While Harry very much wished he had been able to go to Hannah's—he couldn't help but bristle at everyone treating him like he was some child—he was very glad to be at Grimmauld Place. Otherwise, he'd just have been wandering around Wiggentree Manor, wishing Hermione or Neville were there.
Ron was certainly in a better mood this time around—the chess pieces on his board were in a different position, so Harry couldn't help but assume that a letter from Mandy Brocklehurst was responsible for that—and, seeing as it was Saturday, both Bill and Mr. Weasley were around. Harry had always liked them.
"How are things, Harry?" Bill asked, as he passed Ron and Harry on their way up the stairs.
"Good," Harry replied.
"Fleur's been asking about you," Bill added, earning an interested look from Ron.
"How's she liking the new job?" Harry asked. "I honestly didn't think she'd stick around London. She didn't seem to like Hogwarts much."
Certainly, she hadn't liked the food.
Bill grinned. "She's found a thing or two here she doesn't hate," he replied, clapping Harry on the back as he continued downstairs.
Ron snickered, shaking his head. "That's the most he's said about her in ages," he told Harry confidentially. "Every time she comes up, Mum gets the same look on her face she gets when I remind her Gilderoy Lockhart was a fraud who tried to wipe our memories and leave Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets."
Harry eyed Ron. "How often do you remind her of that?" he asked skeptically.
"Er—not very," Ron admitted. "I'm not stupid enough to try to make her mad."
As they sat in Ron's room, everything felt like normal. Ron was casually flipping through Which Broomstick, occasionally reading out descriptions to Harry, while he sat on the other bed, paging through Ron's latest edition of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.
It was a bit of a stupid read, but the artwork was quite good. Harry filed it away to ask Luna what she thought about it.
Harry could almost forget that the last time they'd been in this room he'd been angry and frustrated that Ron thought the only reason Harry had asked Ron to be nice to Hermione was because he fancied her.
On the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted to start that fight again. Did it really matter what Ron thought, as long as he treated Hermione better? Ron's opinion didn't have any effect on Harry's relationship with Hermione, after all, and the two of them knew the truth of things.
Harry hoped Ron would figure it out eventually, but he didn't know if he could force his friend to think differently.
"The Comet Two Ninety can go naught to sixty in 10 seconds," Ron announced to Harry. "If Cho replaced that old Comet Two Sixty, she might actually be competition this year. Not for you, of course, but for Diggory."
"She's always done all right against Malfoy," Harry pointed out, flipping a page of the comic.
Ron shot him an incredulous look. "That's because Malfoy's as good a seeker as Hermione would be," he retorted.
An image of Hermione speeding on a broomstick as she chased after a snitch floated into Harry's mind. He could picture it clearly: her furrowed brow, the look of pure determination, and then the victorious, brilliant smile that she got when she answered a particularly difficult question correctly in class, her hair whipping around her as she stopped short when she caught it.
Ron was eyeing him uncertainly. "You still here, mate?" he asked, waving his hands around in front of Harry's face.
"Yeah," Harry replied sheepishly. "Just…"
But Ron seemed to realize what Harry had been thinking about and shrugged uncomfortably.
"Think they're having any fun?" he asked.
Ron shook his head, turning a page of the magazine. "Imagine wanting to spend your summer holiday reading a bunch of old books."
Harry didn't mention that he, Neville, and Hermione had spent quite a bit of time doing just that. Nor did he think it was wise to mention he wanted to go to Hannah's—he figured Ron might think it was a reflection on him.
"I don't know," Harry replied. "Hermione told me some of the stories in those old journals, and they sound pretty brilliant. Did you know they used to turn the main staircase into an ice slide?"
"Really?" Ron asked, interested.
"Apparently, Godric Gryffindor used to join them," Harry added.
"See, if they had that sort of stuff in Hogwarts, A History maybe people would actually read it," Ron declared cheerfully.
The day took a bit of a turn when he and Ron went down to the kitchen to get a snack, only to find Molly and Arthur. Mr. Weasley was rifling through loose parchment, while Mrs. Weasley stared at a photo on the table.
"Harry!" Arthur greeted when he saw him. "How are you?"
Molly looked up, blinking. "Oh, hello Harry, dear," she said a bit too brightly. "Ron? Are you hungry? Can I make you something? What would you like?"
She fussed over them for a bit while they told her that no, she really didn't have to make anything special and they'd just like some of the biscuits she'd made earlier in the week. Finally, she left, explaining that there were doxies in one of the bedrooms that really needed her attention.
Harry sidled over to where she had been sitting and picked up the photograph.
It was like a punch to the gut: his parents were beaming up at him, sitting on either side of the watery-eyed man who had betrayed them.
"Ah, yes," Arthur said sadly. Harry had forgotten he was there. "Moody brought that to the Order meeting last night. It's the old Order of the Phoenix."
