Summer Rituals
Author's Note: This work is going to have a long production time. I decided on ten scene chapters for this work, which is more than I have ever done before. However, I've also decided that I wouldn't wait until the third chapter was ready to give you another bit of it. Instead you're getting this 24 hours after my last beta response on it.
I have to admit to having a lot of fun writing this chapter, setting up the families and plots for each of the Gryffindor Nine. I've also had some fun hiding a few references.
I'd like to thank the following people for their assistance with this chapter: Alysson DeMerel, gemma ethan whitaker, SlickRCBD, Yamaban, drwho13, jamaq, MoKR, fjord defect, Jonas, Reader458, Brad Coleman, and Carla.
Chapter One
Hermione Granger somehow managed to be the first one through the door of Number Twenty-One Incisor in Crawley. Little seemed to have changed since she left home at Christmas. There was the same print of a hand of cards, a ten, a nine, and a two, that had been on the wall of the entry way since she was six. She had not been allowed to get her trunk out of the boot. That was apparently Harry's job, despite the fact that he had tripped and busted his head on his trunk at King's Cross, less than two hours ago.
Hermione quickly detoured to the half-bath on the ground floor. She knew she shouldn't have picked up that bottle of lemonade, but it had been so long since she'd had anything carbonated, and well, she had been thirsty. Of course, all the way home in the back seat of the Bentley, her baby, apparently planning on trying out for football, early, had been testing her bladder control. She barely was able to sit down on the toilet before another kick proved to be the last straw for her.
By the time she finished, washed her hands, and exited the half-bath, everything had been brought in. Harry was waiting for her at the base of the stairs. "I took your trunk up to your room," he said. "Your father says he wants to be out of range when you get there."
"Traitor!" her father's voice came from the kitchen.
"Thanks, Harry," Hermione said, as Harry helped her up the stairs. They were not as steep as the ones going up to their dorm room at Hogwarts, but that didn't mean that she found them comfortable to ascend. She had taken a potion that would prevent her from going into labor until tomorrow that morning, and it had left her a bit stiff. It would increase the odds of her having the baby tomorrow, but going to labor on the Express was not considered to be a good place.
There was a new carpet in the upstairs hall, starting just past the top of the steps. It was a royal blue and the padding felt good on her bare feet. Hermione opened the door to her room. It had changed since she'd been in it last. Were before their had been four book cases, aligned down the left side of the room, two of them had been moved to her outside wall, flanking the double hung windows. Her trunk had been placed under the window, with a large pad placed on top of it, turning it into an effective window seat. Her bed had been moved against the left hand wall, with a trio of book cases creating an alcove at it's foot. Her bed was still covered with her Disney Princess quilt. A circular crib dominated the middle of the room, with a changing table against the right hand wall, next to the door to the bath that her bedroom shared with the room next door.
There was a fresh coat of paint on the remaining exposed walls, in a soft gold, which went well with the book cases, which had been stained dark. Her father had obviously spent some time on Hermione's room since Christmas.
There would be a good half hour before dinner, so Hermione stepped over to the bookcase to the left of the window, which was cut to allow her bed in its place. She began to scan the titles. It was obvious that her father had entirely messed up her organization, which given the amount of new book shelf space, was a given. However, she honestly thought that her father would have at least shelved them right side up, and neatly. Spotting her copy of the Complete Shakespeare haphazardly placed on a shelf, she pulled it out, discovering that when it had been shelved another book, a copy of poems by Poe, had been forced between its pages, bending and damaging the work from which her name had been picked.
Her father was never again going to be allowed to touch her books. If he did, some of the charms that Hermione had picked up from Hogwart's long suffering librarian would make him regret it. Meanwhile, Hermione decided that her planned nap could wait. Her father needed to find out just what he had gotten into by not treating the books of a pregnant witch with proper respect.
Harry Potter had never had pizza before, at least hot pizza. It had been delivered to Privet Drive, but the most he'd eaten was parts of a few cold slices that had anchovies on them. Harry's hatred of anchovies was one thing he had in common with Dudley. The experience of opening a freshly delivered pizza box, filled with Italian sausage and green pepper topped pizza, and being told to go ahead and get a slice ... it was new ... it was different ... it made him feel like he belonged, like he was at Hogwarts instead of back in the muggle world.
It was amazing how a simple piece of pizza, hot enough that he'd had to gulp down several mouth fulls of the sweet dark carbonated beverage after his first bite, made feel more at home than he'd ever been at Number Four. He took another bite as Hermione sat down beside him, reaching for her own slice.
"Don't expect this often, Harry," Hermione said. "Mum has some objection to Pepsi." She took a sip of the tall glass filled with the drink. "It is apparently not good for my teeth. Pizza just isn't right without it though. I mean, milk and pizza?"
"Milk is good for you," Wendy Granger informed her daughter. "I'm sure you'll be telling your child that in a few years." She had her own pizza, whose toppings where apparently not to the liking of her daughter or husband. Harry was certain that they included both anchovies and red onions on their personal dislike list.
"Well, yes," Hermione said. "Still, it doesn't taste as good with pizza as Pepsi does. Even R. White's is better than milk with pizza."
"So, Harry, what do you think of your room?" Monty Granger asked, taking a slice from the same box that he and Hermione had opened.
