--28 July 1994--
Aileen stifled a yawn behind her hand, staring out the window. The landscape was dark as it flashed by, black and indistinguishable but for the solitary lights of homes scattered through this country. Merlin, I'm tired.
A long week in the city. She never slept as well with the noises of Muggle mechanics and the false quiet of silencing charms. Not like the country. Not that Dunfries was really country – just a small town. Bigger than some of the others on this route's stops.
She shifted irritably in the tattered plaid upholstery. Laid down An Introduction to Behavioral Evidence Analysis, and stretched full-length across the seat. At least she had this compartment to herself, and could relax. The train was apparently very empty despite the rush of people on the weekend commute out of the city. The earlier trains were loaded; but most of those headed south into the suburbs. Not north, and not this far into the wilds of the UK. Scotland is that . . . But it was home.
Aileen shifted once again, trying to get comfortable. It wasn't the Muggle clothes – she'd grown up in them and was more used to those than to robes. Though wizard clothes do double as convenient blankets. Or balled up nicely as pillows. Even if the wrinkles are bloody miserable to get out without charms. Never her strongest suit, but she knew what they said about practice . . .
It was the seat, old and flat and the padding worn to nothing with use. She shifted again, almost falling off as her shoes caught together and she wobbled precariously, balanced on her hip. Eased back, eyed the floor and breathed a sigh. That was close. The last thing she wanted right now was a nose-to-dirt interface with the filthy carpet.
Not that the train was badly kept. Just . . . old. And nothing like the Hogwarts Express. Which had always been pristine.
Magic was dead useful that way.
Speaking of.
Her mind wandered to the deranged plan she'd let Bert talk her into. I must be out of my mind. Alberta Lopatin might be her oldest friend and the closest thing to family she had left, but it didn't follow that the woman was at all sane. Kidnapping?
Aileen turned the thought over incredulously. She's gone mad. No question. Completely nutters, utterly batty, one-hundred percent round the bend.
She'd seen the tape of the 'debriefing' Bert had given Pevensie over her own failed attempt to interview him about the Magical world. Intended to 'soothe his fears' about the 'madwoman'. Actually intended to make him nervous.
She couldn't tell if it had worked. He'd entered the room suspicious, and left it the same way. But Bert seemed confident. And she's been at this much longer than I have.
But the ultimate idea was to use magic so obviously, so blatantly, that it couldn't be denied. And to do that, they had to get Pevensie to a place where they were in complete control of the situation.
She didn't like it. Had no problem telling Bert that she was completely off her trolley. But by Merlin, it just might work. And in the end, that was what counted.
Because she was certain that the man knew something about Voldemort. Something that Dumbledore won't – or can't – tell us. Everyone knew the Headmaster of Hogwarts was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix. But now, with Death Eaters stirring, anyone who admitted to knowing anything was a target. So everyone keeps their mouths shut, and we're all safer that way.
Right.
Aileen snorted.
But it's the best option I have. And Bert's offer was the best she was likely to get, as well. Any idea of support from the Magical government was laughable. Fudge was spineless, unable to make decisions – and thus firmly in the grasp of his completely controlling and utterly cold-hearted new assistant, Dolores Umbridge. Aileen had never met the woman. And I never want to. Toad.
But more than that – she had no concrete evidence. Just a few ambiguous words in green ink, and a gut feeling. One that had never steered her wrong before. Now's not the time to start doubting.
But there was no other word for this plan than insane. Maybe demented. Quite possibly doolally. Definitely mad. Dotty, crackers, mental, whacko, loony, bonkers.
She managed to get through a few stops thinking of every synonym she could, and making a few up. It was eight-fifteen when she realized that she'd begun to repeat herself. Groaning softly, Aileen sat up, ready to have another go at her basic criminology text.
Another hour before my stop. Why did I ever think this was a good idea? The chance to sleep in her own bed, for one. Of course.
The train stopped once more, and she peered out the window, searching for some point of reference. Sat up, and frowned. It's dark out there. Summer it might be, but the sun was gone. And from what she could tell in the feeble glow of a single lamp-light, this stop was no more than a platform, with a bench for comfort and a small shed that was probably a loo. No shelter from the rain.
And no lights, no town. Nothing nearby. Which begged the question. Who's getting off here?
Curious now, the textbook was absently set aside, and she hit the compartment light switch, running back to the window for a better view.
Car. 1991 model, and with three people piling out. A man and two women, climbing the platform to meet . . . the man who stepped from the train had no luggage. Jeans, she catalogued automatically. Button-down shirt. About 180 . . . 183 centimeters tall. Blond hair, a bit shaggy, a beard –
The man turned, as each of the women embraced him in turn, and she caught the profile of his face. A familiar profile. Stunned, Aileen watched him grasp the dark-haired man's wrist with a smile, and pull him in for a quick hug. The train moved beneath her, and she sank out of sight into her seat, still staring as her window sped by.
What in Merlin's name is Peter Pevensie doing here?
--31 July 1994--
"SURPRISE!"
Harry gaped, staring at the massive amount of people on the lawn. Ron snickered at the expression on his best friend's face. Looks like Percy, when he found out that George slipped a Tongue Toffee in his lunch.
Hermione bounced forward, hugging Harry. Ron ran to the rescue, tugging Harry toward the food. His family had all come, and Hermione's too, and the Pevensies, and Sirius and Remus – they'd planned this, and it was incredible. A mix of magic and quick footwork had kept Harry in the dark until the afternoon meal, when Lucy had announced a picnic.
