It had seemed a good idea at the time.

  Words that would no doubt be carved onto his headstone one day. Sooner than he’d like, if things kept on. Above him, a writhing horde of gristly tendrils began to bloom across the canopy. And beneath it…

  “My, what big teeth you have.”

  As the morning light was blotted out by the slithering swarm of vines, Harry came to a conclusion.

  Best leg it.

  An alarming, rhythmic rattling hounded his steps as his feet pounded off the damp soil, loam and sweat assaulting his senses. Branches slapped and leaves scratched as he bulldozed through overgrown foliage. A bead of sweat dripped into his eye. It stung.

  The rattling was growing closer. A swipe of his wand over his shoulder sent out a Severing Charm. The rattling stopped. Right. That worked, then.

  A new sound took its place, a violent puffing, rather reminiscent of Hagrid’s oversized bellows. Harry took a quick peek over his shoulder. Toxic spores. Lovely. Another wave of his wand and a gust lifted them up and away.

  Then he burst through the greenhouse door, slamming it shut behind him. A rainbow burst from his wand like a sparkler. The lock clicked. A loose stick slithered up the doorframe and shifted into an iron drawbar. A portcullis materialised, slamming down across the door, iron teeth biting into stone.

  Harry hunched over, hands on knees and chest heaving, as he squinted through the thick, smudged glass. The thing was the size of a Ford Anglia 105E Deluxe by his estimation. Could be closer to the Whomping Willow, though. Either way, the Venomous Tentacula certainly wasn’t the ‘little beauty’ that Neville kept on his bedside table.

  Harry let his head drop as he breathed in.

  Blimey, that stinks.

  Neville must be cleaning his mimbletonia’s sap ducts.

  The Remembrall is sat on the desk, glowing red.

  What’s forgotten?

  Hermione’ll know what to do.

  Greatest Witch of her age.

  What’s forgotten?

  Ah! Give some warning with that flash, Colin.

  For your brother?

  Sure, I’ll sign it.

  How do the leaves say I’ll die today, Lav?

  Mind the dodgy fudge.

  Fred and George are testing on the first years again.

  Ron is saying something.

  What is it?

  Oh, right.

  Herbologists are mad, the lot of ‘em.

  0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610, 987, 1597

  He breathed out.

  He could see five cracks in the stone beneath his left boot.

  Feel the rough fabric between his fingers.

  Hear waves crashing against the seastack.

  Smell the damp earthiness of the greenhouse.

  Taste the tea he’d had this morning.

  Another large inhale of the salty air, and he pushed off from his knees, standing back to his full height. He peered back through the glass. The plant sagged, vines drooping. Hagrid’s voice rang out in his head, Aww, e’s prolly jus’ lonely. Harry gave a little wave. The mass of vegetation perked up, a single tentacle hesitantly raising to wave back.

  Looks like Hagrid was right, again. Often was.

  He turned his back on the greenhouse and its misunderstood inhabitant. The sprawling inner grounds stretched before him, tufts of heather highlighted against the rolling grasses that covered the central knoll of the grounds. A stoat’s head poked up from the tall grass, a brown rat clasped in its jaws. The gneiss barricading the courtyard from the salt and wind was freckled with lichen and moss, large ferns skirting the wall.

  Could really do with a groundsman.

  Deeming further landscaping a bad job, Harry began to make his way to the manor. The approach was flanked by a golden blanket of close-cropped gorse; he noticed the fairy rings appeared abandoned. Something glinted in the nearest ring, reflecting the sun. He approached to get a better look. The fairies were absent, but there appeared to be a jar of—

  Pop

  “Just Harry, the fairies be stealings the gooseberry jam again!” Whimsy said, face flushed and arms full of the glass jars. She wore a saucepan on her head, the handle splitting her face like a nasal helmet. A flock of fly swats floated in formation behind her. On closer inspection, each swat carried a stunned fairy. Their wobbly forms were dropped unceremoniously into the rings.

  “Forget to use the sticking charms?”

  She dropped her head slightly, the pot dipping to cover most of her face while her ears drooped. "S'alright, Whimsy. The place is looking loads better already." Harry reached down, snagging up the last jar and adding it to her tilted tower with a clink. “Just crack on. I reckon you’ve—”

  A clatter came from the open window of the kitchen. Whimsy’s face went pale and she popped away. A low, raspy chuckling came from above. Looking up, Harry saw several gargoyles had been watching on. The whole troupe of them sat about, tossing hazelnuts into their stone maws as they enjoyed the morning’s revelry. “She’s learnin’, but she’s still got a bit tae gang yet wi’ thae blethersome bauchles.” One opined, with the others nodding along.

  “She's getting there.” Harry chuckled, leaning against the wall. “At least the jam's saved." He reached up and plucked the hazelnut that had been tossed his way from the air. He popped the nut in his mouth and crunched down.

  Who’s roasting these for them?

  A sudden wail of “Not the Brie!” rang out of the window, pulling his attention to the silhouettes acting out violence from the kitchen window. There was a sharp swat. She must’ve miscounted the fairies earlier. Well, that should be a job done, then.

  Harry pushed off from the wall, waving a farewell to the stone guardians. As he continued on, a deep, grinding rumble vibrated through the cobbles. It seemed the ruckus had drawn the astronomy tower’s gaze as well. Though, even as he observed it, the tower began slowly rotating to return to its vigil over The Minch’s silver waters.

  As the tower turned outward, Harry turned in.

  Whimsy was depositing the last fairy in its ring, even as the others began to stir. It looked like one of the gargoyles had begun juggling, the others tossing nuts to add to the cascade. This certainly wasn’t Grimmauld Place.

  He could breathe here.

  Closing his eyes, he felt the eddies of the sea breeze tingle against his cheeks and tousle his hair. Salt coated his tongue, even as bitter earthiness from the trimmed back fescue filled his nose. A cawing chorus echoed across the sound from a colony of neighbouring Bonxie—no doubt mobbing some unwelcome guest.

  Harry stood.

  Might’ve been but a minute; could’ve been an hour.

  This place was wild, magical, and undeniably alive.

  Might even be home.

  · · ·

  “Might not be much, but it’s home.”

  Harry set down the teacup he’d been sipping from, bone china so fine as to let the afternoon light pass through it. Hippogriff bone, judging from the opalescent sheen. Griffins circled the rim, wings flapping lazily, one throwing in a cheeky barrel roll.

