Chapter 4
Another rare note from me: firstly, I'd like to apologise for leaving a beta note in the last chapter. I'm sorting that out as we speak. Secondly, I'd just like to pre-empt you for a feature of this chapter. Mrs Weasley does not come out of it very well, and I'd just like to point out that this is ONLY because she is full of grief. I do actually really like her as a character, and I believe that one of the most important parts of her personality is her deep love for her children, so I think it natural that she behaves in the way she does in this chapter. But I assure you, this will not be a regular feature of the story. Thanks a lot, and enjoy the chapter.
As my eyes follow Fleur storming deliciously upstairs to her room (yes, I know it's inappropriate to be admiring her body when she's so angry at me) it does occur to me that I should probably go to bed and get some rest. After all, the next few weeks are going to be maybe the busiest (and most tedious!) of my life. There will be funerals, interviews, photo shoots, walkabouts, repairing Hogwarts and maybe most importantly, thinking about what I want to do next. After all, with a bank vault full of gold and a whole life ahead of me, I need to be a man with a plan.
But I don't sleep, nor do I rest; I'm absolutely teeming with an enthusiasm to discover new magic and become a more powerful wizard. I've developed an absolutely insatiable lust for knowledge. It's like a spark is fizzing through my bloodstream that keeps my eyes firmly open and my brain firmly functioning. There are no prizes for guessing why I've suddenly become Hermione's twin brother: clearly this is a characteristic of the phoenix. I mean, look at Dumbledore: even in the last of his one hundred and fifteen years he was trying to better himself magically, and succeeding.
So instead of tucking myself up into the warmth of my bed, I illuminate my room and start to rummage through the piles of books that Kreacher has brought me from Hogwarts. There's one I'm looking for specifically: A Definitive Guide to the Animagus. I want to follow in the footsteps of my dad and his friends, bounding free and unrestricted through the world in animal form, never being recognised by a nosy reporter or an annoying fan. And if my animagus form is the same as my new patronus form... well, the possibilities will be literally endless.
The book is old but looks relatively unused. Most witches and wizards do not even seek to become animagi because they know of the extreme difficulty and danger involved with the process, so I guess the book has hardly been a massive hit. The cover is a tattered dark brown with faded gold lettering spelling out its title, and is held closed by a thin red ribbon. I take extreme care in opening it up; this book is an artifact, the only one of its kind in the Hogwarts library, and probably one of few left in the country outside the Ministry's control. The first page merely restates the title and I am about to flick past it when I notice some familiar graffiti in the bottom right corner:
Prongs, Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail. 1972-'75.
Each name is written in its owner's distinctive handwriting: my dad's is large and bold, Sirius' is scruffy and barely legible, Professor Lupin's is inoffensive and shy, Pettigrew's is small and slanted. To think that their own hands, as only second years, wrote the lettering before my eyes makes me smile. Clearly I'm not the first person to turn to this book seeking to become an illegal animagus.
So, I spend the rest of the night reading. The book isn't long and has very little content about the the actual process of becoming an animagus. After all, the Ministry doesn't allow this most difficult of processes to be common knowledge or else illegal animagi would be springing up everywhere. But if my dad and his friends (even Pettigrew!) managed to start this procedure, using just this book for guidance, in only their second year, I guess I have a shot too.
The night brings few results, but I do manage to finish the book and spend some time trying to make some progress on the transformation. When a dainty knock comes on my door, I am pleasantly surprised. Is it really morning already?
Fleur enters. She must be fresh from the shower because her hair is wet and stringy, yet somehow she still emanates a sexiness that makes me want to drop down on my knees and worship her.
Stop thinking about Fleur Delacour having a shower, Harry!
She looks distinctly unhappy; her eyes are fluttering open and closed in sheer exhaustion while her pretty lips are turned down in a tiny frown. Under her eyes are the first blemishes, however slight, to her skin that I have ever seen: dark bags of tiredness. From this I can deduce two things: firstly, she's still in a bad mood (my fault) and secondly, she didn't have the best night's sleep ever (also my fault).
I guess she makes the same evaluation about me, as she asks: "You haven't slept, have you?"
