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HP428- Honeystrike
🕑 Added 2025-05-17 01:47:08 +0000 UTCFirst to pitch their invention was Dennis, he near bolted forward. He placed the box down, tapped it once, and it opened with a neat hiss to reveal… a quill. Not just any quill, though.
Dennis cleared his throat. “It’s a Recall Quill,” he said, talking a bit louder than intended due to his nervousness. “For students mostly. It logs every spoken word in class and lets you sort it later by topic.”
The quill gave a little twitch, scribbled something on its own, then floated mid-air waiting for instruction.
A guest from somewhere near the back—a man in pinstriped robes and the sort of voice that suggested he liked his own questions—called out, “What’s it do that a regular Quick-Quotes Quill doesn’t?”
Dennis didn’t miss a beat. “Quick-Quotes Quills work off magical intent. You either tell them to write everything, or let them… improvise. Which is fine if you’re happy reading back embellished rubbish or sitting through entire recordings.” He tapped the quill lightly. “The Recall Quill doesn’t do that. It stores spoken words—everything said in the room—without writing a thing at the time. Later, when you’re ready, you tap it again, and it writes it all down. Sorted by speaker, topic, and even tone, if you like.”
That earned a few intrigued murmurs.
Dennis pressed on, clearly on a roll. “So, if you're at a meeting, or a lesson, or, say, an interrogation—this just sits in your pocket. Quiet. Then later, you can get the exact transcript. No swishing. No noise. No awkward ink blotting halfway through your client ranting about their nephew’s cursed cauldron.”
One of the older gentlemen near the fireplace gave a low chuckle. “Useful for Ministry hearings.”
Dennis beamed. “Exactly, sir.”
The quill floated a little higher, ink shimmering faintly at the tip. Harry watched the reactions. Most of the students looked curious; a few adults were nodding.
Susan elbowed Harry gently. “Bet Gringotts’ll want a few.”
Harry gave a small nod. “Goblins don’t forget, but even they hate writing minutes.”
Dennis stepped back, a bit pink-faced but holding it together, and the next student came up—a girl from Beauxbatons with a pale blue ribbon in her hair. She held a floating brush in one hand, which danced around her head as she began to speak in halting English, heavy with accent.
“This is… ah, Groom-Charm. It detects knots and adjusts—ah—your hair. Without tugging. Also good with…” she paused, searched for the word, then said, “volume.”
The brush twirled once, then zipped across the room and began fixing Theodore Nott’s fringe without warning.
He froze, hands in the air. “What the—”
“Ah!” the girl said quickly, waving her wand. The brush stopped mid-stroke, hovering. “Sorry! It is… ah, sensitive.”
Harry watched Nott glare at the thing like it had personally insulted his bloodline. “Might want to put a leash on it.”
The girl gave a tiny, nervous bow and summoned it back to her hand.
Neville leaned over toward Harry. “Useful, though. Beats the duels over hair potions.”
Harry shrugged. “They’ll still duel. Now it’ll be over who gets to use the brush first.”
More presenters came—each with their invention, most decent, a few bordering on impressive. The Durmstrang boy with the tap-dancing boots turned out to have made footwear that allowed silent movement when needed but could also “amplify step” during performances. Not a bad dual-use charm, though it still needed work.
After about seven or eight rounds, the table thinned, and the chatter picked up again. The food hadn’t stopped—plates vanished and reappeared topped with something new each time, and the elves moved like clockwork. The room was warm with firelight and conversations in at least five languages.
A few students gathered near Harry’s spot at the side of the main floor, clearly nervous. One, a wiry boy from India, came forward, fidgeting with a mechanical wrist charm. “It tracks runes you’ve learned and projects them above your wand when needed. Sort of… like a cheat sheet.”
A goblin raised a brow. “How many does it hold?”
“Fifty-four. It lights the last ten you’ve used automatically. But you can adjust that.”
“Show me,” The Goblin said.
The boy tapped his wrist. Runes shimmered above his wand—a soft gold list, rotating slowly. A few in the room murmured again, this time louder. A sharp clap broke the silence, followed by a ripple of murmured approval.
“Not bad,” The goblin said. “Leave a card . I might fund the next model.”
The boy nodded so quickly he nearly dropped the wand, then scurried off to do exactly that.
More students followed, most with practical charms—study tools, spell reminders, enchantments for safer travel, or potion-timers. One girl from Mahoutokoro had created a layered protection charm that used colour signals instead of alarms. It blinked red if someone entered a warded room without key intent, yellow if someone tried passive surveillance, and so on.
Elisabetta Zabini murmured to no one in particular, “Why didn’t we have this when I was in school?”
Harry replied lightly, “Because then you lot wouldn’t have spent half your time trying to hex each other’s doors open.”
She laughed, clearly enjoying herself, and clinked her glass with his in a lazy toast. “Progress. Cheers to it.”
As the last of the hopeful inventors trickled off, the room shifted into full celebration again. Someone had spelled the violins into a lively reel, and a few couples began dancing near the long table. Goblins remained seated, uninterested in the music. Firenze gave a nod as a child from one of the visiting families approached and offered him a ginger biscuit, which he took with a faint smile. Near the hearth, Xenophilius was telling three French wizards about dark wizard would appear in five years in the heart of the continent.
Harry moved across the hall, nodding to guests as he passed, until he found himself beside Daphne and Astoria. The latter had her arms folded, tapping her foot.
