September 20, 1991

Bellatrix Lestrange's Farewell Party

London

The funeral was small and apologetic, and the mourners seemed to consist largely of people whose main regret was that the guest of honor was so late at arriving to the scene. Practiced impassivity, rather than sorrow, was the order of the day, and even Narcissa Malfoy, the deceased's favored sister, looked more relieved than otherwise.

The casket – crassly, perhaps, but Pureblood traditions were nothing if not self-interested - was open, for no member of any of the families comprising the Sacred Twenty Eight was ever crossed off the relevant family tree without the confirming signatures of the guests-in-the-book as legal witnesses to the fact that the deceased was, indeed, present and accounted for. That way, Sirius had informed Harry, any inconveniently taxable sins that might come back to haunt the living heirs were thoroughly interred with the body. Andromeda Tonks was there, unaccompanied by her husband and daughter, and her regal form, strong features and sleek, pitch-black hair gave more than one bystander entering the hired parlor a start… The resemblance between her and Bellatrix was remarkable: the major difference being that Bellatrix had been physically tiny in life and Andromeda just skimmed six feet.

"That's just creepy," Ron muttered as the three boys skulked under the cloak in the back corner of the parlor. "I don't see why she doesn't use glamours or something. Who'd want to look like that cow?'

"She was born first," Neville pointed out. "If anything, the cow looked like her." He craned his neck discreetly as Augusta, impassive and as imposing as anyone there, approached the corpse on the dais and pulled out her wand. Narcissa started, alarmed, and even the morticians and ministry officials looked a little worried, but Harry immediately recognized the incantations she was chanting (it was nothing so subtle as murmuring) as those used to confirm the genetic identification of (most commonly) fallen family members compromised beyond recognition. Again, the boys watched as Andromeda stepped forward, pulling out a single strand of her hair, and offered it to the Matriarch Longbottom… Augusta took the hair, and performed a few more movements. A bright, small flash sparked, and the old woman stepped back, nodding.

"Confirmed," she announced, to no one in particular, though her eyes flicked, nevertheless, to the boys' corner. Not once had she looked into the casket itself.

Sirius came forward then, to take her arm and lead her out of the parlor. The three boys shuffled after him, and into the side chamber. Three heads – one black, one blond, and one fiery red – popped into view, hovering bizarrely before the rest of them followed. Augusta released Sirius arm gently and came over to take Neville's face in both her hands, kissing his forehead regally.

"Longbottom is satisfied," she announced. "For the moment. Two down, two to go."

"Don't we get to pi… I mean, wee on her?' Ron said plaintively. "Mum says she was reported in the party that killed my uncles too, and even if it was never actually confirmed, I was looking forward to that bit!"

"You're an idiot, Ron," a feminine voice said scathingly, and from under a second, considerably smaller, invisibility cloak, a bushy brown head popped out. "The invitation was for symbolic weeing, honestly!"

"I assure you, it was not," Augusta said, and provided Sirius, each of the boys, and Hermione herself, with a sizable vial. "The loo's right there, Neville. Each of you follow, and once the casket is interred for good, the contents of your vials will automatically Vanish themselves to the interior. That bitch will be soaking in it for all eternity."

"How very revolting." Sirius kissed her cheek. Under the vast network of wrinkles and stern, she dimpled at him as the girl she once was. "Rem sent a bit too. Alright, he's an ex-werewolf, but the principle still stands."

"How sweet of him." She watched as the children trooped obediently, one after the other, into the facilities. "It's good to have you back, Sirius. I never did believe that tripe they spouted on your betraying the Potters, you know. Your lot made my Frank's life as a prefect …" She paused. "Challenging… but he always said, as did poor Alice, that there were no more faithful friends than James, you, and your husband."

"Not Peter?"

"Him, they never liked." Her nose twitched in faint disgust. "A panderer, Alice called him, and in the end… What can you expect from a pig but a grunt? No, I told Minister Bagnold that they'd made a mistake there, but what do I know? I'm old, and she just patted me on the head and reminded me that you'd confessed yourself." Her iron gaze turned to him full on. "In the future young man, do remember to phrase your legal statements more precisely? The staff of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has never been known for its capability to discern between melodrama and metaphor, and remarks such as "It was all my fault, I killed them" even when offered in the grieving and unbelieving moment, do not tend to help your cause."

