Chapter Twelve: nevermore
At 7:45 in the morning on 31 October, 1991, the owl post fluttered in through the high windows of the Great Hall, and the students of Hogwarts School received yet another day's post. Newspapers, letters from home, well-wishings, and (in the case of one Neville Longbottom) yet another item forgotten at home, all were dutifully delivered by owls of every shape and size.
Among the throngs of birds, one nondescript owl landed in front of Harry Potter, delivering to him a small parcel which he stowed surreptitiously out of sight to open in private.
Precisely twelve minutes later, Harry Potter made his way from the Great Hall and ducked into a classroom, tearing apart the brown paper package and unearthing a watch identical to the one he was wearing. He swapped his old watch for the new one, stuffing the other into his bag.
He then went about his scheduled classes as usual.
…
Something was off, and Hermione could tell. She wasn't the best with people or human interaction or…really anything remotely social. But if Hermione Granger was anything, she was perceptive, and that was especially so with the boy she had reluctantly admitted to herself was the object of her precocious affections.
In short, Fred Weasley was upset about something, and she wanted answers.
The only issue with this lay in the fact that as perceptive as Hermione Granger was, a Weasley boy was just as capable of being a stubborn thing. For the past couple of weeks, Fred (and George) had been dodging variations of the same few inquiries about their mental state with equal variations of "I'm fine.".
Hermione knew this to be factually untrue, and she was going to get to the bottom of it.
To that end, she was doing the unthinkable, the downright ludicrous, and something that would no doubt earn her more than a few questioning stares from both her housemates and the Hogwarts populace in general. In the cold of an October afternoon, hours before the Halloween Feast, Hermione Granger made her way through a brisk breeze and down to the quidditch pitch.
Hermione's knowledge of quidditch was theoretical at best; she had read Quidditch Through the Ages and was able to at least carry on a conversation about the sport (which served her well, being friends with three quidditch fans and Daphne), but like Dad and his much-beloved cricket games, the allure of watching a match itself was lost on her. Still, Fred and George were on the Slytherin team, and that meant that she would have to push past her utter disinterest in sports and be a supportive friend, especially if she intended to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling her Weasley boys.
Quidditch was a bizarre sport, to Hermione. One part football and one part polo, it was played astride broomstick and involved tossing a large ball known as a quaffle into one of three hoops guarded by a goalkeeper (the keeper). The three chasers were the ones to handle and pass the quaffle, pursued by two autonomous flying balls known as bludgers whose sole purpose was to attempt to batter and bruise any player unfortunate enough to draw near them. Bludgers were chased away by the teams' two beaters (Fred and George's position), who used short cudgels to smack them toward opposing players. Meanwhile, the teams' seekers attempted to search out and catch the coveted golden snitch, a small golden ball that buzzed around the quidditch pitch and attempted to stay hidden. A quidditch match only ended once the snitch was caught, and the team that caught it earned a hundred and fifty points, which usually meant winning the game unless the team's deficit was larger.
Like any muggle sport, it was overly complex, though with the added bonus of being performed several dozen meters in the air. It wasn't enough, Hermione mused, to strain her patience for needlessly-complicated sets of rules; they had to throw in a challenge against her acrophobia.
It was thus a mark toward her regard for Fred and George that she made the monumental effort to muscle past these misgivings and make the trek up far too many flights of stairs to take a seat in the stands around the quidditch pitch, which were necessarily perched high in the air to afford a better view of the proceedings.
Oliver Wood was a taskmaster, she learned as she watched the Slytherin quidditch team go about their practice. His dedication seemed to be less to his team and more to the sport, to victory; he was everything a Slytherin quidditch captain entailed, in Hermione's mind. Indeed, when the Slytherin seeker, Terrence Higgs, took a bludger to the ankle that sent him spiraling into the mast of one of the hoops, Wood spent a full twenty seconds determining whether or not the poor boy could continue flying before sending him limping to the Hospital Wing.
