An Honest Day’s Work

  Lovely day for a walk.

  Harry strolled down Diagon Alley, hands tucked in his pockets, whistling a jaunty little tune that was alien to the Wizarding philistines.

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  ? It’s off to work I go. ?

  The crooked rooflines caught the late afternoon sun, shadows stretching long across the cobbles. He paused at Flourish and Blotts, peering through the display window. The Life Cycle of Britain's Magical Insects. Could be useful, that. The glass reflected the street behind him. Witches browsing, their husbands and sons standing around morosely. The usual.

  He moved on, still whistling.

  The Apothecary came next. Harry stopped at the window display, studying the iridescent beetle shells pinned in neat rows behind glass. Lovely specimens, properly preserved. Wings spread wide. Not making pests of themselves. He smiled and tapped the pane once, then continued on his way, picking up the tune again.

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  ? Heigh-Ho~~~~~~~~. ?

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  Lovely day indeed.

  The crowd thinned as he drifted toward the seedier edge of the Alley. Fewer eyes, most knowing to mind their own business. The cobbles grew uneven underfoot. He turned left.

  Knockturn.

  The cheerful bustle faded behind him, muffled by crooked buildings pressing in. Shadows pooled thick between the shops.

  Harry kept his easy pace, hands still tucked away, the whistle dropping to a low hum. Borgin and Burkes squatted ahead, its windows cluttered with cursed objects and shrunken heads. The same shithole it’d always be. He didn't slow.

  Another turn, narrower still.

  The passage twisted twice, brick walls close enough to scrape his shoulders if he leaned in either direction. Moss crept up from the cobbles, damp and slick beneath his boots. Not on any official maps, this particular gap. The sort you’d only take if you knew what you were about.

  Or were being led.

  The humming stopped. Three more steps, slow and measured. His boots scraped against stone.

  Then he spun.

  Wand extended. A pulse of blue lanced forward, spearing a small beetle mid-scuttle, freezing it against the brick with legs splayed at awkward angles, one antenna bent.

  The corners of his mouth pulled upward. His cheeks bunched, vision narrowing as the skin pulled taut. A dry stretch of gum and skin pull taut across his face.

  "Why, hello there."

  A glass jar materialized in his off-hand: thick walls and wide mouth. The lid unscrewed itself, then hovered above the jar. His wand flicked, and the beetle drifted toward him, suspended level with his gaze. Compound eyes caught what little light filtered down, glinting dully.

  “You’ve quite the talent for being underfoot.” The beetle floated into the jar. It sealed tight with a soft clink. He brought his wand to the glass. Tap. Air holes appeared in neat rows along the top. Tap. The beetle unfroze, then scrabbled at the smooth walls, mandibles clicking futilely against glass.

  “Ought to be careful.” He tilted the jar, watching the beetle frantically scramble against gravity. “It’d be a real shame to end up smeared beneath some clumsy bloke’s boot, don’t you think?”

  “Say…” A thoughtful hum. “You look familiar.” He turned the jar slowly, examining his catch from different angles. “Yes, I’m quite sure I saw you at my Order of Merlin ceremony. That gilded picture frame, back by the Black sisters, wasn’t it?”

  The scuttling intensified, a frantic, ticking rhythm against the glass, wings fluttering madly.

  “Odd that. There were a couple of articles that came out about them just the other day.” He lifted the jar right up to his eye. “Written by some witch named ‘Rita Skeeter,’ as I recall. The whole ordeal has caused them rather more grief than I’d prefer.” He gave the jar a light shake. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now, would you?”

  The stretch of his face was growing painful. But damn, did this feel bloody brilliant. Little Rita Skeeter. Might be she’d make a nice pet. He snorted. Not bloody likely.

  “Sweet dreams, dear.”

  A flash of red, and he slipped the jar into his coat pocket.

  This isn’t you.

  I wasn’t enough.

  Now, then, to see a man about a job.

  He applied his tried-and-true glamour, his face tickling with the feeling of carbonation just beneath the skin, resulting in a pinched and tingling feeling. Once in place, he made his way from the narrow passage into Knockturn proper, picking up where he'd left off. The jar pressed against his ribs with each step, shifting slightly in his coat pocket.

