Rated M: Discussions about grief, guilt, and mention of abortion.
HP~W~I~N~T~E~R~HP~S~O~L~D~I~E~R~HP
Chapter Three: Strategic Retreat
Harry contacted Ron to get the address for the official printing office for The Magical Times, and was mildly surprised that it wasn't in Horozont Alley like the Daily Prophet's office. It was actually located in old town Greenwich, disguised as a muggle bookstore. In fact, the brother of the newspaper's founder was a squib and ran the store. Armed with the right information, Harry and Hermione apparated to Greenwich and found the shop's address without much problem.
"They sure have a sense of humour," Hermione commented when they found the store. It was a small brick building with decorations reminiscent of the Victorian Age, and lo and behold, it was actually called the Magical Times bookstore, proprietor Samuel S. Brown. Advertisements for the latest muggle fantasy and science fiction books stood in the display windows and the logo hovering above the fancy sign was a witch on a broom.
The plump little man behind the counter looked up in surprise when Harry and Hermione stepped in, the pleasant little bell tinkling overhead.
"Welcome to Magical Times bookstore," he drawled, folding a newspaper he'd been reading. "Can I help you find something?"
"Um, yes," Harry hesitated. He glanced down at the brief note he'd gotten from Ron when he'd asked for this newspaper's official office. There was a code to alert the squib storekeeper that you wanted to talk to the folks who actually ran the paper. "I'm wondering if I could buy a newspaper," Harry said casually.
The storeowner arched an eyebrow. "London Times?" he asked drily, knowingly.
"Actually, I'd prefer something a bit more Magical," Harry replied, suppressing a grin. The security here was sort of ridiculous, but kind of fun in its own way.
"In that case, follow me," the squib grunted. He hopped off the stool he'd been using behind the counter, and waddled to the back room. Judging from his stature, Harry wondered if he had goblin blood, like Professor Flitwick.
Once they stepped through the door, Harry felt the shimmer of magic over his skin. They were now in what looked like a lobby, with chairs along the walls, some pictures and framed articles and potted plants for decoration and a desk for a secretary smack in the middle of the room. Behind the secretary was a wide staircase going down to the offices. Harry could hear the clacking of machinery and he suddenly wondered whether magical newspapers were printed on machines of some sort.
"Sally, two visitors," the storeowner grunted. He waddled back out, slamming the door behind him. The secretary looked up and smiled at them. She was thin young lady with a sunny disposition and bobbed yellow hair like a girl in the 1940's might have had.
"Hi, can I help you?"
"I'm actually here to see an employee of the newspaper," Harry explained. "A Mr. Draco Greengrass? We had an appointment for an interview but … we didn't exactly finish and it was my fault."
"I see," Sally smiled understandingly and opened a drawer in her desk, fishing around through stacks of small coloured notebooks that were probably enchanted Communicating Notepads. "I'll attempt to contact him. Shall I tell him who is calling?"
Harry gulped uneasily and glanced at his wife. Hermione shrugged lightly and Harry sighed. Here goes nothing.
"Potter," he answered shortly, bracing himself for the gushing, the stammering, the special treatment … But she was professional to the core. Harry wasn't sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed when she didn't react to his name, didn't even glance at his forehead, and simply treated him normally.
"Alright, Mr. Potter, I'll get on it right away," Sally said pleasantly. "If you would like to take a seat? May I help you, ma'am?" she asked, turning to Hermione.
"Oh, I'm with him," she answered easily. "We're Mr. and Mrs. Potter."
"Gotcha," the girl grinned. "It'll take a few minutes as he's out in the field, but for an unfinished interview, he'll drop what he's doing and come."
"That's fine, tell him to take his time," Harry assured her. "We've got all day."
They sat in the comfortable chairs and perused the magical magazines that had been left out. Hermione picked up a copy of the Quibbler and was soon engrossed in it. Harry nosed through the magazines (mostly news and sports publications) until he spotted one called The Practical Potioneer. Surprised to see a Potions magazine in a place that couldn't possibly be more different from this profession, he picked it up. To his surprise, his old Potions Professor Horace Slughorn winked at him from the cover. He was definitely getting older and fatter, but apparently he was receiving some type of award for a common medicinal potion he'd modified for children who'd had allergic reactions to the key ingredients. Curious, Harry flipped it open.
He found the article on old Slughorn easily enough, and skimmed it, not really interested … until a quote that had been set off from the main script caught his eyes:
I can't take full credit for this development, as most of the work was done by a brilliant former student of mine. As he is sadly no longer with us, it was up to me to finish his work and give the benefit to the world.
Harry skimmed the article again, searching for that elusive comment, and quickly found it in the portion where Professor Slughorn was being asked about the experimentation process.
"His notes were difficult to decipher, but I am nothing if not determined," Horace chuckles self-deprecatingly. "I, who had to unravel the riddles of his homework, was left to unlock the keys of his genius. I know Severus Snape wasn't a beloved Professor by any means, but no sane person would deny that he was brilliant."
As many of our readers know, Professor Snape was one of the most advanced and brilliant Potioneers of his generation, patenting more than two hundred original potions and modifying almost every potion he brewed to be more efficient, effective, and successful. The Potioneering community greatly mourned his passing at the end of the War; a master who died too soon. (For Snape's Legacy, see article on page 25)
Harry's heart pounded and he dropped the magazine in his lap, completely conflicted. On the one hand, it was weirdly thrilling to see positive attention being given to Snape after all he had suffered and sacrificed for the war. But on the other hand, Snape was still alive and other people were reaping the benefits of his life's work. Slughorn was patenting modified potions that Snape had invented and never finished. Writers at the Practical Potioneer were singing his praises and writing articles about him in the past tense. Was Snape supposed to get monetary compensation for his patents and articles like in the muggle world? If so, then Snape's money had been going elsewhere and not to its rightful owner. None of it felt right at all. He'd heard a couple of years ago that some enterprising former student had decided to take his detailed school notes from when Snape taught and give the current Potions Books a long-overdue edit, which was good, but still …
"Harry?" Hermione whispered. "Are you alright?"
Harry shook himself and flipped through the magazine until he found the article on Snape's Legacy on Modern Potion Brewing. Silently, he showed it to his wife.
"Oh," Hermione murmured, dropping the Quibbler and taking the magazine from him. The picture of Snape for the article was glowering out at them as usual, but it was one that neither of them recognized. There was a strange crest hanging on a heavy chain around his neck. The silver medal stood out on his shiny black cloak, depicting a cauldron and a bottle, with a knife and a stirring rod crossed over them. Was it the sigil of some sort of Potioneer's Guild, Harry wondered?
"The main article's about Slughorn," Harry whispered to her. "Did you know he's got Snape's old notes and he's getting patents for Snape's modified and invented potions?"
"In the muggle world that would be illegal," Hermione muttered, chewing her lip. "But I'd have to research magical laws on copyrights. I can't believe Professor Slughorn would do that!"
"I'm sure he means well," Harry backpedalled uncomfortably. "I mean, Snape didn't … didn't leave a will or anything. Maybe he wouldn't care who got the patents so long as they were being used. You know how practical Snape always was. He never struck me as somebody who cared about money."
"Hmm," Hermione mumbled, absorbed in her reading. "Hey, they interviewed Madam Pomfrey for this one! Take a look."
