Thank you to everyone who has been patient with this, and all of you who have reviewed. I apologize for not replying -- I've been somewhat swamped, of late, and while I appreciate your feedback immensely, I don't always have time to compose a proper reply. So, to everyone I haven't managed to properly reply to: thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. --Adali

Chaper Nine
In which there is communication
Monday, December 4, 2017

A note to Freddie in response to the younger boy's own was all it took for Caradoc to gain access to the Gryffindor dormitories. There were a few curious glances as the first year boy led him through the Common Room, but for the most part he was ignored. He was just a Hufflepuff, after all: hardly worth noticing, really. Caradoc was well-aware of most of the students' low opinion of his House. While Gryffindors were brave and daring - and many of the best-known heroes from the War had been from Gryffindor - and Ravenclaws were intelligent and knowledgeable, and Slytherins were cunning and somewhat notorious, Hufflepuffs were just... Hufflepuffs. They were loyal and nice; the ones who fell through the cracks as far as the other Houses were concerned, which meant they tended to get along with people and fade into the background.

Which was just fine with Caradoc. Being amiable and harmless could open all sorts of doors when a person needed them opened and, right now, Caradoc needed to go through the door to the dorm for the second year Gryffindor boys. Freddie was happy to help, and no one else in the House raised any objections. Hufflepuffs, as Jimmy was wont to say, were vastly underestimated.

"I can't get anything out of him," Freddie said quietly, opening the dormitory door. "If I didn't bring him food back from meals, he probably wouldn't know he was hungry." Hearing the light-hearted Freddie sound so concerned, Caradoc knew he had been right to come.

He pulled back the curtains of the only occupied bed. Freddie hovered behind him, uncommonly anxious. Well, it was his cousin in the bed, after all - and besides, it was Jimmy. Nothing fazed Jimmy; except that something had, and he hadn't left his dormitory in almost two days as a result. The younger boy was huddled on his bed, wrapped in a thick patch-work quilt, seemingly made out of old scraps of cloth and clothing. Some of the squares had stains that looked suspiciously like old blood.

"Jimmy," Caradoc began, addressing himself to the dull red-brass hair that was the only visible part of the other boy. The quilt quivered, but there was no other response. "You've been missing classes." Jimmy looked up, his old, tired eyes meeting Caradoc's. "Esme's in a state. She says the teachers keep asking where you are."

"Car?" Jimmy didn't seem to believe he was really there, and was squinting as though trying to figure out if Caradoc was an illusion or a figment of his own imagination.

"In the flesh. Freddie had to call me because he couldn't get through to you." Caradoc didn't know why he should be able to reach Jimmy at a time like this, when he had pulled himself away from the world, but it seemed right. Caradoc wasn't brilliant at academics like Griflet, or in Society like Esme, but he was loyal and he genuinely cared about the younger boy, on top of the respect and awe that bound the others to Jimmy. Perhaps that was what Jimmy reacted to.

"What time is it?" His voice was flat, but Caradoc thought he might be a bit surprised.

"Almost five." And, because he was used to dealing with Griflet, he added, "On Monday."

Jimmy's eyes widened, and he looked at Freddie for confirmation. "You've been pretty out of it, mate," the red-headed boy confirmed. "You aren't upset they shipped Harry off to the Funny Farm, are you?" He didn't sound like he believed it for a minute. "It'll be good for Gin. Harry turned into a bit of a tosser after..." Suddenly, he closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth, and went very pale.

His cousin, not looking at all like a someone who'd just lost two days without noticing, moved over and patted the bed beside him. "Have a sit, Freddie," he suggested. His slight glance at Caradoc extended the permission to him as well. Freddie flopped down, obviously preoccupied by something he didn't like to think of, but which weighed on his mind. Caradoc sat himself on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch the quilt. "You're not mad, mate," Jimmy added. "There's just something you don't know."

Freddie scowled, but looked less shaken. "It's not like George to keep stuff from me. And this is important, too. I can feel it."

"We'll get it out of them sooner or later. Sooner, I think, now that Mum's tossed him back into the loony bin." Jimmy didn't sound at all sorry that his father had been sent to Saint Mungo's - for good, if the Prophet was to be believed.

"Why's that?"

