doubt that she wasn’t out to get him, that proof had now become a double-edged sword. Sure, Dimitrescu might not be out to kill him, but since she proved that she had had nothing to do with putting Harry’s name into the Goblet of Fire meant that everyone had immediately jumped to the next conclusion: Harry must have obviously done it himself.

“We just have to convince them is all,” Hermione told him assuredly, like it was simply that easy.

Harry couldn’t help but snort derisively at that. “Oh, yeah? Like how in Second Year where everyone thought I was the Heir of Slytherin even when I told them I wasn’t? Yeah, they sure did listen to me then,” Harry stewed in his thoughts, the anger turning his tone awfully bitter until he couldn’t help but snidely ask the question that had been lurking in the back of his mind all day. “.... Convincing everyone… Does that include Ron too?”

Only, immediately, Harry knows that he has gone too far by how Hermione’s fingers tightened around her quill until the knuckles turned a terrible white. Instantly Harry felt guilty. Neither of them had brought up Ron in several days, for all that he lingered on the edges of their minds. Harry glowered down at his textbook as he stewed on it.

The day after Harry’s name had come out of the Goblet, there had been an unspoken agreement about ignoring the awful empty space between them. The third piece missing from their whole, its absence made worse by how obvious once it was gone. They’d silently agreed to not talk about it, but now Harry had seen the line already drawn in the sand and had jumped right past it without hesitation. He should feel guilty, only Harry just couldn’t care.

He was just - just so angry.

“You can’t think of it like that, Harry. Ron will come around. He’s just…” Hermione wavered at the end, hesitating, clearly trying to think of what to say next in the most diplomatic way possible. Sometimes Harry hated it when she tried to act as a mediator. “... He’s just being difficult, is all.”

“Difficult?” A bitter, dark part of Harry, whose nerves have been worn red-raw from the stress of the past week, couldn’t help but raise its hackles and the desire to lash out was immense… but, no, that wasn't fair to Hermione. She’d been the one who’d stayed, after all.

Feeling rather miserable, Harry couldn’t even decide which school year was currently ranking as his worst one yet: Second Year, where everyone was convinced he was a raving, stark mad serial killer hiding in some flimsy sheep’s clothing, or this newest school year where everyone thought him some co*cky egoistic who only thought about himself and his own personal glory and his apparently obvious greed for more.

As if Harry’s own glorified ‘legacy’ of fame didn’t stem from the brutal, unfair life that fate had apparently given him. As if his achievements were not in spite of it all, of surviving where his family did not. As if Harry wouldn’t trade the famed ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ for his parents’ lives in a heartbeat without hesitation. Harry has never wanted glory or fame or to be some great celebrity. How could he, when the root of it all stemmed from the horrific murder of his parents?

He should have said as much to Ron that night when the Weasley boy had accused him of seeking danger and glory just for the sake of it. How could Ron, who complained about the fact that his harried mother could never remember he hated roast beef sandwiches, know anything of how Harry felt? Know anything about what Harry wanted? When had Harry ever reveled in the stares and whispers of the Wizarding world? When had Harry ever enjoyed the attention instead of feeling like that boa constrictor at the London Zoo who had had to deal with overeager, insensitive people gawking and tapping on the glass?

“Why should I ignore it?” Harry asked shortly, tone quiet, ignoring his friend, seemingly his only friend, in favor of staring back down at his class textbook. He couldn’t even make out the words, his vision was too blurry and his eyes felt far too itchy. “Doesn’t Ron still think that I entered myself on purpose?” Harry slammed his textbook shut a tad too forcefully, but he just couldn’t care. He was so angry he could barely think past the roaring in his ears.

Harry doubted he would ever forget the sight of Ron lying down in his quarter-bed that night after he’d gotten away from Dimitrescu and Dumbledore and the other champions. The look of concern on Ron’s face when Harry had rushed to tell him everything that had happened with Dimitrescu. How his expression had immediately changed once Harry had talked about that stupid f*cking swearing spell and the argument that had followed… It had been a week and even now just the thought of it made Harry feel like he was drowning.

Hermione’s pale cheeks flushed a bright red. “Well… no, I don’t think so… I mean, well, not really,” she said awkwardly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘not really? ’” Harry demanded immediately, his short temper already rising.

“Oh, Harry, isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said despairingly. “He’s jealous!”

“ Jealous?” Harry said incredulously. “Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?”

“Look,” said Hermione patiently, and there was something about the way she said it that made it seem like it was already rehearsed, and somehow that just made Harry all the angrier. How could she be so calm, so undisturbed by everything? Especially now? Especially when it was with Ron? “You can’t argue that it’s always you who gets all the attention, you know it is! I know it’s not your fault,” she added in quickly, seeing Harry open his mouth furiously. “I know you don’t ask for it... but — well — you know, Ron’s got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you’re his best friend, and you’re really famous — he’s always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many…”

“Great,” said Harry bitterly. “Really great. Absolutely wonderful. Tell him from me that I’ll swap places any time he wants. Tell him from me he’s welcome to it… People always gawping at my forehead everywhere I go…”

“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione said shortly. “Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.”

“I won’t be telling him anything! And why should I?” Harry demanded angrily. He could barely get the words out, but somehow he managed to say it behind painfully, gritted teeth. “Hermione, whoever put my name in is most likely trying to kill me, did you tell him that? Has that even gotten through that thick skull of his? Maybe he’ll believe I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken or -”

“Don’t say such things, Harry,” Hermione said quickly. Her eyes had suddenly gotten a tad too shiny. “Please, don’t ever say something as terrible as that again.” Anyone else might have thought the frizzy-haired brunette was chastising him, but Harry, who has known Hermione for many years now, knew it wasn’t that. He could see the dark bags underneath the Muggleborn witch’s eyes, and something in Harry's chest seemed to sink and twisted terribly in his gut. It seemed as though he wasn’t the only one unable to sleep at night.

The anger that had been burning away at him died into angry, frustrated embers. At that moment he couldn’t help but remember that it wasn’t just Harry who’d been having nightmares on his early, gruesome death… “Sorry… I just,” Harry ran a hand through his hair in utter frustration. He just didn’t know what to do, but seeing Hermione close to tears just tore something vulnerable inside him into tiny, awful little pieces. “I just wish people would believe me, is all.”

Hermione nods at him, her brown eyes still suspiciously shiny, and a well of guilt builds up inside his chest, threatening to choke him. Harry goes back to his textbook, teeth biting down on his lower lip. Hermione exhales shakily, running a hand through her wild curls.

There is an awkward silence for several minutes.

“... But I still don’t get why I can’t just do what Dimitrescu did with that oath thing. Not even Dumbledore suspects her at all after that, so why can’t I?” Harry admitted, fists clenched and jaw tight.