Harry adjusted his glasses and read the paragraph his wife pointed out to him. Hogwarts' resident medi-witch had apparently seen firsthand how Snape perfected even quite common potions like the pepper-up or fever reducer, resulting in what she called, 'unparalleled quality and efficacy'. She lamented that while Slughorn and the NEWT students were wonderful, she had never been able to stock her cupboards with the kind of potions Snape had brewed. He had truly been a master of his craft, meticulous, exacting, and obsessively careful even with the simplest of potions. Many of his own created potions were rather expensive once they first appeared in the market, but Hogwarts had always been well-stocked with the first and the best of all Snape's inventions. Her conclusion was that he truly had cared about his potions and about the people who be receiving them, no matter what his stormy exterior had indicated otherwise. The writer concluded that the magical world would be unpacking its great debt to Severus Snape for generations to come.
"It's so nice to see the positive attention his name gets now," Hermione said softly.
"Severus is becoming a popular middle name in the maternity ward," Harry commented absently. He was not a woman's doctor by trade, but dealing with his wife's three successful pregnancies and the other ones that had ended in miscarriage had taught him a bit. He was on emergency call for the maternity ward, and had performed two life-saving surgeries there in his career, one a Caesarean Section and a heart operation on a premature little girl. They were probably his proudest moments as a doctor. Nothing gave him more joy than to heal and give life, especially to the most vulnerable. Thinking of that made him think of his precious Sev, who had nursed baby birds back to life and told his father he wanted to be a Healer too, so he could save lives. Thrusting the painful memory away, Harry shut the magazine and tossed it on a side table.
"Harry?" Hermione murmured.
"I'm alright, 'Mione," Harry sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I really am."
"You just miss him," she whispered. And she wasn't talking about Snape.
"Well, so do you," Harry whispered back, kissing her hair. "We'll find him. I know we will."
Hermione just nodded, but her body language told him she didn't share his optimism. She was ever the practical one of the two of them, and if he knew it would take a major miracle for them to find their son, she most certainly was aware of it. Two months had passed already and they were no closer to finding Sev. The Aurors and the muggle police had moved on to other things by now and the Potters kept hitting dead ends.
Well, Harry thought reluctantly. I haven't hit ALL the dead ends yet. If anyone would know ways to find folk that would prefer to stay hidden, Snape would. But ... I won't even try to contact him unless there is no other way.
"Mr. and Mrs. Potter?" a familiar voice drawled.
Harry looked up in surprise. They hadn't even heard Draco approach. He was standing several feet away, dressed in more traditional wizard clothes this time, though even Harry could tell that they were terribly casual for a pureblood of his standing. It was basically like a muggle suit, just with more buttons and nicer fabric and a more old-fashioned vibe. His clothes were black, of course, but they only heightened how pale his face was and how rumpled his silvery-blond hair looked. He looked rather tired, actually.
"Hello, Malfoy," Harry said cautiously as he and Hermione stood up. "Got a minute?"
Draco studied them both with his gray eyes before he slowly nodded. "We can chat in my office. This way."
He led them down the wide staircase, past young and old workers packaging boxes of newspapers, hot off the presses. Tomorrow morning's edition, Harry thought, glancing into one as he passed. Draco turned and held open a heavy door for them, and they entered a large, quieter room arranged like a honeycomb of little offices that were the size of closets. He led them along the outer edge of the honeycomb and Harry could feel the faint buzz of silencing charms all over the place from a dozen different wands. Draco suddenly turned and walked into a cubicle with a placard declaring the occupant as 'D. Greengrass, Investigative Journalist'.
Draco graciously pulled out a chair from the desk for Hermione, (the only chair) and as there were no others and no room for more anyway, Draco and Harry stayed standing.
"Malfoy," Harry started carefully at the same time that Draco sighed, "Potter …"
They both smiled at each other and some of the tension fell out of the shoulders.
"You first," Draco said quietly. "And you might want to throw up a silencing charm. I'm not allowed to use my wand."
"They can't do that!" Hermione burst out. "Can they?" she added in a softer voice, looking uncertain and righteous at the same time.
Draco shrugged and smirked. "I'm Death Eater scum, Mrs. Potter," he drawled condescendingly. "One of the conditions of being able to lead something approximating a normal life is to never use my wand … at least, not where the Ministry can locate it. Savvy?"
"It isn't right," Hermione said quietly.
"I don't really care anymore," Draco huffed. "I have found other ways to cope."
An awkward silence followed. Harry slowly drew his wand and cast Muffliato around the cubicle. Draco must have recognized it, because his eyebrows climbed up into his hairline.
"What?" Harry asked cautiously.
"Nothing," Draco said quickly. "Just … surprised you know that one. My godfather invented it, you know."
"I know," Harry sighed. "I … had his old Potions textbook in sixth year. He put a lot of weird notes in the margins."
"Ah, like that nasty cutting curse you almost killed me with?"
Harry winced and groped for something to say that wouldn't sound trite.
"Relax, Potter," Draco laughed, looking genuinely amused. "I'm not holding a grudge over something so petty. Plus, it gave me an excellent excuse to beg off my next two Death Eater meetings."
Again, that awkward silence, and Harry glanced uneasily at his wife. She just gave him a weird look. Harry knew what she was wondering, but he dared not ask if Draco was completely sane or not, because while he had always been annoying as a kid, now he was just … odd.
Harry mentally shrugged, (he wasn't here to examine Malfoy's sanity, after all) and he cleared his throat as he slipped his wand back into his pocket. "Well, I just stopped by because …" Harry floundered for the right words. "I wanted to say … I'm sorry. I had no right to talk to you the way I did and then just storm out. It was childish of me and I apologize."
"Well … I won't deny that your temper still needs work," Draco said with a small smile. "But I suppose that I was also out of line. There is so much I am still learning … that the world doesn't revolve around the purebloods and it'll go on changing whether I like it or not, for example … But I still tend to fall into old assumptions and ways of thinking, and I apologize for my insensitivity."
"No, I understand now what you were saying," Harry assured him. "And I suppose … since you told me your reason I may as well tell you mine." He swallowed hard. "I was hated, growing up. You know I grew up with my muggle relatives, right? Well … the adults in my life loved to tell me I shouldn't have been born or I should have been … done away with. And then to make things worse, the doctor Hermione and I went to for Sev's pregnancy told us he was 'defective' and wanted us to abort him."
"Kill him?" Draco clarified, horror dawning on his face. "Before he was even born? No Healer would do that!"
"He was a muggle, and we got a new doctor immediately, because he was wrong anyway," Harry shrugged. "But it just goes to show, these attitudes aren't exclusive to purebloods, Malfoy. Humans in general have very little tolerance for things, or people, that are different. I … I just assumed you were still your old intolerant self."
Draco nodded slowly and glanced at Hermione. She gave him a smile that assured him she held nothing against him, and he sort of smiled back. "It was actually … you-know-who … that showed me where my bigotry would get me," he said slowly. "I … was there … when he killed Professor Burbage. I'd never thought about … killing, like that before. It … became real for me. I suddenly pictured … well, I pictured some of my Hogwarts classmates in her place, and it hit me. I couldn't put my heart and soul into a cause like that. It was impossible."
"But you needed to stay alive," Harry concluded.
Draco hunched his shoulders and fiddled nervously with his sleeve. "I was a coward," he said softly. "I didn't want to die, or suffer, and I didn't want to serve him, but what choice did I have?"
"You saved us at Malfoy Manor," Harry told him. "And Luna told me how you took care of her and protected her while she was there. You weren't a coward. Far from it, actually. Now, you're a reporter and you seek the truth above everything else. If that doesn't take courage, I don't know what does."
Draco gave Harry a surprised look before a small, pleased smile appeared on his lips. "For what it's worth, Potter," he said. "Thank you."
"No, thank you," Harry retorted with genuine warmth. "I really mean it."