"I will keep it in mind," he said, and bowed as Harry emerged, rinsed and dried vial in hand.. Augusta Longbottom tucked in neatly in her purse. The rest followed, and when all was settled, she took Sirius' arm again.

"I find myself a bit peckish," she announced. "Shall we?"

"We shall," Sirius said. "Remus will meet us there."

"Excellent. I presume he's making the Other Arrangements?'

"He owled this morning;" Sirius confirmed. "The take-away from the curry shop off Diagon will be ready by the time we're finished, and will be delivered to St. Mungo's by the time we get there."

"Well done," she said. "Frank does like his masala, and your mother would never forgive us, Neville, if we came without papadums."

"DIagon Alley has a curry shop?" Hermione asked. "Really?'

"No," Sirius said. "But the Muggle curry shop right across from the Leaky, on the Muggle side, has a wizard for an assistant manager. Pay's shite, but the goblins at Gringotts have him on a nice little side-contract for his regular delivery services. Alright, grab a hold of the Portkey, everyone." He extracted a sleek fedora from somewhere inside his robes. "On the count of…" His pocket chimed. He held up a finger, and dug out a familiar mirror. "Hey Moonblossom, what's up?'

"My blood pressure," Remus said grimly. "Dumbledore's invited himself along for lunch."

"Excuse me?'

"He says he wants to pay his respects to Madam Longbottom."

"To… Paying one's respects is one thing, but one does not simply… Has the man no couth? " Madame Longbottom said indignantly. Even Ron looked taken aback. "To intrude without invitation on such an ostensibly delicate occasion… Who does he think he is?"

"Madam Longbottom." Remus sketched a half bow. "I do apologize. I tried to dissuade him, but he is not be dissuaded."

"It's alright, Gran," Neville said unexpectedly. "It's not about us, really. He's just trying to get dirt on Harry, or rather on his guardians for the custody case. It's pretty obvious, isn't it, but it's to his shame, not ours, and nobody of any proper breeding could ever think otherwise. We'll just… rise above it."

His Gran's eyes rested on him, surprised, and with surprised approval. Harry couldn't help but be amused and a little unsettled. "Breeding" he knew, at least in Neville's world-view, had nothing whatsoever to do with blood, but still. He'd even got the latter-yeared Draco's self-deprecating, pompous little smirk of an accent down.

"Well said, Neville," she said, and then, musing… "He'll offer to pay for the meals for everyone, of course, as a polite nod to the inconvenience… Under normal circumstances, Sirius, you would refuse of course, but this time… Hmm… How to manage it…"

"Hermione's a Muggleborn," Ron said helpfully. "It's to be expected she wouldn't know our traditions. Maybe you could use her?"

"I may be a Muggleborn, but that doesn't mean I'm inherently uncivilized, Ronald," Hermione snapped. She tilted her nose up and sniffed. "My manners are as good as anyone's, I'll have you know, and my parents would rather have their wisdom teeth removed without anesthesia before they'd presume on someone else's social engagements like that!"

"I have no idea who Anna Thesa is," Ron said. "But I wasn't trying to insult you, Hermione. Blimey, I was just saying; there are countries that have different traditions from us, Perce says, not worse, just different, and I just thought…" He fumbled "I dunno. I don't know anything about Muggles, but they're obviously different, right?'

"Yes," she conceded after a moment, and the nose lowered a bit. "We can be. But not that different. Not on the important things."

"Be that as it may," Augusta Longbottom said firmly. "Your idea has definite merit, Mr. Weasley. You are a child, Ms. Granger, and I think your bright lovely smile and an "Isn't that ever-so-nice, Headmaster; don't you think so, Professor Black" would be considered a faux-pas that could easily be attributed to your age rather than your heritage." She patted the girl's arm. "I know it goes against your every instinct and obviously proper training, dear, but you really would be doing me a favor. I'd slap him silly for the presumption myself, but he knows I know better, and let's be honest, I'm not really in any position to plead undue grief as my excuse."