Harry paused for a moment, thinking of the room that Hermione's father had him place his trunk in. He hadn't really looked at it. Still, at first impression it was much better than Dudley's second bedroom. It had been painted a deep navy blue, and there was a frame filled with a painting of two princesses in the woods looking at a trio of fawns in the forest.
"It's okay," Harry said.
"Well, we'll spend some time during the next few days making it more suiting to your tastes," Monty said. "It's just been a place to hang a few of my college days art work, until recently. We bought the bed for you a couple months ago. We can repaint the room if you'd like a different color."
Harry was silent for a while, forgetting to even pick up another piece of pizza. He'd never had the opportunity to make any space his own. The closest he had ever gotten was scrawling "Harry's Room" on one of the stair risers in the cupboard under the stairs. The idea that he would be able to chose anything about his room was foreign to him. That was something Dudley got to do. It was not something that freaks did. He was the boy who was a burden, not a treasured son. Not any more. Suddenly he smiled, as the thought passed through his mind that now that he was away from the Dursleys, he could actually be a boy who lived.
"I kind of like the blue," Harry offered, as he picked up another slice, before admitting, "I've never been allowed to do anything to my room before, Mr. Granger"
"Well, then, it's high time you were," Wendy said. "We'll need to get you more bedding than the bedspread on your bed now. Hermione never liked it, and frankly once I put it on your bed, I think I've finally figured out why. We'll need a quilt, of course, though we can probably get away with a new bedspread."
"I want to replace my Princess quilt," Hermione interjected.
"We might have to wait on that, Hermione," Wendy said. "Your school nurse said you could be having your baby any day now, and you're not heading to County Mall until after you give birth."
"The Mall has opened up?" Hermione said. Harry looked over at her and saw an expression that he'd last seen when Hermione got his cherry pie.
"Yes," Wendy said. "I'll take Harry tomorrow. Mrs. Richardson has volunteered to keep an eye on you in case you go into labor while we're away. Harry, we're going to do something about those clothes. You will never be wearing Dursley hand-me-downs again."
Harry didn't know what to say. He'd never been taken to shop before. Only his underwear had been bought fresh by his Aunt. When he'd been fitted with his robes in Diagon Alley, that had been the first time he'd gotten new clothes for himself. His school uniforms were the only clothes he had that were really made for him. No one got anything for him. It just didn't happen.
As he looked back up at Mrs. Granger, he realized that tears were flowing down his cheeks. He did not know why. He could only nod as an unfamiliar but good feeling filled his heart.
Lavender Brown had not expected to get on the Underground after her return from Hogwarts. She'd expected to go home via portkey or floo, but her parents called one of their elves to take Lavender's trunk home, and they'd boarded the Hammersmith and City line, heading East. "Where are we going?" she asked.
"We're going to Boleyn Tavern, dear," her mother replied. Unlike most pure blood women, Lavender's mother knew how to dress to fit in among muggles, though she did tend to dress a bit more formal that she ought to be. Her current power suit would not have looked out of place in Whitehall. Her father, who appeared to be a bit out of sorts at the moment, was dressed in a tweed suit, one of the few muggle appropriate outfits that her mother could force him to wear. Her father had taken a seat away from them, and appeared to be trying to ignore his daughter and wife.
Lavender knew what going there meant. It meant that they were taking the Grand Zeppelin Magical from Boleyn Ground to somewhere. Much like platform Nine and Three Quarters was hidden from muggles, the Boleyn Tavern Aerodrome was hidden from them. She would have to get a camera so she could take an overhead shot of the Grounds to send Dean. He hadn't believed that the Aerodrome was so close to his favored football team's grounds. "What's wrong with Father?"
"Oh, he's not happy with this year's itinerary," her mother replied. "We're going to Cap d'Agde in France first, then over to Plage de Tahiti, before heading to Es Cavallet in Spain. Then there is this place in Italy that your Uncle Charles suggested. It's going to be such a lovely summer progress."
"Mother, I don't think my bathing costume from last year will fit," Lavender replied. "Can we stop somewhere to get a new one?"
"Lavender, dear, that implies that you need to wear one," her mother replied, carefully modulating her voice so it would carry right over to Lavender's father. "I assure you that your natural attire will be quite adequate this summer." Judging from her father's huff and turn further away, her mother's sally had hit it's desired target. Then softer, she continued, for Lavender's ears only, "We can pick something up, should it become necessary, of course. I doubt it will."
Lavender wasn't sure either way. She had been nine the last time her mother had pulled such a progress. It had scandalize a few, but her great-grandmother cackled through the whole re-reading of the society pages, and then brought out her own. Lavender had been flat chested then, and she'd barely had anything when she went off to Hogwarts, but she'd finally started developing, having a bosom to hide beneath her robes during the spring term. She had been quite grateful when Alicia Spinnett had taken her aside to teach her the breast supporting charm. It was much more comfortable than the mail order bras she'd received. She was sure that if she joined in her mother's plan, her father would end up seeing a lot he didn't expect or want to see. Lavender wasn't sure she wanted anyone to see.
"Will Gran-gran be joining us?" she asked.