"Right," Hermione announced, interrupting their little moment of friendship. "Harry filled me in on what you guys talked about yesterday, the Winter Soldier and all that, but was that it?"
"No, actually," Draco replied, suddenly looking grim. "I wanted to cover something a lot more serious, but we didn't have the time."
"What is it?" Harry asked warily, back in worried-mode.
"Have either of you read the Prophet this week? No? I didn't think so." The blonde turned and started rummaging in a box of what looked like manila folders stuffed with newspaper clippings. He pulled out one folder and leaned on his desk as he sifted through them. When he triumphantly produced a crisp page from a folder that looked quite new, he read out the headline. "This was from six days ago: Ministerial Candidate Vows to Put a Stop to Favoritism in the Ministry."
"Oka-ay," Harry said slowly. "Sounds pretty dull."
"Yes it does, doesn't it?" Draco said softly, his gray eyes piercing Harry's with blazing clarity. "You do know the Minister elections are in a couple of weeks, right? Unfortunately for you, Potter, you're a public figure. And most unfortunately, you and your family crisis have ended up the central issue in this election." He produced another newspaper clipping. "This is from this morning," Draco announced grimly. "Ministerial Candidate Discusses New Investigative Measures for Fratricide Cases."
"Fratricide?" Hermione choked, covering her mouth as if she was going to be sick. "Favoritism? Oh my god."
Harry shook his head, still clueless. "I'm sorry to be the dumb one here, but what are you two talking about? There's an election this month. Big deal. I've been too busy looking for my son to bother about voting."
"You really are thick, Potter," Draco groaned in exasperation. "This article is from a few weeks ago: Ministerial Candidate Slams Auror Department for Favoritism. And this one from a month before that: Ministerial Candidate Condemns Dark Rituals. And this one from a little over a week ago: Ministerial Candidate Demands St. Mungo's Healers be Evaluated for Mental Health. Oh, and the cream of the crop: Ministerial Candidate Demands We Truly See the Men Behind the Heroes. You see where this is going yet, Potter?"
Harry's head spun as it started to click. He could recall the silly little false arrest a few weeks ago, but he was released and got a formal apology from the head of the Auror Department and everything. He stopped even looking at the Daily Prophet because of the horribleness of knowing his family's tragedy was being discussed from the tabloids to the front pages. He had no idea that it was so serious that the candidates running against one another for Minister of Magic were taking it and crafting policy around it. He felt physically sick and wrapped his arms numbly around his middle.
"I see you finally get it," Draco sighed. "Look, Potter. I'll spell it out for you: whoever gets elected, it'll be ugly for you and your family. That's the simple truth."
"But I don't … I don't even know who's up for office. Wasn't Shacklebolt …?"
"He's outgoing," Draco explained. "He's been reelected to his limit by now. The new chaps coming in have something to prove."
"All of the candidates?" Hermione asked softly.
"All except one, and she's not likely to be elected so I won't even bother with her," Draco replied, shuffling several moving photos and pinning them to a corkboard on the wall behind Hermione. He pointed at an elderly gentleman with a scowl on his square face. "So, we've got Martin Greengrass, who's my father-in-law, actually. He's the chap who wants to audit Healers for mental disorders, which is really rich considering he's from a pureblood family with almost as many nutcases as the Blacks, meaning no disrespect to your late godfather, Potter."
"Of course not," Harry sighed, running his hands through his messy hair. Hermione silently got up and stood beside him for support, and also so she could see the photos and newspaper clippings Draco was pinning up. "The others?" Harry asked quietly.
"Theobald and Adalbert Quinn," Draco went on, pointing to two men who looked roughly the same age, in their forties, with wild blond hair and flashing blue-gray eyes. They looked like fighters, Harry thought absently. "They're former Aurors and half-brothers, running against each other. They're rather popular, but they fight nasty. Theobald wants to reform the Ministry, especially the Auror Department, and remove favoritism, bribery, etc. Adalbert is focusing on 'catching dark wizards' and he's the one who's so against 'Dark Rituals' and the like. He thinks the reason we fell into the last war was the old pureblood families' obsession with 'the old ways'. Of course, they're both flaming fanatics so it isn't likely they'd be elected, despite how popular they both are."
Hermione nodded, her sharp brown eyes flicking over the board. "You think the next minister won't be any of those three?"
"My money would be on this new chap, Anthony Parkfield," Draco said tapping the last picture. It was a mild looking middle aged man with thinning gray hair and a thin pale face. His eyes were sharp and bright blue, he had a small graying mustache on his upper lip, and looked like his suit had to be magicked on every morning, it fit so perfectly. "He's a conservative," Draco explained. "He's moderate, soft-spoken and photo-genic. Has all the right ideas and hits the right notes for reform, taxes, prosperity, etc. He seems like the perfect candidate."
"Except?" Hermione sighed resignedly.
Draco arched an eyebrow. "Exactly. He seems perfect, and that actually makes him the worst of the lot."
"But who is he?" Harry demanded. "And why are they all obsessed with me and what … happened?"
"Well, to answer the first question, Parkfield's a banker and investor from a pretty wealthy family," Draco laughed without amusement. "His mother was a squib, meaning he's magically a half-blood, but genetically, I suppose he's pureblood. Anyway, blood politics aside, he's a sneaky one. His father supported you-know-who in the first war while Anthony studied abroad, and by the time the second war rolled around, the old man was dead and this chap was in charge of the family fortune. Now, as you might have realized, Lucius Malfoy apparently knew Anthony Parkfield back in the day." Draco paused and hesitated. "Now, my father's mind is going, but he once said something rather curious about the Parkfields. Apparently, in the first war there was some sort of purge. The Dark Lord sent his loyal Death Eaters after wizards and witches who were supposedly part of some secret group that wanted to combine the magical and muggle worlds, and rule one united world as its elites. Basically, these people wanted the best of both worlds, but they each kept themselves and their goals a secret from their own people. The Dark Lord was understandably angry, seeing as how he believed that wizards ought to rule muggles, not conspire with them, so they got hunted down. My father thinks old Lord Parkfield sent his son away to escape the purges and pledged his support to you-know-who as recompense."
"And he didn't try to kill Parkfield later during the second war?" Harry demanded. "That makes no sense."
"Oh, he accepted the galleons from Parkfield, who had vested interest in keeping the Dark Lord happy, after all," Draco chuckled. "But he gave a few assassination orders and Parkfield barely survived. That's why he looks so sickly. My father said he never recovered."
"This is making my head spin," Harry groaned.
"It makes sense though," Hermione said thoughtfully. "So, why does this Parkfield have it out for Harry if he probably didn't truly support Voldemort anyway?"
Draco flinched imperceptibly at the name, but he didn't bring attention to it. "I have no idea," he confessed. "But if you take the political speak away from his words, what he wants is to expose both sides of the last war as being hypocrites, liars, war-mongers, idiots, or crazy people, and show the wizarding world that only those in the Ministry, the 'elites', are above the petty squabbles of us mere mortals. For these rumors to start flying around about Harry Potter of all people possibly playing with Dark Magic is really just the cream of the crop for him. If he can get Potter exposed as no more of a saint than anybody else in the war, it'll be perfect for him, and his popularity will only grow. He knows how fickle people can be, and he practically owns the Daily Prophet, one reason I never even attempted to get a job there."
"But the dark magic wasn't from me!" Harry shouted. "I wasn't even at home when the dark runes appeared! And 'Mione's wand confirmed that the only dark curse she used was sectumsempra, which is kind of popular by now, you'll admit, and doesn't leave dark magic traces except in the wounds."
