The moment Harry Potter stepped into the ancestral house of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, he declared it to be a scourge of all things neat and tidy. The derelict building was sunk in pitch-black darkness, with dampness, rust, and a pervasive smell of decay adding to its grotesque ambiance. Soft hissing noises came out of the oddest corners, and decapitated heads of house-elves served as decor and lamps for dim illumination. The entire place was at least four times as large on the inside than outside, its long, gloomy hallways lined with thick muslin carpets.

And snakes.

Lots and lots of snakes.

Serpentine sculptures, engravings, and designs littered the home. On the candelabra, on the railings, on the doorknobs. Hell, even the hallways seemed to curve in an eerily snake-like manner.

Tom Riddle would've felt right at home.

"This… is where we're gonna live?" he asked Sirius carefully.

"Yup. After we're done cleaning it and stuff."

Harry swiveled his neck towards his godfather. "Cleaning it?"

Sirius nodded wistfully. "This house has done nothing but gather dust and pests since my imprisonment. I have a house-elf too, demented little thing. You'd think it died from being alone all this while, but it didn't."

"House elves die from being alone?"

"Why, yes," his godfather replied, looking a little too jovial for his taste. "You see, house-elves need a job. They obsess over it. Those that aren't very attached to the family they serve would probably look elsewhere for work. But take away an elf's job and it'll go insane in a month."

Images of a certain free elf came to mind. "Are you sure? I mean, I know an elf that likes being free."

Sirius looked at him, perplexed. "That's odd. Where did you even find such a thing?"

Harry quickly narrated everything he knew about Dobby— about his servitude to the Malfoys and how he had tricked Lucius Malfoy into freeing the elf at the end of the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. By the end of it, Sirius was roaring in laughter.

"I'll—" he choked out between peals of laughter as he clapped his shoulder, "I'll make a Marauder out of you yet, kiddo."

Harry grinned.

"So where's this elf of yours?"

"Working at Hogwarts," Harry informed him. "Something about liking work more than freedom."

He nodded knowingly. "That's hardly surprising."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, a few things could potentially happen," Sirius answered. "They could just perish over time. Some go rogue, and others even attack their previous owners. One of my squib ancestors actually wrote a book on it."

Harry blinked at that. Twice.

"Have you read about the Brothers Grimm, by any chance?"

Nothing came to mind.

His godfather's gaunt face suddenly turned wistful. "My uncle Alphard read that to me when I was younger. The Brothers Grimm, my grand-uncles by blood, wrote about a creature called the brownie. Small, brown-nosed faery that went around in rags, helping people in exchange for food and honey and gruel, but would mercilessly attack if paid in human currency."

"Huh? That's weird," Harry commented.

"Not to them it isn't. For creatures like the fae, favors are the currency. Trying to pay them in gold— or Merlin-forbid, paper notes —would be blasphemous."

"Is it the same for house-elves?"

"Well," Sirius picked his nose, "the little buggers definitely have Fae origins. If you look at French myths, there are references to creatures called the Farfadets, though they're commonly mistaken to be Wood Elves, no thanks to that Tolkien fellow."

Harry's mind blanked for a moment, as he realized just how little he truly knew about the magical world. For someone whose greatest pleasure had been feeling his magic surge inside him, he had procrastinated a lot. Somewhere between taking classes and Ron and Quidditch and the shenanigans he'd always managed to get himself into, he had forgotten the truth of magic.

He had forgotten the sheer wonder.

He remembered feeling sad at having to bring in worse grades than Dudley in primary school, afraid that Vernon would take out his ire on him. And the mindset didn't change when he transferred to Hogwarts. Despite being there for years, he never truly internalized that it was magic he was studying now.

In his mind, it was homework.

Mundane. Dull. Uninteresting.

Just when and how did that happen?

"You know what? Maybe we'll try our luck at catching some bluebell faeries. Catch enough of those, and you can get yourself some good luck."

"Luck?" he echoed.

"Luck."