"We'll be spending a couple days in Rome," her mother remarked. "She has that anniversary coming up next year and wants to plan out her attempt to recreate it better than 1983. It will be ninety years since she interrupted that coronation."
Lavender giggled, as she remembered the tale. She just knew that her great-grandmother was going to embarrass the family again. Of course, as matriarch of the family, she'd contend that she was the family. Great-grandfather kept saying that he was going to send her back to the nunnery.
"Now, I have gotten her to promise not to involve you in her recreation next summer," Lavender's mother said. "I've also warned Cardinals Casaroli and Ratzinger. Hopefully she'll stick to her original naked dance at the head of the procession. She better remember the notice-me-not charm this time, unlike sixty-three ... then again, she did move her commemoration up that time. Giovanni never really got over it."
"Giovanni? Isn't he the one Great Aunt Angelica failed to seduce?" Lavender asked.
"No, dear, Angelica preferred Greeks, Anastasia preferred prelates," her mother said. "She didn't have much success. They take those vows seriously in Italy. It might be why lightning stuck her down on the Piazza del Duomo. Oh, and your Uncle Charles will be joining us at some point. Sometime you have to tell me what he keeps borrowing you for."
"Sorry Mother, but I'm not allowed to tell," Lavender said, seriously.
"And if I try to say ... tickle it out of you?" her mother replied.
"Please Mum, not in public," Lavender said, already with a hint of a giggle in her voice without her mother haven't even touched her. Her mother had an uncanny ability to drive her into to giggles with the slightest touch, the laughter quite often leaving her unable to even stand when it was over.
"I shall reserve it until France then," her mother replied, pausing just a bit before continuing. "Less of a need for a change of underpants, then."
"Mum!"
Neville Longbottom adjusted his charcoal gray robes after he stepped out of the floo into Saint Mungo's. He couldn't begin his summer until he visited his parents. He strode down the hall towards the ward that housed them with a confidence and determination that came from his first year at Hogwarts.
He was actually not supposed to be visiting until tomorrow, but he had found out that visiting hours had extended after dinner, and he had to go. He suspected that Gran was going to be most put out when she discovered where he was.
No one stopped or even questioned Neville as he turned into the ward. He did not give the air of someone looking for help, nor the air of uncertainty and despair that he had before he arrived at Hogwarts. He no longer was the uncertain boy looking for his toad on the Express. He had finished fifth in his year, as was acknowledge among them as a Herbology genius.
More importantly, he had friends, friends who liked him for what he was. Friends who had taught him how to be confident. It was as Dean had said, if you looked like you knew where you were going, no one questioned you until you got some where important. It looked like Dean was right, because he got all the way to the door of the Janus Thickey Ward before someone even addressed him.
"You're here awful earlier that I expected, young Mister Longbottom," Nurse Higginbotthom said from her post at the door. "Your parents have just finished dinner, though, so we'll let your right in. How is your Gran doing? I imagine she'll be along."
"I imagine she'll be here shortly," Neville said with a smile. "Might be a bit put out with me though. Mum and Dad still in the same place?"
"No need to move them, and change does tend to upset many in the ward," Nurse Higginbotthom said, turning towards an idling nurse. "Nellie! Nellie Forbush! Show young Mister Longbottom to his parents."
"Yes, Mistress Higginbotthom," the young statuesque blond said, moving away from the wall, and sliding her sickle novel into her front pocket. "Follow me, Mister Longbottom."
Neville followed Nurse Forbush through the rows of curtained beds to the pair that contained his parents. With a wave of her wand, the curtains parted, revealing his parents. His mother's once dark hair had been turning white over the last few years, and only a few strands remained of it's original color. It was always his mother that seemed to be first to approach him.
Her hand caressed his cheek as Neville spoke. "Mum. I just finished my first year at Hogwarts and I couldn't wait until tomorrow to come and tell you and Dad." His mother smiled at him, she always seemed to the most understanding of the two. Unable to talk, to really communicate, but in so many ways she still managed to convey her love to Neville. His mother sat down on the bed, and Neville sat down beside her.
"I ended up fifth in my year, thanks to Hermione Granger. I don't do think I'd even have come close to that if it wasn't for her. I think I told you about her at Christmas. She finished first of course, but I'm first in Herbology. Harry finished second ... actually Gryffindor managed to shut out Ravenclaw from the top ten in my year ... well, with the help of Malfoy.
"I don't know what happened to Malfoy. It's like he became a different person the moment he got to hold his nephew. It's kind of neat to see, the moment someone puts Patrick in his arms, suddenly it's as if whatever though was going through his head was wiped away and replaced with a smile. I wonder if the same thing will happen to Harry after Hermione has his baby.
"It's kind of been strange this year, with Hermione living in the wardrobe in our dorm. I mean, it's different watching a pregnancy happen up close. She's due any day now. I kind of expected her to end up having the baby on the Express..."
"Neville Francis Longbottom!" Neville looked up. It seemed that his Gran hadn't been as far behind as he expected. He knew that she'd be after him as soon as she realized where he'd gone. "What possessed you to go here all alone?" his Gran's voice dropping from challenging to stern.
With his Mum trying to hid behind him, Neville stood, and for the first time in his life looked his Gran right in the eyes. "I couldn't wait to tell my parents about my year."