"I'm betting she knows stuff she isn't telling me." Jimmy sounded quite aggrieved by this, as though it was a crime to keep knowledge of anything from him. Well, he was Jimmy, so maybe it was. Personally, Caradoc knew better than to try and keep anything from the younger boy. "Anyway," Jimmy sighed, "what's the news?"

"The Prophet's having a field day," Caradoc told him. "They ran a special on Harry Potter yesterday. It looks like they went into their archives and dug out everything they had on him from as far back as the first defeat of the Dark Lord. Really everything: they've got the Triwizard Tournament in there, and a whole bunch of stuff about how he was delusional."

"I think there's even some stuff from Witch Weekly," Freddie added, his normal cheer restored. "There's all this stuff about him and Hermione being a couple, too."

"What about Mum?" Jimmy asked, quietly, and in that simple question Caradoc saw what had so preoccupied the other boy that he'd lost track of the days. Freddie had mentioned that ever since Ginny Weasley had arrived to tell her children and their cousins that Harry Potter was going to Saint Mungo's, Jimmy had been in a state. It just wasn't, as the rest of the school thought, because he was upset that his mum was betraying his dad.

Caradoc hesitated, but not long - he couldn't have resisted telling Jimmy, even if he'd wanted to. "There's a lot of stuff about her, too. The special edition was just to highlight how Potter's been unfairly persecuted all his life, so they could say how he's now being betrayed by his wife."

He'd never seen Jimmy look so fragile as he did at that moment, as the boy buried his face in his quilt-covered knees. "I thought so," was all he said.

"They got a right rant out of Hermione, too, although there's a Letter to the Editor this morning where she took most of it back," Freddie added. He didn't look like he believed she'd recanted at all.

"And they got some idiot Healer quoted as saying he sees nothing wrong with Potter," said Caradoc. "It's all over the front page. There was a little snip in the back, where the Head of Irreversible Magical Maladies at Saint Mungo's said that they'd been aware of Potter's condition for some time, but they'd let him go because Healer Weasley asked them too."

"Either way, Gin's taking all the fall for this," Freddie said quietly. "Even after everything she's done."

"Where is she now?"

Caradoc exchanged glances with Freddie. "The Burrow, last I heard."

Finally, Jimmy looked up. "I need to make sure she's alright," he said. "You'll cover for me for a few days, right, and..."

"Steady on," Caradoc said, and Freddie grabbed Jimmy's arm and pulled him back down as he struggled to get up. "You've got teachers to appease, Jimmy. Your mum can take care of herself."

"But..."

Feeling like a traitor, Caradoc glared sternly at the boy. "She's taken care of that lot for years. Don't tell me you don't think she can take care of herself now."

"She'll sort them out, and then you'll hear from her," Freddie assured his cousin. "That's how Gin is, I promise. Jimmy," he added, "she'll go spare if she hears you're skipping out of classes."

At that, Jimmy cracked a lopsided grin. "Yeah, I guess she will. But if anyone hurts her, I'll kill them." Caradoc believed it with all his heart.

Although he had made amends with his family years ago, Molly's third son still rarely visited. He was always busy with work, or his partner's busy socialite schedule. He travelled extensively, to Prague and Moscow and Johannesburg; anywhere the Ministry had connections or wanted them. Percy - Percival, to all but his family - was a sleek, sophisticated man with a successful career and a world of connections at his fingertips. But to Molly, he would always be her little boy, the vaguely awkward one who disapproved of the slightly-illicit nature of his father's hobby, but worked extra hard in Muggle Studies to make up for it.

She was delighted when there was a chiming at the fireplace and, a few minutes later, he stepped out of the swirling green flames, fastidiously brushing a stray piece of ash from his ebony and midnight-violet robes. "Percy," she exclaimed, hurrying forward to meet him.

"Hello, Mum." His greeting was pleasant, but distant, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Is Ginny in?"

"In George's workshop, dear. Won't you have some tea? I'll go put some on now," Molly prattled on in delight. "I got some lovely scones from Mrs. Whittaker, you remember her don't you dear? Her arthritis is..." She'd missed having him around all these years, although she knew he was dedicated to his work. Still, even the Ministry gave their people time off to spend with their families.

Percy interrupted gently, but his voice was firm. "Mum."

"Yes dear?" He wouldn't have interrupted her when he was a child, but he had grown up so nicely that she didn't mind in the least. He was such a gentleman these days, and she really was prattling on, so she couldn't fault him if he wanted to get a word in now and again.