  He made a show of surveying the sprawling grounds visible through the conservatory’s tall windows. Manicured lawns rolled down to a full-sized Quidditch pitch, goalposts standing like giant bubble wands. An ornamental maze stood beyond that, the hedgerows forming a living labyrinth. Stables stood in the distance, beside a substantial greenhouse complex.

  Turning back, he cocked a brow at Charlus. “I’m sure.”

  The man’s face held all the innocence of a Weasley twin in McGonagall’s office. Beside him, Dorea snorted into her napkin. Elegantly, of course. Fleamont nodded along, “Quite right. Should’ve seen the place in its prime. I’m afraid the current owners are rather getting on in years and aren’t quite up to maintaining—Ooof!”

  If Euphemia’s elbow had grazed Fleamont’s ribs—no one could say.

  And if the distraction was taken as an opportunity to perform a daring heist—no one could say.

  And if two young boys were sniggering around mouthfuls of pilfered beef—well…

  A subtle waggle of his fingers, and the silver shifted, silently slithering across the table. Harry gestured out the window. “Still, having a private Quidditch pitch would be a dream come true for nearly any boy.”

  James swallowed and grinned. “Yeah, it’s brilliant! We could go fly after tea, if you like. Right Mum, Dad?” The boy turned to look at his parents, wide-eyed and imploring. A look he’d seen children wield mercilessly and effectively. Though, Harry’d never had much luck with it himself.

  Fleamont looked up from rubbing his ribs, his pained expression falling away like a mask, an indulgent smile taking its place. “I suppose that could be arranged, assuming that the esteemed Lord Peverell knows how to ride a broom, that is.” An arched brow and smirk he’d frequently seen on Sirius’ face accompanied the challenge. Well, his godfather certainly hadn’t learned it from Walburga.

  With all eyes on him, none were free to watch as the cutlery continued carrying out its task. They moved in single-file, like ants hauling a feast to their colony. Not much longer.

  “Please, it’s just Harry. And I’m self-taught, but I do know that the pointy end goes in front.” Harry batted back, deadpan. James’ smile was exceptionally toothy. Harry imagined his own would’ve been the same at that age. His gaze glanced back to the goalposts, the place he should’ve learned to fly. Then back to James, the one who should have taught him how.

  His smile grew fragile, but he pulled himself back together. The job was done, and the silver had returned to their respective place settings. “I say, Charlus, it appears your meal has vanished.”

  The man’s head snapped down, eyes going wide. His gaze turned to the most likely culprits, whose plates now bore beef busts of a rather unflattering nature. They appeared to be particularly interpretive depictions of the Potter patriarch. The women followed his gaze. Euphemia tittered behind her hand while Dorea eyed the busts critically, then opined, “They’ve a gift.”

  Looking down at their own plates, the lads’ eyes bulged.

  “Boys…” a menacing aura began to emanate from Charlus. Harry lifted his teacup to his face, smirk obscured.

  And that’s how it’s done.

  “If you’re going to have all of my beef, have the horseradish as well.” Charlus’ wand snapped into his hand, and with a flick, globs of the sauce rocketed towards the boys’ mouths. Mouths which, tragically, were opened wide as they frantically protested their innocence.

  Alas.

  “It burns!” James managed to get out.

  Sirius just wheezed, eyes streaming.

  Fleamont looked over, giving Harry a conspiratorial wink. The man was good. Turning to the boys, Fleamont reviewed the exhibition, “I’ll give you a ‘Troll’ for subtlety, but an ‘Outstanding’ on artistic vision.” The silence stretched as Charlus stared down at his empty plate, then up at the beef sculptures decorating the boys' plates, then directly at Harry. "Anything you'd like to add?"

  Harry sipped his tea with studied innocence. "I admit, I find myself rather struck by the bold use of marbling in the jowls. The fat distribution is quite effective commentary on the inevitable march of time."

  "Is that so?" Charlus' eyebrow twitched. "I didn’t realize you were an art critic, Harry."

  “I’m not an aficionado, but I can appreciate a job well done.” Based on the smirks on the adults’ faces, Harry was sure the Dumbledore twinkle had made its way to his eyes. This was fun. The Potters would’ve been a great family to grow up a part of.

  Sirius had gone very still. His face was pinched and eyes squinted as he muttered under his breath. "I know we didn't nick all of—"

  “Don’t strain yourself, Sirius,” Fleamont said, “Wouldn’t want you to pull something.” An extended tongue was his only response.

  He wondered how long it’d take for the boys to put the pieces together.

  Noticing the odd, knowing behaviour of his family, James' head swivelled from his plate to him. Harry couldn’t stop the quiver that came to his lips. James’ mouth formed a small 'o'. "Hang on—" He gestured helplessly at the beef bust. "That was you?"

  "What was me?” Harry asked pleasantly.

  A metallic scraping drew all eyes to the centre of the table. A lone lemon fork was dragging itself sideways, tines scrabbling against the wood. Its end caught beneath the sandwich tray's edge, the whole utensil jerking in place like a fish on a line.

  Poor thing.

  Harry lifted his hand. A twirl of his finger, and the fork went slack, tines scraping weakly once more before going still.

  Sirius’ eyes widened. "You set us up."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

  "Bloody hell," James breathed. "We've been had by a Lord."

  “No doubt, you boys are entirely blameless.” Euphemia said, reaching out to pat her son’s hand.

  “Exactly,” Sirius said, then levelled his finger Harry’s way. “Are you going to let him get away with it, Aunt Dorea?” He turned her way, crocodile tears beginning to pool at the corners of his eyes as his lower lip quivered.

  Dorea sniffed primly. "You don’t need your old auntie fighting your battles for you.”

  Sirius’ hand clutched at his chest, as he let out a theatrical gasp. “Old? Perish the thought. People mistake you for my older sister all the time.” The earnestness in his voice was praiseworthy, earning a twitch of Dorea’s lips. “And we’re still impressionable and innocent young boys. Defend us!”

  Charlus’ wand appeared in his hand, and he gave it a flick. An infant’s dummy was conjured on the table in front of Sirius. “There you are, lad. That should help.”

  James snorted. “Yeah, Sirius, he got us fair and square.” Then his grin turned sharper, “but that doesn’t mean we’ll forget about this.”

  “Yes, well, I think it's charming. A man who is good with children—"

  “Oi!” The boys chorused.

