Title: All That Glitters
Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Summary: The rest of the wizarding world slowly moves forward, struggling to fix what can be fixed and accept all the things that cannot.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Round and Round We Go
He knew the peace and quiet was too good to last. After all, no one just stopped going to work for an extended period of time without any notice, without asking permission, without at least telling someone what was happening. Even with all the chaos currently surrounding the Ministry… someone was going to notice his absence. And someone would be less than happy about it.
The letter came early in the morning, and the owl wrapped its talons against the window with an impatient air. Percy stumbled, still half-asleep, from his bed and shoved open the window, allowing the bird entry.
He wished he was still asleep.
Sometimes his sleep was filled with nightmares. The occasional memory of Penny dying that haunted him, forever taunting him, a reminder of everything he could not do, everyone he could not save. Sometimes it was Fred instead, and those nightmares surprised him because he honestly did not realize just how much guilt lingered behind after his brother's death.
But mostly the dreams were pleasant. Mostly, the dream world was filled with soft, gentle slumber, with happy memories, with a sense of safety and warmth, as though he was protected from all the ills around him.
A protection that disappeared as he groggily blinked his tired eyes and felt the full force of reality slam into him, taking away his breath.
Every morning, he would awake to the harsh reality of Penny's death, and it felt like losing her all over again.
He took the letter from the owl and it hooted and flew off into the early morning light. Some sixth sense told him what it was before he had even opened it, and so he was not at all surprised to find a brief, rather curt note reminding him that Ministry employees were required to get approval for their absence.
He crumpled the note in his fist, feeling the parchment bend underneath his frustration.
He knew the rules. Penny wasn't family, and Ministry employees were allowed only a very limited number of days for mourning the passing of a non-family member. It didn't matter that he loved Penny, it didn't matter that she was the only family he had really had during the horrible estrangement from his parents and siblings. It didn't matter that he missed her with every single particle in his entire being… She wasn't family under the Ministry's strict interpretation of relationships, and he was expected to be back at work by now.
Particularly if he wanted to keep his job.
The thinly veiled threat of the letter was more than blatantly obvious, but how could he think about something as mundane as work right now?
He groaned, and sank back into his bed.
Aurora Borealis hated her name. She absolutely despised the fact that she was named after a natural phenomenon. It seemed trite, almost, to compare anyone, least of all an ordinary and plain-looking witch, to the spectacular northern lights.
Of course, with the family name Borealis, it was a given that there would be someone named Aurora in every generation, and since all of her siblings and cousins were boys, she had been the one unlucky enough to receive the dreaded name.
She didn't like seeing it written, either. Hearing it pronounced was bad enough, but at least then she could rest assured that most people would simply refer to her either as Madam Borealis, or as Aurora if they were a close friend or family member, and so she avoided the full name. In writing…
In writing, every single reporter seemed determined to give her the full name.
She glared at the Daily Prophet article, at her ridiculous name splashed in black ink.
She'd known it was only a matter of time before the mainstream newspaper reacted to Rita Skeeter's article in the Quibbler. She'd already received hundred of letters from the wizarding world, form those who believed what Potter had written and those who didn't. The row between Shacklebolt and Abbott, much of which had been overheard by reporters and other Ministry workers, had also reached the rumor mill, and gossip was flying quite quickly.
The article was really less of an article and more of an opinion piece, commentary directed primarily towards her. She knew she was in the best position to influence the Ministry at the moment, and given that the organization was floating about like a rudderless ship, she could not deny that her influence was needed.
The article called for her to release the Malfoys from Azkaban and hold a full trial for Severus Snape. Which meant that, tomorrow, there would be more letters piled on her desk, waiting for her. Letter telling her to ignore this article, letters telling her to listen and proceed as quickly as possible with the advice the reporter had given. Letters from every side, each instructing her on how to act…
She smoothed the folded newspaper with one hand and stared at it thoughtfully, then pushed it aside. Unfortunately, politics would play a significant role in how the situation was handled, but she did not want to be pulled into any unnecessary skirmishes.
Potter had already announced his opinion, clearly laid forth his allegiances. And Potter carried more sway with the rest of the world than even he seemed to realize.
"Abbott is seething."
She looked up at nodded towards the man who stood in the doorway to her office. "I imagined as much," she admitted slowly, a little reluctantly. "He certainly would not like the position of this particular article." And she tapped her fingers idly against the paper.
