A/N: A longer chapter to make up for my absence - some interesting developments in this one.

Chapter Five - The Tempest Door

Over breakfast the next morning, sitting in window shafts of forest-dappled sunlight, Harry refused to apologise to Professor Hoovian's guests for setting them on fire the previous evening.

Most of them took this in stride, save for a burly-looking chap with burn salve on his forehead where his eyebrows used to be. He glared menacingly while cradling a mug of harsh black coffee, bitter on the nose.

"In Harry's defence," Daphne said, having chosen to sit next to Harry, a possessive hand on his shoulder, "you were meant to be a Death Eater, Walter. I mean, what did you expect?"

"No, no defence," Walter said, wagging his finger across the table. "Mathias—where is Mathias?—will be paying us extra for this nonsense."

The other three people, save the strange man at the head of the elongated dining table adjacent to the kitchen and overlooking the garden Harry had set ablaze last night, murmured agreement at that.

Daphne frowned. "You accept the job, you accept the risk. You all know this, yes? You're just sore he got past you so easily."

A lady with flowing red hair to her waist, sharp yellow eyes that reminded Harry of a cat, laughed into her napkin.

"Something to add, Chell?" Walter growled.

"While I share your desire for coin, I am just so... pleased that the Boy Who Lived is everything the legends say he is, and more." She inclined her head. "Mr Potter, Harry, unlike most men you do not disappoint."

Harry fought a blush—he found Chell almost regal in how attractive she was, sitting tall in a warm green turtleneck jumper, her nails a bright blood-red. Harry put her somewhere in her thirties.

Daphne dug her nails into Harry's shoulder before letting him go. He considered looking at her sideways, but that seemed like a bold move, and she hadn't mentioned the kiss from last night at all. He felt quite out of his depth and was pretending he wasn't.

"Were you scared, Potter?" asked the thin wizard sitting at the end of the table, a curl of wispy beard dangling from his chin. He carried the gaunt, blistered look of a lifelong gin-addled madman, but when he spoke—just a whisper—his voice carried well and seemed to dampen the ambient noise in the dining room, like snow at midnight.

"No," Harry said, meeting his yellowed eyes. "More... annoyed."

The man held his gaze for a moment and then took a sip of some misty concoction in a clear-glass crystal flute. He had killed the conversation, it seemed, and even surly Walter sunk back in on himself, a bead of burn salve dripping down his cheek.

"Who are you to make things so ominous then?" Harry asked.

The thin man wheezed—no, laughed. "My name is Heritage Sea."

Daphne returned her hand to Harry—his forearm, shaking her head—but Heritage Sea thumped his glass goblet against the table.

"Miss Greengrass, leave him!"

Daphne snapped back in her chair as if slapped.

The other two 'Death Eaters', even beautiful Chell, looked away, suddenly interested in folded eggs and ricotta smeared bacon, in bitter coffee and pulpy orange juice.

Harry sighed and settled his cutlery back on his plate. "Let me guess, you're actually a reformed Death Eater? It wasn't just an act?"

"No, nothing so crass," Heritage muttered.

Harry nodded. "Oh, OK—"

"I was merely the caretaker for the Dark Lord Voldemort's soul-shard in the forests of Albania during his exile."

Harry considered that a moment and then stood, the legs of his wooden chair scraping loudly against the marble-swirled floor.

"Harry, please—" Daphne began.

"Voldemort killed my parents," Harry said, without scorn or malice, without kindness. "So he could then kill me." He picked up half an English muffin and scraped a thin crust of butter across the toasted surface. "Tell me, Heritage, why you would aid that snake-faced old man?"

Heritage Sea considered his crystal flute and then shrugged. "As for snake-faced old men, are we speaking of the Dark Lord, or of the headmaster that has placed you in similar life or death situations since you learnt of your fame?"

Harry blinked at that.

Professor Mathias Hoovian strolled into the kitchen, summoned Harry's muffin wandlessly, and took a crunchy bite. He tossed it back and Harry caught it along the buttery edge.

"Let me guess," Hoovian said. "Walter is angry and wants paying, Chell is commanding the room with her beauty, and Mr Sea is revelling in his dark and sordid past." He paused and pointed a finger broken more than once at Daphne. "Who has said the most stupid thing this morning?"

Daphne crossed her arms over her chest. "That remains to be seen." She nudged Harry. "My money is on this one before too long."

Hoovian chuckled and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He withdrew a pouch of coins that shouldn't have fit the pocket and tossed it at Walter.

"Coins for your burns, Walt," he said. "Chell, name your price. Heritage, do not try and assuage your guilt for fostering a broken monstrosity on the one soul that has suffered him the most. History does not repeat, but it does rhyme. You're old enough to know that."

Heritage Sea scowled and, with a grimace that turned his gaunt face into a skull—Harry genuinely saw a skull until he blinked—disappeared in a swirled curl of something akin to apparition.

