Another One Through And Through

"'Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you,' said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses, 'Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't you…?'"
(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 16: A Very Frosty Christmas)

Coldness/Feelings (Easter 1978)

The muggle streets are deserted tonight; it's Easter Sunday, and they're all in their homes, almost completely oblivious to the goings-on in the magical world. Something I've discovered in my old age is that muggles can be so endearing, sometimes even admirable at times…you can always count on them to find something to celebrate, no matter how dark the times are. Unlike us, they know how to slow down and stop, to pause in their busy little lives. Like bees return to their hives to sleep at night. But then, we are up against relentless evil of the kind that never sleeps.

As yet another Death Eater is taken into custody, I think, I know why I want to stop, it's because I'm getting too old for this – this Dark Wizard Hunting Business.

This Death Eater, what's her name? Avery? Rebecca Avery, that's right. She's probably young enough to be my granddaughter or something. Of course, that says more about me than her. Avery is certainly not one of the babies of the Inner Circle. There are wizards and witches there, barely out of school, let alone their teens, youngsters who think Grindelwald is one name among many in a History of Magic textbook.

Amos. Avery. Branch.

I'm quite sure there was an Avery in my year at school. A Slytherin, like the rest of his family, of course. His name eludes me, as I strain to recall the Sorting ceremony of 1895.

Castellan. Chenoweth. Collins.

Where are they now? Are they still alive and fighting, at the age of ninety-four? Or, have they reached the winters of their lives? I cannot help but wonder, as I listen to the report from the junior Aurors, protected from the rainy coldness and desolation around me by the Impervius Charm.

Davidson. Dumbledore.

Well, everyone knows where the Dumbledores are. The older one – nobody knows how he has the time to do it – is simultaneously the headmaster of Hogwarts School, and all four cornerstones of the Order of the Phoenix, a snooty kind of secret service where even great wizards like his younger brother Aberforth, and my childhood friend Elphias Doge, are snubbed into second-class status.

Albus Dumbledore…is someone who's decided…he's only as old as the man he's feeling.

I have to suppress a snort. Albus Dumbledore. He thinks we Aurors have got the wrong idea, with our new powers to kill, rather than capture. Foolish man, always having to think the best of people.

I'm ashamed to confess it, but a bit of competitive spirit from my youth is one of the things that keep me fighting. Still, I try to not go into that. Surely I'm getting too old for this.

I think Davidson's dead; his health was never particularly good, owing to the unnecessary fifty pounds he lugged around with him daily. Passed it onto his daughters, married to the Crabbe and Goyle duo. What can I say? They deserve each other. Pity his sons-in-law are wanted Death Eaters; he wasn't that bad a bloke. Brutus Burke – even if he had the same first name as my uncle – was a nastier piece of work.

How many years do I have left?

A mental blank nudges me towards my own part in the Sorting.

Ritter. Scrimgeour. Smeek.

Ritter and I went to Ravenclaw, but Smeek went to Gryffindor. I should've gone there too – with Aberforth Dumbledore, and Elphias Doge – even these days, everyone says I rather resemble an old lion.

Embracing/Eyes (Easter 1944)

The world is at war.

And not just our world, but the whole muggle world too, since that madman is intent on overthrowing the Statute of Secrecy. So far, Germany and several adjacent countries have been broken. We are lucky, here in Britain, for his eyes have mainly been fixed on the Continent.

A not insubstantial part of my adult years has been spent fighting this monster, this abomination to wizardkind. I find it hard to believe that we are about the same age. When I met him twenty years ago, when most people thought his demands were reasonable, I thought him barely older than…twenty? Not so much because of his garish blonde hair – my own tawny mane has kept its colour over the years, much to Albus Dumbledore's dismay, I'm sure – or those bizarre eyes that suggest a youthful mishap with a Colour-Changing Charm – but his childishness. He acted as if the world revolved around him, and that we were either there to appease him with presents, or to be the toys themselves, the pawns in his chess set.

I know it's not easy to imagine a forty-year-old brat, but if there's any word that comes close to summing Gellert Grindelwald up, it's that. Well. If you ignore the fact he's, admittedly, something of a genius – about the same calibre of Albus Dumbledore.

While I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself, dear old Elphias turns up, pale as a ghost. He looks even worse than I do – and that says something, considering the 15-hour days I've been spending at the Ministry. Praise the Lord for Good Friday, and thank God that I managed to get it off.