“You wouldn’t be able to, Harry,” Hermione told him for what must have been the fifth or sixth time since Harry had told her about that evening from a week ago. “The moment you told me about it I did everything I could to learn more about this ‘Solemnly Swear’. I even asked Professors Flitwick and Babbling about it, but they didn’t have much to say.” Hermione chewed on her thumbnail, not even noticing that her quill was dripping ink onto her pristine notes. “Did you know that I asked Susan about it during Arithmancy class?” She asked suddenly. “Susan knows quite a lot and more on British law. Her aunt is Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry, did you know?”

Harry hadn’t known that. But, then again, most of the time now it felt like Harry didn't know anything at all. Throughout his four years at Hogwarts, Harry had known that he was missing certain things about the Wizarding world that stemmed from the fact that he’d been raised in the Muggle world for most of his life. Muggleborn and Muggle-raised students just didn’t have the same insight and knowhow that the other students had, just like how wizards like Malfoy wouldn’t know the difference between a telephone and an email. Only, it seemed like not knowing very fundamental knowledge in the Wizarding world often led Harry into dangerous situations. Lady Dimitrescu had just been the very start of his uneducated reeducation with the Wizarding world.

Now there was this dangerous, super important Tournament that Harry simply had to participate in all while risking his life else his very magic might be gone forever because of some magical contract Harry had never even signed in the first place, and no one seemed like it could be fought against. Not that it even mattered that Harry had never even put his name in the Goblet of Fire in the first place! Why he had to follow along with a magical-binding contract Harry had never knowingly signed made absolutely no sense, but all of Harry’s professors had agreed upon the fact that Harry had to take part in the Tournament. And because Harry was participating now everyone and their mother believed that he'd entered himself or gotten someone to do it for him.

Had Harry had idle daydreams about entering and winning the Tournament? Sure, but who in his Year hadn’t? That didn’t mean Harry had put his name in!

The worst part of the week, Harry felt, was when Ron had managed to snag an issue of the Daily Prophet off of Seamus Finnigan the morning after the Goblet had chosen him and he and Ron had had their row. Ron had quickly thumbed through the front page, his eyes lingering on the front page and its disastrous headline that had said that Harry Potter was the Hogwarts Champion with only the article barely mentioning Cedric aside from how salacious a scandal it was that there were two Champions for one school.

Somehow, Harry hadn’t even considered how the newspapers would be reacting to all of this. He hadn’t even thought about them to be honest, which was rather stupid now that he was looking back on it. It was the first Triwizard Tournament in living history, and the fabled, Harry meant it sarcastically, Boy-Who-Lived had been chosen to compete. It must have been a dream come true to the reporters, and it certainly reflected on the various morning papers. Even now, Harry could easily remember the various titles and subtitles that had blackened the various newspapers and magazines in the oncoming days after the Selection.

“HARRY POTTER SELECTED AS TRIWIZARD CHAMPION IN SURPRISE SELECTION! THE DARK LADY ALCINA DIMITRESCU PROVEN INNOCENT OF ALL CHARGES & ACCUSATIONS WITH TERRIBLE TRIWIZARD BLUNDER!”

The Daily Prophet’s headline had been quite… excitable, to say the least. Enough that Harry had, in the past few days, come to discover a new-found hatred for fully capitalized words accompanied in a sentence. Mostly because anytime it was it meant that it came from a news publication. And it wasn’t just the Prophet talking either.

“Harry Potter Chosen as a Triwizard Champion!” was the headline to Witch Weekly. “ Will our beloved Boy-Who-Lived become the Champion-Who-Triumphed?”

“The Dark Lady Alcina Dimitrescu, of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Dimitrescu, Gives a Most Solemnly Swear of Her Innocence Before All! Proof Undeniable!” Had been the, admittedly long, title for Wizarding News Weekly. Its subtitles had barely been any better. “A powerful, iron-clad promise made undeniable! See more of her testimony on Pages A3. To learn more of Lady Dimitrescu’s fabled, storied history see A16.”

Arcana Obscura had Harry and Dimitrescu on their front page every day in the past week alone, delving into Harry’s life story that didn’t match up while singing praises of Dimitrescu’s past deeds. Harry had never heard of the publication before the paper had been shoved into his hands at breakfast one morning, but it was apparently a magazine that was, according to Hermione, a more pro-Dark leaning publication. “The type of magazine Malfoy subscribes to, no doubt,” Hermione had told him.

Harry had even seen a few foreign newspapers coming to put in their own two-penny worth.

Internationale Realpolitik had been especially interested in the Boy-Who-Lived’s involvement in the Triwizard Tournament when, at the same time, the Dark Lady Dimitrescu was to serve on the panel of judges. Their opinion piece reminded Harry too much of last year when he had overheard Ernie Mcmillan going off on his conspiracy theory that Harry had the makings to be the next Dark Lord just because he was a Parselmouth. At least the papers didn't know that detail.

The oddest conspiracy theories had come from The Quibbler, a British magazine tabloid that included the oddest, most surreal news segments Harry had never even thought of thinking. Ginny Weasley, who could still barely look at Harry without her cheeks turning a bright red, had been the one to drop off a copy into Harry’s surprised arms at breakfast one morning. Harry could only assume it was because The Quibbler had been one of the only publications to argue Harry’s innocence in the entire matter. Harry might have been touched by that, but, considering that practically everyone considered The Quibbler to be run by kooks, it hadn’t been all that helpful.

“Everything will be alright,” Hermione told him hopefully, tearing Harry out of his spiraling thoughts of newspaper headlines. His friend set down a bookmark into some book on British Wizarding law that Harry didn’t recognize. “We just have to… focus. Yes, focus. Ron will come around soon enough, Harry, I know he will. He just needs time.”

Some part of Harry knew that Hermione was only trying to make him feel better, but right now Harry didn’t want to think about Ron anymore. It hurt too much.

Feeling furious at nothing, Harry tried to think of anything else but the missing third to their trio. “It’s just frustrating is all,” Harry told her what had been bothering him all week as he scowled down at his textbook. “I just don’t get why I can’t do what Dimitrescu did with that swearing thingy and just be done with it. She did it and not even Dumbledore thinks she’s at fault. Merlin, the whole world seems to have taken her at her word. If I did it, then Ron would know I’m not lying and those newspapers would find someone else to talk about.”

It was infuriating. So Dimitrescu did some sort of special charm or whatever and everyone just believed her without a doubt, but when Harry swore up and down about he had no clue on how his name had gotten into the Goblet, most people thought him a liar at best or a cheat at worst. How was that fair?

Scowling to himself, Harry gritted his teeth. “I still don’t get why I can’t just learn to do what she did is all. Since she gave that Swear no one seems to suspect her at all anymore. If I could just figure out how to do it, everyone would have to believe me.” And maybe Ron would come back.