Her vibrant, wide-set eyes glance anywhere in the room but in my direction, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge me. Fleur's a strong woman with deep convictions, which often surprises people. On the surface she seems to be a typical, shallow glamour girl, like those women who carry a small mirror in every available pocket of their massive fur jackets to ensure that they're always looking perfect. Fleur, though, has an unbreakable self-assurance that is, now, just short of arrogance. She'd look mouth-watering wearing a bag of potatoes, and she knows it. And she holds strong beliefs about how human beings should treat each other, which include honesty and companionship as important values. That's probably why she's so knacked off that I'm hiding stuff from her.
"No." I won't disrespect her further by lying again.
She makes no complaint, presumably too tired. "I've brought you the post."
Throwing a pile of newspapers and letters down at my feet, she saunters towards the open window. Once again I am struck by the manner in which she walks. Her feet touch the ground, or at least they appear to, yet they make absolutely no sound, as though she is floating on a cloud. I've never seen anything like it, truly. Daintily, she examines the flowers still sitting on the windowsill, admiring her handiwork. I can't blame her for that: the complex anti-ageing charm that she's clearly put on them has kept them looking colourful and soft. Believe me, that's not an easy spell.
Eventually, her pointed silence breaks me and I give her what she wants. Fleur has an amazing ability to make even the most steadfast and stubborn people (I include myself in this category) tell her whatever she wants. A flutter of her long, dark eyelashes and a sad smile stretching right to those colourful eyes, and suddenly you can't help but feel overwhelmingly guilty. I'm a pretty good liar, but even I struggle to do it to Fleur.
Against my better judgement, I blurt out: "I'm trying to become an animagus. That's what I've been doing all night, and that's what I wouldn't tell you last night."
Look at the ease with which I handled the press the other day. Lie after lie after lie. But a single sad look from an attractive witch had coaxed it out of me in a matter of seconds! That was supposed to be my secret and I'd vowed not to tell anyone, even Ron and Hermione. After all, it seems to make sense that if I'm doing something illegal, it shouldn't really be common knowledge.
She turns round to face me at last, letting go of the regal red petal that she had been gently clasping between her thumb and forefinger "Why wouldn't you tell me zhat last night?"
I reply, "The way I'm doing it isn't exactly... legal." Well, that's half the truth.
Before she can make any more enquiries (to which I could be forced to reveal my biggest secret of all) I pick up the pile of post that she's dumped at my feet. There's rather a lot of it.
I actually come across quite well in all the plethora of newspaper articles about me. I'm sure that the Prophet reporter who I verbally abused was tempted to write a pretty nasty piece but, of course, in doing so he would have destroyed his career. Right now, my courage is all anyone seems to want to talk about, so what sane reporter is going to come out and say anything to the contrary?
It's all pretty flattering. A lot of people have gone to great pains to create new monikers for me: The Prophet describes me as 'Harry the Humble', while Teen Witch Weekly dubs me 'Heartthrob Harry'. Not bad, eh ?
"You need to get ready, 'Arry. Fred's funeral is starting in a few hours." Fleur rouses me from my self-indulgence.
I furrow my eyebrows. "Fred's funeral? Nobody told me about that."
"It 'as been organised very quickly. I think zhat zhey just want to move on." Fleur explains. "So can I tell Bill zhat you will be coming?"
I nod. "Yeah, of course. Least I can do."
Continuing to flick to through the newspapers, I scream louder than Ron does when he sees a pebble-sized spider as Rita Skeeter's latest abomination comes into view. She has surpassed herself this time.
EXCLUSIVE: HERO HARRY TO MARRY YOUNG WEASLEY
Sorry ladies, the youngest ever recipient of the Order of Merlin is already out of the public domain. In an exclusive interview with our brave hero's bride-to-be, I uncovered the details of what has up until now been only a rumour.
Young Harry's choice in love is the youngest member of the infamous Weasley family, currently living on a pig farm in Devon. Yes, that's right, readers: a pig farm. Interviewing a young witch named Pansy Parkinson, 17, who described herself as "familiar" with the Weasley family, I uncovered that Young Harry's soon to be in-laws were mostly seen as "odd, stupid and lacking in personal hygiene". Not my words, readers.
Describing to me young Harry's romantic proposal, which occurred the morning after his historic defeat of He-Who-Shall-Still-Not-Be-Named, Ginny Weasley also revealed that she and the teen prodigy are already in the process of planning their wedding.
I stop reading there, not knowing who to hate more: Skeeter or Ginny? Would Ginny really have told her any of this? She's a smart witch, after all, and she knows that journalists, especially this one, aren't to be trusted.