Even after that, he insisted on spending another half hour on passing drills, citing that the seeker wasn't necessary for such a thing.
As practice was drawing to a close, the Weasley boys spotted Hermione, George gently nudging Fred with his beater's club and pointing toward her. Pivoting, they beelined for her and floated up next to where she sat in the front row.
"If I'd known I was being admired, I would've started pulling some flexes," Fred said, striking a pose atop his broomstick.
"Careful now, the Weasley physique has been known to rip right through a quidditch robe," George said.
"True, Charlie had that problem," Fred nodded. Hermione snorted at them, giving Fred's broom a small shove to send him floating in a slow spin. "So, decided to take in the finest quidditch team at Hogwarts going through some practice drills?"
"Yes, but the Hufflepuff team isn't practicing today, so I ended up watching you lot instead," Hermione said, and Fred nodded, looking impressed.
"They do have a good lineup this year," he said. "Cedric Diggory, their seeker, he's really sorted himself out."
"He was a bit shaky last year," George said.
"But he's definitely hit his stride," Fred told her.
"How lovely for him," Hermione said. "And the two Slytherin beaters?"
"Oh, they're top-notch," Fred insisted.
"Absolute class," George added. "Gold standard."
"Naturally," Hermione said.
"Oi! Fred! George! Team huddle, on the double!"
"We do everything on the double, Wood!" Fred shouted back.
"There's two of us!" George called.
They zipped away, and Hermione could tell that things were coming to a close. Hurrying to the stairs, she raced for the ground, lingering near the locker rooms and waiting while the Slytherin team slowly trickled by. Oliver Wood greeted her with a friendly smile as he passed—he wasn't one to subscribe to notions of pureblood superiority, at least. The three chasers, however, paid her almost no mind. Marcus Flint (who was short on brains but apparently quite a capable chaser) spared her only one disparaging look, muttering something to Warrington and Pucey before all three looked at her with a scathing laugh.
Hermione steadfastly ignored them, waiting for her two redheads to emerge.
They did only five minutes later, Fred perking up when he saw Hermione and hurrying over with his brother in tow.
"You didn't have to wait for us," he insisted.
"We can find our way back to the castle on our own," George agreed.
"It's the big stone building over up the hill, isn't it?" Fred asked.
"You sure that's not Hagrid's place?" George suggested.
"Are you two going to tell me what's been bothering you?" Hermione spoke up, cutting smoothly through their little moment of rapport. "I've only been waiting for you to be ready to talk about it for a week now, and I'm getting tired of worrying over it."
"We've told you there's nothing to worry over," Fred insisted.
"And every single time, it's been a boldfaced lie, Frederick Gideon Weasley," Hermione shot back.
"Why did I tell you my middle name?" Fred muttered to himself.
"It's nothing you need to trouble yourself over," George assured her. "Family affairs, and all that."
"But it's no trouble," Hermione said. "I just want to be able to be there for you, and to understand what's happening."
"There's no way you could understand," Fred said, and Hermione bit her lip as she recognized the hard tone he got sometimes, that blasted stubborn streak of his rearing its ugly head. "Let's just drop this and go enjoy the feast, yeah?"
"I don't want to drop it – "
"Well I do," Fred said firmly, and Hermione felt an unpleasant stab of fear at the heat in his tone. "This isn't an easy time right now, and the last thing we need is you pestering us over it."
"Fred – "
"She's been on about it all week, George!" Fred cut his brother off. "It's getting to be a bit annoying, to be honest."
"I…I'm sorry, I – "
"If you were sorry, you would have dropped it already," Fred stormed on. "You don't need to be involved in every secret you come across, Hermione. Our family business isn't some big mystery to solve or learn about. It's private."
"I didn't…mean to pry," Hermione said, ashamed at the way her voice squeaked around a growing lump in her throat. She'd seen Fred get upset, but it was quite a different thing to have that anger directed at her. In fact, she couldn't remember an instance of someone she cared about ever actually being angry with her. Mum and Dad were the sort to sit down and calmly talk out any confrontations, and well…she'd never had friends before Hogwarts.