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  The cobbles were slick underfoot, something dark and oily pooled between the stones. He sidestepped it. Didn't much fancy traipsing through the gunge. A wizard hunched in a doorway ahead, pipe clenched between his teeth, smoke curling up that smelled like burning rubber and something sweetly rotten. He gave a cheery wave as he passed. The man's eyes widened, and he suddenly found the cobbles at his feet fascinating. Whatever could that be about? Wasn’t as though he was a ne’er-do-well.

  McKrell's Wonders sat halfway down on the left. The window display caught the afternoon light, making the wooden cup on its pedestal gleam as it tilted forward, emptying an endless stream of the Eucharist into the basin below. Bloody shame, that.

  He glanced at the rest. A scroll propped against the glass, dodgy cuneiform running every which way. A dented cauldron that'd probably never seen anything more exciting than a basic Pepper-Up. That butter knife claiming to be goblin-wrought, the copper showing through where the gilt had flaked off. Still peddling the same rubbish, then.

  The door stood ajar. He pushed through, bell jangling overhead.

  Dust hung thick in the air, caught in shafts of light struggling through grimy windows. The shelves pressed in on all sides, groaning under their loads. A taxidermied something-or-other with too many legs perched on a shelf at eye level, its glass eyes tracking him as he moved past. Trick of the light, probably. He moved quickly past the thing anyway. Reminded him too much of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

  The velvet curtain at the back shifted, beads clacking together. Maron's round face appeared, breaking into that aggressively toothy smile. "Ahh, welcome, welcome!" The unctuous purr was in full force, hands spreading wide. "Please, make yourself—"

  He stopped, then blinked. The smile flickered, then stretched wider. "Why, Mr. Halloway! What a delightful surprise! I wasn't expecting you back quite so soon!"

  Maron’s gaze flicked down to his coat pockets, then back up to his face. Lingered on his hands. Then the pockets again. A witch near the back in grey robes was bent over a collection of tarnished mirrors. She glanced up at the man’s volume, then quickly returned to her examination.

  "Afternoon, Maron." He kept his tone light and breezy. "Things worked out well with the paperwork. Wanted to see if you might help with another matter."

  "Another matter!" Maron clasped his hands together, rings glinting. "But of course, of course! You've come to the right establishment, my good man! Whatever you require, McKrell's Wonders can provide!" He gestured expansively at the cluttered shop. "Egyptian amulets, Babylonian tablets, authentic Atlantean relics; you name it, I have it! And if by some cruel twist of fate I don't..." His voice dropped conspiratorially, leaning in. "...I have people who can find anything within the week. Guaranteed!"

  “Yes, you did say that last time. Quite the bold claim, that.” He arched a brow. “Is it true? Anything?”

  The witch in the back was taking her sweet time with those mirrors. Either properly considering a purchase or waiting to see if something more interesting developed.

  "But of course!" Maron said, voice still carrying that oily cheer, "perhaps this particular inquiry would benefit from a more... private venue?" He turned toward the witch. "My dear lady! I do apologize most profusely, but I must attend to an urgent matter! Please, do return this evening. I'll ensure these mirrors are set aside especially for you!"

  The witch looked up, startled. Set down the mirror she'd been examining and hurried for the door, robes swishing. The bell jangled. The door clicked shut. Maron moved to it.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rattle. Rattle Clunk.

  McKrell turned back. His shoulders had already rolled back, the flourish draining away as he moved. The smile thinned.

  "Right this way, Mr. Halloway."

  He followed through the velvet curtain. The back room hadn't improved. Still that lumpy settee facing the armchair and troll head mounted above the hearth with its mouth frozen mid-roar. Those teeth. Christ.

  McKrell gestured to the settee. He sat, found a lump immediately, shifted, found another. McKrell settled into his chair, hands folding in his lap.

  "Now then." A clipped tone had replaced the sleazy tone entirely. "What brings you back to my door, Mr. Halloway?"

  "Need you to track something down. Bit specialized." He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Thought you might know someone who could manage it."

  "Depends entirely on what you're after." McKrell's fingers drummed once against the armrest. "I've got contacts for most things, but 'specialized' covers a fair amount of ground in our line of work."

  "Egyptian."

  "Ah." McKrell's eyebrows rose. "The land of the Pharaohs. Popular market, that. Scarabs, amulets, canopic jars; I can have a dozen authentic pieces by week's end if you're looking to start a collection."

