Chapter 42: Wintering

A.N. Dates: We begin in early November, 1997. Ron appears at the end of November, and stays through Christmas. We pick up again in early March, for the aftermath of the Dreamwalk. Kingsley visits in mid-March, ahead of the late-March broadcast of Potterwatch.

I'm so grateful for the reviews! Thank you for the feedback and for following Rose's journey. A warning to readers: I may be a little slow to publish the next chapter (which is underway) as I am expecting a baby any day. Depending on this baby's nature, it may be either easier or harder to write during maternity leave. But depend upon it: there will be several more chapters to come.

Lord Voldemort did not really need to sleep. He had not felt the mortal need of it since, oh, many decades ago. He grew weary at times, it was true, but it was nothing that a few hours' respite from the fools who usually surrounded him would not cure. In truth, he had at times feigned a need for sleep merely to escape Pettigrew's blathering, Lucius' whining, and the fawning flattery of Dolohov, Yaxely, and others.

Severus Snape, for his part, knew when to be silent and when to speak; it was for that reason that Lord Voldemort prized his company, despite that he was never fully satisfied of Snape's loyalty. Long ago, though, he had concluded that the only loyalty that could really be trusted was a wizard's loyalty to his own self-interest. Wizards would abandon all other loyalties before they would abandon themselves. Too many wizards spent too much energy and time seeking the esteem or the love (Tom Riddle scoffed at the mere idea of desiring such a feeling from another) of those in their service, when all one had to do was be sure that remaining in their service was always in their own best interest.

The easiest way with most wizards was to access their fears, and demonstrate that these fears would come to pass if they should show disloyalty. This worked nearly infallibly, though in the few instances when it did not, one could always keep loyalty by offering some benefit which they prized above all else. This had been the way with Bellatrix. It had been long since she held any interest for him beyond the desire to use her for her wild, feral power. But if the pantomime of desire was enough to keep her in his cause, it was a price he was able to pay.

But these games, necessary as they were, wearied some part of him that was beyond the mere mortal need for sleep. Were he able to be always making progress in one or other of his schemes, well. That would be replenishment enough. But the tedium of waiting for these mortal chess pieces to move, or to arrange themselves to his advantage, was maddening. So, he had taken to retiring at night to be in the company of his own thoughts, and sometimes to shed consciousness altogether. If nothing else, it passed the time.

In the past months, he had begun to sleep more often for a new reason: to ensnare the being who had been forcing themselves into his dreams. This was a scheme he kept entirely private, in part because he did not wish his followers to know that he could be susceptible to such a thing. Severus could, perhaps, be trusted to know about the intruder, but Tom preferred to keep their monthly meetings to himself, as a private challenge. The intruder would, one day, reveal too much, and Tom would be able to narrow down their identity, and oh! What their suffering would be on that day. The thought of his revenge was enough to remove any dread he felt of these monthly visitations.

Already, he had deduced that the intruder had some connection to Potter. That it was not Potter himself, Tom felt certain. The intruder had not Potter's brashness; it approached with a coolness which did not suit Potter's childish temper. But the visions it had shown him of his victims were all connected in some way to the boy. He had been forced to consider the boy's mother, the boy's father, the boy's school friend, all deaths which the boy had in some way witnessed. Perhaps the intruder was one of Potter's friends, perhaps one of the blood-traitor Weasley family, or one of the other members of the wretched Order of the Phoenix.

Were this last year, he would have assumed his enemy to be Dumbledore. But this was no longer possible. Dumbledore was dead, a mortal death, and unlike himself, Dumbledore would never be able to return. Dumbledore had always claimed that Tom's Horcruxes would bring him to a fate that was worse than death. He felt the high, cold laugh swelling within him as Tom remembered that Dumbledore was in no position to hold this opinion anymore. What have your high principles brought you now, Albus Dumbledore? You are but a lifeless, breathless stone in the earth now, able to do nothing to further your aims, reliant on others to fulfill your wishes after your death. Fool.