"...Right." Harry's expression probably showed just how much faith he had in the man's words. "And how exactly do you catch them?"

"With moonlight, of course," the Black replied, as if it was everyday knowledge. "Back when we were in school, me and Prongs would collect and store moonlight whenever we got the chance. How do you think we became animagi as fifth years without fucking ourselves over?"

"Because you had luck?" Harry asked in disbelief.

"How do you not know this? Moths and flame, moonlight and bluebell faeries, brownies and honey. Don't muggles read about all this in their stories?"

Harry gave him a half-shrug. Fantasy stories weren't exactly encouraged in the Dursley household, thanks to his unique heritage. "Somehow," he replied bemusedly, "I didn't think living with you would be like signing up for summer school."

Sirius's ears pinked at that. Azkaban had turned him rather pale, but a whole year of being on the lam outside of Britain had helped with that.

"So…" Harry trailed off. "About the whole cleaning thing?"

"Oh, right," Sirius replied. "Remus went out to take care of some errands. He should be back in a couple of days. I thought cleaning would serve as an educational experience for you here."

Harry arched an eyebrow. This house— no, this mansion —was at least ten times larger than the Dursley house. A single bedroom in this place was easily twice the size of the master bedrooms back at Privet Drive.

And there were thirteen of them.

"Sirius, cleaning this will take ages."

"Bah, don't be ridiculous. A little each day and we'll be done in a week."

Harry hummed noncommittally as he began rolling up his sleeves. A house this big, in a week? There was no way they'd be able to—

"What are you doing?"

At Sirius's protest, he stopped and looked back at him.

"...What?"

"Why are you folding your sleeves?"

"To clean. If I don't, my sleeves will get dirty."

His godfather looked at him like he had grown two heads.

"...What?" he repeated.

"Harry," the man slowly asked, as if speaking to a dim-witted toddler. "How exactly do you think we're going to clean this place?"

"With mops? Brooms?"

Sirius smacked himself in the face, mumbling various obscenities under his breath.

"What?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," the man sighed. "No, I should've been clearer. By cleaning, I meant using your wand."

Now, it was Harry's turn to look at his godfather oddly.

"...What?"

It was funny how their positions had changed so quickly.

"Student," he pointed towards himself. "Summer."

"And?"

Really, was it so hard to understand? The Improper Use of Magic Office had made itself very clear the last time he'd suffered from Dobby's care. For some reason, he'd always pictured Mafalda Hopkirk— the one in charge of that office —to be some kind of large, cartoon tomcat, waiting outside the mousehole for the little mouse to stick its nose out so she could smash it flat with one big paw.

He'd know. He'd been that mouse once.

"I use magic, I get expelled."

"Nonsense," his godfather snorted. "This is the House of Black. You can fight a literal war here and the Ministry wouldn't know a damn thing."

Surprisingly, that felt better. Harry was reminded of that cartoon cat show Dudley used to watch on television. The cat always ended up getting the short end of the stick when chasing after the mouse. Maybe the Ministry would too.

It took another moment for Sirius's words to actually sink in.

"Sirius," Harry replied with trepidation. "Does… does that mean I get to do magic while not at Hogwarts?"

The man looked at him like he was terminally stupid. "Harry, every person living in a magical community can use magic at any time of the year. As long as they don't perform it in front of a muggle, it's completely allowed."

That made sense.

Dobby's appearance or disappearance hadn't triggered any alarms. It was the hover charm, cast in the presence of the muggles that came to visit back then, that had registered with the Office and got him reprimanded.

…Wait.

"That can't be true," Harry wheezed at Sirius. "I spent an entire month with the Weasleys back in my second year. Mrs. Weasley didn't allow us to use any magic."

"Molly Weasley is an overprotective mother-hen, even by wizarding standards," Sirius jabbed. "Besides, Ottery St. Catchpole is a muggle-ish settlement. Having seven rowdy children to look after probably drove her around the bend and made her paranoid."