“You don’t understand. It’s really powerful magic, Harry,” Hermione reminded him tiredly. “Not just anyone can conjure the Swearing on a whim. It’s old, ancient magic. Older than you might think. To give a Solemnly Swear… it’s, well, inescapable. The Swearing punishes lies and, from what little I’ve read, it’s impossible to dispute. There’s no such thing as a little white lie when it comes to a Solemnly Swear. You simply can’t lie; it is either the whole truth, or utter punishment.”

Harry thought about that. He remembered the looks of awe on everyone’s face when Lady Dimitrescu had cast the spell, even Dumbledore had been taken aback by it. How powerful could such a thing be to make even Professor Dumbledore look like that?

“Well, I looked up on Unbreakable Vows in Olde and Forgotten Bewitchment and Charmes on Professor Babbling’s recommendation and it seems to be the closest modern equivalent to a Solemnly Swear that I could find. Oh, if only there was something to cross data with…!” Hermione practically fumed at the limitations of knowledge currently available to her. “Do you remember what I said about an Unbreakable Vow, Harry?”

He immediately tried to remember what Hermione had told him just a few days ago, only to come up short. “... Er, you can’t just break it, right?” He ventured a guess.

Hermione looked at him with such stern disapproval that Harry had to resist the urge to shrink in on his seat. “The Unbreakable Vow seems to focus on promises of future action while the Solemnly Swear seems to focus on past action. At least I think so… there’s practically nothing on it in any of my school books. I guess because it was so hard to do and rarely anyone had done it in the past century or so. It’s just something no one seems to do anymore,” Hermione looked frustrated by the lack of clarity. Harry could understand her ever growing frustration. The Wizarding world could be a right mess most of the time, it seemed to Harry.

If only Ron were here… having grown up in a large family of wizards, Ron had been a practical wellspring of knowledge that was considered commonplace for wizards in comparison to people like Harry and Hermione, who had been brought up and raised in the Muggle world.

“So, this whole time we were using the Marauder's Map…?” Harry asked her, because it had been a genuine concern that had been lingering on the edges of his awareness since he had even first thought that such a thing might be a concern.

“We weren’t giving genuine Solemnly Swears every time we opened the Map, Harry,” Hermione told him, to his relief. “Otherwise we’d have lost our lives or magic a long time ago whenever we activated it just to see certain people’s whereabouts. Just because you say the words ‘I solemnly swear’ doesn’t mean it’s an actual Solemnly Swear. It’d be the same as if I recited the words ‘Expecto Patronum’ from a book without even trying to conjure it and without a wand in hand to do the proper gesture. Just because you say the words doesn’t mean the words. Magic is Intent, after all. Do you understand?”

Harry thought he did. Only, well, magic and the Wizarding world could just be so very confusing at times! Some rules made sense, others made little sense, and still there were exceptions that skirted around acceptable academia to instead somersault in

to some inane exception made very specific to a distinct clear-cut method.

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry said. He stretched in his seat, grimacing when his spine painfully popped in different places. These chairs really didn’t provide much comfort and they’d been sitting for a while. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot. Maybe there’s some other version I can do, like a written confession or something, I dunno...”

Harry had taken off his glasses and was rubbing his tired eyes when a small group of Ravenclaws, who looked small enough to be Second Years though Harry didn’t recognize any of them, stepped out from one of the aisles. They were talking in low, excited voices amongst themselves; only then one of them must have caught sight of Harry sitting at the table and nudged his neighbor before all of them seemed to be made aware. They whispered amongst themselves, standing in a small huddle, very obviously trying to send subtle glances his way and failing. Pinned to the front of each and everyone one of their robes was a big, bright enamel badge.

Harry went back to focus on his textbook, his jaw still clenched so tightly it was a wonder that he hadn’t yet cracked a tooth. Even then,Harry settled to stoop down uncomfortably in his seat to look at the blurry, mindless text even while fully aware of the dozen various eyes on him.

Still, somehow, like an obnoxious gaggle of gawking tourists at the city zoo who would go to tap on the exhibit glass if it meant even a second or two more moment of entertainment, the Ravenclaws slowly made their way around Harry and Hermione’s table towards the library’s entrance and exit. One of them, a pale-faced girl with heavy freckles and a plaited braid grabbed at the bit of fabric that made up the front of her robes and pulled it just enough for Harry to clearly see the brightly colored enamel of her proudly worn pin.

POTTER STINKS!

The words mocked him in an ugly, colorful swirl of sickly green and garish cinnabar red text. The little, baby-faced Ravenclaw girl smiled in what must have surely been some sort of self-assured and self-satisfied triumph, her pale cheeks flushed brightly even as she darted back close to the comfort and safety of her group of peers. Her friends snickered and giggled amongst themselves like it was the funniest thing in the world, even as they hurried away down the aisle towards the exit while still skirting widely around him like he was some diseased leper.

Harry watched them from the table. His fingers were shaking, his entire body trembling from the sheer gall of it all. And, still, the group of younger students passed by him and Hermione without a word. All their badges spun in bright swirls of color, the text ever-changing. They were too far away and at too odd an angle now for Harry to read it, but people had been shoving those stupid badges in his face for days now. He knew what the other bit said.

Support Cedric Diggory - the REAL Hogwarts Champion!

At least Hermione hadn’t noticed anything since she was too occupied with looking into some ancient tome whose title Harry wouldn’t even attempt to properly announce. He was glad for it. Hermione had chewed out several students already over the badges, but that had only made students target her as well and made matters worse.

It was just so frustrating… Who were these students that were brave enough to laugh behind his back and flash the badge for a second, but not brave enough to look him in the eye when they did it? Still, it might have been smart of them to do so. Harry didn’t know what the look on his face was, but every muscle felt tense and stiff and angry.

Who even were these younger students to act like they had any say in this? Harry would have given away anything to throw away whatever this was instead of having to be the secondary Hogwarts Champion. If Harry could have, he would have discarded it like yesterday’s trash, only Dumbledore had told him that what Mr. Crouch had said was completely true: Harry would have to compete.

Everyone was looking at him and thinking he was some vain glory seeker when in reality Harry was being forced to participate in a competition he’d never signed up for and against competitors several years older than him. And that wasn’t even mentioning the fact that the reason why the Triwizard Tournament had been discontinued in the first place was because of too many participant deaths. Why weren’t people thinking about that instead of laughing at him behind his back?

“Could you pass me that book, Harry?” Hermione asked him distractedly, already stuffing things back into her book bag. She must have not noticed what had happened at all, too busy cleaning up the table. “We’ve got History of Magic next, so best we leave now.” She looked up then, and then squinted at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said on reflex. He passed her the book he’d been reading. “Yeah, sure. Let’s just get to Binns…”

“Yes, let’s,” Hermione said, still distracted. “You know, I was thinking that I might ask Professor Binns after class if he knows anything more about the Solemnly Swear. He might know more than Flitwick or Babbling considering his age. After all, Binns was the one who told us more about the Chamber of Secrets back in our Second Year. Surely he might know something more about it than any other teacher or book.”