Tom settled himself onto the plush floor the room at Malfoy Manor he had claimed for his exclusive use. He had read Secrets of the Darkest Art long ago, from cover to cover, so it had not taken him long to recognize his intruder as a dreamwalker. Thus, he could predict the likely window for the intruder's next attempt. Dreamwalking was most effective at, or near, the new moon. The intruder had, once or twice, visited his sleep on a night just before or after the moon was new, but somehow, he knew, it would be tonight. A weaker wizard would have sought to avoid the intruder; it was, after all, a highly unpleasant experience. But each time he was visited, Tom gathered more clues about the intruder's identity, and the distance between himself and his exquisite revenge narrowed. Tom pillowed himself on Nagini's coils and closed his eyes.

It seemed to take no time at all. One moment he was gazing at the vaulted ceiling of the bedroom, and the next, he was wrapped in darkness. Sleep for Tom was not like it had been in the long-ago days before his destruction and rebirth. A human asleep experienced long hours of nothingness, interspersed by occasional flights of nonsense from the dreaming mind. But in his more exalted state, Tom did not experience oblivion. Rather, he experienced solitude and quiet, like an empty room in which his thoughts could brood uninterrupted. True, this time could become tedious, as the further chambers of sleep seemed to be inaccessible to him in this current state. But today, he paced this antechamber in anticipation of its violation. He was not disappointed.

The presence joined him before he had become very weary of the antechamber of sleep. It greeted him as it always did, serenely, by his human name, the name by which Dumbledore always addressed him when he lived. But this is not Dumbledore, he reminded himself. Even if Dumbledore lived, he would know the feel of the man's mind, and his magic. This intruder had a coolness, a kind of elegance, to his or her magic. It is a woman, he suddenly realized, and the longer it raked over his mind, the more this certainty grew.

Have you considered Frank Bryce lately, Tom? The intruder asked him. Frank Bryce was a living man, a man who was not your enemy, who was not even particularly in your way. But you murdered him without thinking, without need, without consideration for his life. Your soul is so deranged that you no longer blink at the prospect of another murder. The damage to your soul must be almost beyond repair.

He lunged toward the intruder, but it (she?) avoided him effortlessly, protected as they were by the nature of the dreamwalking spell. It continued its attack on his thoughts. Frank Bryce was something you have never been: selfless. A hero. He was wounded on the shores of Normandy Beach, fighting to protect his country, fighting on behalf of those who could not fight for themselves. Frank Bryce did the steady, mundane work of keeping your father's manor grounds, year in and year out, while your father's family lived in luxury. Frank Bryce knew plants, knew ways that they could be made to flourish despite threats from nature and man, and those secrets died with him. Who are you to decide when a human's wisdom should leave this earth? Have you considered all the knowledge and great deeds that will never see the light because you sent so many to their graves before their natural ends?

Tom focused his attention on the intruder. He felt he could almost make out a personality, though of course, not its appearance. It was earnest, but controlled, a focused intelligence. It spoke once more: Consider it now, Tom. Consider it before it is too late to repair the slightest bit of your ravaged soul. Consider it while you can, while your doom tarries. Consider it well.

The intruder receded then, despite his final effort to reach it, and was gone in a moment. Tom Riddle was left with his thoughts, his plans, and the empty room of his semi-human sleep.

Cornwall in November was rainier and cooler than Rose would like, but she found preferred it infinitely to the dullness of London and the frank cold of Scotland. She had been back to her flat in London several times, each time with Bill or Kingsley to serve as additional protection, and retrieved those of her things that she wanted to have with her, but she now split her time between Shell Cottage and the home of Ted and Andromeda Tonks, where Remus and Tonks were living as well.

For a few hours on that September day when the Death Eaters had come to her flat, Rose had wondered if she wasn't going to be about to join Harry's quest for the Horcruxes after all. Despite Harry's words to her about staying at Bill and Fleur's, he, Ron and Hermione stayed the night at Shell Cottage, and they included her in every conversation about the mission.

"I still reckon it's worth going to the orphanage, just to see what's there. What do you think, Rose?" Ron had asked as they sat around a driftwood fire near the water that night.

Rose's eyebrows rose at being consulted on this question, but she quickly replied, "It may be worth a look, Ron, but it would seem an odd choice for a Horcrux. According to Harry, Riddle couldn't get away from that place quickly enough. It'd be odd to leave something so valuable in a place for which he had such contempt, would it not?"