  "—Though it does make one wonder whether the Potter line's penchant for mischief might have come down through the Peverell side." Her dark eyes fixed on him—Black eyes, the same intensity Harry remembered from her portrait at Grimmauld Place, but crinkled at the corners.

  Harry smiled wryly. "Hard to say. Though I've been told my father managed quite a bit of mischief."

  "Well." Euphemia smiled. "Then it’s rather fortunate that you've found your way to us. Family ought to look after one another, don't you think?"

  Harry’s hand found the edge of the table, thumb tracing the grain of the wood. Being looked after. Wonder what that would’ve been like. He glanced at his father, still so small and innocent. He’d been looked after. Hadn’t been enough, though.

  "Speaking of," Fleamont said, "I understand from the Prophet that the battle for Britain's most eligible bachelor is proving a rather frenzied affair, Harry."

  Harry shifted in his seat. "The papers exaggerate." He wasn’t eager to have this particular conversation.

  "Do they?" Dorea's lips quirked. "Because Druella sent me an absolutely delightful letter this morning. Apparently, there was some scandalous incident involving an attempted dousing of my youngest niece in a fountain."

  Sirius choked on his pumpkin juice. Across from him, James sat frozen, his fork halfway to his mouth. Euphemia covered her mouth with a napkin, a light gasp escaping her while Fleamont waggled his eyebrows.

  Harry’s smile had grown wooden. "We were simply disentangling the wards. I assure you nothing untoward occurred. Cygnus was there as well, I’m sure he can confirm." He lifted his teacup to take a sip. Sirius was right about these Black women. Sadists, the lot of them.

  “Yes, to chaperone, I was told,” Dorea responded. A worrying glint shone in her eye as she went on, “Though, I was also told that Narcissa’s stiffest competition was likely Cygnus, himself. Charmed the father to win the daughter, eh? You crafty thing.”

  Harry spluttered, Earl Grey with a hint of lemon suddenly burning through his sinuses. ”It’s not like that.” He managed, as he set his cup down with a loud clink. He picked up his own napkin to dab at the tea that had sprayed onto his face.

  "Of course not, dear." Euphemia's angelic smile was a ray of hope in his present darkness. "Just as I'm sure all those young ladies photographed at the Order ceremony were there purely to celebrate your accomplishments." Demons. These women were demons.

  "See, this is why I stay out of the papers," Fleamont muttered.

  "That's not why you stay out of the papers," Charlus said, a distinctly vulpine grin crossing his face. Fleamont tilted his head forward to give his elder brother a withering look.

  "The point is," Dorea continued, clearly enjoying herself, "it seems you've become quite the eligible bachelor, Harry. Though I must say, if things continue in a certain direction, I’d not be surprised to see you at the Black family dinners."

  Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out, so he closed it.

  Marrying Narcissa. The one whose ears went pink every time her father fawned over her. Not the Narcissa that sat across from Andi’s kitchen table, making sure he remembered to eat that week. That Narcissa didn’t exist yet. Anymore. Probably never would. This Narcissa showed the same clever mind and sharp tongue. Cute too. Draco’s cute mother. What would Ron say? What did—

  "Don't look so terrified," Dorea said, laughing. "I'm not suggesting anything improper. Simply observing that these things have a way of working themselves out."

  "Yeah," Sirius piped up. "But James won’t be needing any help in that department. He's already—ow!" He rubbed his shin. Seems James wasn’t keen. I suppose they are getting to be that age.

  "Already what?" Euphemia asked, that two-faced smile back on her face.

  "Nothing," James said quickly, shifting in his seat. "Sirius doesn't know what he's talking about."

  "Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about." Sirius grinned wickedly, putting his shins on the line. "There's this girl in Gryffindor—"

  Harry’s breath caught. Right. Not a problem.

  "There is no girl!"

  “—Not Harry! Please—”

  "—with the prettiest red hair you've ever seen—"

  “—Stand aside, you silly girl—”

  "Sirius, I swear—"

  His jaw clenched, he could feel his teeth creaking. Cold crept outward from his chest. His were numb against the table. His vision was dimming at the edges.

  0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21—

  "—and James here can barely string two words together when she’s around—"

  Not here. Not now.

  A scream.

  2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64—

  A flash of green.

  James surged from his chair, careening into Sirius, who yelped like a startled dog as the two boys toppled out of the chair. The jostling table bumped into Harry’s chest. Fleamont caught James by the collar with the ease of long practice.

  "Boys," he said mildly. "We have a guest. Do behave better than the garden gnomes."

  He breathed in and out deeply and slowly. It hadn’t happened yet. And none of it had to.

  "Well," Charlus said into the momentary quiet, "since we're all quite finished with our food—or at least, what remains of it—perhaps the young ones might enjoy a fly about the pitch to cool off?"

  Flying. The wind in his hair. Yes.

  James' eyes lit up immediately. "Really?"

  "If Harry isn’t opposed to a bit of child minding." Euphemia glanced at Harry. "I'm sure you have more pressing matters—"

  "No." The word came unbidden. Harry cleared his throat, turning to the boys. "I mean, I'd be happy to. Someone needs to teach these boys how it’s done."

  "Brilliant!" James was already slipping free of his father’s grip.

  Sirius pumped his fist. "Yes! Come on, I'll show you the pitch. It's not massive, but—"

  "It's the size of a regulation pitch, and you know it," Dorea said, but she was smiling. "Go on, then. Before you vibrate out of your skin."

  The boys needed no further encouragement. Harry rose more slowly, four pairs of eyes watching him.

  "Take your time," Charlus said. "We'll be along shortly."

  “Do get a move on.” Druella said. “He’ll be along shortly.”

  Narcissa drew the hairbrush through Andromeda's hair in long, measured strokes. It was silky smooth. She’d already been fussing with it for the better part of 20 minutes. Her mother's humourless visage was visible in the vanity’s reflection. Andi’s brow was likewise furrowed in a most worrisome manner. “But of course, mother. I’d hate to keep a ‘proper’ suitor waiting on my account.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Her mother’s knuckles whitened around her cane. Narcissa’s hand stilled mid-stroke. Her sister continued her needling even as Harry was due to arrive. Her sister ever felt the need to inflame their mother’s ire at the most inopportune moments. Even tonight, here she stood, preparing another.

