Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I am making no money from the writing of this story.
Chapter Ten: The Burrow
Autumn gave way to winter, and with winter came tiny flakes of snow. It fell from the dark sky, skies that seemed to sense the mood in the compartment; gloomy and stormy. It was as if the very sky reflected the ongoing circumstances in the lives of those underneath it.
"Keep moving, keep moving." Harry ushered a long string of first-years back to their respective compartments. "You don't go see the pie cart lady; she comes to you. She won't run out of food; everyone gets a turn."
He glanced behind him, half-expecting to see Draco standing there, a smirk on his face. But of course he wasn't there; Draco would never again be on the Hogwarts Express. He would never again walk the hallowed halls of Hogwarts as an arrogant prick; he was facing a possible sentence in Azkaban.
He forced himself to take a deep breath, but it only made him dizzy. Ignoring it, he continued down the train, making sure no students were making a ruckus.
Satisfied that the only problems entailed spooky stories about students freezing in a snowdrift, he headed back to the back compartment, finding exactly what he had left.
Hermione breathed an audible sigh of relief when Harry re-entered the compartment. "Good, you're safe."
Of course he was safe. What could possibly go wrong in a school train, save Draco and a Dementor? And they were both gone.
"'Mione was 'fraid you'd been pushed off or somethin'." Ron's mouth was full of pumpkin pasty.
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron." Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "What took you so long?"
Harry explained to her the issues he encountered while walking the length of the train. "I kept expecting to encounter Crabbe and Goyle or something. Isn't it weird that they aren't here?"
Harry had not ridden the Hogwarts Express since the end of the 1996-1997 school year. Although that was only a year and a half ago, it seemed so much longer. He felt like last time he rode it, he had been a child. And in technical terms he had been, but in a year and a half, he had gotten old. As old as Dumbledore. He was probably sprouting grey hairs.
Neither Ron nor Hermione answered; Hermione just nodded, patting Ron's hand.
They had had a whirlwind of an autumn. Between work, school, worries, secrets, rampant emotions, and trying to maintain some sort of social life, they were exhausted. Christmas break was a godsend in that way, as it gave them a bit of a breather.
Ron had been the first to announce his plans of going home. He had said that he wanted to be there for his family, as it was his mum's first Christmas in so many years without Fred. And while part of that was most certainly true, Ron had a tell; you could always tell when he was lying. Harry suspected the truth of the matter was was that he missed his family, and just wanted to get out of the school.
He couldn't blame him.
Harry had talked to various professors, and convinced McGonagall that since no Gryffindor students were staying over the holidays, he didn't need to be there. He was given the duty of chaperoning students on and off the train, a coveted position the staff members of Hogwarts hoped for each year.
Since Harry's mum and dad were dead, he had no family to go to for Christmas holiday. The Dursleys did not count as family; they didn't want Harry, and Harry didn't want them, He had therefore decided to accompany Ron to the Burrow; it would be nice, he had realised, to sleep the two of them in Ron's room.
For once, no one would suspect a thing.
But that left Hermione alone, and that was no good. She wanted to be with her parents over holiday, and had even gone as far as to purchase a aeroplane ticket to Aruba with them. But her plans had changed that morning, with the morning post.
"It's okay." Hermione voiced. "He will make a mistake, and when he does, we will catch him."
Sherlock Holmes, Hermione was not. The guy hadn't left fingerprints on his letters, or used magic. He hadn't used anything but newspaper clippings, clippings that could easily not be from the Prophet. The owl he had used was one from the Hogsmeade post office, identified by the tag around its leg, but that was hardly useful; anyone could go to Hogsmeade to send letters.
That was right; letters. Hermione had refused to hope that the blackmailer would just leave them alone after receiving his 20,000 Galleons, and she had been right; they had received a new letter in the post just that morning.
mR. rONalD weaSleY,
hOw do YOu liKe FUcKinG pottEr? hoW dO YOu liKe fuCkinG hIM wHIle HE IS iN grAngER?
I haVe CONnecTIoNs to A poPuLar FICtIon auTHor but im SUrE thIs NEw inFoRMatiOn wILl haVe heR brAnchInG Out To a nEw GenRe. PerHaPs bIogrAphY, no?
'YoU ARe KeePEr of GRyFfinDOr HouSE's tEAm. LoSE thE NeXt MAtcH, AgAiNSt HUFflEPuFf. JANuArY 17Th, 1998. OR YoU wiLL be REAdinG yoUR secReTs iN PrInt.
"But Hufflepuff?" Ron's voice squeaked. "Hufflepuff? Why Hufflepuff? If he wanted his house to win the house cup, why not make us lose against Ravenclaw? Or Slytherin?"
Hermione frowned. "Are you insinuating that he isn't a Hufflepuff? Terrible people come from all Houses, and all walks of life."