"But on the other hand," said Hermione, unexpectedly taking Ron's side, "Dumbledore apparently found the ring at the Gaunt house, and I didn't think Riddle had particularly fond feelings for that place, either."

"He didn't," Harry confirmed, "But it symbolized something he was proud of. It connected him to his Slytherin, pure-blood ancestry. He hated what the Gaunts became, but he was proud of what the ring meant. There was nothing about growing up in a Muggle orphanage that made him proud."

They continued this discussion until Bill came out and told them that guest beds had been made up for them. In the morning, Rose went out to find Harry sitting by the shore, apparently lost in thought.

"I suppose you'll be leaving today?" she asked him gently. She deliberately did not say, "we," so as not to put him in an awkward position either way.

"Yeah, we should," he said, running his hand through his hair and unknowingly imitating his father. "Staying here doesn't bring us any closer to the Horcruxes. And it puts Bill and Fleur in danger."

"Your hair's getting long," Rose observed, after a few moments had passed in silence. "I could cut it for you."

"Yeah, sure, I guess," he replied. "Thanks," as an afterthought. Then he looked up at her in sudden resolution. "Rose. I know you want to come with us," he began.

"Well," she said carefully, "I want your mission to be successful. And I want you and the others to be safe. So, to the extent that my being with you could bring that about, I do want that, yes."

"I just- I just think it'll be better if it's just me and Ron and Hermione, though," he said. "It just seems like they won't suspect as much if it's just three kids that went missing. If Order members, you know, adults, go underground, well, it seems like the Ministry would get more suspicious, and like Riddle would think we're up to something. The way it is, I think he mostly thinks we're just hiding from him."

"There is some truth to that," she admitted.

Harry nodded a bit too vigorously, apparently relieved at her lack of opposition. "I just think the fewer people that are involved, the better."

"I suppose if you didn't want Remus to join you, then you definitely don't have any use for me," she joked. "He'd be a much handier person to have in a pinch."

"Except for the significant inconvenience of his being a murderous beast every full moon," Harry quipped. "And," his face grew serious, "he had to go back to Tonks."

"He has gone back to her," Rose told him. "You did right there, by the way. Well done. I've been meaning to tell you."

Harry turned a little red, but smiled. "Has he? Are they really back together, then?"

"It's…," she hesitated, "It's going to take some time for him to really earn back her trust, I think. But, yes. They're headed in that direction."

"Well. Good. Great, actually. But listen, it's not that I don't think Remus- or you- would be helpful on this thing. I know you would. You're both brilliant at defense, brilliant at magic. But I just think, we'll do a better job if it's the three of us. We've been getting up to no good together for kind of a while, now," he said, smiling reminiscently, and she smiled too.

"I hate that my flat's no good to you, now. It felt like the only thing I had to offer."

"Just keep yourself safe," he said, looking at her with sudden intensity. "Please. Try to stay safe. I hate thinking about . . . I like having family," he finished, looking out at the ocean to cover his sudden fit of sincerity.

"I will," she told him. Of her monthly ventures into Dreamwalking, however, she told Harry nothing.

When they left around mid-morning, she hugged them all fervently, and stayed behind with Bill and Fleur. From then on, except for a few supervised forages into her flat to retrieve clothing and books which she especially wanted, Rose lived in Cornwall with Bill and Fleur, and sometimes in the Cotswolds, at the Tonks' home.

Though she missed her quiet flat, Rose found herself happy with the arrangement. It kept her up to date on the movements of the Resistance; she knew now, for example, why Death Eaters had been able to locate her flat, despite the protective enchantments: Voldemort had placed a taboo upon his name. Harry, it turned out, had unknowingly summoned the Death Eaters when he said Voldemort's name aloud in her flat. Living with other wizards also kept her busy helping Fleur and Tonks, and kept her from the loneliness and eeriness of her flat while a war was on.

And Rose could get solitude at Shell Cottage, to an extent. There was a large area of beach in front of the house which was inside its protective enchantments, and afforded Rose a place to walk and mediated from time to time. Today, she used as an excuse the dwindling pile of driftwood which the family used to fuel their fire to give her the chance to walk the shores and look for more.

Rose had been strolling by the water, picking up driftwood for around an hour and was beginning to think of returning to the cottage (the sun was nearly to its setting) when there came a POP of Apparition and she spun around. His back was to her, but Rose recognized the form of Ron Weasley immediately.