The photo was tattered, but his mum's smile was brilliant, her green eyes sparkling mirthfully. Harry could stare at her forever, but he couldn't help looking at the traitor next to her. He looked away wildly, focusing instead on two redheads who looked remarkably like Bill. They even had his long hair.
"That's Gideon and Fabian, Molly's brother's," Arthur explained quietly.
"What happened?" Harry asked, knowing that they had died but not knowing how. Ron looked interested too—as if his mum had never told him anything about her brothers.
"Some skirmish," Arthur answered soberly. "There were a lot of them in those days. They were outnumbered two to five."
From the stories Harry had heard, it sounded like they'd always been outnumbered during the first war. There were less than two-dozen people in this photograph. Already, with the help of Amelia Bones and the Aurors, they were doing better than that this time around, but it seemed more important than ever to get as many people as they could on their side.
More allies wouldn't have saved Harry's parents from Voldemort, but maybe they could have saved Mrs. Weasley's brothers.
Later, after filling themselves on biscuits, Harry and Ron ambled up to the drawing room where they were greeted by a maroon curtain laying on the floor. The curious thing about it was that it was on fire.
"Honestly, that house elf is a nutter," Ron muttered, eyeing the fire with trepidation. Harry stepped forward and put out the flames with his wand.
"How do you know it was Kreacher?"
Ron gestured toward the wall. "Because he and Sirius have been in an epic battle over that," he replied.
Harry studied the wall, which was not a wall at all, but a tapestry full of names. The curtain had hidden it the last time he'd been here, and Harry had just assumed there were portraits of more of Sirius' foul-mouthed family members behind it.
"Sirius tried taking down the tapestry, he tried burning it, he tried everything," Ron said, "but it won't budge. So instead he covered it up. Kreacher didn't like that, so every once in awhile he goes mental, burns down the cover, sets the room on fire, and almost murders us all in this death trap of a house. Then Sirius covers it up again, and the cycle continues."
"Kreacher sounds pleasant."
Ron rolled his eyes. "You don't know the half of it," he complained. "If Hermione and the rest had to deal with him every day, they'd give up on this Spew business. I bet Ginny only went with them to get out of the house for a day."
Hermione had told Harry that Ginny felt guilty about Winky. Harry wasn't sure if it was his place to say anything—but Ron was one of his best friends and Ginny was his sister. Besides, he'd seen how much they'd been getting on each other's nerves this summer. Maybe if Ron knew Ginny was going through a tough time, she wouldn't annoy him so much.
"She thinks what happened to Winky is her fault," he said, sitting down on one of the armchairs. "She went because she felt guilty Winky died."
Ron sat down on the sofa, a dumbfounded expression on his face. "Well, that's just… mental," he said, sounding incredulous, but he also appeared troubled, a concerned look in his eye.
Before he could say anything else, Fred and George came bounding into the room.
"The post is here," Fred announced, tossing a letter at Ron. Ron grabbed at it eagerly.
"Don't get too excited, it's not from Brocklehurst," George warned. "It's from your other girlfriend—McGonagall."
"School letters?" Harry asked. Fred nodded as he and George flopped into their own armchairs.
"I see Kreacher's been redecorating," George said, eyeing the curtain pile, which was still smoking.
"He's got such a keen designer's eye," Fred murmured, perusing his own Hogwarts letter.
Ron had ripped his open and was scanning through the contents. Fred and George exchanged a glance.
"Glad to see you're bucking family tradition, Ronniekins," Fred said.
"What?" Ron asked, looking up from reading.
George gestured toward Ron's letter. "A bright, shiny badge is conspicuously absent from McGonagall's missive," he explained. "Fred and I here are just glad you've decided to follow in our footsteps instead of our boring, responsible older brothers."
"There's hope for you yet," Fred added cheerfully. "Now that we know you've got your priorities right and all."
Ron blinked. "Well, it's not like I thought I was…" he started, before nodding briskly. "Right, exactly. I've got my priorities straight. Who'd want to spend all year chasing after first year midgets?"
"Don't forget me and George," Fred reminded him. "Whoever gets prefect has to deal with us."
"Poor bloke," George added sadly, shaking his head.
At the thought of being asked to reprimand or discipline his brothers in any way, Ron looked exceedingly glad not to be prefect. Harry—who had been half-hoping for the role—didn't particularly find that aspect of being a prefect appealing either.
He also wasn't about to admit to the three of them that ever since Neville said he was sure Dumbledore would name Harry and Hermione prefect that Harry had wanted exactly that.
Fred had returned his attention to his own letter. "Blimey, George, do you see this? Whomever Dumbledore got for Defense Against the Dark Arts assigned four new books and eight more for optional reading."
"I do believe I will opt out, brother," George said.
"Indeed."
"Twelve books?" Harry asked incredulously. "Do they at least look interesting?"
