Troll: 13. Fly high, Icarus! (Patreon)

Preface

Well, I felt like giving you guys at least one last gift before I check out for the month. First off, thankyou to all 200 of you who filled out this survey. I even had results coming in from people who weren't even on my Patreon because I guess some of you shared the link. Not that I mind one way or the other, I think the sample size is big enough that it's not important.

I'm going to take a month to flush out my outlines, take your responses into account, and maybe learn how to set up a Discord channel or something.

Here are the survey results: https://bit.ly/46EGnD4

Anyway, according to you guys, Troll is the single most looked forward to fic, even beating out Spoon. I have no idea why this is so popular, I guess HP is just that huge a fandom, but here it is.

Chapter 13: Fly high, Icarus!

Blaise Zabini

Hogwarts, Great Britain

Saturday morning found me awake and alert. I was the first one up, because no matter how much they puffed themselves up as the “pureblood heirs of magic,” they were no different than any other teenager I’d ever known. No class meant no reason to wake up early. Hogwarts itself seemed to account for the weekend lethargy that plagued its students; breakfast started and ended an hour later.

I grabbed a seat in the common room by the lake. Typically, this was the “seventh year section,” the part of the common room reserved for the eldest, and presumably, the most talented, of us. But as it was now, virtually no one was up to shoo me away.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched out across the entirety of this side, bathing the room in an eerie, green light. No doubt artificial, but beautiful nonetheless. Magic ensured the glass stayed clear, just as it ensured the lake’s depths remained visible despite the lack of natural light.

A pack of grindylows swam through the water in pursuit of a colossal eel of some sort. It had two, black stripes down its back but was otherwise a pale, ghostly white. Glass-like fangs too big for its mouth kept its jaw open, but that didn’t seem to deter the water demons. Their tentacles grasped at the eel, latching on while they continually stabbed at the creature with spears made of lotus stalks. It was a death by a thousand cuts; I almost felt sorry for it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” came a voice behind me. I startled; the underwater chase had captured my attention enough that I didn’t even notice I was no longer alone. “Really? And here I thought you’d see me coming.”

I turned to find Cheryl Dupree, the fourth year halfblood. She had charcoal-black hair, kept short and out of her gray eyes, and a dusting of freckles that were nearly invisible against her tanned skin.

I glanced at the book on my lap, Zonko's Pranks and Practical Jokes, then up at her with a pointed look. “Dupree, right? Good morning.”

“Yup. I read that. Zonko sells it as a pranking book, but a few of those can be useful for actual dueling.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“I recommend the jelly-legs curse, locomotor wibbly. It’s dead-useful in a fight, and pretty easy to cast, not too taxing for a firstie.”

“Noted, thanks. Any other gems in this book?”

“Ehh, some. Specific spells like the bat bogey hex can be funny, but they take a long time to cast, especially as it’s an intentionally bastardized conjuration. Doing it in a duel for what amounts to a gag isn’t as effective as, you know, just learning combat transfiguration,” she said. She reached for the book. When I handed it over, she flipped through the table of contents before earmarking a few for me. “Learn these. They’re not great for dueling purposes, but they’re easy to learn and will train your magic to get used to offensive spells.”

“Thank you, Dupree,” I said sincerely. She was known for being a capable duelist; I considered advice from her to be quite valuable.

“So, was last night a one-off?” she asked casually, a bit too casual, like someone leaning against the wall with their arms crossed and whistling. It made her seem more conspicuous, not less.

“Hmm? If you mean the reading, no, that wasn’t a one-off. My services are for sale.”

“Oh, good. I thought you were trying to get in Malfoy’s knickers.”

I laughed. “Sorry, she’s not my type.”

“What? Not into blondes?”

“Not into the ego. At the risk of sounding misogynistic as hell, she’d be a lot more attractive if she smiled more.”

“Fair enough. So, how much?”

“That depends on what you want. Some things are easier to see.”

“I need you to find my hair clip. Can you do that?”

That made me arch a brow in confusion. “You found me in the morning, on a weekend, and gave me advice, so you could have me find your hair clip…”

“It was my grandmother’s alright?”

“Family heirloom?”

“Nothing like that. It’s not enchanted or anything if that’s what you’re asking. It’s just a memento and I’d like it back.”

“Doable.” I dug around my bag and withdrew my crystal ball. “Hand, please.”