"Happy Easter," I say, offering him some tea.

Elphias accepts it quietly. His eyes are swollen, as if he's been crying himself to sleep every night for a week. And if I know Elphie, he probably has. But he's a lot stronger than he looks – a far cry from the spineless lapdog most people think he is – and that's why I've always felt so strongly about him. I attempt a joke.

"The world's falling apart and we're sitting here having a cup of tea. How very British."

He looks, more than ever, on the verge of tears. I suppose he's thinking of the better jokes which Albus makes. I think I'm right, when he replies, "Rufus, when do you think Albus is going to confront Grindelwald?"

I say, patting his hand, "I – I don't know."

What else does he expect me to say?

"I'm sure he'll rise to the occasion. He's always embraced the chance to deal with dark wizards."

Sometimes I wish that Hufflepuff boy in his year at Hogwarts – Harvey – was here – whom I knew because he was dating Hesper Starky, the pretty Ravenclaw girl everyone was in love with. Well, not I, of course. Harvey had this knack for reading unspoken emotions. Unfortunately, he went and wasted his talents on reading the unspoken emotions of dragons in Romania before he could impart them to Elphias. But then, I'm guilty of finding Elphie's naivety rather charming at times. Particularly the times before Grindelwald's manic muggle hunts began.

He's taken my hand, he's gripping it firmly. "We'll survive this war, Rufus, you and I, I know we will."

Hidden courage and loyalty – that's why after all those years, I'm still his, through and through, despite all odds. Or rather, odd people.

Dancing/Chocolate/Candy (Easter 1920)

Magical families are so complicated.

"We used to hate each other," Elphias says. It's the fortieth birthday of Delta Hitchens. Delta who was a classmate of Elphie's, who's telling me the story of her best friend Catherine, who is married to Kenneth, the Head Healer at St Mungo's, who is my third cousin once removed. I haven't the foggiest idea how those two are managing to raise three children under the age of thirteen and keep their jobs, but I take my hat off to them.

As I watch Catherine and Kenneth's five-year-old Maria dance about the room in a pink tutu ("It's most peculiar – her mother would never be seen dead in pink, you know," says Elphias), Delta interrupts us with a most impertinent question.

"Ever considered having any children of your own?"

I nearly choke on my tea; evidently, she has no idea where my affections lie. It is most certainly not with the pathetic-patter…I mean, pitter-patter…of little feet.

Elphias saves my life, by thumping me on the back, and asking, "Delta, have you?"

"I'm single, and happy to stay that way," she replies.

"Cathy used to say that, rhyming bits and all," says Elphias, taking vengeance on my behalf.

"Albus would agree with me if he were here," says Delta snappishly, and Elphias bites his lip. Delta waves her arms at the children of her friends. "Attention all candy-hunters! Out into the garden now – the chocolate eggs are hidden!"

"Saved by the hunt," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth to Elphias.

"So now that mad muggle war is over, and we can go back to our normal lives, what will you do with all that peaceful time on your hands?"

"I work at the Ministry," I say. "There I fight a daily war against the paperwork. That's what you get when you're Junior Assistant to Ares Applewood himself. It isn't my style, but I hope to move to the Auror Office after my term…"

His mouth twitches. Forty years and a teeth-straightening spell, and he still hasn't gotten the hang of smiling. But I realise what's set him off; everyone knows I was the second choice for the job. No prizes for guessing who first choice was.

I realise for the umpteenth time – no matter what he said when we were both in our teens – it's always been about Albus, and it always will be. But it's not Elphias' fault; all the blame lies with the trickster, the charlatan, who's led him on since before the turn of the century.

Albus Dumbledore doesn't know Elphias; he treats him like a spineless, useless, good-for-nothing lapdog. He's never seen Elphie's heart of gold or half of the courage. I know, because I was the one who grew up alongside Elphias from the beginning – my family wasn't tainted by scandal like the Dumbledores'. I was the one who ran around various gardens on Easter Egg Hunts with him thirty years ago. I was the one who sat by the Black Lake and helped quiz him before his NEWTs not very long ago.

And now, Dumbledore has the nerve to think that whenever Elphie shows a gram of guts, it's all because the chap is in love with him. I know better.

Kiss/Spring (Easter 1899)

Hesper Starky's kneazle has had kittens again. I swear, she has learnt relationship ethics by watching that thing in the mating season.