Ron grinned. Which was really the lot of us waiting to give him the shock of his life. "Happy Birthday, Harry!"
He was grinning so hard it looked like his face might split in two. He hadn't looked this happy since Christmas, first year – when he'd realized that there were presents for him. It made Ron uncomfortable to think about it. So he didn't. Much.
"Wow!"
"Yeah, isn't it great?"
"Sirius planned it," Hermione beamed at them. "Remus and the Pevensies helped. We did too, once they let us in on it. Come on, Mrs. Weasley made so much food – you won't believe what's here! And Mum and I made the cake. Happy Birthday, Harry!"
Hours of food and one wild, non-magical water-fight later, Ron was exhausted. But Fred and George are soaked. Thanks in large part to a coalition of everyone but Mum, Hermione's parents, and Susan Pevensie ganging up on them.
"We slaughtered them," Bill grinned, flipping a sopping ponytail over his shoulder. "Victory!"
Charlie smirked at the twins, who had been relieved of their water guns and were being manhandled over to Mum. "Drowned rats, the pair of 'em."
Sirius, Remus, and Edmund were following up behind, gathering the abandoned water guns now that truce had been declared. Peter might have played, but there'd been a ringing noise from some strange Muggle something-or-other. A felly-tone? Something. And then his Dad had gotten all excited about it. Mum had kicked him under the table.
"A step up from you," George shot back, struggling. Bill tightened his grip.
"You look like a Murtlap," Fred added, nodding at the wet spikes of Charlie's hair. Ginny giggled. Ron's eyes narrowed consideringly, thinking of the water-rats with their sea-anemone like growths along the spine. Actually . . .
Charlie cuffed him upside the head.
"Hey!"
"I could tell what you were thinking," his older brother ran a hand over his head to tame the spikes, but only succeeded in making it worse. "And it'd be in your best interests not to go agreeing with them, Ron." Blue eyes narrowed playfully.
Ron grinned. "Fred's got a point, Charlie."
George snickered. "That's our little brother! Side with the winners, always!"
"The winners?" Ginny scoffed, wringing her shirt out.
"Got you but good." Fred was unrepentant, despite having both hands captured and held behind his back.
Ginny made a face, sticking her tongue out.
Hermione laughed.
"It's mutiny, that's what this is!" Charlie moaned theatrically. "Insubordination!"
"Can it, o mighty dragon tamer," Fred cut in rudely.
"I'll tame you, you little -"
"If you manage it," Ron's Mum cut her second son off mid-growl, "It'll be something I've been trying to do for sixteen years."
"Extra helpings for you, Charlie," Bill snickered.
Mum's glare withered the twins, who had been gloating at their older brother's expense. "As for the rest of you." Molly Weasley smiled. "I think it's past time for cake, don't you, Harry?"
Green eyes lit up, and the champions broke ranks in an all-out run for the dessert table. Singing, candles, and fifteen minutes were sufficient to clear all the food, and most of the crumbs, from the table.
Oh, I am stuffed. "If I eat another bite, I'll bust," Ron moaned, lying contentedly on the lawn. His clothes were drying slowly in the sun, and a cool breeze was kicking up. He licked his fork, sucking the last sugary icing off and rolling it over his tongue. "S'good cake, Hermione."
"Mmmm," Harry agreed, still savoring his chocolate slice.
"Grandmum's recipe," Hermione sighed. There was a bit of icing still on her cheek, and she twisted her face up, trying to reach it with her tongue before giving up and grabbing for a napkin.
"I still can't believe you got a Firebolt!" Ron felt overawed. The most fantastic racing broom yet.
Sirius had gotten it for Harry, to make up, as he said, for thirteen years' worth of missed Christmas and birthday presents. Harry didn't care, flinging his arms around his godfather and squeezing. I don't think I've ever seen Harry give anyone else a hug. It had been . . . weird. Uncomfortable, but good too.
Green eyes shone with delight. "Me either. Want to try it, tomorrow?"
They were all staying over for a few days. Then, in a few weeks, Hermione, Harry and Sirius would stay with the Weasleys during the World Cup. That had been Ron's present to Harry. "Do I ever!"
"Thank you," Harry added, again.
Ron rolled his eyes. "You've been saying that all day. It's your birthday, you git!"
"Ron," Hermione scolded. But she had her eyes shut and was grinning, just a little.
The pile of gifts also held clothes and a few Muggle items from the Pevensies, along with a Quidditch practice set. Hermione's Broomstick Servicing Kit had been well appreciated, though there was nothing to be done for the brand-new Firebolt. She'd just smiled, said she'd seen Harry play Quidditch and he'd need it soon enough. A book on Animagi from Remus sat alongside a collar and leash – a gag gift that was pure Marauders, judging from the look on Sirius' face when Harry had opened the brightly-wrapped package. Ron only wished he could be around for his revenge.
He lay back on the grass, completely stuffed. "Happy Birthday, Harry."
"Yeah." His best friend grinned fit to split his face in half.
Hermione yawned, rolling over to peer under the table. She was soaked too, but not as badly as him or Harry. Typical that Hermione would come off better than any of us. "Harry, Ron, look at that."
"What's that?" Ron pushed to elbows, squinting against the sunset. Dying light reflected brightly off metal; he blinked as it flashed brightly into his eyes. The Pevensie brothers were mucking about with something – he couldn't quite see -
Harry rubbed an overstuffed stomach as he twisted to follow their confused gazes. "Oh, that. A broadsword."
"A what?"
"You're kidding."