"I know all that, Potter," Draco said in exasperation. "But as it's looking like Parkfield will get elected, no matter what the facts say, I think you need to take an extended vacation of sorts."
"You mean flee before Harry gets thrown in Azkaban and the rest of our children get taken and put into foster homes," Hermione snapped, her face flushing as her temper rose. "Can't we fight this?"
"No, you cannot," Draco snapped back. "You know that there are people in the Ministry with a long-held grudge against the boy-who-lived. I've heard rumours before that they would love to get him put in Azkaban on account of that one Unforgivable he used on Carrow, so how much more will they fight to get him locked up if this ridiculous charge of Dark Rituals and Fratricide go through? They're just waiting for the right Minister, and once they get that, they'll move in for the kill. They hate Potter and all he did to upset the order of things, and they just want to get rid of him. It's political corruption at its finest, you see?"
Hermione and Harry were stunned, too horrified to speak for several seconds. Harry gently pulled his wife into a tight hug, just needing the support of her body against his.
"I … I lost my son … two of my sons if you count the unborn baby, and they … they dare think I killed them somehow in an illegal ritual?" Harry asked softly, his eyes wide and filled with pain like a wounded deer. "After all I did … all I sacrificed … they'd turn on me like this?"
Draco shook his head and sighed at his Gryffindorish simple-mindedness. "They don't see it as sacrifice," he said carefully. "They see you as Dumbledore's pawn, and they hated the old Headmaster, you know that. If they can't get to Dumbledore, they'll get to you. Nothing much against you personally on my end, Potter, but you made a lot of heads roll when you were just a kid. Now that their immediate danger is over, they want to make you pay for making them look like fools back then."
"This can't possibly be legal," Hermione said weakly. Her body was trembling slightly against Harry and he squeezed her a bit closer, gently rubbing her shoulder. "You're sure we can't do anything to fight this?"
"Tell me, do you really have the time and energy to fight this?" Draco asked more gently. "You've lost your son, and an unborn child as well, to an unprovoked attack on your own home that combined the worst of the magical and muggle worlds against you. You're still reeling from it all, and your whole world is turning on you faster than you can process. Trust me, if you decide to stay and fight, you will never stop fighting. Your names will be ruined, your reputations shot, your family … your children, viciously attacked, and you may well have to move anyway just to stay sane. Leaving now is simply shortening the time and grief you'd spend on it. To be honest, you probably should've disappeared right after the war to avoid the inevitable turning of the fickle-minded sheep. But you can still get away now, and you've got a little over two weeks to do it. In the chaos of the election, none of the Ministry workers will do anything too bad."
"They arrested me before," Harry whispered, feeling numb and lost. He hadn't been so blindsided by fate since he'd received the letter expelling him from Hogwarts the summer he turned fifteen.
"They were merely testing the waters, especially public sentiment, with that arrest," Draco said severely. "You notice there wasn't a whole lot of public outrage against your arrest, except from your personal friends. It was a tactic, to show off the 'favoritism' you've got and how all your personal friends are influential members of society now. Ergo, corruption."
"But it's not …"
Draco shook his head and huffed as if he couldn't believe Harry was so dense. "I know it's not, you know it's not, but they don't! So who are they to believe? They believed you were a lunatic pretty easily back in '95, how much easier is it now that they really haven't seen much of you for the past fifteen years?"
"So that's it?" Harry demanded, throwing his hands in the air and feeling suddenly angry. "We just run? We give up before the battle's even joined?" Hermione gently took his arm and the gesture caused his temper to die down. Their hands joined, and Harry could see his own despair and fear mirrored in her eyes. They had been dealing with far too much in the past weeks.
Draco ran a hand through his short blond hair, mussing it further. "As unthinkable as it would be to a couple of Gryffindors like yourselves," the journalist sighed. "I believe that you should carry out a strategic retreat, yes." Draco paused and folded his arms, tapping his fingers on his elbow. "And I think the battle's already joined, you just haven't been able to hit back yet. Hard to hit someone you can't see, isn't it?"
"But where would we go?" Hermione asked, her brain rushing into high gear. "We can't just drop into a foreign country. There's packing to do, passports to get if we go the muggle way, international portkeys if we go the wizard way, we have to sell the house, change our address …"
"If it isn't too abhorrent to you, I could help," Draco interrupted.
The looks of shock on both Harry and Hermione's faces must have been comical indeed, since the pureblood suddenly smirked sardonically at them.
"Oh, did I shock you senseless?" he asked in an amused tone. "Do I need to repeat the offer?"
"N-no," Harry stammered. He coughed into his fist and glanced helplessly at his likewise dumbstruck wife. "We just … I mean, I heard you, but you might, er … want to elaborate. This isn't some Slytherin attempt at blackmail to put me forever in your debt, is it?"
"If you'd like, we can write up a wizarding contract and swear unbreakable vows and everything," Draco smirked. "But I am not actually attempting to blackmail you … exactly. I am trying to forge an … alliance, if you would."
"An Alliance?" Hermione blurted out. "Are you serious? Harry's a half-blood who's married to a muggleborn! Surely you're not going to ruin your family's reputation by associating with us!"
"It doesn't have to be public," Draco laughed, looking genuinely amused. "And anyway, I thought it would be the 'Noble and Saintly House of Potter' that would be objecting to an alliance with the Dark and most Evil House of Malfoy?"
"You're not evil," Harry said awkwardly. "I actually don't think you ever were."
"Well then, what's the problem?"
"No problem!" Harry said hastily. "We were just hoping you're actually serious, that's all."
Hermione sighed and patted her socially awkward husband's arm. "So what would your help entail, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked cautiously. "And what do you get out of this?"
Draco flashed her a grin that was almost flirtatious. "Brownie points?" he suggested, widening his silver eyes disarmingly.
Hermione actually laughed. "Where did you learn that?"
"Muggles," Draco said cheerfully. "And additionally, your friendship would be nice. After all, even though you're in disgrace now, the Potter family is still wealthy and influential. The sun will shine on you again, once this current craze is over, and why not have a backup home in another country to spend the summers in? The Malfoy family has two mansions in France and one in Italy."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'd prefer an English speaking country," he said drily. "How's Australia this time of year?"
"Actually, I was thinking … America."
"The United States?" Hermione said incredulously. Then she turned thoughtful. "Actually …" she paused and glanced up at Harry, the familiar light of determination and fascination in her brown eyes. "That might be a good idea," she went on slowly. "America has a long history of accepting refugees of all sorts. Would we be going there by muggle means, or magical?"
"Magical would be simplest," Draco replied at once. "I have a cousin-in-law who works in the American Congress, in their Healing Department. He was complaining about a lack of good, well-trained Healers at their main hospital … I think it's called St. Winifred's or something like that."
Harry blinked as he let the idea soak in. Honestly, he was surprised that Draco had put so much thought and work into this. "So … you have a job all lined up and everything?" he asked weakly, feeling strangely off-balance.
"It makes things legitimate," Draco explained. "That way you can tell people you moved for work rather than to escape political intrigue."
Hermione spoke up, seeing as her husband seemed too stunned to react. "Should Harry apply straightaway?"
"Naturally," Draco arched an eyebrow. "And since international owls take forever, American wizards actually have something similar to muggle instantaneous communications … electronic mail, I think they call it?"
"Harry can send an email to the American wizards?" Hermione laughed in delight. "I am so going to love that country!"
"You would," Draco said drily. "They consider themselves to be the most advanced magical society in the world right now."
Harry nodded, feeling slightly less off balance now that he had a mission in mind. "How do I do it?"
