Replay

by Barb LP

Harry flees his home to avoid performing accidental magic again (thanks to Aunt Marge). But when number four, Privet Drive is attacked, he becomes the chief suspect and a fugitive from both the Muggle police and the Ministry. He has no idea that this will irrevocably alter the rest of his life. (H/OC, H/G, R/Hr, R/L, N/Hr) Now COMPLETE!

37. I am the Walrus

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Replay

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Chapter Thirty-Seven

I am the Walrus

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The summer between his second and third years felt like the longest one of Nate Clearwater's young life. He thought he knew what would happen if Severus Snape decided to tie his life to Tilda Harrison's. He'd imagined visiting Teddy at Latere Farm, taking trips to Severus's cottage on the Isle of Wight with both his brother and his best mate, swimming every day, practically living out-of-doors…

Well, he thought crossly, I am practically living out-of-doors. There was certainly nothing to do indoors at The Burrow, so he had little choice.

What he hadn't counted on was his missing father coming back, his father wanting to take his mum out to dinners and other nonsense instead of getting on with marrying her properly, his father living with Nate's grandparents instead of with his mum, and, worst of all, his mum and dad deciding that since his dad was around now he didn't need to go off with Severus and Julian anymore. He had his own father and didn't need to borrow Julian's. He hadn't counted on not getting to see his own brother during most of the holiday, being told that there was 'no time' for him to visit his best mate, and that if he wanted to see his cousins they could come to his grandparents' house while he was visiting his father.

He also hadn't counted on his mother's reaction. He was thoroughly disgusted with the way she behaved around Percy, trying not to offend him, jumping when he said jump and broadly hinting that he might spend the night at their flat.

Percy never did.

After spending a fortnight with his mother and Julian, Nate had been shipped off—which was how he thought of it—to visit his father at The Burrow. The same afternoon, Julian had been picked up by his dad with Tilda and Teddy. They were on their way to holiday on the Isle of Wight. Nate had been to Severus's cottage before and had always had a grand time. He had been looking forward to going with his best mate. Now they were going without him and he was stuck at The Burrow, where there wasn't a television or computer in sight and the frog pond was perpetually covered in green slime.

The worst thing was seeing his mother's face when she was bidding all of them goodbye. She normally looked a bit relieved to have some time on her own, but Nate could tell she was close to throwing all dignity to the wind and begging Percy to stay. The previous night Nate had caught her crying in the kitchen when she was clearing up after their tea. He'd hovered in the doorway, hoping she couldn't see him as she leaned on the sink and sobbed into her hands. He went back into the lounge and made a great racket, shouting to Julian that he was going into the kitchen so his mum would be able to pull herself together before he entered. When he'd asked her whether she was all right she'd insisted that she was, obviously not knowing how very red her nose was.

Nate sat up in his bed at the top of his grandparents' ramshackle house when the rooster crowed at dawn, immediately hitting his head on the sloping ceiling. "Ow," he mumbled, rubbing his aching brow. After a month at The Burrow, he was glad he was going back to London soon. He loved his grandparents, and he had been able to see Ron and Luna's kids pretty often, and even Ruby, Rory and Charlotte a couple of times, but he was getting tired of telling young Percy, Cedric and Hal what it was like to be at Hogwarts, tired of watching out for the twins' pranks, tired of keeping the babies from getting underfoot while his grandmother worked in the kitchen, tired of de-gnoming the garden, tired of staring at the layer of green slime grow thicker and thicker on the pond. He missed his mum, his brother and Teddy, and he missed Severus, who had been more of a father to Nate in the years that he'd known him than Percy Weasley ever had just by providing half his genes.

Trying not to knock his head on the orange ceiling again—he didn't know what his uncle had been thinking to plaster the small space with so much Chudley Cannons paraphernalia—Nate pulled on jeans and a tee shirt before going downstairs for the morning ritual: checking every hour to see whether his father was rising. His father didn't have to use someone else's room, like Nate, because nothing had been done with his old one. The door bore an old plaque declaring it to be Percy's Room. When Nate reached it, he rapped loudly.