"Neville, you are eleven-years-old, going off on your own, even to a relatively safe place like Saint Mungo's, without permission will not be ..." Gran began, pausing for a moment. Neville could tell she was trying to keep her tone sharp, but not loud. "Countenanced."
Somehow, Neville managed to grin, as he replied, "I asked, you said yes."
"I was distracted by Miss Brocklehurst," Gran replied, before looking up at the ceiling. "I don't know what it is about Longbottoms. The moment you go away to Hogwarts you suddenly blossom into impertinent little men. Your father was just the same way."
Suddenly there was an updraft in the curtained area, and a soft amber glow rose and fell. Neville turned to the direction of the light, and discovered that his father was standing there, instead of laying on his bed, trembling, he held the wand. Neville had left it sticking from the wand pocket on his belt, ready to be drawn. It seemed that his father had drawn it.
"My wand," his father said, his voice some what raspy due to lack of use. For the first time since Neville could remember, there was an expression of recognition on his father's face. It was as if he suddenly seeing everything for what it was.
"Mother? Alice?" his father continued, his voice clearing with each word, until in a clear tone he said the one word that his son had long wished, without realizing that he wished it, to hear. "Neville?"
Neville couldn't stop himself from breaking the spell that seemed to have held the room stillness with a word of his own. It was said softy, almost without a breath, as if it was a dream. "Dad."
The word was repeated, as Neville suddenly found himself being hugged by his father for the first time. "Dad." Another set of arms came around him, his mothers, and then the were joined by his Gran. Tears began to flow down Neville's cheeks, as he felt his fathers wand touch his chin.
The amber glow rose again, this time encompassing the whole Longbottom family. "Neville," the trembling name was echoed again first by his father, then with great surprise from his mother.
"Neville, my little boy," the trembling soprano said as the glow flared again.
And then the glow departed, leaving the four Longbottoms, son, father, mother, and grandmother, holding each other, unwilling to let go of each other, afraid that the moment they did so, everything would end.
Dean Thomas dropped his trunk at the foot of the bed in his new room. The replacement of the tank that had busted over Christmas had not gone well. And when the hot water heater went, explosively, shortly after bad replacement main pressure tank, insurance had financed a complete rebuild of the north side of the house.
There was not much left from his old room. Some art supplies that he'd left behind from Christmas, a couple posters, the rest having been ruined by the roof and wall collapse. Dean was actually surprised that his Salvador Dali print had survived. So, he had a new room, most of which had been decorated without his input. The walls were plain white, but that outside wall, on the north side of the house was filled with windows. There was the one right over his desk, that was currently opened out into the garden, and then to its sides, high above his bed and high above the book case were a pair of windows even with the top of the walls. All of them let in that most precious of quantities for an artist, Northern light.
He moved to his desk, opening the drawers to discover that his parents had filled them with art supplies. There were pencils and pastels, paints and brushes ... it was a young artist's dream. He looked at the pad of paper laying on the desk and could not resist pulling out the pencils to begin his first work of the summer.
It started with scarlet lines, turning into wood panels outlining the scene. Then some burnt umber began to show the curls of hair, around deep chocolate eyes. Ebony locks, skewed ever which way appeared over emerald eyes. Saffron and cream blended together for their skin, with bit of pink highlighting their lips. A deep ecru mixed with a bit of olive to form the boy's shirt, and scarlet and burgundy traced over the swollen breasts and womb of the girl.
Back to the boy's face, Dean gave it a laughing expression, as if a great joke had just been given. To the girl's tilted head, he added a small smile. The boy's hand snaked around her shoulders, and the girl's head rested on his. Dean filled out the background of the compartment, remembering the day's journey. He worked on the reflection on the window, carefully allowing the scenery of the journey to be seen through the reflection of the couple.
It was getting dark by the time he'd finished, signing his name in auburn pencil, the northern light almost gone. As he noticed this, his lights flickered on.
"I don't think you can draw in the dark, Dean," his mother said, moving from the door way to stand behind him. "That's beautiful. Who is it?"
"My friends Harry and Hermione on the train today. I had to commit it to paper as soon as possible, or I'd forget it."
"They must be good friends," his mother said, sitting down on his bed. "You have to really know them well to get that detailed."
"Well, I did live in a room with them, Neville, Ron, and Seamus," Dean said. He stepped over to his trunk and pulled out one of his many sketch books. He opened it almost randomly, finding a picture he'd sketched of the three playing football with three girls. He sat down beside his mother and showed her the sketch. "That's Neville with the loosened tie. He didn't exactly expect to play, but I twisted my ankle. That's Seamus in the light blue. It's apparently his local football club's colors. Ron's in the goal. That garish orange outfit is apparently his Quidditch team. West Ham and Drogheda may have been regulated in the last couple years, but they've never been as bad as the Chudley Cannons."
"They can't be that bad," his mother said, as he turned the page to show a better picture of the girls.
"Mum, their motto is 'let's cross our fingers and hope for the best,'" Dean said before pointing out the girls. "That's Sally-Anne on attack. She was responsible for my ankle. Don't think she's all athletic, though. She finished fourth in our year."
"Smart girl then," his mother said, as he turned the page. "And in case I haven't mentioned it, I'm proud of how much you improved your grades since the beginning of the year. Ninth in your year is quite good."