  Shifting her gaze, her unrepentant sister’s reflection showed a demure smile, looking far too pleased with herself. Narcissa’s lips thinned. She gave a sudden sharp tug of the brush, the mocking smile slipping from her sister’s face as she hissed in response. As Andi’s eyes met her own through the glass, she mouthed ‘Please, not tonight.’ A grudging nod was her reply.

  Narcissa took a breath, looking down to the tortoiseshell hairbrush clasped in her own fingers. The mottled amber and chocolate segregated by a lattice of gold filigree—never to mix. Her gaze flickered up to the mirror. Her sister’s gaunt face was masked by freshly applied powder; the bright light revealed the complex highlights of her hair. Amber and chocolate, intertwined.

  Her eyes drifted upward, catching sight of herself. She had been chewing her lip again. How unseemly. Composing herself, she took at the image captured in the reflection.

  A tableau in quatre.

  Un.

  Her mother occupied the back-left plane of the composition, spine as rigid as the ebony cane upon which her hands rested. The deep plum silk of her gown caught the lamplight in heavy folds, bordering on aubergine in the shadows. The weight of the fabric held its drape without clinging. Seed pearls traced the high collar in even rows, graduated from throat to shoulder, each with the same creamy lustre. The stitching along the cuffs was woven so fine that individual threads disappeared.

  Familiar furrows etched deep between Druella's brows, the powder settling into the grooves. But softer lines bracketed her mouth, inlaid by smiles shared over morning tea with their father, or the satisfied curve of her lips when guests complimented how well-bred the Black daughters were. Both present. Both earned. The years lay upon her face in low relief, time’s touch patient and exacting.

  Deux.

  The back-right plane lay vacant.

  Andromeda's bed occupied the space. Undisturbed. Bellatrix would have been sprawled across the counterpane in that careless, consuming way of hers, drawing their mother's scrutiny while Narcissa prepared in peace. She hadn't come home when the scandal broke. Hadn't appeared during the days since. Not even tonight, of all nights, when Lord Peverell was due to arrive. Typical. Though, likely for the best.

  Trois.

  Andromeda occupied the extreme foreground, seated closest to the glass. The cut of her sleeve tapered sharper than wizarding fashion allowed, the seam angled with geometric precision. Muggle tailoring, unless Narcissa missed her guess. And of course, she was bold enough to wear it home. Her cuticles were a muted malachite from knotgrass sap, the stains evergreen—no amount of scrubbing sufficient to wash them away. She'd been working with her plants again, coaxing temperamental specimens in her little corner of the greenhouse. Shoulders loose, spine curved, she was a slouching affront to pureblood propriety. She lived just as she pleased, consequences be damned, leaving Narcissa the sole bearer of their mother’s expectations.

  Quatre.

  Narcissa's gaze settled on her own reflection last. Rose madder on the apple of her cheeks, blended with patient strokes until no harsh line remained. She’d smoothed her complexion to porcelain with a thin coating of rice powder, translucent enough to let her natural fairness show through. The barest touch of Kohl lined her lashes, subtly widening her eyes. The vermilion on her lips gave colour with restraint, the cream formula settled into a soft stain rather than a gaudy shine.

  Every detail correct. Every element in place.

  But the composition was imbalanced.

  It left her stranded in the centre.

  · · ·

  She was the centre of attention.

  Of course, she was.

  Her mother was peddling her virtues like a cheesemonger displaying a wheel with a particularly well-aged rind. "You should see her latest floral study. I hope you'll forgive a mother for immodest praise, but I must say she has always had a gift with watercolours." Across the table, Harry sat, his posture attentive as he endured the litany of her parlour graces.

  Their best Dragonweave service was out, Welsh Greens puffing the odd flame along the gilded rim. The consommé steamed gently, releasing notes of sherry and beef stock into the candlelit air. Her reflection looked up at her from the fatty sheen of the clear broth. Perfectly limned. The table setting. The food. All was as mother deemed it should be.

  Her gaze swept around the table. Father sat at the head, just to her left, in bespoke charcoal barathea evening robes. Gilt buttons catching the candlelight as he gestured. His hand rested near his copita, fingers drumming lightly against the stem. At the foot was her mother, posture impeccable, despite being well into dinner. Andromeda sat stiff backed across from her, smile pressed firmly in place; a mannequin of propriety. To her mother’s left, an empty chair. And of course, to Mother’s right—

  Clink.

  The sound of metal on porcelain drew her back to the moment. Lord Peverell was looking at her. She blinked. Dark walnut houndstooth, richer than the tired browns he’d worn at the estate. The tailoring was good; horn buttons, polished clean. He'd clearly made an effort. She met his eyes, crinkles at their corners. His smile was relaxed. Just like her father’s.

  "Indeed, my Narcissa is quite the accomplished amateur.” Her father beamed, spoon gesturing as he spoke. "Though I'd wager her true gift has always been her mind. Top marks in Ancient Runes, and I dare say her NEWT project was the finest work Hogwarts has seen in a decade. A living portrait of her grandfather Arcturus."

  "Father, please." She prayed he’d not go overboard tonight. "I'm quite certain that Lord Peverell didn't come to review my academic record.”

  Harry set down his spoon. "That's impressive work. Enchanted portraiture at that level takes years to master." He paused, lips quirking slightly. "I imagine your grandfather had opinions about the result?"

  She paused. That wasn’t the usual question.

  "The portrait and Grandfather spent their first week arguing about whether I'd captured his nose properly." The words left her lips, somehow steady. "The portrait insisted upon its accurate portrayal, while Grandfather maintained I’d made him look like a Roman senator who'd lost an argument with a slab of marble.”

  "And the verdict?"

  "Grandmother intervened before he’d lit the fire.” She lifted her napkin, dabbing her lips with the Irish linen, smooth against her skin. "Though I suspect they'd start right back up if left to their own devices."

  Cygnus chuckled. "You captured him perfectly, my dear. The old boy’s hardly seen a mirror in ages."

  “Sounds as though he’s been spared the seven years’ bad luck, then.” Harry's tone remained neutral, but his eyes danced. “Speaking of the Romans, I once spent three weeks trying to make sense of a rather opaque Roman military treatise. Turned out to be an Iambus about a centurion's wife and her nimble hands."

  The laugh escaped before she could stop it. Across from her, Andromeda's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline and Mother pursed her lips.