Messy black hair shook a negative. "Nah. Peter's been teaching me some."
He could finally make out the shapes of sharpened metal, as the sun slipped just a tad lower on the horizon. Teaching you – that? Ron stared. No wonder you never really told us what you were about, what with the look on Hermione's face.
Harry picked at the grass. His face was a bit red. "S'nothing," he mumbled. "Just something to do."
He should have felt insulted that his best friend had kept this from him. But – it was Harry's birthday. And he'd trusted them with his godfather's safety. It's not that big a deal, he decided. And let curiosity win. "Let's have a look, then." Hermione frowned at him, but he managed to roll to his feet. "C'mon."
She let him pull her up from the grass, and Harry followed. "Is that chainmail?"
At least she's interested. Though with Hermione, the shock would be if she wasn't.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Peter said they wear it when they spar, but I haven't actually seen it."
Closer, Ron eyed the two men shrugging into heavy metal shirts. Looks uncomfortable.
Mum had a tight grip on Fred and George, who had identical expressions of puckish glee on their faces. Bill and Charlie settled onto the grass to watch, as the Grangers and Lucy and Susan Pevensie pulled lawn chairs over. Ron dropped nearby his brothers, with his friends and Ginny following.
"They're not sharp, are they?" His little sister's eyes were very wide.
"Of course not," Hermione soothed.
"Dunno," Harry shrugged. "Probably not. It's just practice."
Edmund was stretching a bit, as Peter resettled a plain shield on his arm. Ron blinked. Practice? So they're not actually going to –
"Ready?" Lucy Pevensie, who appeared to be the referee. Ron didn't really know any of them, though what he'd seen of them and what he'd heard from Ginny about Lucy and Edmund was all good. He shrugged, chin on hands to watch. They helped Ginny. That's all I care about.
"Are you?" Edmund called back, hefting his blade with a practiced swing.
Ginny's first year at Hogwarts had been . . . awful. She would still wake up sometimes with screaming nightmares. About Voldemort. What rankled was that there was really nothing that the family could do, though they tried.
"Just like Oreius showed us."
"En guarde!" Shields came up, weapons at the ready.
"They say that every time they spar," Harry whispered, but Ron was staring at the two men, every sign of levity gone as they circled in the grass.
Edmund was the first to move, a sly swing Peter blocked on his shield. Edmund dodged the thrusted riposte, and the two metal edges met for the first time with a shockingly loud clang!
Ron winced; from his left came a startled yelp. Hermione. Ginny clapped hands over her ears in surprise.
But his attention was caught again by the dazzling gleam of light over metal. The two men swung and hammered at one another in a fight that grew more like a dance each minute. Bloody dangerous, he decided as Edmund ducked a swing that could have taken his head off. Ron could make out snatches of conversation – "Sword point up, Ed!" and "Know the ground, Peter!" as the blond man slipped and went down, rolling away from a downward swing before gaining his feet again.
It was incredibly cool.
"Are they insane?" Hermione hissed. Her brown hair was drying into a frizzy bush, puffing out even more than normal. She looked frazzled.
"Nah, they know what they're doing," Harry answered.
Off to the side, Ron could hear Charlie trading quiet remarks with Bill about technique and style. How do they know that? But it was a safe bet that Mum didn't know how interested her two eldest were in the dangerous art. Which gives me enough leverage to get them to talk to me about it, Ron calculated. As the youngest of his brothers, he'd take what he could get. And he'd be asking them about it the first chance he got.
Blue eyes slid back to the fight.
Which was just as abruptly over, as in a surprise twist of his blade, Edmund managed to disarm Peter. The broadsword flew away from them in a glittering arc to disappear into the grass. Panting, the blond man knelt. Ron frowned uneasily, as the tip of the other's blade rested at his throat.
For long moments, the only sound was that of harsh breathing.
What's going on?
"I yield," Peter said finally.
The shining blade lowered, and Edmund let out a tense breath.
"Nice," Charlie breathed, clambering to his feet. Bill nodded.
"Huh?" Ron stared. Peter gained his feet, and the two brothers embraced. Even listening, Ron just barely caught the exchange.
"Well done, Ed."
"Pay attention next time, Peter, huh?"
"The fight wasn't over just because Peter lost his sword," Bill explained. Fred and George traded confused glances as they hauled Ginny to her feet. Hermione brushed at grass sticking to her jeans.
"He still had his shield," Charlie agreed. His hair had dried into stiff spines that refused to admit the existence of gravity. He saw his Mum discreetly point a camera their way, and smirked.
Edmund was now wriggling free of the confining metal shirt; Peter had already discarded his, retrieved his weapon and was running a soft cloth along honed steel.
"What good would that do?" Hermione clearly didn't think much of anyone's chances without a bladed weapon. Neither do I, come to think of it. No wands? Without that sword, you were pretty much dead –
"Helluva lot, if you know what you're doing."
"Which they do," Charlie added, heading over. "He could have blocked the killing strike, used the shield as a weapon or to hold Edmund off long enough to get his sword back."
Ron blinked, as the two eldest Weasleys approached the Pevensie brothers. "How do they know that? Mum'd kill them."
George snickered. "That's for us to know, and you to find out, ickle Ronniekins."
He managed a glare at the twins. "You're lucky I'm too full to move."
"Are we now?"
The challenge was clear.
Ron gave Hermione and Harry the barest glances; green and brown eyes backed him. Three, two, one - On an unspoken signal, the trio burst to their feet and charged Fred and George, screaming wild war-whoops to the sky.
