Chapter Eleven: The Grass Is Always Greener
Our dad's house in Liverpool was nothing ostentatious. It was a simple four-bedroom, red-brick home, almost identical to the muggle homes around it—except, of course, magic hid Dad's house from view. To someone approaching from the street, Dad's house was nothing more than a narrow stretch of grass decorated with a couple broken statues. But if we tapped the nymph statue three times on its cracked head, the red brick house would rise from the ground, granting witches and wizards entrance.
The home remained empty most of the year while Dad traveled for work, and Astoria and I stayed at school or with our mum. Only Hoben dwelled there year-round, keeping the place in order. He missed us while we were gone, but he enjoyed running the household, and he had Dad's permission to host book club events there. Hoben was a fan of mystery novels, though most of the other house elves in the club liked muggle romances. Hoben constantly complained about their poor tastes in literature.
Memorabilia from Dad's travels were scattered throughout the house. On shelves and in corners, colorful paintings and sculptures and magical artifacts littered every room. Some of the baubles were pretty like the stylized Chinese hippogriff painting, and some were downright horrifying like the empty Egyptian sarcophagus. I would never understand my dad's taste in decorating.
From Platform 9¾, Dad took us home via side-along-apparation. A loud crack announced our arrival, and Hoben came rushing to the foyer to greet Astoria and me. His face lit up when he saw us.
"Welcome home!" Hoben was on the elderly side for a house elf, with wrinkles appearing beneath his big green eyes and his pointed ears starting to droop.
"Glad to be home," I said. I tried to smile, but an uneasy feeling had settled in my stomach. It'd started forming when we'd first arrived at the platform and had only grown since then. "I don't think we've been here since July…"
"We haven't," said Astoria. She too was having a hard time faking happiness.
We both glanced over our shoulders at Dad. He stood in the entranceway, holding a piece of parchment in his hand and frowning. When we'd found him on the platform, he'd been opening a letter he'd just received from a Ministry owl. He'd stopped to give Astoria and I hugs and welcome us home, but only minutes later, he was reading the letter with a deep frown on his face. He'd taken us home, and now Astoria and I waited. Even though we didn't know what information precisely the letter contained, we already knew what would happen next.
With a sigh, Dad folded up the letter and placed it in the pocket of his robe. "I have to go to work."
When we were younger, Astoria and I would protest. We'd complain that we'd only just seen him again, and we'd tell him that he should take some time off work for his health. Now, Astoria and I only nodded obediently.
"Will you be back for dinner?" asked Hoben.
Dad grimaced. His hazel eyes, filled with guilt, flickered between Astoria and me before he said, "I don't know. I wouldn't count on it."
"Stay safe," said Astoria with a smile.
"Don't work yourself too hard," I added.
Dad gave us each a hug before stepping back onto the doormat. "Love you both. I'll be back as soon as I can."
And with that, he disapparated. I stared at the "welcome" mat he'd been standing on only moments before. Welcome indeed.
21 December, 1995
To my darling Blaise,
Happy birthday! I know I'm a few days early—or late, depending on how fast Isolde flies and if she decides to take a vacation again (Pansy never forgave me for that incident). But how does it feel to be sixteen? Any different from fifteen? I won't find out until February, and you know what an impatient person I am.
Astoria and I are regretting the choice to spend the holidays with our dad right now. I know it's not his fault, but ever since we got home, he's been in and out of the house. When he does come home, it's late at night, and he sleeps the entire time he's here only to leave early in the morning the next day. It's been Astoria, Hoben, and me, and while I adore both of them, there's only so many games of Exploding Snap that we can play before we get bored.
But anyways, enough on that depressing topic. I have a new depressing topic to discuss! Well, actually, it's slightly related… But anyways, have you been reading the papers? Stupid question, of course you have. But did you leave the business section to read about the Ministry employee that was attacked by some kind of animal? The article was very vague, and you could tell that the Ministry was trying to keep things on the down low. I bet that article left you very curious. It did, didn't it?
Well, for once, I am the source of reliable information and not Nott!
The attack happened in the Department of Mysteries. I know because that's why Dad hasn't been around. He kept it very hush-hush at first, but during one of his brief visits home, he was in such a rush to return to the Ministry that he accidentally left some papers behind. So, being the curious girls that we are, Astoria and I read them.
Firstly, turns out that it wasn't just any animal attack—it was a snake. Secondly, the employee that was attacked was none other than Arthur Weasley. That name should ring a bell. Draco bragged about how his father was higher ranked and more influential than Arthur Weasley all of second year. I'm sure you don't know much about Arthur Weasley beyond Draco's ramblings, but I should tell you this: Arthur Weasley had no business being in the Department of Mysteries. He is not an Unspeakable. In fact, I think I remember Draco saying something about him working with muggle artifacts. What a security breach, huh? A Ministry employee in the wrong part of the Ministry and then getting attacked by a snake. No wonder my dad's been in and out of work since we got home.
Now, I don't know Arthur Weasley personally, but I don't think he's the hardened criminal type. So why would he break into the Department of Mysteries? My answer: Dumbledore. Now, I know you're going to dismiss this as a crazy theory, but hear me out! Everyone knows the Weasley family is close to Dumbledore. As much as I hate to admit it, Montague is right—there is some sort of Dumbledore versus the Ministry fight going on. So, don't you find it suspicious that someone who is close to Dumbledore is in a section of the Ministry where he shouldn't be? I don't think Dumbledore is petty enough to try to sabotage the Ministry for no reason, but perhaps it has something to do with Dumbledore's lack of trust in the Ministry. Do you know how big a blow this is to the Ministry? A break-in! And with the Daily Prophet reporting on it… Let's just say the Ministry's lucky that the reporter didn't know which department was broken into.
What do you think? Am I on the right track? I should probably ask Nott too. He's always in the know. I'll tell you if he says anything interesting!
Love, your always bestie,
Daph
I tied the letter to the foot of my horned owl and then opened the window to let her fly. I watched her wide, brown wings flap in the wind before I turned back to face the kitchen. Pots bubbled on the gas stove as Hoben cooked dinner for three. He stood on a wooden stool, mumbling to himself as he added spices to the saucepan. Astoria sat at the island, quill and parchment spread out in front of her as she wrote her own letter. Three own cages rested at the end of the counter. The one in the middle, which had contained Isolde, was empty. The cage on left held Astoria's brown owl, and the cage on the right held the family owl.
"Who you writing to?" I asked as I sat down opposite Astoria to start on my second letter.
"My boyfriend," said Astoria, not taking her eyes off the parchment in front of her.
"Y-your what?"
"My boyfriend," repeated Astoria. She glanced up and, upon seeing the horrified expression on my face, rolled her eyes. "It's not a big deal."
"B-b-but…" I couldn't picture my sister dating anyone. "Who?"
"Jon Harper," said Astoria. "He asked me out just before the end of term."