The more he thought about it all, the more it made sense. He'd seen Hagrid perform multiple spells in front of his relatives. Hell, he'd seen the Weasleys visit him in a flying car to Privet Drive, right in front of his aunt and uncle.

And those instances hadn't registered.

At all.

"So I can use magic this summer?"

"Yes."

"Freely?"

Sirius sighed. "Yes."

"With my wand? Without getting in trouble?"

"At the risk of sounding repetitive, yes."

Harry didn't wait a second longer. His wand came out with a sudden whoosh, jetting out of the brand new holster he'd worn up his right sleeve— Ollivander had told him to constantly practice drawing it out. Between two wizards, a faster draw could mean the difference between winning and losing in a duel.

Sirius barked a laugh. "Hold your horses, there'll be a lot of wand-waving and spellcasting this summer. I'm fairly certain the upper floors have several boggarts and pixies hiding in the closets. With how long the house had been in this condition, there's probably loads of other magical pests taking shelter in here, too. Remus thinks cleaning the house will be a good test to see what you remember from his classes."

"Everything," Harry confidently replied. He'd gone over everything he'd learned thus far at Hogwarts to prepare for the Triwizard Tournament. And then twice over after learning Hagrid was throwing in his favorite creatures for the Third Task.

Frankly, he was surprised there were no dragons waiting for him in that maze.

Then again, he'd already faced dragons in the First Task. And Hagrid knew about enough deadly creatures to ensure some diversity.

Speaking of spellcasting…

"Sirius?"

"Yeah?"

"About that Occlumency thing. Snape also told me that Professor Dumbledore wants me to learn advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"From who?"

"From Snape."

Sirius's face became pinched, like he suddenly bit into an unbearably sour lemon.

"...Is that a problem?" Harry ventured.

"I'm trying to weigh the pros and cons of that offer, Harry. Snivellus was never the most skilled spellcaster, though he sure had several interesting spells in his repertoire. Invented half the spells himself, actually."

That made him raise his eyebrows. Snape? Invent spells?

His godfather must have read his confused expression. "Sounds unbelievable right?" He let out a melancholic grin. "Me, your father, Remus, and the rat," his lips curled in distaste, "we sorta had a feud against Snape, Mulciber, and Avery. Kind of like the one you have with the Malfoy boy."

Harry hummed at that as he twisted his wrist a little, launching the wand back out of its holster. With razor-sharp reflexes from years of playing as Gryffindor seeker, Harry easily wrapped his fingers around the slim wooden frame before it could slip out of reach.

Sirius rolled his eyes at the display. Bringing his own wand out, he summoned two butterbeer cans that came zooming in from somewhere. Harry deftly caught one with his other hand.

"Good catch!" the man praised. "Just like your dad."

Harry flushed, the complement somehow seeming odd to his ears. All his time at Hogwarts, he'd heard the same line over and over from Snape, usually in an insulting context. The description had served to make a mockery out of himself, point out his incompetence, and his penchant for delinquency. Every time Snape had uttered those words, he had felt anger surge within him.

And now, those very same words made him grin.

The fact that Sirius had exchanged the formal 'father' for an informal 'dad' helped too.

"So, Snape," Sirius replied, a little awkwardly. "The offer has its merits, but I'd rather train you myself. I was a senior Hit-Wizard before I was sent to Azkaban. I think I've got a few things under my belt worth teaching."

Harry rolled his eyes. He distinctly remembered Madam Bones mentioning how Sirius Black was perfectly capable of killing thirteen people with a single curse. Funnily enough, his godfather's own competency had acted against him during the accusation.

"Plus we're in my House now. Literally and figuratively. Dark Arts are kind of the one thing this family can boast of. Well, that and psionics— more commonly known as the mind arts. It's a bit of a misnomer, since not everything in psionics has to do with the mind, per se—"

Harry coughed.

"Uh, sorry," Sirius looked embarrassed, "I got a bit carried away."

"You know, you kind of sound like Hermione."