--2 August 1994--
"And that's the last of it," Susan sighed, closing the refrigerator decidedly.
It was Wednesday night, and the last of the guests from Sunday's party had finally gone. "That 'temporary floo' was a bit of a mess." Lucy plopped into a chair at the table. "I'm so glad Molly waited until everyone left."
Susan nodded, dark ponytail bobbing. "That spell she used – Scourgify?"
Lucy nodded, sipping at a cup of tea she'd made and forgotten, hours ago. Cold. But still good.
"It would have taken us hours to clean that mess."
She murmured an agreement.
Molly had Apparated home after taking care not to leave the Pevensies with a soot-filled room, courtesy of the favor Arthur had called in with some of his friends in the Magical Transportation Department. The Mansion had been hooked up to the Floo Network for their arrival and departure, since the twins, Ron, and Ginny were too young to Apparate. Percy had been quite amusing to watch, as he Apparated everywhere. 'Just to show off,' the twins said. Lucy hid a smile in cold Earl Grey. Though they might be right, at that.
"Are Peter and Edmund still clearing up outside?" Susan asked after a moment, playing with the handle of her own teacup.
"Probably," Lucy sighed. "Taking down the tent, and putting the tables and chairs in one of the spare rooms." Though there aren't many of those here, what with Sirius, Remus, and Harry. And there was one spare room that would – as long as they lived – remain almost empty. Except for a wardrobe.
"I liked having them here." Her sister smiled, and Lucy grinned back. Queen Susan the Gentle was peering out at her from behind the scientist's eyes, where she'd been hiding for the past twenty years.
"Me too. It was a lot of work, but I haven't had so much fun in ages."
"It reminded me a little of holidays in Narnia," Susan admitted.
Lucy pushed her teacup aside, sitting straight on the wooden bench. Susan so rarely talked about Narnia . . . I know she doesn't remember much. She didn't want to, for the longest time. Lucy wasn't about to pass up the opportunity. "How?"
Her older sister fiddled with the saucer, finally rising to dump it all in the sink, and turn the water on. "Just the – the friendliness," she called over her shoulder. Not acknowledging Lucy's gaze. "To be able to talk, and laugh, and not have to worry about anything."
Susan, has it been so long since you trusted anyone? Lucy thought sadly. She sipped again at her cold drink. "And that reminded you of home?"
"Of Narnia," Susan agreed.
That is home, Susan. When will you see it? But she remembered what Peter had told her, many months ago, and didn't push. Later. There'll be time.
"Are you done with your tea?"
She swallowed the last chill gulp, and brought the dishes to the sink. "My turn," she grinned, easing the older woman away from soap and running water. "Go sit; you must be dead on your feet."
Susan didn't need much urging. "It has been a long few days," she admitted, sliding out a chair and plunking gracelessly down.
Footsteps in the hall heralded Edmund's arrival. "Found a few more dishes," he announced, trooping them over to the counter.
"Where were they?" she asked absently, upending teacups in the drying rack. Lucy reached for the first of the dirty plates as her dark-haired brother cast about for a dishtowel.
"Hiding in the grass," Edmund said dryly, wiping a teacup. "The Weasley twins thought it might be interesting to enchant them to mimic frogs."
Lucy stared at him. Glared warily at the slippery, sud-covered plate in her hands. "They didn't."
"They did," Peter corrected, entering the kitchen with three more plates and a few forks. "But that's the last of them."
"How did you get them to stop?" Susan queried suspiciously. One hand hefted a dishcloth, and the other, a broom – in case of attack.
"The enchantment unraveled as soon as we touched them," Peter shrugged. Blond brows drew down in a scowl. "We just had to catch them first."
Don't laugh, Lucy scolded herself. There was a wealth of aggravation in Peter's voice. But still – I wish I'd seen that!
"Leaping all over the lawn," Edmund confirmed, drying the first of the saucers. "Hiding in the grass, burping out ribbetting noises. Lu!"
"I couldn't help it, Edmund," she got out around giggles. "Just the thought of you two jumping all around the lawn after them -" She ducked a dishtowel whipping her way, and splashed back some water at the offending brother.
"The enchantment . . . unraveled?" Susan sounded confused, turning to Peter.
He combed his fingers through shaggy blond hair. I'll never stop being glad that they wear it like they did back home. It might not be fashionable now for men to have such long hair – Edmund's was down over his ears. Peter's was just a bit longer, since he hadn't grown out his bangs as Ed had. It usually fell in a golden halo around his face – something she occasionally teased him about. Who needs a guardian angel anyway, when we have Peter? And it does look a little like a mane. Edmund had agreed. "It's something from Narnia," Peter told Susan. "Around us, magic sort of -"
"Runs screaming in the other direction," Edmund put in, passing a stack of dishes off to Peter.
"Nullifies," Lucy offered. "Becomes undone." And at Susan's puzzled expression, her lips quirked. "We're not explaining this very well, are we?"
"We don't really know how it works," Peter admitted. "We just know the basics."
"We're completely unaffected by spells." Lucy turned off the water, drying her hands.
"We can interact with magic without undoing it," Edmund added, drying the last of the plates. He frowned, hanging the dishtowel on a hook by the sink. "Unless we think about it, if that makes any sense. If we try to undo it, it happens." He nodded at the plates.
"And we can see things that most Muggles can't," Peter finished. "Hogwarts, for one." She knew he wouldn't mention other, darker things that they could see – things that not even all wizards could see. Things like Dementors. And Thestrals.