"Dad! You awake yet?" he shouted through the door. Nate didn't see how he could fail to be, with the racket the rooster made. But he never got any response earlier than ten or eleven o'clock, and sometimes he didn't get a response then and they just had to wait until he came downstairs. Lunch was often Percy's first meal of the day.

"Can't I go somewhere or do something today?" he asked his grandmother as she set eggs and bacon in front of him in the comfortably shabby kitchen.

Molly Weasley tutted with her tongue as she sat down to her own breakfast. His grandfather had already left for work. "What would you like to do?" she asked.

Nate squirmed in his chair for a moment. "I dunno. I've never seen a professional Quidditch match," he said hopefully.

Molly sighed. "Oh, what a pity you're not staying with us next week! The Quidditch World Cup is being held in Norway and your grandfather and some of your uncles are going. They're quite excited about it. Scotland versus Ukraine."

Nate gasped. "What? Oh, can't I go, too? I know I'm supposed to be back in London, but—"

She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Love. They had to get the tickets ages ago and, well, it didn't occur to them to get one for you. The other grandchildren, well, their mums and dads bought their tickets," she added, sounding a little guilty. "They didn't even have a ticket for your father, but he managed to finagle one from an old contact at the Ministry. He said it was lucky you weren't coming as well, since he didn't think he could manage to scrounge up another one."

Nate scowled. "I reckon that's why I'm here now, so I can go back to London and he can see the World Cup without his kid getting in the way."

Molly's mouth was very thin. "That's not it at all dear," she said with a quaver in her voice that was not convincing. "Eat your eggs and toast. More tea?" she changed the subject. "Perhaps your mum can take you to a football match or a Muggle film."

"I do that all the time," he lied. He didn't do it all the time, but he had done both. Nate stared at his eggs and bacon and wished, very guiltily, that his father was still a memory-charmed lawyer's clerk in Gilbraltar.

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"Have we got everything?" Julian asked, bouncing as he walked. Tilda held his hand as they strolled from shop to shop, buying their last dinner on the Isle of Wight. Severus had told Tilda he had a holiday cottage, but she had still expected that they would spend the summer at the Farm. She'd been pleasantly surprised when he'd suggested going to the cottage during the month she had Teddy, who had already visited Harry and Ginny at the start of the holiday, just after Percy's return, and would be with them again during the fortnight before the autumn term, when they were taking a trip to Norway for the final of the Quidditch World Cup. She'd been worried about Teddy missing the farm, but he'd been excited about the cottage as well. Nate had told him about it.

Teddy's excitement had waned when he learned that Nate wasn't coming, but he'd rebounded once they arrived and he found that the cottage was right on the water, so he could virtually roll out of bed each day and into the sea. This was exactly what he did, even before eating. He looked like a seal much of the time as a result, his dark hair clinging wetly to his head. It was the first time Tilda remembered his hair not standing on end constantly, as it always had done.

At this moment Teddy's hair was dry enough—temporarily—that it was behaving in its usual fashion, making it easy for Tilda to spot his head bobbing ahead of them in the holiday crowd. Severus held Julian's other hand, a market basket on his arm, but occasionally they gave each other a conspiratorial look and lifted Julian from the ground by both hands, making him crow in delight. Tilda laughed at Julian's reaction every time, remembering how delightful Teddy had been at this age, and while Severus did not smile, technically, she saw something in his dark eyes that showed that he was not completely immune to his son's high spirits.

Teddy, on the other hand… He was occasionally still moody about Nate not being with them. Julian missed his brother as well. She and Severus had explained to them that Nate had waited his entire life to know his dad. She'd been especially stern with Teddy, reminding him that he should know exactly how Nate felt.

"I'm sorry it ruined your holiday plans, but I should think you'd have some consideration for your best friend," she finally said. He stormed off to his bedroom and slammed the door as loudly as he could. When she turned to Severus for help, she received none. She found his attitude nearly as infuriating as Teddy's.