"I'm only here to see Ginny, and then I'll be going." Oh. That wasn't what Molly had been expecting to hear at all. She'd hoped her little boy would stay for a bit of tea and talk, at least. She did miss him dreadfully these days, and all the others would be sorry to have missed his visit.

Molly sighed, resigned to facing what she had hoped to avoid. "It's about Harry, isn't it? You can try to dissuade her - Merlin knows, we all have - but she won't see reason."

"I'm not here to dissuade her." Percy's frown was slight, but severe. Then his words overrode Molly's motherly pride at the man he had become. "I've come to lend her my support."

Percy understood about family, but sometimes he was a bit blinded by the rules, Molly knew. This was one of those times, and he'd understand that soon enough. "Family's about sticking together, dear. We can't abandon Harry like that."

"So you'll abandon Ginny instead." Percy's eyes were disturbingly dark, and Molly wondered if she hadn't said the wrong thing. "Fleur's in a state, you know, and I can see why. Ginny gave up her career for Harry, and now that she wants a bit of it back, her family turns on her."

"Now Percy, you know it's not like that." She reached out to put a soothing hand on his arm, but he brushed it aside.

"I was estranged from my entire family before, Mum. I'm not going to let that happen to Ginny. Not when she's right." He whirled and strode into George's workshop without another word. Slightly numb, Molly kept making tea. First they lost Harry, and now it looked like they might lose Percy was well. What was happening to her family?

Ten years ago she had loved her mirror. Eight feet tall, its three wide panels of perfect glass surrounded a raised podium, and the whole construction dominated one end of her dressing room. Some days, she had thought there was nothing in the world that she loved more than this mirror, especially when her baby was being difficult and her husband was being distant.

She was thirty-four now, and she thought the enchantment on her mirror must be starting to fade. No longer did it show her the young beauty she had once seen in its endless reflections: the woman that looked back at her had lines at the edges of her eyes, and a slight looseness to the skin on her neck. Her wrists looked thin instead of slender, and overall her shape looked... droopy, as horrible a word as that was. She'd have to talk to Mama and see what sort of charms she used, because Madame Destrier might be a grandmother, but she was still the last word in beauty, style and sophistication.

And Sabine absolutely had to be the most gorgeous woman in the room when she hosted her annual Christmas ball. Last year she had very nearly been outdone by that odious little wretch Gabrielle Delacour, who had sashayed into the ballroom on the arm of the Bulgarian ambassador as though she were some cheap call-girl. She was always doing things like that: appearing on the cover of Witch Weekly (with some unlikely tagline about philanthropy and a successful modelling career), cavorting about with this or that famous personage. Sabine could only find it in her heart to forgive the bint because it was all such an obvious cry for attention after being stuck in her glamorous older sister's shadow all those years. Sabine had only been in her first year when Fleur had entered the Triwizard tournament, but oh, how she had admired the older girl.

Gabrielle had the advantage in being a few years younger, but Sabine intended to show her what class meant. Let the girl strut about in her sparkly gold dresses: Sabine would command the room with her presence alone. This year's gala promised to be especially grand: everyone from the highest officials at le Ministère to Britain's top diplomat, dozens of well-known businessman, and all manner of cultural icons would be present. Everyone who was anyone would attend, something Sabine took great pride in.

She did hope Draco would actually attend this year, instead of simply poking his nose into the room for long enough that his absence would not create scandal. He claimed to be busy with work, but he was always busy with work. He could do with a rest, and she could do with some of his attention. It was all very well to be the belle of the ball, as it were, but it made not one bit of difference if her own husband could scarcely be bothered to give her a peck on the cheek. He was just so distant, and it interfered distressingly with Sabine's efforts in Society.

What she would do, she decided, was finish ordering her dress, make that fire-call to Mama, and then she would call Draco up at the office in London and insist that he be present for the entirety of her gala. He owed it to her, and he owed it to himself.

"Pomona?"

She'd been so wrapped up in reviewing the school's budget that she'd missed the little chime that announced her fire-calls. If her caller hadn't spoken up, she would probably have ignored them until the end of time. Well, Pomona thought, I suppose my hearing isn't what it once was, either. She left her desk and took the chair in front of the fireplace.