“You’re not going to ask for payment?” she asked, surprised.

“Your advice is valuable. I consider that payment,” I said plainly. Then, with a teasing smirk, “You’re always free to donate to my poor, hungry wallet of course.”

“Hah, a firstie with a sense of humor?”

“I’m hilarious. Now, hand, please.” She placed her hands in mine. I opened up my third eye and began to search for what she’d done the night prior. “Let’s see, after you and Selwyn left last night, you…”

She withdrew her hand with a scowl. “Nope. You don’t need to know that.”

“Yeah, sorry. I sometimes see more than anyone would like.  Where should I start first?”

“I left the hair clip on my dresser last night and now it’s gone. Find it.”

I nodded and continued looking. If she was so sure where she last placed it, the fact that she came to me meant she suspected someone of stealing it.

I latched on to Cheryl, using her existence, her fate, as a trail marker of sorts. Sure enough, I saw her remove a silver clip from her hair and set it on her nightstand before heading back out of the dorm to wash up for the night.

“Good news, you’re right. You did leave it on your nightstand. It’s the silver one with three amethysts lodged into wrought stars, right?”

“Orchids, actually, my grandmother loved the flowers, but yes. And how is that good news?”

“You’re not senile.”

“Har-de-har-har. Some bitch stole it! Watch, it’s Selwyn. She’s always been pissy that I don’t crawl on my knees for her pureblood princess bullshit.”

“You lost last night,” I pointed out.

She scowled. “I have a better record; she just caught me off guard. So, where’s my clip?”

I shrugged. “I’ve been using you as a tether to find what I want. Seeing who took the clip, especially when you don’t know, is adding a degree of separation. Let me try again.”

It wasn’t much of a mystery. In the end, it wasn’t Samantha Selwyn. Their rivalry reminded me of Lyra and Tracey’s relationship, except Cheryl didn’t have a pureblood noble cousin to hide behind. So, Cheryl did the only thing she could: She got strong, strong enough that most people in her year didn’t want to mess with her. In that light, Samantha winning last night might have done more than just bruise her pride.

At any rate, the one who stole Cheryl’s hair clip turned out to be a girl who orbited Samantha’s clique. She took it when Cheryl was taking a shower and Cheryl had been too upset at her loss to check before climbing into bed.

I wasn’t sure of the motive; legilimency was hard enough by itself and legilimency through a vision was unheard of, but I could guess easily enough. She likely saw Cheryl’s star falling last night and decided to be proactive about “showing the half-blood her place” or something equally asinine.

“Oh, thank Morgana,” Cheryl said.

I raised a brow at that. “Why is that better?”

“I know her. She’s a bloody coward. I can press her to get my clip back, especially now that I know who has it. Selwyn? She’s a bitch, but she’s also competent.” “And politically inconvenient to provoke,” I heard, though it remained unsaid.

“Fair enough. Are we done then?”

“Yeah, we are. Thanks, Zabini.”

“Always a pleasure. If you have any tips on dueling, or useful spells, I’m always happy to accept those as payment.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, smiling slightly. Then she put on a thunderous expression as she stomped back towards the dorms, no doubt to rip the thief a new asshole.

Oh well, it wasn’t my business.

X

I made a show of looking up at breakfast. I wasn’t expecting an owl, but I knew who was. “Oh, hey, Longbottom’s got a gift.”

It drew enough attention from my housemates. We watched as he unwrapped the package, revealing a clear, glass sphere decorated with a golden band wrapped around the center.

“It’s a remembrall,” Theo said, “nothing special.”

“What’s it do?” Gregory asked.

“It turns red when the holder forgets something.” As if on cue, the orb in Neville's hand filled with a crimson smoke. “Yeah, like that. Problem is, it only tells you that you’ve forgotten something, not what you forgot, where, or when.”

Lyra let out a dainty sniff of an upturned nose. “So it’s worthless then, like Longbottom, barely better than a squib, that one.”

I smiled enigmatically at her. Then I decided to goad her some more. “Don’t be so sure, Malfoy. I for one think Longbottom’s got a lot of potential. Who knows? He might be even stronger than you. I’d be delighted to help him find out, for a consultant’s fee of course.”

“Longbottom? Better than me? You’re hilarious. Your ‘advice’ isn’t much better, Zabini. Watch, Slytherin will have a new seeker before the day’s out.”

