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SD: CH89 - Meeting the Greengrasses
🕑 Added 2023-10-10 17:14:56 +0000 UTC“THIS IS JUST BULLSHIT!”
I blared my lungs out inside the closed, silenced, warded room, growling and yelling at the unfairness of it all. Like, can you fucking imagine? Three entire months of nothing out of the ordinary. Three months of steadily rising anchorages, matched only by the rising affinities, rising skills, and of course, rising numbers of gorgeous girls and women that I was fucking. Golden period of my life, I assure you. Even Narcissa and her shenanigans, Amelia and her psychotic twists, and the fuckfest that ended with Susan turning into my sex-slave, everything was still alright.
But ever since I got this upgrade into Incubus Lord category and got a bunch of good and bad curve balls thrown into the mix, my life has been in constant turmoil. Seriously, stormy oceans have got nothing on my life. A single night — A SINGLE FUCKING NIGHT — contained more drama, action, surprises, plot twists and motherfucking shocks than most people had in entire years.
The Horcrux acting out; the dream; Emmeline’s offer; necromancy explosion; manipulating Dumbledore; Emmeline’s foray into my subconscious and getting fucked; Hestia going all Imperius on
Emmeline; me having to shove some time-travel bullshit at Hestia; her admission of love — I had dealt with all of that. Crazy yes, but I had still somehow dealt with all of that.
And then the entire Lilim business happened and threw all sense of sanity out of the window.
Lilims. Hestia getting a Screen of her own. Perks. ETERNAL FUCKING YOUTH? Voldemort potentially becoming way more powerful than he was in Canon. Hermione finding shit out and me having to repeat it all. It was just one impossible mess after another. But the most important question was —
WHY THE HELL WASN’T HERMIONE A LILIM?
Yes, yes, I know. I had spouted a lot of devotion and love-related bullshit at Hermione. Before you say it, I’d like to admit that I was just pulling shit out of my proverbial arse, and saying whatever common sense stuff came to me. On the outside, I was doing my best to console a frustrated Hermione over why she wasn’t a Lilim, while my inner neanderthal spluttered and then went on a mental rampage through a hypothetical produce section, knocking over shelves and splattering fruit everywhere in sheer frustration, screaming — ‘JUST TELL ME WHOSE SKULL TO CRACK WITH MY CLUB, DAMNIT!’
Fucking Screen. Fucking Tether perk. Fucking Incubus Lord and Fucking Lilims.
I swear the Screen will be the death of me.
Okay. Rant over.
To more serious business.
Despite how it might seem otherwise, I didn’t just let Hermione hang in the sidelines after fucking her and hitting a hundred percent anchorage. I mean, yeah, I did shift my focus to other prime targets, but Hermione, or rather, her condition had always remained in the back of my mind. And I had paid close attention to Hermione as she made those intense proclamations. Magic was intent, and bollocks to whatever flipping rules the Screen might throw at me, but in that moment, Hermione had demonstrated Devotion to me, albeit a different form of devotion (or perhaps, obsession was the correct term?) to my safety. Logic dictated that by all rights, Hermione should’ve been transformed into a Lilim. Right then and there.
But she hadn’t.
Instead something else had acted out.
I wasn’t sure if Hermione had noticed it or not, but when she had said those words to Hestia, her eyes had turned blazing silver, like they did when her wolf-instincts took over. Or when she was feeling too horny. Or when she was truly angry. Or a bunch of other things that triggered the lupine within her.
Yes, I know what I did there.
Anyway, that was nothing — nothing compared to that enormous necromantic aura that rolled off her waves. I know it because I made a point to study the effects of Devil’s Charm and my Incubus Aura, both in front of the mirror and Narcissa during the few times she cattily experimented with my unique brand of magic. At the same time, being an Incubus made me extra sensitive to other forms of Aura, and especially to Necromancy, which was practically poison to me. I did not know how my body and my magic kept switching between Incubus mode and Necromancer mode at a whim, but I suppose there was a valid reason why the Voluntary Switching option demanded all that Meta-Luck.