But now Fred was glaring at her, his mouth set in a stubborn line, and she hated that look.
"You've been prying all week," he said. "We're not ready to talk about it, and that's something you have to deal with. And respect."
With that, he stalked off, leaving Hermione to watch his retreating back through blurry vision. George lingered for a moment, shooting her a small grimacing smile before hurrying after his brother. Left alone outside the changing room, Hermione wiped her eyes and stood alone against the wind.
"You stupid, nosey girl," she huffed at herself.
…
At 3:20 in the afternoon on 31 October, 1991, Harry Potter was dismissed from his final class of the day (a rather riveting Charms lesson), whereupon he slunk away from the crowds of students eager to enjoy the last couple of hours of sunlight before the big Halloween feast. Finding a quiet classroom to don his invisibility cloak, he made his way to the second-floor girls' lavatory. Once inside, he spoke in a strange spitting and hissing language to a particular sink, which sank into the floor to reveal a passage leading to the Chamber of Slytherin.
Down in the chamber, Harry made several preparations.
Depositing his schoolbag, he swapped it out for a suitcase, which disappeared as he pulled it under the invisibility cloak and hitched it up onto his shoulder.
The chamber was silent, empty except for him.
At 4:00, the watch—a time-activated portkey—whisked him away, and the chamber was left completely lifeless once more.
Hundreds of miles away, in Little Whinging, Surrey, the quietest displacement of air was the only announcement of a new presence down Privet Drive, and an unseen figure made his way toward Number Four to take up a silent vigil.
…
There were very few things that Amelia Bones took for granted. Getting yourself too wrapped up in a status quo just left you more opportunities to be sent reeling by an abrupt and unforeseen change. So when a world-rocking development cropped up (as they were wont to without even a moment's notice), she was mentally prepared, not left stood there with her mouth open like a frog that had missed its fly.
Still, she had to admit, the news that Hogwarts was far from the safest place there was (and was even quite a bit dangerous) had been a bit of a shocker. During her time at the school, there had been a dark lord running amok and a new catastrophe every day. It was to be expected that life even as a student would carry its share of perils. But He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was long-dead and his followers rounded up or behaving themselves. Life should have settled down to the tune of something resembling a safe schooling environment.
The number of complaints that had come across the Ministry's desk in the last nine years did not reflect a safe schooling environment, however.
And the fiasco of finding out there was a ceberus guarding a death gauntlet protecting a Philosopher's Stone in the very same school her most beloved (and only) niece had just started attending was the push she needed to take a little sabbatical from being the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and explore life as a teacher.
Plus, Kingsley needed some experience running the department; it would probably be his ship in a short few years. Especially if Cornelius continued to spend his first year as Minister for Magic waffling between his desperation for a good public image and his childlike awe of Albus Dumbledore. The whole while there was a world in need of leadership and on the brink of collapse.
The best thing to come of all this madness, though, had to be afternoon tea with Arthur Weasley.
"Does your cup need refreshed, Amelia dear?" Arthur asked, pouring a measure of tea (the man knew how to brew a damn good cup of Earl Grey, that was for sure) into his own cup and adding a bit of sugar and milk.
"Oh, please," Amelia said, and Arthur topped off hers as well. "Well, one week in the books."
"Quite so," Arthur said with a nod. "I must say, it's been fascinating. So many of these children simply don't understand the muggle world on a fundamental basis. They think they're still…cavemen banging rocks together, going about their quaint little lives. They don't realize the things we could stand to learn from muggles, their values and their…their drive, Amelia. It could change our society, breathe new life into this backward mess we've made."
"I've never seen you like this, Arthur," Amelia said, doling out a scoop of sugar into her own cup. "Then again, we never really talked much at the Ministry, did we?"