Despite himself, Harry couldn’t help the smallest, if tiniest curl of a smile stretching upward from Hermione’s upbeat, positive confidence. Her confidence was… comforting, to say the least. The vast majority of the school might think Harry to be a liar and glory seeker, but at least he still had Hermione.

But what’s to stop her from leaving too? A nasty little voice whispered in the back of his ear. An awful, tiny little voice that has always lingered, but never kept quiet.

Harry ignored it for now as he instead turned to follow Hermione to the library’s exit. They passed by several tables filled with Hogwarts students who were focused on their studies. And if more than most happened to have a brightly colored badge pinned to the front of their school robes… Well, Harry continued to ignore it as best he could.

Chapter 13: An Unexpected Invitation

Chapter Text

“So, explain it to me again,” Harry asked, readjusting the strap of his book-bag to settle more comfortably onto his shoulder as they hurried on towards the History of Magic classroom. The corridor they were taking to get to Binns’ classroom was mostly deserted save for the odd student or two hurrying off to their own class. “Honestly, I still don’t know how you managed to find it, Hermione. I thought you said the Solemnly Swear didn’t show up in most books?”

“Well,” Hermione began to explain, walking briskly alongside him. “I had decided to look up on the chapter dedicated towards Unbreakable Vows in Of Elden, Olden and Nearly Forgotten Bewitchments and Most Ancient Charmes as some light reading before bedtime, only, as I read further a few nights ago, it seemed rather obvious that the Unbreakable Vow was the closest modern equivalent to a Solemnly Swear that I could currently find. Thank Merlin for Professor Flitwick recommending the book to me as extracurricular reading over the summer holiday! Still, if only there was something else to cross reference it with…” Hermione looked rather put out by the idea of not having a written source to turn to as a guide. “Unfortunately, it seems like we can only go off each one individually as is. I’ll have to ask Madam Pince if she has any recommendations. Still, at least we have something to go off of now. Do you remember what I said about an Unbreakable Vow, Harry?”

Harry immediately tried to remember what his friend had told him the night before at dinner, only to come up short. Honestly, he’d just been a tad too distracted by the awful feeling of a hundred eyes lingering on him, staring at every move he made, to even notice anything else. “... Er, you can’t just break it, right?” Harry hazard a guess.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him with such force it was a miracle they didn’t pop out of her eye sockets. “Oh honestly, Harry, it wouldn’t hurt to listen more now and then! From what I could gather the Unbreakable Vow seems to focus on promises of future action while the Solemnly Swear seems to focus on past actions. At least I think so… there’s practically nothing on the subject matter between the two of them. They might as well not exist together for all the books say,” Hermione looked frustrated by the lack of clarity and Harry could understand her exasperation at hitting a sudden roadblock. If only Ron were here… having grown up in a large family of wizards Ron had had quite a lot of knowledge that was considered commonplace in comparison to people like Harry and Hermione, who had been raised in the Muggle world. Maybe Ron could have written to his eldest brother, Bill, who was off working for Gringotts in Egypt as a Curse-Breaker and seen if the eldest Weasley child knew anything about getting Harry out of this horrible situation. Ron’s absence felt like a gaping hole at a moment like this.

“So, this whole time we were using the Marauder's Map…?” Harry asked her, because that had been a genuine concern that had been lingering on the edges of his awareness since he had first thought about it. It was just everything else that had happened in the past week that had been all but drowning him that Harry had barely any time to wonder about the Marauder’s Map.

“We weren’t giving genuine Solemnly Swears every time we opened the Map for no reason, Harry,” Hermione told him to Harry’s instant relief as they continued to hurry down the corridor. “Otherwise we’d have lost our lives or magic a long time ago whenever we activated it just to see certain people’s whereabouts. Just because you say the words ‘I solemnly swear’ doesn’t mean it’s an actual Solemnly Swear. It’d be the same as if I recited the words ‘Expecto Patronum’ or another high-level spell from a book without even trying to conjure it without a wand in hand to do the proper gesture. I bet your dad and his friends thought it was a good bit of fun to have that saying as their password back when they were our age. It seems like something they would find funny, from what Sirius and Professor Lupin managed to tell us before the end of last yet. After all, just because you say the words doesn’t mean you mean the words. Do you understand?”

Harry thought he understood. Honestly, he did. Only, well, magic and the Wizarding world could just be so very confusing at times! Some rules made sense, others made little to no sense, and still there were particular exceptions that skirted around acceptable academia and instead somersaulted into some inane deviation made very specific to a distinct transpicuous method. Well, technically Hermione had been the one to say that last bit but Harry couldn’t help but agree even if he didn’t know what ‘transpicuous’ meant.

Still, at this very moment, Harry wanted nothing more than to write a letter to Sirius and put down all the questions bouncing around inside his skull, only Harry had already sent Hedwig off to find the escaped convict the day after his name had been shot out from the Goblet of Fire and Harry wouldn’t be able to send another one until Hedwig got back. It wasn’t like the Hogwarts owls would be able to track Sirius down when the man was hiding from the authorities, otherwise the Ministry would have tracked him down ages ago.

Wait. Sirius.

“Hold on a moment, so if Siri- I mean, Snuffles had done this Solemnly Swear thing before the entire Wizengamot then he wouldn’t have been chucked straight into Azkaban?” Harry asked indignantly. How had he not considered this until now? Why hadn’t the court let him, or why hadn’t Sirius done it anyway?

Only it seemed as though Hermione already had an answer ready.

“Telling the truth is a lot harder than it seems, Harry. Why else do you think the Wizengamot doesn’t administer Veritaserum for every trial? Counters to Veritaserum can be done whether it’s with counter-potions or having one’s memories altered, rewritten or removed completely,” Hermione explained in a way that seemed like she was repeating something from a textbook. “Veritaserum makes the drinker tell what they believe to be the truth, but that doesn’t mean it is the truth. From what I can tell, a Solemnly Swear seems more akin to an Unbreakable Vow than it does Veritaserum. It’s blood deep, soul deep, impossible to fool and that makes it even more dangerous to mess with. It would be useful in a court of law, yes, but so few people were ever capable or willing to cast the incantation in the first place that it must have simply fallen out of style until it was nearly forgotten.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Just because it’s hard to learn doesn’t mean it can’t be done!” Harry argued, quickly dodging an ink pellet shot out by Peeves, who was floating above them with a straw in hand cackling loudly before the mischievous poltergeist veered off to shadow and torment a group of Second Year Hufflepuff students were headed, judging by the direction, towards Transfiguration class.