But I digress. The point being, that much necromantic aura would have killed me. It would’ve killed Hestia, and any random person out there. And yet Hermione was blazing it around like some kind of black flashlight, and it did nothing — absolutely nothing to her.
Why? I hadn’t the foggiest idea.
Between my personal study, and Walburga’s tutelage in the Black family craft, I had made some foray in the understanding of Dark Magic. It was limited of course, to the Black Family Craft, but luckily for me, it delved deeply in Hemomancy, and Incarneum. And I had taken a deep interest in trying to understand the nature of the curse that had struck Hermione ever since I had gotten my hands on the library at Grimmauld Place.
At first, Hermione’s case was an interesting condition. She wasn’t bitten by a werewolf, only slashed. Given the minor amount of lycanthropic curse in her system, Poppy Pomfrey had claimed that there was a high chance that her body and her magic would repel the curse completely, and she’d be able to live a normal life, albeit with minor wolfish characteristics.
Just like Bill Weasley in the books.
But still, I kept Hermione under careful observation for the entire first month. Yes, we had sex, but she was always careful to stop the moment she felt any foreign instincts flood her system. By the end of the period, she had enough time to come to terms that her body wasn’t what it once was. The change in taste. Massive increase in horniness. Enhanced healing. Magnified physical strength and dexterity, not massively so like real werewolves, but comparatively stronger than a girl of her size and weight. Enhanced dexterity. Oh, and a propensity for raw steak. Hermione had even begun thinking that perhaps she’d be able to live a normal life after all.
But I knew better. Sooner or later, the curse would take effect. The infection would spread and take dominance, twisting her mind completely until she developed a bestial mindset.
Or atleast, that was what normally happened. What should have happened.
The first full moon proved me wrong.
She showed some signs of acute restlessness, and at one point, her eyes had turned silver. But never did she grow a single grey hair.
The second full-moon shared the same fate, as did the third. I was almost beginning to believe that some cliched fanon-nonsense was playing a role in this. Maybe, just maybe, Hermione was a natural wolf animagus or something, and that was suppressing the effect of the cursed beast within her? Or perhaps the power of the curse was simply not strong enough because Remus Lupin was a loser?
Whatever it was, the truth was that even on full-moon nights, Hermione was still Hermione. Rational. Functional. And most importantly, human.
And then this happened.
I had honestly believed that I had successfully absorbed the necromantic energy out of her earlier, but I had no idea to check if I had done a neat job. Lycanthropy was already an absolutely dark curse, its roots lying in Hemomancy — Blood Magic, a discipline I had an affinity for, and something with deep ties to Necromancy and the Dark Arts. Had the raw death-force somehow mutated Hermione’s werewolf nature, making her… well, more?
Whatever the necromantic influx did to her, it was not normal. People exposed to necromantic energy either perished on the spot, or got twisted into something like Inferi, losing their humanity. And then there were necromancers that experimented with that twisted power in restricted amounts and other control setups to find a ‘perfect balance’ to achieve a transformation that gained them some amount of compatibility with that twisted energy, which they then used for their own nefarious purposes.
Neither had happened to Hermione. She had been exposed to potent necromantic energy, and then I had syphoned it out of her in less than a few minutes. But somehow, within that tiny time period, the energy must have done something to her, enabling her an affinity that was simply….
Unreasonable.
It was too great, too fast, too significant. Too outstanding compared to everything else she was showing. Especially for that limited exposure.
I had studied the necromantic flux Hermione was exuding when she threatened Hestia. That much death-force should’ve killed her.
But it didn’t.
Instead it was making her… well, something different. I’d have to ask Narcissa and perhaps Walburga about this, but so far, I was drawing a blank in terms of scale and degree. There was no saying what sort of outlandish transformation it would bring to my sexy and vulnerable bookworm.
That she was in this state because of me, again, only made it worse.
The only theory I had running was that the necromantic mutation was stopping her from becoming a Lilim. Necromancy was the antithesis of Sexual magic, so perhaps her devotion was being neutered by her own polluted aura? It was only a theory with no proof, but it was the only one that made somewhat sense. I was already planning on shifting to the Necromancer Path and see if Hermione’s mutation responded to my other form. Perhaps I could form a similar bond with her in the Necromancer route?
