The morning began, as all important mornings should, with strategic letter-writing and mild eavesdropping.
I sat at my desk, hair still a mess from sleep, surrounded by enough parchment scraps to wallpaper a castle. The quill in my hand scribbled furiously while my eyes flicked from one carefully prepared message to the next. Each letter was tailored with the precision of a curse-breaker's toolkit.
One for Tracy Davis—respectfully flattering her intellect and hinting at future business opportunities. One for Daphne Greengrass—witty, aloof, and just flirtatious enough to imply I had better offers. One for Theo Nott—mostly code and chess metaphors. And, of course, one for Blaise Zabini—short, sharp, and full of enough innuendo to make him smirk. He appreciated brevity almost as much as he appreciated gold.
I'd already slipped a modest bag of Galleons into his family's favor the month prior. He knew who greased the wheels behind the curtains, and I liked my wheels fast and untraceable.
"Networking for world domination again?" came Hermione's voice behind me.
I didn't turn. "Only the polite kind. No blood pacts. Yet."
Hermione walked in, toast in one hand, a mug in the other. Her hair was damp and semi-contained with clips. "Daphne again? You do realize she flirts with everyone."
"That's why she's good at it," I said, sealing a scroll. "Besides, she smiles less when I talk. That's how I know it's working."
She arched a brow. "You're measuring your social victories by frown-per-minute?"
"Only when the smile is suspicious."
She peered over my shoulder. "Most of these are Slytherins."
"Because I respect efficiency," I replied. "Also, no one writes passive-aggressive compliments better."
"To be fair, Tracy's been really nice. She even helped me charm my cauldron to stir automatically."
"And she didn't even demand payment. Suspiciously generous."
"She said I reminded her of her cousin."
"Was her cousin a book-obsessed grenade?"
"Apparently, yes."
We shared a grin.
Sometimes, I forgot just how much Hermione's opinion of Slytherins had evolved. Last year she would've narrowed her eyes and warned me not to trust "that lot." Now, she was reading with Padma Patil during study hall and discussing wand flexibility with Theo like they were on a first-name basis.
Draco was the outlier. The grand exception to the rule of social adaptability. But Blaise… Blaise was practically family. Dangerous family, but still.
By late afternoon, the first reply came barreling down the chimney like a sarcastic cannonball.
Blaise's handwriting was smooth and slanted, the kind that oozed effortless detachment:
Sky,
My mother thinks you're either a genius or a future scandal wrapped in a charming accent. Possibly both. You're invited to our summer salon The week before school starts.
Will reach out again as the date approaches.
Draco still cries when I glare at him. Very therapeutic.
Send more snacks.
– B.Z.
I laughed out loud. "He's in."
Hermione didn't even look up from her book. "Did he demand food again?"
"Therapy snacks. Zabini brand."
"Just don't get too used to that tone. He's still Zabini."
"Exactly why I like him. Equal parts mystery and menace."
As the sky darkened, I retreated into my personal corner of scheming: the attic.
To most, it was just a dusty room of boxes and forgotten photo albums. To me, it was a den of espionage. A perfectly mundane place to hatch perfectly magical schemes.
I opened the second drawer of my desk—charms-locked and enchantment-layered—and pulled out a thick folder labeled Operation Pennywhistle.
Inside were the transcripts, notes, and Gringotts payment receipts for a certain Mr. Gregor Pennywhistle. A squib with excellent bluffing skills, questionable diet habits, and an unfortunate mustache. But he got results.
I'd given him a specific set of instructions: pose as a Muggle logistics specialist, schedule a walkthrough of Grunnings' warehouse floor, and ask loud, insufferable questions. The kind that make real corporate people panic and start blabbing trade secrets.
Questions like:
"What grade of alloy are your casings made from?"
"Are your suppliers certified by the Crown?"
"How do your drills perform in cross-dimensional moisture conditions?"
Ridiculous. Absurd. Perfect.
Hermione walked in just as I was muttering "moisture conditions" under my breath.
"Do I want to know?"
"You already do," I said. "Operation Grunnings is underway. Pennywhistle goes in Monday. By Tuesday, I'll know more than Vernon Dursley does."
"Please tell me you didn't write that down anywhere."
"Of course not. I had it embroidered."
She rolled her eyes and sat across from me.
"You're not doing this just to mess with them, are you?"
"Of course not," I said smoothly. "There's also a financial motive. And an opportunity to sell Harry some mild revenge."
"What's Harry got to do with a Drill Company?"
"Did I never tell you?"
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Downstairs, the Grangers were discussing drill costs again.
Mr. Granger sounded increasingly exasperated. "That same shipment has doubled in cost. I'm telling you, suppliers are cutting corners."
"Or hoarding materials," Mrs. Granger replied.
Hermione tilted her head. "We could always—"
"Already on it," I whispered.
Truthfully, I'd already drafted a letter to the Masons. Pitched it as a friendly introduction. Friendly, of course, with contractual margins and small print most solicitors would envy.
I didn't just want to connect Grunnings to the Grangers. I wanted to control the connection.
Dentists needed drills. Drills needed metal. Metal needed… me.
I returned to my room and sat down at my desk just in time to hear a sharp thud against the window.
Lady.
Of course it was her. She never knocked. Only dramatic landings.
She strutted inside, dropped the scroll into my lap, and stared at me with the judgmental look of a dinner guest arriving early.
"Expecting me, were you?" I muttered.
She blinked. I swear she smirked.
I unrolled the letter slowly, taking in the weight of the parchment, the scent of old ink and exotic wax.
It was from Flamel.
As I read, my grin spread wider and wider until it felt like my face might split in two.
He replied.
And not just with politeness.
With interest.
Summer had just become a collaboration.