"If it wasn't for Hermione's plan and everyone in Gryffindor in my year's help I wouldn't have done half as well," Dean admitted, pointing out another picture. "That's Lavender Brown. Never underestimate her. I first thought she was an air head, but she actually is sixth in our class. She can pick any lock, and she's got a right hook that put Goyle out like a light."
He turned the page again, revealing a picture of Parvati standing before the fire in the common room, singing. You could see most of Gryffindor in the crowd around her. "That's Parvati Patil, she's got this goal of singing 'Rule Britannia' at the Royal Albert. With her and Seamus around it seems like we're always one step away from a song. This is from after we won the Quidditch Cup. She and Seamus traded off until Professor McGonagall sent us all off to bed. It took me weeks to get their duet of Danny Boy out of my head."
Another page turn revealed very pregnant Hermione, nibbling the tip of her quill as she paused to think between lines of her essay. Dean wasn't sure what class it was, but he'd worked hard to get that expression of concentration just right. "That's Hermione, she's the reason my grades went up ... well, her and Harry. She's so smart that sometime she requires a translator."
"She's due soon, isn't she?"
"Any day now," Dean replied turning the page again. He tried to turn the page quickly, but his mother stopped him. The sketch was the one he'd made of Harry's scars. It had been one of the most difficult sketches he had made. The one in the sketch book was his first attempt. It had taken four attempts before he'd been able to finish it. Harry had asked him to do it after a particularly stupid letter from Child Protective Services.
Harry was laying on his stomach, naked, on his bed. You couldn't see his face, but with the curve of his back and the slope of his shoulders, it was clear that he was afraid. In a later sketch Dean had added a mirror on the bed, positioned to reflect his face. Harry had wanted each scar labeled, every burn mark, every whip mark. As Dean had sketched the long belt marks Harry had received for getting better grades than Dudley, the burns of the fire poker for not having breakfast ready, and the scratches from the rake for not weeding the flower beds right, Dean had nearly lost his dinner. He'd abandoned the first sketch because it needed to be bigger.
"What is this?" his mother asked, in a very worried tone.
Dean replied tentatively, "That's Harry's back. He asked me to sketch it after Child Protective Services told him that they wanted him to reconcile with his Uncle Vernon. This one wasn't good enough."
"He is no longer residing with his Uncle, I hope," Dean's mother said.
"He's with Hermione's parents," Dean said, finally able to turn the page. That page was of Victoria Price-Malfoy and her then newborn baby.
"I'm surprised that her parents took them in, given that he is responsible for their daughter's condition," she said as Dean turned the page again, this time to a picture of Ron guarding the football goal from Sally-Anne.
"Responsible, only because he also saved her life from a troll. And no, I don't want to discuss the troll in the dungeon again." The next page was what Dean considered a very poor attempt at a self portrait of himself writing.
"I don't know, it might make a good painting for either of your walls," Mrs. Thomas said. "Your father has decided that you may cover both your East and West walls with paintings of your choice. Your sister wants you to do a unicorn on hers."
"Parvati, how did you do it?" Padma said as she stalked into her sister's room. They had just finished a rather late supper, where their parents had discussed their academic successes for the year. It had been a great surprise to their parents that Parvati had finished her first year with better grades than Padma.
Parvati played innocent as she unpacked her trunk. "What did I do?" The twins only shared a bathroom since they were nine, after a rather bad fight that had left both with identifying scars on their elbows. After getting their own rooms, they claimed it was all faked to get more space and the better bathroom. It had exiled their older brother Parviz to a room over the garage. The then sixteen-year-old had no complaints, as it allowed him his own entrance and better access to the rooftop garden.
"You're a Gryffindor," Padma whined. "You're not supposed to beat Ravenclaw in grades. Quidditch, yes, academics, no."
"That's the problem with you Ravens, resting on your laurels," Parvati said, lyrically, pulling out the picture that Dean had drawn of her and Seamus singing. It had been done in pastels, yet it looked so real. She tapped the corner with her wand and it expanded. Lavender had worked on her outfit for the picture. She wore a deep scarlet dress, with a golden sash, and her hair was up in an elegant braid that Parvati had no idea how Lavender had done. Seamus wore what Professor McGonagall had called a full Scottish kit, kilt and all. They were standing in the lectern of the Hogwarts Chapel.
"We study more than any other house at Hogwarts!" Padma said, moving to stand beside her sister. "Nice picture. Thomas's work?"
"Yes," Parvati said, moving over to the wall with the now almost yard high framed picture. "Dean gave it to me for our birthday. As for your studying, maybe you're not studying with the right people. Ravenclaw is weak in Herbology, and your practicums aren't as good."
"I wish Parviz hadn't finished before we started," Padma griped, as Parvati hung the picture across from her bed. "Then I would have had someone I knew who knew the subject to help me. You're right that our year is rubbish in the subject in my house."
"Nothing was preventing you from asking Neville ... well aside from my house's gripe against Brocklehurst, Li, and Turpin," Parvati said, digging into her trunk again for a few pictures of her and her fellow Gryffindors. The picture that McGonagall had taken of the nine in her year after the announcement of their class rank found it's place next to her bed stand. "I'll introduce you to him next autumn. And to Harry too. He can help you with your transfiguration wand work that Mum didn't like."