Flimsy theories, yes, I know, but right now, that’s all I got.
“Harry?” Hestia’s voice came from the other side of the door. “I’m ready to leave when you are.”
Right. So after Hermione’s shocking display of her dark prowess, I had explained to her and Hestia why I wanted to delay my date with Nymphadora Tonks for now. The rest of the day had passed in a blur, with all three of us studying the dream, and observing as Voldemort, Lucius and Pettigrew talked and discussed about the Quidditch World Cup. It was interesting, knowing Voldemort’s inner thoughts. The level of disdain and the lack of trust he had in his followers was a valuable insight into his personality, as was his constant groping at the woman’s breasts. The only thing I could theorise was that Voldemort was just as much affected by the Horcrux as I was. Me — through the sudden outpour of necromantic energy, and the addition of a portion of Voldemort’s affinities into my arsenal. And Voldemort — through addition of sexual desires that probably made no sense to his necromancer brain if that constipated expression on that weird baby face was any clue.
But sometime in the evening, I had received a letter from Gideon Abbott, inviting me to the Abbott Manor, and informing me that he had talked to Broderick Greengrass about my proposal and the man had arrived at a favourable conclusion, which was why Gideon wanted to introduce me to Broderick and close the deal.
Translation — Gideon and Broderick had planned to use me as a ploy to safeguard Phyllida and Broderick’s own arse from Auror investigation at the moment, probably rope me into things that would eventually drain my finances, and then drop me like yesterday’s trash the moment I ran out of usefulness.
That was fine. I expected them to do exactly that.
I had sent him a response, saying that my secretary Hestia Jones was going to join us for the meeting. That had a twofold advantage. The first was that Hestia understood magical contracts far better than I did, and the second — she’d serve as a separate pair of eyes and ears inside Greengrass mansion, while I carried out my plans.
“Yeah,” I told her, composing myself. “I’m ready. Let’s go roast those bastards.”
Roughly fifteen minutes later, the two of us were standing on the grounds on which Abbott Mansion stood. Hestia and I, both of us dressed in clothes that would take an average muggle born or halfblood’s annual salary, and that was not including the other accoutrements we had on our person. Bloody woman had actually dragged me to a parlour and gotten me all dressed up like a snobby pureblood, wasting fifteen galleons in the process. And as much as I hated the entire thing, I couldn’t really blame her.
After all, people respond to how we’re dressed.
“Mr. Potter,” came the ringing voice of Gideon Abbott, as he walked towards us. The smile on his face reminded me of a shady dealer about to make his biggest killing on a particular dopey customer. In response, I put up my most innocent smile, ready to act as the unsuspecting pig that was walking to its own slaughter. Or at least, I would have done so, if not for the sudden surprise that came walking right behind Gideon.
“Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Lady Emmeline Vance.”
Neither I nor Hestia dared to look at each other. Instead, I put on my best fake smile, and appeared to not notice the slight strain on Emmeline’s face. Clearly, she hadn’t quite expected to see me and Hestia together so soon after the other night’s episode.
“What an absolute pleasure,” I said, offering my hand, as Emmeline brought her knuckles to me to kiss it. I took note of the way she went taut the moment I kissed them.
“Charmed,” she said.
I looked at Hestia, and unsurprisingly perhaps, her features betrayed no sign of familiarity for the fellow Order member.
She really was a damn good spy.
“Oh,” I said. “Please allow me to introduce my secretary, Miss Hestia Jones.”
“Jones…” mused Gideon. “Any relation to Gwenog Jones, perhaps?”
“Second cousin,” said Hestia. “Though we don’t meet very often.”
“I see,” said the man, with just the slightest strain to his expression. No doubt he was wondering if she was a halfblood, or even worse, a muggleborn. “Either way, I’m certain you possess a great many qualities for Mr. Potter has chosen you to represent him in affairs most profitable.”
“I like to believe so.”
“Hestia’s a lifesaver, Lord Abbott,” I offered, adding my two bits.