"Forgive him, Harry, if that's your way," Hoovian said. "He regrets his part in the last decade of events that led to today, but Heritage is perhaps the world's foremost authority on a distinct branch of magic—forestry magic. We don't know why, or how, but canopies in the old forests seem to preserve spells and enchantments longer than they should. Heritage is the architect of that delightful loop that kept you from getting lost or assaulted by fae-demons last night. His overseeing the wraith of the Dark Lord was… an academic pursuit."

Harry took a seat. Fae-demons? "I'm over this kidnapping, when are we going back to Hogwarts?"

Hoovian poured himself a cup of that bitter, black coffee and contemplated his drink. "There's a job I'd like you all—"

Harry stood again. "I'll walk then—find a way through your enchanted looping forest. Thanks for the toast."

"Sit," Daphne said and Harry looked at her. She pulled on his sleeve. "For me."

Harry sat.

Professor Hoovian frowned at that interaction and cleared his throat. "As I was saying, these lovely people are not here just to try and fool you, Harry. Last night was a test—one you passed rather loudly, if without grace."

"Who's Grace?" he asked.

"Easy money," Daphne muttered.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and decided it was his turn to scowl.

Professor Hoovian went on. "How would you like to commit some magical crime this evening, Harry, in Bulgaria's capital—Sofia?"

Harry considered that. "No, thank you."

"If it helps, the only victim of this thrilling caper is a wizarding crime lord known to traffic in dark and illegal artefacts, in magical creatures, and dabbles in human trafficking. Dragan Bruxo."

Harry shrugged. He'd never heard the name. "What do you need me for? Are we to fight this man?"

"Steal from him," Chell said. "Intercept something he intends to gift to the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Now that got Harry's attention, which he knew was the point, but still... "No, thanks. I don't want any part of your schemes or crimes or whatever. I've got enough to deal with, honestly."

"If it helps," Daphne said, "I'm assisting in the scheme, and I shall be wearing a lovely green dress, and I shall be dancing with you at the party this evening where all of this is meant to happen."

"OK I'm in."

In the heart of Sofia stood the grand and opulent Saint Aleksander Nevski Cathedral—a broad and tall building, complete with weather-bleached green and golden domed towers. In the cobblestone courtyard out front of the cathedral, a long red carpet had been unfurled and impossibly beautiful people in fine evening wear were making their way inside.

Harry walked with Daphne on his arm, wearing a tuxedo in the muggle style, but with a tailored pocket for his wand on the left side of the jacket. He felt awkward, out of place, staring down at his reflection in black shoes shined to a mirror bright.

Daphne, in the promised green dress, her silver hair curled in gentle waves, seemed entirely at ease, smiling and nodding as they ascended the red carpet adorning the steps of the cathedral and entered the commanding building just on sunset. She wore a delicate red-ruby on a gold thread around her neck, nestled in the hollow below her throat.

"I like that gemstone," Harry said.

"Thank you, Harry," she replied.

Within the grand cathedral, the pews had been cleared or transfigured into circular dining tables, three dozen of them, draped in fine white linen cloths, and burdened with even finer china plates and glassware. Several hundred people already mingled in the cathedral, below the golden walls and pillared columns, framed by the impressive stained glass and artwork on the walls.

Warmth and merriment flowed across the space. On the altar, a band played classical music, upbeat and friendly, and couples danced in the space between the stage and the tables. Dozens of wait staff carried trays of drinks, sparkling wines and champagnes, along with canapes. Harry felt himself in a ballroom reserved for a royal wedding.

Above them all floated thousands of candles, and magical sprites—little lights like glowing snow—darted between the candles, casting the whole space in an intimately dim ambience.

"Well," Harry said. "This is nice."

"First time at one of these things?" Daphne asked, still holding his arm. Her scent was peaches and lilac, just enough to taste, and her lips were purple. "Oh I forget, you were muggle-raised, yes?"

Harry bristled. "Is that a dig at me?"

"Not at all," Daphne replied. "Now let's get to work."

Once Harry had agreed to take part in Professor Hoovian's caper, he had spent the day with Walter, Chell, and Heritage Sea at Hoovian's manor being looped in on just what and who they were planning to rob that evening.

Dragan Bruxo was a Bulgarian wizard, once considered as a potential Minister for Magic, and indeed, some argued, the real power in the Bulgarian magical community rested with him—to those who knew the true turning of the world, Hoovian had said, to those who knew the difference between power and fear.

"There's a difference between having authority," the professor said, contemplating a glass of dark red wine, "and being an authority. Bruxo understands that difference very well."

Bruxo ran a criminal syndicate that stretched across Europe and into the United Kingdom. He had his influential hand in all sorts of nefarious and miserable crime, but dealt primarily in magical artefacts and rare—illegal—potions.