"I really wish I hadn't ended up in Ravenclaw," Padma said, sitting down on the bed. "I know, I'm more studious than you are, but not that much. I didn't think we would end up in different houses."
Parvati stopped her unpacking, and stood in front of her sister. For the first time in a very long time, she looked directly into her twin's eyes, letting her expression grow serious. She took a deep breath and admitted something she hadn't intended to. "I asked for Gryffindor. The hat said I could do well in Ravenclaw, but I wanted something different."
"It said I could have done well both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw," Padma said, not meeting Parvati's eyes. "I wanted Ravenclaw, though. I wanted to be like Parviz. I wanted to be at the top of my class, and have fun like our brother. He made it sound like Ravenclaw was the best place to be. It's not. It's full of a bunch of self-centered brains. We don't have friends. We don't like anyone who is the least bit different. We're cliquish, and I've never heard a single one of us use another's first name if they didn't have to."
"I think you need to spend a little time in Gryffindor," Parvati said, moving to sit beside her sister. "You're my sister, I can let you in. I asked Professor McGonagall, remember."
"I wish I'd taken you up on that," Padma said. "I missed you at Hogwarts."
"I missed you too," Parvati replied, placing her arm around her twin. "I had friends that you didn't but they can't really replace you."
"They sure seemed to replace me," Padma said. "We didn't even share breakfast after the New Year."
"I'm sorry about that," Parvati said, starting to cry. "Hermione got sick and I got drafted to pick up her work every morning. By the time I got to breakfast, you weren't there any more, and I couldn't find you. Then you wouldn't stay after class to talk to me ..."
"I was mad," Padma said, also in tears. "You'd never missed it without telling me before. I couldn't bring myself to even look at you."
"I wish you had. I felt so bad when you stopped speaking to me," Parvati said, as they scooted up on the bed. "I couldn't even tell anyone why."
"I'm sorry," both girls said, their eyes locked on each other. They stayed, gazes locked, for quite some time. As they did, all the tension in their bodies, built up over the year, seemed to wash away.
"Ginny, Mum says it's time for bed," Ron said as he looked in at his sister. She was busy writing a fairly long letter, and there was a stack of letters on the kitchen table, weighted down with two forks, positioned so Ginny could still read the top letter.
"I have to finish this letter before you spoil the rest of your first year for me," Ginny said, as she dipped her quill into the inkwell. "It's important that it sounds like I don't know what's happened since the last one."
Ron looked at his sister's letter. Her handwriting was much better than his, and had noticeably improved over the last year. Ginny paused for just a few seconds, probably considering her words. As she did, she flicked the feathered end of the quill back and forth on the underside of her chin. She had a expression of concentration, as if she was trying to compose each sentence carefully in her head before committing it to parchment. "You're really taking these letters to Harry seriously," he observed.
"I have to," Ginny said, as she finished the sentence. "These letters are important, not just to me, but to Harry and history. Letters to Merlin from Guenevere is still in print, and he's been stuck in the Mists of Avalon for more than a thousand years. Guenevere's been dead almost as long, yet her words are still read. This is my chance to do something that might be remembered forever."
Ron let Ginny finish the letter in silence. He could understand that drive. When he had left for Hogwarts, he had wanted to do something to outshine his older brothers, to prove that he was just as good or better than they were. Bill was a curse breaker for Gringotts. Charlie worked with dragons. Percy was the second prefect in the family, and everyone said could be Head Boy in a couple years. Fred and George were always fun and popular. And Ron, well, he didn't think he was that smart, until he started helping his fellow Gryffindor first years when Hermione was sick. He wasn't that funny, his jokes seemed to always fall flat, but he'd discovered that you didn't have to be funny to be a friend. And as for being popular, the Sorting Hat may have called him another Weasley, and that had hurt a bit, as if he wasn't worthy of his own self. However he wasn't another Weasley at Hogwarts, not in Gryffindor. He was Ron Weasley, chessmaster, quidditch fanatic, unexpected fact-finder, and the only First Year Gryffindor ever to score a perfect score on Professor Snape's end of year exam. (Snape and Dumbledore had swapped exams for their first year classes. Dumbledore hadn't told anyone until after the results were posted. Ron had been shocked.)
Ginny yawned. She signed her name and put up the quill, just as their mother entered the kitchen.
"Ron, I thought I told you to get yourself and Ginny off to bed?" their mother said.
"Sorry, Mum," Ron said. "Ginny had to finish her letter."
Much to Ron's surprise, his mother just nodded her acceptance of that statement. "Ginny, dear, I'll make the copy for you. Head off to bed, and we'll send Errol with it tomorrow."
"Percy said that I can borrow Hermes, and send it tonight," Ginny said with an expression that Ron knew would cause his mother to cave.
"That would be why he didn't take Hermes across the garden then," their mum muttered. "I'll send it off for you. Go on up to bed, dear."
"Thanks Mum," Ginny said, standing up and giving her mother a kiss good night, as well as a hug.