"He is a teenager now," he reminded her, as if he needed to. He seemed like he was going to add something to this but stopped himself.

When she'd arrived at Hogwarts, Teddy had been enthusiastic and wanted to spend a lot of his free time with her. As the summer term continued, however, he found it harder to make time for his mother, and not just because he was revising. Besides the weekend detentions that were the result of exorcising Professor Binns, the rest of the time he wanted to hang about with Nate and Donna. He wanted to go to Wednesday afternoon Quidditch practice, even though he was still a reserve player, since he couldn't go to practices on the weekend. When she pointed out that he was still a reserve he was very put-out and had avoided seeing her for a week. It seemed that he had wanted to spend more time with her in theory, only if it didn't interfere with the time he spent on other things.

"Wait," she said suddenly; "where's Teddy? I saw him a moment ago, but now I don't."

Severus stood half a head taller than her and could see farther. He dropped Julian's hand and shaded his eyes against the sun, scanning the crowd for the Potter hair.

"Hmm," he said softly.

Severus doesn't see him, she knew, but he didn't want to tell her. Damn teenaged pride! Too old to do a simple thing like walk with his mother. Panic rising in her chest, she couldn't resist calling out, "Teddy! Teddy, where are you?"

It seemed that this weekend there were more tourists about than ever, and they all seemed to be converging on the shops at the same time. "He's fine, Tilda. Don't worry," Severus said smoothly. "Probably bent down to tie his trainers. We'll find him in a minute. Don't fret. He's not a baby."

Tilda looked down at Julian, whose hand was still in her firm grasp. Yes, but at one time he was my baby. It seemed not so very long ago that he was Julian's age and they were going together to the shops in the village, Teddy's hand held confidingly in hers when they crossed the streets, his grip tightening when they both noticed the glares of the town gossips, watching the Scarlet Woman with her Bastard Child. Ours must be the only village in Britain where time stopped marching on after the fifties. She remembered running the gauntlet of eyes. From what she could tell even the wizarding world was more tolerant than the gossips in their village.

"I'm sure you're right," she replied to Severus, not at all sure. She swallowed, holding Julian's hand more tightly, scanning the sea of tourists and still not seeing him. Panic took hold of her again.

Where was her son?

Tilda continued craning her neck to see over the crowd, but she heard Teddy before she saw him.

"You take that back!"

She glanced quickly at Severus, who was grim. "I believe that we have found him," he said in that low, methodical way he had.

Tilda fought the urge to snort and say, "No kidding." Instead she pushed through the crowd, which had grown into a thick wall before them. When she finally broke through it was as though Teddy was in an arena. The people around him had purposefully pulled back to give him room for combat. However, when she saw who his opponent was she stopped abruptly in confusion.

A sixtyish woman with steel-coloured hair in the shape of a helmet, a stout, tweed-encased body and no neck, plus quite a bushy moustache, stood glaring at Teddy with narrowed eyes. She clutched a small bulldog under one arm, its face a mass of wrinkles. It looked terminally aggressive and cross and seemed to have been surgically attached to her. Perhaps, Tilda thought, it was feeding its mood to her, so that she was also terminally aggressive and cross. Or maybe she was feeding her mood to the dog. It was hard to tell.

"Take it back? Oh, you're just like him aren't you?" the woman sneered as the dog growled in agreement. "So full of yourself, so convinced that your father wasn't a wastrel and a criminal, like his father before him. Hmph! I've been coming here on holiday for years. Clearly I'll have to rethink my future plans if this is what the place has come to."

"My dad's not a criminal!" Teddy cried, looking like he'd run a long race and was trying to breathe normally again. "And neither was his dad! I don't know who you are, but—"

She gawped at him, as though he should of course know who she was. "Don't know who I am?" she breathed, incredulous. Her eyes narrowed even further and, suddenly sounding very crafty, she asked him, "How old are you? When is your birthday?"

"May Day!" he spat. She chortled, her large tweedy belly shaking like a strange woollen pudding. Tilda didn't know what the woman was thinking to wear wool in August.