  "Harry, you scoundrel." Her father guffawed, reaching for his copita. The Sherry caught the light, deep amber in the crystal. "Corrupting my daughters with field stories."

  “How could you mistake that for a military treatise?” Her sister leaned forward slightly, her stoic mask finally cracking as the question spilled out of her.

  "My sincerest apologies." Harry looked nothing close to apologetic. "Though, in my defence, the centurion's wife had apparently earned considerable renown in the army camp for—"

  "I think that will suffice on the subject of the Romans.” Her mother allowed a trace of amusement to leak into her tone. "Perhaps we might discuss more suitable topics?"

  ·

  The poisson arrived.

  A small trout, lightly poached, skin crisped to golden, thinly sliced chives and a wedge of lemon resting across its back. The faint aroma of garlic floated on the steam. She brought the cool silver to her lips. The flaky flesh, rich with butter, yielded readily

  She closed her eyes as she chewed, her shoulders loosening.

  “I do hope you might be available to come by the Black-upon-Avon again,” her father said, fish knife in hand. “There yet remains much to do, and your expertise would be most appreciated.”

  She stilled, peering up at Harry. His bright smile had played in her mind’s eye more than once since that day. She’d nearly committed it to canvas. His smile wasn’t quite as effortless this evening.

  "I'd be delighted, assuming the Ministry hasn't barricaded the old Grange.” Harry grinned, an unrestrained bit of mischief plain in his eyes. “Those Snidgets do need protecting, after all."

  She remembered the gobsmacked look on her father’s face in the vestibule. Harry had looked the cat who’d caught the canary. The corner of her mouth twisted. She lowered her head back to her plate.

  “Thankfully, we’ve acquired all necessary permits.” Father’s smile mirrored their guest’s. “By the by, a colleague mentioned you were housing a full menagerie on your estate.” His smile broadened further at the slight twitch of Harry’s eye.

  “You heard that, did you?” Harry grimaced. “Fortunately, I was able to prevail upon Dumbledore to bring in Newt and Hagrid to expedite the red tape.”

  Newt? She arched a brow at the familiar use of his given name. Apparently she wasn’t alone in her surprise.

  “Do you mean to say Newt Scamander came by, Lord Peverell?” Her mother leaned forward slightly. “I daresay you must have some rather interesting creatures on your land to draw his attention.”

  She leaned forward slightly. What sort of creature could possibly interest Newt Scamander?

  “He did,” Harry said. “And between us, I think the old man was far more pleased to discover a new research assistant than to see the Kelpie or griffins.”

  Wait. What?

  “Hagrid?” Andi spoke into the silence. “A research assistant?”

  “Indeed, Newt was very impressed with how well he handled the animals, and how quickly they took to him.” Harry’s smile brightened. It was the most genuine she’d seen tonight. “Hagrid really does have a gift.”

  Her father chuckled. Then laughed outright. “He does, at that. I’d hardly be surprised if you told me that man raised his own dragon from an egg.”

  “Well…”

  “Oh, hush you,” her mother said, tittering into her napkin. “You absolute rascal.”

  Her mother was leaning forward, her elbows nearly touching the table. Her shoulders had dropped. When had that happened? The woman who’d been extolling her virtues not an hour ago.

  “If the lady insists.” Harry grinned at her mother, then went on, “Though, I wish I’d known what my greenhouse housed while Hagrid was still on hand. I had a close call with an overly affectionate Venomous Tentacula.”

  Andi perked up. “Oh? I’m sure that wasn’t too much bother for Britain’s current hero, was it?”

  Harry’s face turned sour. “I fled from my own greenhouse, tossing cutting curses and wind blasts over my shoulder, sure some eldritch abomination was after me.”

  A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but it was too late. A giggle. Then another. Soon, her shoulders were shaking with the effort of containing the overflowing mirth.

  She struggled to compose herself, drawing in a breath. Her father had leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed to his chest as he laughed along with her. Proper posture abandoned entirely. When had he last looked so unguarded?

  Harry wore that smile. The bright one that refused to stay contained in memory where it belonged, intruding instead at the most inconvenient moments. His eyes crinkled at the corners with it, genuine and disarmingly boyish in the candlelight.

  Across from her, Andi's careful mask had slipped entirely. Shoulders relaxed, head tilted. Her genuine smile was back in place for the first time since the article.

  But her mother—

  The softer lines bracketed her mouth. Not the furrows etched between her brows from years of careful scrutiny, but the laugh lines that came from joy. They were so rarely visible beneath the powder and propriety.

  ·

  The entrée arrived.

  C?telettes d'Agneau. Three small lamb cutlets arranged in a fan, the bones wrapped in paper frills. The meat was crusted with herbes de Provence and breadcrumbs gone golden in the roasting, releasing the scent of rosemary and thyme into the warm air.

  Father's favourite from the chateau in the Médoc replaced the white wine. The deep Bordeaux caught the candlelight as the house-elf poured, garnet filling the crystal.

  She brought her fork to the tender meat. Perfectly pink at the centre. Mother had requested it as far back as she could remember. The first bite melted on her tongue, familiar and comforting.

  Her chest felt lighter than it had in weeks. She was more herself than she’d been at any other such dinner. She'd braced for performance tonight, but the tension had slipped away with the laughter.

  Breathing came easily.

  “On the topic of the estate,” Harry said after a few bites of lamb, “I’m rather curious how the assessment is progressing.”

  Black-upon-Avon. Her cheeks warmed at the memory of demanding he 'elaborate' on his 'cheating' of the fountain's puzzles. Now, the library was her project, a sanctuary of parchment and provenance away from the stifling air of marriage prospects and her mother's oversight.

  “Very well, very well, indeed.” Her father beamed, his arm gesturing at her broadly. “Narcissa has been invaluable in cataloguing the correspondence from the study. Her eye for detail puts my own to shame.”

  A faint tension tightened between her shoulder blades. She reached for her wine, the crystal stem pinched firmly between her fingers, and took a deliberate sip. The rich Bordeaux offered no distraction from the exposure.

  "The letters were hardly revelatory," she demurred, setting down her glass without a sound. "Mostly tedious grumblings about the Avon spilling over its banks, and many rather urgent petitions from Bristol for more of the Black’s fine cidre."

  "You're being modest," Harry said, his eyes fixed on her. "It's exactly the sort of day-to-day details you're documenting that tell the truth of history." His gaze was firmer than she was accustomed to. "Far more than simply retelling the victor's sanitized version of history."