Being the classic social climber, last year Hesper offered a kitten to Albus, who was too gutless to refuse, only to fob the poor thing off onto Elphias once she'd turned her pretty back on him. I, in contrast, being only in third year, stood out in the common room about as much as a log in the fireplace.

But now, thanks to Lady Luck, I can proudly say that my uncle's book, The Beaters Bible, is Quidditch Book of the Year for 1898, and is the top bestseller on the Daily Prophet's Sporting List. And now that my name is synonymous with fame and fortune, Hesper's deemed me worthy of one of her precious pets.

"Here you go, Rufus," she says, and a tawny-coloured kneazle-cat-cross crosses the room and jumps into the navy-blue armchair I'm sitting in. "Happy Easter."

The Ravenclaw common room is like a bag of snidgets; there's less than three months until the NEWTs and OWLs and all the older students' nerves are a-flutter. So I head for the mild spring morning outside, with the kitten loping along after me. And who do I see but the person I most want to see in the whole wide world?

Since arriving at Hogwarts nearly four years ago, Elphias and I have been fairly close; before that we played together as small children, since our parents believed wizarding offspring ought to be raised together. Never mind character, age or anything else, just mind the pure-bloodedness. Fortunately, we liked each other very well then, and now…well…I have to say that I at least am liking him more than very well…

That sentence makes no sense. But while I might think of him more than a friend, I do wonder what he thinks of me.

Now – his Kneazle – which was relegated to Elphias by Albus – is playing catch-me-if-you-can with newly-hatched butterflies when mine joins in. His is a year older, but no less playful. They romp around.

If I were a Gryffindor we'd probably be doing the same, because I'd have pounced upon Elphias there and then. But he's lying quietly in the grass, his pert little nose in a book, mousy brown hair falling into his eyes, which occasionally look up to watch the kittens. All I do instead is lie down next to him and sneak glances at the book – Charms, my favourite subject! – and I say…

"They look like they're kissing."

It's innocent enough. Innocent as a kneazle playing with a ball of wool.

Maybe it's the stress of exams that makes him do it, but out of the blue, Elphias kisses me.

On the mouth.

This is just about innocent enough to warrant a kneazle alarm. But…in a good way?

"But I thought you – Albus – you and – Albus and –" I stammer, once we've broken apart.

My face feels hot and I realise I must be as red as a cherry, or worse, Albus' hair.

"Oh come on, Rufie, that was years ago!" Elphias ruffles my hair. "You're in Ravenclaw, surely you know the things going on between the Head Boy and…"

But from what I've overheard, the muggle-born, Catherine Carlton's affections for Albus Dumbledore have been rather one-sided. If it had been the other way around, we would've easily dismissed it as prim muggle propriety, but no, most of us are quite sure there's nothing there. Besides, Hesper Starky says that once upon a time, Albus had a certain partiality towards her current partner…

Still, if he's given up on Albus, I'm hardly going to complain.

And hang the NEWTs too.

Egg/Flowers (1890)

We sit quietly eating our Easter Eggs, listening to "Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump" to us. Even though Easter Sunday is a muggle holiday, we wizard children get together and have a party. There's Rosie Castellan, Duncan Davidson, Maggie Collins and Enid Smeek, who are my age or younger, and there's Brutus Burke, Olivia Monaghan, Emeric Switch, Lawrence Kingsolver, Georgie Goodsell, Stella Moon, Marcus Prewett and Elphie Doge, who are a little bit older than me. I'm six. Elphie, whose mother is reading to us, is nine.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land,
Was a muggle king, who longed to understand
The secrets of magic, which you well know,
Run in your blood, and only birth will bestow.

Everyone loves hearing the story of the clever old witch who outsmarted a greedy muggle king and his nasty "charlatan", whatever that is. Elphie says it's a man who makes money by tricking other people.

"I hate the king," I whisper to him. "But I hate the charlatan more. Because tricking people is mean."

"But what if he was smart?" Elphie points out. "What if he couldn't help it? Babbity tricked the king too…"

"Shhh! You might spoil it for someone who hasn't heard it before!"

She watched them shout nonsense at the sky,
From dawn every day, till evening was nigh,
Until she could no longer ignore –
Those stupid muggles – how she laughed and she roared!

The King was humiliated, rightly so,
And demanded his magic at once would show,
In front of his subjects the following day,
Or else the charlatan would with his life pay.