He was around twenty yards away from her when he appeared. He did not notice her, but sank to his knees immediately, dropping a canvas rucksack on the sand and putting his hands over his eyes. Rose broke into a run.

"Ron! Are you all right? Where are the others?"

He turned quickly and she saw that he looked very pale, his eyes red-rimmed. "Rose," he croaked, then said nothing and swallowed. She dropped down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder while he composed himself. The silence before he was able to speak was almost unbearable to Rose, but she waited.

"They're all right. Or, they were when I left them. They've left where they last were, and I- I can't find them."

Rose looked at him closely. His face was dirty, and bore signs of recent fear or struggle. This is more than losing track of Harry and Hermione, she thought. Aloud, she said, "Are you all right? What brings you here? Though, I'm sure Bill will be glad to see you."

"I'm OK," he told her, though he did not sound it. "I just- we got separated. I ran into some Snatchers, got splinched again, and came here. I didn't know where else to go."

"Where did you splinch?"

"Just my fingernails," he told her, holding up his right hand from which, indeed, two fingernails were missing from his long fingers. "Smarts a bit, but it's all right."

She crouched there beside him for a moment, then stood up and reached out a hand to him. "Why don't you come inside? I was just about to bring this in," she gestured at the driftwood.

He took her hand and stood. "I can carry it," he offered, but Rose shook her head.

"It's only a bit of driftwood, and you look like you've been through a world of suffering today. Just manage your rucksack, why don't you."

They walked slowly toward the cottage. Rose probed at him once more. "So how did you come to be separated? And, did you go back to where you last saw them? Surely they would wait for you, if they could?" Unless some danger came upon them, she thought with a shiver of dread.

"They probably didn't think I was coming back," Ron muttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve with a grimace.

"And why is that?" Rose asked, stopping suddenly and looking directly at him.

He avoided her eyes. "Well, er, that'd be because I left. We had a row, and then at the end of it I- left."

"You what?" Rose exploded. "What on earth could you have rowed about that would have made you leave them? Your best friends? After you promised to stay with them, you promised to share the mission. Harry needs you, Ron. What on earth were you doing?"

He took a step back and held up his hands as if to shield himself from her indignation. "I wasn't myself!" he protested, but his expression was miserable. "I'd been wearing that bloody thing around my neck for ages, and I hadn't eaten anything but mushrooms in days. Something happens when you wear that thing, the others felt it too. It makes you- it makes you think ugly things. Makes you mean. I didn't mean any of it, and I tried to find them again, I swear. It just-" he gulped. "I convinced myself they didn't want me around. I thought they wanted me gone."

"Didn't they try to talk you out of leaving?" Rose asked, struggling against another flash of anger.

"They did," he admitted, in a strangled-sounding voice. "But it felt too late. I didn't think they meant it. It's like that thing was telling me they didn't mean it, and they couldn't wait to see the back of me. As soon as I took it off and left, I tried to go back. But I couldn't."

Rose stood and stared at him for a long minute, while he looked at the dull brown grass at his feet. His hair was wet and matted, his nose was red, and there were grass stains on his trousers. He wore a tattered jumper that looked inadequate to the cold, late autumn wind. Ron could not have looked more defeated if he had thrown up his hands in surrender, and Rose felt her fury abating.

"Well. You need something to eat. Let's see what Fleur has going for supper, then." He looked up at her, frowning slightly, as if he expected to have been sent away at wandpoint. When she only raised her eyebrows and gestured toward the cottage door, he nodded, took a deep breath, and followed her inside.

Ron stayed at Shell Cottage for four weeks. He made himself useful to Bill and Fleur as much as he could, chopping firewood, caring for the chickens, repairing the fence, and generally being an extra pair of hands for Fleur. Rose noted his self-effacing, assiduous attitude with some surprise. He had never struck her as particularly industrious or neglectful of his own comfort before.

Ron had always been good humored, talkative, and loyal to the people he loved. But during his stay with them, Ron woke up every morning by seven o'clock, ate whatever breakfast he was offered quickly and gratefully, and immediately began to ask after what he could do to help his brother and sister-in-law that day. Sometimes Fleur would send him to collect eggs, or tell him of something which needed fixing, and he would do it gladly.