"Well, someone had to keep the scum of our society in check, didn't she?" Arthur said, cracking a (rather handsome) grin. "What sort of Head of Department has the time to visit a lowly office worker?"
"Still, your Office was a division of my Department," Amelia said.
"If you had ever stopped by for a chat, I daresay I would have likely kept some of my more, well, radical views to myself," Arthur admitted. "One too many rambles about how decrepit and broken our insular society has gotten tends to alienate one when his job is in service of that society's government."
"I just so happen to agree with quite a few of your views," Amelia told him. "Although, yes, our previous work environment wasn't exactly conducive to discussing them. I'm glad we've been given this opportunity to get to know each other as colleagues, rather than as Head of Department and…lowly office worker."
They fell into silence at that, Arthur sipping contentedly at his tea and staring distantly out the window. He was sort of dashing, Amelia noted to herself, carrying himself with a quiet dignity that belied a man of equal parts passion and silliness. It was easy to see how he had raised six boys with such varying personalities.
A frantic knock stirred her from her thoughts, and she and her host glanced toward his office door. The faint and frenzied noise suggested a student rather than any faculty member, possibly a desperate NEWT student by to beg for an extension on an essay. Smirking at what was likely a very similar thought, Arthur got to his feet and slowly made his way to the door.
"Excuse me just a moment," he said to Amelia, who nodded and waved him off while sipping at her tea. The sound of the door creaking open was followed by a faintly surprised sound from Arthur. "Oh…bugger, what have they done now?"
Curious, Amelia turned in her seat to see a sight all-too-familiar from her nights babysitting her niece. In her youth, Susan had been friends with a muggle boy two houses down. It wasn't especially rare for the two to come to heads over one imagined game or another, whereupon Susan would come home, face screwed up with suppressed tears and her lower lip puckered out.
Seeing that expression on the normally composed Hermione Granger of all girls was…well, downright adorable in a heartbreaking way.
"I w-was…we were just talking, and-and I made him mad, he got so mad at me and it's all my fault!" Hermione wailed. She was pale and trembling with cold as she stood there, though Arthur's paternal instincts kicked right in, and he had her inside and sat in a cozy armchair next to his fireplace before she had finished her ramblings.
"Sit down, my dear, do warm up; you look a proper icicle," he said. "I think a cup of tea and a good listen are what you need at the moment. Amelia, could I trouble you to put on a fresh kettle?"
"No trouble at all," Amelia said, springing to her feet. A young girl was in distress over a boy, and damn if she wasn't going to do what she could to help remedy the situation.
Not to mention, watching Arthur Weasley dote on the poor dear was nothing short of precious.
…
"I've really stuffed things up, haven't I?" Fred muttered, tossing a wadded-up page of his old Charms notes into the Ravenclaw common room's fireplace. Fred hadn't wanted to go back to Slytherin in case they saw Hermione again, and he didn't much feel like risking running into Ron in the Hufflepuff common room. The Ravenclaw riddle had been fairly easy this time around, so they were gracing the "Nerd House" with their presence. For their part, the 'claws seemed virtually unaffected; it wasn't exactly their first time hosting members of another house.
At least Fred and George weren't vandalizing the place like the Gryffindor quidditch team had in 1983, after losing the Inter-House Quidditch Cup.
"You did rather lose your temper," George pointed out, and Fred sighed, dropping his head back and staring up into the sky-blue ceiling of the Ravenclaw common room. It was the antithesis of the Slytherin one, perched high on a tower and set with innumerable windows offering a breathtaking view of the sky and grounds around Hogwarts.
It was nice, but the association with a bunch of pompous nerds wasn't enough for him to actually be envious of the view.
"She was pestering us, though," Fred said, aware that he sounded huffy. "She couldn't just let it go."
"Well, she said it herself, she's not used to having friends," George told him. "The brats at the muggle primary school of hers weren't exactly kind."
"I always forget she's just a little firstie," Fred sighed. "She acts so…mature."