"See," says Elphie, "The king wasn't very nice either. He was going to kill the poor charlatan. At least the charlatan wasn't planning to kill anybody. I think killing is bad."

"But sometimes you have to kill people, because they have to be punished, like at the end the king kills the char…"

"Rufus! No spoiling the ending for people!" interrupts Mrs Doge. Brutus, who's sitting behind me on the rug, pinches me hard. I'm going to tell Mrs Burke on him later.

But Babbity was very much wiser than him
With a smile, she said, "I will do anything
Within my power to help you, my dear."
For how could a muggle cause a witch any fear?

"You must conceal yourself in a bush tomorrow morn,
And when you see the King with his 'wand' drawn
You must perform all the spells he wishes, one by one."
But Babbity answered, "What if it cannot be done?"

"Spoiling is really mean," says Rosie. "It's not fair. Not everybody is as good and fast at reading as you."

"See?" I tell Elphie. "You might not be able to help being clever, but you should be nice to other people anyway." He shrugs.

Until the Captain of the Witch-Hunting Brigade,
Whose dog had been poisoned by a flowering nightshade,
Carrying the corpse, came beseeching the King
To bring the dog back to life and end his suffering.

So the King touched his twig to the cur's black nose
But nothing happened – since everyone well knows
That no magic can raise the dead – and so the revered
Babbity smiled, as the crowd snickered and sneered.

We all laugh along as the crowd in the story does, when the evil charlatan betrays Babbity – lying to the king that she is stopping him from doing magic – but she outsmarts him by vanishing in front of a tree. Even though the king chops it down, she is still alive!

"Real witches and wizards cannot be killed
By being cut in half," said a voice that filled
The charlatan with dread. "Believe me, it's true!
See how your charlatan bears being cut in two!"

At this, the charlatan confessed, begging for mercy,
And was dragged to the dungeons to rot eternally.
But Babbity was not finished with the muggle King –
She would cure him of his conceited thinking.

Babbity Rabbity is an animagus – she can turn into a rabbit, and she is hiding under the tree stump! Well, real animagi can't talk, but this is a story, says Mrs Doge. She teaches the muggle king a lesson – to leave wizards and witches alone. He even builds her a statue on the stump to remember her.

"See," Elphie says at the end, "The cruel king killed the charlatan!"

"But he had to! The charlatan was a bad man!"

"But now the king is a bad man too!"

"I think the charlatan's badder."

Elphie and I are very confused now.

"Well," says Mrs Doge. "Perhaps the king had to be cruel to be kind. He had to put the charlatan into prison because if he didn't, the charlatan would go out and trick and hurt more people."

This makes perfect sense to me, though not to Elphie.

"But maybe the king could have told him to not hurt people anymore, like Babbity taught the king a lesson just by scaring him, and then everyone would have lived happily ever after."

"Always have to believe the best of people, don't you, Elphie?" says his mother. "Oh well."

Five Fingers/Warmth (Easter 1884)

Eyes open.

I hunt around the room for something I know. There's a face. I don't know it.

Small brown eyes. Light brown hair.

A finger stretches out. I grab it. With all five fingers. It's not as big as a normal finger, but it's nice and warm. I smile.

"He smiled at me!" I hear. "See if he remembers you tomorrow!" says another voice.

Of course I will remember him. I want to. Forever and ever and ever. Because I saw him first.

"Let's be friends."

I don't know what friends are, but the boy is smiling at me.

Funny smile. Crooked teeth.

I laugh at him.

"Look at his tooth!"

First tooth. First friend. Saw him first.

"Scrimgeour turned a nasty purple colour highly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon. 'I see you are —'
'Dumbledore's man through and through,' said Harry. 'That's right.'
Scrimgeour glared at him for another moment, then turned and limped away without another word."
(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 30: The White Tomb)

A/N: The usual spiel – I don't own Elphie or Rufie. The "Babbity Rabbity" poem, however, was written by me. I was originally only going to write a few stanzas, but it turned into an epic ballad, the entirety of which I have already posted up! Please do check it out on my userpage.

I really hope you enjoyed this! If you liked it, you may also like "When You Hear Nothing At All", which has a similar, though reversed, structure, and follows Narcissa Malfoy, or "Danse Macabre", about Bellatrix Lestrange's journey from a child of four to a woman of forty-seven.

Or, you could just be a darling and leave a review for me!