There were other days when Fleur could come up with no tasks for him, but would pat him on the shoulder fondly and say, "Why don't you 'ave a leetle rest zis morning, mon frère, eh?" and those were the days when Ron seemed to them most miserable. While Rose and Fleur cooked or cleaned or magically set pairs of knitting needles to work making socks or jumpers, Ron would mope by the ocean, or spend hours tapping at the wireless radio, trying to locate the new Resistance-led radio station. The two witches discussed him, sometimes, in French.

"He obviously has some sorrow. Hermione has broken his heart, perhaps," Fleur offered one day, glancing at him out the window as he threw stones into the ocean. On such an overcast, windy day, it was a melancholy picture.

"I think not," Rose replied, quietly, as she sent the freshly washed teacups gently into their cupboard with a wave of her wand and a murmured incantation. "He has had a falling out with his friends. And he is ashamed."

This intelligence did not lessen Fleur's growing affection for her brother-in-law, however. To the contrary, she spoke to him with more gentleness than before, seeming to regard him as a tragic figure.

On Christmas morning, Fleur and Bill were having a lie-in in the master bedroom, while Ron and Rose sat in the kitchen having breakfast. She had been invited to spend the whole day at the Tonks' home, and she did plan to join them for dinner, but this morning, she rather thought that Ron had more need of the company.

"Why don't you try to find your program again?" Rose suggested, after a particularly loud giggle from Fleur caused an embarrassed flush to spread over Ron's face and neck.

He agreed, and soon covered all other sounds with the loud static of the radio. He tapped at the radio, muttering words with his wand, and Rose had finished her tea and picked up her knitting when the static from the radio stopped. She looked up. Ron had switched the radio off and was now sitting perfectly still, holding a small, metal cylinder that looked like a thick cigarette lighter and frowning. Rose opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but shut it when she heard the smallest, tinniest sound coming from the object.

Ron was listening intently and Rose came to sit in the chair next to him. From the round opening of the cylinder, which Ron had uncovered by depressing his thumb on a metal switch, came the faint sound of Hermione's voice. "Remember... remember Ron?" it said. "When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again, he had to get a new one."

Even fainter still came Harry's voice. "Well," it said, "Well, I'll just borrow yours for now, then. To keep watch." As faint as the voice was, Rose could hear that it sounded stricken and hollow. Something had obviously happened to Harry's wand, and Rose looked up, troubled. To her surprise, Ron was grinning radiantly. He said nothing, but depressed the switch on the object again. Rose gasped. All of the lights in the kitchen went out.

"What is that, Ron?" she asked him.

"It's the Deluminator," he answered, distractedly, looking around as if he expected to see something floating in the darkness. "Dumbledore left it to me. I thought at first it only did the lights, but now I wonder . . ." He broke off suddenly and pointed. Rose stood next to him and followed the direction of his finger through the window into the garden. A blue ball of light was pulsing in the air outside.

Ron simply stared at it for a moment. Then, he burst into movement again, but rather than pursuing the light, he hurried back into the room where he'd been staying in the cottage, despite that it was right next to the master bedroom where Fleur and Bill still were.

Rose kept the blue ball of light in her view. It was oddly entrancing, and she also felt its importance to Ron. She hoped it would not disappear before he returned. The sounds coming from Bill and Fleur's room now were unmistakable, but she was able to ignore them as her eyes focused on the gently swelling blue orb in the garden.

In a moment, Ron was back, his now full rucksack on his shoulder. "I think," he said, and his voice shook with suppressed excitement, "I think I can find them now." And he strode past her into the garden in the direction of the light.

It had waited for him, but as soon as Ron came outside, the ball of light began to move. Rose followed Ron, who had begun to stride to keep up with the ball. Behind the shed, it stopped, and Ron stopped with it, so abruptly that Rose almost ran into him. The ball of light slowly drifted toward him where it collided with his chest. When Rose looked after it, fascinated and a little frightened for him, she saw it glowing dimly from inside him, at the approximate location of his heart.

Ron put his rucksack on and looked at Rose, his blue eyes bright with hope. "I have to go," he told her. "I know where they are, now. Or at least," and he pointed at his chest, "this does."