“Well, think of last year with your private lessons with Professor Lupin,” Hermione began. “You wanted to learn the Patronus Charm practically the first day of term started, but it took you months and months of lessons and effort to even begin to conjure up faintest silvery vapors, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So,” Hermione continued in the same way Flitwick might start to explain master theory charms work in preparation for O.W.L.s lecture. “You said the incantation with the full intention of seeing it come to fruition and even used your wand to do the specific gesture, only it failed, right? It took you a long time to go from nothing to even the faintest silvery vapor, yes?”

“I guess,” Harry said, slowly starting to see a point, but not quite sure if the point was what Hermione meant. Sure, it had taken a lot of time and effort to even conjure the faintest beginnings of a Patronus, but how did an advanced charm compare to whatever incantation would serve as a Solemnly Swear? Going up in front of a bunch of people and telling the truth seemed a lot easier than conjuring a full Patronus against a swarm of Dementors determined to suck out your and your godfather’s soul. At least, Harry would have thought so.

“Something like the Solemnly Swear is even more difficult than the Patronus Charm. I asked Madam Pinch for books on court trials from over three hundred years ago and there were some cases where the defendant requested time to learn the Solemnly Swear only to just take advantage of the time it would take to learn to avoid time in a cell,” Hermione said. “They’d asked for the time needed to learn just to avoid jail. It got so prevalent that the Minister of Magic at the time had to outlaw the Vow unless the defendant could already produce it. People just took advantage I guess. Most would.”

“Oh, well, I guess so,” Harry said, feeling rather dejected at the realization that the Swear probably wouldn’t be able to help him. Harry would have thought the conversation would be done with but Hermione, as she was wont to do with a subject matter that fascinated her, continued on with a frenzied energy.

“One of the first things Professor Babbling ever taught our Ancient Runes class is that there is but one true, undeniable law for magical practice: Magic is Intent. Think about it, Harry! I could recite any First Year level charm or jinx aloud from the textbook, but that doesn’t mean said charm or jinx would suddenly shoot out of my wand fully fledged. I’d have to mean it. I would have to say the spell with every intention of seeing it succeed and use the correct hand gesture to ensure it would prevail at its fullest potential.” Hermione explained excitedly, her scholastic nature making her look near feverish. “And something as ancient and as powerful as a Solemnly Swear? Merlin’s beard, I had never even heard of it before you told me about it. I asked Susan if she knew if her aunt had ever encountered it in her career and Susan told me that no one has given a Solemnly Swear in the last two hundred years. It’s that old, and something that seems to have been largely forgotten. After Dimitrescu’s stunt, Witch Weekly ran a poll asking its readers if they had ever heard of the Solemnly Swear and the amount that replied negative was astonishingly high.”

“I don’t care about what bored housewives have got to say. If the Ministry had just given Snuffles the time to learn it everything might be different,” Harry started angrily because just because some old Minister fart had outlawed or stopped the learning of the Swear didn’t mean it had to be done away with completely. Sirius had still had the wherewithal to survive Azkaban with most of his mind intact even twelve years later. “What if he had managed to do the Swear then, huh?”

“You’re not listening. It’s not that simple, Harry,” Hermione interrupted him tiredly. “Even if this Swearing were easy to do and anyone could do it… do you think most would? I honestly don’t think most people would do it anyway. Harry, you and I were raised in the Muggle world and didn’t know about magic until we turned twelve. I don’t think you or I could really understand the implications, or rather the consequences, of such a thing when we’ve barely known about magic for barely a fourth of our lifespan. Do you honestly think someone like Malfoy or his father would dare to do something so risky, no matter how much you tried to curate your phrasing? You have to be very, very careful with your wording or the Swearing punishes you fully, so even if you did prove your innocence but lost your magic because of the smallest slip of the tongue… well, what witch or wizard in their right mind would want to risk their magic even as a last resort?”

Well, when it was put that way Harry understood perfectly and couldn't help but think about it a little bit further than a normal person might. Hermione’s words did make sense. Afterall, what pureblood Lord, or in this case Lady, would think to risk the one aspect of themselves that was considered so dearly precious, so very irreplaceable, as one’s own magical core? That which made a witch or wizard a… well… a witch and wizard. Harry couldn’t see Malfoy or his pretentious Death Eater father ever decide to do such a thing even under threat of death. Magic was everything to anyone born and raised in the Wizarding world. To risk that just to prove you were telling the truth was… well…

Harry thought about the implications that would come up from such a powerful, terrible decision that came from casting the Solemnly Swear. Innocent or not, it was a massive risk when the smallest slip of the tongue could have dire consequences. Maybe there was a very good reason why Harry had never heard of such a thing until now during his Fourth Year at Hogwarts.

Still, it did seem like utter insanity that someone as old and as all-powerful as the Dark Lady Alcina Dimitrescu had done it without any sense of hesitation at all. Had she been planning everything since Harry’s name had shot out of the Goblet? Surely she had known that she would have been the primary suspect! How many steps ahead had Dimitrescu been thinking when she’d said that incantation? It must have been planned since the very second she’d realized she would be looked at with suspicion. She must have been thinking out every single syllable since the Goblet had gone out.

Because, dure, doing a Solemnly Vow and succeeding meant that no one could ever doubt you, but surely Dimitrescu had the political power and means to prove her innocence in other ways. It seemed like such a risk to do something so drastic, so dramatic, so why had she done it? Had it been to prove some point to Dumbledore or the Wizengamot or Minister Fudge? Was it some sort of political power play Harry had no reason to understand?

He thought about it more, his mind racing with theories and conspiracies and paranoia. And yet, he couldn’t help the sudden, sad feeling that was now welling up inside him. “So I can’t learn the Solemnly Swear?” Harry asked, his heart falling. He’d really hoped to use it to clear his name and now it seemed like it was impossible.

Hermione must have seen the look on his face, because her expression softened and she was quick to tell him that surely there was something in the library that might help him. “We’ll come back here after our last class with Binns,” she told him without hesitation. “Surely there's some treatise or textbook that can help us, or maybe even essays and theses from graduated students. If not, I’m sure there's bound to be something in the owl mail-order. I’ll have to ask Madam Pince if she has any recommendations, maybe she has something that we just haven’t considered yet…”

Harry and Hermione were nearly late to History of Magic. Both of them just barely made it into their seats right before the official start to class; not that Binns would care one whit about a tardy entrance. The ghost had been teaching History of Magic for so long that he rarely ever seemed to realize that anything outside of his long-winded spiels on various Goblin rebellions actually happened. For all Harry knew, Professor Binns might not even be aware that time still trekked on outside of the stuffy old classroom with its worn, oaken desks and glazy-eyed students who had long since checked out of reality.