"The Dark Arts Outsmarted, Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against The Dark Arts, Everyday Spells You'd Be Surprised to Learn Could Save Your Life," Fred ticked off. "At least whomever it is seems to have their priorities straight."
"We've got six new books," Ron moaned, "and nine optional."
"If I didn't know better, I'd think Hermione was teaching this class," Fred murmured. He shot an alarmed look at his brothers. "Or Percy. Is he still working at the Ministry? Could he have taken the post?"
Ron and George both shot their brother a pained look.
"He couldn't," Ron whispered, trailing off.
"Why not?" George asked. "It's not like he's doing much of anything with Crouch Sr. dead. His new boss demoted him, remember?"
"But he'd never be able to hide it from us," Ron reckoned, grasping. "He'd want to lord it over us—"
"He kept the Triwizard Tournament from us last summer," Harry pointed out, realizing from the looks on each of the Weasleys' faces that this was perhaps not a particularly welcome or comforting sentiment.
"Well… maybe Dumbledore convinced Moody to return somehow," Harry suggested, wanting to help. "It'd be just like him to assign a thousand books now that Voldemort's back."
By the time Walburga Black's wailing alerted them to visitors to the house, the topic of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was long forgotten and the four of them had engaged in about a dozen rounds of Exploding Snap. Harry wasn't sure if Walburga's screaming meant Sirius had returned to the house to bring him back to Neville's or Hermione, Neville, and Ginny had come back from Hannah's, but either way, it was someone he wanted to see.
It was, in fact, Sirius, as well as Augusta. She was in the middle of an argument with Sirius' mum.
"Oh, close it, you old bag," Augusta retorted scornfully, shaking her finger at the portrait. "It's no wonder the only man you could get to marry you was your cousin. What was it Ezra McKinnon said about you? She's got the looks of a troll and the personality of a dementor?"
"You filthy bloodtraitor," Walburga cried. "Staining this house of my fathers—"
"And your husband's father's," Augusta muttered.
"You vile, impudent waste—"
"Hello, Harry," Sirius greeted him joyfully, handing over a letter. "We brought these with us. We figured Hermione wouldn't be able to wait."
Harry took the letter from his godfather, while Augusta was busy reminding Walburga Black of some garden party incident involving pixies Walburga had somehow mistaken for fairies. The pixies had not been amused when she'd started poking at them.
Sirius crossed his arms across his chest, grinning gleefully at this tidbit of information about his mother. Harry, gripping his letter in his hand, slipped away to the kitchen to read it privately.
He stared down at his name—no address—on the envelope. It felt heavier than usual, but maybe that was just on account of the extra parchment from all of the books their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had added. He refused to get his hopes up, even as he tore into the envelope and peered into the opening.
His heart soared when he saw the glint of scarlet and gold inside. He upended the envelope, letting the badge fall into his hand.
He had done it. He had earned it. Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore had sat down and decided that he was the one who was most deserving. And it wasn't because of the scar on his head, or being famous, or his quidditch skills. They thought Harry—the person—was the best one for the job.
He scanned through Professor McGonagall's congratulations letter, not really absorbing the words his heart was pounding so hard.
"Harry?"
He turned. Hermione was standing there, breathless, her cheeks flushed, a badge dangling from her hand. She spied the matching badge in Harry's hand and shrieked.
"I knew it!" she cried, smiling brilliantly, reminiscent of the daydream Harry had had earlier. She looked excited, victorious, pleased—exactly like he'd imagined when she caught the snitch. But this was so much better.
"I knew it!" she repeated, tearing toward him, and then her lips were on his, her arms wound around his neck, the edge of her badge digging into his skin, but he didn't care because this was the best feeling in the world.
"I knew it," Hermione murmured again, her breath hot against his lips. "I knew they had to pick you, after everything you've done, after how brilliant you've been—"
"I haven't been brilliant," Harry said reflexively.
"Are you kidding? You stopped Quirrell and You-Know-Who, and you killed the basilisk, and you competed in the tournament! You survived everything that happened in the graveyard—and you caught Pettigrew—and you've done it all while getting good marks and playing quidditch. And Cedric told us he was getting Head Boy because of how well you all worked together during the tournament, but you're the one who did that. You're the one who got Cedric and Viktor to help you save everyone in the Second Task. Without you, there wouldn't have been any international magical cooperation."
She beamed at him, her eyes shining, her smile radiant and—most of all—proud.
She was soft and warm, and she'd believed in him, expected he'd get prefect, and he'd risen to the occasion. Thinking back, she was probably the first person in his life who'd ever had any sort of positive expectations of him, who'd ever expected him to do and be more, and in this moment, he was very glad he had proven her right.