As for Skeeter, this is definitely her revenge against me for ignoring her raised hand in yesterday's press session. She does not dare to outwardly insult me, instead complimenting me with dripping sarcasm that few will recognise and putting me in an awkward position that will be difficult to escape from. I may despise every fibre of her body, but even I have to admit that this is a delicate move by her standards.
Fleur looks a little too amused, in my opinion, as I chuck her the article; clearly she views it as justice for how I've made her feel. Unfortunately, she hasn't quite forgiven me yet, which I guess is kind of understandable. But this, this is at least one thousand and one times worse than however unhappy I could possibly have made her feel last night. She's still laughing as she goes downstairs to confirm to Bill that I'll be attending the funeral.
As well as the newspapers, I've also been sent plenty of letters. Mostly fan mail, one invitation to a christening (Merlin knows why!) but one piece of writing from an unrecognised hand that just emanates importance. My heart sinks as I read it.
Dear Harry,
Though I am sure that you have heard this a lot, I would like to both congratulate and thank you for defeating Voldemort. He has taken so much from me: my husband, my daughter and my son-in-law. I think that you of all people will understand my loss.
I am writing to inform you that we will be holding the last farewells to Nymphadora, Remus and my husband today at noon at our local church. I know that all three of them would like nothing better than for you to be present.
If you do come, please meet me at my house (you should remember it) at eleven thirty.
Please oblige me, Harry.
Yours faithfully,
Andromeda Tonks.
Noon. That's in a few hours. That's the same time as Fred's funeral. Conclusion: I'm in deep shit.
There's no doubt in my mind that Remus and Tonks' funeral will, tragically, have to take priority over Fred's. Fred was a good mate and I loved him a lot, but Remus and Tonks were friends, mentors and, oh, the parents of my godchild. Unfortunately, I'm not sure the Weasleys will see my logic as quite so comprehensive...
"Fleur!" I roar downstairs. The only way that my situation could be any worse would be if I had already confirmed that I would be attending. Which is exactly what Fleur has gone to tell Bill.
There's no reply. Either my shout wasn't loud enough (doubtful, considering I'm pretty sure I shook the foundations of the cottage) or they've already left (considerably more likely). Muttering obscenities under my breath, I practically sprint from my bedroom to the bathroom.
I thought that now Voldemort's gone my life's supposed to be less stressful, not more!
After a quick shower, I still don't really know what to do but one thing, at least, has taken a turn for the better: now Kreacher's moved all of my clothes here, at least I won't have to wear the centaur t-shirt any more. Swiftly replacing it with a relatively smart button down shirt and formal trousers, I wonder what Molly will do to me when I tell her I'm not going to the funeral...
"Kreacher!" I call. Maybe I should just get Kreacher to tell her for me..? No, the poor elf would be scarred forever.
He appears immediately, bowing his head respectfully. "What does Master need of Kreacher?"
"Two things: firstly, I'd like you to find Andromeda Tonks and tell her that I will be along presently. Then, you need to go Molly Weasley and ask if you can lend a hand preparing for the funeral. Got it?"
Hopefully his helping will put me in the good books of the Weasley matriarch.
"Of course, Master. Very good." Kreacher disappears with a crack, leaving a distinguishable odour where he was standing. I make a mental note to order Kreacher to have a good wash and a change of clothes. If he's going to be my house elf, he's going to have to get rid of that smell.
Hey, maybe I could use it to ward off Ginny? Not a bad idea, actually. Definitely has some merit.
Checking that my wand is, as ever, in my pocket, I stomp down the stairs and into the kitchen, picking up an apple as I pass the table. Never go into war on an empty stomach, I've always been told. Until now, I've never understood them. I mean, when I was fighting Voldemort I was more concerned that he was trying to brutally murder me than the fact that I felt slightly peckish. But an angry Molly Weasley is another story entirely; I'm going to need all the help I can get.
Maybe I should bring Kingsley? He'll make sure nothing happens to me. Or would that look a bit weird?
It's not even ten o'clock yet, so I figure that I have enough time to walk the seafront before leaving. The wind is the laziest its ever been here, a breeze so light that it barely lifts my wispy fringe from my forehead. Even the waves are lethargic this morning, barely even reaching my ankles as they slap against the beach. It's tranquil and serene; certainly the calm before the storm.