“Dance time,” she said.
Harry took Astoria’s hand and led her onto the floor as the music began. She looked pleased with herself, clearly enjoying the spotlight. They danced one clean round, her smirk aimed directly at Daphne before she vanished back into the crowd.
Daphne stepped in without a word, hand already extended. “Can’t let her have the whole show,” she said. They moved easily through the steps, then she tapped his shoulder and disappeared before anyone else could cut in.
Tracey followed, ditching her drink. “Had to shove Hermione aside,” she said, smirking. She didn’t talk after that, focused on the rhythm. A few spins, one warning look when he misstepped, and she was off.
Hermione came in next. “You’re keeping the peace, I see.”
“Trying,” Harry said.
Susan took her place with a grin. “Ten minutes feels longer when you're waiting.”
“Sorry to keep you.”
She danced close, humming softly, then left with a light squeeze of his hand.
Hannah was all smiles and bounce. “Top half? I feel special.”
“You should.” She laughed through the whole dance and gave him a quick hug at the end.
Luna drifted in, barely touching the ground. “Time?”
“Yours,” he said. Her steps were odd but graceful enough.
Ginny came in hot. “Don’t say you forgot me.”
“Didn’t.”
She was quick, sharp, gone in a flash.
Pansy didn’t wait. “My turn.”
“Parkinson.”
“Potter.”
They danced in silence, smooth and sharp. She leaned in. “Should’ve started with me.”
“Fair point.”
She left without another word.
Selena Rosier caught his eye just as he was stepping off. “You weren’t planning to skip me, were you?”
Harry gave a half-smile and offered his hand. “Course not.”
She joined him, “It’d be a scandal if you missed me."
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, as he took her hand.
Petunia joined next. “Are the children done?”
“For now,” he said, offering his arm.
They danced simply—elegant and quiet.
Elisabetta slid in right after. “Took your time.”
“If I rushed, I would miss the smirk.”
“You missed it anyway,” she replied, already half-smiling. “Next year, I go first.”
“You’ll have to beat Astoria.”
“I will.”
She kept it smooth, no twirls, just close steps and a faint smirk. She leaned in at the end like she might kiss his cheek.
With the dancing done, Harry wandered the floor a bit more, catching quick words with those still lingering by the drinks or drifting toward dessert. A few guests tried to corner him about funding proposals, but he kept it short—smiles, nods, a polite “send me a draft” before slipping off.
Then the hall lights dipped low. A low hum buzzed through the ceiling charms—followed by a sudden blast of warm air as something tore across the sky outside.
The enchanted ceiling shifted, clearing to a night sky lit up by a golden blur. A familiar streak zipped through the air, trailing sparks. Gasps echoed around the room as a massive chocolate-scaled dragon swooped low over the garden, glowing runes along its wings. It arched high, turned in the air.
A second shape burst from the smoke cloud—a swarm of conjured bees, each glowing faintly gold, moving in tight formation. The dragon twisted back. They darted through it, collided mid-air, and a few spun downwards.
The crowd laughed, someone clapped. The bees regrouped, buzzed higher—and charged the dragon again.
Then it happened.
The dragon dove. The bees followed. The two forces collided mid-air, and instead of chaos, they exploded—literally—into colour and sweets. Bits of chocolate and amber sugar rained down, shimmering as they fell. The scattered pieces twisted in the air, pulling together, spinning fast. Ribbons of melted cocoa and honey wound through the air, weaving tight.
With a final spark, it all collapsed into the centre of the room with a soft thump.
Sitting neatly on the main buffet table was a cake. T hree tiers, honey-drizzled, wrapped in golden spun sugar, a chocolate dragon curled around the bottom layer, bees frozen mid-flight above.
Thomas Abbott stood up from his seat near the front, dusting a bit of sugar from his robes. “That’ll be the launch, then.”
A few guests chuckled. Others turned toward the table, clearly intrigued.
“The Sweet Pot of Abbott Confectionery,” Thomas went on, hands tucked behind his back now, “in partnership with Dragon Delights, proudly presents: Honeystrike.”
Someone muttered, “Brilliant name,” and the clapping started.
Thomas nodded, clearly pleased. “Bit of crunch, bit of burn, and not a single bite wasted. You’ll be scraping your plate, I promise you that.”
Several guests had already started moving toward the buffet, plates in hand. Elisabetta slid up beside Harry again, glass in hand. “Clever reveal. Theatrics and flavour. Very modern.”
“Call it a flair for marketing,” Harry said, watching as a group of younger students gathered around the cake, eyeing the honey drizzle like it was treasure.
“I’d say it’s closer to showmanship,” she replied, sipping her drink.
“Same thing in the end,” he said, already half-turning. “Excuse me. I should check the line doesn’t turn into a riot.”
She gave a half-smile. “Go on, Lord of the Feast.”
Yule ended on a solid note. No unexpected explosions, no uninvited guests, and, much to Harry’s very mild surprise, Voldemort hadn’t tried anything. Not that he had the manpower left for anything clever. With Bellatrix gone and his so-called followers scattered or dead, the man was down to scraps.
When the final guests stepped through the Floo, Harry and Petunia helped Augusta thank the elves, then bid their goodbyes. A quick tap of the Portkey, and the two were back in France before the fires had even gone cold in the manor’s hearth.