The man entered the room. "Hannigan is in Azkaban. Diggory and Headmistress McGonagall are dead. And no one is entirely sure what to make of Shacklebolt at the moment. That leaves you, Potter, and Abbott as the most powerful and influential members of society."
Madam Borealis pursed her lips. "I'd rather not do anything too hasty. Influence can waver, Auror Bello."
Augustus Bello, the Head of the Auror Training Program, nodded in agreement as he took a seat across from Madam Borealis. "Indeed it can. Shacklebolt is a prime example of that." He paused, thinking, then continued, "I had a lot of respect for him, you know. I suppose I still do, but its harder to know quite what to think now."
Madam Borealis sighed. "You have influence, too."
"Quite a few people do," the Auror agreed readily. "It isn't quite as clear-cut as saying that you three have all the power. But you have a lot of it. Enough…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but she knew what he was saying. She had enough authority that, if she chose to side with either Potter or Abbott, she could force that point of view to prevail. She doubted she would ever be able to completely override Potter's influence, and so even if she decided that she agreed with Abbott's view of the situation, the Malfoys would probably still be released from prison. But Snape would stay there, if she wanted, and Shacklebolt could be stripped of his Auror credentials.
But she didn't agree with Abbott.
Unfortunately, she wasn't sure she entirely agreed with Potter, either.
Her indecision must have shown on her face, because Bello said with a wry smile, "When I gave Potter leave from the Auror Training Program, I hoped his hunt for Snape would help him find some sort of closure. He had hoped that as well, I know, and I thought if he found it… he'd be less rash. Less… less unable to listen to others, to take orders."
"And?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I honestly can't tell. He certainly seems more mature, given that he is actually arguing to have the Malfoys released from Azkaban."
"And he seems to even want a trial for Snape," she murmured.
Bello nodded, but then said seriously, "This won't end easily. It won't end without a struggle. But it will end. And you can't stay in the middle forever. Life doesn't work like that, and neither do politics."
Even after all these years, Neville still felt slightly disconcerted when he discovered all the things the Golden Trio did without actually telling him. He had always assumed that, given the fact that he had been in the same year as all three of them and shared a dormitory with Ron and Harry, he would just somehow know what was happening in their lives. Wasn't that the way friendship was supposed to work?
Still, he mused to himself, he probably should have learned some time ago that they would always be off on some crazy adventure he didn't know anything about. Quirrell and the Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, whatever it was that happened with Black in their third year… and so on and so on.
And yet, he still found himself quite surprised to read in the newspaper all that Harry and his two friends had done in the past several days.
"It's strange, isn't it?" a voice said, breaking timidly into his thoughts, and he started and whipped around, crumbling the newspaper in one hand as he did so.
"What's strange?" he asked, blinking in surprise as he found himself staring at the blonde-haired, pale-eyed Hannah Abbott.
She gestured to the article he was reading with a casual wave of her hand. "We've left Hogwarts and the war is over, and yet somehow, the three of them are still doing all these crazy things. It's like nothing's changed."
Neville smiled and answered simply, "They can have the adventures. I think I prefer peace and quiet. I've had enough fighting to last me a very long time."
Hannah laughed, but the amusement did not reach her eyes. "I know, I feel quite the same," she admitted.
They were standing in Diagon Alley, on the twisting, turning cobblestone path that wound through the crowded shops. Some passersby would occasionally slant quick looks at Neville, appraising gazes in their eyes. Others would actually stop and stare, gawking. It happened infrequently enough that it never really bothered the pureblood wizard, but Hannah was frowning in obvious confusion.
"Does that always happen?" she murmured as one young girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen, stood completely still for about five seconds and gaped at Neville until her parents shooed her away.
"Not always," Neville replied, shaking his head with a bemused grin. "It's nowhere near as bad as what Harry, Ron, and Hermione get."
Hannah nodded slowly. "So what brings you to Diagon Alley?"
Neville shrugged. "Just a few items to buy. What about you?"
"I'm meeting my father," she said, and this time there was a definite lack of enthusiasm in her voice. She wasn't looking at Neville as she continued, "We have tea together every now and then. To… um… catch-up on everything, I suppose."
Neville narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing. He knew very little about Jonathon Abbott, but none of it was particularly favorable. Hannah was likeable enough, sweet-tempered and pleasant, if occasionally far more hesitant than she really should have been, and Neville found himself wondering how she had turned out so different from her stubborn and short-tempered father.