"Yeah, but Slytherin turns out the worst of the bunch." Harry pointed out. "And how do we know he is a he? Maybe he is a... she." He had known the Half-Blood Prince was a bloke because of the handwriting. This person used newsprint; anyone could do that.
"Yeah. Maybe he is a she, and she is Rita Skeeter." Ron's eyes widened. "Skeeter would probably admit to herself that she writes fake stuff, and would use it as a threat in a letter that mentions her anonymously... you know?"
"And that's how she knows what we're doing; because of her Animagus!" Harry's heart jumped into his throat; how had the answer been this simple the whole time, and they not noticed it?
Hermione frowned. "I do think she is a Hufflepuff..." she absent-mindedly tickled her chin with her quill. "But it doesn't make sense; most people, once disconnected from the school, lose their serious House rivalry, and only bring it up for fun. Take Ron's parents, for example; can you imagine any of them being seriously offended if Gryffindor lost a Quidditch game?"
"Yeah." Ron's eyes darkened. "When Slytherin cheats."
"Oh, honestly, Ronald!" Hermione sighed. "It is just so petty! Why would he - or she - care? If it is Skeeter, all it gives her to write about is an article about how Ron Weasley missed the Quaffle every time; that's not the kind of rubbish she looks for."
"Yes, but if it has my name in it, it might sell." Ron insisted.
"No, it won't. It would only sell if the article featured Harry, otherwise people don't care." Hermione turned and looked out the window. "That is the problem; were we anyone else, no one would care enough to write an article about us. So what if we are involved? No one would care to find out or gossip about it. Were it not for You-Know-Who's death..." she clicked her tongue.
It didn't take fame or an article for parents, friends, and family to find out about one's sexuality or who they were sexually intimate with. Knowledge of that amongst even the smallest circle of people could destroy a reputation for hundreds of years; Harry would never be able to bear it if that was what Ron and Hermione were remembered for, as Harry Potter's sex flunkies.
He looked at the window, staring at their reflections in the glare. How had they gotten into their mess? Why? What had been the point?
Ron rubbed the top of Harry's knee. "As soon as we get back to Hogsmeade, we'll corner Skeeter and make her confess."
Harry jerked out of Ron's reach; what would happen if someone peered into their compartment and saw? It was no wonder someone knew; they were not exactly secretive at every waking moment like they thought they were.
"People might notice." He whispered.
"Speaking of people noticing," Hermione shifted. "What are we going to do at the Burrow? Ron, your parents are busy and preoccupied, but they are not stupid."
"You'll sleep in Ginny's room and Harry will sleep in mine." Ron simply said. "They won't suspect a thing."
Hermione's eyes darkened at the suggestion. "I'm not talking about sleeping arrangements; isn't it written all over our faces? That we are guilty? That something is not right?"
Harry looked back into the window, staring at their reflections. He could imagine the words 'sinful', 'threesome', or 'adulterous' on their foreheads. Probably painted in blood.
He shuddered.
"I think George is our main concern." Ron said. "He notices everything, and with Fred gone, he's going to be up to no good twice as much as usual. He will constantly be sneaking up on people, playing pranks, and trying to embarrass us. And if he finds out, he'll tell Bill and Charlie, and Bill will tell Fleur, who will tell Mum, who will-"
Harry didn't want to picture it, and cut Ron off. "We get it."
"If it's written all over our faces when we look at each other, we just don't look at each other." Ron suggested.
Hermione snorted. "That is a terrible idea. We need to maintain eye contact not only with each other, but with those around us. Too much eye contact is equally a bad thing, however; it implies that we know little eye contact means lying, so we are trying to consciously reverse it, hoping no one will notice."
Harry blinked. "You get that, Ron?"
"Yeah." Ron brought his knees up to his chest. "Something about no eye contact, what I said."
o-O-o
The Burrow had a sense of timelessness about it. It hadn't changed significantly in the years Harry had known Ron; the run-down chicken shed was still there. The large oak tree hanging an isolated swing stood in the front garden. The house, mis-shapen and teetering, had not changed in the slightest; no rooms had been added or removed.
"It's beautiful." Hermione snuggled up against Ron as they stood, looking at the home.
Harry turned, not looking. For the sake of charades, he was not going to be intimate with Ron or Hermione at the Burrow. No kisses, hugs, cuddling, hand-holding, etc. He could do it, of course; he could go months without sex if he had to. He had gone nearly eighteen years without it; he could go a few days.
But it was torturous to watch Ron and Hermione together, and be unable to join in. He wanted to feel Ron's chin stubble against his cheek. He wanted to be the one to feel Hermione's soft skin. He longed to be sandwiched between them, sharing body heat in the chilly outdoors.
But he wasn't. He was by his lonesome, with a heating charm.
And that's okay. You're not a girl. You don't need to be clingy. You don't need the physical affection from another person. You've got your fist, and that's good enough.