  "Not after the tourist tat. Need something a bit rarer. A functioning Ushabti box, for starters."

  McKrell's drumming fingers stilled. "An Ushabti box."

  "And half a dozen Ushabti to go with it."

  "Well now." McKrell leaned back. The chair creaked. "That's not your standard request. Ushabti turn up often enough in tomb excavations, but most of the ones that make it to market are already—"

  "Used. I know." He met McKrell's gaze. "That's why I came to you. I need ones that haven't been."

  The silence stretched. McKrell's eyes narrowed slightly.

  "Unused Ushabti." He said it slowly, turning the words over. "That's... considerably more difficult. Most activate during the burial rituals. That's rather the point of them, after all. Finding ones that never triggered..." The drumming started again. "That's asking for pieces from a tomb that was never properly sealed. Or one where the rituals failed. Or—"

  "Or ones that were meant for a burial that never happened." He shrugged. "Don't much care about the how. Just need them dormant."

  "Right." His tone went flat. "May I ask what you're planning to use them for? Not that it's my business, naturally, but it might help me locate the right—"

  "You may not."

  The moment stretched, then McKrell smiled, thin and knowing. "Fair enough. Client confidentiality and all that."

  He waited. The fire crackled. He shifted in his seat, the glass jar clinking bulky in his pocket. Funny, a whole woman was contained within, body and soul. The Ushabti couldn’t store quite that much, but he was fairly sure they’d be able to do the job.

  You know this isn’t right.

  None of this is bloody right.

  "I do have contacts in Cairo," McKrell said finally. "Alexandria as well. Men who know which tombs the curse-breakers haven't picked clean yet, which private collections might be persuaded to part with certain pieces." He paused. "Six unused Ushabti and a proper storage box. It'll take time. I can't promise anything under three weeks, possibly longer. And it won't come cheap."

  "How not cheap?"

  "Two thousand galleons. Half now, half on delivery."

  He didn't blink, but a corner of his mouth twitched. Two thousand. Steep, but not mad for what he was asking.

  Still. Man's got to at least try.

  "Fifteen hundred. Half now, half on delivery."

  Maron's smile widened. "Mr. Halloway, these are exceedingly rare artifacts from one of the most dangerous regions in the magical world. My associates risk curse-breaker patrols, tomb guardians, the occasional vengeful mummy..." He spread his hands. "Surely their efforts merit proper compensation."

  "Seventeen-fifty. Seven-fifty up front, a thousand on delivery."

  McKrell drummed his fingers again, slow and steady. The rings caught firelight, glinting with each dull tap of metal on wood. "Seventeen-fifty," he said after a long moment. "You have yourself a deal."

  Harry shifted, reaching for his mokeskin pouch. "I want weekly updates. Don't care if there's no progress. I want to know you're still looking."

  "Weekly updates. Agreed." McKrell pulled a scrap of parchment toward him, dipping his quill. "And if, for some reason, my associates can only secure three or four Ushabti instead of the full six?"

  "Then we renegotiate based on what you can provide." He counted out galleons onto the side table between them, coins clinking as they stacked. "But the box is non-negotiable."

  "Understood." McKrell reached for his scales, set them on the table, began placing coins one by one.

  The scale tilted left. Right. Then a green light flickered on.

  “Very good, Mr. Halloway. Everything seems to be in order, this time.”

  He nodded. After last time, he’d sorted out all the galleons. Didn’t need Gringotts up his arse over a few measly coins that shouldn’t technically exist yet.

  The stack of galleons now sat on McKrell's side of the table. He swept them into a lockbox beside his chair, then stood, offering his hand. His grip was firm. "Pleasure doing business with you again, Mr. Halloway."

  He shook it. "Likewise."

  McKrell's posture shifted as they walked back through the curtain. The dull smile spread back across his face, shoulders loosening.

  "Ahh, always such a delight to assist a valued client!" The unctuous purr returned as he moved to the door, unlatching bolts and chains. "Do come back anytime, Mr. Halloway! McKrell's Wonders is ever at your service!"

  The door swung open. Afternoon light spilled in, bright after the shop's dimness.

  He stepped out onto the cobbles, tucking his hands in his pockets. The jar hard and smooth against his hand.

  How does this make you any better than they are?

  It doesn’t.

  Right. Just one more errand, then home.