"Well, you're no slouch either, you know," Harry said, feeling hot at her praise. "You helped with most of that, plus you're the best in our year, taking way more classes than me. Not to mention everything you've done for the House Elves and to get us a proper Potions professor. Honestly, if Professor McGonagall were a student, even she wouldn't be able to beat you out for prefect."
Hermione laughed. "I'm glad it's us," she said, nipping at his lips again.
He was going to take prefect duty seriously—he absolutely was—but certainly he was looking forward to nights spent patrolling the chilly castle, Hermione cuddled up close to him for warmth, a few stolen moments exactly like this behind a tapestry or statue in between rounds.
"Honestly, that house elf! Useless! I can't believe—oh!"
Harry and Hermione broke apart. Molly Weasley had huffed into the kitchen, annoyed at something Kreacher had done—perhaps he'd set another fire—but she clearly hadn't been expecting Harry and Hermione.
"Well, I—I didn't know—you really shouldn't—," Molly started to say, flustered. Then she spied the badges in their hands and clapped her own hands together joyfully. "Oh, you're prefects! How wonderful!"
She beamed at them, and then enveloped them both in what was the most awkward hug in Harry's life. He'd gone from kissing Hermione to them both being in Ron's mum's arms in about three seconds flat. It was not a comfortable feeling.
"Oh, I'm just so proud of you!" Molly cried as she pulled back, smoothing down Harry's hair fondly. "Well, you'll all just have to stay for dinner so we can celebrate! Remus is coming tonight, and Tonks and Moody, too, and oh, this is just wonderful!"
She ran off before they had a chance to thank her—or say anything really— murmuring to herself about menus and decorations.
Hermione looked at Harry. "I guess we're having a party then," she beamed.
Considering the short notice, Mrs. Weasley put together a very nice affair. The buffet-style dinner table was laden with food, over which a scarlet banner congratulating Harry and Hermione hung. In addition to Sirius, the Longbottoms, and the Weasleys—even Percy had turned up—attendees included Remus, Emmeline Vance, Tonks, Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mundungus Fletcher, and an assortment of other Order members, most of whom Harry supposed weren't actually there for the party but for a meeting the Order would be having later that night. Still, they all wished him and Hermione well.
Harry had asked if Dumbledore would be attending the meeting, and apparently he would, but no one thought he'd make it to the party. According to Ron and his siblings, Dumbledore had been to the house plenty to meet with the Order, but they'd all barely seen him.
When Neville, Ron, and his siblings had seen Harry and Hermione's badges, none of them had seemed surprised.
"Told you," Fred had muttered to George, before his brother handed over a few sickles. Neville had pointed out that he'd told Harry this would happen before heartily congratulating him, and Ron had clapped him on the back, saying he'd known Dumbledore would pick Harry.
Sirius and Augusta had also seemed pleased. Harry hadn't been too sure what Sirius' reaction would be—he wasn't exactly one for the rules—but he appeared to be proud. Still, there was something a bit off about him. Harry figured it must be the house.
Hermione and Neville had barely had time to catch Harry up on everything that happened at Hannah's before Percy swept them up in a conversation about being prefect.
"It's an honor, of course," Percy said, puffing up his chest. "The first step to a high-level career in the Ministry."
None of them mentioned that Percy was currently back at the bottom in his office on account of the fact that he hadn't picked up on his boss being Imperiused.
"Have you given any thought to what you'd like to do after Hogwarts?" Percy asked.
"Oh, yes," Hermione replied quickly, causing panic in Harry. He hadn't given any thought to that at all. A quick glance at Neville showed that his friend had apparently thought about it before, too. "Though there are so many options out there. I want to do something really worthwhile though. So many jobs are in the Ministry, and so many Ministry departments seem to be so monotonous."
"Very true," Percy nodded sagely. "That's what's so nice about the Department of International Magical Cooperation. You really get to effect change for witches and wizards worldwide. But you all know all about that after this last year with the Tournament, of course."
Harry didn't really want to talk about the tournament.
Fred and George popped up behind Percy, the former putting his arm around his older brother.
"Speaking of the Tournament, have you seen the latest issue of Quidditch Quarterly, Harry?" Fred asked.
"No."
"Krum was the latest cover story," George explained, "and it's a pretty big deal, too, because he was just the cover a few issues ago with the World Cup. They almost never repeat that quickly."
"But they had to, since it was all about the Triwizard Tournament," Fred added, "seeing as how Krum technically won and all. Though I still maintain that wasn't a real win since you didn't get the chance to finish."
Their conversation had attracted a bit of attention from some of the others.
"Anyway, they asked him all about Harry," Fred continued.
"What'd he say?" Neville asked.
"Oh, he was positively glowing," Fred answered. "He basically told them Fudge was mad and everyone should believe Harry and Dumbledore, who are both very good chaps."
Harry had known Viktor was on his side, but having him announce it to the world in print like that made him feel even better.
"Of course they should," Emmeline piped up. "Fudge is mad."