I bowed my head in a flourishing bow. Her ego was a gift that kept on giving. “Of course, Miss Malfoy. I look forward to seeing the tapestry you weave. And as for the remembrall, who knows? It might be more valuable than it seems at first glance. Sometimes, just knowing you’ve forgotten something can be the key you need to start looking at all.”

“Whatever. Why are you so interested in it?”

“It’s a form of divination.”

“How’s that divination?” Gregory frowned. He wasn’t all that bright, but he did try to remain engaged in the conversation, something that couldn’t be said for Vincent.

“Divination is anything that gets you information through magical means. Things like the point-me charm is divination, so is a remembrall. If a spell tells you something you didn’t know before, it counts. Not all of it is about reading tea leaves and trying to guess the future.”

“Huh.”

“Now, remembralls, they’re interesting because they work with the past and present, not the future. I’m not sure how the enchantment works exactly, but if I had to guess, it uses the holder as a focus to follow their previous actions and associated memories. That’s really complicated stuff. I wouldn’t even know where to begin to cast something like that,” I admitted freely. What I did with Dupree this morning was one thing, but for an object to know when the holder forgot something, it had to have access to the holder’s memories, at least to some degree. I doubted it was true legilimency, but it had interesting implications. “I really want to study it. I wonder if Longbottom would let me borrow it.”

“Whatever, Zabini. You can waste your time with a glass ball. Some of us have real magic to look forward to,” Lyra jabbed.

Despite her words, I could tell she’d remember my words. After all, magical artifacts, however limited, were quite rare. There was no such thing as mass, assembly line production in the magical world. Everything was bespoke, created on commission by an experienced enchanter.

The remembrall had value, not only because Neville, a fellow noble heir, had one, but because I, a housemate, indicated my interest in it. Value was subjective and, hopefully, like a little magpie who just noticed something shiny, this little encounter would keep the artifact in the back of her mind.

X

Visiting Madam Pomfrey was a surprisingly painless affair. She just cast a few diagnostic charms, had me down a vitality potion for general good health, and then sent me on my way after confirming that I wasn’t slowly dying to dark magic poisoning or something. Apparently, she really wanted to update my medical files.

That was how I found myself alongside the other first years from Gryffindor and Slytherin at the courtyard. As we heard it, the quidditch pitch had been reserved by the Gryffindors for the very first practice of the year. Wood was as obsessive over the sport as I’d been led to believe.

I found it funny how, without even a single word, most of us lined up with our houses. In just a week, the colors of our ties became social identifiers that most of us didn’t even question.

I was brought back from my musings by a loud clap from Madam Hooch. The flight instructor was a gray-haired, eagle-eyed woman in her forties or fifties, with a thin, athletic frame and a bit of a hooked nose that reminded me of a raptor’s beak. She had a piercing glare that instantly got us teens to simmer down.

“Alright, class, good morning. I am Madam Hooch, the flight instructor here at Hogwarts. I know some of you have ridden toy brooms before, but this will be new for many others. You will obey my instructions to the letter. Believe me, injuring yourself because you were overconfident is never worthwhile. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Madam Hooch,” all twenty of us echoed as one. Flying, as the prerequisite of one of the few recognized sports in the magical world, was the one class that had all of our attention.

“Very good. Stand to the left of your brooms. Hold out your right hand, and, from the gut, say, ‘Up!’ Got it?”

“Yes, Madam Hooch.”

Then, just because there’s always one, Dean Thomas asked, “But, what if we’re left-handed, ma’am?”

“Then stand to the right side and stick out your left hand,” she said. “Let’s use a bit of common sense, shall we? Now, everyone ready? On my go. One. Two. Three. Up!”

“Up,” I said. And the broom… did fuck-all.

Blaise Zabini was not a flyboy. He would never have become a Top Gun maverick, and nor would I. Neither of us had the talent or ambition for it. Oh, he had a cruising broom, an older model Cleansweep he conned off stepdad #4, but he didn’t look up into the sky and imagine the freedom of birds or the whimsy of the four winds or whatever the hell real flying aces craved.

No, he instead saw the sky as something to be treated with a healthy amount of caution. He’d go for a ride once in a while, but never farther up than six or seven feet off the ground. As far as he was concerned, falling from a considerable height was just one more possible vector by which he could have a “tragic accident.”