Sirius sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "I blame Lily. She made me sit down and mug for an entire month during my NEWTs. She and James took notes for me while I was away gallivanting as a Hit-Wizard." He smiled fondly. "I'd have flunked my exams otherwise."

For some reason, Harry was certain the man was exaggerating.

"But anyways," Sirius clapped, "enough reminiscing about the past. Let's talk about the future. I can't wait for us to leave for the Bahamas!"

"What?!" Harry asked incredulously. "What am I going to do in the Bahamas?"

"Have fun, what else?" Sirius asked, looking at him with a mixture of pity and incredulity. "You, my godson have practically been walking on eggshells your whole life. You need to learn how to strut."

Right. And once he did that, he could buy himself a large green bowler hat and become Cornelius Fudge.

"Once we're there, I have two tickets for the best Veela massage parlors, plus a nice cabin that I booked. Two rooms. And I'd advise you not to bring your girlfriend along. Wink wink."

"Did you seriously just say 'wink wink'? And I don't have a girlfriend!"

"Oh," Sirius looked a little dumbfounded. "Well, what about Hermione?"

"She's a friend," Harry immediately went on the defensive. "That's all there is."

"Well, all the better I suppose," he mused in a matter-of-fact tone. "Hermione seems pretty straight-laced. She'd have probably thrown a tantrum if you were dating and still went to a Veela parlor."

"She's not," Harry emphasized, "my girlfriend."

"Isn't that awesome? You're single and ready to mingle. Now enough chit-chat. Let's find you a room here, there's got to be someplace that's not covered in grime."

Harry just stared as Sirius strode ahead, humming a Weird Sisters tune to himself as he climbed the stairs.

Slowly, he sighed. "When in Rome..." he muttered, before quickly running after his godfather.

Gerald Croaker stared in stony silence as the Unspeakables before him continued their ongoing discussion— the nature of the monochromatic barrier that had manifested in a certain graveyard on the night of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Once the Chief Warlock had reported it and provided the necessary memories of the incident, it had caused an uproar throughout his department.

Really, he thought ruefully. You'd think they would focus on the finer details first.

Gerald was, at least in his official capacity, the speaker of the Unspeakables. Whenever his secret group was required to release information upon public or ministerial demand, it would happen through his office. For everyone else, the Department of Mysteries was an autonomous wing of the British Ministry of Magic that employed researchers to investigate, study, and formulate the nature of Magic itself. But, as was the nature of all things obscure, countless rumors abound as to what it was they got up to behind closed doors. Some claimed this wing had its own version of the Muggle Secret Service, while others went so far as to accuse them of being a community of ageless vampires hiding in plain sight and conducting extensive experiments on dangerous and catastrophic items.

That one was probably his personal favorite.

So many assume, Gerald mused to himself. So few know.

The Department first came to be when Merlin Emrys had founded a small group of trustworthy wizards— called the Arcana Cabana —to find the flaws and counters to Morgana Le Fae's witchcraft. After the death of Arthur, Merlin brought the heads of the existing magical clans together to form a statutory body, one that would prevent infighting and protect the world from the abuses of magic. The High Council, the Room of Thrones, the Watchtower, and now the Wizengamot— the organization went by several names over the centuries, but its main function never wavered.

To keep the sanctity of Magic intact and ensure the survival of the Arcana Cabana, who in turn gained a newer, far more significant function— one that had been Merlin's own goal for centuries.

To keep the Gates of Annwn from falling into the wrong hands.

The Gates, if they could crudely be called as such, referred to a thousand-ton stone archway, constructed out of a basalt-mithril alloy found atop a small hillock near the original Sea of Meredor, standing right before the rock from which King Arthur had first drawn Excalibur. And in the middle of the archway floated a quasi-plasmic, ethereal substance.

Almost like a veil.

That's our purpose, Gerald thought to himself sardonically. To protect something that's done nothing in the past several centuries.

Despite the detailed investigations and studies done on the artefact, nothing of value was yielded. Advanced magical technology could find nothing. Not that there was nothing special about it— instead, it was as if the Veil itself was, in fact, nothing.