“Gideon, please,” said the man. I really hoped he was oblivious to the tension between his wife and the two of us. Given what Emmeline had learned about Gideon recently, I wondered if her appearance had anything to do with her seeking evidence against her husband, or if she was simply playing the part of the dutiful wife. I had certainly not seen her the last time I had met the man. There was also the entire issue of her ‘training’ and she must have tried to pleasure herself over and over, only to be denied it, which explained the strain that was trying to break past her well-composed facade.
How did I know that?
Because I owned her Orgasm Contract. Every single time she tried to pleasure herself and reached a high, the Screen informed me. And being the douchebag motherfucker that I was, naturally, I denied her.
“Well then,” said Gideon, oblivious to the tension among us three. “Shall we get going? Tempus Fugit, as they say.”
I smiled. The meeting at the Greengrasses was going to turn out very fascinating.
“Absolutely.”
....
....
The Greengrasses lived south of Whitby, and one of the first things I noticed as our portkey hit stable ground was the commanding view to the south, and I spied the towers of the fortified town about four or five miles away. Below the hill town ran a small canal, and ahead of the fields of flowers on both sides of the country road, lay a semi-ancient manor house, no doubt interspersed with muggle-repelling wards, given I couldn’t even see a single mundane soul within a mile.
The garden path was dusty limestone, and I felt the gentle pull of the wards surrounding the property as we stepped into the garden. There were statues and fountains complete with ornamental bird houses, enclosed in a small, full hedge that kept the massive oak forests on the edge of the land at bay. And at its centre, was the manor, coated in creeping vines, just a stone’s throw away. Thick, wavy grass had been cut into a large, oval lawn, complete with various statues of men and women and animals, with a flare for avian creatures, out of which hippogriffs seemed like a favourite. There was a large swimming pool, the water sparkling and blue, and a fountain in the centre, propelling streams of foamy spray high into the air. A chair-swing sat on the decking, looking out to the west, at what would probably be an excellent sunset.
Green grass indeed.
The idea that inside such a lovely place lived a man with a twisted heart made me want to gag. After I was done kicking Voldemort’s arse, and had become the God of this world, this place looked like a perfect way to pass my retirement with my women.
The large, ornate door opened, and two people approached us from within. Broderick, who stood in the centre, was a blocky man, not overly tall but overly muscled and hiding it under an expensive suit, with attack-dog eyes.
“Mr. Potter,” said Broderick, offering me his hand. I shook it. The man had a solid shake, and oozed confidence mixed with the right amount of cordiality. Guess Death Eaters or Death Eater sympathisers weren’t exactly the snarling cloak-and-daggery kind as JKR painted them to be. Or at least if they were, they hid it remarkably well. Unlike canon Lucius Malfoy, who always gave the impression of being a flawless instrument of murder.
“Mr. Greengrass, I assume?”
“Please, call me Broderick.”
“Only if you call me Harry.”
“This,” he introduced, “is my lovely wife, Anastasia.”
And indeed lovely she was. High cheekbones, exotic almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was a medium olive tone, her eyes an almost eerie shade of pale-green gold. Her hair was pulled back into a simple tail, and she wore a pale blue summer dress and wore absolutely no makeup at all.
Wow. any woman that could swear that and still look that good was a freaking goddess.
I kissed her knuckles, felt her pulse skyrocket, and smiled inwardly. Wife or not, Anastasia had to feel the subtle effects of Devil’s Charm.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madam.”
“Anastasia, please,” she murmured. Her voice was even better than the rest of her. “Welcome to our home.”
Gideon and Broderick were the first to walk in, followed by Anastasia and Hestia. I passed a look at Emmeline, who met my eyes with something like apprehension, before she broke the gaze, and walked in. Smiling to myself, I followed suit. It looked like this meeting wouldn’t be all cut-throat business after all.
The actual meeting was kinda short and to the point.