Harry and Daphne's role in the mission that evening was simple—at least, it seemed simple to Harry. They were to attend this fancy party and make friends with Bruxo's daughter, who would be hosting a private after party later that evening at Bruxo's fortified apartments on the western edge of Sofia. The wards and magical security on Bruxo's home were world class—impenetrable. Harry and Daphne were to be invited in and disable the protections from the inside—break the ward stone, known to be in Bruxo's office, which would allow Hoovian and the others to enter and commit the actual crime.

"Do you see her?" Harry asked.

Daphne scanned the crowds, all smiles, and shook her head. "No, I do not, but she's meant to be about our age. I met her once years ago. She attends Durmstrang, which is how Hoovian knows as much as he does... keep an eye out for teenagers."

A tray of mini-cheeseburgers on cocktail skewers idled on past and Harry grabbed himself a handful. "You want one?" he asked.

"No, too greasy," Daphne said. "Do you need a napkin?"

"Now that was definitely a dig," Harry said, but it didn't stop him eating his little cheeseburgers.

The evening wore on and Harry mingled with Daphne, enjoyed having her close, and almost forgot he was on a mission—she told him about her favourite subjects at Hogwarts, how the Slytherins threw darts at a picture of his face in their common room, and how she hoped to undertake further study after their seventh year.

"I hope to make it to our seventh year," Harry quipped, and she laughed, but not with her eyes.

A few people Daphne seemed to know, passing familiar, said hello, and the only people Harry knew—Chell and Walter—sat at one of the tables, ignoring them by design. Walter's eyebrows had been regrown, at least, though the tip of his nose still seemed a little singed.

"There," Harry said. "That's got to be them."

A group of teens danced together on the dance floor, and one of them—a tall girl with brown hair in a black dress, seemed to hold the attention of the rest. She was on the arm of an even taller boy, stubbly and handsome, and they swayed at ease on the busy dance floor. The band played a simple tune, high and slow.

"That's her," Daphne confirmed. "I met her years ago... but yes, that's her."

"Right then," Harry said. "Let's go say hello."

He stepped forward and Daphne pulled him back. "Don't be an idiot—that's not how it works. She needs to learn that we're here. Or, more particularly, that you are here. Who you are will draw their attention. We don't approach them."

"Why not?"

Daphne cursed softly. "It's just... not the way. Trust me."

Harry considered, then nodded. "Sure, this is your world, not mine."

"It's why we've spent the last hour introducing you to the right people. Word will get around that the Boy Who Lived is make a rare appearance in high society. This is why Hoovian wanted you here."

"I get it," Harry said. "So what do we do in the mean time?" He chose to be bold. "We could kiss again?"

"Kiss?" Daphne said, a knowing smile playing about her lips, "I don't recall any kiss, Harry."

"Last night. I was tied to a chair."

Daphne took his hand. "Dance with me—that will at least put us closer, perhaps within earshot."

Out on the dance floor, Harry managed a shuffle that felt two parts awkward for every part not stepping on Daphne's feet. He held a hand on her hip and his other in hers. She led without making it seem like she was leading, silver curls bouncing on her shoulders, and reminded him more than once to stop staring at both Bruxo's daughter and at his shoes.

"So... want to grab a butterbeer sometime when we're back at Hogwarts?" he asked, swaying to the music as best he could.

Daphne almost snorted and blinked a whole bunch, caught off guard. She settled on a grin. "Finally, he asks. Took you all day to work up the courage, hmm? Never mind, Potter, you're not my type."

Harry nodded. "Right. Not getting confusing signals here at all. Nope."

"Don't you have a murderous madman out to kill you? What if I get attached just as you take a killing curse to the face? No, better not to take the chance."

"Well I'm not planning on getting murdered," Harry said. "And I've shrugged off the killing curse before."

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Few are planning on it."

"OK, point." He sighed.

"Stop staring at Bruxo's daughter."

"Sorry."

"Again, we're just to watch and make friends with Carla Bruxo. Let her make friends with us," Daphne said, "and get invited to the after party back at Bruxo's home. We don't want to actually meet the man himself."

A heavy hand fell on Harry's shoulder and he stopped shuffling with Daphne. He looked up at a man with a face of harsh lines, broken and disappointed angles, a roadmap of hard fights, who spoke in broken English with a Bulgarian accent, "Mr Potter, good evening to you. Mr Bruxo would like to invite you and your... friend... to his table. Yes, please, now?"

Daphne squeezed his hand hard enough to hurt.

"I..." Harry paused. "I mean, we're dancing here, mate."

Another man appeared, as bulky and intimidating as the first, in the same suit. "Please, his table, yes."

Without asking, the two goons nudged Harry and Daphne off the dance floor, away from Carla Bruxo, her boyfriend, and their gaggle of friends, and into the sea of tables full of people laughing, drinking, joking. He saw Chell in a purple dress, her red hair tied high, give him a warning look, and sighed.