Even if Valencia had never demonstrated an inclination to harm him, he saw it as a pointless risk. In a house where “accidents” grew as seasonally as the fucking weeds, why tempt fate?

And so, the Hogwarts broom remained inert. It was old, older than I’d been alive, maybe older than Corbin had been alive. The enchantments on it had begun to fray and it just wasn’t as responsive as the old Cleansweep back home.

“You need to mean it, dears,” Madam Hooch said, addressing those of us who’d failed to take our brooms. “From the gut! Command it!”

I sighed but did as she said. It wiggled, just a bit.

“Having some trouble getting it up, Zabini?” Parvati heckled across from me. She wore a cheeky grin and had her broom twirling in her hand. “Don’t worry, lots of men struggle.”

“Really? A dick joke, Patil?” I deadpanned. “Hilarious.”

“I kno-Eep! Vi!” she yelped as Violet jabbed her in the side.

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” the Chosen One griped.

“Lies, you know you love me.”

“‘Love’  is such a strong word.”

I ignored them in favor of getting my stupid broom off the ground. In the end, I was forced to cheat by opening my Sight and copying the way Madam Hooch’s magic flowed into the broom’s enchantments. It took several more tries, but having a clear example to mimic helped me out a great deal.

Then I dropped it, only to do it again.And again.

It was fascinating to see how my magic triggered the enchantments on the broom. Unfortunately, because the enchantments were what allowed the broom to respond to such a simple show of intent, wandless telekinesis would have to remain a mystery to me for the foreseeable future.

My suspicions were right. The enchantments had to have worn down over the years. I couldn’t understand the spellwork, not in any arithmetic sense, but I could feel some of my magic trickling out the sides for lack of a better term, like water forced through a pipe with leaky seams. Enough water got where it was supposed to, but it was also a bit more wasteful than it should have been.

“What are you doing, Zabini?” Theo asked.

I dropped my broom again. “Studying. Don’t mind me, Nott.”

“Right… That there is called gravity. It is the principle which states that anything that goes up, must come down.”

“Thank you, your insight is valuable and appreciated,” I said, clearly not paying attention. The broom flew back into my hand, this time without any vocalizations on my part. Getting my mana to bend in that specific way while remaining silent was a bit tricky, but I wondered if it could serve me well when learning silent casting for real.

“Whatever, you’re nuts, mate.”

“Mhmm.”

The rest of class proceeded as scheduled. We mounted our brooms, a thousand dick jokes ran through my mind, and Neville lost control of his, taking off into the sky with a cry of fear.

It was unfortunate; rather than make him a more confident person, the extra years under his overbearing grandmother left the boy a nervous wreck, perhaps even more than he was in canon. He did get better at masking his anxiety with good manners, but faced with a new experience and the judgment of his peers, that mask shattered like glass.

I saw it coming yesterday. I could have stopped it, perhaps grabbed the broom or shoved him off while he was only a foot off the ground. He would have been embarrassed, maybe I would have lost some points because a Slytherin “bullied” a Gryffindor, shoved him like a muggle, but that would have been the end of things.

And then my prophecy to Lyra wouldn’t have come true. She wouldn’t pick up the remembrall. Violet wouldn’t become seeker. And most of all, I wouldn’t keep my promise to Daphne, to give her the leverage needed for social jockeying in our house.

Promises were important. I was loath to directly harm someone, but if it was the right of a seer to intervene, then surely the opposite was also true: It was the right of the seer to stand back and watch.

Besides, a broken arm was nothing. It sounded horrible in a muggle context. Without magic, it would take a solid four to six months of recovery. But with magic? Madam Hooch didn’t even bat an eye. She took one look at Neville, sighed, and dragged him to his feet before marching him to the medical wing.

The whole thing was considered little more than a papercut.

At least, that was how I justified it to myself. I… probably wouldn’t be telling Violet I could’ve stopped it. She considered Neville a friend and knowing I did nothing would probably poison her seeker appointment in her eyes.

I shelved my thoughts for the moment. We were but actors and now that Neville had played his part, I had my own role to play. I’d nudge things along, but the choices they made would be theirs.

I looked around to find the remembrall. Sure enough, it sat nestled in the grass, gleaming with the morning sun.

Gesturing to the remembrall on the ground, I said quietly, so only my housemates could hear, “Oh, hey, Longbottom’s dropped something.”