"I'm just leaving now," Remus said from the mirror, resigned. "Oop, here he comes."

"I hope he splinches himself," Hermione muttered. "Honestly. I'm embarrassed for him!"

"Don't bother," Sirius advised. "Let's just concentrate on enjoying our lunch and running up the bill. As the most promising students in your year, I would certainly say you deserve the fun..."

The exquisitely appointed French café that they attended was, surprisingly (or perhaps not, the occasion considered) in Paris. Sirius landed neatly, catching the tumbling children like a row of queasy dominos, and set them upright just in time to catch an incoming Remus's eye in a sympathetic furious grimace as the History of Magic professor gallantly straightened Augusta.

"Bienvenue, Madam," he said in his soft Welsh accent, and bowed deeply. "It's an honor. "

"Indeed," she returned, and straightening her vulture hat, looked him over with a sharp and blushingly appreciative eye. "Hmm. Still as fit as the Fates seem to have allowed you, Lupin?'

"He's still cured, if that's what you mean," Neville said. "Honestly, Gran! How is that polite?'

"He's your teacher, Neville," she returned. "Considering how lax the old goat seems to be on even the most fundamental rules of prudent society these days, I thought it prudent to check." Again, she offered her grandson a scouring look. "I must say, child... Hogwarts is doing wonders for you. Never mind your promising academic start, you're learning to assert yourself nicely, though you do need to learn the art of reproving indirectly, obviously. We'll work on that."

Nev blinked at her. She took his arm, rather than Sirius'.

'Onward we go, then," she said. "Shall you order for us, Professor Lupin? The children, I am presuming, don't speak French, and I can't be bothered, since the bother seems so readily to be waiting for us inside." She nodded through the faceted bay window at Dumbledore's garish, bobbing hat.

"But of course," he said, and winked at the kids. "Real silver," he said in an undertone. "I'm so excited! I feel like I'm courting reckless death by etiquette."

Harry snorted. Neville grinned. Ron looked uncomfortable. Hermione giggled.

"Silver, Ronald," she said. "Werewolves? This is Paris, they'll have all the properly posh flatware."

"I know, Hermione," he said. "I got it. I just…" He looked awkwardly down at himself. He hadn't felt bad about the shabby state of his robes at the funeral, the particulars and the invisibility cloak considered, but there was no denying he looked a bit out of place. Augusta just whipped out her wand again. A deepening color charm to compensate for the faded fabric, a bit of pseudo-embroidery that covered the worst of the mended rents, and a swift polishing charm on both shoes and hair settled him, if not elegantly, than at least decently. After a quick look around, she whitened Harry's shirt, tamed Hermione's hair into an elegant twist (adding tiny lion earrings that roared adorably in her ears) and unwrinkled Neville from top to toe, starching his collar in the process.

"Much better," she pronounced, and straightening her vulture hat once again, reasserted her grasp on her grandson's arm, and led the way into the shimmering, scented interior of the restaurant.

Harry ate his salad quietly, elbows carefully off the table and avoiding Dumbledore's eye assiduously as on one side of him, Neville discreetly tutored Ron on how best to crack and eat mussels and Hermione happily munched her warm artichoke hearts. Sirius and Remus chatted politely with the Headmaster, pausing occasionally to offer each other a forkful of escargot as Augusta worked her stately way through her brandied lobster bisque. Dumbledore himself, as twinkling and expansive and apparently oblivious of tensions as ever, enjoyed the bread basket alongside his cock-a-leekie soup.

"These are disturbing, Longbottom," Ron said under his breath to Neville. "Tasty, but disturbing." Dumbledore caught the aside and chuckled understandingly.

"A new experience for you, Mr. Weasley?' he inquired.

"Yeah," Ron said. "I'm normally not encouraged to slurp at the dinner table."

Harry snerfed into his lettuce. More guffawed, really, but he couldn't help himself. It was such a Ron thing to say, he thought, no matter his age.

"Ah, young Harry!" Dumbledore beamed. "A laugh! I was beginning to wonder if you could smile at all."

"Why would you wonder that, Headmaster?" Remus inquired, looking pointedly at the appropriated bread basket. Dumbledore ignored his look.