It took me a moment to recall that Harper was the fourth year who'd told Montague that Dumbledore wasn't all bad and had started Montague on his pro-Ministry rant. I frowned. "You like that kid?"
"He's nice," said Astoria. "He doesn't hero worship Montague, which is a big plus in my book."
It was a big plus in my book too, but I still couldn't get over the shock of my sister dating. "Just because he's not awful doesn't mean you should date him…"
Astoria pointed her feathered quill at me. "And just because my parents are divorced doesn't mean I shouldn't date him."
I could see Hoben nodding in agreement as he stirred the saucepan. The old house elf was the worst gossip, but I trusted him not to pass my secrets on to Dad.
"You aren't afraid?" I asked.
"Afraid that I'll end up like Mum and Dad?"
"I don't want to end up alone," I said. "Or with a long list of meaningless boyfriends…"
"You shouldn't let fear stop you, Miss Daphne," said Hoben, unable to resist throwing his own two sickles into the conversation. "Your parents may not have had the happy ending they wanted, but your father always says his daughters are the best things to happen in his life."
A warm glow formed in my chest, but then, I buried my face in my hands and groaned. "I'm getting dating advice from a house elf."
Hoben shook his head at me. "I've lived a lot longer than you, Miss Daphne."
Astoria grinned. "Listen to the wise elf, Daph. Give dating a shot."
They were determined to team up against me, it seemed. I stuck my tongue out at my sister before deciding the best thing to do was ignore the both of them and focus on my next letter.
21 December, 1995
To my dark and mysterious Nott,
How was your Christmas? How's your family? Mine's a load of shite as always. Astoria's talking about her new boyfriend (the Harper kid who stood up to Montague, remember him?), Mum hasn't written to us yet (not that I'm surprised). Dad's too busy at the Ministry to spend any time at home (that isn't his fault this time, though), and Hoben is trying to give me life advice (and he's probably right).
Have you been keeping up with the papers? Did you read about the attack on the Ministry employee? Did you know that the attack was in the Department of Mysteries, the victim was Arthur Weasley, and the perpetrator was a snake? Actually, I bet you did. I was bragging to Blaise about how I would know something you didn't because my Dad's an Unspeakable, but as I'm writing this, I'm realizing that somehow you would know already and you would probably know more than me. It's not fair! I want to be the knowledgeable one for once. Ah well, at least I know I can always be depended on for having an opinion.
My theory is that Arthur Weasley is working for Dumbledore, and Dumbledore doesn't trust the Ministry, so he's using Arthur Weasley as an infiltrator of some sort. There must be something in the Department of Mysteries that Dumbledore wants. I don't know what though. My dad's job description is Unspeakable for a reason, so unlike a certain blond ferret, my dad doesn't share all the details of his job with me. But what do you think? Am I on the right track?
Also, I want you to know that I've been practicing saying "muggleborn" instead of "mudblood". Astoria thinks it's weird that I keep bringing up muggleborns in conversation, but the only way to change habits is to practice over and over again. That being said, I don't know if I can ever change my habit of calling You-Know-Who "the Dark Lord", just because I think the "the Dark Lord" is so funny. And besides, I don't know which is more ego-inflating, people calling him "You-Know-Who" or people calling him "the Dark Lord". Really, the most disrespectful thing is to call him Voldemort, but then people will get bloody strange on me. I suppose I could always settle for "King of all that is Dark and Evil" in the most sarcastic tone possible.
I got off topic again. Astoria always complains when I do that. Anyways, I wanted you to know that I'm working hard, and 1996 will have a new and improved Daphne. Daphne V. 2, or whatever you want to call it.
I also want to say thank you for telling me about how contradicting I was being. I know I told you this before when you were apologizing and all that, but you know, I wanted to say it again. My dad once told me that only people who care about you tell your flaws, so thank you. Hippogriff shite. I'm getting embarrassed writing this. Astoria and Hoben are giving me weird looks. I just want you to know I'm grateful and now let's never talk about this again, okay?
Love you, let's be friends forever,
Daph
P.S. Don't forget. You promised me a long letter. Long.
My letters to Tracey and Pansy had to be put on hold while I waited for Isolde and the family owl to return. In the meantime, Dad managed a few days off work to spend time at home. Astoria and I never voiced our relief, but in the shared glances, I knew we were both happy to have him back.
Dad did, however, spend each morning visiting St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He told us the news over dinner one night—that Broderick Bode had been in an accident. Bode was one of our dad's few close friends. They both worked in the Department of Mysteries, which explained why they were friends and why they were both divorced. But unlike Dad, Bode had no children from the marriage. I had only met Bode on a handful of occasions, but each time he'd been nice, if not a little awkward, towards Astoria and me. Dad had refused to report to us all the details of the Bode's accident, but he did say that the incident was related to the Department.
It crossed my mind that there was something odd about Arthur Weasley being attacked in the Department of Mysteries and, at the same time, an Unspeakable ending up in the Spell Damage ward of St. Mungo's. However, dark shadows had formed under Dad's eyes as the danger to his friend seemed to weigh heavily on him, and I was too concerned with my dad's well-being to dwell on what might be the connection between the two incidents. Instead, Astoria and I dedicated ourselves to helping our Dad forget about work—at least for the small amount of time that he was home.
Two days before Christmas, Hoben baked us some gingerbread biscuits, Astoria and I had cut them into shapes, and we spent the afternoon decorating them. The four of us stood around the kitchen island (or in Hoben's case sat on a stool) surrounded by stacks of cookies, bowls of icing, and bags of gumdrops. The last time we decorated gingerbread biscuits, our parents had still been married. Thankfully, Astoria and I had moved past crying over every poorly decorated biscuit, and now we started trash talking each other's artistic choices.
"Please," I said, looking down at Astoria's green and red frosted hinkypunk biscuit. "Even Filch's cat could apply frosting more evenly than that."
She scowled at my hippogriff coated in yellow icing and scoffed. "And Crabbe and Goyle could do better than your attempt at art."
"I'll have you know Crabbe is quite the artist," I said. "He does the art for most of Pansy's Quidditch posters."
Dad shook his head at us. His own hippogriff biscuit was a mess of green and brown gumdrops so that it barely looked like a hippogriff any more. Astoria and I had inherited our horrible decorating skills from him. Our mother was the one with talent, but I hadn't made gingerbread biscuits with her since I was six.
"What happened to the cat shape?" asked Dad as he examined the pile of biscuits yet to be frosted. There were dragons, pixies, hinkypunks, phoenixes, owls, and hippogriffs, but no cats to be seen.
"We decided not to use it," said Astoria.