"I'm not doing anything to you, boy, don't be so dramatic. 'May Day.' You're not at sea, you know. You needn't cry out to be rescued. It's your no-good father who—"

"No, you stupid old cow! That's my birthday! May Day. I just turned thirteen, not that it's any of your business!" Teddy was quite red and seemed like he might actually strike her. Tilda watched, fascinated, unable to say or do anything but also unable to look away.

"May Day…" She drew it out, the narrowed eyes boring into him, as though his birthday were some sort of indictment, final proof against him. Which, Tilda immediately realised, it was. It suddenly dawned on her why this woman looked so familiar. She'd never actually met her, but—

"May Day!" the woman said again, this time spitting it out in disgust. "Thirteen! I knew it! I knew it! Fourteen years ago, I'd just been released from hospital and was still recovering from a brutal attack thanks to your criminal father, who firebombed my brother's home. And what was your father doing? Well, evidently, he was off shagging some tart, producing you, his bastard!"

Tilda stepped up to Teddy, still holding Julian's hand. She put her other hand on Teddy's shoulder and glared at the woman she knew had to be Marge Dursley. Harry's descriptions of her were spot-on, so much so that seeing her in the flesh was rather surreal. Tilda felt that she couldn't possibly be more horrified or amazed if one of the magical creatures the Hogwarts students learned about had suddenly materialised before her. She avoided the Thestrals on Harry's recommendation and had not ventured into the Forbidden Forest, where Ginny had told her a herd of Centaurs lived, but she had been sitting in on some of the Care of Magical Creatures lessons conducted by Professor Grubbly-Plank (Wilhelmina, who had become a friend), so she knew about even more species than Thestrals and Centaurs. Marge Dursley was every bit as monstrous and as horrible as the most bizarre beasts Wilhelmina had talked about. Aunt Marge was exactly the sort of creature you hoped never to meet, even in your worst nightmares. Give me fire-breathing dragons any day, Tilda thought.

Before Tilda could open her mouth to speak, the shrill yet calculating voice of Marge Dursley continued, this time directed at Tilda, a steady stream of hatred and bile: "I should tell you, madam, that this boy you've adopted is the product of the absolute dregs of society! I've seen it with dogs and there's no difference. You can't be too careful when you're taking in a stray. Oh, sometimes someone will turn up on my doorstep with what seems like a perfectly good pup, but if they don't know where it's from, and especially if they don't know the bitch, I always advise them to drown it. Of course, the idiots never do and then they find themselves stuck with a worthless mongrel just because they took pity on a puppy.

"That's what the government does: they use soft-hearted idiots' sympathy toward infants to foist human mongrels on them and then everyone is amazed when the brats grow up to be whores and drug dealers and burdens on the rest of us!" she proclaimed. "They're homeless and parentless for a reason. I tried to tell my brother that when this one's father turned up, needing a home, but no, he said his wife was determined to keep him. Her sister's son. Bad blood, bad blood, you know, probably no better for this one, very likely worse, if possible. Who else would deign to let that delinquent touch her, after all? She was probably a disease-ridden—"

"Shut up!" Teddy screamed, his voice cracking. Marge Dursley looked at him in shock, as though she couldn't understand why anyone shouldn't love the sound of her voice, much less what she was saying.

Tilda couldn't stop herself from tightening her grip on Teddy's shoulder. She wanted to be tightening her hand around the vile woman's neck, but she'd have to find it first. She tried to keep her voice as even as possible as she said, "I'll have you know that I am his mother, that he is not adopted, and that there is nothing wrong with either my blood or Harry's, thank you very much," she ground out, her jaw hurting from being clenched so hard.

It was also very difficult not to remember all of the taunts from when she was young, the accusations of either being dotty, since she was the daughter of the biggest liar in eight counties and was said to believe everything her dad said, or untrustworthy, because of her dad's prison record. She actually didn't mind being thought a nutter as much as being watched constantly by people who seemed to think it was only a matter of time before her criminal tendencies rose to the surface, as though it was inevitable that she should go to prison, like her father.