"Ginevra. Hello." Not if she lived to be a thousand would Pomona admit to being surprised to see Ginevra Potter's face in her fire, but she was. She'd made herself and Hogwarts freely available to the young woman, but been sadly aware that the girl's pride would likely stop her from availing herself upon them. "I'd ask how you are, but I think I can see."

Ginevra's smile was wan. Even in the flickering fire-image, Pomona could see the deep bruises of sleeplessness under her eyes. "It's been a trying few days," she admitted.

Pomona sighed. Some days, it seemed she couldn't speak to an old Gryffindor without seeing Minerva McGonagall's influence painted on them in bright red and gold. There was that wry twist of the mouth, the tired eyes, the flair for understatement, the barely-concealed impatience. Even Neville Longbottom, who had made Hufflepuff his home as much as Gryffindor had ever been, still looked back at her with Minerva's eyes, some days. Perhaps, Pomona thought sometimes, it was not Minerva but the War that had left such a deep mark on her old students; she hoped that was not the case. "What can I do for you today, Ginevra?"

The younger witch hesitated visibly. Why, Pomona wondered, was getting help considered such a cowardly thing, when it took so much courage to ask for it? She was convinced there was not a Gryffindor in all of Britain that could easily ask for assistance, even of an old friend. In that, the lot of them could learn a thing or two from the Hufflepuffs: that was what loyalty was about, after all.

Still Ginevra floundered. Pomona knew she could say something to help the younger woman express what was written so clearly on her face, but she would not. She had made the original offer, and now it was for Ginevra to accept, if that was what she wished. "I was thinking... perhaps, if you wouldn't mind... might I stay at Hogwarts... just for a time?" Her voice was quiet and uncertain, but it was enough.

Pomona gave her a radiant smile. "Of course, dear. Come along as soon as you're ready - before supper would be lovely, and then we can get you settled in."

"I..." Ginevra seemed at a loss. "I could help out in the Infirmary, if you like," she offered. For such a charitable woman, she seemed to have difficulties in accepting it herself. But that was that Gryffindor pride again, and there was nothing in the world that Pomona could say that would change it.

"That would be lovely. I'm sure Mrs. Comfit could do with the help: her bunions are paining her something awful these days, you know, and there's not a thing to be done for them."

At last Ginevra answered Pomona's kind smile with a timid one of her own. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll try to be as much help as I can."

"Oh, none of that, dear. If Healer Weasley can't fix it, there's nothing can be done." She winked and then, as Ginevra started to protest, cut her off by adding, "I'll expect you at four, Ginevra. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm sure we both have much to do." She terminated the fire-call, feeling immensely pleased with herself. Ginevra was out of the living death that had been her life for these last thirteen years, Hogwarts would be helping an old student, and the Infirmary would be gaining the most competent Healer it had ever had. Pomona would leave the scheming to the Slytherins: this was how a Hufflepuff got things done.

One of the secretaries poked her head around the open door, knocking softly on it. "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes?" He wished he could remember the secretaries' names, but they never stayed long enough for him to get around to it. He suspected it had to do with his assistant and her hell-or-high-water, work-all-hours approach, but since she was invaluable and the secretaries were replaceable, it would probably be a long time before he learned names.

"Ah, I think there's an owl for you, sir, only... well, it thinks it has the right place, at any rate." Then again, if this was the sort of help they were reduced to having, perhaps he needed to have a word with his assistant. Being able to get to the point was an absolute must for anyone who reported directly to him. This girl probably thought she was clever, too, putting a charm on her tongue bar so it couldn't be seen, but he could hear the slight slur to her speech that it caused. Perhaps a word with HR was in order, too.

"Does it, now?" he asked, trying to be patient.

The girl looked nervous. "Well, it's addressed to 'That Bloody Ferret, Malfoy'. Sir." By the time she finished, her terror was obvious. Likely the three secretaries had drawn lots to see who would have to deliver the missive, figuring anyone who called their boss that to his face would be out on their arse in two shakes of a wand.

"Give it here," he said, holding out a hand and turning back to the memo from the VP of Internal Operations - something about interdepartmental memos and inefficiency, but it took a long time to get to the point. The girl - she couldn't be more than ten years younger than he was, but he thought of her as a child - placed the scroll in his hand and scurried back to her desk.