He'd heard the rumors currently circulating through the wizarding world, heard the whispered comments about how power-hungry Abbott was, and how vicious. They were tempered by other gossip, statements calling Madam Borealis a fool for even considering the Malfoys' innocence, cries for vengeance due to the deaths of Diggory and the Headmistress.
"It is nice that your father has time to have tea with you," he said finally, when it became clear that Hannah was waiting for some sort of response from him. "He must be very busy at the moment."
"He is," Hannah agreed.
"Do you see him often?"
She flushed, a slight red tinge appearing on her cheeks. "Not often, no," she answered faintly, glancing at him quickly and then looking away. "He is busy."
"So I've read," Neville agreed in a mutter, gaze moving back to the newspaper for a moment.
"He wasn't always like that," she said hurriedly, gaze snapping to his face in a defensive gesture. "He used to be different, before… before my mother died…" She stopped then, trailing off quickly as though realizing that she and Neville weren't really anything more than friendly acquaintances and perhaps this wasn't something she wanted to share with him.
It was interesting, Neville noted silently, that she wasn't actually trying to defend his actions, to claim that he was right. It was clear that there was a lot of tension between father and daughter, tension and unease. He felt a sudden wave of sympathy for the girl, given that she had lost her mother to the Death Eaters and her father to his own need for revenge.
"Anyway," Hannah said softly, "I'd better go. I'll see you around, Neville."
"See you, Hannah," he responded, and watched in silence until she had disappeared into the crowd.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked as he poked his head into Ron's bedroom.
The redhead groaned and sat up in bed. "Hermione's been driving me mad," he complained. "I think Mum got her to promise that she won't leave me alone for more than a few minutes at a time."
Harry laughed and entered the room, closing the door behind him. "You know, you were at St. Mungo's for a while," he said pointedly.
"Yes, and the Healer released me," Ron grumbled.
"Yes, but at least you're finally back at the flat. That must be preferable to being at the Burrow where everyone could fuss over you constantly," Harry said logically, leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.
Ron grinned, "I suppose. What about you, mate? How was the talk with Snape?"
Harry shrugged, his expression becoming closed and guarded. "I don't know, I guess. Still trying to figure that out." He looked away from Ron for a moment, gathering his thoughts together carefully, then added, "Luna was here for a bit before you came."
Ron's grin widened and he shook his head and chortled, "Interesting conversation, I take it?"
"Isn't it always?" Harry replied with his own faint smile.
"How about the Malfoys? Any news on what's going to happen with them?"
Harry nodded and said, "Actually, yes. Decision was just announced this afternoon. Aurora Borealis – she's the head of the Wizangamot, remember – had them released from Azkaban. They're being tracked, or something like that. The Aurors put some following device on them to make sure they don't try to run. They'll probably get a trial later. I guess you could say they're out on bail now."
Ron blinked. "Bail?"
"Oh… it's a Muggle thing," Harry said, waiving away Ron's question. He didn't particularly want to delve into the details for his friend, so he lapsed into silence instead.
"Why aren't they having the trial now?" Ron asked, leaning forward curiously, eyebrows raised.
"They've been cleared of all charges for any crimes committed during the war," Harry answered, "so their only crime now is not revealing Snape's location for the past couple years. First the Wizengamot needs to try Snape. If they don't find him guilty of treason – or if they let him off with a smaller conviction – then they won't have a trial for the Malfoys. There won't be a point, since they can't be accused of helping a criminal if Snape isn't found guilty."
"That's what they're waiting for with Kingsley, also?" Ron questioned.
Harry nodded. "Yes. They're probably going to charge him with working with Snape – but again, they can't do that until Snape is found guilty. If he's found guilty. So it's all just waiting on his trial."
"I'm surprised they're having a trial for him," Ron admitted slowly. "And so soon after your article. I thought it would take longer than that."
Harry couldn't help but agree. He, too, had been astounded to discover that Madam Borealis had opted to convene an emergency meeting of the Wizengamot to discuss the case. He did not know how the trial would proceed – would they question Snape again, or rely on what they had already learned from Andromeda and the Aurors who had interrogated the potions Master? Would it be open to the public, another spectacle for reporters, or would they hold a closed session and make a quick decision?
"I guess it is a good thing, though?" Ron ventured.