Rose nodded at him, rather in awe of his certainty about the strange sequence of events.

"When Bill and Fleur are- when they come out," he said, both reddening and laughing a little, "Tell them. I have to find the others."

"Of course you do," she said, finding her voice. And before he could disapparate, Rose stepped forward and hugged him. "They need you," she said in his ear. "Help Harry. For me, please." He nodded, and she released him and stepped back.

Ron Disapparated a full hour before Bill and Fleur emerged, flushed, from their bedroom. He did not return.

Rose's recovery from her next bout of Dreamwalking was harder than usual. She had researched the life of Dorcas Meadowes, a member of the Order of the Phoenix whom Voldemort had killed just before he had come for James and Lily. She had had no difficulty in finding Tom Riddle's unconscious mind. As she recovered in the guest room at the Tonks' home and reflected, however, this was becoming suspicious in itself.

In the first months of her Dreamwalking project, her efforts had been hit or miss. Sometimes she wandered the web of dreamers for an hour before turning back and forcing herself to awake and admit failure. But in the past three months, Rose had encountered Tom's node each time she had sought it. And last night, it had shown none of the usual hostility and resistance to her message. It seemed to reach for her, inquiringly, and when she departed, she could almost detect, in the quality of its energy, a kind of satisfaction. When she had pulled away, too, she met with resistance. Tom's energy pulsed and seemed to finally catch at her presence, not enough to detain her for long but enough to slow her return to her body and make her feel uneasily when she woke as if she had left something behind.

Rose's headache and fatigue disappeared in a few days. The discomfort was entirely forgotten by the time, a week later, Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived at the Tonks' Apparition point one evening. His visits, while rare, were not unheard of; Kingsley made an effort to keep Andromeda in the loop since the Muggle-born Ted had gone on the run some months before. He, too, was officially in hiding, but he kept up with Order meetings and divided his time among various Order members' safe houses. He greeted Rose, Andromeda, and Tonks.

"Remus is still at Malfoy Manor with Hestia and Bill Weasley," he told them in his calm, deep voice. "I got a Patronus from Bill when I left the Burrow. There have been no developments, and they expect to depart as planned tonight."

Tonks exhaled, and Rose squeezed her arm. "Thank you, Kingsley. We really appreciate your keeping us in the loop," Rose told him, and he bowed his head in her direction.

"Please stay for dinner, Kingsley, won't you? I've made a goulash," Andromeda urged, but Kingsley shook his head. "I must keep moving, but I thank you. I actually came to have a word with Rose, here. Would you be willing to step outside a moment?" He asked, looking at her in his mild way.

"Of course," Rose answered. When they were outside, she asked him, "Has there been any word of Harry?"

"None," he replied. "And we must take this as a good sign. Whatever may be his doings, Harry does not wish to be found, that much is clear. To have evaded detection for this long is most impressive. I do not know, just now, of any reason to worry about him."

"There is always reason to worry about Harry," Rose remarked dryly.

Kingsley gave a slight smile. "Worrying about a young person like him could easily become a full time occupation. I understand. For the present," he said, patting her arm where it draped over the Tonks' garden fence, "He seems to be as safe as any of us. Speaking of which, I've come to discuss something which pertains to your own safety. I stopped by your flat a few days ago."

As Secret-Keeper, Kingsley could visit her flat with more safety than most people, as he, like Rose, could Apparate directly onto the space in front of her door. "I don't think I was seen," he continued, "but there were Death Eaters standing watch just feet from where I Apparated. I returned yesterday in the early morning and two other Death Eaters were there, again, just outside the door. I listened to them a moment and heard them discussing you by name. It seems they know whose flat it is they are staking out, and, I'm afraid, all they would need to get inside is to know your exact address, including the postbox number. Is your address on file with anyone, anywhere? At Hogwarts, perhaps?"

Rose shook her head. "I took the flat while Dolores Umbridge was at Hogwarts. It did not seem wise at the time to allow the school access to it."

Kingsley nodded, looking relieved. "Good, good. And who else knows the address?"

"Harry does. But he knows not to return there. And, Ron will have told him of the taboo."

"No one else?" he pressed.

"No one who is not in the Order. Remus, and Tonks, they have been there. But they're the only ones."