After sitting down, and even though he should know better, Harry couldn’t help himself as he tried to subtly look around the classroom, only really he was actually focusing on glancing over to his left where Seamus Finnegan was sitting next to Ron a few desks over. Harry’s stomach lurched the memory of the first History class Gryffindor House had after the whole Goblet fiasco where Ron had demanded to switch seats with Seamus’ normal table partner, Dean Thomas. A week later and Dean still looked a bit miffed by the sudden change in seating from the table down where the muggleborn was sitting next to Neville Longbottom. Harry did honestly feel a bit bad for Dean, who had been the unfortunate bystander in this quiet battle. Hermione had been Neville’s seating partner since Harry had always been partnered with Ron since their first Year. Only Hermione had taken one look at Harry’s face in first class after the Goblet fiasco when he had seen Ron sitting at a different place and had promptly sat down right next to him with no intentions of moving. Poor Nevile and Dean had had to partner together with no warning. At the very least it wasn’t Potions class. Snape would have surely docked points from both of them if it was, if not thrown out detentions that lasted until Christmas.

Ignoring the staring that had seemed to have started the very moment that he came through the doorway, Harry hurriedly moved to settle down in his newly-found seat beside Hermione, who still seemed a bit flustered by all of the sudden, awful attention. Harry honestly felt a bit bad for her. The amount of attention on him felt close to the near end of Second Year when it seemed like everyone had been so very sure that Harry had been the one attacking his fellow students. No wonder Hermione seemed a bit lost and unsure; she’d been a sleeping statue in the infirmary by this point in Second Year. And yet, even then, by the time Harry even thought to grab a piece of parchment for idle note taking while Hermione already had her notebook out with a quill in hand, ever ready as always for diligent note taking while still somehow remaining impervious to Professor Binns’ dry, dull droning that could send practically anyone to sleep almost instantly.

Honestly, it was a genuine wonder as to how Professor Binns could make even the bloodiest, ghastliest of goblin rebellions sound just as interesting as Uncle Vernon talking about drills at Grunnings.

As their History of Magic class commenced without any interruption, Harry did try his best to stay awake throughout the lecture, only it was difficult when half of his face was warmed by the soft sun rays that came through the large, glass-stained window from his right side. Something about the soft, tender heat made Harry feel warm and drowsy, like he’d burrowed himself into his warmest, snuggliest blanket whilst still in the comfort of his four-corner bed on a cold winter’s day. Even as his eyelids threatened to close there were still a few students trying desperately to stay awake, even though they were blinking slowly and yawning loudly as Binns continued on with his lecture. Despite the threat of next year’s O.W.L.s looming above their shoulders it seemed as though only Hermione and a dedicated few seemed attentive to the lesson.

Harry, rather drowsily, tried to start a game of hangman on the left-hand corner of his parchment. Only Hermione never even bothered to look at him, too busy focusing on writing down Binns’ lecture word for word. A tad disgruntled, Harry scratched out the open bit with his quill, slowly focusing on the slow swirl of ink leaking out of the tip of his quill. He struggled to keep his eyes open afterwards.

“... An off-shoot branch of Gringotts Bank located within the heart of Munster allied itself with malcontent Irish witches and wizards who had hoped to regain regional autonomy from the -” Binns droned on and on, never once moving from his spot behind the lecturn that he always floated behind. His voice was a dry, dull wheeze that reminded Harry of a lackluster vacuum. He could feel the pounding of his heartbeat thundering through his temples. Merlin, he was just so tired.

And then there came a quiet, sudden knock on the classroom door. In any other classroom Harry would have doubted it would have ever been heard at all, but Binns’ class was always dead silent, save for Binns’ own wheezing voice droning on and on while coupled with the soft snoring of a good many students falling asleep at their desk, and so the knock was absolutely impossible to miss. Several dozing students startled awake at the sudden and unexpected sound, blinking in confusion at the sudden abnormality that occurred in the History of Magic classroom that had been practically following a script for a few decades now.

And yet, somehow, in a sudden turn of events, Professor Binns stopped his uninspiring monologue of whichever 18th century goblin rebellion that was today’s current subject and blinked in what seemed like genuine surprise. The ghost seemed confused at the odd interruption. The knock might have very well been the first genuine disruption to his class, excluding Hermione’s direct questioning concerning the Chamber of Secrets during Second Year, in decades.

“Come in,” Binns wheezed out softly and the door slowly opened to reveal a tiny, almost human-like figure with long bat-like ears standing in the entryway. The creature paused at the doorway as thin, bony fingers nervously turning the fabric of what looked like a stained tea towel that had been fashioned into a simple toga. It was a house elf.

For a single second, Harry genuinely thought that it was Dobby standing hunched down awkwardly at the front of Binns’ classroom. Only, on a second glance, it became obvious that the house elf was not Dobby, if only because of the shape of their button nose and enormous brown eyes which were as large and as brown as a cow’s. Dobby’s eyes had reminded Harry of luminous tennis balls, although his ears had been long.

“Yes?” Binns blinked slowly at the house elf, looking as surprised as a ghost as subdued and dreary as the History of Magic teacher could be. There was almost a furrow to the dead professor’s brow.

“Beg pardon, Professor Binns, sir,” the house elf squeaked out with a high-pitched voice, bony fingers clutching tightly onto the faded fabric of its tea towel toga and twisting it nervously. “But Tipsy was chosen to bring Mister Potter to a most important meeting, yes she was!”

Harry felt like Peeves had suddenly dropped a bucket of ice water down his back at the house elf’s words. A sudden dread crawled across his skin then; needles and pinpricks itching across his flesh in an unfamiliar manner. Who exactly wanted to speak with him? Was it Dumbledore? Did the Hogwarts headmaster want to ask again if Harry had put his name into the Goblet of Fire? Did Professor McGonagall? She was Harry’s Head of House after all, but why hadn’t she said anything during breakfast? Or was it Madame Maxime or Headmaster Karkaroff demanding to know some new excuse Harry simply couldn’t give?

Binns blinked those awfully blank luminous eyes slowly, still seemingly caught up in the simple, baffling fact that his lecture had been interrupted for, perhaps, the first time since he’d died. “Forgive me, but who exactly is asking after one of my charges?” The ghost asked politely.

“The Most Noble and Most Ancient Lady of the House Dimitrescu wishes for Mr. Potter to come meet with her in her persona; office,” Tipsy the house elf declared then aloud, beaming brightly at the class with a dimpled, rosy-cheeked smile.

Harry could almost feel his heart tickle the back of his throat to then plunge deep down like a belly flop into the acidic pit of his stomach. Hermione sucked in a harsh, sudden breath besides him, her hand suddenly finding his underneath the worn, wooden desk and clinging on tight.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice was but a hoarse whisper, more of a sudden wheeze. Her short fingernails dug in deeply into the thin skin of his hand. Everyone in the classroom, save their ever uninterested professor, had turned their heads to look at them, at him. Harry could scarcely breathe past the awful fear lodged deep in his throat, the few breaths he managed to take barely escaping him in a weak wheeze.