Harry shrugged and did not answer. He still didn't know exactly how to feel about the potions Master, and he didn't want to dwell on those thoughts. Not yet, not until he'd had more time to come to terms with everything he had learned…
The sound of footsteps in the room signaled the arrival of someone else, and Ron groaned and attempted to pull the covers of his bed up over his face. "If that's Hermione, tell her I'm asleep."
"I heard that, Ronald Weasley," Hermione's outraged voice drifted to them through the closed door, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.
Narcissa was remarkably unsurprised to find Andromeda waiting for her when she returned home from her short trip to Azkaban, but she was also completely disinterested in speaking to her older sister. So her lips turned down into a frown of displeasure as she caught sight of her sister sitting quietly in an armchair as the Aurors accompanied herself, Lucius, and Draco into their parlor.
The Aurors nodded and withdrew quietly, although she knew they were only leaving the Manor, and would probably remain outside during the night, setting up surveillance wards.
Lucius took one look at the frown on his wife's face and said, "I will leave you two to your own discussion. Come, Draco." And the two blonde wizards swept from the parlor, leaving Narcissa and Andromeda alone.
The time in Azkaban, and the worry for her family's safety, had taken a toll on Narcissa, and she found she did not care for manners or for proper decorum. She stared hard at Andromeda and said simply, "What do you want?"
Andromeda rose to her feet and ran a hand along her robes, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Only to reassure myself that you were returned safely from Azkaban," she answered quietly.
"Obviously, I was," Narcissa said curtly, extending her arms as though to display her own wellbeing. She turned away from her sister and walked towards the window, glancing up at the gray sky. "You may go now."
"Narcissa…" Andromeda started, and then stopped, sighing. Narcissa was still proud, far too proud for her own good, and Andromeda had a feeling that it would be nearly impossible to get through to the blonde witch. But they were still family, and right now Andromeda had precious little family as it was, she did not want to walk away from this without at least saying something. Anything.
"What?" Narcissa asked sharply, giving her sister a cold look. "Are you here for my gratitude? Very well, then, I am thankful that you decided to testify, even if your words were partially responsible for sending my son and I to Azkaban. I recognize the fact that they were intended to save my family."
Andromeda hissed a short breath and said, "I'm not here for that. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
"And, as I said before, I am obviously quite fine," the blonde answered in a clipped tone. And the hurt expression that flashed ever so briefly through Andromeda's eyes, her own gaze softened slightly, and she asked quietly, "Did you really think anything would change?"
"You came to me for help," Andromeda protested.
Narcissa said nothing, just stared at her, and Andromeda could see all the horrors of Azkaban reflected in those pale eyes. She wanted to say something else, but the words stuck in her throat, and Narcissa eventually turned and looked away again.
Andromeda looked towards the hallway. Perhaps she really should go. Perhaps there was no reason to stay.
"You told me once that your Ted Tonks was worth more than any of us," Narcissa said finally, still not looking at her sister. "Then you walked away and never once looked back." She slanted a look at Andromeda, and then said, "And I remember that quite well, because I have been reliving it since the beginning of my incarceration."
Andromeda blinked, unsure what surprised her more – that Andromeda leaving was one of Narcissa's worst memories, one that would be dragged to the forefront of her mind by a Dementor's presence, or that the aristocrat was actually willing to admit it.
"You cannot rewind time. You made your choice, and I made mine," Narcissa murmured. "I appreciate what you did to help us, and to help Severus. I suppose I am now in your debt. But that does not undo the past. Surely you have learned that by now."
Andromeda shook her head emphatically. "I don't believe that."
Narcissa snorted. "Then perhaps you truly belonged in Gryffidnor like that ridiculous fool of a cousin of ours."
Andromeda rolled her eyes at the mention of Sirius, but did not waste time arguing the point. In her sister she could see, beneath the layer of exhaustion, the steely determination and stubbornness that was so common among the Blacks. Narcissa had made up her mind to move on with her life and pretend that none of this had happened.
As though pretending would somehow wash away the memories.
"You're not in my debt, Cissy," Andromeda said at last. "I did this because… I am always… I have always been watching out for you. You are still my little sister, no matter what else has changed."
And she walked from the room.
Narcissa did not stop her.
It wasn't until Andromeda was outside, crossing the extensive Manor grounds, that something occurred to her. She had never been to Malfoy Manor before, and she certainly had never been there when Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were not home. But she had been able to enter this time, to cross the lawn and wander through the garden, to enter the house itself and recline in the parlor.
All without Narcissa's permission.