Marge's narrowed eyes landed on Tilda with evident delight. She was not going to let this go. "You? And young Potter?" She looked Tilda up and down, appraising her and clearly finding her wanting. "You're not exactly a spring chicken, are you? Going on fifty, I'd say."

"Forty-six," she practically growled, "not that it's any of your—"

"So! You were twice his age when this happened!" Marge quickly calculated, waving her arm at Teddy as though he were a biological experiment gone very wrong. "Just par for the course, isn't it? A junior gangster and a child molester," she suggested with a lewd drawl and a wink to a shocked-looking old man standing nearby. He started edging away from Tilda as though she might be thinking of branching out into molesting the elderly—and then edging back towards her as though he'd decided that he wouldn't mind that after all.

Tilda glared at the old man and then at Marge. "I am not a child molester!" Tilda retorted, the pain from her jaw sending stabs of agony into her brain, which throbbed, it seemed, with every syllable she spoke. "I never—! Just shut up, you old—you fat old walrus!" Tilda sputtered in frustration and indignation. "Talk about not being a spring chicken!"

"You never," Marge chortled, ignoring Tilda's last remark. "Oh, that's rich. You've just admitted to being a cradle-robber—"

Suddenly Julian stepped in front of her and Teddy, his face contorted in rage. "Oi, shut up, you! Tilda's right, you're just a big fat walrus! And you can't talk to her that way! She's going to be my stepmum and just 'cause her dad went to prison don't mean she'd steal anyone's baby!"

Tilda squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her brow, realising what all of this must sound like to a seven-year-old. She also wondered who had told him about her father's history. Possibly Teddy. That was just giving the woman more ammunition. "Julian, darling," she started to explain, crouching to talk to him, "she's not saying that I took anyone's baby. Of course I wouldn't do that."

"So, you come from a family of criminals as well. Why am I not surprised?" Marge said to a middle-aged man with white cream on his nose, for sunburn, as though he was certain to agree with her. However, he was looking with leering interest at Tilda and did not seem to be on Marge's side, so she quickly turned away from him. "And some other respectable man is marrying you and allowing you to take care of his child?" Marge sneered, moving her eyes to Severus, who had his hand on Teddy's other shoulder as though holding him back from Marge. "Hmph! I shouldn't have said 'respectable' so quickly, should I? You're no prize yourself, obviously," she said, before scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. "Have we met? Aren't you that architect who was working on my brother's house? Quite honestly, you looked like a gangster then, and still do. But still, are you quite certain that you want a woman near your son who would—" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Tilda turned away from her, certain that her face was bright red. Marge Dursley was evidently incapable of not insulting everyone she met, let alone feeling any compunction not to air out the dirty laundry of perfect strangers. Tilda continued to crouch beside Julian, very careful now not to touch him, suddenly very self-conscious after Marge's insinuation. She whispered to Julian, "It's all right, just Teddy's dad's horrid old aunt. We'll go and—"

"Bloody hell," Severus whispered. Tilda looked up to see that Marge Dursley was growing—which was an appalling development in itself—but in addition to growing larger she was also growing body parts she hadn't had before:

Flippers.

That explains why she stopped talking, was the first thing Tilda thought. It might also have had something to do with the enormous tusks now growing down her front. Marge Dursley looked in speechless horror at what used to be her hands and feet. In addition to the magnificent flippers that had replaced her human appendages, her tweedy suit seemed to have been incorporated into her walrus skin, which had a distinctive herringbone pattern to it, with brassy buttons down the front and small flecks of red and green amongst the grey. Even more horrifying, she was gazing at her dog with a greedy hunger in her eyes, as though she wasn't just looking the part of a walrus.