"Hogwarts." There was a strange tone in Susan's voice. As if she's reaching for a memory, but it's slipping from her. "The school the Weasley children go to?"
"Yes," Lucy nodded, slipping back into a chair. Why can't you remember, Susan? Though she supposed that wasn't fair. Lucy had loved visiting Hogwarts, meeting new people and exploring the castle. For her sister, the memories were much darker.
"Hmm." Dark hair shook, tossing away an unwanted thought. Blue eyes focused in, sparking with intellectual interest, as Peter put away the last of the dishes and slid onto the bench next to Edmund. "How do you -"
A chime cut through her comment.
Lucy blinked. It's coming from –
Peter pulled a cellular phone from his pocket, and his face tightened. He clambered over the bench, heading for the hall and better reception. "Sorry. I'll be right back."
"Who is it?"
Peter paused, hand on the door. "My boss."
The door swung shut, and Lucy traded a puzzled glance with Edmund. It didn't help that he was just as concerned as she.
Susan frowned. "Who does Peter work for? I don't think he's ever mentioned it to me."
"He's a criminal profiler." Edmund rubbed one finger along the edge of the table. The wood was dark and shiny with oils from many hands – like all the wood in this kitchen. It was old, but solidly built; slate slabs made up the floor and the wood was all oak. "He works for the government, actually, but he doesn't really talk about it. He signed a nondisclosure statement when he was hired."
And that pretty well explains that.
But Susan's blue eyes were thoughtful. Filled with a cold logic. "Was that wise?"
Lucy wiped the frown off her face; saw Edmund struggle to do the same. She'll understand once we explain. She wasn't here. Have patience. "Actually –"
The door opened, cutting her off.
Peter looks tired. Lucy frowned at the expression on the eldest Pevensie's face. "Is everything alright?"
He leant in the doorjamb, arms folded. "I have to catch an early train back into London tomorrow. They need me to work on a new project."
"That's not all, is it?" Edmund, but his face was dark. Lucy stared. What are you talking about?
Peter sighed. "Ed -"
"You've been worried ever since you came home," the younger man cut him off. Blunt words. But that's Edmund. "And on Sunday you got a phone call from someone, right before we sparred. Even when we were just kids, you've never been that distracted in a fight, Peter."
Lucy saw the look in his eyes, and dread lodged in her throat. He's certain something's not right. She was on the edge of her seat. "Peter?"
Susan was watching them all, her face blank.
"Yes. Well." He blew out a breath, left hand dropping to rest on the hilt of a sword that was no longer there. "I've been trying to figure out what to do."
"About?" Edmund, gentle where he had been so direct only a minute ago. Probing for answers.
Lucy shifted back, fingers interlacing on the tabletop. I wish I had a cup of tea. "Is everything alright?" She frowned. Why is he staying there? It wasn't like Peter to be so standoffish. But he showed no inclination to move closer, as he usually would.
"I'm not sure," he said slowly. "When I came back for an extended leave, I went through the usual debrief. It's standard procedure, before being put back to work on a provisional basis." Shoulders rose and fell, and Lucy shivered. This is the Peter that the Narnian court sees, she realized. The Peter who was confident, and in control. Not the man, who had faults, fears, and doubts. Why, Peter? We're your family.
"I was a little suspicious when I was sent in for a second debriefing, but I put it down to having missed something important. We were gone for eleven months; it was possible that I'd been absent for a key event that had changed protocol, and no one remembered to tell me about it." He took a deep breath. Picked his words carefully. "Only when the – interviewer – came in, she was a witch."
Lucy stifled a gasp. Saw Edmund tense.
Susan's face was very still. "Someone from the Magical government?"
A slow nod. Lucy didn't understand what she was seeing in blue eyes – a swirl of confusion and uncertainty and pain. Peter's afraid. And that in turn made her afraid.
"Dumbledore apparently mentioned me, at the very least, in a letter to the Ministry," Peter continued softly. "The witch was very interested in where I was this summer – but stated flat out that she thought I was at Hogwarts. I denied everything, and the paper trail corroborates my story. But there's a chance that she'll try asking again."
"And?"
Lucy started. There's more? But Edmund's face was not that of her brother, but of a King of Narnia as well. And he's right.
"And the witch's name is Aileen Macready. I did some checking." Peter held up a hand to forestall questions. "She's the granddaughter of Finola Macready, who was employed as a housekeeper for Professor Digory Kirke, from 1932 until 1955, when she went to live with her son's family due to poor health."
"What've you done?"
Lucy started, head jerking toward Susan. Edmund too turned and stared. "Susan?"
Her older sister ignored her to glare at Peter in disgusted dismay. "Why on earth would you even go to work for the government? You know they do background checks! We have so much to lose – that was foolish, Peter!"
"Susan!" Lucy cried.
Her voice was rising, and there was a flush in her cheeks. "And now this! Not only might the government find out about us, but these magical people are looking into us too! Do you have any idea what could –"
"Susan," Edmund tried.
But she would not be quieted. "Not only are we freaks by regular standards, but we're abnormal even to the magical people! I'm a scientist – do you know what happens to test subjects in labs?! Did you even think, Peter?!"
He spoke quietly. "That's enough."
"No," she snapped back. Lucy couldn't believe it. Edmund's eyes were narrowing. And she hadn't seen Peter so pale since the river; they'd been trapped by cracking ice and growling wolves, and he'd been torn, pulled by competing needs of everyone around him, the knowledge that they could all die, that he had to do something –
"That's not good enough, Peter," Susan's hands were clenched white on the arms of her chair. "I need to know what's going to happen."
