Alexander thumped his tail on the ground when Fortuna pushed open the door to the Shrieking Shack. He wasn't a very lively or demonstrative dog, but he'd learned their presence meant food and had taken to waiting for them every evening.
"It's undignified," she said, stepping out of the way and around the dog so Flavia could follow her in.
Flavia cast the spell that lit the torches on the first floor, then resumed their conversation. "More undignified than loitering outside the portrait waiting for someone else to say two words?" she asked. "Just how long did you plan on standing in the corridor?"
Fortuna set her bag down on the table, which she'd repaired a few days ago and spruced up—as in, turned into spruce—using transfiguration. "Precisely as long as I did," she said, and started unpacking their supplies.
"And what if I hadn't been the one to find you? Anyone else would have thought you were stupid enough to forget a password with your name in it, which is surely less dignified than having your name in the password to begin with."
"Perhaps I simply wished to see you and knew you'd be along presently."
"If a girl says 'fortuna major' in an empty corridor and nobody hears her, does she still lose face?"
"I would hear it," Fortuna said. "And the Fat Lady would hear it. And it would be undignified."
"You said that about nicknaming Harbinger," Flavia said. "While he was licking his arse on your bed."
"Cleanliness is dignified," Fortuna countered. "Harbinger is a fastidious young man who deserves respect."
"You let him lick your hand less than two minutes later," Flavia said as she extended her own hand for Alexander's inspection.
Having neither a ready comeback nor a willingness to use her power to generate one, Fortuna busied herself with presenting an entire cottage pie to their dog. It was one of three she'd brought for the evening, and she anticipated getting to eat a quarter of one.
He was clean now, too, thanks to the combined efforts of herself, Flavia, and a very large bucket of soapy water. He'd submitted to the bath but had fled when Flavia had broken out a comb, which put him well below Harbinger's standards of grooming. Nonetheless, Fortuna was pleased with the improvement.
"It could be worse," Flavia said. "It could be 'fortuna
minor.'"
Fortuna sniffed. "It could also be anything else. Such as 'The Word Flavia Means Blonde but Flavia de Luce Isn't Blonde.'"
"And you don't think you're major?"
"It doesn't make any
sense," Fortuna said, finally giving vent to a week and a half of pent-up annoyance. "'Major' means 'bigger.' A bigger fortune? Why is that a password? Unless fortuna is in the ablative, in which case it would be 'bigger
than fortuna.' But that's just..."
Flavia burst out laughing and Fortuna stopped talking. It dawned on her that she was being
ribbed. This was also undignified, but she didn't counterattack.
Her friend's laughter eventually subsided and she caught her breath. "I think you should enjoy it while it lasts, which shouldn't be too long. View it as a title. Revel in the fact that every Gryffindor must acknowledge your greatness if they wish to enter your domain."
"I don't need a title."
"You said that about His Majesty," Flavia said. "And you were wrong."
The two of them considered Alexander. He was looking up at them, panting a little. His eyes were bright and his head cocked to one side, and—unusually for him—he wasn't eating.
Flavia reached down to scritch between his eyes. "I think we need to vary King George's diet," she said thoughtfully. "He hasn't touched his pie."
"Perhaps he's feeling ill from eating our entire case of chocolate frogs last night. I'm surprised he isn't dead."
"He's a wizard dog," Flavia returned. "The chocolate is probably normal for his breed."
"His breed," said Fortuna, who hadn't forgiven the loss of the frogs, "is mutt."
And with that, they went upstairs to their potions lab and got to work.
They had transformed the Shrieking Shack from a run-down wreck to a homely haven—or at least a haven that Fortuna's power thought was homely—since their first journey. Dust and debris had been swept from the hardwood floor and the tattered remains of decades old wallpaper had been removed and replaced with wood paneling and tapestries.
They'd redone the bedroom using sheets unwittingly donated by Romilda Vane and easy chairs snuck out from an empty classroom with levitating charms. What little space left had been claimed by Alexander's bed—a gratuitously large and abrasively green pillow taken from a Slytherin upperclassman who may, or may not, have been related to Flavia—and the potions lab.
The lab had started to gain the sheen of a mad scientist's lair, which was the aesthetic Fortuna suspected Flavia was going for in spite of her vehement denials. She
could have neatly organized things as Fortuna could have transfigured any storage container she desired, but instead everything was in full display. Vials full of multicolored solutions lined layers of shelves and vine-like strings of chemical tubing wound all over the desk and between flasks. Perpetually chilling reflux condensers, magically powered rotary evaporators, and painfully normal erlenmeyer flasks stood at the ready.