In not many words, we had gotten down to the brass tacks, so to say. Like I had intimated to Gideon during our initial meet, I wanted to either buy or temporarily rent Phyllida Greenhouses to enhance Sleekeazy’s bandwidth in the potions and herbal trade market. And Broderick, after a lot of discussion with Gideon had apparently decided to accept my proposal, especially in the light of DMLE investigation over his business. No doubt because some jealous bastard was trying to get him into trouble, and Broderick wanted a way out of the mess.
Of course, there were a few conditions I had to comply with if I wanted Phyllida for myself.
First, Greengrass Exports would be officially selling Phyllida Greenhouses to Harry Potter, but the entire transaction would have to be backdated by two months, presumably right after I took control of Sleekeazy, and sent an official proposal to Greengrass exports over purchasing the property. Broderick knew a guy who knew someone in Gringotts that could safely backdate this transaction, and of course, all gold payable would be from Broderick’s end.
Second, the price of the entire property was put at fifteen thousand galleons, just shy above the market price. I would be writing him a Gringotts draft, and he would pay me fifteen thousand galleons back in gold, bringing the result to zero.
Third, any and all profits I would derive from Phyllida during the one-year time period would be mine and mine alone. Broderick would have the option to request certain herbs to be grown at Phyllida from time to time discreetly, but he would have to pay at standard rates for them. For all intents and purposes, Phyllida Greenhouses would be mine, papers and all.
Fourth, after exactly one year from then, I’d have to sell the property back to Broderick, this time at sixteen thousand galleons, and this time, I’d have to return the amount to him privately, making it a zero sum game.
Broderick had wanted to reduce the time period to six months, but I put my foot on it, stating that six months were too little of a time period for Sleekeazy experts to even conduct their research properly. And if I was going to get my hands dirty by going through a shady deal like this, then the least I needed was enough time to actually get some profits over it. After some haggling, the man had consented to it, upon condition that we make a public display of being in business together. Working with the Boy-Who-Lived would definitely get some positive press for the man.
Smarmy arsehole. As if he wasn’t angling for that from the beginning.
And Broderick would have one less thing to worry about.
Gideon would get what I promised him. A word with Augusta Longbottom, and getting Hannah betrothed to Neville, as well as House Potter’s support in raising House Abbott to Ancient status.
Really, a win-win situation if there ever was.
Quite naturally, after letting Hestia pore through the pages of legalese involved, we shook hands for the second time, and sealed the deal. Broderick, now a happy man, invited us to stay at the mansion for the next two days until his lawyer got everything drafted and finalised from Gringotts. It would also allow him a first-hand experience of interacting with the famous Boy-Who-Lived, the saviour of the magical world. That I had taken up my Potter Lordship and was actively taking an interest in my family businesses only made things better, and he wanted to take this opportunity to try to cultivate a relationship between both families. Gideon would serve in the role of official broker and witness, and stay at Greengrass Manor for the time being as well, with his wife Emmeline.
In short, it couldn’t get any more perfect.
We had quite a wonderful meal for lunch, with Gideon and Broderick engaging me in talking about the rumours about me from school. I ran them through my episodes with Quirrel and Lockhart and the dangerous basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. I almost laughed at seeing his eyes turn to saucers when I quoted the amount my buyers were willing to pay for the basilisk, and the amount that I was going to donate to Hogwarts as part of a charity organisation trust-funded by House Potter.
Emmeline just contented herself with sitting at the table, silently eating and observing me from afar, while Hestia did her best not to look at her mentor or try for some conversation. Anastasia, on the other hand, looked deeply invested in hearing about my exploits, as well as the new moves I had made after attaining the Potter fortune. Everything about her screamed the dutiful housewife, but there was something about the way her eyes tracked me, that told me that the woman was either enraptured by my Devil’s Charm, or she had some ploy of her own that she was still cooking for the moment, waiting for the perfect moment to bring up.
And then finally,Broderick introduced me to the third person in the family.
“Lord Harry Potter,” said the man, “please meet my eldest daughter, Daphne.”