"Oh, only that your charge seems to have gotten off at a bit of a rough start at Hogwarts," he said. "Socially speaking, if not academically. I've worried."

"It's been less than three weeks," Hermione pointed out. "And he's got them now, doesn't he? Friends, that is?" She glared rather fiercely. Harry was surprised; the law-abiding Hermione he remembered wouldn't hear a word against the Headmaster, much less have confronted him in public. Then again, she'd always been rather fond of her newspaper subscriptions, and as September moved forward toward October and the uneasy promise of November, she was becoming less and less enthralled with a man who, as those papers reported, was for whatever reason absolutely determined that Harry's Muggles, who by all reports (including that of Harry himself) didn't want the chance, should receive the opportunity to practice their limited capacity for remorse on a perfectly well-off child.

Hermione Granger, Harry thought, may have been annoying as a girl… But he'd forgotten too, the absolutely unlimited size of her heart, and that fierce drive for justice that she'd had, full grown, right from the start. Never mind her capacity to forgive him at least, on that daily, or rather minute-by-minute basis, once she determined that he needed , as her friend-whether-he-liked-it-or-not, her forgiveness more than she needed higher grades.

Once that had processed… He'd crumbled. He couldn't help himself.

The day before, September 19th - her first birthday away from home – had cemented his decision. She'd been abnormally quiet all day, to the point of the worrying, when he'd sat down in front of her in potions and jotted the date. The memory of the occasion had come back in a rush, and the quiet sniffle behind him had done him in.

"Granger," he'd said half an hour later. "You're bollocksing it up."

"What?' She'd looked up in alarm, standing on her toes to peek into what was supposed to be her simmering cauldron.. "Oh no! It's totally vaporized! Oh no!"

"Bad luck," he'd said with sympathy, and as she'd glared, had reached over and reached in, and extracted (courtesy of a happy little charm that never failed to win love from the grandchildren) a single chocolate raspberry cream cauldron cake with an unlit candle on top… He'd lit it with a quick spark… She looked from the cake, to him, and back, mouth ajar.

"What…"

"Happy birthday," he'd said.

"How…"

"Magic," he'd said. Snape had swooped over, of course, and scathed as only he could, but Hermione's cheeks were flushed pink, and she had icing on her nose, and she didn't care one whit for the zero she earned for her empty pot.

"Does this mean we're friends again?' she'd said timidly as they'd left the classroom. "Only, I'm a big pest, I know, and I didn't mean to be so rude, really. I just…" She'd pinked again. "I'm kind of used to being the best," she confided in a whisper. "Mum warned me that I might not be, here, but…"

"Indeed he does." The indulgent twinkle from the Headmaster was blinding. "And you, Miss Granger? How are you adapting to all the changes in your new life?'

"I have friends too, if that's what you're asking," Hermione returned defiantly. "Thank you for your concern."

"I've never had any friends before," Harry said bluntly. "Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never encouraged it; they were afraid that people would realize I'm a freak. And Dudley, my cousin, would beat anybody up who ever liked me." He looked straight at Hermione. "I reckon I just didn't see what was in front of me till it stayed, right? Only, I'm not used to other kids being stubborn enough to stick around when I try to chase them off for what I've always thought of as their own safety."

Hermione stopped, her forkful of artichoke at her lips.

"Oh Harry," she trembled, and buried her face in her ice water to prevent the tears. Ron patted her back.

"Told you he'd come around," he said bracingly. "Only Bill told me, right, while he wrote right before school started. Said you'd likely be a bit touchy with knowing your name was all over the papers for the bad things that happened to you; who'd want that, he said, and you'd be a bit easier once you were settled in your new place, with proper guardians who understand magic. I reckon I hadn't thought of it like that, but Mum said he was right, and that I – we all – should just give you your space, and well…" He looked a bit sheepish. "I reckon I'm a bit of a prat sometimes, and I want to be as famous as anybody, but it's like the Sorting Hat said, right? Your mum was the hero, not you. You're just an ordinary bloke, right? Like the rest of us?"

There was a plea in there somewhere… Not far from the surface, either.