"It reminded us too much of a certain pink professor," I said darkly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hoben smirk. Over our games of Exploding Snap, he'd heard countless long rants about our terrible Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Dad opened his mouth to ask more, but at that moment there came a knocking sound at the kitchen window. Astoria and I turned eagerly, hoping one of our letters had been returned, but instead, a small, brown owl we didn't recognize was perched on the windowsill. The haunted shadow had returned to Dad's eyes as he opened the glass to let the owl inside. As soon as the letter was removed from its leg, the bird flew away. Astoria and I watched as Dad slowly opened the envelope. He skimmed the contents of the letter before letting out a long sigh.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Is it about Mister Broderick?" asked Astoria.
Dad glanced at both of us and then nodded. "The Ministry's top aurors are investigating the matter, but so far there has been no luck."
Silence descended as we decorated the last of the biscuits. It took Dad a long time to move back to the kitchen table. He read the letter again and again before folding it neatly in half and slipping it into his pocket. Astoria coated the remaining biscuits with white frosting and red gumdrops, not even bothering to add even a little creativity, while I spread and respread icing over the same gingerbread hinkypunk.
Why did they need aurors to investigate an accident in the Department of Mysteries? The Ministry was extremely cautious as to who they allowed into the Department. Usually only Unspeakables dealt with accidents there, and select aurors were brought in only if the Dark Arts were involved. Were the Dark Arts involved with Bode's accident? My gaze drifted over to my dad, who wore a frown as he placed gumdrops on a phoenix biscuit. Was the accident really an accident?
"I believe I have won," said Hoben, interrupting my train of thought.
The three of us turned to stare at the elf and the piles of biscuits surrounding him. All of the biscuits were decorated with detail, down to the claws on the dragons and the flaming feathers on the phoenixes. They were masterpieces compared to the colorful mess we'd made of our gingerbread biscuits.
24 December, 1995
To my adorable Tracey,
Merry (almost) Christmas! I hope Isolde is stealthy delivering this, so your muggle family doesn't see. A muggle holiday must be so interesting! What do you do in your free time? Do they have games? Are their games any fun without magic? And how do you even get to your grandparents' house? You can't you floo powder, can you? Doesn't the Ministry disconnect all muggle fireplaces from the floo network? Tell me everything!
Speaking of the Ministry, I have some gossip for you. The Daily Prophet reported that there was an attack on a Ministry employee, but what the Prophet didn't say was that the employee was Arthur Weasley, he was in the Department of Mysteries, and he was attacked by a snake. If this was at Hogwarts, everyone would be up and arms against Slytherin (the presence of a snake automatically means we're guilty). But I like to think that the lack of accusations against our house means that once you leave Hogwarts no one bloody cares whether you were in Slytherin or Gryffindor.
Also, I've got to ask you something. It's been eating me up since before the end-of-term, and Astoria hasn't really helped matters, but I can't find an answer myself, and you're really the only one I could ask about this. Blaise wouldn't care, Nott would be useless, and don't even get me started on Pansy. You're the best for a reason, you know. And now I'm just writing random shite down because I don't want to start talking about the real issue. I can't keep avoiding this, so here goes:
Say there's this bloke. And he fancies me. Or I think he fancies me. He hasn't asked me out or anything like that, but I'm not thick, and I do know that if my friends laugh whenever I talk to him, it means he most likely fancies me. And I think he's a nice bloke who I really would like to get to know, don't get me wrong, but I don't think I fancy him back. Maybe I could. But you know I'd be shite at dating. It'd end up a disaster, and I think too well of him to put him through that mess. What the bloody hell do I do? Tracey, save me! Blaise thinks fancying people is stupid, Nott wouldn't know romance even if it hit him with bludger, and Pansy's idea of romance is stalking Draco (though she's says she's going to try getting over him in 1996 if you can believe it). You're the only one with common sense when it comes to these things!
Your friend-in-desperate-need,
Daph
24 December, 1995
To my awesome Pansy,
Merry Christmas Eve! And don't worry, I'm sticking to my diet. I only broke it today, and that's because Dad bought us treacle tart for pudding, and you know how much I love treacle tart.
How is Italy? I've always wanted to go. Where in Italy are you? Have you been to Rome yet? Dad went there once and he brought me back a book recording the studies one arithmancer made of the Vatican. Fascinating stuff. The angles used in certain rooms of the Vatican were specifically designed to repel magic. The arithmancer thought it had to do with the Catholic Church's extreme fear of the Devil and witchcraft (two things they associated together for some reason), but they had the knowledge to know that certain angles— And I'm rambling again. I know you don't care about arithmancy, especially arithmancy applied to historical architecture, but you know…it's just so interesting!
Feel free to ramble to me about wizarding laws and how you plan to reform them to improve our entire society. Tracey and I are waiting for you to take over the wizarding world someday. We want you to know that we've supported you all the way, and you should reward us when you come into your power. Preferably with big fat promotions.
We are going to the Greengrass Manor at the beginning of the new year as always. Dad is coming with us this time, which hasn't happened since the divorce. I'm sure Grandmother will be thrilled. She always complains that he only son never visits her. Not that I blame Dad. Visiting the family manor once a year is more than enough for me. I'm just glad Mum likes visiting her family manor even less than Dad does. If I had to see the Rowle family as well as the Greengrass family over the holidays, I might faint from the extreme pureblood-elitism of it all.
Anyway, Astoria is yelling at me about the garden. Apparently, the gnomes are invading again, and Dad's at work so we can't magic them away. I guess it's time for the Last Great Gnome Eradication of 1995. Wish me luck.
Have fun on your holiday!
Daph
A letter from our mum arrived on Christmas morning along with our gifts from her. Dad had left the letter and parcels on the kitchen table for us along with the tea and waffles Hoben had prepared for breakfast. Dad sat at the head of the table, still dressed in his blue plaid pajamas. His brown hair was mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it all morning. However, despite his exhaustion, my dad smiled when I entered the kitchen. "Merry Christmas, Daphne."
I smiled back as I took the seat opposite him. "Merry Christmas." I glanced to my left and said, "You too, Hoben."
The elf beamed at me as he brought the last plate of waffles to the table. "Merry Christmas, Miss Daphne."
"Elizabeth's gifts are here," said Dad, gesturing to the two gift-wrapped parcels.
I stared at them for moment and then sat down in the chair next to Dad. "I'll wait to Astoria's here."
Dad nodded. He knew our mum better than we did. He knew what she was like. He'd lived through years of her passive aggressive behavior before finally asking for a divorce. Dad took a sip of his tea and then asked, "Have you been writing to your friends?"
"Of course," I said.
"They're a good group." Dad had met Tracey when she'd come to stay with us for a week in the summer before our second year, and I'd introduced him to Blaise once when he'd picked Astoria and me up from the train station. I'd told him plenty of stories about Pansy and Nott though. I'd even told him about Nott wanting to be an auror. Dad hadn't said so aloud, but I think he was a little impressed by Nott. Dad understood the pressures of family.