"That article has gotten quite a bit of buzz, though, in international circles," Percy said importantly.
"Well, the Bulgarian minister has been firmly on Dumbledore's side, too," Tonks added, coming closer to the group. "I wonder how much Krum has to do with that."
"Some, I'm sure," Remus said, "though the Minister was always likely to sympathize with Dumbledore."
"Why's that?" Ron asked, shooting his mother a furtive glance, but she was across the room fussing over Bill's hair.
"Even at the height of his power, Voldemort really only operated here," Sirius answered. "For the rest of Europe, Grindelwald was the bigger terror. And Dumbledore's the wizard who defeated Grindelwald. They're predisposed to be loyal to Dumbledore."
"Still, it can't hurt the cause having someone as popular as Krum singing your praises," Kingsley told Harry.
Mrs. Weasley's antennas seemed to have gone up at the words "Voldemort" and "Grindelwald" because suddenly she was moving closer to them.
"What's going on here?" she asked pointedly.
"Oh, nothing, mum," George lied smoothly, clapping his hand down on Harry's shoulder. "Fred and I were just asking Harry if he'd be giving us detentions this year."
"You'd better not do anything to warrant it," Molly warned.
"We never do," Fred insisted. "It's these prefect badges, you see. Give a kid one and they go power mad. Prats, the lot of them."
He turned toward Harry and Hermione. "No offense, of course," he added offhandedly.
Hermione did not look amused.
"If you do try to give us detentions, Harry, we promise not to hex you too much," George nodded solemnly.
Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Thanks, George," Harry replied mock-thoughtfully. "And I promise that if I do give you detentions, they won't ever interfere with quidditch."
George threw up his hands in celebration. "Finally," he cried. "A prefect whose got his priorities sorted."
"Honestly, given how quidditch mad she is, you'd think that would be McGonagall's first criteria," Fred added.
"Well, now at least we know why she picked Harry," George joked, pulling his twin over to the refreshment table to get new butterbeers.
The rest of the crowd dispersed a little, leaving Harry, Hermione, Neville, Ron and Ginny.
"Don't let them rile you," Harry told Hermione, who still looked annoyed at their comments.
Funny, it was usually her telling him that.
"They shouldn't be mocking getting prefect so much," Hermione retorted. "It's like they were trying to make you feel bad about your accomplishment."
"I didn't take it that way—honest," Harry said. "It was just Fred and George being Fred and George."
"They were probably just trying to get a reaction out of Percy, Hermione," Ron added, glancing at his brother. "His face turned about as dark as yours when they started calling prefects prats."
"Well, if they keep it up at school, I just might give them a detention," Hermione huffed.
Ron looked terrified at the thought, shooting Harry a commiserating look that said he didn't want to be in Harry's shoes.
"Just bat bogey hex them," Ginny suggested. "That always works for me."
"Personally, I think you could take them," Neville said, taking a sip of his butterbeer. "They're already wary of you, Hermione."
"How do you figure that?" Ginny asked, her brow furrowed.
"They were only joking about hexing Harry," Neville pointed out, "even though Hermione was right here, too. They were trying to figure out how seriously Harry takes being prefect, but I reckon they think they've got Hermione figured out and know she's not to be messed with."
Harry wasn't sure how he felt about that. He was serious about being prefect, but he wasn't naïve enough to think he could just tell the Weasley twins to follow the rules and they would. They were his friends and his teammates—they'd saved Harry, Hermione and Neville's lives last year during their fight with Crouch Jr.—and he didn't know how to navigate his new responsibilities with his less-than-responsible friends. And besides, it's not like Harry—or Hermione for that matter—was a stranger to breaking the rules.
Harry looked up and caught Sirius' eye. He and Remus were chatting a few feet away, but from the looks on their faces, they'd been paying attention.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Harry," Sirius said. "Just ask Remus. He was the good one who got the badge, and he still managed to deal with your dad and I all right."
Remus smiled sheepishly. "Dumbledore probably hoped I'd rein the two of you in," he pointed out, "but I failed dismally."
Sirius shrugged. "We listened to you sometimes," he said comfortingly. "James and I didn't set much store by following the rules, but that whole 'Guilt us into doing what you wanted so McGonagall didn't yell at you' strategy was top notch. And it complemented Lily's approach to being a prefect well."
"What was my mum's approach?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.
"Well, there was a lot more yelling," Sirius replied cheerfully.
"Funny, I never got the impression you enjoyed those dressings down," Remus retorted.
"On the contrary," Sirius replied, "Lily could be quite inventive with her insults. I was always eager to hear what she'd come up with next."
Harry laughed, feeling much better about the twins situation. Sirius patted him on the arm, drawing him away from the main conversation and into a relatively secluded corner with him and Remus.
"But really, Harry, we're very proud of you," Sirius enthused warmly.