"Go to the Transportation Department at the Ministry of Magic and ask for Darlene," Draco said with a small smile. "Technically, the regular people aren't supposed to know about Insta-Note technology yet, but if you tell Darlene that I sent you, she'll know what it's for."
"And that's it?"
Draco nodded, looking altogether too pleased with himself. "Ask to contact the Head of St. Winifred's Hospital in the U.S, and she'll set you up. If you get an interview, they might ask you to International-Portkey over, but I think you've got the money for that, right?"
Harry nodded dumbly.
"If you get the job, tell them that you'd be moving your family from Britain and hopefully the American wizards will direct you to their Travel Department so you can get set up in a home and get muggle I.D if you don't want to live in the strictly magical areas. I took Asteria and Scorpius on vacation to New York last year and they were most helpful."
Harry and Hermione both nodded, feeling both overwhelmed and grateful. There was really no way to repay Draco for this … any of it. But why was he even doing such a thing?
"Thank you, Draco," Harry said quietly, putting every ounce of fervent honesty he could behind his words. "I don't know how to repay you, I really don't."
"Consider my life debt paid?" Draco suggested with a flourish of his hand.
"Of course," Harry said as if that was obvious. "But you know I never would have called you in on it anyway, right?"
"Unless you really needed to, you mean," Draco corrected him with a smirk. "You're such a Gryffindor, Potter."
"Thanks," Harry chuckled, feeling relieved in a dozen different ways. Getting answers and solutions always did that to him. No matter the danger, as long as he knew what was going on, he was reasonably sure that he could handle whatever it was he was fighting. After the past several weeks of shock and grief and frustration, he was starting to feel almost like his old self again.
"So, I guess we have things to do," Hermione announced, almost back to her old self too.
"Indeed you do," Draco smiled, gathering his notes, clippings, and photos back up. "Do drop me an owl when you get there and tell me how things are in the States. I hear it's lovely in the Capitol this time of year."
HP~W~I~N~T~E~R~HP~S~O~L~D~I~E~R~HP
Rain beat against the gables of Asphodel Cottage and insomnia had gripped Hermione again. Harry was no longer working night shifts, and he was up with his wife, methodically checking on the kids. James had taken homework to bed again, and Harry knew it was a coping mechanism. His oldest boy never touched books if he didn't have to before, but he was using most of Sev's old books, so it wasn't the schoolwork that James was after. He was trying to stay close to his little brother in his own way. But it wasn't healthy, pushing himself to study after lights out like this. Harry set the books aside and pulled the covers over his red-haired son, sighing as he smoothed the boy's curls off his forehead and resolving to talk to him in the morning. It wasn't the first talk they'd had, and it wouldn't be the last. The whole family was grieving and dealing with the trauma differently.
Hermione slipped out of the girls' room as Harry finished tucking James in. "They're fine; just sleeping together again," she whispered.
Harry nodded. He knew from George that twins, especially magical twins, got a great deal of comfort in sleeping close to one another. Rose and Lily had been quite excited to sleep in their own beds once he put the two small beds in their room, but ever since Sev's kidnapping, the girls more often than not slept together, tangled up so tightly that nobody could extricate them. Again, it was their way of coping.
"Maybe moving will be good for all of them," Harry murmured.
"A change of scenery?"
Harry sighed and wrapped his arms around his wife. They stood silently at the top of the stairs for a few minutes, holding onto each other and rocking slightly.
"Remember when we danced?" Hermione suddenly whispered. "It was just us in the tent … danger all around … that stupid locket wearing us both down … But somehow we found the strength to smile in all of that."
Harry smiled and stepped back a bit so he could see Hermione's face. Her eyes were wet with tears, but she was smiling. "So long as I have you," Harry whispered, cupping her face in his hands. "I'll always have a reason to smile."
He tilted his head slightly and Hermione tipped hers, and their lips fell gently against one another. It was a slow, gentle kiss, nothing like the frenzied desperation of the first love-crazed embraces of their first days being married. They had all the time in the world now, and they explored one another gently, reverently, softly … neither wanting it to end.
"This is why I love you, Harry James Potter," Hermione murmured a little breathlessly when the kiss inevitably finished.
"Because I'm such an awesome snogger?" Harry smirked.
Hermione chuckled and wrapped her arms tightly around him again, resting her head on his shoulders. "You silly … You've gotten better, but I wouldn't say I married you for your physical skills, Harry. I married you because I loved your heart … your spirit. Life is always kicking you from behind and you always turn and fight it, to protect those you love … Nothing ever keeps you down for long."
Harry was silent. He had no idea how to answer that. While it was true he fought desperately for everything and everyone he loved, it hadn't even been enough this time. Sev was gone, the rest of the children were suffering trauma after the attack, and their family would have to relocate. St. Winifred's in America's capitol city had been so eager to have him that they hired him on the spot … the interview tomorrow was a formality. They were being forced to flee the unreasonable and stupid accusations of jealous, horrible people … he wasn't fighting. He was running.
"Harry?" Hermione whispered, raising her head to look up at him in concern. "Tell me what's going on. What are you thinking?"
"I …" Harry swallowed hard and wrapped his arms more securely around Hermione as if he could keep her from leaving. "I'm sorry … I'm sorry that I didn't protect you, or the kids, and now we're just running … I … I'm not strong enough, and I'm not fighting … I'm just …"
"Harry, please stop," Hermione sighed. She pulled away from his embrace, but she grabbed both his hands instead. "Let's take this to the kitchen; get some tea."
Harry obediently followed her downstairs, past the spot where Kreacher had died, (he still avoided looking at it) and into their cozy, spacious kitchen. Hermione forced Harry to sit in one of the tall stools while she put the kettle on. After she laid out the tea things, she sat down across from her husband. The kitchen had an island in the middle and a few stools around it. The children often sat in here watching Kreacher work … or more recently, watching Hermione cook or make tea. It was summer and none of the kids had school, although Rose and Lily were too young for the muggle Primary up the street yet. James would probably be starting school in a different country this fall … alone. He still had one more year of primary before he was old enough for Magical Education, and really, Harry had no idea what he was going to do about that once they got there. His heart bled for their eldest. James was a tough boy, but he had been utterly devoted to his little brother. The ten year old was taking all of this harder than anyone, and his parents had no idea how to reach him.
"Alright," Hermione suddenly sighed. "So, first of all, I can see that guilt complex of yours hard at work."
Harry squirmed under her sharp gaze and fiddled with his glasses. She had always been able to read him better than anybody … ever since they were just naïve kids getting into all kinds of trouble. He pulled his glasses off and stared at them, feeling his heart break afresh as he remembered that Sev's glasses had been found on his bedside table. He hadn't even been able to grab them when Kreacher got them up. Wherever his poor boy was, he was suffering strained vision without those glasses, not to mention whatever else he was suffering in his captivity.
"Harry," Hermione whispered, reaching out to cover his shaking fist with both of her hands. "Harry, let it go. Cry it out."
Obediently, Harry dropped his glasses and covered his face with his hands. With a gut-wrenching sob, he started to cry. He wept hard, missing his son, hating and blaming himself, grateful for Hermione … He didn't even know what he felt anymore. It was one long cycle of rage and hurt and grief that he couldn't fathom or comprehend. Hermione reached out and rubbed his arm, stroked through his hair, and ran her soft fingers over the hands that covered his face. Somewhere in the midst of his tears, he opened his hands and clasped hers tightly, covering her knuckles with tears and kisses. He was so very grateful for Hermione. She had seen him at his worst, and still stuck with him. She had given him four beautiful children, and they had grieved the loss of others who were never born. Including this last one. Little Charlie would be alive still, growing in his mother's womb, if only Harry hadn't been such a failure … if only.