You didn't care two months ago! Lucy felt like shouting. Edmund opened his mouth, and she grabbed at his sleeve, shaking her head.
"Nothing is going to happen," Peter told them quietly. "At least not to you, or Lucy or Edmund."
"What?" Peter? Lucy felt Edmund's hand, warm and comforting, over her own.
"I'm down as having no family in the government records," Peter said distantly. Wounded blue eyes wouldn't meet hers; he stared out a far window. "My official background lists me as an only child, parents deceased, only living relations in America."
"I guess that's something then," Susan murmured, bone-white pressure easing its grip on darkened wood.
Lucy saw Peter flinch back; a barely-there motion that Susan completely missed. But Edmund didn't, and dark eyes narrowed. He continued without pausing. "There's no connection between me and the Mansion. I keep my copy of the deed and the Professor's will here, so there's nothing that can be traced back to you."
"You're sure?"
Susan! Lucy almost snapped at her sister; this time, it was Edmund who held her back. I do not believe this.
"Yes."
Dark hair nodded once. When she spoke, her voice was markedly calmer. "What are you going to do?" But Lucy was furious. I can't believe she didn't even let us explain –
"I'll handle it," Peter said tightly.
Susan snorted, softly. "I've heard that from you before."
Peter used to argue back. When did that stop? When she left us, Lucy realized. When she let herself be driven away because we didn't want to give up Narnia. But we didn't want to give her up either! And now – none of them wanted to drive her away again.
But when she was causing so much hurt, so thoughtlessly . . . Where did Queen Susan the Gentle go? Lucy wanted to cry. How do I get my sister back?
Peter nodded, curtly. "There are some things I need to do. Good night."
And once again, there were three where there should have been four. Only a different three. Lucy was stunned by the hasty violence of it all; the emotions still ripped wildly through the room. Or maybe it's just for me and Edmund.
With four, it was impossible not to take sides in a fight.
Susan sighed, then. "I'm sorry."
Edmund squeezed Lucy's hand, and stood. "I'm going to find Peter," he whispered in her ear. And louder, "We're not the ones you should be apologizing to."
--3 August 1994--
Instinct was screaming at him. And there's nothing I can do about it. He hissed out a breath. "Are we there yet?"
Remus looked over at him, amused.
Harry grinned from between the two Marauders. "It's nice that they're not all staring at me for once."
Sirius snorted, glancing around Diagon Alley. Where his eyes went, conversation abruptly cut off, and the witches and wizards strove to look as though they were just going about their business. At his back, however, the whispers had a life of their own. "This is ridiculous."
"Yes, well, the papers have had quite a lot to say about the trial." Remus, damn him, wasn't bothering to hide his grin at the discomfiture of his fellow Marauder. "It's probably the ten thousand galleons they put up as a price on your head, Sirius. They're curious if they can still collect."
He almost snarled. "Moony, as soon as I get a wand -"
"There's Ollivander's!" Harry interrupted.
They'd come to almost the end of the Diagon Alley, collecting Harry's school supplies along the way. "You're sure you have everything?"
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was a smile he couldn't hide. "For the sixth time, Sirius, yes!"
"It's a good thing you were rushing us through the stores," Remus added.
Sirius glared, and waited.
The other Marauder held up placating hands, a genuinely innocent expression on his face. "No, really. I saw Lucius Malfoy go into Flourish and Blotts just as we left."
He stiffened, and relaxed, blowing out a breath. And you're not an Auror anymore, even though it feels like you never left. Hexing an 'involuntary' Death Eater isn't the greatest way to get the papers to stop talking about you. Talking to himself was an old habit. At least, as old as Azkaban. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."
Harry made a face. "I met him, once. Draco's a lot like him."
Ollivander's was only two doors down. He could see the sign – 'Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.' Sirius shrugged; he'd never seen the Malfoy heir. A glance at Remus, however, made him raise an interested eyebrow. "Moony?"
"I don't know if I would say that," Remus said slowly. Green eyes were peering interestedly up at them, and Remus shook his head. "Edmund's been speaking with him," he explained.
"Oh," Harry frowned. He shifted his packages, and Sirius relieved him of another one so that the pile was more lightly balanced in his godson's favor. A quick grin thanked him. "Why?"
Remus shook his head. "I haven't asked."
"And here we are," Sirius breathed, pushing through the door in relief. A bell clanged gently, alerting the shopkeeper. "Thank Merlin."
Harry snickered.
Sirius reached out to tousle messy black hair. "If I have to go much longer without a wand, I'll -"
"Hex yourself, yes, we know," Remus laughed.
Sirius settled the parcels on the side, and Harry perched against the wide windowsill next to them. He turned, and came face-to-face with Ollivander. Sirius blinked.
The man looked surprisingly unchanged from the last time Sirius had seen him; admittedly, that was over twenty years ago. Wild white hair bushed above a wrinkled, whiskery face. "Sirius Black. Ebony and phoenix feather, was it? Eleven inches, and quite elastic, as I remember."
"It was." First wand. It had fit his soul, in the same way the Marauders had fit. Perfect and terrifying and comforting, wound into eleven inches of wood and magic. Bound up in four souls. But I've changed.
Ollivander raised a brow. "Powerful wand, that one. Perfect for the Dark Arts – or defending against them."
Sirius checked his anger, though to those who could read him, Moony's sudden rage was evident in the calmness of his face, and an irritated twitch of one thumb. Harry scowled, green eyes sparking.