It was inconceivable that the Malfoys did not have wards around their home. They must have had protections, spells that kept out unwanted visitors. And, more than that, they must have had house-elves and other forms of servants who would have been instructed not to allow anyone into the home without the expressed permission of a member of the family.
Particularly in these uncertain times, when so many people wished them ill.
But she had entered. And she had waited, undisturbed.
Because the spells were based on blood. Because the house-elves had not been instructed to keep her out. Because the servants had not been ordered to make her leave.
Because, despite the past, the blood connection was still there. Tenuous, of course, and shaky. Perhaps Narcissa would never again smile at her, would never truly welcome her back into her life. Perhaps she would never again go out of her way to seek out her older sister.
But blood was still blood, and Black blood was still Black blood.
On a whim, Andromeda looked back over her shoulder and caught sight of the outline of Narcissa's face in the window, watching her.
Then she passed through the gate and turned on the spot, disappearing with a faint smile on her lips.
"You know," Mrs. Weasley said softly as she bustled about the kitchen, "this reminds me a bit of everything that happened with Crouch Sr."
Percy looked up in surprise. He had entered the kitchen a few minutes earlier and shown her the letter requesting his presence back at work, and she had instantly wrapped him in a tight embrace and then insisted that he take a seat at the table while she made something for him to eat. As though the food would have the ability to make this all better.
The silence had been long and uneasy, not because there was much in the way of lingering tension between the two, but because Percy's grief hung heavily in the air and they both knew there was nothing either could do to ease it. Not now, not yet.
Percy was fairly certain his mother had only decided to start talking now because she felt the need to break the silence, to fill the emptiness of the room with words that could keep them both busy and maybe, for a moment, take his mind off of Penny.
"We thought we were safe," Mrs. Weasley said quietly, shaking her head. "Harry had just defeated You Know Who, and we… we thought it was over." She wiped a few stray tears out of her eyes and sighed. "And then… then, quite suddenly, it wasn't over. Frank and Alice were so well-liked, and losing them was such a blow. Especially because Neville was so young, and the family had so much hope and promise for the future…"
Percy nodded. He had only a few vague memories of the first war, mostly of the fear and gloom that hung over everything. He didn't remember anything specific, and how no recollections at all of the Longbottoms' fate. He'd heard about it later, of course, just as he had heard about Mr. Crouch Sr.'s ultimate fall from grace.
Was Abbott setting himself up for the same fate? He was able to seize power during and directly after the Second War, and his hard and unrelenting tactics were approved by many. And then, just when everyone believed it was finally, truly over… Diggory and McGonagall were both killed, and the pressure to apprehend the one responsible – Snape, as was believed at the time – had been tremendous. Would public opinion turn away from Abbott now, as the full details of the story surfaced? Would he be pushed back into obscurity, shuffled into some less important position like his luckless predecessor?
"There are differences, of course," Mrs. Weasley continued, setting a bowl of hot soup and a slice of buttered bread in front of her son. "I don't believe I've ever met his daughter, but she was Ron's year at Hogwarts, you know, and there is no comparison between her and Barty Crouch Jr. But still… the other similarities are there."
"So maybe it will all fade away eventually," Percy mumbled, taking a bite of bread. He wasn't hungry, but the food was in front of him, and he felt a strange compulsion to eat. Maybe it would help him think of something else, of someone else other than Penny.
"Maybe."
Percy glanced up at the odd quality in his mother's voice, and found that she was looking at him with a sweetly sympathetic and thoughtful expression.
Then she said with a heavy sigh, "You know, when your uncles were killed… I didn't think I would get over it. I was so close to them, and…" She trailed off and wiped her hands on her apron and looked away from Percy, moving back to the stove.
They rarely spoke of either Fabian or Gideon. She never brought up her brothers, and it had never occurred to Percy, or to any of her other children, to ask about them. They had died heroes' deaths fighting the Death Eaters, and that was all that was ever said.
"Mum?" She looked back at him, and he asked hesitantly, "How did you get over it?"
"Slowly," she answered with a wry smile. Then her expression sobered and she added, "I still miss them. And…" She paused, her eyes darkening and her jaw hardening as though she had to steel herself to continue, "And Fred. I miss… all of them…"
She broke off and gave a little, weary sigh, and Percy looked down at his soup, a lump rising in his throat. The constriction in his chest grew stronger, tighter, as though his heart by actually burst.
"But time goes on," she said finally. "And… Merlin, I wish it wouldn't, but it does, and you have to go with it."