Remus offered a small smile. "Your parents would be, too," he added. "Especially your Mum. She loved being a prefect."
Sirius snorted. "She was a prefect before they ever gave her the badge," he laughed. "She had this way of knowing who was homesick or sad, and sitting them down so they had someone to talk to."
It would have been better if his Mum had been here to tell him she was proud herself, but Harry was glad to at least have Sirius and Remus. He'd give anything to talk to her—to ask whether she thought he could be a good prefect even though he wasn't like her or Hermione or even Percy, who had all been the type to do the job without being asked, or to ask for her advice on being a good prefect, to ask her if she agreed with Percy and saw prefect as the first step to a good job.
He didn't even know if she'd had career aspirations. Or even a job.
"Did she work?" Harry asked suddenly.
At Sirius and Remus' confused expressions, he explained, "My mum—did she have a job? What did she want to be?"
"To be honest," Remus said slowly, "none of us really thought about careers all that much in those days. By the time we were taking NEWT-level classes, the war was hanging over all of our futures."
"Neither of your parents worked after Hogwarts," Sirius added. "They were too busy doing things for the Order and raising you, and of course, your dad had enough money that they didn't need to work. But when we were kids, your dad and I used to talk about opening up our own shop, selling inventions like the Marauders Map or these communication mirrors we made. We figured it would be loads of fun—being our own bosses, someplace all our mates could work, and we'd never really have to grow up."
He looked at Remus as he said it, who was as shabbily dressed as always, and Harry wondered if half the reason that had been their dream was to make sure there would always be a job somewhere for their werewolf friend.
"Lily always preferred Potions and Charms," Remus offered. "She always said she wanted to do something worthwhile in one of those fields. The only thing she knew for sure was she didn't want to be involved in politics."
Had his mum thought the Ministry was as useless as Harry did?
"Why?"
"We were fighting a war that was about whether or not people like her should be allowed to exist," Sirius said bluntly, "and there weren't nearly enough people fighting on our side. She knew that even if we won the war, any job at the Ministry would be filled with prejudice, with fighting a different sort of war. And if she got involved in the political aspect of the Ministry, the fact that she was a muggleborn would consume everything she did."
"At a certain point, she wanted to be done fighting," Remus added. "No matter what job she got, her being a muggleborn would always be a factor because there are always small-minded people. But she didn't want that to be her only legacy."
Instead, sacrificing herself for Harry had been her legacy. And people didn't even give her enough credit for that, acting as if Harry had done something special to defeat Voldemort all those years ago, when really, it had been his mother.
It gave him a lot to think about when the Order started their meeting, and Harry and his friends were sent upstairs. He'd always thought of fighting Voldemort as fighting Voldemort. Up until a couple of months ago, Voldemort didn't have a body, didn't have his followers back, didn't really have any power. Any time Harry had been in danger, it was really just his own life that was at stake. Even when he'd gotten angry that Hermione wanted to go home for the summer, it was mostly her connection to him that scared him. But now that Voldemort was rebuilding what he'd lost, there was a lot more at stake—an entire group of people that his mum had been a part of and Hermione still was.
"You all right?" Neville asked quietly, so no one else could hear. He was watching Harry with concern, like he could read his thoughts.
Harry looked across the room at Hermione—his muggleborn girlfriend. She was laughing at something Ginny had said, covering her mouth with her hands, her brown eyes sparkling.
Harry knew what Hermione had to deal with—people calling her Mudblood, people expressing surprise (and in the case of the Malfoys, anger) that she was the best in their year. Sure, there were plenty of people who jumped to her defense, but there were also plenty of people who sat by silently. And his mum had had to deal with that, too.
Hermione had more passion than anyone he knew, wanted to fight every injustice she saw. Would she ever tire of it? He didn't think so, but he also didn't want her to have a life like his mum, spending the whole lot of it fighting for her own rights.
"Yeah," Harry responded, his voice as low as Neville's. "Just thinking about Voldemort."
Neville followed Harry's gaze and he seemed to understand what Harry was thinking. He didn't say anything, which was good because what could either of them possibly say to feel better about the situation? Instead, he passed Harry another butterbeer, and they drank in companionable silence.
The Order meeting dispersed an hour or so later. Harry thought perhaps he caught the hem of Dumbledore's robe as he walked out the door, but he didn't get a chance to talk with the man. Many of the members dispersed, but some hung around.
Tonks—who was apparently a metamorphmagus—was delighting Hermione and Ginny with changes in her appearance, while Sirius, Fred and George huddled together in the corner.
It was only when he was coming back from the loo that Harry realized how many of the Order members were still there. He was passing by a slightly ajar door when he heard Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice emanating from within.
"…good that Dumbledore made Potter prefect," he said. "It shows confidence in him, don't you think?"