Julian's dark gaze was trained steadily on Marge. Tilda realised that it was not Teddy who had performed the magic, which was her first thought, based on years of experience. She glanced at Teddy, who was laughing uncontrollably and slapping Julian on the shoulder, congratulating him. Tilda was vaguely aware of a quick motion out of the corner of her eye. Severus pocketed his wand, and when Tilda looked at Marge once more she was deflating, returning to her previous human form, no longer as large nor as flipper- and tusk-endowed as the walrus that had been standing before them. Her eyes were closed and the people around them also had their eyes closed, wobbling uncertainly on the balls of their feet. Tilda felt a sudden very inappropriate urge to laugh as she remembered the Daily Prophet advert she'd read: Side effects include dizziness, vomiting and tusks. Perhaps Marge had accidentally used a magical product without reading the fine print. She stifled a snort at this thought and looked furtively at Severus, struggling with all her might to keep a straight face.

"Back away," Severus said to her quietly, evidently not noticing Tilda's effort to control her laughter. "Take the boys to the cottage. I'll be there soon."

Tilda nodded and stood, pulling the boys away with her. It was difficult because Teddy was weak from laughing, which made it even more difficult for her not to laugh, and Julian was still stiff with fury. She looked over her shoulder. Severus moved his wand under cover of his jacket and suddenly the people who'd been surrounding Marge and Teddy looked about with disoriented, sleepy expressions, resuming what they had been doing. Severus brushed past Marge Dursley without a second look and Tilda turned around once more, hustling Teddy and Julian before her as quickly as she could, so Marge couldn't get a look at Teddy again. She knew that he was instantly recognisable as the offspring of Harry Potter in the wizarding world and was accustomed now to the staring and pointing when they did Teddy's school shopping, but she hadn't expected to meet someone on the Isle of Wight who knew Harry.

When they returned to the cottage Tilda scolded Teddy for encouraging Julian. "You know it's illegal for either of you to do magic."

"Well, they can't exactly expel Julian from Hogwarts, since he's not at school yet. I doubt his Muggle school cares about him doing magic. And she made a brilliant walrus, didn't she?" he laughed. "Fantastic idea, Mum!"

Tilda was about to retort that it was not her idea when she realised that she had been the one to say walrus first. Clamping her mouth shut, she carried the food they'd bought to the kitchen. After putting the bags on the scrubbed wooden table she filled a large pot with water, putting it on the cooker and adjusting the flame so it was a hot, brilliant blue. She'd been surprised that Severus had absolutely no magical gadgetry in the holiday cottage, but also relieved. Living at Hogwarts was so full of surprises that it was a relief to know how everything around her worked. When Julian was born Severus had bought the place so that he had somewhere to take his son that wouldn't betray his identity as a wizard, in accordance with Penelope's wishes. He rented out the cottage to other holiday-goers through a Muggle estate agent and all of the tenants were Muggles. It wouldn't do for them to find anything magical lying about or for the tenants to need to be magical to do a simple thing like boil water.

Teddy helped her put the food away without prompting but she only acknowledged this with a terse, "Thank you," before relenting and abruptly pulling him into a hug. He was rather stiff and awkward about it, patting her on the back before pulling away, turning red. Breaking the cardinal rule of being thirteen, she thought. Don't show any affection toward your mum. "Thank you," she said again, quite earnestly, searching his face. "For standing up for me when she was—she was insulting me. And also—thanks for keeping yourself under control. Although I wouldn't have been surprised if you had been the one to turn her into a walrus, you're not seven years old anymore." More than once, when he was younger, Teddy's accidental magic had been a direct result of someone in the village saying nasty things about her.

Teddy's redness subsided. "I know. I was doing my best to stay in control. I've been at Hogwarts for two years, after all. I think it helps. Once you actually start doing magic it's less likely to, erm, 'leak out' when you don't want it to."

Tilda snorted as she broke a fistful of spaghetti in two and put the pasta on a plate beside the cooker. If she was remembering correctly, Harry had inflated his aunt after he'd completed two years of school. Having seen Marge Dursley in action she wasn't the least bit surprised that Harry and Julian had lost it and was even more surprised that Teddy hadn't. She was running water over a sieve she'd filled with tomatoes when a small voice said, "Tilda?" very timidly, except that it sounded more like Tilder. She turned off the tap and left the sieve sitting in the sink as she turned to Julian, who looked quite abashed.