He gave a nod of satisfaction. "I do not know how they learned to whom the flat belongs. Severus Snape, perhaps, or some other informant has told him. But in any case, they know of you now, and honestly, it is only a matter of time before they are able to deduce your post box number. I would caution you against returning to that flat, Rose. I'm sorry."

She sighed. "I suppose someone was going to break the taboo in my flat eventually. I only wish it could still be a safe place for Harry to go, if he needs."

"Rose," he said, seriously, his dark eyes fixed on hers. "Can you think of a reason that you are being singled out by the Death Eaters? Besides merely that you are related to Harry. It seems very much as if the, er, Head Death Eater, has business with you."

She met his gaze and wondered how to respond. She did not like to lie to this sober, intelligent man. And yet, she found that neither could she tell him that she had copied down a very dangerous spell from a book of Dark Magic in order to assault the Dark Lord's unconscious mind on her own. He will think me a fool, she thought. And he will not understand why I need to do it.

"I have- I have been working with Harry, in ways that I have not been authorized to share," she invented. "And this may have put me back in, in his, mind."

He looked at her for a moment, inviting her to give further explanation, but when she did not, he only nodded. "Well. Feel free to ask for any help I can give. My home is no longer safe for me, but fortunately, we have many allies who have made their homes safe. I understand, incidentally, your desire to take action, even risky action, when your family is in danger. Perhaps you did not know that my own mother was killed by Death Eaters when I was a child?"

Rose's eyes widened. She shook her head. "No, I did not know. I am so very sorry. Was she active in the first war?"

"She was. She was also a Nigerian immigrant, and Muggle-born. The other pureblood families with whom my father associated did not take kindly to their marriage. I am not sure that my mother's being African did not further their disapproval."

"It probably did," Rose agreed, sadly.

He nodded again. "When the last war broke out, my father defied them openly, and they both joined the Order of the Phoenix. They were on a raid one day in 1979; they had ambushed a group of Death Eaters in the wake of a terrorist act at the Ministry. During the raid, Death Eaters kidnapped, and later killed, my mother."

Rose had tears in her eyes, now. She placed a hand on his, but could think of nothing further to say.

"I was not even at Hogwarts yet, but I couldn't wait to join the Order after that. My sister, now, she was all for leaving the country. But all I could think of was honoring my mother by fighting the Death Eaters in any way I could."

"And so you became an Auror," she observed.

"And so I became an Auror," he agreed. "I was determined to fight dark wizards however I could. It is an ambition, as I hear, which your nephew shares."

Rose smiled affectionately. "Yes. Harry was taking his NEWT coursework last year with the Auror program in mind. Though, I don't suppose he will be able to matriculate, now."

"When the war is over, however it ends," Kingsley replied, "I have a feeling many institutions will be very different from what they were. I imagine there will be many exceptions made for many people. He may well still enter the program one day. In any case, I wished to speak with you in part to warn you against returning to your flat, but I have other business. Have you heard of the radio program, 'Potterwatch?'"

She frowned. "Yes, of course. And now that Ron has returned to Harry, or at least," she said, rubbing her temples distractedly, "I think he has, Harry and Hermione will know about it, too. Yes, Potterwatch is frequently played at both the Weasleys' and the Tonks' homes. It is a source of hope for many. I am so glad you have been able to continue to broadcast."

"How would you like to be on the next broadcast?"

Rose opened her mouth, and then shut it. In a rather small voice, she asked, "What would I talk about?"

"Well, you might offer an international or historical perspective on the war. Or you could read the report from the Order's minutes. Whatever you like. It seems a small thing," he said, turning up the collar of his robes and taking out his wand, preparing to go, "but these broadcasts inspire and energize the movement. And who knows? Your nephew himself may be listening, wherever he is. I know that you need to do something, Rose. I know that need, to take action, when all you love is threatened. I will return next week with the where and the when. Can I count on you to help with the broadcast?"

"You can," she said, and shook his hand readily. With a slight bow, Kingsley turned and Disapparated, and Rose was left to contemplate how much of her willingness to speak on the broadcast of Potterwatch came from a desire to help the cause, and how much of it came from the growing warmth she felt for Kingsley Shacklebolt.

15