As far as their scans showed, the Veil didn't exist.

And yet, it could be touched. Seen. Felt.

Even tasted.

But magically? It didn't exist. Every spell cast at it just went straight through to the other side, as if traveling through nothing but air. A particularly hot-headed Unspeakable named Eloise Mintumble had even thrown powerful bludgeoning spells at it, aiming to damage the archway, to no effect. Non-magical methods didn't work either, since even the sharpest diamond knife couldn't chip away at its surface.

Finally, sometime in 1538, Margaret Dippet— the then-Head of the Arcana Cabana —called all ongoing investigations into the Veil to a complete and abrupt end. Under Minister Rowle's administration, the group was merged into the British Ministry of Magic and renamed the Department of Mysteries. The Veil was left in an empty chamber all to itself, while researchers focused on the development and research into the other mysteries of magic.

And what was more mysterious than the riddle that was the Boy-Who-Lived?

Harry James Potter— Subject 1031 by the books —was possibly the most interesting topic of discussion down there in Level Nine. The subject of an Active Prophecy, with a colorful history of unexplainable magical events and abilities. And now, there was this.

Gerald's gaze fell upon the file sitting inconspicuously atop his desk. More specifically, its title.

The Monochrome Barrier.

An ostentatious name, certainly, but no less intriguing than the Veil itself. From all the evidence gathered, it was clear that everything this so-called monochrome touched had every bit of magic unmade. The people themselves didn't just die, they were unmade. Their clothes were bereft of any enchantment. Their wands were dead. Their bodies had rotted to the point of falling apart— any more and they'd be indistinguishable from pixie dust.

Whatever had cursed them hadn't just brought upon them a physical death.

It was magical in nature.

And it had something to do with one Harry James Potter.

Ever since the incident, the Committee had been a complete mess. Subject 1031 was a high-profile individual in more ways than one. He was a scion of an Ancient House, not to mention the fame that came with being the Boy-Who-Lived. Ancient group of researchers or not, a mob would pull every stone of this building apart if they tried to snatch the boy away and place him under their custody for so-called 'experimentation'.

And so, he was stuck here. Listening to his colleagues bicker among themselves with growing apprehension.

"Subject 1031 was also exposed to chronomancy back in 1994," TIME replied. "Having multiple three-dimensional existences of a Prophecy subject at once could have had unseen impacts upon the time stream."

Croaker suppressed a sigh. TIME— the Head of the Time Division— was the most paranoid of the lot, as well as the most morally flexible one.

It had been TIME who'd suggested using a Hogwarts student, albeit one with a natural eidetic memory, as a guinea pig for the Time Division's latest experimental product— an accumulation of sand grains supercharged with chronomantic energies, fancily referred to as the Time Turner. TIME and his division had studied the aftereffects of constant ripples in the timestream for an entire year, while making sure to avoid any temporal cascades.

Several such measures had involved taking care of temporal displacements of her person and ensuring a complete lack of public attention from their ongoing experiment. The Prophet would have a field day if they found even a crumb of what they'd gotten up to.

Gerald had happily noted down the student's name— Hermione Jean Granger, possibly descended from a squib offshoot of the Dagworth-Grangers —and listed her as a potential recruit upon completion of her NEWTs. If nothing else, the girl would make a fine researcher.

"There is a second option here." Interestingly, it was MIND who suggested it. "I propose adding Subject 1031 to the Archive."

Gerald arched an eyebrow.

The Archive, in layman's terms, was a collection of anything or anyone deemed 'too risky to lose' by the DOM. Unlike the Ministry of Magic's standard Conscription List consisting of the population and their respective magical traits, the Archive was far more… limited in what it contained.

Plus it was a heavily guarded secret. Even the Minister of Magic himself was unaware of its existence.