"That was a long time ago," Sirius deadpanned. The patience Azkaban had forced into him was being put to good use. Though the temptation to change forms and take a chunk out of something had his hackles up, he simply raised one brow. "I need another wand."
"Of course, of course." And Ollivander was off in a whirl of musty robes, raising a dust cloud that had Harry sneezing.
Sirius eyed the measuring tape snaking about him, listening as the old man rummaged about the back shelves packed full of boxes of wands. There were as many different wands here as anyone could ask for – a blessing, he supposed, and hoped that he'd be able to get out of here in the same reasonable amount of time his first trip had taken. Though Harry wasn't as lucky – Sirius winced. What with Lily and James being as straightforward as they were, it was more than likely that Harry's difficulty finding the wand had driven the old wand-maker to distraction. That's Voldemort's doing.
"Here we are."
Sirius eyed the many boxes in Ollivanders' arms with distaste. Surely, he doesn't think it will take that many! The tape measure had long since ceased its rapid whirrings, though what information it had given the store's proprietor, Sirius couldn't tell.
I've changed – Azkaban had seen to that – but have I changed that much?
Apparently so. The first attempt, a wand nearly identical to his first, sparked and flared only weakly. And perhaps it was a sign of the change in him that he didn't mourn it as he thought he would. "Not quite."
And then it began.
Holly and phoenix feather caused a short fire; one that was over-extinguished by ash and unicorn hair.
"Perhaps -" Ollivander held out a mahogany wand.
It twitched in his fingers, and he nearly dropped it. Did so, after it shot out a bolt of power that exploded a pot, sending dirt and the plant within it scattering to ancient wood boards.
"Definitely not. Here."
It felt wrong in his hands; Sirius fit it into the velvet box without even trying, shaking his head.
"What about -"
Anything made with apple wood proved disastrous; too easily molded, the spells shot wildly from his control. Similarly, unicorn hair overcompensated every attempt; and Sirius was left in a rare bout of humor as Remus' brows climbed higher on his head, and Harry took to chorusing, "No!" on every try.
A particularly whippy wand, of cedar and dragon heartstring, whose abnormal length of fifteen inches had Remus snickering and Sirius praying, Dear Merlin, no! ended up hitting Harry's foot with an engorgement charm. Remus was able to correct the situation with a quick counter-spell, but his godson was much warier after that.
"Well, there's some progress at least," Ollivander murmured.
But other wands meant for such niceties as Charms failed spectacularly, which apparently was the source of Ollivander's dismay. While suited for the Dark Arts, his old wand had also been excellent in Transfiguration.
A half an hour's more worth of attempts had them narrowing down the pattern; dragon heartstring. It seemed to be that the wood was the problematic aspect of it.
"Oak -"
"No."
"Yew?"
That one nearly self-destructed as it touched his fingers. "No!"
"Elm -"
"No."
"Hazel."
Sirius shook his head. "No!" Harry chirped, taking over for him.
"Birch."
"Nope." His godson was grinning fiendishly. Remus had taken to re-packing and stacking the discarded pile of wands. It was nearing Ollivander's height, and the hunched wizard was eying it with the air of a man regarding a stiff challenge.
"Willow."
"Nah."
"Rowan -"
"No!" Harry sang out, automatic by now.
Sirius frowned, turning the wand over in his hand. Held it a moment; a breeze, strange indoors, ruffled his hair.
"Sirius?" Remus' blue eyes met his, and he pushed the frown away.
"Almost," he said quietly.
At that, Ollivander's strange, intent eyes narrowed. Harry, still not quite immune from the curiosity of Ollivander's shop, arguably the most important in Diagon Alley, twisted to watch as the owner disappeared through a back door without warning.
Sirius sighed, and placed the last wand back. Remus took it from him, settling it on the pile. "Impressive, Padfoot," he commented. His friend glanced a moment at his own wand, then back at the other. "Was your first trip anything like this?"
Sirius shook black strands out of his face. "Maybe fifteen minutes," he admitted. The sun was beginning to lower; Diagon Alley was emptying. "This is unbelievable."
"Didn't even take me this long," Harry added.
"Particularly challenging," Ollivander announced, the back door slamming ungraciously behind him. He held out a box, and Sirius opened it.
The wand lying inside was a strange silver-white, almost glowing against the dark velvet nestled around it. Completely unlike the various hues of brown and tan comprising every other wand he'd seen.
"Aspen," Ollivander said quietly.
Remus stared. "Surely, that can't be -"
Sirius gripped smooth wood, and something clicked in his soul. A jet of sparks shot from the tip, and he realized that he was smiling.
"Aspen, and heartstring from a Hebridean Black," Ollivander nodded triumphantly. "Unusual combination." And strange eyes focused on Sirius. "Very rare, I should think. But none better for defense."
There was a chill in the room; Sirius shuddered.
"You asked to see me, Father?" Not good. Very not good. Especially with the sun up, though it shone only gently on this side of the house. He was supposed to be practicing for Quidditch, now that he'd gotten all his work done. In a safer place, Draco would have sneered at that. It was done for weeks. I just needed to do a little extra research. And he couldn't excuse keeping the books for that.
They can't even know.
"Yes, I did."
Which was why he was standing on a luxurious carpet before his father's massive desk, waiting. This is not good. Discovery – and it didn't matter what they caught him at – any of it was worth a severe beating. Besides, that list is getting longer and longer . . .
His hidden, mental list of things he was doing, or had done, that would demand reprisals.