It pains me somewhat to know that in a few months I'll be gone, never to return to this sandy shore that seems so separate to the chaos of the rest of the world. But that's a story for another day; for now, I'm not divulging my plans for the future with anyone.
My bubble is rudely burst by the unwelcome arrival of my elderly house elf.
"Master Harry, the Weasley woman requests your presence." He croaks, bowing his head as per.
Sighing, I resign myself to my fate. "Okay, Kreacher. Let's go."
The small, ugly elf grabs my arm and clicks his fingers; moments later we are outside the Burrow door.
The Weasley household looks almost unrecognisable on this sad day. No red-haired boys playing quidditch in the back yard, no scent of Molly's cooking wafting through the open windows, and most strange of all there is no noise. For as long as I've know it the Burrow has always been over-brimming with racket: Arthur tinkling with tools in his shed, Molly shouting at Fred and George for some stupid prank, Percy screaming at everyone to shut up so he can study, Ginny arguing with Ron and the pet ghoul banging on the pipes so loudly that a pair of earmuffs offered little relief. But today, nothing.
I kneel down to my elf. "Watch my back, Kreacher. This could get messy."
"Is Master Harry in danger?" The Black family servant asks suspiciously.
I laugh and reply, "Put it this way. If I had the choice between this and facing Lord Voldemort with only a rusty spoon, I'd choose the latter."
He nods slowly, perhaps taking my words slightly more seriously than intended. But hey, at least he's on the alert now.
Gently, I push open the door. Here goes!
"Harry!" I am immediately met by the crushing hug of the nicest person I've ever known. And I mean that quite honestly. The number of times this gentle woman has let me into her home, cooked me up a nice meal and given me everything I need to be comfortable at a moment's notice... I owe her a lot. But, if you disrespect or endanger one of her children, my advice is this: run as far as you can and never return. She has maternal instincts as strong as a gorilla's and as fierce as a grizzly bear's. Don't forget, this is the woman who killed Bellatrix Lestrange.
"We've reserved you a spot on the front row of the ceremony, right next to Ginny. Shall I call her down? I expect you'll want to see her."
Nope. Not really.
"Yeah, that'd be great." I lie through my teeth. "I'll get Kreacher on it."
I turn to the elf and mouth a secret message: TAKE YOUR TIME! He appears to understand, nodding as he disappears with a loud crack.
Molly continues to beam at me. Why does she have to be so nice? This would be much easier if she was horrible: at least that way I'd feel less bad.
I'm thinking of a way to break the news to her when she decides to start a new conversation.
She says, "I read the papers this morning."
A cold fist clenches my heart as I realise what article she is referring to.
Please, no. Anything but this.
I laugh uneasily. "I think the article maybe slightly exaggerated things..?"
She winks at me knowingly. Apparently she thinks I'm just being polite.
"Don't worry, Harry." She grins. "We're all behind you on this one. It seems right that you become an official member of the family."
I thank her awkwardly, unwilling to argue with her about Ginny for the moment. No, that's just another thing that I've got to look forward to in the future when I finally find the courage to tell Ginny that I'd rather engage in a passionate relationship with Hagrid's pet dog Fang than with her.
"Look, Molly. There's something that I've got to tell you. Fred's funeral... I can't come." I stutter, looking straight down to the floor.
She looks confused for a second before laughing. Okay, not what I'd been expecting.
"Oh, Harry. You can't still think that it's not your place to be with the family after all these years? We all want you there."
I close my eyes and stutter, "No, well, yes. But... I'm not sure how to put this."
"How to put what?" Molly's sensing something's up now, and she's locked onto it like a heat-seeking curse.
"There's been a massive cock up with funeral scheduling." I explain, putting on a brave face.
For what I am about to receive...
"Lupin and Tonks' funeral has been scheduled at the same time as Fred's and-"
She cuts me off, her eyes narrowing into search and destroy mode. "And you decided that they're more important than my son? After all we have done for you?"
She starts the sentence with a hushed, calm almost mocking tone, daring me to continue. But by the last word, I'm getting blasted by the full power of the infamous Molly Weasley voice box. I'm not entirely sure how to reply because to be honest, I can see why she's angry. Fred's her son, for goodness sake. Of course she'll be upset that I'm not going to pay him my respects, even if it's not blatantly not my fault.