"They are," I said with a smile. Mum's letter and presents disappeared from my mind as I spoke. "I mean, they have their faults of course. Pansy can be a stuck up elitist pureblood, and she really needs to get over Draco, but she's always there for her friends Blaise is secretly a spoiled brat even though he tries to hide it, and Nott, well Nott's learning how to stop pretending. And Tracey can be really petty—she once put a shrinking solution in Cassius Warrington's underwear because he said her blood was half mud." I laughed at the memory. Rumor has it that Madam Pomfrey had to charm Cassius's prick back to normal size. He asked for it to be bigger than it was before, and she'd flat out refused.
"It reminds me of this one time," said Dad. "My friend, Iain Travers…" He trailed off slightly, his forehead wrinkling as a frown started to form.
Whatever thought he'd had, it was interrupted by the arrival of Astoria. Still in her red pajamas and her dark hair sticking out at odd angles, she plopped herself down in the chair opposite me and helped herself to waffles.
"Mum's Christmas presents arrived today," I said.
Astoria, her eyes still slightly swollen from sleep, looked up at me and then down the table at the letter and gifts. She wrinkled her nose and then returned to eating her waffles in silence.
"That's what I said," I muttered.
We left Mum's letter and gifts until after breakfast. We chatted happily with Dad and Hoben as we ate pancakes. Our conversation turned to the classes Astoria and I were taking. Dad and I got into a debate over the reliability of Arithmancy in detecting the Dark Arts, while Astoria rolled her eyes and talked to Hoben about how the Lancashire Quidditch team was doing that season.
As the waffles disappeared and breakfast came to an end, the pinprick of dread that I'd felt when I first came downstairs grew into a suffocating weight in my chest. I glanced across the table at Astoria, but she seemed cool and collected as she discussed Potions class with Dad. I wished I could feel as calm about this as Astoria did, but Mum had never liked sharing us with Dad. A week in Liverpool during the winter holidays and two weeks over the summer, she accepted. However, if we ever chose to spend more time with Dad, our mum threw a fit.
Once the last waffle was gone, Dad went to the study to do some work before we opened the presents under the tree. Astoria and I helped Hoben with the dishes. He thanked us for washing and drying even though he knew that we were only avoiding the letter. Once Hoben left, there was no escaping for Astoria and me.
"You want to open it?" I asked.
Astoria shot me a glare. "Coward."
Well, I wasn't a Gryffindor for a reason.
However, I was the older sister. I didn't act like one much—I often left Astoria to deal with Mum and Dad—but this time, I could be the one who opened the letter. After taking a deep breath, I took the envelope from the table and carefully broke the seal. I tried to appear relaxed as I read over the contents of the letter, but my head was pounding. I'd received one too many angry letters from our mum in the past—calling us "ungrateful" and "selfish"—to be comfortable. However, this time her words were only kind. She told us how she and her boyfriend had decided to spend the holidays together and that she was busy planning and designing the wedding for a Bulstrode and a Carrow.
"What'd she say?" asked Astoria.
I glanced up from the letter. My sister was watching me with wide eyes, the nervousness I'd felt was written plainly on her face.
Lifting my head, I offered a smile to my little sister. "She wishes us a 'Merry Christmas', and she hopes we have a good time with Dad."
Astoria frowned. "Let me see that."
I handed her the letter, and she skimmed over the contents. "Well," she said, "what do you know."
"She seems excited about the wedding."
"The Sacred Twenty-Eight always have extravagant weddings," said Astoria. "You know she likes to be flashy."
I nodded. We stood there for a moment, sharing the relief. Our mum wasn't mad at us. She even seemed to be having a good time with her boyfriend. That was good. Really good. I only hoped she could stay this happy forever.
26 December, 1995
Daph,
How many times must I tell you to stop referring to me as "dark and mysterious"? You said it once in the presence of Millicent, and she started giggling. We will not remain "friends forever" if you keep encouraging her.
As for my family…well, they're my family. I hate myself when I'm around them. Once again, discussions of my future have come up, and once again, I have given noncommittal responses. Sometimes—and you will burn this letter after you receive it and never repeat these words—I wish I was in Gryffindor. Maybe then I would be stupid enough to tell my parents what I wanted to do with my life.
I am sorry about your mum.
Yes, I read about the attack on a Ministry employee, and yes, I knew who it was and where it took place. You get no prizes for guessing how I learned all this. What I do know, that you do not, is that whatever's inside the Department of Mysteries is not something Dumbledore wants but rather something the "King of all that is Dark and Evil" wants. I don't know what it is exactly, my sources are very careful around me when it comes to that subject, and it's lucky I managed to learn what I did.
I do think you are on the right path when you say that Dumbledore doesn't trust the Ministry. I don't trust the Ministry after everything I've seen Umbridge do at Hogwarts and will be happy when the Fudge Administration comes to an end. Of course, the next elected Minister could be far, far worse. Which would you prefer: a minister who insists on ignorance and sits back as the Dark Lord rises to power, or a minister who takes action and aids the Dark Lord's rise to power? My instinct is to say the former, but I think they're both equally deadly.
I've also been working on saying "muggleborn" instead of "mudblood", but it's rather difficult to do in my house. You have a good sister, even if you complain about her a lot.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,
Theo Nott
P.S. Was this long enough for you?
Almost all the Sacred Twenty-Eight families have manors located in Britain. Some of them, like the Abbott and Weasley homes, had been lost over the centuries due to wizarding wars or poor estate planning, but most of the manors were still intact. I knew the Nott Manor was hidden in Dorset, and the Parkinson Manor rested in Herefordshire. The Greengrass family home happened to be located in the rolling hills of the Yorkshire Dales.
We spent the first few days of the new year in the Greengrass Manor, something Astoria and I had done since we were born. The members of Greengrass family—the ones that were still in favor with Grandmother Dahlia—gathered there at the beginning of every year. Usually, because Dad was away on work, Astoria and I traveled by floo powder to visit. We would stumble out of the fireplace in the grand parlor, trying to look presentable enough to please our grandmother We never succeeded. However, this year, Dad took us there using side-along apparition. The three of us appeared in the neatly trimmed garden outside the manor, a gray sky looming overhead.
With granite walls and black framed windows, the Greengrass Manor was not an attractive home. Cold light always flickered from behind the floor-to-ceiling windows on the first floor. The south wall was covered from roof to garden in thick ivy—which was rumored to strangle anyone not of Greengrass blood who tried to enter the house without permission. Astoria and I had never tested this theory, so we had to take Cousin Alastair's word for it.
Grandmother's ancient house elf, Widge, greeted us when we arrived, and another house elf, Cob, led us to the parlor where our extensive family had gathered. The curtains, couches, tables, chairs, and mantle of the parlor were all decorated in the shades of green and gray that had long been associated with the Greengrass name. A portrait of Lobelia of the Green Grass Hills, the great matriarch of our family, hung over the fireplace. She looked regal in a light gray evening gown with her hair pinned up in an elegant bun and green jewels adorning her throat. Lobelia's hazel eyes, light brown hair, and stubborn chin were reflected in the people seated in the parlor. Impurities—such as Cousin Alastair's blue Selwyn eyes and my Rowle blonde hair—existed, but the traits of Lobelia still existed in the family.