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  ? It's off to work I go. ?

  The afternoon had stretched longer than he'd planned. The sun sat lower now, shadows claiming more of Knockturn's cobbles with each passing minute.

  He'd spotted the Mermaid on his way to McKrell's. A garish sign hanging crooked. The perfect place for Dung to be halfway through a baker's dozen pints. The door stuck when he pushed it, wood swollen from damp and decades of neglect. He put his shoulder into it. The hinges shrieked, and he stepped into dimness that reeked of stale ale and piss.

  Lovely.

  Dark, cramped, with sticky floors and stickier clientele. A few patrons hunched over their drinks at scattered tables. The barkeep, a gaunt wizard with a wandering eye, was wiping down glasses with a rag that looked like it'd seen better decades.

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  He scanned the room. There, corner table. Hunched figure in a threadbare coat, surrounded by empties.

  Mundungus Fletcher, in all his glory.

  He crossed the room, boots adhering slightly to the floor with each step. Dung didn't look up until he pulled out the chair across from him, wood scraping loud against the boards.

  "Afternoon, Dung."

  Mundungus jerked, ale sloshing. Bloodshot eyes squinted up at him, then widened.

  "Blimey, it's you again!" Dung's voice carried that edge of a man deep in his cups, but not quite gone yet. "Mr. Halloway, weren't it? Didn't think I'd be seein' you back in these parts so soon." He leaned in, conspiratorial. "McKrell sorted you proper, then?"

  "He did, yeah." He settled into the chair, ignoring the way it wobbled. "Got another proposition for you, if you're interested."

  "Work?" Dung's nose twitched. "What sort o' work we talkin' about?"

  "The listening sort." He pulled a small pouch from his pocket, set it on the table between them. "You're already in places like this most days, yeah? Hearing things. Pub talk, gossip, the usual."

  Dung's gaze locked onto the pouch. "Could be."

  "I'm after a particular kind of talk. The sort that gets people worked up about blood purity, recruiting, that whole business." He leaned back. "Knights of Walpurgis. Heard the name?"

  Dung's expression went carefully neutral. "'Course I 'ave. Everyone's 'eard of 'em by now, ain't they? Nasty lot, from what I gather."

  "Right. Them, or anyone talking the same way. Pureblood politics, Muggleborn restrictions, werewolf registries, that sort of thing." He tapped the table once. "If you hear anyone moving past talk into actual organizing—recruitment, gatherings, planning—I want to know about it."

  "That's..." Dung scratched at his chin. "That's askin' quite a bit, innit? Dangerous, too. What if some o' them Knights take offense to me payin' too much attention?"

  "Then you do what you always do—keep your head down and your ears open." He shrugged. "You're already hearing this stuff, Dung. I'm just asking you to remember it and pass it along."

  "An' what's in it for me?" Dung's fingers had crept closer to the pouch.

  "Five galleons in that pouch. Just for saying yes." He let that sit for a moment. "Weekly after that. You drop off whatever you've heard, you get another five. More if it's particularly good."

  Dung's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Five galleons a week? Just for listenin'?"

  "Just for listening and remembering."

  "An' if I ain't got nothin' some weeks?"

  "Then you don't drop anything off, and we try again next week." He tilted his head. "But a man like you, Dung? In places like this? I reckon you'll have plenty to share."

  Dung was quiet for a long moment, fingers drumming against the scarred table. His gaze kept flicking between the pouch and the door. Finally, his hand shot out. The pouch disappeared into his coat faster than seemed possible for someone in his state.

  "Right then," Dung muttered. "Where'm I droppin' things off?"

  "Loose brick behind the Mermaid. Third from the corner, eye level. Sundays, you leave whatever you've got. Mondays, you collect."

  "An' if I need to get a message to you urgent-like?" Dung scratched at his chin. "What name'm I askin' for?"

  Good question. Halloway was tied to McKrell's paperwork, and he'd rather keep this separate. Something simple. Something forgettable.

  "Smith. John Smith."

  Dung snorted into his ale. "Right. Very creative, that."

  "Does the job." He stood, chair scraping.

  "Aye, I got it." Dung waved him off, already reaching for his pint. "I'll keep me ears sharp."

  He made it halfway to the door before Dung's voice called out, quieter now.

  "Oi. Smith."

  He stopped, glanced back.