Dragan Bruxo sat at a table apart from the main hive of diners, a larger table in one of the chapels and unique in that it was rectangular as opposed to round, like the head table at a wedding. He was a handsome man, Harry thought, and looked younger than expected. Honestly, Harry had been expecting a muggle-style gangster in a pin-striped suit, grown fat over the years. Dragan Bruxo did wear a suit, but it was formal, and he held the table with an easy smile below blue eyes and short-cut brown hair.

All in all, for a man who profited off the misery of others, Harry had expected... less. Something uglier and lacking in charisma.

The rest of the table noted Harry and Daphne's arrival and Bruxo threw open his arms with a laugh and stood. "Ah, special guests!" he exclaimed. "Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Daphne Greengrass, here on behalf of her old and noble family, and her plus one... Mr Harry Potter."

The table gasped at that and descended into familiar mutters. He saw eyes flicking up to his hairline, searching for the scar. Harry ran a hand back through his hair and gave them all a glimpse.

"Had I known you were attending, Miss Greengrass, and with such an... intriguing plus one, I would have extended a seat at my table earlier."

Daphne hesitated and then cleared her throat. Harry watched her change, shoulders back, chin raised, and suddenly he was looking at a girl who had been born pureblood, who had attended these kind of events her entire life. "Mr Bruxo, it is a pleasure to meet you, and of course we accept your invitation. It is both my and Harry's good fortune that our studies this summer brought us to Bulgaria. We are honoured to be invited to your table."

"Yeah, studies," Harry said, and felt the glare behind Daphne's perfect smile.

Bruxo clapped his hands together. "Make room, my friends. Two more chairs! We shall drink and be merry, and Harry Potter will tell us of the Dark Lords he has felled, the tournaments he was won, the monsters he has slain, and," Bruxo placed his arm around Harry and sat him in the chair next to his, winking at Daphne, "the beautiful women he has known, yes? Bring us Firewhisky!"

Harry thought he understood decadence.

He had, after all, spent years attending feasts in the Great Hall—meats dripping with fat and gravy, maple-glazed carrots and others vegetables of whatever was in season (and, often, given magic, far from season), puddings and desserts as rich as the mighty pureblood families combined...

The foods delivered to Dragan Bruxo's table that evening put every dish Harry had ever eaten... not to shame... but on notice. He experienced a level of food beyond simple decadence.

He ate a net of spun gold made of sharp pork floss suspended above a cloud of visceral beef cheek, paired with a knife of sharp grilled asparagus, each bite striking a gentle yet firm bolt on his tongue. He sipped Firewhisky while a dessert of pure blueberry sparks infused with a turbulent cheesecake danced between his teeth.

Harry had eaten magically prepared food.

Harry had never eaten food where magic was a core ingredient.

The evening wore on and he spent most of it with Bruxo's arm around his shoulders, laughing and joking and clinking glasses with the crime lord. The man smelt of wood shavings, a pleasant cologne. Daphne kept placing her hand over his glass as the whisky was poured, which at first Harry frowned at, but the look she gave him cascaded harder than any cheesecake, and he bowed to her understanding of this world—its customs and settings, its people.

As Bruxo made a joke to the table at large, laughter cascaded, Daphne hugged him as if they were lovers and whispered harshly in his ear, "You are surrounded by monsters."

"Tell me of your Dark Lord, Harry," Bruxo asked, and although conversation muttered on around the table, Harry was deft enough to know when ears and whispers turned his way. "He is risen to fight against impurity, yes?"

Harry sipped at his first pour of whisky—Daphne let him sip—and frowned. "He is risen to murder."

"Yes, of course, most terrible," Bruxo said, and this provoked a round of laughter from his chamber in the secret chapel. "Have you met my daughter, Harry? There is a party at my apartments this evening—for the young and for the old like me. Would you like to attend? I have many fine whiskies and magical artefacts you would find intriguing."

Daphne leaned forward and, to Harry, displayed an amount of cleavage he found both distracting and entirely against her character. She pressed her breasts against his forearm.

"We would love to attend, Mr Bruxo," she said, catching her wine glass against a vase of flowers and spilling it across the table. "Oh, forgive me!"

Bruxo laughed, and nodded, but not to her face.

Harry, who knew the plan, still fought a frown. He had seen nothing of his allies in this mission tonight since joining Bruxo's table, but he suspected that was by design. They were off book, playing things by ear, but the goal of the original plan did still stand—get to Bruxo's apartment.

As the hour crept to eleven, chasing midnight, Dragan Bruxo led his party back to his apartments overlooking West Park on the edge of Sofia, using a system of portkeys and apparition. Harry and Daphne got to portkey together with Carla Bruxo and her friends, after a swift introduction, and Harry's view switched from old stone to a modern, near-commanding view over the park and river. He swirled into a sleek space, tall glass windows stretching across to the city and water, and beyond a twinkle of lit street-arteries disappearing over the horizon.