"Aster." Grandmother Dahlia's voice filled the room as she greeted us from her seat on a dark gray armchair. "How many years has it been since you attended a family gathering, my boy?"
Thanked Cob for showing us to the parlor before answering his mother: "Three, I believe."
"I do think it was longer than that," said Grandmother.
"I attended one of your summer tea parties for the Society of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Dad reminded her.
"So you did," said Grandmother. She had a fond smile for her only son. Then, he turned to my sister and me. "Is school going well, Daphne?"
"Yes," I said. "I will be taking my OWLs this year."
"I expect only top grades from you," said Grandmother. "I always tell Aster that you could have been a Ravenclaw."
I managed a small smile for Grandmother and decided not to tell her that if I weren't a Slytherin, I would've wanted to be a Hufflepuff.
"And Astoria," said Grandmother. The look in her eyes was decidedly less warm than it had been for Dad and me. "How is Hogwarts for you?"
"Good," said Astoria. Her voice was little more than a squeak.
Grandmother nodded once before returning to her conversation with Uncle Dianthus. A wave of relief passed through Astoria and me. We'd survived our grandmother initial greeting. And this time, she hadn't even demanded that we go change into something more suitable. Perhaps it was a sign that we were growing up in her eyes.
As much as my sister and I would've liked to retreat to a corner, we, unfortunately, were obliged to greet the rest of the family. It seemed as though every one of our five nosy aunts, four ignorant uncles, two snobbish great aunts, two arrogant great uncles, four obnoxious cousins, and one bull of a grandmother had benign questions that we needed to answer.
This assessment was slightly unfair, because Astoria and I actually liked some of our relatives. Uncle Lisianthus and his late wife, Maira, had fought in the First Wizarding War against Voldemort until Aunt Maira's death in 1982. I didn't know all the details, but after her passing Lisianthus retired from the Ministry and now worked with some activist group, supporting goblins' rights. Astoria and I had long agreed that Uncle Lisianthus didn't fit in with the rest of the aristocratic family. Of course, he had the botanical name that the Greengrass family insisted on giving their children, but that was all. Rumor had it that Uncle Lisianthus had been a Gryffindor in school. However, Astoria and I enjoyed his presence, so we didn't question why he still attended family functions. Unfortunately, Aunt Tabitha Bainbridge (who was actually only two years ahead of me at Hogwarts and wanted a job at Gringotts when she graduated) had cornered our uncle to ask him about goblins.
We also liked Aunt Ianthe, who worked as a healer for Puddlemere United. She sometimes got us tickets for professional matches, and she and her girlfriend, a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, would take us out to dinner beforehand. We would have talked to her, but she was chatting with her sister-in-law Aunt Ariadne and playing with her infant nephew, Cypress. Astoria and I had a silent agreement to avoid our snot-nosed cousin as much as possible during our visit.
In the end, we were forced to talk to the rest of our relatives. We reminded Great Uncle Balsam which years we were in at Hogwarts, told Aunt Begonia what we wanted to do with ourselves after we finished school, and recounted to Cousin Alastair the new hexes students were using on each other in the hallways now.
It wasn't that our relatives were particularly awful. As far as I knew, none of them were Death Eaters, and most of them considered the Dark Lord to be an extremist. However, the Greengrass family tended to suffer from a severe case of elitist-sticks-up-their-arseholes syndrome. Some people, like our father, Uncle Lisianthus, and Aunt Ianthe had managed to survive their upbringing and behave like normal people, but some of our other relatives retained their superior attitudes. Aunt Begonia was treated as a second-class family member because she'd married Edmund Vaisey, a man with no recognizable pureblood lineage, and Aunt Ianthe was looked upon as the "bad example" because she was almost forty and still unmarried. Aunt Amaryllis, who married a Selwyn, was Grandmother's clear favorite, and little snot-nosed Cypress, at the only male of us cousin, was the heir to the manor because he was the only one of us who could carry on the family name.
I often wondered if all pureblood families were like this. Of course, if my classmates at Hogwarts were anything to judge by, most Sacred Twenty-Eight were insufferable. The Malfoys, the Parkinsons, the Flints, the Bulstrodes, the Carrows, and the Notts all carried on the male-heir and pureblood intermarriage traditions, and some of them were even more extreme than the Greengrass family, believing it was the pureblood way or no way.
There were some families who were at least moving away from the belief that muggles were lesser beings—the Abbotts, the Macmillans, and the Weasleys being some examples. The Greengrass family didn't belong in the same category as the Abbotts and the Macmillans, but we certainly didn't fall into the same category as the Malfoys and the Notts. We were the middle ground. Traditional but not backwards. Strict but not oppressive. Tolerant but not generous. We could be worse, as Astoria and I liked to tell ourselves.
1 January, 1996
Daphne,
Don't lie to me. I know you haven't paid a second's attention to my diet while on holiday. You barely pay attention to the diet while we're at school. You think I don't see you stealing carbs off Blaise's plate? That prat is the worst influence.
Italy is great, by the way. The architecture is beautiful (including the magic-repelling angles). The weather is lovely. The blokes are all fit. I wish you lot could be here. It'd be a million times more enjoyable if my friends were here instead of my parents. I love my parents, of course, and I want to have a relationship just like theirs one day, but they are the sappiest people I've ever met and I'm embarrassed to be seen with them. If I didn't know any better, I'd have no idea they were barristers who'd helped put some of You-Know-Who's worst followers in Azkaban. When on holiday, they're on the level of the loon who writes The Quibbler. Merlin, I miss you lot.
Visiting the family manors isn't as bad as you make it sound. Great Uncle Crius always hosts our family gathering before Christmas, so I attended ours before we departed for Italy. Of course, we have it easy because his grandson Linus is obviously the heir. Doesn't your Grandmother want your Dad to remarry so he can have a son? She doesn't want her cousin's grandchild to inherit. Family politics can get so complicated when the inheritor of the estate isn't obvious. Oh well, enjoy your stay. I know you like nerding out with your uncle over the Gobin Wars.
Also, you'll be proud to know that I thought about writing a letter to Draco over the holidays, but when I wrote to Tracey, she talked me out of it. Pansy of 1996 does not have a crush on Draco. In fact, she thinks Roger Davies is quite fit. Your sister is going to have some competition for her bloke. Give her a heads up for me.