Lyra, my fat, oversized tuna, chomped on the bait with relish. She wore her pride like a crown, not knowing it was in truth the noose that would drag her along. She sauntered up to the artifact and held it out for all to see with a smug, proud grin. “So this is a remembrall then? Nothing special, Zabini.”

“I told you, Malfoy, it’s a lot more valuable than you seem to think. Just like Longbottom, it’s an item with hidden potential.”

“Right, you’re still on about that? Longbottom’s no better than a squib. He can’t even control these training brooms.”

“That’s why I called it potential. As in, he hasn’t grown into it yet. Maybe you should return it, Malfoy. Remember what I said last night? Don’t do anything aside from the ordinary or you might regret your decisions today.”

This was it, her chance. My warning, delivered as plainly as could be. It was the final opportunity for her to take a bow and hop off the stage.

To her credit, Lyra seemed to consider it for a moment. She looked down at the orb in her hand. Then her gaze flickered to the quidditch pitch, the three, towering goals that could be seen from even out here in the courtyard.

Her expression firmed and I knew she’d play her part. “You know what I think, Zabini? I think you’re full of it. About this thing, about Longbottom, and about the dumb reading too.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Violet barked. And the lead actress had arrived. I was counting on it. Violet was a punk, but she wasn’t too unlike Harry in truth: She was fiercely defensive over things she considered hers, friends especially. “Give it here; I’m going to return it to Neville.”

“And why should I listen to you, Potter?” Lyra scowled. It really was like watching a play. The way their personalities played off each other, I could almost imagine that this was some live-action take put on by a theater troupe. “It doesn’t belong to you either. The way I see it, Longbottom dropped it and left.”

“Give. It. Here,” Violet growled. She stomped towards Lyra, hand outstretched and demanding.

Lyra looked intimidated for a moment. Then she remembered she was a witch and a catfight was so very muggle. She slid the broom between her thighs and kicked off, rising with a controlled climb that admittedly put Neville’s earlier flight to shame.

“You want it so much? Come take it.”

Parvati placed a hand on Violet’s elbow. “Don’t, Vi.”

“Yeah, Madam Hooch said we can’t,” Leontes added.

For the briefest moment, I wondered if I’d have to apologize. Perhaps I’d given my yearmates less credit than they deserved. I wondered if this would be enough for Violet to back off and do the smart thing, like getting a professor to handle this. It wasn’t as if it was some huge secret that Neville had a remembrall after all; he’d unwrapped it over breakfast.

And then Lyra Malfoy opened her mouth.

“Oh, is that right? Then I guess this is mine,” Lyra taunted. For what it was worth, she knew how to get under Violet’s skin. “Come on then, show me what a Gryffindor can do, or are you a coward?”

That did it. Lyra said the c-word. To a Gryffindor. All thoughts of the consequences fled Violet’s mind and I leaned back to watch the script unfold.

Violet mounted her broom and rose into the air with a snarl. She was shaky at first, but she quickly righted herself as she fixed her eyes on the prize. The two engaged in a game of high-stakes tag as the rest of us watched from the ground below. Even those of us who could fly, I knew for a fact that Heath wasn’t a bad flyer, thought better of interfering.

“So Potter’s the seeker?” Daphne whispered beside me. I hadn’t realized she’d gotten so close.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tracey making a small scene, distracting the rest of my housemates so Daphne and I could have a private conversation. Those two really did work well together.

I coughed lightly into my fist. “I didn’t say that.”

“A feminine figure chasing a golden object. There’s a golden band around the remembrall. And Malfoy would cause it, but be unhappy with the outcome. I can put two and two together, Zabini.”

“Then don’t ask silly questions.”

We watched Lyra wind her arm back. She threw the remembrall as hard as she could, forcing Violet to dive after Neville’s artifact. She caught it with mere inches to spare, almost crashing through a window.

Violet descended as a hero. The Gryffindors got one over on us “slimy snakes,” Lyra took a hit to her reputation and bruised her ego, and I got to keep my promise.

Daphne let out a low whistle. “She’s good, a natural even.”

“She is, isn’t she? Like a Hungarian horntail taking flight, that one.”

“Oddly… specific… comparison, Zabini. Anything you’d care to tell me?”