He stood in an expansive living area on polished wooden floors with a hundred other guests from the party, still clutching flutes and tumblers of fine liquor, and was surprised to see muggle amenities such as widescreen televisions and CD players against the walls, below fantastic portraits and artwork in the wizarding style.

Daphne laughed in his arms and twirled him amongst the crowds, as if dancing was her only game. The party spread out and music began to blast from the high speakers, loud enough not to dull conversation.

"Listen to me," she whispered into his ear, so close her lips brushed his skin, "we're not safe, we shouldn't be here, and we should leave, but we can still help Hoovian."

Harry let himself be twirled and pulled away, looking into her eyes. He forced himself to smile and gave her a spin on the dance floor, as the music flared and a troop of Bruxo's servants appeared as if by magic with more drink and food.

"Harry Potter!" Carla Bruxo said, grinning and squeezing his arm. "We must dance tonight! And have a photo together!"

Daphne and Harry were absorbed into Carla's group of attractive friends as if they'd known one another for years, and the next half hour was spent yelling over the music and each other, bumping and grinding into one another, which Harry found not altogether unpleasant. A white powder on a silver tray was passed around, and Daphne again declined for them both. There was no pressure from the others, as Daphne's rejection was delivered as delicately as silk flowing over polished glass.

She spoke and expected to be heard.

Just before midnight, as the party swelled into full swing, Daphne whispered something in Carla's ear that made the crime lord's daughter grin. She turned to Harry and smirked.

"Can you help me find the bathroom, Harry?" Daphne asked, loud enough to be heard by a few others—including Carla.

"My room on the second floor, first door on the right, has an en suite," Carla said, leaning in close, a knowing glint in her eye. "The password is 'Thestral'."

Harry let himself be led from the throng of revellers by Daphne, up the cast-iron spiral staircase to the second floor hallway, which was lined with comfy leather seats occupied by witches and wizards in various states of conversation, inebriation, pawing at one another. A gallery dotted with bookcases and wooden display cabinets overlooked the lounge and dance floor below.

"What was all that about?" Harry asked. "You can find the bathroom on your own, surely."

Daphne tsked and pulled him along. "It's a good thing you're pretty," she muttered, and reached the door to Carla Bruxo's room. "Thestral," she said, and the door opened on its own.

Daphne closed the door behind them as warm candlelight flared to life, revealing a luxurious room, cushioned and blanketed in purple, with grand arched windows leading to a stone terraced balcony.

"I told Carla I wanted somewhere private to… well, never mind what I told her," she said.

Harry's mind raced and he settled on a polite blush.

"I…er… I mean that's—"

"If you were listening this afternoon, her balcony adjoins Bruxo's study, where the ward stone should be," Daphne said. "If we break it, Hoovian and the others should be able to sneak in. Then we can get out of here."

Harry took a moment to catch-up and then nodded. He drew his wand and approached the window. It wasn't magically secured, that he could see, and the lock turned under his hand. He stepped out into the cool night air alongside Daphne, goose bumps rushing up his arms. Daphne shivered. The stone balcony was covered in exotic plants, and a stiff breeze rustled the branches and leaves. Harry, sensing magic, reached out and his fingers brushed against a shield of unyielding air—the wards.

"It's clever magic," Daphne said. "Goblin-wrought. Expensive."

The balcony curved to the left and light shone from the next room across. Through the glass doors Harry glimpsed a mahogany desk, tall shelves full of old tomes, and dozens of weird and wonderful artefacts, clearly ancient and magical, adorning plinths and the mantelpiece of Dragan Bruxo's study.

He tried the handle and wasn't surprised when it didn't budge. He looked to Daphne. "Alohomora," he whispered. The handle rattled but the lock didn't turn. "Any ideas?"

Daphne considered the door, tapping her chin in thought, and then shrugged. She turned to the balcony and picked up one of the small plant pots. Harry, guessing her intent, stepped aside as she hurled the plant into the glass door. It shattered the pane with a crash, unlikely to be heard over the party below. Daphne reached through the hole in the glass and unlocked the door from inside.

"After you," she said.

Harry entered the study, struck by the scent of old stone and spice—of books and the stuffy, almost whimsical smell he associated with long, sunny afternoons stuck in History of Magic.

"So Hoovian said the ward stone would look like…" He paused, scanning the shelves between the bookcases behind Bruxo's desk. "…that. There, on the top shelf. That ominous glowing orb."

"That must be it, yes," Daphne agreed.

They circled Bruxo's desk, Harry scanned the writings briefly, the furled scrolls and stacks of galleons, disinterested, and approached the quaffle-sized stone which pulsated with a light as sickly green as the killing curse.

"I'll blast it," Harry offered, raising his wand.

Daphne scoffed. "You'll not even scratch it." She reached up to her neck and unclasped her necklace with the fine red ruby gemstone. "Here, a little something… demonic. Goblin magic is strong, but this is stronger."