Ron was sure that Ginny hadn't been that tall during the Valentine's Day Dinner at Hogwarts. She had to be at least a couple inches taller. He also noticed that his sister was now wearing a bra, though he really couldn't see that she needed one, though that might be her loose nightgown that swirled around as she turned and mounted the stairs. "Good night, Mum, Ron." As she disappeared up the stairs, Ron turned back to what his sister had been writing.
"I didn't realize Ginny and Harry had written so much," Ron said, as he looked at the thick stack of parchment.
"Your sister has really found something since you came up with this idea and sold it to Mr. Potter," his mother said. "I think she's developing in to quite a letter writer. She's even started exchanging letters with Aunt Muriel, and I am well aware of my children's opinions of Meriel."
"I think she wrote at least once a week, if not twice, since Harry replied to her first letter," Ron said, as his mother sat down to copy her daughter's letter.
"Most likely twice," his mother said. "Now, what is this I hear about you being barely in the second quarter of your year? I thought you were doing quite well. Percy seems to think you were doing better than that."
Ron lowered his shoulders and slumped into a chair opposite his mother. It was time. "I did my best, Mum, but I just couldn't ... well ... you know ... I got a little behind in the beginning, and I couldn't recover enough. Percy tried to help, so don't blame him."
"Now, now, Ronald, I sure you did your best," Molly Weasley said. "I will be very proud of what ever you did. I don't expect you to be like Percy. I do expect you to study well and learn. If Ravenclaw puts you barely in the second quarters of your year, that's expected. I don't want you to study to the point that it's all you are. That wouldn't be you, Ronald Weasley."
Ron sudden smiled. He had apparently managed to pull one over on his mum without even being at home. Fred and George owed him a sickle. "Actually, Mum, I'm right behind Hermione and Harry as third in the entire year, and I still had time to get Oliver Wood to let me practice as Keeper."
"Third in your year?" Molly Weasley said, putting the quill aside. "You are third in your year, and you ... Ronald Bilius Weasley, what am I going to do with you?"
"Make me a glass of hot chocolate so I can get a good night's sleep?" Ron replied with the biggest smile that had ever graced his face. "And can I have a couple ginger newts?"
Sally-Anne Perks laid back in her bed for the first time since the previous Summer. She had not returned for either Christmas or Easter. Her mother had not been happy about that, but her father had visited Hogwarts at Christmas, bringing her presents and presents to the other girls who resided at the Cloister.
Officially, the Cloister was a Group Home for Girls, not an orphanage, run by Sally-Anne's parents. Her father was a pureblood with a noble title, abet one that was only recognized on the magical side of the street, the Earl of Locksley. He'd met her mother at Hogwarts, where she'd been a hardworking Hufflepuff, orphaned by her father's death during the Suez Crisis. The scruffy girl with knife cut short hair somehow managed to capture the heart of the Gryffindor Golden Boy of his era. Then when he'd succeed his father as Earl, he'd followed the Earldom's long tradition of philanthropy by opening a home for girls who could no longer live with their family.
According to Child Protective Services you were only supposed to stay at the Cloister for a few weeks, maybe a few months, before being reunited with your family. Girls at the Cloister never seemed to stay united with their family, or get adopted. They might leave for a while, but once you were placed at the Cloister, there would always be a place for you. It was not uncommon for a girl who had been returned to their family to suddenly appear at the Cloister's gates. They would be opened with open arms, even if they were no longer a child. Sally-Anne's parents saw to that.
Sally-Anne was a late, unexpected, accidental child. That did not result in her being loved any less. She grew up with the other orphan or foster children. Everyone was treated as if they were family by her parents. At least the way family was supposed to treat you. Sally-Anne was well aware of how family could treat you badly. You couldn't live in the Cloister without finding out. With the Cloister's reputation, it got all the cases where the caseworker expected the worst or that it might turn into a long term issue, plus those referred to by Wizardling Protective Services. It was why Sally-Anne had stayed for Christmas and Easter, she had expected that Harry would have been alone at Hogwarts, not finding out until late that he was going to visit his stupid caseworker.
Since there was no home for boys that specifically took magicals, like the Cloister took girls, Sally-Anne had been worried about what would happen to her friend when Summer came. When she heard that he was going to the Grangers for the Summer, she had inwardly cheered. The alternate plan she had come up in her mind would have never worked. Not with the all girl arrangement of the Cloister. Especially not with the collection of Boy-Who-Lived books shared generously among the young girls of the Cloister.
The door to Sally-Anne's room swung open, revealing a trio of young girls. "Okay, Sals, you avoided us all year," the lead girl, Francesca Runnymeade, began her order. "You got sorted in Gryffindor, with the Boy-Who-Lived, now spill."
"Yeah, Sally, we want to know," the second girl, on the right, Gladys, said. "Besides, all three of us are going to Hogwarts next year, and I want to find out what it's like."
Sally-Anne looked at the third girl, a shy blonde who went by Rae instead of her legal name of Rhiannon Angharad Eynon. "And you're along for the ride, Rae?" The only reply from Rae was a smile that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. "Okay, sit," Sally-Anne ordered, pointing to the foot of her bed. She had a full size bed, as it wasn't uncommon for someone to join her for the night during a thunderstorm.
As soon as the three found a seat at the foot of her bed, Sally-Anne began her tale, her gaze never quite meeting their eyes as she spoke.