  Her grip loosened. He would be someone that understood the value of mundane records, she supposed. A most welcome change.

  His attention rested firmly on her.

  What was it he saw?

  She matched his gaze as the clink of Andromeda's cutlery and the soft rustling of her mother's skirts grew muffled.

  "—Ahem"

  She straightened. The course was being cleared. A cutlet remained untouched on her plate.

  Across from her, Andi caught her eye. An impish grin bloomed briefly across her face, then wilted back to perfect composure.

  “History truly is fascinating,” her mother said. “Particularly that of your own house. Tell me, wherever have the Peverells been?”

  It had begun.

  All eyes were now on him. “I wish I could give a satisfactory answer,” he said. “The truth is, it seems most of that story was handed down from parent to child. And growing up an orphan…” He grimaced slightly. “Well, I’ve yet to find many answers myself.”

  "Oh, how dreadful." Her mother’s sympathy sounded genuine. It probably was genuine. She contained multitudes; traditional to her bones, but not without empathy. "To lose one's parents so young. You have my deepest condolences."

  "Thank you." Harry inclined his head. "It was a long time ago."

  The silence stretched briefly. She studied Harry’s profile in the candlelight: the sharp lines of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, hair fashionably tussled. Just behind his bangs, an old scar caught her eye, though its shape was hard to make out from here. His hand rested against the table, fingers splayed. He looked older In that moment, she could almost see silver at his temples.

  Rather like how she felt every time someone mentioned her marriage prospects.

  "I understand you've recently taken residence in the Highlands." Her mother's voice had shifted again, lighter now as she navigated into less turbulent waters. "How are you finding the adjustment? London society must seem quite different from Scotland's wilds."

  "The Outer Hebrides, actually." Harry's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Situated on a seastack just off the coast. Though I'll admit my estate is rather more wild than anticipated."

  Her father looked as though he wished to jump in, excitement written across his face. Her mother wasn’t having it. She’d let him have his fun. Now was her time.

  “That must have set you back somewhat,” her mother said, an inquiring tone in her voice. “My dear Cygnus always bemoans that Arcanists and historians are never paid nearly what they're worth.”

  She clenched her hands together in her lap. Hopefully, Harry took no offence at her mother’s prodding. She found that no amount of acromantula silk made a man any more bearable.

  Harry smiled.

  Thank Merlin.

  “While I don’t mean to contradict your husband, that is neither a particular worry of mine, nor particularly relevant to my own work.” Harry took a sip from his wine glass. “As a matter of fact, just the Gask Ridge excavation was enough to pay for my estate five times over on its own.”

  Druella’s eyebrows weren’t alone in their sudden climb.

  Five times over. She thought of the worn tweeds and practical boots at Black-upon-Avon. A working curse-breaker's wardrobe. Even tonight, his perfectly respectable houndstooth carried none of the peacock display men with his fortune typically favored. The casual revelation didn't match anything about how he carried himself.

  “I say, how did you manage that?” Father said after nearly choking on his Bordeaux.

  “Why, I had the Goblins draw up the contracts, of course.” Harry looked pleased at the reaction. “I offered them the right of first-refusal, and they were rather reasonable in the rates.”

  “The Goblins were reasonable, you say?” Father’s tone was incredulous. “Do you know some other Goblins, perhaps?”

  Harry allowed a full chuckle. “You’ll find they are rather more agreeable if you’ve cast the right bait.”

  A man able to make a profit off of Gringotts. Mother will be impressed.

  “You don’t say,” a familiar calculating glint shone in her mother’s eyes. “A most valuable talent. Few make it out of Gringotts not having been wrung dry by the grasping creatures.”

  His smile held, but the warmth had drained from it. She glanced toward him before she could stop herself, the grimace still pulling at her lips. She found his gaze, and the tension around his eyes eased.

  He turned back to her mother. “I’ve found mutual benefit makes for the best arrangements. The right incentives yield surprising cooperation.”

  She reached for her wine glass. The crystal stem was cool between her fingers. The wine’s warmth spread through her chest as she took a measured sip. Her mother had already moved forward, apparently satisfied with his answer.

  ·

  The relevé arrived.

  Roast duck, skin lacquered mahogany, scored in diamonds. Dark cherry sauce pooled around it, its tartness cutting through the rich scent of rendered fat.

  She cut into the breast. It was tender, pink at the centre. The first bite was nearly overwhelming after the lighter lamb, but the cherries balanced the duck's heaviness with their bright acidity.

  She was hungry. Properly hungry, not the anxious hollow that tended to accompany these dinners.

  The worst of the interrogation had passed.

  "A property of that size must demand considerable attention. How are you managing it alongside your excavations?"

  "Poorly, I'm afraid." Harry's mouth quirked. "Just this morning I was telling myself I could do with a groundsman. The place has been neglected for decades.”

  "Surely you maintain staff?"

  "Just the one house-elf. Whimsy's eager, but still young." He cut another piece of duck. “And the greenhouse situation remains dire. Spent the better part of the morning in dignified retreat.”

  Her father laughed. Across from her, Andi's fork had stopped halfway to her mouth, the careful propriety abandoned.

  "And you're managing this alone?" Her mother's tone hadn't changed, but the target had shifted entirely.

  "For now." Harry held her mother's gaze. "Though I'll admit it's rather more than anticipated."

  The admission struck her as refreshingly honest. Lucius would have claimed effortless mastery. Harry simply acknowledged the reality.

  "Such responsibilities benefit from partnership. A wife's involvement in managing an estate can prove invaluable, particularly one of that scope."

  There it was. The shift from practical assessment to the real question.

  "I've no doubt." Harry's response came easily. "Should my wife have interest in such work, I'd welcome her partnership. Though, obviously, that would depend on her own inclinations."

  Her mother's eyebrows rose. "Her own inclinations?"

  "Whether her talents lie in estate management. Or scholarship. Or charitable work." His gaze shifted toward her for a moment before returning to her mother. "The witches I've worked alongside have had varying strengths. Different passions. Confining any of them to tasks they found tedious seems a waste of real talent.”

  Her fork had gone still against the plate. He'd just described her cataloguing work at Black-upon-Avon as though it mattered. As though scholarship was legitimate pursuit rather than a tolerable preoccupation.