It was the best setup Fortuna could provide with the resources of Hogwarts at her power's disposal, and Flavia could not have been happier with it. She surveyed the largess and connected the thought back to one of the items on her agenda. "Do you think Professor Snape's been angry lately because he lost so many ingredients?" she asked, knowing what Flavia's reaction would be.
"
Severus Snape," Flavia spat, slamming a library book down on her tabletop more harshly than it deserved, "does not belong in the position of Potions Professor at Hogwarts. He doesn't deserve the
privilege of
looking at the parchment upon which my essays are written, let alone
reading the words I have set down thereon. The
insolent assumption he is qualified to assign them numerical value is
not to be borne. Why that
presumptuous cretin is allowed to teach at
this school is so far beyond what I could imagine that, that—" She broke off, trying to find a way to vocalize her the full extent of her disdain.
Alexander, who had occupied the pillow and was watching them, growled.
"Clever boy," Flavia said to Alexander, and gave him a sugar mouse. Then she resumed her ranting. "He has done
nothing but ruin potions for an entire generation of witches and wizards. How many students have given up on the field or decided to forego their dreams to avoid his classes? How many undeserving pupils have passed on due to his favoritism? He has pushed back the very forces of magical and scientific progress. It's gross negligence and I would be better off teaching that class myself than to continue going to it."
"You
are teaching that class yourself," Fortuna said. "And you've done well so far."
In fact, everyone had done well over the past week. In Tuesday's Charms class, Angelique had drawn Professor Flitwick's praise by correctly casting a spell on her first try. Professor Flitwick, overjoyed at a new student pulling off an incantation so quickly, had asked her how she had managed to overcome the ineptitude she'd shown in her first week—not in so many words, of course. Angelique had excitedly described the study group.
The Professor awarded ten points to Hufflepuff for good spellmanship and teamwork, and this had inspired other students to join. Their Wednesday meeting included twelve people, and Fortuna knew that two other groups had started since then. Competition was now inevitable, and that competition would drive overall improvement. Fortuna Floris would soon be one bright student among many.
Her
other problem had been resolved as well. On Thursday, Astoria's mother had traveled to Malfoy Manor in response to an invitation to tea from Narcissa Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy had sent no such invitation and did not take well to her afternoon being disrupted. They muddled through, but the incident had left both women feeling angry and humiliated.
On Friday, both Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Greengrass had owled their children asking for any insight into the fiasco they might provide, and by Saturday, Astoria had stopped viewing the study group as an opportunity to spy on others of her year in order to gain standing with Draco Malfoy. Without her poking and prodding, Fortuna would be able to fade into the background in the coming weeks.
She just had to solidify Flavia's enrollment. The study group had grown on her over the past week, especially once Snape had offended her, but she still doubted that she was going to get anything out of the time she devoted to it. It would take her a few months to fully appreciate how much she could enjoy helping others.
So Fortuna continued to press the point. She started to tick off the members of the study group on her fingers. "The 91 you got was the highest grade in our class. I got an 87, Candidus got an 84, the Hufflepuffs got 80s and 81s."
"And Coleman and Greengrass got 86s despite having the same quality essay as the Hufflepuffs. House bias at work."
"True. But you said it yourself. The point isn't the grades, it's that you're getting people to learn and
understand."
Not one to be deterred from a righteous rage, Flavia ignored this. "And
none of those answers on
any of our essays were wrong and he knows it. Marking me down was retaliation. He was just looking for an excuse to get back at me for proving one of his points wrong in class."
"I don't think that what you said matters to him. I think the fact you're a Gryffindor does. And he's in a bad mood because he lost his ingredients and probably blames Gryffindors, even if he doesn't know
which Gryffindors are behind it."
Flavia huffed, then turned back to her book. "We should steal more, then."
"We will."
Flavia accepted this point with a begrudging grumble and turned back to her book. "There's a new moon on Thursday," she said, while flipping through the pages. "We'll have to brew the Veritaserum then, but we can crush moonstone and prepare some of the other ingredients tonight."
"Veritaserum?" Fortuna asked, because she wasn't supposed to know the answer.
"A potion that encourages people to tell the truth. It's not foolproof, but the ability to resist it is rare. We'll dangle Harry Potter as bait, ambush Black, and get him to spill his guts.
"How do we dangle someone else?"
"Well, I don't suppose
we have to," Flavia said. "Black knowing he's at Hogwarts will do, and he should know that. If he was still able to escape Azkaban after twelve years of Dementors, he should still be able to do basic arithmetic."