From the golden setting, Daphne plucked the button-sized ruby and it shone in the dull light, a spark—a flare—of something igniting in its heart. Hesitating only briefly, she reached out and pressed the ruby into the ward stone.

There was a sharp hiss, like logs cracking in the fire, and then the ruby blazed with fire, glowing molten hot, and began to eat into the stone, sinking like a hot knife through butter.

The stone screeched as if alive and Harry winced, shielding his ears. He and Daphne took a healthy step back away from the ward stone, as arcs of wicked green lightning broke away from the orb and cut harsh furrows into the polished oak bookshelves.

The stone cracked down the middle and the light faded. Briefly, out of the window, Harry saw a flash of rippling red light dissipate beyond the balcony. The wards had failed.

"Bruxo's security will know we did that soon enough," Daphne said. She reached into the ward stone and collected the ruby, which seemed undamaged and cool to the touch. "We should make our escape. Back stairs, as planned."

"What is that thing?" Harry asked, nodding at Daphne's ruby necklace.

"A… gift, after a kind," she said. "Unfocused this gem will burn hotter than dragon's fire until dawn."

A familiar pop of apparation had Harry spinning on the spot, wand at the ready. Professor Mathias Hoovian stood tall in dark robes, wand drawn, and grinned at them both.

"Well done," he said. "I'd begun to worry you'd been swept up in the party. Or in your case, Harry, sold to the Dark Lord."

"Where are the others?" Daphne asked.

"Distracting the hired wands," Hoovian said, scanning the room. He admired a stone tablet of ancient runes above the fireplace. "Heritage grew something special out in the street. Which means you two are to help me find the artefact. I'll cast the diagnostic charms, but what I'm looking for—what Bruxo has promised the Dark Lord—is a band of dull metal, about the width of a crown. Indeed, it once was a crown. You'll know it when you see it. Check the collections in that glass case over there."

Daphne did as instructed. Harry kept an eye on the door and folded his arms, his wand sticking up toward the ceiling. "Are you going to tell me what this crown is for?"

"As I said earlier, no, not until we have it." Tentacles of sparkling blue magic, like mist, flowed from Hoovian's wand and darted between the furniture, highlighting various objects and settling on the clearly magical items. "Search, Potter, search well. We have minutes only."

One of those minutes later Hoovian growled in frustration. "Well, it's not here."

"What's that on the bookcase?" Daphne asked. One of the tendrils of blue mist had settled around a heavy old tome on the third shelf. It covered the book and shone brighter, like a beacon.

"That," Hoovian said, "is a secret." He swept across the room and pushed on the heavy old leather volume.

Harry blinked as the book sank into the shelf and the entire case slid aside on silent rails to reveal a warmly lit corridor.

"Neat," he said, as Hoovian's blue mist seeped down the secret pathway. "So it's some sort of secret revealing charm then?"

"Something like that," Hoovian muttered, staring down the corridor. "This… may not be pretty. Stay behind me, the both of you."

Harry, who had up until that moment felt excited, even adventurous, sensed a shift in the tension of the room. For a wonder, he did as he was told and fell in on Hoovian's left, Daphne on the right. He stepped into the hidden corridor and the air changed, grew colder.

The corridor was carpeted over old stone, brackets on the wall lit the way in the absence of windows, and he followed Hoovian at a trepid pace. Time was short, precious seconds bleeding away, but that didn't seem as important as it did a moment ago. Something… was amiss.

It wasn't a very long secret corridor, as it curved away from the study and deeper into the apartments, though there were no other entrance or exit points that Harry could see. At the end was an opulent space no larger than Harry's shared dormitory back in Gryffindor Tower.

With Hoovian's blue mist trailing ahead of them, the charm touched on stacks of books, cabinets of furled scrolls, and open chests stacked high with glittering golden galleons. Harry thought of pirate treasure, of Peter Pan. The air stank of spiced incense, distant markets, and warm metal.

Daphne gasped and instinctively reached for Harry, gripping his forearm hard enough to hurt.

A grand four-post bed took up the far wall, resplendent in fine linen and heavy with silk pillows, draped with hand-knitted throws.

A girl with long, dark hair framing a narrow, pretty face sat on the edge of that bed, a gilded tray of food and drink next to her. She wore a simple pair of pyjamas. A metal cuff around her ankle ran in a single-linked silver chain to a heavy bolt welded to the floor.

The girl watched them warily. Her eyes were the brightest blue, and to Harry she looked no older than ten.

Hoovian sighed and glanced at Daphne. The look on his face, Harry thought, could have cowed a thunderstorm.

"Here's what we came for," he said, spying an open lacquered box sitting on a table in the centre of the room. The tendrils of mist reached the box and dissipated. On a velvet cushion sat a rather unremarkable band of tarnished metal. It looked wholly unimpressive. Hoovian waved his wand over the box, whispering, and after a moment seemed satisfied. He snapped the lid closed and tucked the lockbox under his arm.