Hestia Jones, one of the Order members Harry had met that night, snorted. "Yes, so much confidence in him, he tried to shoot McGonagall's choice down."
Harry's stomach plummeted. Dumbledore hadn't wanted him?
He knew he shouldn't eavesdrop, knew he'd probably be caught, but he didn't particularly care.
"What do you mean?" Bill asked, a confused note in his voice.
Someone poured drinks—firewhiskey, perhaps?
"Pomona Sprout's a friend of my mum's," Hestia explained. "And you know how they pick prefects, right?"
"Of course," Bill said. "Each Head of House makes their own choice, then the Heads meet with Dumbledore. The Heads of the other Houses can add their own thoughts about each other's picks, and Dumbledore makes the final decision."
"Well, according to Sprout, McGonagall picked Harry and Hermione, but there were some…reservations," Hestia said.
"Let me guess—Snape?" Moody asked gruffly.
At realizing his old professor was in there, Harry knew he was done for. Moody would see Harry with his magical eye at any moment. But still, he couldn't stop himself from pressing closer to the door. Would Dumbledore really take Snape's side over Harry's?
"Doesn't Snape have enough trouble just keeping his job?" Bill retorted, earning some snickers.
"I don't think what Snape said mattered much," Hestia admitted, "but Dumbledore must've had some misgivings because he and McGonagall got into it a bit. Apparently, McGonagall reminded him that, with everything Dumbledore had to do for the war effort, she'd be doing a lot more of the day-to-day work at Hogwarts, and she wasn't going to get stuck with what she considered a terrible choice. And, of course, Sprout and Flitwick were all for Harry, too."
"Wow," Emmeline murmured. "I can't recall Minerva ever disagreeing with Dumbledore."
"Oh, she disagrees with him plenty," Moody offered. "She just usually doesn't force the issue since she trusts his judgment so much. But there's been a change in her the past couple of months. Apparently, seeing amiable, timid Neville Longbottom attacking a teacher in class has woken her up to some of the things the Hogwarts staff have let slide over the years."
There was a playful tone to Moody's comment—a tone completely incongruous with the man himself—that made Harry wonder what else McGonagall was speaking up about. He hoped it was Snape himself.
McGonagall hadn't been spurred to action when Hermione was attacked by a troll, or there was a basilisk running around the school, or Harry had been entered into a tournament participants had died in. So why would Neville hexing Snape be any different?
Maybe it was like Sirius' reaction to Neville's ability to swim—he wasn't fazed that Uncle Algie had dropped Neville in the sea, but he had been appalled that Augusta hadn't just taught Neville how to swim. Maybe Professor McGonagall was so used to the dangers of the wizarding world that trolls and basilisks at Hogwarts meant nothing—but seeing a boy unlikely to hurt anyone attacking a teacher in class, in a place where things were supposed to be normal, was jarring in a way she hadn't been desensitized to.
Harry felt a rush of affection toward her—and Flitwick and Sprout—for fighting for him… but it still niggled at him that she had to fight in the first place. Why hadn't Dumbledore wanted him? Did he not think Harry was up to the task? Didn't he trust Harry?
He hadn't trusted Harry enough to tell him he thought Voldemort might try to kidnap him during the Third Task.
"…but perhaps we should talk about something else," Moody was saying. "I detect some Extendable Ears."
There were no Extendable Ears around, of course. He was letting Harry know that he saw him and it was time for Harry to go.
Harry hurried back toward the drawing room just as Bill turned the subject to the educational decree Fudge had recently signed, his mind still swirling with thoughts of Dumbledore. When he approached the door, he was met by the dulcet tones of Mrs. Weasley's screaming.
"… you shouldn't be encouraging them in this lunacy!" she yelled. "I've had enough of this joke shop rubbish!"
Her hands were on her hips, her eyes narrowed to slits and her nostrils flared as she glared at Sirius. He was leaning against the back of a sofa, arms crossed, a defiant look on his face. Hermione, Neville, Ron, and Ginny were all watching them, riveted to the scene. Augusta sat in one of the armchairs, a dark look on her face. Arthur was by the fireplace, looking resigned.
Fred and George were incensed.
"Now hang on, Mum!" Fred yelled.
"It's not rubbish!" George bellowed.
Harry sidled closer to Neville and Hermione.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Hermione shook her head slightly. "Fred, George and Sirius were talking in the corner when Molly came in," she whispered hurriedly. "And she overheard them talking about startup capital, and she just lost it."
"Fake wands and fireworks," Mrs. Weasley muttered, shaking her head. "You boys could have such a bright future if you just applied yourselves, like your brothers did. You're in your last year now, and you've got to start buckling down, thinking about the future."
"We are," Fred said firmly. "We don't want to spend the next five decades of our lives bowing down to Ministry toerags and gits like Percy."
"Pranks and jokes aren't a future," Molly said, sending a scathing look toward Sirius. "And you'd know that if you didn't have people filling your head with nonsense."