Miss you, love you, see you soon,
Pansy
2 January, 1996
To my always dramatic Daphne,
Happy New Year! Isolde was clever and didn't come until after we'd left my grandparents' house. Christmas with them was great! My grandma bought me an entirely new wardrobe of muggle clothing, and my grandpa bought me a book on animal biology. He knows me so well. It's interesting to learn about creatures from the magical perspective and then read about them from the muggle medical perspective. Not that you would know, since you take boring old Arithmancy instead of Care of Magical Creatures like a normal witch.
And to answer your questions: In our free time, we watch the telly (a box that has moving pictures which tell stories), we go ice skating (like we do at Hogwarts—only muggles don't cast spells at each other while skating), and we play games like chess (but the pieces don't destroy each other, you just take them off the board). Also, we get to my grandparents' house by driving like muggles. My mother has a driver's license and owns a car. It's a scary thing to ride in, and if you get into an accident in it, there's a high chance you'll die. 0/10 don't recommend.
The whole Ministry thing is crazy. My dad was talking about it a bit. He said they cleared everything up and it was largely a misunderstanding. Of course, he works in the sporting department and has no idea what's going on, really. I suppose you have some theory about why Arthur Weasley was in the Department of Mysteries that has nothing to do with a "misunderstanding". You'll have to tell me all about it when we get back. You know ow much I love earning money.
As for this boy who fancies you, I think you should try going out on a date with Adrian Pucey. I mean, sometimes it takes a date for you to start fancying someone. And a date isn't a long-term commitment—it's one date! Pucey seems like a nice bloke, not at all the sort to take it personally if you're not into him afterwards (unlike some blokes I know). Though, I have to admit, I always thought Blaise would be the one to get you to wake up from your I-don't-date mantra. Oh well, I've been known to be wrong every once in a while. Give it a shot! I think you'll really like Pucey.
And I completely understand you not wanting to talk to the others about Pucey. I once tried to talk to Nott about Natasha (you remember her, the Durmstrang girl), and the way he looked at me, you would've thought I turned into one of those Blast-Ended Skrewts. "What would I know about that?" he asked me. That idiot. Blaise understands dating and relationships about as well as you do, and don't even get me started on Pansy. Good luck to her on getting over Draco. All I can say is—it's about bloody time!
Love you, see you at school,
Tracey
2 January, 1996
To my bright and cheery and not-mysterious-at-all Nott,
Since you won't let me call you "dark and mysterious" anymore, I have to find new ways of describing you. Somehow "bright and cheery" doesn't feel right. Maybe I should try "pigheaded and prat-ish" next, what do you think?
I knew you were going to have more information than me! I just knew it! But it's certainly interesting that the Dark Lord wants something in the Department of Mysteries. Then, do you think that Dumbledore is trying to prevent the Dark Lord from getting whatever it is? That would make sense. After all Dumbledore doesn't trust the Fudge Administration to do anything right—and let's be honest, I don't either.
Tracey mentioned this to me in her letter and judging by my dad actually being home for New Years, it seems as though the whole Arthur Weasley in the Department of Mysteries fiasco was suddenly cleared up. My bet is someone threw at lot of weight around and maybe cast a few charms to get Weasley away scot free. Apparently, it was a misunderstanding that caused him to be there and not because of some secret movement by Dumbledore. I'm calling a load of Hippogriff shite on this misunderstanding. I think Dumbledore pulled some influence in the Ministry to get Arthur Weasley off without charges. It can't be anyone else. If we listen to Draco's talk, Arthur Weasley doesn't have that many high up connections except through Dumbledore.
Also, I'm sorry you're having a hard time with your family. You know I'm always here for you, and always ready to complain about situations at home. I'm at the Greengrass Manor right now, and my relatives are a constant reminder than I'm descended from pureblood snobs just like Draco and Pansy. We'll be back at Hogwarts soon, and you can go back to being the regular-good-boy-probably-should've-been-in-Gryffindor Nott we all know and love.
I miss your Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, by the way. Whenever I spend too much time at home, not doing magic, I think I forget everything I learned over the year. You might have to re-teach my everything at this rate! And I know that statement will give you nightmares to hold you over until we go back to school.
See you soon, my pigheaded and prat-ish Nott!
Lots of love,
Daph
P.S. Tracey's letter was half a piece of parchment longer than yours. You'd better get it together, Nott.
As much as spending time with the Greengrass family exhausted me, it was usually tolerable. The relatives I did like usually made up for the relatives I didn't. For every minute that I had to spend listening to Edmund Vaisey shower my grandmother in excessive compliments, I got to spend discussing different theses on the Goblin Rebellions with Uncle Lisianthus. And even though she had to tolerate Aunt Tabitha's older-than-thou attitude, Astoria could also have a three-hour long conversation with Aunt Ianthe about her job as a healer. Even Dad, who had to endure his mother's lectures about visiting home more often, managed to find enjoyment in listening to Great Uncle Balsam ramble about his days at Hogwarts. Overall, I think we were all glad we spend time at the family manor. At least, we felt like that until the last day. During our last meal with the Greengrass family, the balance of what was tolerable was lost, and I found myself immensely grateful that we were returning to Liverpool the next morning.
The grand dining hall had been set for twenty with Grandmother Dahlia at the head with her beloved daughter, Aunt Amaryllis on her left and her least favorite sister, Great Aunt Wisteria at the opposite end. As always, the seat on Grandmother's right was left empty in remembrance of Grandfather Adair. The Bainbridges and the Vaiseys were crowded together at the far end of the table where they'd spent the last few nights with the knowledge of just where they stood with Grandmother hovering over them. Aunt Amaryllis, her husband Uncle Julius Selwyn, and Cousin Alastair sat close to grandmother with Uncle Dianthus and Aunt Ariadne on the opposite side. The heir apparent, little Cypress, was in the nursery being cared for by one of the house elves. Dad, Astoria, and I found ourselves seated comfortably in the middle of the table, closer to Grandmother than the Bainbridges and Vaiseys at least.
The beginning half of our five-course meal consisted of idle chatter. Dad, Astoria, and Aunt Ianthe discussed how the Holyhead Harpies had flattened Lancashire last week. Uncle Julius caught Uncle Lisianthus up on Ministry gossip. Great Aunt Eva question Rosemary on how her first year at Hogwarts was going. Great Aunt Eva asked if Rosemary's cousins were helping her figure things out, and I suddenly needed to stuff my face with roasted potatoes. When my mouth was full, I realized the dish was actually rosemary roasted potatoes. For some reason, I felt even more guilty.
"Have you any thought on Gabriel Rosier's platform?" Even though, Aunt Amaryllis was seated near the end of the table, her loud voice carried all the way down to the Bainbridges. My uncles stuttered to a halt as they turned to hear Grandmother's response.
I knew the name Rosier was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but I had no idea what Aunt Amaryllis meant by "platform". By the narrowing of Grandmother's hazel eyes, however, I could tell the platform was nothing good.
"A load of hogwash," said Grandmother. "Always has been, always will be."
"But surely you agree with some of his points," said Aunt Amaryllis. Her husband nodded in agreement.