  Her mother was now studying Harry with particular calculation. "A refreshingly… modern view. Though running a household of that size requires specialised skills that most young women lack, regardless of their other talents."

  "True enough." Harry took a sip of wine. "Which is why I'd value those skills in a partner who possessed them and wished to apply them. But I wouldn't consider household management a prerequisite. I'd expect my wife to have her own priorities. Her own projects and interests.”

  "Even if those projects had nothing whatsoever to do with your estate or household?"

  The edge in her mother's question sharpened. Testing whether his progressive claims would survive scrutiny.

  “If her interests lay elsewhere entirely? Then I'd hire competent staff and be fortunate she had pursuits that engaged her." Harry's tone remained level. "A wife managing an estate she resents hardly seems preferable to one pursuing work she finds meaningful."

  Her father had gone very quiet. His wine glass sat forgotten, attention fixed on Harry.

  Andi had abandoned all pretense of eating, the careful mask cracking.

  Her mother set down her glass. "And you believe you could be happy in such an arrangement? A wife with her own interests that might eclipse traditional responsibilities?"

  “I’d prefer it to the alternative.” Harry met her mother's gaze. "I imagine resentment makes a poor foundation. Better to build on mutual respect and genuine regard than obligation."

  Recognition of her mind. Space for her own pursuits. Partnership instead of transaction. Everything she'd wanted, on the occasion she allowed herself to want anything.

  Her father leaned forward. "Tell me something, Harry." His voice had softened. "Would you be the sort to make my daughter happy?"

  Harry was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, the easy humour had left his voice entirely. "I don't know that I can make anyone happy. That seems like something each person must find for themselves."

  He paused.

  "But I'd hope to create circumstances where happiness was possible. Where she could be herself rather than boxed into whatever version society expects. Where respect runs both ways and we might build genuine regard, not rely on obligation.”

  She reached for her wine glass. The stem slipped slightly in her grip before she steadied it. The surface rippled. She brought it to her lips, suddenly dry. She focused on drawing breath evenly. One inhale. A controlled exhale. She wondered whether the candlelight concealed the flush she could feel creeping up from her collar. Mother was speaking again, but the words seemed to be traveling from a great distance.

  He'd passed every test her mother set. More than that, he'd revealed himself to be exactly what she'd hoped he might be when she'd first seen him at Black-upon-Avon. Intelligent. Genuine. Offering partnership she'd thought impossible to find.

  The duck sat cooling on her plate. She cut another piece anyway, though the meat had lost its tenderness, the cherries their brightness. Her attention kept drifting to Harry. The sharp line of his jaw in candlelight. The way he set down his wine glass, fingers releasing the stem with measured control. The quality of his dinner jacket, well-tailored but practical rather than ostentatious. Even his posture suggested competence without performance; shoulders relaxed, hands steady, no carefully crafted displays of aristocratic bearing.

  Across the table, Andi was watching her. The fa?ade of propriety had vanished entirely. Her sister's posture had collapsed inward slightly, shoulders curving forward. Her eyes had gone bright, the candlelight catching moisture gathering at the lower lids.

  Then Andi's gaze dropped to her plate. The line of her mouth hardened.

  The article. The scandal already spreading through every drawing room in wizarding Britain. The confrontation that would come before dessert arrived.

  When Andi looked up again, their eyes met. Her sister's face had gone still in a way Narcissa recognized from childhood. The expression Andi wore when trying not to cry. Her lips pressed together. The brightness in her eyes hadn't faded.

  Andi had watched her find exactly what she'd been hoping for. Partnership. Respect. A future where her scholarship might actually matter. And Andi's own choices—her relationship with Ted Tonks, her rebellion against everything their family represented—might destroy it all.

  The warmth spreading through Narcissa's chest didn't fade. If anything, it grew stronger. Whatever came next, whatever price her sister's scandal demanded, this moment remained real. Harry had offered something she'd thought impossible. And she wanted it.

  ·

  The entremets arrived.

  Olive green spears laid across the plate, their tips deep green fading to pale at the base. Hollandaise sat beside them, thick and glossy in the candlelight.

  Asparagus.

  She'd avoided it since childhood, always stringy and bitter no matter how the kitchen prepared it. She cut the tip from the nearest spear. The knife slid through easily. She brought it to her mouth, bracing for bitterness. The hollandaise was rich without being heavy, lemon cutting through the butter. The asparagus was firm, none of the stringiness she remembered. Almost sweet beneath the sauce.

  Better than she'd feared.

  Father's fork clicked against his plate. He set it down. "I imagine you've seen the article in Witch Weekly."

  "I don’t subscribe to that rag.” Harry cut a piece of asparagus. “But I’m aware of the article.”

  Across from her, Andi went very still.

  "Learning my daughter’s been courting… someone through the scandal sheets was a shock." Father's usual warmth had vanished. "It puts us all in an awkward position."

  "I can imagine," Harry said.

  "The article has already begun circulating,” her mother said. “Questions are already being asked in certain circles about how ‘consorting’ with our family might affect your own standing.”

  She couldn't look away. Her breath had caught. She was holding it. The silver was cool in her palm. She watched for any hesitation. Tightening around his eyes. Any doubt. Anything.

  "And yet, here I am."

  The breath she’d been holding released. She felt almost lightheaded. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face.

  He is here, isn’t he? Is it… for me?

  The silence stretched. Harry resumed eating his asparagus.

  Her father shifted in his seat. "I suppose we should ask plainly. Does the situation concern you? Would it affect any consideration in… associating with our family?"

  "Association with your family is exactly why I'm here." Harry looked right at her. "Nothing has changed."

  Was it always so warm in here? She reached for her glass of water, uncomfortably aware of the tightness of her collar. The crystal was blessedly cool against her skin.

  Crystal rang faintly. Her mother: "You're saying the scandal doesn't factor into your assessment?"

  "I think for myself," Harry said. "Besides, public opinion is a fickle thing. I'm quite certain they'll be on to something else soon enough."

  He wasn’t wrong. The sheep were always grazing. They’d be onto another pasture before long.

  "Be that as it may, you do realize there will be consequences," her mother said. "Social complications. For all of us."

  "Undoubtedly." Harry took another bite. "Though I imagine the only lasting consequences will depend on how the family responds. Not too hastily, I hope."

  Her father had been watching Harry throughout. His usual warmth hadn’t returned, but much of the stiffness had bled away.