Something occurred to her and she turned her power off before asking the question. "Why," she said slowly, "did he not immediately escape Azkaban?"
The question gave Flavia pause. "You're right," she said. "If he had been able to do it when he arrived there, he would have done it then instead of waiting twelve years with dementors."
"Something must have changed this summer. Someone from the outside made contact and helped him."
"Perhaps," Flavia said. "Or perhaps he completed something big while inside. It may have taken him some time, but it could be possible. After all, Joseph Gay-Lussac spent nearly a decade formulating Charles's Law, despite deducing the principles behind it seven years earlier."
The idea of a prisoner deducing some hidden secret about the inner workings of Azkaban or inventing some kind of wandless magic after twelve years around the Dementors seemed ludicrous, even taking Flavia's metaphor into account. No, a person on the outside with connections could more easily have gotten him out.
She decided to allow herself a test.
If I had to help a prisoner escape from Azkaban, how would I do it?
Her mind practically exploded with possibilities. Human guards could be bribed, dementors could be distracted, walls could be broken through, people could be disappeared.
If I were a wandless prisoner who'd spent twelve years in Azkaban and didn't have my power, how would I escape by myself?
No options. Telling.
"It seems more likely that someone from You-Know-Who's side of the war helped him out," she ventured.
"Like Lucius Malfoy?" Flavia snorted. "He hasn't got the guts."
Alexander wheezed and Fortuna checked him over to make sure he wasn't actually dying from excess of chocolate frog, even if he did deserve to.
"I overheard my father talking about the war one night, and he thinks people like Malfoy want people like Black to
stay in prison because that's where people like Malfoy belong and people like Black know that people like Malfoy aren't in there with them."
Fortuna took a moment to think that sentence through.
"What's important is that he's out now and that we focus on getting the jump on him when he does arrive. I was kidnapped before the school year started and I do
not intend on having it happen again. We will need to—"
"You were
what," Fortuna interrupted.
"Oh," Flavia said, a little flummoxed. "I didn't explain that, did I?"
"You did not."
"Well one morning I found a body in our cucumbers," she said with glee in her eyes. "It was an old school friend of my father's."
Flavia's desire for her to ask more was about as subtle as a secondary schoolboy's crush, but Fortuna was happy to let her brag.
"I assume you got yourself involved immediately," Fortuna said.
"Of course! The police force was completely baffled. I spent days tracking back through the man's belongings, digging through newspaper archives, speaking with my father's old associates, and finally uncovering the truth of the matter."
She preened a little.
"Kidnapping," Fortuna said, pointedly.
"Oh, the killer realized I figured out what he'd done before I could get away. He tied me up and threw me in a cellar, for all the good it did him. Dogger came along and clocked him one good. Drove Harriet's car right through the library wall. It's quite a long story."
"I'd be interested in hearing it sometime," Fortuna said. "Sometime
before we evaluate your ideas on how to trap Sirius Black."
"Yes, well, I was caught unaware then, but be sure that this time I will not be so flat-footed. I think we should research intruder detection charms in the library tomorrow. I'm mostly worried about Black showing up before next month, when the Veritaserum will be done."
Fortuna held herself back from any questions on the potion. Flavia's normal exuberance had faded after talk of the kidnapping, leaving quiet contemplation. She had been speaking as if she was barely paying attention to what came out of her mouth.
She let the silence that followed to linger before asking, "Is there something wrong?"
"Not really. The murder was hectic—they arrested Father at first—and a lot of things came out. I found out that the financial situation my family currently finds itself in is less than favourable. There is a chance that we will have to sell Buckshaw, our home."
No, there isn't, Fortuna decided.
"It would be nice to solve a mystery without any shattering revelations. At least here we know who did it and why, and all we have to do is catch him and shake him down to find out everything about his friends."
Fortuna let the silence hang, but she could feel the expectation that Flavia's confidences be repaid.
"I spent the past three and a half years in a foster home with six other children at any given time," she said. "I hardly remember anything from before that."
Flavia shifted. Fortuna asked herself why, and saw that Flavia had just understood why she'd asked about memory potions that first day.
"I only just remembered losing my parents because of the dementor on the train. So I understand the pain of shattering revelations."
Flavia reached out to put a hand on Fortuna's shoulder. She let her do it. "Is that what the book is for?" she asked. "Remembering things?"
"Yes," Fortuna admitted. Of course Flavia had noticed Fortuna writing in the journal every morning, but she hadn't commented on it until now. "But it's not working."