The girl in question was tall, with pale, radiant, perfect features, and looked like an adolescent copy of her mother. She was young enough to make a man feel guilty for thinking the wrong thoughts, but old enough to make it difficult not to. Her hair had been bound into long dreadlocks, each of them dyed a different shade, ranging from a deep lavender to pale blues to pure white, so that it almost appeared that her hair had been formed from glacial ice. She wore leather pants and a white top, and unless I was wrong, I saw a glint of silver flashing at her navel.
But more important than any of it, was the lazy smile upon her face, which, unless I was wrong, was absolutely fake as far as those things went. There was a glittering intensity in her eyes, while the rest of her features were crowded with a contagious indifference that could make a lesser man feel inferior just by looking at her. No wonder she was infamous at Hogwarts and held a moniker that fitted her disposition to a tee.
The Ice Queen of Slytherin.
“Harry Potter,” she said, speaking the words softly and intently, as if weighing if pronouncing my name was worth the effort.
“Miss Greengrass,” I said.
She cocked her head, observing me as if I were a particularly rare type of bowtruckle. “Are you really Harry Potter?”
Something about her mannerisms told me that she wasn’t just being a pureblood princess and pretending not to know me or have seen me at all, despite sharing classes for three years. I mean yeah, Harry Potter never had time for Slytherins in the past, given the whole introvert thing he had going on, and the constant distractions to deviate him every single year, but the same couldn’t be said about other students.
Take my word. If Harry Potter just stood idly gazing at an empty wall, the Hogwarts gossip vine would know about it, and there would be entire dossiers on who created the wall, and how, and what potential events happened in front or on it over the past several centuries before dinner.
“Errr….” I said, slightly off-guard. “I suppose we haven’t met before. I haven’t quite been very interactive with other Houses.”
“I know that,” said Daphne bluntly, taking the wind off my sails. “And I’ve seen Harry Potter.” She hesitated for a moment. “....Felt him. You… you feel different. Are you really him?”
“Daphne!” Broderick snapped. “You’re being discourteous to our guest.”
She blinked, and a flicker of something akin to fear crossed her features for a second. “I — I apologise.”
Weird. I thought.
The problem with Daphne Greengrass was that she was canon wallpaper. A wide range of fanfiction authors had painted her in a wide range of characteristics, varying from the traditional stick-in-the-mud slytherin to the aristocratic Slytherin queen bitch to the innocent naive girl crushing on the Boy-Who-Lived to emotionally stunted and magically impoverished creature that suffered at the hands of her neglectful parents, and everything that fell in between. At least Susan Bones was nearly always limited to being ‘top-heavy’ and ‘only child’ and ‘mothering Hufflepuff’.
Whatever was going on with this girl, strange didn’t even begin to cover it. She was a mystery, that was for sure, one that was very much planning to unfold before leaving this place.
“Forgive me,” I tried. “I don’t believe we’ve exchanged words in school before this.”
“No,” she said bluntly. “We have not.”
Maybe I was reading too much into it, but for a moment, her eyes darted towards Emmeline, and then back to me, and then repeated the same actions over and over again. With every passing second, her cheeks reddened slightly, and then she turned to Hestia, and after a gaze that extended beyond two seconds, she looked back at me.
The blush had now reached her neck.
“May I—” she breathed, “May I be excused?”
“Yes,” said Broderick gruffly. “We will talk about your behaviour later.”
Hoh! There was some unresolved tension there on the man’s face. Maybe not everything was perfect in this mansion of flowers.
“Thank you,” she said with a small bow, not even meeting my eyes, and instead, speaking to my nose. “I apologise, again. I will see you again, Potter. Thank you, all.”
And then she turned around and left. And this is going to sound weird, but I just stood there and inwardly seethed at… something. Something about her behaviour, and her word choices felt off.
“My apologies,” said Broderick, trying to save face. “She, err… does that, from time to time. My daughter isn’t very good at socialising with others.”
“I’ll say,” murmured Hestia, who was giving me confused looks.
‘My other daughter, Astoria, she’s her exact reverse. Absolutely charming and a natural at hobnobbing at parties. Takes after me in that regard.”
“And Daphne?” I asked.
“Daphne is very much like her mum, I’d say,” said Broderick, putting his arm around his wife’s waist to pull her closer. I took careful notice of the strained smile on the woman’s face as she indulged her husband.