  Dung was staring into his ale, not meeting his eyes. "This lot you're askin' after. They're proper dangerous, yeah? Not just talk an' bluster?"

  "Proper dangerous."

  Dung nodded slowly, then took a long pull from his glass. "Right then. Best know what I'm listenin' for."

  "Appreciated, Dung."

  The door shrieked as he pushed back out into the alley. Even Knockturn's usual rot and grime smelled better than the Mermaid's interior.

  The jar was hot, almost burning against his ribs as he started walking. Rita still hadn't stirred. Probably for the best. Could only imagine the racket she'd make if she woke up before he got her properly secured.

  This is monstrous. You know it is.

  I caught her in the bloody act, Hermione!

  Then take her in the DMLE.

  Like you’re one to talk!

  Could hand her straight to the DMLE. Five years Azkaban, done and dusted. Except that didn't solve the problem. Dumbledore had ignored the press entirely. Treated it as beneath notice while Fudge's campaign destroyed him, while Rita played the public like a fiddle. The greatest wizard of the age, helpless against newsprint.

  And the woman who wielded that quill was already caught. Already facing prison. The fear was earned. Her crime, her consequences. But what good did that do him, or anyone?

  He bit his cheek and kept walking.

  The sun had dipped low enough now that the buildings threw long shadows across the cobbles. Time to get moving. Had a long flight ahead of him, and Whimsy would be wondering where he'd got to.

  He dropped the glamour as he turned into Diagon proper, features sliding back to their usual arrangement. The tickling faded, leaving just the familiar weight of his own face.

  Right then.

  One beetle caught. One broker contracted. One informant recruited.

  Not a bad afternoon's work.

  ? Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. ?

  ? It’s home from work I go. ?

  He tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling the warm glass beneath his palm. It was just about time for a little chat with his favourite reporter.

  She woke.

  Well, she was waking. It felt like clawing out of a thick, muddy sludge. Thoughts were slow to form and fleeting. A maddening mosaic of hexagonal images assaulted her. Her antennae twitched. The air was still. The world tasted hard and smooth beneath her palps. Inorganic. Like glass. Glass.

  Glass!

  She surged to her feet, elytra shooting open and wings fluttering as she lifted off. Where was she? What is this? Why—

  There was movement. Something massive loomed, an enormous shape, coming closer. It filled her entire field of vision. White, with a blue ring, and black centre. A large, terrible eye, fixed upon her. It pierced through glass and flesh, stripping her bare and seeing her soul. It pinned her in place, freezing her. She forgot to breathe, falling to the ground.

  Tink

  The eye blinked. Slow, deliberate, and horrifying. It locked back on her. She scrabbled backwards, six legs moving frantically to retreat to the far side of her cell. The room rotated, bringing her right back before it. There was no escape.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuckfuckfuckfu—

  “Does missus beetle be awakes now?”

  The voice was high, sending vibrations through the glass and up her legs, rattling her exoskeleton. The eye pulled back, revealing more. Pale skin, a long nose, pointed ears. A house-elf. The creature peered down at her, head tilting from side to side, like she was some sort of curiosity.

  A house-elf? Why am I… I had been in Diagon…

  “I’ll takes you to see the Master. He’ll know what to be doing with you, missus beetle.”

  The Master? Peverell! She’d seen him in, and decided to tail him. Sure to be something juicy. Especially when he veered into Knockturn. And then… he froze her and placed her in this jar.

  He’d known it was her. Said something about upsetting his women, and she’d be… Squished!

  She began to buzz about the jar again, clinging to the top of the container, trying to force her body through the small air-holes. Couldn’t fit. The lid tasted like steel. No way she could get out that way. What if she changed back to human?

  “Master said you’d not be wanting to change back, missus beetle. The jar is unbreakable.”

  FUCK.

  The jar tilted. She tumbled, legs gripping for purchase. The world spun. Dark gray clouds. A large tower. Walls all around. When it settled, she was on her back, fallen to the bottom of the jar again, legs waving uselessly in the air.

  Crunch

  The sound echoed, bouncing off the stone walls.

  Voices rumbled from above. Deep. Rough. Through the glass she caught fragments.

  “—roasted ‘em low an’ slow—”

  “—Last uns weren’t put to the fire—"

  “—Almost out of this lot—”

  What are they talking about? What’s that sound? The last ones?