  “Quite right,” Father said finally. He looked to Andromeda, then her mother. "We'll address this. Properly."

  Andi nodded, gaze fixed on her barely-touched asparagus.

  Her mother turned back to Harry. "The young man in question. His background troubles you not at all?"

  "I've never met him." Harry resumed eating. "So I couldn't say whether he troubles me or not. But Andromeda's judgment of his character seems far more relevant than mine could ever be."

  "That's a remarkably progressive view."

  "Is it?" Harry paused. "I thought it was just acknowledging that she knows him and I don't."

  Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it again. She exchanged a glance with her father. Some private communication. She’d swear they practice Legilimency.

  Harry continued eating as though nothing particularly momentous had occurred.

  She cut another spear. The hollandaise had cooled, but the asparagus remained tender.

  Across from her, Andi was eating again. Her sister's shoulders had loosened slightly. The rigid terror that had defined her posture had eased.

  She finished her asparagus. Every bite of the vegetable she'd always hated.

  The plates were cleared.

  ·

  The sweet arrived.

  Charlotte Russe, its crown of Bavarian cream pale beneath a fretwork of candied violets. The ladyfinger walls stood crisp and golden, a delicate fortress protecting the richness within.

  She slid her spoon through the structure, the cream yielding like a sigh. A cool, vanilla-kissed flavour filled her mouth. It was light and delicate. Half was gone before she knew it. Gravity itself seemed to have less of a hold on her.

  “Your estate sounds remarkable,” she said. The words came freely, her usual filters dissolved. “Overlooking the ocean and surrounded by so many creatures. It must be magical.”

  “It is rather wild, but it’s home.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “The griffins have claimed the eastern cliffs. And while the gargoyles are a bit rough around the edges, they’re rather welcoming. The fairies have been a bit of a handful. Whimsy’s been at war with them the past fortnight—they keep raiding her pantry.”

  “It sounds lovely,” she said. Her voice sounded somewhat dreamy to her own ears. “I imagine you’ve still quite a bit to do to get it back in order?”

  “Ah, I suppose I do, at that.” Harry scratched his cheek.

  “Well, I’m sure Father would be happy if we came to assist a bit.” She glanced at Father. He nodded. “And I know I’d love to see it for myself.”

  Her mother’s brows had risen, she looked ready to speak, but Father was quicker. “ Yes, we’d be most pleased, if it isn’t an imposition. We could make a day of it.”

  Her cheeks were beginning to feel a bit sore. Was she truly smiling so wide?

  “And Andi must come as well.” She looked across the table to her sister, who was now sitting up a bit straighter, all signs of her earlier near collapse gone. “There has hardly ever been anyone more gifted with plants. I’m sure she’d set things in order.”

  Looking back to Harry, she realized she’d not given him room to respond. She’d been rather forceful, hadn’t she? She did hope he didn’t mind.

  He laughed. “That sounds brilliant.”

  Clink. Her plate was clean. Her legs were swaying beneath the table. She had such energy, she simply must get up and do something. It felt as though she’d been struck by a Cheering Charm.

  ·

  The savoury arrived.

  A wedge of Stilton, veined like marble, stood beside a pear slice poached in spiced wine. Walnuts, their shells cracked open like tiny skulls, and crisp water biscuits completed the plate.

  She took a small bite of the cheese. It tasted off. Rancid, almost. The taste coated her tongue, bitter and sour.

  Boom.

  The door crashed against the wall.

  No. No. No.

  "There you are." Bellatrix stood in the doorway, hair wild around her shoulders. "My darling Cissy. And the man who wishes to pluck my precious flower."

  Her fingers had gone numb. Had Bella let a chill in with her?

  "Bellatrix." Father's voice carried warning. "You’re late."

  "Oh, don't you fuss, Daddy." Bella waved a hand, sweeping into the room. "Better late than never, isn’t it? And I simply had to meet him. I must make sure he's worthy of our precious girl." Her gaze fixed on Harry, eyes frighteningly wide and unblinking. "Can't have just anyone sniffing around."

  Please Bella.

  Her mother had gone rigid. "This is hardly appropriate—"

  "I know, I know. You're still in a tizzy about Andi's little scandal." Bella glanced at Andromeda with affection. "Don't worry. She's just going through a mudblood lover phase. She'll tire of him soon enough. I’m sure of it."

  Across the table, Andi had gone white. Frozen.

  Bella turned back to Harry. He hadn't flinched. Not even moved, really. His expression remained calm, almost curious, as he observed her sister.

  "So." Bella leaned against the table. "What makes you think you deserve her?"

  "She’s not a prize." Harry cut a piece of Stilton. "But I'd like the opportunity to make her happy."

  Bella's head tilted. "How refreshingly honest. Most men prattle on about their bloodlines and vaults. You're not going to bore me with credentials?"

  "No."

  A laugh escaped Bella's throat. Sharp and genuine. "Oh, not bad.” She circled closer. "Tell me. What would you do if someone threatened her?"

  "Remove the threat."

  "How brutally direct." Bella's smile widened. "And if that someone was family?"

  "Then I'd hope her family would prove reasonable enough not to force me into that position."

  The silence stretched. Bella studied him. Her head tilted, wide eyes narrowing to slits.

  Harry took a bite of his pear. He chewed slowly, gaze on his plate.

  The tightness that had gripped her chest had eased. She took a slow, deep breath.

  "You're not like that preening peacock Malfoy," Bella said finally. "He practically whimpered when I asked what he'd do if I hexed his pretty face." She straightened. "Fine. You'll do. But if you hurt her, I'll make you wish you'd never been born."

  "Fair enough."

  Bella turned to her, familiar affection back in her eyes. "He's adequate, Cissy. Better than adequate. Don't let him get away." Then she was moving toward the door. "Enjoy your dinner. I've got better things to do than watch you all eat cheese."

  The door slammed behind her.

  Silence.

  Her father cleared his throat. "Well. That was... unexpected."

  Her mother reached for her wine. Her hand wasn't quite steady. She took a large drink.

  Andi's face remained pale, but she was breathing again.

  Harry cracked a walnut.

  She looked at him. Really looked at him. He was calm. Her sister’s mania had washed over him, seemingly having no effect whatsoever.

  She wasn’t floating anymore, but the ground beneath her felt solid.

  She cut a piece of pear. The wine-soaked fruit was sweet against her tongue.