The Archive included individuals that were either born with or developed a skill or ability that was, magically speaking, almost impossible to recreate. It included things that defied existing magical conventions, traits that couldn't be passed down through blood, and magics that shouldn't even exist by current standards. People associated with any or all three were brought in, evaluated, and— depending on the situation —either offered a career in the DoM, or issued a lifestyle that ensured their complete safety, even at the cost of losing their fundamental rights. In the case that anyone proved too… problematic, the DoM was not above incarcerating said individual to ensure their safety.

All in all, individuals who qualified for the Archive were incredibly rare in number. In fact, there had only been two additions to the Archive in the last century.

Gellert Grindelwald and Nymphadora Tonks.

One was a deranged Dark Lord whose reign shook all of Europe, and the other was a metamorphmagus— the only one of her kind in the last four hundred years.

"Have you gone completely around the bend?" PROPHECY exploded. PROPHECY, Gerald mused from his corner, often tended to react in an overbearing fashion. The Head of the Prophecy Division could be heard growling underneath his (her?) hood. He knew for a fact that TIME was a man in his late fifties, but PROPHECY's gender was unknown.

Even to him.

"Tinkering with a subject of an Active Prophecy is against our Accords due to the unseen repercussions. If anything, Subject 1031 should be engineered into further engagements with the Dark Lord. Perhaps that will trigger the anomalous event again?"

It was a good proposal. One with several holes, but all in all not without a point.

"The situation isn't optimal for that," MIND rebutted bleakly. "At the very least, we need to keep an official eye on Subject 1031 to acquire more information about the nature of his magic before any further debate upon his future status."

"I will not authorize sending another gifted mind to Hogwarts," Gerald interjected, nipping the idea in the bud. "One Cuthbert Binns was enough of a lesson for me, thank you very much."

"It's not your choice to make, Croaker," MIND kindly reminded him of his official position.

The arse.

"It is my choice when I have to deal with the political ramifications," Gerald spoke up in his usual baritone voice. "I am, after all, the public face of the Unspeakables. Unlike you, I don't have the benefit of hiding beneath a hood."

MIND glowered at him, though it was difficult to really tell, what with the hood obscuring everything. Body language stopped being relevant the moment one walked past the entrance door to Level Nine.

Gerald sent the file on his table skidding across the polished oak surface. "A collective analysis of Subject 1031 and his immediate genealogy. Based on blood tests from samples acquired when he was a baby, there seems to be no sign of nobility. No Family Magic. Thanks to Albus Dumbledore, we've managed to acquire some blood samples of Subject 1031 very recently to test for the origin of the Parseltongue trait."

"Let me guess," PROPHECY groaned. "Another squib from the Gaunt lineage?"

Gerald suppressed a snigger. The Gaunt line, no thanks to their constant inbreeding, had squib-births almost every generation. According to the Department of Genealogy, there were currently 217 individuals who could trace their origin back to the Gaunts. The most infamous among them was one Tom Marvolo Riddle, who had self-styled himself as Lord Voldemort.

"Surprisingly, no," Gerald answered. "But it is possible that he gets it from his mother's side."

He was met with patient stares, prompting him to clarify further.

"Lily J. Evans, born on January 30, 1960, was the daughter of Harold Evans and Rose Evans née Fairweather. Through Harold Evans and six more generations of Evans before him, Subject 1031 can trace his lineage to Aureolus Von Hohenheim, the great-grandson of Phillipus Von Hohenheim—"

Gerald paused for a moment, observing PROPHECY for any sudden movements.

"—famously known as Paracelsus."

"Paracelsus?" MIND blankly repeated.

"The one and only. The very first Chief of the Department of Mysteries, appointed by Minister Rowle himself as soon as the organization was created. And the first known speaker of Parseltongue outside the Gaunt family."

"Subject 1031 is a descendant of Paracelsus the Faker?" PROPHECY asked exuberantly.