"Love, none of this is your fault," Hermione said gently once Harry's cry seemed to winding down. "I don't blame you for anything, nor should I. Nobody should be blaming you, or me, or the kids, for any of this. It was the Winter Soldier, and whoever he works for, that did this to us. Stop blaming yourself right now, Harry. It isn't healthy, and it isn't honest."
"But I … I could've done something," Harry sobbed, pressing one of his hands to his forehead to alleviate the headache growing there. "If I hadn't been so wrapped up in my stupid work I could've been home, I could have run him off, saved you and the baby, or Sev … And now we're just running from it all like we really are guilty, and what'll they go on saying?"
Hermione sighed and got up to fetch the kettle which had begun to sing. They were both silent as she steeped the tea and carefully poured out two cups, measuring the milk and sugar into Harry's cup for him just the way he liked it. He mumbled his thanks as she handed him his cup and saucer and didn't look up at her as she sat back down.
"Whatever I do," Harry said softly. "No matter where I am, or how old I am, or what I do … It's never enough, 'Mione. I'm never strong enough, or fast enough, or skilled enough …"
"And you never will be," Hermione said decisively. "Not with standards like yours, Harry love. But you're good enough, strong enough, fast enough … for me. You were always strong, Harry. That was what I was trying to say earlier. It takes a strong man to see their weaknesses. You accepted Draco's help; the Harry I knew in school would have cut off his own nose to spite his face if Draco Malfoy had ever offered anything like this. You've grown up, you've changed … and you need to stop blaming yourself for everything bad that happens."
"But we should fight back, we can't just run …"
"You heard Draco, and I'm afraid he's right. Defending ourselves will only make things worse. We should have really disappeared after the war. That would have made everything easier, you know?"
"I suppose," Harry murmured huskily.
"What's the matter, Harry? Why are you feeling so terrible tonight?"
Harry sighed and fumbled in his dressing gown pocket for a handkerchief, wondering himself why he was feeling so depressed. But pressing the clean cloth to his face brought a whiff of the laundry soap Kreacher had always favoured because it didn't make his hands as wrinkly … and Harry burst into fresh tears.
"K-Kreacher," he sobbed, burying his face in the hankie. "I couldn't save him … I tried … I'm a surgeon, I should have been able to do it … but he died in my arms, just like Dobby, and it's my fault. Everything I touch dies. Why?"
"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispered.
She got up from her stool and came over to him, wrapping her arms around him. She thought back to the first days after she woke in the hospital and Harry had held her as she cried, told her it wasn't her fault, that losing Sev and the baby wasn't her fault … why was it so easy to see the truth in other people, but not in oneself? She had gone through her own stages of grief with Harry at her side. He had been so strong and immoveable, so convinced that she had saved their other children and had fought like the lioness of her patronus. He had comforted and held her when the sadness and the self-blame had been the worst, and she would never have come through the worst of it without him. Seeing him now, she wondered if he had he set aside his own guilt and grief to help her and the children. It was such a 'Harry' thing to do that she almost burst into tears herself. He hadn't had time to truly grieve, to air his guilt, to be absolved the way he had absolved her.
"My fault, my fault, my own wretched, stupid fault," Harry mumbled into her chest as he wept and let her hug him.
"Stop it," Hermione whispered, combing through his messy hair and feeling helpless. "It's not your fault at all."
"I don't know what to do … how to fix this," Harry whispered through his tears. "What if he comes back for the other kids? What if he kills you this time? I can't bear it again."
"He won't come back," Hermione whispered fiercely. "If he does, we kill him this time. Simple as that."
"But then I will go to Azkaban, won't I?" Harry sobbed. "For murder; and my 'do no harm' oath too. And what will become of you? The kids? Sev's still out there, I know he's alive, but I don't know how to find him or how to stop those people from hurting him … or whatever they're doing."
"S-stop, Harry," Hermione whispered, fighting the burn of tears in her eyes. "You're making it worse. We'll find Sev, I know we will."
"But we won't," Harry whispered, clutching her harder. "We won't unless they want us to. And if they want us to find him, Sev won't be the same. Our precious, precious boy …"
Hermione rested her head on top of her husband's and let him cry and mumble out his fears and worries and guilt. It was the best way for him to let it all out before it poisoned him, and she did her best to tell him that it wasn't true, that he wasn't guilty of anything, that he was making the right choice in taking them away from all of this … But it seemed like Harry wasn't listening tonight. And that was alright, because they had many more nights to keep purging this poison from her husband's heart.
HP~W~I~N~T~E~R~HP~S~O~L~D~I~E~R~HP
International Portkeys were the worst, Harry decided. He had taken one to France for a Healer Convention a few years ago, but apparently distance had something to do with it, because the portkey he took to America was the most jarring, nauseating, uncomfortable three seconds of his life. When he arrived in the American Porting Hall, he had to fall on his knees to keep from vomiting.
A very nice travel agent, a black-haired girl with glasses and a bright smile, talked him through his dizziness and nausea, and sympathetically told him that one got used to it. She then nodded at another international porting booth, where a well-dressed wizard was sauntering out with a briefcase, looking none the worse for wear. Apparently, she recognized him and informed Harry that the chap commuted almost weekly from out-of-country. She explained that portkeys were very common in America because of how big the country was and how few people had big fireplaces. Apparently, floo travel was more common in Canada. Here, portkeys were the norm. Magical kids even got to school by portkey, not train.
Harry realized he had a lot to learn here.
The travel agent, (Quinn Little) acted as his guide through the huge Porting-Station, seeing how overwhelmed he was. Apparently, the station was located right under New York City's largest airport. Washington D.C was a little far to walk. As Harry followed the chatty girl, gaping at everything around him, they passed a spot that was roped off. Some magical construction workers were there, putting in new floors. Scaffolding was up around the walls too, as if they were constructing a new wing for the Porting-Station. But it actually looked like repairs, since the flooring tiles didn't exactly match the surrounding tiles.
"What happened there?" Harry asked curiously, nodding at the huge roped off area."
"Oh, that's just leftover from the Battle of New York," Quinn said carelessly. "Took the Congress almost a month to approve repairs in the first place, and by that time all the magical construction crews were booked up everywhere. So they're only just finishing now."
Harry frowned. "Battle of New York?" he repeated carefully. "I'm sorry, I don't follow American news … what happened?"
"The alien invasion?" the girl prompted, looking at him with a frown. "How could the magical folks in Britain not have heard about it?" She looked just as perplexed as Harry felt.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, embarrassed. "I've been rather … preoccupied, the past few weeks."
"Well, apparently the Norse god Loki invaded New York and created a portal to somewhere," Quinn explained with an air of derision. "Whatever it really was, some army of alien creatures came through and devastated several blocks-worth of New York City, but some Aurors and a Non-Magical group of superheroes managed to stop them. It was really big news. How could you not have heard? The No-Maj's were screaming about nothing else for weeks."
Harry suppressed the urge to laugh. "Seriously, Loki?" he asked mildly. "He actually called himself the god of magic?"
"He made some speech in Germany about how we mortals needed to kneel before his greatness," Quinn snorted. "I've never seen anybody so crazy. Whether he's the actual god or just a lunatic calling himself Loki, he could use magic the likes of which our wizards can't explain."
Harry shook his head in bewilderment. "And the American aurors actually worked with the muggles?" How could they break the Statute of Secrecy like that? Or were things simply handled differently in the U.S?
"They didn't exactly work together," Quinn shrugged as they reached the bustling Porting-Station proper. "The Magicals and the No-Maj's never met. My cousin's sister-in-law is a New York Auror and she was there, but they didn't see more than glimpses of the Superheroes." Quinn paused and then shook her head. "They've got freakier people protecting their planet than we do, and that's the truth."