Daphne approached the young girl chained to the bed. She shrunk in on herself as Daphne approached, eyes darting seriously between the three of them.

A suspicion of who the girl might be, what she might be and what Bruxo had her chained to the bed for, began to form in Harry's mind. He was suddenly afraid.

"Hello," Daphne said, softly, palms open. "Do you… do you speak English?"

"…salam," the girl said softly, barely a whisper.

"Daphne," Hoovian said, just as quietly.

"Let's get that chain off you," Daphne said, smiling kindly.

"Miss Greengrass," Hoovian said, a touch louder.

You are surrounded by monsters, Harry, Daphne had said, and had she known then? She had suspected.

"We're not leaving her here, Professor," Harry said.

Daphne turned from the girl. "You've got a dark look on your face, Potter."

"I was just thinking, that before today, I thought I'd seen the worst evil this world had to offer." He scratched the wispy stubble on his chin. "Turns out I'm still a little young and naïve."

"So," Hoovian said, "what are you going to do?"

Harry clenched his wand. "Oh, nothing constructive."

Three minutes later, Daphne returned to the second-floor corridor above the party squeezing the young girl's hand. The sights and sounds of the vast apartment, the thumping music, the laughter and clink of glasses, drove a spike of hate into her mind.

"This way," she said. The girl walked with a slight limp from where the ankle bracelet had bitten into her skin. "We can find our way out this way and get you home."

The girl followed her without complaint, without expression, and Daphne wanted to scream.

She held her tongue instead, ignoring the strange looks from Dragan Bruxo's guests, and made for the back staircase, which would lead them out onto the street and to Chell, who would have a portkey at the ready for extraction back to Hoovian's manor house.

Daphne turned a bend in the apartment and came to an abrupt halt.

At the end of the corridor, blocking the far stairs, Dragan Bruxo stood with a glass of fine champagne in his hands, regaling his guests with some story that had them in stitches.

The crime lord glanced her way, his eyes merry from the drink, and he blinked only once when he saw the young girl at her side.

He grinned, patted his guests on their arms, making excuses, and began to walk toward Daphne.

The girl trembled against Daphne's leg, squeezing her fancy dress in a tiny fist. Daphne watched Bruxo's mask slip. His grin didn't falter, but his gaze hardened into something ugly and entirely without empathy.

Daphne turned on her heel and dashed back the way she had come, pulling the girl along with her. Come on, Potter, she thought.

Harry tossed the ruby from Daphne's necklace back and forth between his hands, thinking idle thoughts about quidditch, of all things. About how fun he found playing quidditch. The wind whistling in his ears, the absurdly dangerous aerial acrobatics, dodging players and bludgers alike. It was a kind of exhilarating fear that could become addictive.

In the last year, through Voldemort's return, Umbridge's reign, and losing Sirius to the mad witch Bellatrix, he hadn't felt that quidditch-high in what seemed like forever and a day. Another type of fear had taken hold, a darker, sickly fear, like wading through a river of thick molasses.

"We can apparate away right now," Hoovian said, lockbox under his arm, wand in his free hand. "You can be back at Hogwarts in ten minutes, Harry." He sounded speculative.

"Come on, Greengrass," he said.

"This was not part of the plan, of course. We're certain to ruffle some feathers, and you've already enemies enough to last a lifetime." Again, Hoovian sounded like he was talking to only himself.

The door to Bruxo's study had been left wide open as Daphne and the girl had made their escape. The plan was simple. If they could get out via the back stairs, great, and if not then to come back and Hoovian would apparate the girl out, but Harry wasn't about to leave without thanking the host for his hospitality.

"She's had enough time," Harry said. "Let's—"

Daphne and the girl dashed back into the room, nudging aside a few of Bruxo's guests and knocking a tray of champagne flutes to the ground with a crash.

"He's coming," she whispered. "He saw us—"

Dragan Bruxo, the handsome and charming crime lord, swept into his study with a grin that fell into a brutal snarl.

"Miss Greengrass," he said, "you'll forgive me—"

He caught sight of Harry and Hoovian. "Potter," he spat, "and who are you? What's that you've got there? Now see here, that's mine!" He had spied the lockbox tucked under Hoovian's arm. A high note of fear, perhaps of what Voldemort would do should his prize be stolen, entered his voice.

Bruxo reached into the pocket of his jacket, scrambling for his wand. The man was drunk, swaying on the spot, and Harry could have out-drawn him in a flash. He looked to the girl, to Daphne, and made his decision.

"Stupefy," he said softly, and was glad to see Bruxo hit his head on one of the obnoxious display cases on his way to the ground.

"No going back," Hoovian said. He looked at Harry. "Are you going to kill him, Mr Potter? I think you capable of it, right now."

Harry held up Daphne's demonic ruby in the light from the corridor. Unfocused this gem will burn hotter than dragon's fire until dawn. "I'm going to burn this place to the ground."