Classic pureblood marriage bullshit, I’d imagine.
“That’s true,” murmured Anastasia. Either she spoke that softly naturally, or she kept her voice low and reserved, as if ensuring that she wasn’t sharing her husband’s spotlight, even by mistake. “But she’s quite excellent at her studies. Second in her year, I believe.”
After Hermione, no doubt.
“Anastasia is no slouch,” boasted Broderick. “My wife has Masteries in Herbology and Potions. All this beauty you see around us is because of her meticulous efforts.”
“Oh?” I said, reevaluating his wife. “I suppose she’s quite the contributor in Greengrass Exports then.”
A shadow of something flickered in Broderick’s face, before the usual affability returned. “Oh no, no, she busies herself with taking care of the house and rearing both of our wonderful daughters. Business is a man’s job.”
And there it was. The slightest twitch. Almost imperceptible, but I noticed it. Not anger, but not complete resignation either.
And then it was gone.
Maybe I was looking too deep into things, and maybe I was being a little too reckless, but there was a potential opportunity just waiting to be used.
“Perhaps,” I said with a disarming smile. “I might get the opportunity to pick Lady Greengrass’s brains sometime during my stay?”
Anastasia blinked in surprise.
“Unfortunately, Potions isn’t my best subject. That the professor bears an irrational dislike for me doesn’t help. And with me taking control over Sleekeazy, I’d love the opportunity to discuss the subject with someone with an angry man breathing down my neck.”
Gideon almost looked amused.
“Err…” said Broderick, looking a little conflicted, before exchanging a quick glance with Gideon, who nodded. “I mean, of course. That is, assuming my wife is able to solve your quandaries, Mr. Potter?”
“I, ah, will try my best, Mr. Potter,” said Anastasia. She passed a quick glance at her husband, asking permission. “When do you wish for it to happen?”
“Perhaps, after breakfast, tomorrow? I was hoping to go see the greenhouses first. Uh, that is, if I’m not being too forward of course.”
“Nonsense,” said Broderick, as if it was something he’d have just done for the asking. “Anastasia, please do your best to help him. We wouldn’t want to sully our relationship with House Potter now, would we?”
He gave her a knowing look, which I translated could only refer to Daphne’s weird behaviour earlier.
“Of course.”
“In that case,” Emmeline said out of nowhere. “Perhaps I could take Mr. Potter to Phyllida and show him around?” She met my eyes. “I am quite interested in your exploits from earlier. As an Obliviator for the Ministry, I have a couple of questions about the curious issue with Gilderoy Lockhart.”
“Emmeline!” Gideon all but snapped. “Please do not interrogate the young man.”
“You’re an Obliviator?” I asked, faking genuine surprise.
Her lips twisted. “Head of the Oblivation Office at the Ministry of Magic.”
“I’m really sorry, Harry,” Gideon apologised. “My wife is quite a zealot when it comes to her job. Please don’t mind her. And you don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Not at all,” I told him, my eyes never leaving Emmeline’s. As an Order member, no doubt she knew everything there was about Gilderoy Lockhart and this was nothing more than an excuse to get to talk with me in private.
“Perhaps we could reschedule it later —” Hestia began.
“No, Hestia,” I stopped her. “It’s completely fine.”
“I can alert an elf to take you both to Phyllida,” said Broderick. “It is roughly half an hour of walking from here.”
“Oh that won’t be necessary,” I told him. “Why apparate when I can also spend the time looking around at this beautiful place?” I looked at Emmeline. “Does that work with you, Lady Vance?”
“Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
“If… that’s what you wish,” said Gideon, turning to his friend. “In that case, perhaps we can finally get to that billiards game we left unfinished last week?”
Broderick shrugged.
“Well then,” I told Emmeline. “After you.”
Comments
Penthuisiast
It was a mistake on my part. Please check again.
Sam Winchester
Hey Penthusiast I can't read ch 90 for some reason. I'm with the tier that has access to 16 chapters ahead but I can't read it. My tier is the perk.