"Can we not call him that?" Gerald replied, rubbing the middle of his forehead. Paracelsus, much to everyone's shock back in the sixteenth century, had turned out to be a parselmouth— a trait that the Gaunt family claimed to be part of its Family Magic. Paracelsus's work as a Speaker led to significant breakthroughs in healing magic thanks to the subtle magical effects of Parseltongue. He then went on to single-handedly prove that the magical language was a trait tied to the Gaunt family because of constant inbreeding, an event that led the then-Lord Corvinus Gaunt to declare a blood feud against the Hohenheim family.

Gerald had been both amused and bemused at how the Daily Prophet had painted Potter to be an up-and-coming dark wizard by connecting his Parseltongue abilities with the likes of Lord Voldemort and Salazar Slytherin. There were even rampant theories about how the Boy-Who-Lived had stolen the Dark Lord's powers on Hallow's Eve 1981, or even better, assimilated the latter's memories to become his batter and vanquish him. Some even suggested the boy was the Dark Lord reborn into the form of a babe.

Wonder what they'd say to this.

"But why was this not confirmed back in 1981?" TIME asked.

"Because she is not worthy. The seven generations between Lily Evans and her Von Hohenheim ancestor have diluted the bloodline a bit too thin. Besides, the Von Hohenheim Family Charter disqualifies her as a possible descendant for a variety of technical reasons that I do not want to bore this Board with, and," he smirked, "because the Unspeakables back then were carried away with trying to figure out the secret behind the Boy-Who-Lived's immunity against the Killing Curse."

The declaration brought about a spell of silence.

"Well," BRAIN muttered, "at least now we know one possible reason why Subject 1031 is a parselmouth."

"I find it wildly coincidental that Subject 1031 shows the lineage and traits of a known parselmouth when there are no records of his immediate ancestors with similar abilities," LOVE put forward.

Gerald rolled his eyes. LOVE once spearheaded an independent research group with the theory that Lily Potter née Evans might've had something to do with Harry Potter's survival and Lord Voldemort's destruction. Someone among the crowd had muttered something about rituals in the Ministry atrium.

That day had been a headache and a half.

Still, he had an answer for her. As much as he loved to play devil's advocate, this one was a dead giveaway.

"Magic never spills all her secrets in a single generation. Subject 1031's maternal ancestry is muggle in origin. Lily Evans has had muggle in her genealogy for over six generations. It is possible she was a parselmouth, or at least had latent abilities of one."

"I still call it awfully convenient," LOVE stubbornly posed.

"Like the fact that said child is also a subject of an Active Prophecy? Against a Dark Lord that, poetically enough, is also a parselmouth?" PROPHECY erupted.

"All the more reason to add Subject 1031 to the Archive," MIND suggested once more.

Gerald was about to snap when another voice spoke up, interrupting the tirade that was about to spill out from his lips.

"I propose a middle ground," THOUGHT chimed in. "We have no information as to what or why Subject 1031 was able to create the monochrome barrier. What we do know is that Potter has been known to perform feats of magic that follow similar patterns— a Patronus that kills dementors, hands that burn a possessed individual. I believe that analysis and further study of these smaller facts might reveal substantial data about the origins of the Monochrome barrier. I second MIND's suggestion— we need to get a better picture of his capabilities. Once we have accomplished that, we can then hold a second Committee meeting to come to a decision.

"And how," LOVE ground out, "do you propose we do that?"

"We offer him a job. Participation in the Triwizard Tournament has declared him an adult, no pesky employment laws no longer have a bearing. The boy has experience in the TIME division, so perhaps we can start him as an apprentice there."

"That… can't happen," Gerald spoke up.

"And why not?" THOUGHT challenged.

Gerald silently raised his wand, and something zoomed into the room and fell onto the desk. On the table, flat open, was the first page of the Daily Prophet.

HARRY POTTER TO STAND ON TRIAL FOR THE DEATH OF THIRTEEN PUREBLOODS!

WIZENGAMOT TO ENTER EMERGENCY SESSION!

AMOS DIGGORY ACCUSES BOY-WHO-LIVED OF MURDER!

"Alright," THOUGHT murmured. "That might be a problem."