I glanced across the table at Astoria, wondering if she knew any more than I did, but her face was pinched as she tried to decipher what was being said. Dad shifted from side to side in his seat, pretending to be more interested in his pudding than the conversation going on around him.
Grandmother sniffed. "Anyone who begins his speech with 'the Dark Lord was not entirely wrong…' does not deserve to be chairman of any society, let alone one trying to uphold the ancient traditions of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."
And all at once the truth came crashing down around me. The Dark Lord. My family was discussing Voldemort.
I'd always thought the Greengrass family was firmly against the genocidal maniac, but from what I could gather from the conversation around me, some of my relatives might actually support him.
The realization hit me like a knock-back spell. For a moment, I could barely form a complete thought. My family? Mine? The venerable house of Greengrass? Decided from the great Lobelia of the Green Grass Hills who had famously been friends with Helga Hufflepuff? A family descended from a woman who believed in the equality of all? This family? Voicing support for the Dark Lord? My head was spinning with a sense of outrage and betrayal. Heat spread through my body and my hand curled into a fist around the silver fork I held.
I used to be proud to say that the Greengrass family were, in general, not muggle-hating Dark Lord-supporting arseholes—even though most of my relatives were still arrogant elitists who thought of muggles as some lesser species that should be kept as far from the magical world as possible. But still, at least the Greengrass name couldn't be found among nay of the Death Eaters.
But now… Now I wasn't so sure. What if one of the cousins secretly supported the Dark Mark on their arm? What if underneath the sleeve of their robe an inked skull and serpent dwelled? Perhaps it went back further. What if my aunt had secretly supported the Dark Lord during the First Wizarding War? What if she hadn't been caught and so she simply kept her secret all these years? What didn't I know about my family? What secrets had been kept hidden from me?
"Of course the Dark Lord wasn't entirely right," said Aunt Amaryllis, interrupting my thoughts. "His methods leave much to be desired—"
"Countless witches and wizards died," said Grandmother flatly.
"I know, Mother," snapped Aunt Amaryllis. "They were my friends, my classmates, my professors. They were Aster's as well."
Dad twitched at the mention of his name. Astoria and I turned to look at him. Our dad never talked about his experiences during the Dark Lord's first rise to power. He and our mum had lived through it, but the only thing I'd ever heard them say was some variation of "It was a dark time, Daphne," before swiftly changing the subject.
"And do you want to watch it happen again?" asked Grandmother. "Do you want to put your children through the same thing?"
Aunt Amaryllis glanced across the table at Cousin Alastair. The look was so fleeting that I would have missed it if I hadn't been staring at her. Then, I watched as her eyes drifted down the table to where Uncle Lisianthus sat. If anyone had something to say on the horrors of the First Wizarding War, it was him. After all, his wife had been murdered barely a year into their marriage. Not even pureblooded Slytherins were wholly safe from the Dark Lord if they opposed him.
"Gabriel Rosier is an idiot," said Uncle Lisianthus finally, "who never stepped out of the shadow of his younger brother. Regis Burke the Younger is the best choice for chairman. Rosier knows it, and his vocal support of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a last ditch effort to gain some votes."
"He will certainly have Lucius Malfoy's vote," said Great Uncle Benjamin from the far end of the table. "And you know how many votes come with Lucius Malfoy's."
I scowled at the reminder of a name I hated. There was, regrettably, some truth to all of Draco's bragging about his father's influence.
"Are we really going to make You-Know-Who's second rise to power so easy?" asked Ianthe.
An unnerving silence settled at the table. Aunt Amaryllis and Uncle Julius exchanged silent glances. Aunt Begonia shifted in her seat, while her children stared at their food. Great Aunt Wisteria glowered down the table at Aunt Ianthe, who was determinedly ignoring her. Dad looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else, and I think Astoria was trying to disappear into her chair. Aunt Ariadne suddenly said, "I should check on little Cypress," and excused herself from the table. The door slammed shut behind her, and the silence that had been cast over the table disappeared.
"Daphne!" barked Grandmother. Her loud voice caused Aunt Begonia to jump in her seat.
I winced as I turned to look down the table. Of all Lobelia's descendants, I thought Grandmother Dahlia resembled her the most. Though Grandmother's dark hair was now gray and her oval face wrinkled, she had the same sharp eyes and proud nose. In her mint green evening gown, Grandmother looked every bit as regal as the founder of our family.
"Yes, Grandmother?" I asked, hoping my voice came out stronger than I felt.
"What do you think of Rosier's platform?" asked Grandmother.
"I did not hear Rosier's platform," I said. My fingers fiddled with the hem of my shirt beneath the table.
"Were you not listening to a word we've said?" snapped Grandmother.
"I was listening, Grandmother. But I've only gathered bits and pieces. I don't want to share an opinion when I'm uniformed. I can tell you, however, that I believe the Dark Lord should be stopped at all costs."
Grandmother's eyes bored into me, weighing my answer. I stayed as still as possible and met her gaze as calmly as I could. The hierarchy of Grandmother's favorites would always be clear. Amaryllis was the dutiful daughter, yes, but our dad was the prodigal son. His absence during most family functions only made Grandmother miss him more, and as he was her only son who could pass on the Greengrass name, Grandmother hoped Dad would marry again one day and give her an heir besides little Cypress.
Cousin Alastair would always be her favorite grandchild. He was the perfect image of ambitious, pureblood wizard—but because he was Selwyn, he could not inherit the estate. I was her second favorite and had been ever since I was thirteen. I'd gotten into an argument with Grandmother over the family investments in artifacts that used dark magic, and instead of finding me impertinent, she decided I was a clever child.
"You should stay informed, Daphne," said Grandmother at last. "It would be a travesty for your generation to grow up ignorant of the world's happenings. Read up on the Society of Twenty-Eight's election, and then write to me on your views. I appreciate hearing them even if we disagree."
"Yes, Grandmother."
I could feel Cousin Alastair's glare even though I wasn't looking at him. A wave of smug pride passed through me. Grandmother cared enough about my opinions to ask me to write to her. Take that, cuz.
My smugness vanished almost instantly when Grandmother turned to address the least favorite of her three grandchildren. Astoria quailed under Grandmother's fierce stare. My sister was no coward, but for some reason, she could never face Grandmother properly, and Astoria spent most of her visits to the manor avoiding conversation between just the two of them. Of course, Grandmother hated this and viewed Astoria as weak.
"And what do you think of the Dark Lord, Astoria?" asked Grandmother.
"Well…" Astoria realized she was speaking to quietly. She took a deep breath and tried again. "Well, Fudge says that the Dark Lord's return is nothing more than a lie told by Dumbledore."
"You don't truly believe that, do you?" asked Grandmother. "My son didn't raise an idiot for a daughter.