But he wasn't going to think of that – not now when he had to stare into his father's eyes and do his best to manipulate the truth. He might know of Occlumency, but that didn't mean he had any skill at repelling Legilimency. And his father was the highest ranking Death Eater still free, with the possible exception of Severus Snape. So of course he knew how to peer into unwilling thoughts. The question is how well.
But his father didn't seem interested in an interrogation. So it was quite possible that Draco was here for something else entirely –
And the silence had gone on for a very long time. I won't move, I won't. Father liked being in power. Liked making others nervous . . . . The carpet underfoot was soft, deeply green, and very thick. Draco shifted his weight.
"I wanted to speak with you about what you are doing to maintain the Malfoy name at Hogwarts," his father said abruptly.
Draco started, taken completely off guard. "Hogwarts?"
"On the Quidditch pitch," Lucius confirmed. He still hadn't looked at Draco; his attention instead on the various papers neatly categorized across shining mahogany.
"We're the best team at Hogwarts," Draco instantly defended his team. Even though that's a lie. Flint wouldn't know strategy if it – he cut off the obscene thought. "We've never lost a match to Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff -"
"But never won against Gryffindor," his father interrupted calmly. A quill made of eagle-feather was gently set aside. Light blue eyes found him, with all the force of a basilisk's stare.
"Gryffindor's got passable Beaters, even if they are Weasleys. And their Keeper knows his way about a broom," he grudgingly admitted. "But Slytherin's a better team -"
"One wouldn't know it, judging by how many times you've won the Quidditch Cup."
None.
"Dumbledore favors them." He tried to emulate the bratty superiority he'd had a year ago; the certainty in his name and his place and his heritage that made him better than the rest of the world. And he braced himself; the waiting was the worst part.
Lucius was the picture of refined elegance, reclining in his chair with blond hair spilling over his shoulders. Dangerous, Draco shivered. Others might mistake that chill calm for true ease. But it was only a mask of ice, hiding from view the torrents raging beneath. "No," he said softly.
Draco tried not to flinch. Father hates weakness. Another voice warned, cautioning – And he loves fear.
"It's their Seeker. Harry Potter."
And this was where it became Draco's problem. He fixed his eyes on the silver paperweight on his father's desk; a rearing cobra, hood and fangs bared for the strike. "He's been beaten -"
"You are Slytherin's Seeker. If you must continually lose to him, you will no longer play."
Two pairs of eyes met and locked. Forgetting himself in a rush of sickly shock, Draco sputtered, "What? But -"
"But you continue to shame your heritage, every time a half-blood sends you sulking off the pitch," Lucius snarled. The suddenness of the explosion spurted adrenaline and fear through him, snapping his mouth shut. One quick breath, and Father sat back, controlled once more.
His fists shook, out of sight. "If I had more time to practice -"
Father cut the attempt at a protest off at the knees. "No. This year is a probationary trial, for you. If Slytherin cannot beat Gryffindor and win the Quidditch Cup, you will resign your position at the end of the year."
"But -"
He stopped, recognizing the dangerous light in blue eyes.
"Do not question me, boy."
"No, sir."
And for many, many tense moments he stood there, sweat gathering on his face and under his arms, even though Lucius had turned his eyes to his desk. He's still watching, the voice warned him. I know. Waiting for Draco to crack, to ask to be dismissed. It was an old, old game. Not one he'd had to play for awhile, which probably explained it.
Blue eyes looked up, and caught on him as if surprised. "You're still here?" Blue narrowed. "Go."
A stiff bow, and he was as free as he ever was. Draco had barely gotten out before he felt the wards slam up behind him, blocking the study from sight and sound. At least, to anyone else.
But for now, he didn't have time to find out what his father was up to.
Draco found shaky safety in the bathroom connected to his room. The fourth level of Malfoy Manor had held the nursery and the children's bedrooms; he still went to Nothos' at times, needing reassurance that would never come. Their parents rarely ascended this high; the master bedroom was in the opposite wing of the house, but that didn't mean anything. What with house-elves and magic, why should they climb up here when they can find out everything I'm doing without bothering?
Almost everything.
Everything they want to see, at any rate. Everything I want them to see.
But he didn't fool himself. He would be discovered – the only question was when. And I'm going to do my damndest to make sure that's not for a very, very long time.
Because not only was what he was most recently up to highly illegal and dangerous, but it was also something Lucius would use to his advantage if he could.
Draco's lip rose from his teeth in an unconscious snarl. I'll die first. It's not for him!
It was for Nothos.
And because of him.
Draco rinsed out his mouth in the sink, sucking greedily from the faucet. Washed cold fear-sweat from too-pale features, and let stray droplets draw white-blond hair into soft, golden spikes.
I miss him.
It was an idea his brother had hatched when Draco was younger; right before Nothos was killed, in fact. I don't know where he heard about it. And for all that Nothos had been younger than he was now when coming up with the idea, it was still flawless, as far as Draco could tell. But then, he'd been researching it for the last six years, ever since the funeral.
Draco sat at his own desk, pulling a last textbook closer. He wanted us to become Animagi together. And together, we'd run off, never be caught – do whatever we wanted.
A bit fanciful, maybe, but in one thing there was no doubt – he would have freedom. Not a lot, and not all the time, but more than he'd had since his brother was killed.
He checked the reference one more time, and eased the cover shut in satisfaction. He might not be able to get all the proper ingredients for the potion, and he needed to practice the basics for the accompanying spell, which was highly advanced Transfiguration. And he couldn't do either at the Manor. But I can at Hogwarts.
It was a month away, but . . .
I can wait. I have to.