“Hmm… For this fascinating story? Three hundred thirty-three galleons and three favors on top of the one you already owe me. A third of the pot for a third of the story seems like a fair price to me,” I said with an enigmatic smile.

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not. It truly is a wonderful story, my favorite of the seven to be honest.”

“Hpmh, keep your secrets then,” she huffed. And suddenly, I was looking forward to fourth year. Smugging at Daphne would be my entertainment for the year. And yes, that was a verb now. “Potter becomes the Gryffindor seeker… I can work with this. But how will this lead to Potter becoming seeker this year?”

“Whose window is that?” I asked in lieu of answering her.

“How would I… No…”

“Yes.”

“I can work with this. Well played, Zabini. Well played.”

“I’ll be calling in that debt, Greengrass.”

“Of course. Nothing’s free.”

Our conversation ended when the door to the castle flew open. As predicted, out came McGonagall, here to act out the final part of this little play.

“Miss Potter!” she shrieked, making Violet freeze like a deer in the headlights.

“Y-Yes, professor?”

“With me. The rest of you had better not step anywhere near those brooms. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” we chorused.

X

As exciting as our first flying lesson was, it really only took two hours, leaving me an hour before lunch to spend as I pleased. I spent it looking over the spells that Cheryl earmarked for me this morning.

She was right; they had simple, sharp wand movements that I could see chaining easily into other spells. Every last one of them could be dispelled by a simple finite, found in the Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1, but they were solid distractions and a good introduction to combat magics in general.

It also helped that some of these, like the rooster hex, was honestly kind of funny. It made people do the chicken dance and particularly powerful users could even make the victim crow like a rooster. Considering how reliant most wizards were on wand movements and vocalizations, I put that down as a priority to learn, along with the general counterspell of course.

While reading in the common room, I saw one of the older girls run for the hospital wing, clutching her distinctly elephantine nose. Judging by the smug look on Cheryl’s face and the conspicuous, silver and amethyst clip in her hair, I could hazard a guess as to her victim's identity.

Lunch came and went. Daphne looked pretty stoic through it all, but I could tell by the not-so-subtle smirk on her cousin’s face that they’d already begun to move. Really, these girls were vicious and I didn’t want to know what went on in their dorm.

In other news, this weekend was Club Day. The Hogwarts quidditch teams would be holding tryouts all throughout next week, and a friendly pickup game at the pitch later today for those of us with brooms, but this was the chance for the less popular clubs to attract some new blood.

The fifth year prefects, Gemma Farley and Evan Yaxley, handed out schedules of various events held over the weekend as the Hogwarts Choir, including their toads, sang for us in the middle of the great hall. It was… certainly interesting if nothing else. No, wizards didn’t typically sing with toads as accompaniment. This wasn’t a “wizards are fucking weird” thing, this was a “Hogwarts is fucking weird” thing, with a healthy dash of “Dumbledore doesn’t understand music.”

Still, it made lunch interesting if nothing else.

I did my best to ignore the insult to good taste going on in the front and looked over the slip of paper that Evan handed me. All told, there were ten clubs at Hogwarts: quidditch, broom racing, chess, charms, choir, art, dueling, magizoology, astronomy, and enchanting. Herbology didn’t have one because Sprout had limited greenhouse space, transfiguration because McGonagall was too busy as deputy headmistress, and potions because Snape could barely stand children even in the limited doses he was exposed to, which left Flitwick as the only head of house who oversaw a club for his own subject.

Of these, quidditch and broom racing were locked for most of us first years seeing how we had no brooms of our own. Magizoology was similarly locked until third year and though it sounded fascinating, enchanting was available to NEWT-level students.

There was a broom racing competition held around the Black Lake in two hours. There was also a dueling competition tomorrow morning, a mini-tournament held in a king of the hill format: Two people dueled and the winner remained on stage, trying to rack up as long a streak as possible. It was, of course, separated by year to be fair to us firsties.

Discounting those two time-specific events, the other clubs had open invitations to visit their club rooms throughout the day.

“So, where are you headed, Malfoy?” I heard Heath ask our resident princess. He’d been trying his best to make her feel better after, from her view, the disaster of their first flying lesson.

“Not the quidditch pitch, that’s for sure,” Daphne snarked cattily.

A flustered blush crawled up Lyra’s cheeks. “Oh, you think you’re just brilliant, don’t you, Greengrass?”