Astoria paled and quickly shook her head. She shot me a pleading look across the table. I wished I could help her. I wasn't always the best big sister, but surely this was one area I could help Astoria with.
I struggled to think of something to say that wouldn't make it too obvious that I was trying to save Astoria, but before I could speak, Grandmother let out a loud sigh and said, "This is what we get for electing a minister named after a confectionery." She looked down the table at the family around her. She took each one of us with a swift, appraising glance until her eyes came to rest on her daughter. "Remember what it was like, Amar. Remember the fear that gripped our hearts. Not just fear for muggles, but fear for other witches and wizards. Not just fear that someone you loved would be killed, but fear that someone you loved would be one of them."
My body stiffened at her words. A note of them rang true and echoed through my bones.
"A parent who raised you, a lover you hold dear, a sibling you thought you know, your best friend from school…" There was the slightest tremor to Grandmother's words. She quickly corrected herself and her voice returned to calm and commanding. "You think you know your friends and family, but the truth is that you never know. The ones who harbor darkness in their hearts… You only find out when they are too far from you, and you must turn your own wand on them." Her eyes narrowed as she stared at her daughter. "Do you want the world to relive that suffering? Do you wish such a fate on your children?"
"No, Mother."
"Then do not let Gabriel Rosier's platform prevail," said Grandmother. "Allowing one voice to prevail will only pave the way for others."
As always, Grandmother had the final word. No one dared response to her, and the last two courses of the meal returned the family to meaningless chitchat. Though even as we talked of school and work, a shadow hung over the conversation. A sense of foreboding clung to me as I spoke. I tried to be my usual energetic self, but I couldn't bring myself to keep up the façade and I sunk into silence by the time dessert arrived.
Not just fear that someone you loved would be killed, but fear that someone you loved would be one of them.
Tomorrow's departure couldn't come soon enough.
4 January, 1996
To my reticent Blaise,
I'm disappointed in you. You were the first one I wrote to, and everyone else responded before you. Did Isolde not get my letter to you? I know she's a bit of a daft owl, but she's never failed to make a delivery at all before. Though I do wonder: if I tried to send a message to the Dark Lord, would she'd fail to deliver that? Because the Dark Lord's supposed to be in hiding, but if owls can find him then why don't aurors just send him letters and follow the owls?
Off topic again. Astoria says I need to work on that, but I said she needs to work on not drooling when she looks at fit Quidditch players and she threatened to set the garden gnomes on me.
Write to me! I miss you!
Lots of love,
Daph
I didn't realize how much the visit to the manor had drained me until we returned to Liverpool. I slept for thirteen hours the next day, and when I came downstairs it was already past noon. Dad had left for the Department of Mysteries hours ago, and Astoria had gone to visit one of her friends who lived in London. She wouldn't floo back until late that night—which meant it was just Hoben and I.
The house elf was cleaning the breakfast dishes when I entered the kitchen. He stood on a wooden stool up to his elbows in soapy dishwater. His bulbous green eyes watched as I settled onto one of the barstools.
"Did you enjoy your beauty sleep?" he asked.
"I needed it."
"Mister Aster and Miss Astoria enjoyed omelets for breakfast." Hoben's goat cheese and prosciutto omelets were to die for. He must have made them to welcome us back from the manor. I felt a twinge of guilt for sleeping in. Hoben's cooking deserved to be properly appreciated.
"I'm sorry I missed your omelets," I said.
Hoben frowned. I knew he was taking in the crease between my brows and the slight downturn in my mouth. Hoben had cared for Astoria and I since our births, and he was good at knowing when we were upset. As he dried his hands with a dishtowel, he said, carefully, "I do not know your friend, but I am sorry for his loss."
My head jerked up at that. "What?" This was the first time I'd ever heard Hoben be off the mark with what was upsetting me. But my friend? What friend? What happened? Did I miss something?
Hoben's eyes widened. "Oh. Pardon, miss—I thought you were upset about something else."
"Hoben, what happened?"
"I should have known you would not have had a chance to see the Prophet yet," said Hoben, shaking his head at his own mistake. He hopped off the wooden stool and made his way over to the kitchen table where my dad's copy of the Daily Prophet had been left open.
I leapt off the barstool and snatched the paper out of Hoben's hands. It was open to a page about some stock falling dramatically. I couldn't care less about stocks. That was Blaise's thing. What friend? Was it Blaise? Was it Nott? Or Tracey? Or Pansy? What had happened?
Not just fear that someone you loved would be killed, but fear that someone you loved would be one of them.
"Hoben? Where is it?" I asked, my voice higher pitched than usual as I flipped frantically through the pages. One of them tore when I turned it took quickly.
"I would have found it for you if you hadn't snatched it out of my hands," grumbled Hoben. He must have saw my expression, because he quickly changed his tone and said, in the gentlest voice possible, "It's on the front page."
I flipped the pages until I found the "The Daily Prophet" across the top in big black letters. I skimmed the words below. "Masud Gamal, radical multi-millionaire businessman, passed away in St. Mungo's Hospital on December 24th, 1995…" The words were hollow as I read them. I knew the name even if I didn't know the man personally. I'd seen him once on Platform 9¾. He had a handsome hooked nose and curling black hair. Laugh lines had framed his dark eyes, and he looked at his step-son fondly even if they hadn't been close. "…Made famous for his practice of investing in muggle businesses… Gamal's will revealed that the Egyptian businessman left the majority of his vast fortune to his wife of less than two years, Letizia Zabini."
5 January, 1996
Blaise,
Oh Merlin, Hoben just showed me the Daily Prophet. I'm so sorry about your stepfather. He sounded like an all right bloke from everything you told me. I know you weren't close to him and all, but it still hurts to lose someone, and you know I'm here for you. It's all right if you don't want to write or talk about it. I'll see you at school.
Love you always,
Your best friend forever,
Daph
8 January, 1996
Daph,
I'm sorry that I couldn't reply sooner. I didn't respond to anyone's letters. Number Six was a decent bloke, but I never had more than a handful of conversations with him, so it's not as though I can grieve his passing. It seems to be heart failure that took him. We may be magical, but the same illnesses that take muggles take us as well—or at least that's what my mother said in her eulogy.
Number Six passed away on Christmas Eve, but my mother still insisted on opening presents the next day and celebrating my birthday the day after. I could see the house elf giving her a distrustful look, and I can't say I blame the elf. We did—finally—have a funeral for Number Six on New Years' Eve. It was a silent affair, and to be honest, I'm already counting the days before she brings Number Seven into our lives.
I'm ready for this holiday to be over. When we get back to school, I recommend we grab some food from the kitchens and find an empty classroom. I'll smuggle some firewhiskey in. We can catch up on our miserable home lives, and you can tell me your new theory in this war between Dumbledore and the Ministry.
I'll see you at the station on Sunday,
Blaise
P.S. We might have to open the firewhiskey on the Hogwarts Express.