"We have Dementors guarding our prison and Werewolves running in the back woods," Harry said drily. "Seriously, can things get freakier than that?"
"A skinny kid getting turned into a hulking super-soldier through some kind of magic serum back in the Nineteen-Forties, and then getting frozen for sixty or seventy years before defrosting, none the worse for wear? A mild-mannered physicist getting caught in a radiation explosion and turning into a mutant raging beast ten times worse than a troll? Yeah, right."
Harry didn't have any reply to the girl's easy humour. Moreover, he had no idea what she was talking about. Americans were so weird. She escorted him to the right Port-Booth, and said good-bye. Harry presented the booth's guard with his International Portkey Pass, which was good for two weeks and gave him basically unlimited Port-jumps to anywhere in the vicinity of two hundred miles once he was in America. It also didn't exactly specify a guest limit, so Harry was planning to hold onto it so he could take his family directly through customs, despite the nauseating trans-Atlantic jump, as quickly as possible. The wizards could take care of their legal status in the States much more quickly than muggles.
"You're going to where in D.C?" the guard asked in a friendly manner. He waved his wand over the pass and it glowed for a minute before he handed it back over.
"St. Winifred's Hospital," Harry answered at once. "I have a job interview in fifteen minutes."
"Okay, then you'll be porting directly in, so that'll be a cinch," the friendly man grinned, handing him a tourist map of the city of Washington, showing magical areas on one side, and muggle areas on the other, all for his convenience. Apparently, here in America they put a dim view on folk who wanted to stay completely separate from muggle society. It made sense that the two would be rather entangled. It was radically different from Britain though, so it would take some getting used to.
Harry took the map and stuffed it in his pocket, giving the guard as real of a smile as he could muster. "Thanks," he said carefully. "So … just out of curiosity: I'm thinking if I take the job at St. Winifred's, I'd bring my family over. Any suggestions on where I should live if I do that?"
"Really depends," the guard shrugged. "My family lives in a perfectly no-maj apartment just north of here. But I know a guy that lives in the magical district of New York, and he says there's not too much difference, just that magic is more noticeable around there and a lot of people don't carry their wands all the time anyway. Most magical people live pretty normal lives here in America. I hear that England's a bit different, though."
"A bit," Harry admitted. "Thank you for your help."
"That's what I'm here for," the friendly-guard grinned. "Have you ever used a Porting Booth before?"
"No, I haven't," Harry said nervously, glancing at the booth which looked like an old-fashioned elevator, complete with the accordion-grille for a door.
"Come on, I'll show you," the man said amiably. He pulled open the grille and stepped in, showing him the shiny brass handles along the walls. "You just hang on to one of these handles and say St. Winifred's, and whoosh! Away you go! Got it?"
"I think so," Harry said slowly, stepping in as the guard stepped out. "Any handle?"
"The whole room activates for just the one place once I close the door and you say the destination phrase," the man shrugged. "It doesn't matter which one you grab."
"Wicked," Harry breathed, wondering in annoyance when Britain would step out of the past and jump into the twenty-first century. He wanted to use one of these port-booths instead of a floo all the time. He grabbed the first brass handle he reached and turned as the guard clanged the grille shut behind him. He felt a magical barrier hum into being around him and as he glanced around, he saw the guard grin and give him a thumbs-up.
Harry took a deep breath. Gripping the handle for dear life, he shouted, "Saint Winifred's!"
He expected the lurch behind his navel and the sense of being spun through space before being tossed back on his feet like the portkeys he was used to, but instead, the entire room blurred and he felt a sensation like going down in a muggle elevator. It made him gasp at the swoop in his stomach, and blink at the disorienting swirl of the walls around him. But as soon as it happened, it stopped. He was standing on solid ground, the room just outside of his sight was much different than the huge open lobby of the Porting-Station, and he hadn't been given any nausea or the sensation of trying to regain his balance …
"That was totally wicked," Harry whispered, grinning like a child. No wonder magical folk in America used portkeys so much; their technology was incredible! By guiding the transportation energies around a room rather than forcing it all into a singular, small object, the transition was much smoother and less violent.
Harry let go of the handle and stepped toward the grille-door. He pushed it open, amazed at how smoothly it slid aside. He was in a bustling lobby lined with these Porting Booths like the floo hallway at the Ministry of Magic. People were popping in and out and going up and down the wide hall, grille doors were opening and closing with rattling clanks, and at the far end of the hall, Harry saw some larger Porting Booths under a huge sign that read: EMERGENCY ONLY. Bewildered, Harry followed the majority of the people who were going up the hall away from the Emergency area. He glanced over his shoulder and saw some healers in dark blue exit one of the Emergency Booths, accompanying a hovering stretcher. It was so much more like a muggle hospital than St. Mungo's that Harry felt a bit dizzy, wondering if he'd be able to fit in here.
"Excuse me, do you need some help, mister?"
Harry jumped and turned to the dusky-skinned woman in a dark blue uniform, (not a robe) who was smiling kindly at him. She was a matronly looking lady, with concern in her twinkling brown eyes and white smile.
"I'm sorry; I'm here for a job interview with Healer Stevenson?" Harry said with a strained smile.
"Oh, right! You'll be that foreign surgeon they're bringin' in," the lady laughed good-naturedly. Her accent was nice and warm and despite her blunt words, he felt welcomed and relieved.
"That's me," Harry smiled a bit more easily. "Do you mind pointing me in the right direction, ma'am?"
"I ain't no ma'am," the woman laughed heartily. "You just call me Maizie, you hear? I'm a Respiratory Therapist; in Magic-ese, a Lung Healer. You're an actual surgeon?"
"Yes," Harry answered, straightening his back instinctively. He knew he looked young, but the glasses helped him not look like some wide-eyed kid fresh out of Hogwarts. He never envied Ron's broad shoulders and height more than when people asked him condescendingly how old he was.
"Awesome;" the lady, Maizie, grinned as she jerked her head at him in a clear invitation to follow her. "We haven't had a decent one o' those in a long ol' while."
"Why's that?" Harry asked curiously as he followed her up the bustling hallway. "When I corresponded with Healer Stevenson before, he seemed rather … eager, to hire me on the spot."
"Good magical surgeons are hard to find," Maizie shrugged. "The kinda magic it takes to be really good at that sorta thing is rare in a Healer. Usually you find that kinda magic in an Auror or somethin'."
Harry felt a strange sensation crawl up his throat. Was that why St. Mungo's had seemed so desperate to keep him when he sent in his resignation? They'd offered to double his already substantial pay just to keep him on. He'd assumed it was just because of his famous name.
"So," Harry said slowly. "Fighting magic works best in cutting patients open and then sealing them back up?"
"Put so crudely," Maizie laughed and nodded. "Essentially, yeah. How come you didn't know that?"
"I don't know," Harry sighed. "There's a lot I still don't really know about magic."
"We've got one of the best Magical Libraries in existence right here in this city, honey," Maizie grinned at him, leading the way up a flight of stairs.
"Really?" Harry perked up, wondering if the thought of such a thing would be enough to pull James out of his obsession over his brother's books. Hermione would love it for sure. "Anybody can go in?"
"Anybody magical," Maizie shrugged. She sidestepped a gaggle of other healers, all in dark blue uniforms more like what muggle nurses wore, and Harry slowed to blink at them, a realization growing in his head.
"You don't wear … robes here in America, do you?"