"I really, really am," Harry reassured him. "Bit weird, isn't it, to have all these people talking at me like I'm some great wizard when all I did was sit there and cry and wee myself while a curse bounced off me because of a spell someone else did? Remus explained it to me though; he said it probably makes people feel better when there's somebody physically left there to remind them that any evil can be defeated, and they're more likely to want to make that live reminder their hero than one who passed on for the cause."

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"How do you mean, my boy?" he asked.""When you say 'because of a spell someone else did'? You can't possibly remember what happened that night, can you?'

"I remember some things," Harry said, and it was true… His Auror-assigned Mind Healer had been a brilliant Legilimens, and painful as it had been, when he'd requested she work with him to elicit as many memories of his parents as she could, had come through for him. Some of the ensuing revelations had been startling, to say the least. Others had provided his heart with a kind of soothing balm that only hysterical laughter could provide. "Mum was singing something, or chanting, I suppose, and Dad was calling up, telling her to take me and run, and then she was yelling, and Voldemort was laughing, this really high laugh, and telling her to move, and she called him a mincing moldy toerag and told him to sod off and die." He caught Augusta's stare. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but she really did say that. Loudly. Then everything went green." He spooned up soup. "And then I was looking up at stars, and it was really, really cold. I reckon that's when you left me sitting on the doorstep at my aunt's house, Professor. I've always wanted to ask; why didn't you just knock on the door instead of leaving me there with a half-page letter telling her her sister had just been murdered?'

Dumbledore's mouth opened and closed a bit. Harry ate more soup, the picture of bright, green-eyed inquisitiveness. Neville kicked him gently under the table. Harry's eyes flicked over briefly. Careful, Neville's own eyes warned. That's more than enough new information for him to work with. Let him hang himself now.

"It was a bit of a hurried night, my boy," the Headmaster said delicately. "There really wasn't time to sit and discuss the sad specifics."

"You had time to write the letter," Harry pointed out. "And cast the blood wards. Those must've taken an hour at least. A cuppa and a 'there there' wouldn't have taken that much longer, and might have put them in a mood to do more for me than stuff me in a boot cupboard for the next ten years."

"Harry…"

"He's not exaggerating," Sirius said to the flabbergasted Augusta. "I popped by and took pictures. Want to see?' He reached for a thick wallet and pulled out a series of wizarding photographs. "Look here. There's his toddler mattress, and the sheet – they were very generous, they gave him one big enough to wrap himself in – and if you look closely, you can see that family of spiders waving from the corner there. Prolific little buggers, but I suppose they were good company, eh, pup?'

But Augusta was just staring at Harry, her lips quivering with…

"Your mother," she said in a restrained voice. "Called He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a mincing moldy toerag? To his face? And told him to…"

"I was only fifteen months old," he said apologetically. "But it's always stuck in my head (he offered Dumbledore a rather pointed look at that last) because my aunt and uncle always told me that my parents died in a drunk car crash, you see? That they were drunk. The two accounts just didn't seem to add together."

"Died in a…" Remus' mouth dropped, outraged. "They did not!"

"When it comes down to it, that's really the least of their sins, Moony. Remember, we have the list? Anyway, it definitely sounds like Lily," Sirius said. "The accounts never talk about it now, but she had a mouth on her, our girl, that would make a werewolf blush."

"And did," Remus recovered himself. "Frequently." He popped in the last escargot. "Lovely. How are you doing with those mussels, boys?'

"All done." Neville squeezed and tilted the last shell expertly as he scraped the meat out with his tiny fork, dipped it in the tinier bowl of sauce and schlurped it up. "Yum. Brilliant."

"Slimy, yet satisfying." Ron agreed.

Hermione giggled again, and hummed quietly. Harry grinned back.

"Hakuna Matata," he hummed back. "What a wonderful phrase…"

"Hakuna Matata," she sang quietly. "It's no passing phase…"

"It means no worries," he joined in. "Till the end of our days… It's our problem free… philosophy… Hakuna Matata!"

"Admirable," Sirius said. "If sadly unrealistic. And…. What?'

"It's a Muggle thing," Hermione said patronizingly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Yeah," Harry said. "Don't you worry your inbred little brain about it. Though as someone once said to me, half-blood's better'n half baked, and…"

Hermione cracked up. Ron and Neville looked mildly affronted. Augusta sighed.