"I shall not tell you the tale of my sorting, for that is a tale best not told until after one's own sorting is done. Nor will I tell you the tale of the first couple months at Hogwarts, for I was not yet known by Harry, and is of him that you wish me to speak of. Instead, I shall begin with the tale of Halloween at Hogwarts, of a boy who had not yet learnt the lesson of not using unkind words, of a sensitive girl genius who heard his unkind words, and of course the reluctant hero who risks his life to be justly rewarded ...
It was dark outside by the time Seamus Finnigan reached his home in Ireland, but not late enough to avoid running into Father Quinn. Having to walk from where Uncle Beolagh had dropped him off really didn't give him much of a way to avoid him, as Seamus had to not only walk passed Saint Columcille's, but past the parochial house.
"Seamus Finnigan, home from boarding school, I see," the surpassingly spry old priest said, as he held back the Irish Wolfhound that protected the Church's ground. "I'm surely lucky to have encountered you this late eve."
A bit wary, knowing that Father Quinn always had some task awaiting for whoever he encountered, Seamus replied, "Aye, Father, we left Scotland this morning, got to King's Cross in London around three, and Uncle Beolagh just let me off at the crossroads."
"That would be your mother's older brother?" Father Quinn asked.
"Aye," Seamus replied. Uncle Beolagh was indeed his mother's brother, and the reason that his mother hadn't told his father about her magic until Seamus had started showing his own accidental magic. It had been his advice not to tell, and Seamus's father still held it against him. Family relations were not improved, even though Beolagh was his mother's favorite brother.
"It is sad to see such rifts between family," Father Quinn sagely replied. "In any case, as I was walking down the lane, I was wondering if perhaps you might lend your voice to Lauds this Summer, assuming it still holds. Your voice lent the Christmas Vigil quite a fresh tone."
"My voice hasn't broken, yet, father," Seamus said. "The Choir Master at my school say it will soon though."
"I shall miss your boyish treble when it does," Father Quinn said, as the parish dog began to get restless. "But do hope that it's future loss does not deprive the parish of its best cantor. I shall expect you an hour before dawn."
And with that, the parish's Irish Wolfhound pulled the pastor away from Seamus, Father Quinn obviously no longer in control of the dog. Before Seamus realized that he had been committed to waking up early all summer, the priest was well away.
Seamus trudged home, pulling his trunk all the way. For once, he actually hoped his voice would break, and break badly. Sometimes he hated his Parish Priest.
Dobby had the honor of being a house elf in service of the Malfoy family. Until of late, this had been a dubious honor. Still, he served his masters to the best of his ability, even if he did have to iron his hands quite often for various real and imagined faults.
Service to the Malfoys had changed since New Year's. Dobby knew it was all due to the actions of the Ladies Malfoy. He hadn't known Lady Erlene before then. She'd come to Malfoy Manor one day in January at the side of Lady Narcissa. Dobby hadn't been there when they'd met Lord Abraxas in the secluded North East Manor Cottage where he'd spent his retirement. He had the job of cleaning it up after Lord Abraxas's death of magical backlash. Lady Narcissa seemed to have been particularly happy about that.
Since Lady Elene's arrival, the Manor had been filled with children, which gave the house elves of the Manor a lot of glorious work. Lady Erlene had brought with her three children that she'd had with a muggle, now adopted by blood Malfoys, Mistress Julie who was eight, Mistress Judith who was four, and Master Joseph who was two. Both of the girls seemed to think that house elves were great fun. Dobby had been tasked to set up their rooms. He'd ironed his fingers for having too much fun doing so.
The prior night Mistress Victoria had come home with her baby Patrick Draco. Dobby had set up her room under Lord Lucius's direction. Dobby had to punish himself several times for not understanding Lord Lucius's directions, but Dobby admitted to pride in the resulting bedroom for Mistress Victoria and nursery for Master Patrick Draco. Master Draco insisted that both names be used for his nephew, and Dobby was long in the habit of obeying Master Draco's slightest whim, even when it resulted in punishment.
"Dobby!" the summons of Lord Lucius brought Dobby to his side. Lord Lucius was in the chamber under the dinning room. Dobby knew that the objects stored in the room were very dark. Just being in the room made him tremble.
"My wives are uncomfortable with the presence of these items in our house," Lord Lucius announced. "It seems that dark objects, and young children do not mix. Dispose of all the dark objects in this room, if possible with profit. I do not wish to be identified with any of them, however. When you are done with clearing the room, see to it that the altar is reconsecrated in honor of Saint Jude. I shall have to ensure that saint's official patronage of this house."
"Dobby shall do this for Lord Malfoy," Dobby replied, before cocking his head. "Dobby has been summoned by Master Draco. May Dobby ask Toddy to assist?"
"This is your primary assignment. You may ask for elves to assist your tasks as needed. I shall see what my son needs."
With that, Lord Malfoy strode out of the chamber. Dobby looked around the room. Dobby would start with the books, Dobby thought.
Reminder: This work's update time will be slow in comparison to Ritually Yours. I'm doing twice as many scenes. Also remember that reviews of just "Update Soon" tend to result in muse delays. Longer reviews on the other hand spur the muse on. Signed in reviews with questions may get answers.