"Bathrobes, sure, but only at home," Maizie snorted, grinning at him with good humour. "But if you're askin' about those man-dresses they wear in other magical places? No sirree. We're real modern here in the good old U.S of A. and proud of it."
Harry smiled, relieved. "You have no idea how much I hate robes," he said fervently. "Whatever nutcase thought healing would be easy in robes needed his brain checked."
"Not to mention that gawdawful shade o' green he picked," Maizie chuckled. They turned and went up yet another flight of stairs to a floor that had offices rather than hospital rooms. She grinned over at him and suddenly nudged him with her shoulder in a way that might have been considered too forward in England, but was strangely comfortable in this American witch. "Y'know, I think you'll fit in nicely here, Healer …?"
"Potter; Healer Harry Potter" Harry replied with a smile. Not only did it feel good to have to introduce himself, it felt doubly good to know she wouldn't recognize his name and either get weird and awkward or gushy and exhausting.
"Well, it sure is nice to meet you, Healer Potter," Maizie grinned.
They reached a door that advertised the owner as Head Healer Gary Stevenson, and Maizie took her leave, cheerfully commenting that she was late for her shift. Harry felt guilty for making her even later, but she laughed it off, saying that her story of meeting the 'foreign doc' would more than make up for her lateness.
Harry knocked on the nice wooden door and a rich, deep voice of a man who could only be the Head Surgeon, called out for him to come in. As he let himself inside, he got his first glimpse of the Healer who had demanded to hire him after less than five Insta-message exchanges. He was a tall, dark-skinned man, bony and wiry, with neatly trimmed hair, a smooth, angular face, and warm energetic eyes of a liquid brown, shot through with flecks of gold.
"You must be Healer Potter!" Stevenson greeted him cheerfully from behind a large desk. He gestured him closer with big hands and a friendly grin. "Come in, come in! You're early!"
Harry glanced at his watch, which he'd calibrated for America's Eastern Time Zone. "Only by five minutes," he replied, feeling slightly flustered. But he stepped in and closed the door behind him. The office was cozy, but not claustrophobic, and the view out the window showed the urban sprawl of America's capitol. It was strangely soothing.
"So, how was your trip?" Healer Stevenson asked once Harry got settled in with a mug of coffee, (the American version of the Tea Ritual).
"It was … interesting," Harry smiled self-deprecatingly, glancing down at the brown liquid in his ceramic mug. "I'm really not used to Portkeying long distances, but the Porting Booths you have in this country are amazing."
"Aren't they?" Stevenson laughed. He had a strong, hearty laugh; the kind that made you feel comfortable and at-ease. "Now, we know this is only a formality, but in less than five minutes, the rest of the members of St. Winifred's Board of Directors will come in, and my only advice is be yourself. They know we're hiring you, but we want this chance to get to know you, alright?"
"I completely understand," Harry nodded. He sipped the coffee, which was surprisingly good, though he might not give up tea completely, even if Americans were supposedly the worst tea-brewers on the planet.
"We're very excited to have you, Healer Potter," the Head Surgeon said in a genuinely warm tone. "Your references spoke very highly of your skill and dedication."
Harry nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed, but also pleased. "I hope to be able to prove my skill and dedication to you, sir," he answered politely.
"So, what does your wife think about all this?" Stevenson asked casually, sitting back and lacing his fingers together across his flat stomach.
"She's very enthusiastic about the whole thing," Harry replied at once. "She actually thinks we should move the whole family over here. England's magical world has become a bit … toxic, and we just want to get our kids away from it all."
"Hmm," Stevenson nodded gravely. "I can understand that; needing a change of pace, a swap of scenery … Your resume was pretty straight-forward, but may I ask what prompted you to pursue healing? Your strongest areas in school were such I'd expect you to become an Auror or something more action-based. Healing isn't exactly the most glamorous career in the world."
Harry hesitated, and glanced down again at his coffee, absently swirling the mug's contents. "I was in the last Wizarding War Britain had," he said quietly. "I just … I wanted to stop fighting."
"Totally understandable."
"Then I met someone … who advised me to figure out what I wanted to do, no matter what other people were telling me. So I looked into healing. I mean, I had to take some crash courses in my weaker courses, and my lack of education in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy meant that certain types of healing, like certain spell-reversals and curse-breaking, were just out of the question … but I could be a surgeon. I was good at precision-type spells, like cutting and that sort of thing, so that was good. Also, I have a pretty strong magical core, so I was able to get some advanced training in magical resuscitation too."
"I saw that," Stevenson nodded pensively. "And that's pretty impressive for somebody your age and build."
"Excuse me?" Harry asked, startled.
"You're on the small side for your age, physically," Stevenson smiled apologetically. "But it apparently didn't stunt your magical core, which is really good. The few people I knew who had strong magic like that and small bodies wasted away into an early grave. Too much magic in the body isn't good for us, especially when channeled in the way magical resuscitation is."
Harry blinked. "I was actually hit full in the face by an AK when I was a baby," he speculated slowly. "It rebounded and left me with some … side-effects. Do you think that might be why I can withstand my own magic without self-destructing?"
"Interesting theory," the dark-skinned healer nodded thoughtfully. "You never decided to get a full exam done?"
"No," Harry snapped in disgust. "And I won't here either. I hate being treated like a project or a pawn. I'm not an experiment people can poke and prod just because they feel like it."
"I totally understand, believe me," Stevenson smiled reassuringly, his brown eyes flashing completely gold for a second. Harry' eyes widened in recognition. Remus' eyes used to get like that when he was … emotional.
"Sir …?" Harry hesitated, not sure what the stigma was like against Werewolves here.
"I'm a Werewolf," Stevenson confirmed calmly. "My magic is a little bit different from most wizards on account of that. But getting to where I am now wasn't easy. Americans are a bit more tolerant of the Monthly Furry Problem than some other countries, but the fear and the prejudice is still there. I never wanted anybody picking me apart for science, and neither would you."
"Why would they want to pick you apart?"
"I have been able to control my wolf since I was a child," Stevenson shrugged. "I don't need Wolfsbane, or chains, or confinement … or a pack. I transform, I lay around all night in a canine body, I change back in the morning, and go about my life. Nobody's ever been able to explain it."
Harry was silent. He glanced down at his mug yet again. "My godson's father was a Werewolf," he said quietly. "He would turn up after Full Moons all scratched and exhausted."
"Not me," Stevenson said just as quietly. "The transformation itself hurts like hellfire, but my wolf never hurts me on purpose. Never has. Again, I'm a freak of nature."
"Like me," Harry said with a weak smile, glancing up at St. Winifred's Head Surgeon again.
"I think we're going to get along just fine, Healer Potter," Stevenson chuckled. The door clicked as someone knocked and then let themselves in, and both Harry and Healer Stevenson stood up, grinning at Harry as he introduced his associates … soon to be Healer Potter's associates as well.
HP~W~I~N~T~E~R~HP~S~O~L~D~I~E~R~HP
This chapter was a little breather after the craziness of the last two. Hope you enjoyed it. BTW, I have my Dark World story up on my profile now, two chapters in already! Check it out if you haven't yet. It is a more direct sequel to Avenge featuring Snape in Asgard.
Thanks for reviewing and for being kind and encouraging! Just a note, reviews are not a space for personal insults, (I believe they're called flames) You don't like the story, either tell me exactly what it is that you think doesn't work in the story, (nicely, of course) or hit the back button and read something else. I don't mind constructive criticism, but I WILL delete stuff that's just vulgar and insulting. Plus, if you're an unsigned guest, I can't reply to you.
Anyway, I've only gotten maybe one or two of those, so I consider myself blessed. Thank you to all the rest of you! You're awesome!