"Look, Mrs Weasley." I try to explain. "I had to make a choice and it wasn't easy but-"
She cuts my attempt to justify myself short once again. "But what? Fred isn't worth your time but Remus and Tonks are? How many times did they take you into their homes over the holidays so that you could escape from your relatives?"
Yeah, fair point.
Merlin, this is a difficult argument. I mean, how do you debate with someone who switches from yelling to wailing in half a second? It's made even harder by the fact that Molly's cries have attracted just about the entire family to come and watch.
Give me Voldemort any day of the week.
I'm attracting a lot of glares, but they don't intervene: they know their mother too well to get in her way when she's in a mood like this.
In the corner of my eye I notice my two house mates watching from a doorway to my left. Bill has a positively murderous expression on his long, scarred face while the French witch is looking at me oddly, presumably wondering what I could possibly have done to anger and upset the lovely Mrs Weasley so much. I bite my lip guiltily. This is going even worse than I'd expected, and I'd expected blood, gore and maybe some casualties.
"I do owe Remus and Tonks a lot, actually." I say quietly, so that only Molly can hear me. This is between me and her; it's nobody else's business until I tell them myself, though half of them know anyway.
For once, she doesn't reply.
"They made me the godfather of their child, Mrs Weasley." I explain, still in that hushed, intimate tone. "And how can you repay someone who gives you something like that?"
There's a tear in her eye now and I know it's time to go. The expressions on the Weasleys' faces tell me that they think so too. Bill and Charlie look furious, Arthur doesn't look as though he's really concentrating, but at least Ron looks sympathetic. I've been unfair to him recently, trying to distance myself from him and Hermione. But I think, looking at him, that he understands the difficultly of my choice. He's a good friend; more than I deserve.
"Well, I'll be off then." I murmur awkwardly. "I'll do everything I can to make it here for the end, at least."
Quickly, I scan the room for George, intending to wish him my best, but he isn't here. The poor guy's probably still holed up in the room he used to share with his twin. Shit, this is probably going to be the hardest day he'll ever have to face in his life, which definitely doesn't serve to reassure me that I'm making the right choice.
With a respectful nod, I turn back to the exit with Kreacher at my side. The little elf, normally keen to chip in with a snide remark at any juncture, hasn't uttered a word throughout the conversation. To be fair, I don't think he's the only one to be lost for words at the complete emotional breakdown of one of the strongest women in the wizarding world.
As my hand grasps the doorknob, Mrs Weasley surprises everyone by making one last comment.
"You want to know why you owe Fred?" She snarls in a malicious tone that I hadn't thought her capable of. "If you hadn't brought You-Know-Who to Hogwarts in the first place, he'd still be with us. That's why."
I've never known Molly Weasley to try to lay blame on anyone's doorstep. Never. She is the kind of woman who immediately looks for and notices the good, however minuscule, in everyone she meets. She is the kind of woman who people seek for comfort and reassurance, both of which she is always happy to provide. She is the kind of woman who will forgive almost anyone unquestioningly.
I turn around slowly. "What did you say?"
A phoenix is a most retributive creature in both a kind and cruel way. Whether someone has done a good or a bad deed, a phoenix always seeks to ensure that they get what they deserve. I think that the phoenix in me knows that I do not deserve to be blamed for all those deaths which is why my response is so fiery and explosive. But the other part of me knows that even if it wasn't my fault, she's still right: if I'd worked faster, and gone to fight him quicker, then fewer people would have died.
"You have no idea what you're talking about. No idea. Do you really think I would endanger my school, my friends if it wasn't absolutely necessary? If you knew anything about what I had to go through to just to get to the point where I could destroy him..."
By the time I finish my rant, I'm standing nose to nose with her, my green eyes piercing hers like razor sharp blades.
"Harry, mate." Ron says from the staircase. "I think you should leave."
He's not saying it in a malevolent way; he just wants to protect his mother. As he glances at me reproachfully, I hang my head in shame. The woman's just lost her son! Of course she's not going to be thinking or speaking entirely clearly.
I cough, clearing my throat. "I'm sorry."
It's impossible to make eye contact with any of the Weasleys right now because if I do, there's a chance that I'll see blame there. And that's what I fear most of all, now. Not Voldemort, not dementors, but blame from those I love for the deaths of those I used to love.
I did warn you about Mrs Weasley, and I do promise that she won't continue in this same vein because I like her as a character too much. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.