Daphne watched as Harry levitated the unconscious Bruxo out into the corridor, his face a grim mask, and he wasn't being careful with who or what their host bumped into during his flight.

Bruxo's guests pointed and stared.

"What are you—?"

"Put him down, young man!"

"Kakvo!"

"That's Dragan—"

She glanced at Hoovian, who simply raised a single eyebrow at her, and followed Harry out into the party. Moving swiftly, Harry approached the gallery overlooking the first floor and the sunken lounge, the impromptu dance floor, and the dozens of people dancing and drinking on the illicit money of the man he held under charm.

Harry levitated the crime lord out over the balcony, into the open air above the party, eliciting some chuckles, but the chuckles faded to a numb silence as the crowd recognised the man hovering above them.

Bruxo's men in the party launched to their feet, scrambled for wands, as the music thumped on.

With a casual flick of his wand, Harry broke the levitation charm and let Dragan Bruxo fall. He glanced at the young girl clutching Daphne's hand and saw a vicious smile on her face.

Bruxo smashed into a glass coffee table below, breaking the frame. Someone screamed.

Harry Potter held up Daphne's demonic ruby, which sensed his intent, and flared to life.

And Daphne considered the imp that had possessed Harry, the urge to rebel was guiding him, surely, driving his actions, and then considered... No, she knew demons. She had met and suffered demons through the years before and after her ongoing tutelage under Professor Hoovian.

The look on Harry's face, teeth bared, was not demonic. Demonic was smug, spiteful.

Harry looked nothing like a demon.

Harry looked like the boy who had slain a basilisk, who had kept an army of dementors at bay, and who had thwarted the Dark Lord Voldemort more than any child had a right to do so and survive.

He looked to Daphne, for the first time, like Harry Potter. And the righteous fury on his face as he set Dragan Bruxo's arrogant and toxic party ablaze made her love him.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," Harry roared above the music, and something rushed through him, an urge to rebel, a fiery resolve. He worried on the imp that had possessed him, but he did not feel demonic, he felt righteous. "RUN!"

He hurled the ruby into the nearby bookcase and wooden cabinets. The fire took to the shelves like to dry tinder, drinking greedily from the fuel. The flames engulfed the bookcase, swept into the carpet, and began to eat into the wooden floors.

There was a stunned moment of silence and the party scattered, those that could apparate doing so, the rest racing for the balconies and the exits.

Harry turned from the swarm and smiled warmly, too warmly, at them all. "Shall we take the back stairs?"

Mathias Hoovian eased himself into his leather armchair, sipping cliché whisky in front of his cliché grand fireplace, shadows flickering across the walls of his immense study library. The grandfather clock against the wall had just chimed four in the morning. He looked not at the fire but at the scuff marks in the rug where Harry Potter had been tied to a chair about thirty hours ago.

He felt absurdly relieved that the boy was back at Hogwarts. A boy who burnt the heart out of Dragan Bruxo.

One of the shadows, darker than the others, stirred and Hoovian poured whisky into a second crystal tumbler set on the coffee table.

Heritage Sea, gnarled as an old oak, collected the glass and took a seat on the lounge. "The boy begins to trust you," he said, as if speaking to no one at all.

Hoovian grunted. "Your forestry bindings kept Bruxo's men down long enough for us to be about our work, Sea." He tilted his glass. "I thank you, though that work took a terrible turn. We always suspected Bruxo of… well, of such cruelty."

Sea ignored him. "You'll take more from the Potter boy than you intend, of course, trying to fix what you broke those long years ago, Mathias."

Hoovian leaned forward in his chair, knuckles white around his glass. "Is that prophecy now? From you? It need not always end in hellfire and doom, you old boggart."

Sea contemplated the shadows. "Forest for the trees…" he muttered. "You made more than one enemy tonight. Bruxo, the least of them. The Dark Lord will know your name before too long, taking what is rightfully his, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts won't like the new scars you gave the boy."

Hoovian knocked back his whisky and grimaced. "As you say, Harry is starting to trust me. An ally if not a friend. He's even swayed young Daphne, though she may not see it yet."

Sea twirled his fingers and the whisky bottle floated over to refill both of their glasses. "The ire of the three most powerful wizards in the world for the loyalty of a boy who thinks more on quidditch and girls than shaking the foundations of the magical world."

"And yet shake those foundations, he does." Hoovian chuckled. And raised his glass to Heritage Sea. "Cheers to that. Call it a touch of fate, a kiss of destiny, or just Hell's cruellest joke, but events spin around Harry Potter. He… attracts the chaos, Heritage. In a more civilised time we'd be able to protect him but," Hoovian stood and tossed his crystal tumbler into the fire where it shattered into a thousand glittering shards, so no lesser toast could ever be made from the glass, "these are not civilised times."

A/N: Let's hear what you think in a review! If you like this, check out my original work - author Joe Ducie.