"It's from an American film," she told her grandson. "Quite popular. The protagonist was, aptly, a young lion cub with rather peculiar taste in friends – peculiar friends with rather peculiar taste in food. Mr. Weasley there just inadvertently quoted one of the more popular lines referencing the fact."

"Gran…"

"It's not an insult, Neville," she said patiently. "Peculiar people are by far the most interesting, and you may have your legacy and heritage and reputation to maintain, but that doesn't mean you're not entitled to your gentlemanly quirks."

"We're quirks," Ron said to Harry and Hermione. "How about that? And not just quirks, but gentlemanly quirks. D'you think they have a register at the Ministry for that?'

"Speaking of the ministry," Remus said, cutting them off. "Did you get the Board of Governers' approval for the temporary potions teacher replacement, Headmaster?'

"I did," Dumbledore said, as the children looked up. "She'll be here first thing tomorrow."

"Temporary…" Hermione looked up on high alert. "What happened to Professor Snape?'

"He had to leave quite urgently yesterday evening," Professor Dumbledore said. "He received a letter that put him in quite the state of agitation, and asked for permission to go see the sender as soon as his classes ended for the day. I agreed of course, but no worries, as your song says. He'll be back, hopefully, before the beginning of next week, and in the meantime, we will be graced with the presence of one Professor Eulalia Shelley. Charming woman, I've heard."

"Eulalia?' Neville repeated, and then, diverted… "Gran? How do you know about American films?'

Augusta hesitated.

"Your father had a passion for them when he was a boy," she said finally. "One, coincidentally, that he found he shared with your mother. At the time, I thought it foolish, but after they were hospitalized, I talked to Arthur Weasley – your father, Mr. Weasley – and he was kind enough to get the necessary permits for a magically adapted Muggle television and video player." She pronounced the words carefully. "They're kept primarily in the children's ward, but now and again, their nurses will take them down, as part of their therapy, and allow them to watch their favorites, and to introduce them to new ones. Your mother in particular is fond of anything with animals."

This was all said with a certain reluctance.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?' Neville asked, a bit lost.

"Your other relatives don't approve," she said honestly. "And didn't, of the idea of introducing you to anything Muggle at all. They were all so worried, you see, that you were a Squib, and didn't want …" She took a breath. "I suppose I didn't want to give you any encouragement that the Muggle world has its good points, for fear you'd just… give up on what little magic you may have had, and decide to embrace the culture entirely when you were old enough. I couldn't bear the thought of you…"

She stopped. Neville looked down at his plate.

'We don't have to worry about that now, anyway," he said to his mussel shells.

"No," she said, shaking herself briskly. "No, we don't. Ah, here's the next course."

"I have piles of movies at home, Madam Longbottom," Hermione ventured. 'I do mean piles, right from the beginning of the cinematic age to the brand new ones. Mum and Dad get them for their patients to watch while they're doing their teeth. I'd be happy to owl them and ask them to box some up for you, if you can get Mr. Weasley to enchant them, that is?"

"Thank you, Miss Granger," Augusta said gravely. "I would be most indebted to you – as would the other patients at the hospital, I'm sure. They've become quite the popular pastime."

Hermione blushed and bobbed her head eagerly. Dumbledore smiled indulgently as the small plates were cleared and the larger unloaded.

"Do you have a favorite class, Harry?' he asked. "I've gotten nothing but good reports from all your teachers thus far, though of course, it's early in the year yet."

"I like them all," Harry said, watching as a huge plate of boneless seared lamb medallions, buttered peas and baby onions and sautéed rosy whole baby potatoes was set in front of him. The empty bread basket was replaced by two more, one discreetly out of reach of the Headmaster. He stuffed his mouth as soon as it was politely possible, avoiding more questions as he worried.

He left right after he got the letter? Charlie's letter? And he was agitated? What was in there that was so agitating that he'd have to go to Romania just like that?

He went back over the contents in his mind, as thoroughly as he could remember, but there was nothing. Certainly, he thought, Snape probably had known most of the facts and stories relayed there himself; he was too good a potions master not to investigate the properties of the wand he used to create his masterpieces. Still, there had to be something.