  Her antennae twitched. She righted herself, pressing against the glass. The voices continued, casual and unbothered.

  “An’ when we’ve run out of this lot, then?”

  “Master says he’s got another on the way. Said he wants to try crackin' ‘em first, though.”

  Another one. Crack them.

  “Aye, the last one put up a right fight, it did. He ended up splitting it in twain. ‘Twas a right shame.”

  Last one put up a fight.

  “Aye, a real mess, that.”

  The mess. Blood Bones. The last person to offend him—

  Crunch Crunch

  The sound continued. Rhythmic. Casually eating the bodies while they discussed how to roast her.

  Her legs trembled. She pressed herself harder against the glass, trying to see more. It was hard to focus with these blasted bug eyes. Shadows moved along the walls above. Multiple figures. And that sound. It sent shivers up her spine.

  “Alright, Whimsy is ready to takes the missus up to see Master now.”

  The jar lifted. Her world tilted violently. She tumbled, pinging off the glass wall, sliding down, legs scrambling for purchase. The shadows changed as they moved away from the walls, approaching a towering shadow.

  They began to ascend stairs. She caught glimpses through the glass, the movement causing nausea, but she did her best to make sense of it. Ocean. They were surrounded by it. It’d taken her off to some remote island to… Punish her for the articles? Then to dispose of her body to those beasts.

  Oh, Merlin.

  Cold air rushed past the jar, leaking in through the vents. The sound of the elf’s footsteps echoed; soft pats against stone. Climbing a tower.

  Stop. Focus. Think.

  She was trying, but she felt light-headed. She quivered, antennae twitching uselessly. She had to fly, to get away, but there was no way out. The glass and the metal.

  How high were they going? The sound of waves grew fainter. The howling of wind picked up from somewhere outside. The cold was sapping her energy, she felt sluggish and slow. Hard to move. Hard to think. Up. Up. Up.

  A loud creaking.

  Warmth hit the jar. Her antennae perked up and alertness slowly returned. Firelight flickered through the glass, orange and yellow dancing across her prison.

  Thunk

  “Here she is, Just Harry.” The elf’s voice, shrill and painful.

  “Thank you, Whimsy.” His voice. Warm and pleasant. Not the same as from the alley. “You can go ahead and change her back now.”

  No. No no no—

  A flash of light.

  Her exoskeleton cracked. Split. Her body exploded outward from the fractured shell. Expanding in every direction at once. Bones bursting into existence, snapping into place, grinding against each other. Growing. Lengthening. Six legs condensed, merged into arms and legs. Her compound eyes imploded, vision snapping into focus. The world shrunk. She grew.

  Everything stretching, breaking, reforming.

  She wanted to scream, but had no mouth. Then she did.

  “Nooo!”

  She gasped, out of breath. He sat before her, smiling pleasantly.

  She collapsed.

  Wood pressed against her cheek, hard and rough. Her hands—hands—splayed flat, feeling the grain beneath her palms. She was sprawled across something. A desk. She had fallen onto a desk.

  Her vision swam. Single images, bright colours, sharp details. She blinked. Then again.

  The world fully resolved.

  Books. Shelves of books lining walls that stretched up to a vaulted ceiling. A fire crackling in a hearth, casting light and setting shadows to dance. Windows behind showing dark skies with the occasional flash of white.

  And him.

  On the other side of the desk where she lay slumped. Lord Harry Peverell sat reclined in a plush chair. That terrifyingly pleasant expression. Eyes pinned into her.

  The house-elf, Whimsy, stood beside him, looking at her curiously.

  Her throat was raw. She’d stopped screaming when she ran out of breath. She pushed herself up on shaky arms. Her body felt wrong. Too big and heavy. Joints were bending in ways they shouldn’t be after… how long had she been a beetle? Days? Weeks?

  Crunch

  Her heart pounded, and her eyes shot back to him, the source of the noise. He was chewing on something. On the desk, inches from her face, sat a bowl. It was full of something.

  “Welcome back, Miss Skeeter. Fancy a hazelnut?” His tone was conversational. Easy, like they were meeting to chat over a cuppa. “I do hope the journey wasn’t too uncomfortable. Whimsy did try to keep the jar steady, but the stairs can be a bit treacherous.”