Even primed to use her power to write the moment she woke up, her dreams slipped away from her. There were snatches of things that slipped away faster the harder she tried to them down. What she had been able to gather over several nights was an impression of sterile white hallways, and there wasn't much she could do with that.
"I think I must have been in a hospital after my parents died, but I don't
know. No hospital—I mean, no hospital I know about—has any record of me. There's a part of me lost in the past, and it's somewhere I can't reach."
Flavia was quiet for a while longer. Then she said, "I know what you mean. People act like I'm Harriet, my mother. But the only parts of her left are in a locked room, sitting to rot or be taken away, or—or sold off. We don't even have a body."
Alexander whined and put his head in Flavia's lap. She scratched away at his ears. "I often wonder what it would have been like," she said. "If that hadn't happened."
What would she have been if her parents hadn't been killed? Where would she be? Would her family have been happy with her? Would she be with Flavia now, going to Hogwarts?
"So do I," she said.
✶✶✶
Professor Lupin paced in front of the classroom as the last of his first year Gryffindors and Slytherins trickled in. Fortuna had quickly grown to respect him despite his inexperience. He was a competent man who wanted to teach and, if the stories from upperclassmen were to be believed, those were two crucial traits that had been missing from the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for some time.
He immediately began to speak once they'd taken their seats. "As I said on the first day, this will not be a class like Charms or Transfiguration. You will not be learning spells and judged on that, though you will learn spells. You will be judged on
how you use the spells. Can you identify the creature you come across and apply the right spell in time?"
He directed the class's attention to a large cabinet in the front of the room.
"The faculty and I have been collecting boggarts for students to practice on, and we have trapped one here. Can anyone tell us what a boggart is? Yes, Mr. Goggin?"
A brawny Slytherin put his hand down. "Sir, a boggart is a monster that turns into whatever you think is scariest."
"Quite right. One point to Slytherin. The spell to banish it is simple, but you have to think of a way to make what you fear humorous."
He walked them through the incantation and wand movements and gave them a few minutes to think about their fear and how they'd face it. Chairs scraped and shoes pounded as the student body got situated in a crude half-circle, whispering amongst themselves. Jessica left her fellow Slytherins to come bother Flavia and Fortuna.
"Whaddya expect to get?" she asked.
"I imagine it will be Ophelia coming to pinch my cheeks and call me cute pet names," Flavia answered. "There's nothing more terrifying than Feely when she is pretending to be friendly. How about yourself?"
"Probably that study group," Jessica lied. "Nothing more frightening than being stuck reading books with you lot forever. What about—"
"Miss Floris, would you like to be our first attempt?" Lupin asked with a smile.
Fortuna did not, in fact, want to be the first one to try, but refusing a direct request from a professor would be more noticeable than going first. She walked to the center of the circle, conscious of her classmates' eyes boring into her back.
This was hard for her. What did she have to fear? Boredom? Someone discovering the nature of her abilities?
No. Too abstract for a monster in a cabinet that turned into spiders and mummies for a living. She asked herself and saw the fog.
Which made sense. The Dementor had cracked open some container inside of her and the fog had spilled out. It was the only thing she'd found yet that completely blocked her ability to see using her power. Her biggest weakness and the obstruction to every question she had about herself. The unknown, after all, was far more frightening than any movie monster.
The boggart would seize on that, and she could turn it into a shower of glitter. Everybody would be too preoccupied picking it out of their hair and rubbing it out of their eyes to wonder why she was afraid of clouds.
The door creaked open.
Her power was prepped to cast the spell—three steps. Visualize glitter, swish her wand, shout a word.
But the boggart took its time.
The first thing that came out was a black leather shoe polished to mirror brightness.
Fortuna mentally faltered.
A pale hand wrapped itself around the edge of the door and pushed it open, revealing the woman within. She stepped out, rising to her full height. Her hands went to smooth nonexistent creases out of her sharp black slacks and the tailored black jacket she wore over a starched white button-up shirt, then up to adjust a slim black tie secured with the same even knot Fortuna used.
I want to know who that is.
But fog swept across her foresight, cutting her off from her power. All she could do was stare.
She recognized the face that stared back. It was her mother's face, pretty and neatly framed by dark, not quite curly hair—but hard-edged and implacable, stripped of kindness, warmth, everything that had made her
Mama. Seeing that face like this was somehow more chilling, more unbearable than watching it dissolve in acid.
The woman surveyed the classroom with her dark eyes, dispassionately taking the measure of each of her classmates and the professor. She seemed to conclude that they were all irrelevant, and finally turned the full force of her gaze onto Fortuna.
"Hello, Fortuna," said the woman in the suit. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like my body back."