"I got a letter from Charlie," he said in a casual undertone to Ron as the adults talked. "Yesterday. Did he send you one?"

"Yeah," Ron said, brightening. "I did. He sent me pictures too; I'll show them to you when we get back to the dorm. "

"He said his wand was a bit strange too," Harry said, remembering suddenly. "You had his old one, didn't you, before Sirius sat on it?'

"Yeah," Ron nodded. "Ash and unicorn hair, it was. His new one… He got it last year in Peru, when he was there helping chasing down a rogue dragon as a favor for a friend. It led them right into some old ruins, and there was a booby trap; Charlie fell into it and got out again, but when they got him out, it was from under a rock slide, and he was only saved because there was a little cave behind it. They poked around once it was safe, and he found a skeleton…" He shuddered. "With the wand still in its hand. They thought it'd be no good, it was all beat up and battered, but when Charlie pulled it out, it went mental for him. Weird looking thing, and it's not so much beat up as gnarly and twisted, but it works like a charm, and dragons respond to it like nothing else. He had it checked for curses and everything," he added. "Of course he did. The curse-breaker they had with them gave it the full scan before he'd let anybody touch it, and it was fine."

"Of course," Harry said automatically, remembering the wand as if it were yesterday. Charlie had only ever owned the one in his memory, and it had definitely been ugly, yes, but they'd always seemed very fond of each other. He'd never thought to ask the story of it though, assuming that he'd got it from Ollivander's like everyone else did theirs. At the last, when Charlie had been dying, and asked him to release him with the pain… Harry had used that wand, not his own. It hadn't felt particularly easy in his hand, but it had done the job, though it hadn't survived to serve another master. He'd broken it in two, ceremoniously, at the funeral, and laid the pieces to rest at the man's feet before going out and getting thoroughly stinking drunk. Charlie had been, after the final battle, the closest thing to a father he was ever to have again – or at least, to the bigger-than-life, heroic elder brother that he'd always yearned for. He'd invited Harry to Romania a few months after everything was calmed down, on retreat from an adoring and sycophantic Britain, and proceeded to treat him , of all things, as if he were a normal, boring human being… After he'd gone back, they'd exchanged letters every week for years, on everything and nothing, as brothers did… After he'd died, Harry had wanted nothing so much as a third son to name for him, but it just hadn't worked out. He and Ginny had both grieved that, but considering the curses they'd both taken during the war, the healers told them, they were lucky to have the three they did. In the end, Teddy Lupin and Victoire Weasley had brought forth his namesake: Charles Septimus Weasley-Lupin, and no one had ever questioned the oddity of a godson asking his godfather to be godfather to his own son.

"He's great," Ron was continuing, between mouthfuls of braised beef. "I dunno whether he'll be able to come home for Christmas, but you'll meet him sometime, anyway. I don't…" He nearly dropped his fork as Fawkes suddenly snapped in… All around them, customers shrieked and jabbered in shock. Dumbledore just smiled benevolently and reached up to catch the letter that the phoenix dropped from its beak.

"Pardon me," he said. "I do have to take this." He unrolled the scrap and scanned it, the twinkle dimming and frowning. "Oh dear. Oh dear. This is unfortunate." He patted Fawkes; he flashed out again. "Mr. Weasley, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but .. The message was from Professor Snape, and he's asked me to inform you, on behalf of your parents, that he's returned to Britain, and St. Mungo's, in the company of your brother Charles. Your mother and father are gathering up the rest of the children and are requesting that we meet them at the hospital."

"What?" Ron's freckles milked to white. "What? Charlie? What is it, was it a dragon? Is he…"

"I do not know, Mr. Weasley," He slung his cloak on. "Come. I will return you to your dormitories when it's possible."

"Hold on, Dumbledore," Augusta commanded, and rising to her feet as she dabbed at her lips, beckoned to the rest. "We'll go with you. We have a portkey to St. Mungo's right here; we were going to visit my son and daughter-in-law after the meal, so we'll just take advantage."

"Thank you, Madame." He bowed, and dropped a handful of Galleons on the table. Seconds later, they were outside on the cobbled side street, and then they were gone.