It wasn't, though. Jerking off wouldn't help him sleep. Curling up next to Ron or Hermione would.
"Mum!" They walked inside the house, single-file. "Mum! I'm home!"
"Shush, Ron!" Percy walked in, holding his head high. Despite the fact that he had come back to the family after the War, he was still a pinhead, in Harry and Ron's opinion. "Mum is sleeping!"
Harry looked around the kitchen. The interior of the house was a far cry from the outside; it had changed in ways Harry had never expected.
The furniture was unmoved, and the wall hangings still there. The wall clock still hung, with Fred's hand still pointing towards 'lost'. The homemade braided rugs still covered the bare wooden floors. Homespun cloaks still hung on hooks near the back door.
But the table was not freshly scrubbed - there were piles of dishes on it. Food was stuck in the splinters of the wood. The counters also had piles of dishes on it; Harry counted fourteen empty Butterbeer bottles. The floor that normally shined was dull, smears of mud and unidentifiable grub stuck to it. The house that normally smelled of homemade bread, cinnamon, the smell of love, now smelled to Harry of dust, rotting food, spoilt milk, and decay; the smell of death.
"Sleeping?" Ron asked. "It's four o'clock! Is she sick?"
Hermione handed Harry her duffel, strode over to the dishes and rolled up her sleeves. "Where is Mr. Weasley?" She asked, taking control over the situation.
"At work. They are still taking care of the Lestrange house." Percy had is nose up in the air, but he didn't mention how Mr. Weasley's job at the Ministry at least had some use. They all knew he was thinking it, but a clear improvement, he said nothing.
"Why is Mum sleeping?" Ron started up the spindly steps. "I'm going to go see what's wrong."
Ron was a very caring person, but lacked tact and intellect in some areas.
Harry grabbed Ron's arm. "No, Ron; she's just sad."
Ron frowned. "Still?"
Ginny walked down the stairs, holding a wooden tray. She had arrived home from school hours earlier than the trio, as Harry had needed to see that students all got safely off the train. "Yes, still, Ron. Haven't you noticed the lack of letters?"
"And the mothering all the letters have contained, I assume?" Percy plopped down in Mr. Weasley's chair. "God, Ron; are you so thick that you can't-"
"Stop." Harry commanded Percy, without thinking about how so few people ordered Percy around so. He looked over at Hermione, who was orchestrating the piles of dishes to clean. "You live here, Percy; who have you let the house come to such a mess? You know your mum is incapacitated."
Had Harry a mum who was ill, he would do everything in his power to help her. Even if she was just in bed, too sad to get up, he would try to do her work. He knew he would. When Aunt PEtunia fell ill seemingly every month, he made supper. Sure, Uncle Vernon usually made him, but he was happy to try to help.
And he had never liked Aunt Petunia.
Percy's eyes narrowed. "I am quite busy at the Ministry. And Dad hardly does anything to help."
Ginny grabbed the bags out of Harry's hands. "Yeah, and Dad isn't busy at all. He's the one at work right now, not you." She began up the stairs with Harry and Hermione's luggage.
Ron threw his bag by the back door. "Prick. What can I do, Hermione?"
"Music to a woman's ears; say that often enough, and we may have to get married." Hermione was elbow-deep in sudsy water at the sick. "Levitate those plates over to me, and clean the table. Harry, go catch me a chicken."
Harry felt the colour drain from his face. "You're going to... butcher a chicken?"
"No, I'm going to cook it; you're going to butcher it. Ron, don't break them!" Hermione coached Ron.
"I don't like chicken." Percy muttered from his chair.
They ignored him. "But... have you ever cooked a chicken?"
"No, but I've read about it; I'm sure it will go seamlessly. Go."
Harry had never killed another living thing who didn't deserve it. He had been known to levitate Death Eaters to great heights before dropping them, and had used Expelliarmus to kill Voldemort. But he had never used the Killing Curse before. He had never killed another innocent being, ever. And even if he used an axe like the Muggles did, the blood soaking into the feathers, and the guts...
"Look, Hermione; he's going to puke just thinking about it." Ron handed Harry the bucket he was banishing crumbs to. "I'll go do it."
Ron glared at Percy on his way outdoors. "Make yourself useful, or leave."
Harry concentrated on his work, grateful for Ron for taking over the job he could not bear. He also hoped Percy wasn't watching him too closely when he breathed in the scent of Hermione's hair when he brushed past her.
Maybe Percy is the blackmailer. Maybe Percy found out... but why would he want Gryffindor to lose a match? Even as hypocritical as he is, he wouldn't want Gryffindor to lose a match... unless... unless he just wants Ron to look bad! Yeah, so he'll be the centre of attention again!
He shook his head as he removed the grub from the kitchen floor. Don't be ridiculous, Harry. You're paranoid - not everyone is a suspect.