  Her mouth opened. Her tongue felt thick, but she managed to get out a croak. “Where—”

  “The Peverell Estate, off the Isle of Lews in the Outer Hebrides.” He gestured vaguely towards the windows. “It is rather remote and still a bit higgledy-piggledy, so I do hope you’ll forgive the mess.” He leaned forward. “But we are many, many miles away from the nearest neighbour. Perfect for privacy. Perfect for conversations that require discretion.”

  His eyebrows raised meaningfully. What the meaning was, she couldn’t rightly say.

  “Whimsy, would you mind?”

  With a snap of her fingers, a tea service appeared on the desk. A stainless steel teapot billowing out steam and two simple cups and saucers sat before them.

  “How does missus beetle be taking her tea?”

  No milk. Bergamot? Yes. Earl Grey, then.

  “Three sugars, please,” she answered, head racing. This was madness.

  “Just a bit of lemon for me, Whimsy.”

  He picked up his cup, blowing gently across the steaming surface. He took a slow sip, and let out a contented sigh, then sat it down with a soft clink. Looking up at her, his eyebrows rose again. “Where are my manners? You must be exhausted.” He stood up, gesturing to a chair beside her. “Please, take a seat. Make yourself at home.”

  She looked at the chair. Then back at him. Then at the door behind her.

  “Come now, what kind of host would I be if I let you get away before you’ve even enjoyed your tea.” He smiled. A frightfully broad thing. He looked properly unhinged. “Besides, there’s no apparition within the wards, and you hardly seemed dressed for a swim in the Minch.”

  She sat. The leather creaked under her weight. She shifted. Couldn’t get comfortable. Almost felt as though the chair was shifting with her, perfectly lumpy and uncomfortable.

  “Not so hard, now, was it?” He said. “Have a drink. It helps with the shock.”

  She stared at the cup. At the steam rising from it. She could almost see violet bubbles coming to the top. Almost smell wormwood and arsenic. He slid it closer to her, slowly.

  She didn’t make to touch it.

  “Smart,” Peverell said. “Though, if I wanted to poison you, it’d have been a far easier task while you were still lying unconscious in a jar.”

  Her throat closed.

  “Now then.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think it’s time we discussed your career, don’t you? ‘The Battle for Britain’s Bachelor,’ and ‘A Pureblood Lady: The Black Sheep of the Black Family.’” His smile turned to stone, eyes drilling into her. “Very compelling work. I’ve read them several times.”

  She pinched her leg, hard enough to bruise.

  “You truly do have quite the talent for finding stories where others don’t look. Getting into places others can’t reach. I imagine your little beetle trick has been quite useful for that.”

  She gripped her chair arms. The wood was solid under her palms. She focused on it. If he wanted her dead, she’d be dead.

  "An unregistered Animagus. Typically, just a fine and mandatory registration. However—" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "—when it's been used for illegal surveillance of prominent families? That becomes rather more serious. I'd wager the Wizengamot would lean toward a custodial sentence. Five years, perhaps more."

  She gulped.

  “And, for whatever reason, I have a sneaking suspicion, things may not go in your favour should the Black family be informed as to how you came upon your information.” His smile was teeth. Long, sharp, serrated teeth.

  He set a stack of papers before her on the desk. She reached out, shakily taking hold of them. Names. Dates. Pictures of a beetle in various places. Of her. So many. Can probably discredit some of them.

  The tapping of his finger on the wooden desk and the crackling of the fire were all the noise in the room. Tap. Tap. Tap. It went on and on. He can’t prove all of these are me. Maybe some of them. But he’s a Lord. So are they. It’s easy to prove I’m an Animagus with a warrant. Easy for them to get one. Fuck. I’m so fucked.

  She found her voice. It came out hoarse and light. “Why haven’t you reported me then?”

  “That is an excellent question, Rita.” His smile returned, wide as ever. “And the answer is quite simple. I don’t want to destroy you. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  He stood, walking to the window. His back was to her, silhouetted against the darkness beyond. Her eyes darted to the door. The wards. The walls. Nowhere to run.

  “You’re talented.” His voice had dropped. It was flatter now. The pleasant mask was gone. “You have good instincts. You can capture attention. And your quill can be truly poisonous.”

  Her leg was bouncing as she listened. Up and down. Up and down. Faster and faster.