"Yes, Julian?"

"You're not—you're not cross with me, are you?" he whispered. It was a good thing she was looking at him head on. He was speaking so quietly she was certain that if she hadn't been able to read his lips she wouldn't have understood him. His large dark eyes were apprehensive, as though worried that he'd committed an unforgivable sin. "I—I didn't mean to turn her into a walrus. Until you said that I was thinking that she was a bloody great cow, actually."

Tilda threw her head back and laughed before enfolding the little boy in her arms. Unlike her own son, he didn't pull away with embarrassment. Julian threw his thin arms around her waist and closed his eyes while she kissed the top of his head. "No, Julian," she murmured against his hair, "I'm not cross with you. Would you like to help me chop the mushrooms?" She smiled down at him and he smiled back.

"Okay. And I promise—no magic."

She nodded, trying not to laugh again. "I promise too. No magic."

He laughed at that and she gave him a plastic knife to slice the soft mushrooms while she chopped the tomatoes and onions with a proper knife and wondered what was taking Severus so long. When he finally returned she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking him where he'd been, but she didn't expect a straight answer so it seemed pointless to ask. To her relief, he didn't give Julian a long lecture, just a simple admonition to keep control of his emotions, to which Julian responded with a soft, "Yes, Dad."

Tilda couldn't help thinking, Yes, you're the master of keeping control of your emotions, aren't you? Sometimes…

He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before tucking into his food and used his wand to expedite the clearing up afterward, delighting Julian with this show, though Teddy looked rather bored about it and asked repeatedly whether he had to wait a half-hour after eating before going swimming again. Tilda sighed with exasperation.

"I feel like a broken record saying this, but yes, you have to wait."

Teddy frowned. "A broken what?"

She raised one eyebrow. "You know, a record. Those things I sometimes play on your grandfather's old Victrola."

He broke out into a grin. "I knew what you meant."

She pretended to swat him. "Go change for your swimming. Time's almost up. It moves so quickly, you see, and makes you into an elderly, decrepit person before you know it. Like me."

He laughed as he sprinted upstairs. "I was just playing with you, Mum. And you've got, oh, at least five years yet before you're elderly, surely." He grinned at her before running off to his room, singing softly, "Coo coo ca choo, coo coo coo ca choo… Sitting in an English garden…" Since that was on one of the records she used to play most often she knew that he did indeed remember the days when she would play her old Beatles albums and dance around the house with him in her arms. It seemed so long since he'd been small enough for her to do that.

"If the sun don't come you get your tan from standing in the English rain…" she sang softly to herself as she returned to the kitchen.

When the time limit had finally passed both boys were ready to jump into the water again and the late, slanting summer sun gilded their personal pier, just outside the kitchen door. Tilda sat on the edge of the pier and watched the boys jump into the water, frolicking like puppies. She smiled, enjoying their enjoyment, but something at the back of her mind nagged her. Severus wanted to read The Evening Prophet, so he'd stayed indoors, letting the three of them soak up the last rays of the sun. She couldn't stop herself from singing, "See how they spy, like pigs in the sky," when she thought of Severus, the former spy, which was real, unlike Harry's tales of being a spy-in-training before she found out that he was a wizard. She sighed, trying to work out just what was bothering her, but couldn't. She inevitably ended up going over and over the encounter with Marge Dursley in her head. "I am the egg man… we are the egg men…" She was glad that she'd bitten her tongue and hadn't said something that would really have caused Severus to brood, but she was convinced that she'd said something that was making him brood just the same.

Experts, sexperts, choking smokers, don't you think the joker laughs at you?

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Note: The snippets of song lyrics and the title of the chapter are, of course, from I am the Walrus, by John Lennon (sometimes also credited to Paul McCartney). There are some extremely conflicting versions of the song lyrics on the web. Inasmuch as the words are mostly nonsense anyway (and probably written while Lennon was on an acid trip) I chose a version that worked well for my purposes, so your mileage may vary.