"They're of age, Molly," Sirius said calmly. "And they've got a sound business plan. If it weren't me looking to invest, it'd be a dozen other witches or wizards."
"Oh, you stay out of it," Molly yelled furiously. "My family is none of your business, and if you'd mind your own, my boys wouldn't be in this mess in the first place."
"Right, because Sirius was the one who gave us the idea for a joke shop," George retorted.
"It's not like we've been working on this for years at all," Fred added resentfully.
"And you know nothing about involving yourself in other people's business," Sirius added sarcastically.
Molly looked thunderous. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her eyes narrowed to slits.
"It means every time I'm in this house, you're badgering me about Harry: What does he know? What have I told him? Have I remembered Dumbledore's instructions not to tell Harry more than he needs to know?" Sirius snapped.
Harry jolted. Just how much was Dumbledore keeping from him?
"Because you've got Harry locked away in that house, isolated from everyone!" Molly yelled. "It's not down to you to decide what's best for him, but you're off ignoring Dumbledore's orders, telling him about Hagrid and the giants—oh yes, I know about that, how else would my children have heard about it?—and training him for war—"
"We are at war."
"And he's just a boy!"
Harry felt anger bubbling up inside him. He'd fought Voldemort more than anyone in this room—more than half the Order. He wasn't just a boy.
"I trust Dumbledore, and he's got his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much," Molly continued. "He's not part of the Order, he's not of age, and speaking as someone who's got Harry's best interests at heart, who's cared for him for years—"
"We both care for Harry, Molly," Sirius interrupted. "But I'm his godfather."
"Yes," Mrs. Weasley said, her lip curling, "and what a good job you've done of that from Azkaban!"
Sirius went rigid, looking like he'd been slapped. Hermione gasped and Ron's jaw dropped a little. Augusta, on the other hand, looked furious.
"How interesting that you're only berating Sirius when every decision he's made about what to tell Harry, Neville and Hermione has been made in tandem with me," Augusta said, her voice low. "Where's your ire for me, Molly?"
"Neville's your grandson," Molly retorted. "And while I disagree with your way of thinking, you've got every right—"
"The only reason I've got the right is because my son and daughter are incapable of making these decisions for him. They chose me, the same way the Potters chose Sirius," Augusta told her. "Who, exactly, chose you to be Harry's guardian?"
"Well," Molly sputtered, "when he's making decisions like this—"
"Like what?" Augusta snapped. "Teaching Harry how to swim? Teaching him advanced Transfiguration? Telling him stories about his parents? Playing swivenhodge with him every day of the week? Setting boundaries for him, while also preparing him for what's coming? You've no idea about their relationship or what goes on at my house."
Sirius shot Augusta a grateful, appreciative look.
Harry felt the same toward her. He wanted to tell them all that living with Sirius had been the best time he'd ever had—that for the first time in his life, he felt like he had a home and a family. He felt not only wanted, but like he belonged.
But he couldn't get the words out. Standing in this room with Ron and his family, all these people who'd always had exactly what Harry had always wanted, always longed for, he couldn't bring himself to spill his guts in front of all of them, to tell them exactly how alone he'd been in his life.
He felt Hermione slip her hand into his.
He couldn't bear his soul, but he could say something.
"I'd rather know," Harry piped up. "I'm glad Sirius has told me what he has."
Mrs. Weasley looked toward Harry, her face turning kind. "Well of course you'd rather know, Harry," she said softly, slightly patronizingly. "But you're only a child."
"I've faced Voldemort, haven't I?" Harry said stiffly.
He looked between Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "And besides, isn't that the reason why Mr. Weasley told me the Ministry thought Sirius was going to come after me when he escaped from Azkaban?" he asked. "I heard you two that night in the Leaky Cauldron. Mr. Weasley said that I had a right to know, that Fudge was treating me like a child. He wanted me to be on my guard, which is exactly what Sirius and Mrs. Longbottom want. You didn't have a problem with that logic then, so what's the difference now?"
Molly's lips tightened. The difference, of course, was that she trusted Arthur but she didn't trust Sirius.
Mr. Weasley took off his glasses, and wiped them tiredly. "It's late," he said. "Emotions are high, and perhaps we should just leave it for now."
Molly's lip trembled, Fred and George were shooting her sullen looks, and Sirius' face was twisted in bitterness.
"You're absolutely right, Arthur," Augusta said in a clipped tone as she stood. "We should go."
And then her many years of breeding kicked in and she added, "Thank you for the lovely dinner."
She swept out of the room without looking back, followed by Neville and Sirius, and Harry and Hermione. Hermione repeated Augusta's thank you, and Harry did as well, though far less enthusiastically.
Between what he'd learned about Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley having a go at Sirius, Harry rather wished they'd just gone back to the Manor to celebrate.