  He turned back to face her. His expression had shifted. Still a smile, but… warmer? Like he didn’t want to murder her quite as badly? How long would that last?

  “I want to make you the premiere journalist in magical Britain.”

  He wanted to do the what now?

  "Think about it." He walked up behind her chair, placing his palms on the back of it, speaking from right above her. "Exclusive access to Lord Peverell. Interviews whenever you need them. Introductions to everyone who matters: the Blacks, the Potters, Ministry officials. Every door that's been shut in your face, I can open."

  Her breath caught.

  He's not just talking about writing puff pieces. He's offering real access. The kind that takes decades to build.

  She gulped. Tried to, anyway. It wouldn't go down. She could see it. The front page. Real bylines. Not puff pieces—real investigative work. Stories that mattered. Her name, in large print, at the front of the Prophet, week in and out.

  “Front-page stories with your name on them. A name recognised and respected. Everything you’ve been scrambling for these past three years.” He leaned down closer. The heat from his breath bringing gooseflesh to her neck as he whispered. “I can give you everything.”

  Her heart hammered in her ribs. A jolt shot up her spine. She wet her lips. “And, what is the catch?”

  “Control.” The crackling of the fire returned. He didn’t move, just hovered over her, a weight that could come crashing down at any moment. Then, he was moving, back around to sit in his chair. ”You write what I tell you to write, when I tell you to write it. You stay away from the people I tell you to stay away from. And you bring anything you hear that might prove interesting to me.” He let that sit for a moment while she thought, then continued.

  "Otherwise, you'll write your own stories, of course," he continued, as if reading her thoughts. "Your leads, your angles, your style. I'm simply... ensuring certain topics remain off-limits and that you share what you learn with me. Think of it as having a very well-connected patron."

  Her mind raced. This was everything—Everything—she'd wanted since leaving school. Something that would take her years, maybe decades, of desperate gambles and clawing to have a chance at. And he was offering it now. Access to the most powerful families in Britain. Exclusive interviews. Protection from retaliation. The ability to write stories that actually mattered, not just society gossip and fluff pieces.

  Three years at Witch Weekly watching others take credit for her leads, her research, her legwork. Serving tea instead of writing articles. Maybe next time. We'll see. Keep working the front desk, dear.

  And now—

  “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “You don’t.” His lips quirked. “Not unless we make it binding.”

  He pulled open a drawer and drew out a small wooden box. He opened it, revealing a gleaming golden thread wound about a spool.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “An Unbreakable Vow?”

  “Of course not, this is far less barbaric. It simply binds our agreement as a contract.” He pulled out two sheafs of parchment. “One for you and one for me. If either of us break the contract, it immediately records the word ‘oathbreaker’ on the parchment.” Was that all? “And in a tattoo across the offender’s forehead.”

  Right. That made more sense. But it wasn’t death or dismemberment or—

  Crunch

  He popped another hazelnut into his mouth, waiting.

  “So.” He slid one of the parchments across the desk toward her. “Do we have an accord?”

  She stared at the contract. The words swam. Clauses about editorial control. Restrictions on certain subjects. Requirements to report information. Promises to provide interviews and inside leads. All laid out in neat, precise script.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for it.

  She could walk away. Seemed he'd let her, though she'd see him in court. Five years in Azkaban, maybe more. The Blacks hunting her down after. Her career destroyed either way. Or… She could get everything she ever wanted. Everything she'd been clawing for since leaving school. Right now. Today.

  The quill sat beside the parchment. She picked it up, rolling it between her fingers. The nib hovered over the signature line. Just a stroke. That’s all it would take.

  Everything.

  The quill touched parchment.

  Rita Skeeter.

  She grimaced, pain blooming across the back of her hand. A blood quill. Of course. Across from her, Peverell did the same, his face showing no sign of discomfort. He extended his arm out, placing his contract on top of her own.

  The golden thread from the spool moved like it was alive, winding through the air. It spiralled out, wrapping around her finger, tying it to the contract. The same happened to him. Then, in a flash, the fibres dispersed, settling into the contract and her body.

  It was done.

  “There, all settled.” He smiled at her. The teeth weren’t jagged or sharp. Just regular-as-you-please, not likely to kill her, garden variety teeth.

  “Now. Have you heard about the proposed Werewolf Registry Act that Yaxley is floating before the Wizengamot?”