Tossing the memo he'd been reading into the fireplace - after nearly a foot of writing, it turned out there was no point - Draco opened the scroll. The scratchy, off-hand script that had become so familiar during study sessions his last year at school made two wandering lines on the parchment. Off to Hogwarts to help in the Infirmary and sort things out. Be in touch. It wasn't sighed.

With a sigh, he spoke the word that would reduce the parchment - yet another of WWW's gag products that had found use in serious business - to ashes. It was just like her to be so inexact when writing. Was she saying she would write again, or ordering him to keep in touch? Obviously, there were some things that could simply not be cured: Weasley's diction was one of them.

There was a soft chime, and a fire appeared in the office's small fireplace, bearing a face. Draco watched the memo from the his vice-president burn through Sabine's transparent features. "Draco, darling."

"Hello Sabine. All is well, I hope?"

"Of course, darling. But there is one matter I had hoped to speak with you about." Bugger, Draco thought. Will it be the greenhouse, this time, or the footman? He spent little enough time in Devant Manor that there was no reason for Sabine to consult him about anything to do with it; how should he know which of the butlers had been abusing the wine cellar when he couldn't find the front door without help? Sabine liked to keep him involved, though, so he tried. "My annual Christmas gala. I'd like you to attend this year." Her tone added, for once.

"Of course. I attend every year, Sabine." This with just a hint of reproach that he couldn't entirely erase. He found her guests tedious and the entertainments dull, but he'd known at the outset that he would have to endure them after he married Sabine. What irked him was her insistence that he take an interest, rather than simply going along with what she told him.

"I'd like you to stay for the entire thing this year, Draco." It was not a request.

He smiled. "I would be delighted." He would have been much more delighted if she ever invited a few of his friends, but he suspected that, as ever, Pansy, Greg and Blaise would all be conspicuously absent from the guest list this year. Sabine liked to have internationally recognized personages at her galas, but only so long as they weren't English war veterans, especially ones with shady pasts.

"I'm so glad, darling. Tell me, will you be coming home anytime before then?" Home, was it? Apparently she had returned from staying with her parents and was prepared to play nice, now that her Christmas ball was on the horizon.

"I don't think so. There's a lot to sort out before the holidays."

Sabine seemed genuinely disappointed. She's probably lonely, now that Scorpius is gone, Draco thought. But he couldn't find it in himself to return to keep her company. He cared about Sabine, but much in the same way he did Pansy: a close friend and sometimes confidant, but no more. She was not the woman of his dreams, for whom he would move heaven and earth; but then, he'd given up on that a long time ago.

"Oh," Sabine said, as though just remembering - which hardly seemed possible, since he was quite sure Sabine could recall everything she'd read or heard since she was nine. "I had a letter from ma puce yesterday. He'd like to bring a friend to stay for Christmas."

A small warning siren seemed to be going off in Draco's head, but he ignored it. "Oh?" he said, as politely as he could. "I'm sure that will be very nice."

"Yes. The boy might be a bit provincial, being English," she said apologetically, conveniently forgetting, as she always did, his own heritage, "but it will be very nice for Scorpius, I think. He says his friend cannot go home for Christmas, because of family problems." The way she said it, that last piece was supposed to be a secret. But if Scorpius's friend was who Draco suspected, then the boy's family problems were splashed all over the tabloids and papers anyway. "You will try to make him feel welcome, won't you?" she asked, worriedly.

"Of course. I understand. I look forward to meeting him." He didn't, actually: he wanted the boy to die horribly, although objectively he knew that it wasn't because of anything Albus Potter had done. It was just that it was easy to hate him for what his father had done to Ginny, unfair as it was to the boy.

Sabine smiled. "Since he's Scorpius's friend, I'm sure we'll all get along wonderfully." Draco wondered about that, but didn't comment. He got along quite well with Ginny's elder son, but he remembered what she'd said about the two boys always being on opposing sides. Somehow, Draco couldn't shake the feeling that he would be sharing Christmas with a pair that embodied all the worst character traits of himself and Potter in their school days, but presenting a united front.

There was a rap at the door: Draco's assistant had arrived to bring efficiency and productivity to his day. "I'm sorry, Sabine, but business calls."

"Of course, darling. Have a good day." It didn't look to be headed that way, but he wished her the same anyway.