“Not as brilliant as you, clearly. Congratulations, Malfoy, you’ve managed to make Potter the youngest seeker this century. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear you did all this on purpose.”

“I did no such thing! Why the bloody hell would I want Potter to be seeker?”

“No? You mean that wasn’t your plan?” Daphne gasped in mock surprise. “You mean you didn’t pay a confirmed seer for information and act to anoint a first year seeker? Whyever did you bother hiring Zabini then?”

Heath glared fiercely at Daphne, then at me. She obviously thought to strike while the iron was hot. The rest of the students seemed content to watch the fireworks. I could hear some of the older years begin to ask what happened.

Lyra, her mask thoroughly cracked, flew through an array of emotions before settling on anger. She looked around for a target to blame and found me. “You! Zabini’s the one who set me up!”

I shrugged helplessly. “I did no such thing, Malfoy. You paid me five galleons to give you a reading. I told you in that reading that there may be a first year seeker, and that you are likely the catalyst. And then I advised you not attend the flying lesson at all as you seemed rather upset by the outcome. Please do not involve me. I know you and Greengrass have your little rivalry, but I want nothing to do with it. I was paid to provide a service and I have done so. Your actions are your own.”

“Y-Yeah, well, I bet you were working for Greengrass.”

“I do not disclose my clients nor what they want. You wouldn’t want me spilling secrets about your personal life, would you?”

She glared mulishly at me. “I don’t believe you. You set me up. I don’t know how, but you did.”

I shrugged and picked up a sandwich. It was one of those lovely, crustless sandwiches made for teatime. Cucumber, mayo, black peppers, and watercress, a personal favorite. “I know what I said. You know what you heard. In fact, most of the house saw me give you the reading yesterday evening. Face it, I’m neutral in this matter, and all future matters actually.”

“T-There’s no proof that Potter’s going to be seeker.”

“Truth. Thank you for correcting me. It’s sometimes hard to draw a line between the vision itself and any preconceived notions I may have. I saw a young, feminine figure on a broom. She chased a golden object. I assumed it was a snitch, but I guess I could be wrong. The remembrall does have a golden band wrapped around the clear orb after all.”

“Hah! It’s no big deal; I told you.”

“Maybe…” I drew out my words as if deep in thought. “But I recall you being unhappy about this. Not just now, but throughout the year. Whatever comes of today is something that will bother you for the rest of the year. At least. Well, I can’t tell you much more than that; visions are tricky business, even for me.”

I shut my trap. I could continue to tear Lyra down, but I just didn’t have it in me. She heard my words, acted on them, and now she’d suffer the consequences. I didn’t see the point in humiliating her further, even if it’d ingratiate me with Daphne.

In the end, I’d solidified my chops as a seer and that was enough for me.

Author’s Note

Remember the Halloween omake? That represents the absolute extreme a seer can go to. That’s the seer who sees the script and throws it in Fate’s face, saying “Nah, I can do better,” even if it means burning bridges and destroying relationships.

I see Blaise as more of a guiding hand. Manipulation is inevitable, both as an SI and especially so as a seer, but Blaise isn’t the type to remove all choices from a person. That’s the compromise he’s come up with for himself: He’ll set the stage, but the final decisions are their own.

I’d like to remind you that despite appearances, Lyra isn’t stupid, just stupidly prideful. She doesn’t see herself as a chess piece (even if she arguably is to Blaise), because Blaise’s manipulations aren’t obvious from the outset. He isn’t blackmailing her. He isn’t hexing her. He’s simply leading her to the well and waiting to see if she’ll take a drink.

The toad-choir thing is canon… for some reason…

Daphne is everyone’s “good girl” Slytherin in fanon. I wanted to try to portray her as something more than just a caricature. Sure she’s Blaise’s ally (in the sense that she owes him shit), and yeah she loves Tracey to bits, but she’s also a cruel, ruthless bitch who ticks off all the teen diva checkboxes.

Let me know what clubs you’d think would be interesting to see. No promises, because the US proves democracy is a failed experiment, but your thoughts are always interesting to read anyway.

No animal fact, but I’ve been listening to Miracles of Sound’s “Whatever Comes Our Way,” a song they made in tribute to Baldur’s Gate 3. Oh, and TeamFourStar’s “Day of Fate,” because my god is that thing hype even after so many years.