“Oh, yes,” Binns blinked slowly, looking entirely unbothered now. The furrow was gone, smoothed over and replaced by the ghost’s characteristic inattentiveness. “Very well, off you go, Perkins, but do remember today’s homework assignment: an essay detailing the events of how the execution of the goblin banker Lodbrok led to the formation of the rebel group that would begin the Great Goblin Rebellion of 1798. Chapter 3 from the course textbook will help you in your research, whether that be from the point of view from the Munster wizardfolk or the local goblin banking branch. Remember, two rolls of parchment in length should suffice. Go on now.” The ghost made an idle hand motion as though to shoo Harry away from the classroom and straight into the maw of death without a moment’s hesitation.

“But sir!” Hermione suddenly shot out of her seat. She was still clutching onto Harry’s hand and some of the Ravenclaw students snickered when they noticed it. Even Lavender Brown, a fellow Gryffindor, seemingly smirked at the sight before turning to murmur some whisper or rumor into her neighbor’s ear. Harry might have scowled at them all had he but the wherewithal to notice anything but the sensation of his heart being drowned in his gut.

“Enough now, Miss Greiner,” Binns admonished Hermione sternly. “You’re interrupting my lesson. Perkins, go.”

Unsure of what to say or what else to do, Harry shakily let go of Hermione’s hand, put away his quill and parchment while doing his best to ignore Hermione’s frantic looks, shouldered his bookbag comfortably and went to follow the house elf. Everyone stared at him as he walked up past the aisle of desks, their gazes heavy on his back.

The house elf beamed up at him as they left the classroom. “Well met and glad tidings, young sir!” The creature greeted cheerfully, her voice so high-pitched it was nearly a squeak. “My name is Tipsy, if it pleases. Shall we go on, Mr. Potter?”

No matter how much Harry wished he could just ignore the house elf, there was apparently nothing he could do except reluctantly follow.

The History of Magic’s classroom might have been on the third floor, but Tipsy the house elf seemed determined to take Harry on a long, long journey throughout the castle. They went through various corridors and hallways, winding up and down several tightly-wound stairwells before making it to the Grand Staircase itself to hurry across towards the other side of the castle, back through several hallways and through an unused room full of matchsticks and broken statues, and after that through a portrait on the fourth floor that Harry had never known to be an entrance. He would have to check to see it again on the Map when he had the time.

“We’ll be coming up to the Lady’s lodgings not too soon from now, Mr. Potter,” Tipsy told him, beaming up at him with a wide, crinkly-eyed smile as though the house elf had no clue that she might very well soon be delivering Harry right into the lion’s den. She probably didn’t. The tiny house elf was smiling at him so happily, practically beaming, that Harry tried to force a smile back, only his lips felt frozen.

Dimitrescu swore that she wasn’t out to get you, Harry had to remind himself for the hundredth time since he’d left Binns’ classroom to follow the house elf throughout the castle. If she had been lying she’d have died or lost her magic or something just as worse as that. Hermione said so.She isn’t about to gut you for no reason, surely. It’s been a week since then, surely she hasn't suddenly decided otherwise.

Only what if she had? Dimitrescu hadn’t even known that much about Voldemort, one of the most infamous Dark Lords of all time, probably the worst in British history, so it could stand to reason that Dimitrescu hadn’t known the name ‘Harry Potter’ until the night the Goblet of Fire had spat that blasted piece of parchment. What if the only reason Dimitrescu hadn’t decided to kill him before was because she simply hadn’t realized Harry had existed in the first place? Harry had defeated Britain’s greatest Dark Lord as a baby, what if Dimitrescu just wanted to get rid of him now just in case?

Harry felt sick to his gut as butterflies fluttered about in his stomach in a way that was somehow a dozen times worse than before the start of last Year’s match that would decide the winner of the Hogwarts Inter-House Quidditch Cup against Slytherin when Gryffindor House hadn’t won the Cup in seven years. Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Harry followed after Tipsy. He couldn’t muster the energy to be angry at the house elf, who had been nothing but kind since they’d left, but that didn’t mean Harry was happy with what was going on.

They soon reached an unfamiliar section of Hogwarts that Harry had barely explored in all his years of schooling. A corner of the castle tucked away and nearly forgotten. There were no classrooms, no clubrooms, no House dormitories, not even a broomcloset he’d ducked into to hide away from Filch or Mrs. Norris. Nothing familiar at all. Just long, empty corridors that led into closed off, empty rooms. It was practically like some dark, forgotten corner of the school that Harry had come to call home. Harry couldn’t help but hope that they had taken a wrong turn and were lost and couldn’t make it to this meeting.

Unfortunately, despite his utter unfamiliarity of this section of Hogwarts, Tipsy was a clearly confident, utterly unwavering creature as she optimistically led Harry towards what might very well be his utmost assured certain death. She was also rather chatty.

“I’ve a sister here's as well,” Tipsy was telling him brightly, after chattering away about her job at Hogwarts since they had passed by the relief sculpture of Ignatia Wildsmith on the third floor nearly ten minutes ago. “She’s often down in the kitchens with me, only she works on desserts while I prepare the meats. Her name is Tippy!”

Tipsy and Tippy the house elves. Harry rather thought that their parents had gotten lazy when naming the youngest, whichever one she was. Still, it wasn’t like Harry himself had any room to judge when his aunt and uncle had decided to name their one and only child Dudley of all things.

“She sounds lovely,” Harry offered politely. Tipsy beamed up at him, her long, bat-like ears wiggling.

“You is a sweet boy, Mr. Potter, sir. A good, caring boy,” Tipsy told him kindly, callused fingertips carefully petting his hand in a way that seemed oddly reverential. “So very polite.”

Harry tried to not look as awkward as he actually felt. “Er, thanks.”

In truth, Harry was trying his very best to not attempt to vault over the nearest ledge to get away from the tiny house elf and then barricade himself in the Gryffindor common room until the end of term. Not that it would actually work. Dobby and Second Year had taught Harry that house elves could be rather dedicated to getting certain things done and he’d honestly would rather go another year without a bludger trying to slam itself into his skull.

She swore she wasn’t trying to kill you, Harry told himself again, trying to ignore the fact that his heart felt ready to burst out of his chest at any given moment. Harry felt like he was close to drowning. Suddenly just the idea of breathing seemed difficult, his head felt light and no matter how much he tried to breathe it felt like trying to suck air through a straw.
If she wanted to kill you then she wouldn’t have had some random house elf announce she wanted to see you in front of an entire class, Harry reminded himself. Hermione will be going straight to McGonagall when she can. And McGonagall will tell Dumbledore. Dimitrescu can’t do anything with Dumbledore in the castle.

It was that last thought that kept up Harry’s hope. Dumbledore would make sure that nothing happened to him. It was Dumbledore, after all. Surely that would serve as a good enough deterrent to Lady Dimitrescu!

