1989
There was great hilarity in the dormitory of the oldest Gryffindor girls. All the seventh-years were under strict orders from the deputy headmistress to Pack Up Properly.
"We cannot," Professor McGonagall had said firmly, "spend the summer owling forgotten odds and ends on to you. As you will not be back next year, anything left behind now will be lost. Forever."
Hmm. One or two Slytherin Quidditch players who should be left behind, then.
But apart from bad inter-House jokes, it had seemed an onerous task, until Dora Tonks from sixth year had told them of the 'Pack!' charm her mother used. Never failing, all-encompassing, even folding your socks neatly – it sounded amazing. The Gryffindor girls had drawn lots – and Adelaide Fenwick had tried it.
The result had been – spectacular: a sudden hurricane of items whizzing as if by summoning charm from all over the castle, a particular torrent streaming through the window from the locker rooms of the quidditch pitch. Four startled girls were slowly emerging in various states of hysterics from the beds behind which they had taken cover.
"Never borrow a charm from anybody who can turn their hair bubble-gum-pink at will," Adelaide remarked, hopping back onto her bed to peer into the jumbled mess in her trunk. "It was bound to be scatty. Mother will kill me – yikes!" She dived forwards and seized a small, flat item.
"Ooooooo – what is it? What is it?"
There was a small scrum of grabbing hands plunged into the trunk, as Adelaide batted them off frantically. "It's mine – it's mine – it's private – get off, Moira! It's – mine!" She rolled over clutching the whatever-it-was: "No – no – it's mine! Get off – no – no – it's mine – Ooofff!"
The last remark was in response to a pillow brought down on her head.
Adelaide sat up, the item firmly under her. "It's private," she repeated with an excellent imitation of Professor McGonagall's sternest tone, "so you're not having it, Cecilia Derwent-Carter, even if your umpteenth great granny was a Hogwarts Headmistress."
Louise Duerr, commonly known as 'Mouse,' let out her usual apologetic giggle at having been swept up into anything remotely vigorous, and retreated shyly out of the door, but the other two girls continued their campaign.
"Could summon it!" Cecilia suggested, drawing her wand with a flourish.
The owner of 'it' rolled her eyes. "Summon what, exactly?"
Moira Lynch dropped to her knees besides the bed and pretended to peer under Adelaide. "It's small … it's flat …" she shaded her eyes and squinted "... it's – it's... a.. a photograph!"
"No comment!"
"Ooooo..." Moira sat back on her heels with a wicked grin. "A photograph she's sensitive about... A private photograph... that the rest of us mustn't see... it must be... must be... er- McGonagall? Professor Snape? Madam Hooch? Or..."
"Charlie Weasley!" Cecilia yelled, bringing the pillow down on Adelaide's head with a thwack.
" 'Op it!" A wand flashed, and Cecilia ducked as a Hopping Hex cracked off the wall above her.
"When you howl, you're hit!" she shouted, as Adelaide's wand hand rose again.
"Addie loves Charlie!" Moira joined in, and dived to the floor under another hex. "The Keeper and the Captain!"
"And the Very Silly Chaser!" Adelaide mocked back, seizing the pillow off Cecilia and hurling it.
"Hell hath no fury like a quidditch keeper – Ooof!" Cecilia took the pillow full-face, and came up spluttering. "Come on, Moira, she's got dangerously good aim!"
"Like Charlie!" Moira added, as they fled giggling from the dorm. A pillow transfigured into a chakking cock-pheasant flew after them.
"Humph!" Adelaide got off the bed and slammed the dormitory door with considerable force. Really – dorm mates! And this ridiculous gossip about Charlie Weasley – surely the Keeper and the Captain should be entitled to sit up talking tactics over the model Quidditch pitch until three in the morning without being slandered by the rest of their House! They had won the Slytherin match as a result of it – the Cup loss had just been that Slytherin had scored so many goals in their victories over Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw that Gryffindor would have had to lead by about a thousand points before catching the Snitch. But that was all. Moira and Cecilia were just being silly. They were never sensible about anything. But then – Adelaide looked down at the thing in her hand – they had fathers.
Moira had guessed right – a photograph. Benjy Fenwick's photograph.
Adelaide swallowed hard – just like Aunt Emmeline. Benjy Fenwick smiled and winked. She took the photo over to the window.
"Hello, Daddy." He still waved. He still smiled. He hadn't changed – he wasn't old or grey or any of things other people's fathers were. Always thirty-something, just like that last morning he'd gone to work and never come back.
"It's been a while, Daddy," Adelaide remarked gently. "I must have bored you stiff, jabbering. Well, it's me. Same House, same dorm. Still Gryffindor keeper. We did win the Cup, you know. The year Charlie Weasley was made Captain. Didn't manage it again... but I'm leaving my slot to Oliver Wood. He's good, Daddy. Jolly good Keeper, even for a third-year. He'll win it. I won something else, Daddy..." Adelaide grinned.
"Transfiguration. You must have figured I liked it – living in that book. Well... I came top in the year. The NEWT results aren't out yet. But Daddy, I got 100% – on the entire year's course work. And that means the Transfiguration medal that they haven't dished out for years. Professor M. almost smiled."
Adelaide straightened the dog-eared corners of the photo. "I've got a job, too, with that. They had a two year apprenticeship at Transfiguration Today, as Sub-editor. McGonagall gave me the reference as 'an exceptional talent,' and it was mine if I passed with over 90%. So I'm going to be a Sub-editor. That's not as daring as being an Auror – Moira's going to be an Auror rather than follow her brother into quidditch – but it means I can look after Mother. She won't have to be a scrimping and pinching school secretary any more. And she won't have to miss me in term time. We're going to rent a house somewhere in London. I will look after her, Daddy, you know... You do know that, somewhere, don't you, Daddy?"
She traced a pattern on the stone windowsill: A and F. "Uncle Frank and Aunt Alice don't even know who their Neville is, Daddy... You didn't know about that, did you? Or James and Lily, and their Boy Who Lived? That they were betrayed."
"He was like his cousin, Daddy, after all. The Noble and most Cursed House of Black... that's what Uncle Frank said, Daddy... before one of them caught him." Adelaide blinked a little. "You don't think about it, you see, Daddy. You have to say: 'It's over.' It's just – just that he coined that phrase with a laugh, sitting in our living room that day. Do you remember, Daddy? And – I know he's a traitor and he deserves to rot in Azkaban for ever for what he did, but – I wish he hadn't. 'Cause I thought he was nice, when I was five."
"What do you know, aged five?" Adelaide gave a little, sceptical shrug. "Nice? And Harry Potter's growing up with muggles, somewhere – no parents at all. I'm very lucky. Having Mother. And the Order. They've been very good to us – I don't mean odiously, charitably Very Good: they've just been there. They never minded me adopting half of them as aunts and uncles. Apart from McGonagall, of course..."
Adelaide laughed. "I just wish- well, wishing's no good. Less use than Divination, and that's 'A very imprecise branch of magic,' even before you get Professor Trelawney involved. Sub-editing's precise. It's a good job. But I do wish –" She sighed. "I don't want to fight a war. But I wish I could do something as much helping to make the world right as you and all the Order did, Daddy..."
~:~:~
A/N: **Sniff** ? Yes, I know... but even the jolliest of Gryffindors is sad sometimes!
Believe it or not, we Are getting closer to the main plot of this fic – I'm writing, I'm writing... bear with me!