They walked and walked and walked. Harry should have thought to note distinct landmarks and statues to track back, but such sensible thinking was long gone from his mind. All he could do was follow Tipsy and struggle to breathe properly.

They came upon a deserted corridor, cobwebs tucked away up high in the highest recesses of the ceiling and devoid of any portraits lining the walls. It was oddly empty. Harry turned the corner when Tipsy did, coming down another hallway where suits of armor stood sentry and, there, near the very end of the hallway, was a large landscape portrait that looked almost familiar.

“A- ha!” A male’s voice, loud and oddly tinny, cried out so suddenly that Harry nearly jumped out of his skin as his head swerved left and right trying to locate the source. “What foul manner of intruder approaches!” The voice continued to speak in a loud, booming voice. “Tell me who comes before the foul, dread dragon of Dimitrescu? Wait… a familiar face comes to greet this old knight!”

It was finally then that Harry realized the source of the noise and that the one who had spoken was a, rather unfortunately, familiar figure hung up on the wall.

“... Sir Cadogan?” Harry couldn’t help but openly stare, mouth slightly agape as he looked at the portrait.

And it was indeed Sir Theondane Cadogan, long-forgotten member of King Arthur’s Round Table, who had once served as the Fat Lady’s temporary replacement as Gryfindor House’s gatekeeper back in Harry’s Third Year. Even his fat, gray pony was there, blissfully grazing off in the distance. Said knight practically beamed at them with a smile so bright that it could almost rival the sun. At least Harry thought that was what it would look like, since the knight’s helmet covered his face. Considering the odd dent and that the metal was stained green with grass, Harry assumed the man’s visor was stuck shut again.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?” Harry asked the painted knight blankly. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Wait, are you on duty?” He asked, genuinely confused.

“Indeed I am!” The portly knight declared from beneath the aged canvas, sheathing his sword. “The rest all feared themselves to be in mortal peril from the Dark Lady’s terrible wroth, but luckily I live for such danger, ah hah hah!” The knight titled his head back and guffawed jovially, voice booming loudly within his steel helm, armored hands placed on his hips.

“... What?” Harry asked, more confused than ever.

“All the paintings was most afraids of the Dark Lady,” Tipsy patted Harry on the arm in a manner that might have been considering. “This brave sir knight was the first and only one to step forward when the Headmaster asked for volunteers to be the Dark Lady’s guardian portrait for this year. All of thems refused no matter how many professional frame waxings the Headmaster offered. Except for the brave Sir Cadogan, of course.”

He couldn’t help but stare at the house elf in numb disbelief. This was not how Harry had thought his imminent death would begin with. “You’re telling me that he’s the one guarding the door to Dimitrescu’s living quarters?” Not that Harry was really surprised. The knight had always seemed a bit barmy.

“Indeed I am! Whilst I expect nothing from my most courageous deed, I do so hope that one so dedicated towards thwarting ancient evil such as myself might be recompensed properly. More regular dry-dusting on my frame, perchance?” Sir Cadogan pipped up hopefully. “Mayhaps a detailed cleaning accompanied with that most delicious wood polish that the kind, dutiful scholar known as Filch uses? None of that awful substance that leaves behind greasy fingerprints on my wood frame like his predecessor, that awful Pringle boy, used to use, by the grand heaven’s no! You might as well as tar and feather me now for all the good it’d do!”

“What are you even doing here?” Harry asked the knight, still confused. Because after the painted knight had been dismissed by Professor McGonagall when Sirius had managed to get into the Gryffindor dormitories with Neville’s list of passwords and a kitchen knife, Harry hadn’t thought much about the painting and where he might end up aside from his previous location on the seventh floor. Serving as the gatekeeper to the Dark Lady Dimitrescu’s residence was not what Harry was expecting.

Only the knight stood up straighter than before, steel-polished armor clanking noisily with the movement of every joint. And when he spoke, Sir Cadogan sounded almost valiant. “Why, my dear defensive lion cub! I am the observer upon these walls, the shield against all evils, the one who watches and waits with true, hard steel in hand! I am a protector, a defender, a knight. Where else would I be but here at the doorway that would now come to contain the world’s most evil sorceress? One whose dark soul has not been seen since the likes of the black-hearted Morgan le Fey or the most foul enchantress Circe?”

The nearly forgotten legendary knight somewhat proved his reputation as he redrew his sword from its sheath and brandished it. “No time for merriment! Tell me now, if only for the sake of tradition, who dares come before the dread, foul beast of Dimitrescu?” Sir Cadogan demanded as he held up his sword and pointed its sharp tip at them. Not that it would do anything to Harry himself; the knight was stuck in the painting afterall. Or, rather, was a painting. “Answer me verily and honestly, now!”

“Tipsy of the Hogwarts kitchens, if it pleases his noble knightly-ness,” Tipsy told the painting cheerfully. “The Most Ancient and Most Noble Lady Dimitrescu was asking for the boy, and so Tipsy comes with him now!”

Harry desperately hoped that the knight could see the message Harry was trying to convey with his eyes.

The sword lowered slightly as the knight co*cked his helmeted head to the side, metal clanking loudly with every small movement and Harry felt a small kernel of hope rise. “Oh, I see, another one! Then Tipsy of the Hogwarts kitchens and young Harvey of Gryffindor House, well met and fair fortunes!” Sir Cadogan practically chirped happily even as Harry’s hope plummeted to its death in the pitch of his gut. The portrait wide open to reveal the entrance into the Dark Lady’s personal residence.

Harry, rather angrily, couldn't help but hope that the near long-forgotten Arthurian knight would get a splinter somewhere about his frame. Maybe it’d poke a small hole in the canvas, if Harry were lucky enough. Perhaps it’d deflate that terrible, boisterous ego of his.

“Excuse me, Mr. Potter,” Tipsy tugged on his sleeve lightly then. Dark, bulbous brown eyes stared up at him pleadingly. “Would you be so kind as to follow Tipsy to the Dark Lady’s office?”

Harry couldn’t even help it, but whatever anger and bitterness that was warring within him might as well have died in an old, dusty heap of nothingness. What else was he supposed to do? Deny the sweet, polite house elf and have to deal with a very angry Dark Lady when he didn’t show up?

“Yeah, sure, why not?” His answer is half-bitter, half-honest as Harry turned to follow the house-elf.Staring up into the newly-made entrance that might as well have been the open maw of a hungry dragon, Harry swallowed down the fears that were threatening to choke him and, with a short, shaky breath, stepped up and into the Dark Lady’s tower.

“Farewell then, my dear comrade-in-arms, and good fortune upon you! And remember! If ever you have a need for a noble heart and true steel, call upon the chivalrous Sir Cadogan!" The knight declared just as the portrait slammed itself shut behind Harry. Harry Potter could have sworn that he felt the backdraft against the back of his neck from the sudden movement.

A deep, terrible splinter, Harry fumed to himself.