"She's smart, and she can pretend to be mature," George said. "Doesn't make it true. Remember how Percy acted in when he was eleven?"
"About the same as he does now," Fred said.
"Right, but then Scabbers ran off, and he bawled like a baby," George said. "Snot down his nose, all of that."
"Yeah, alright," Fred sighed. "Maybe I did rather lose my temper."
They were silent for a moment, staring into the fire while occasionally lobbing an old sheet of notes, a graded essay, or some other rumpled mess from the detritus in their bags into the fire. Their feeble, childish hopes that everything might just go back to the way they'd been before were truly dashed. Only two days ago, Dad had told them Mum had sent divorce papers.
"Apparently, she's been to her Great Aunt Muriel's," he'd said. "And you know how she is, spinster. Can't have any of her own matrimonial bliss, so she tries to sabotage everyone else's, make them miserable as she is."
The icing on the rejection cake came in the form of the terms Mum had stipulated for custody. Ostensibly, she had opted for the magnanimous route of allowing the children to choose which parent they would be staying with. Of course, it didn't matter a lick to her, as she had her hooks set deep in Ginny and had already coerced her only daughter into choosing to stay with her mother.
Any of the boys were inconsequential, so long as she had her dearest little girl.
"It feels like she's divorcing us," Fred said.
"Well, serves us right for dumping two more sons on her when she wanted a daughter," George shrugged, and Fred let a single humorless laugh.
"D'you reckon she ever liked us?" he asked.
"There was that time we were obsessed with tea parties," George said. "Remember?"
"Yeah, then we read that murder mystery novel of Dad's," Fred chuckled. "After that, guests started being mysteriously poisoned."
"Poor Lord Stuffing-Pants," George sighed with a shake of his head. "Done in by his own butler."
"I thought it was the stable hand?" Fred asked.
"That was Lady Muffin-Top," George said.
"Ah, that's right," Fred nodded.
They fell silent once more, George quietly reaching into his bag and withdrawing one last worn piece of parchment. He didn't chuck this one into the fire, though, instead casting a discreet look around before taking his wand and tapping it to the surface.
"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good," he pronounced, and the long-familiar map of Hogwarts bloomed from the tip of his wand, a series of dots appearing with names scribbled above them. It took a couple minutes' searching, but Fred soon spotted the name they needed, pointing to…Dad's office.
"Of course she's in his office," he sighed, and George chuckled.
"Straight to the top of the Weasley totem pole," he said. "Feel like a cuppa tea?"
"Long as no one gets poisoned this time."
…
At 5:37 on the evening of 31 October, 1991, with their son out and about getting up to all sorts of Halloween antics, Vernon and Petunia Dursley exited their home, having been sent a letter offering them a tidy profit if they upgraded their Vauxhall Cavalier to the current-year model. The window of opportunity was a small one, though, and the dealer was quite far away, necessitating passage across the Walton Bridge at exactly this time.
As they climbed into their soon-to-be-replaced vehicle and took off, an unseen figure followed, hidden under a cloak and flying the latest Nimbus 2000 broomstick.
And catching sight of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, Tom grinned under his cloak.
…
"You know, Fred and George used to love having tea parties," Professor Weasley said with a fond chuckle.
"Those two?" Hermione giggled. "I can't picture them sitting still long enough for a tea party."
"Oh, they were always chaotic affairs," Professor Weasley smirked. "Guests would challenge each other to duels, accuse each other of infidelity. After a while, there were even poisonings and murder. It was a gripping story, more often than not."
"That sounds more like them," Hermione said, taking a sip of her tea. It was expertly brewed; Arthur Weasley had a talent for it, it would seem. It was no wonder Fred and George had taken so spiritedly to the concept of a tea party.
But thinking of the boys just reminded her of how much she had failed them. Her ridiculous need to suss out every miniscule detail about her life had gotten her into hot water with those closest to her.
Again.
Only this time, she had alienated real actual friends. This wasn't some clique in the schoolyard, laughing at "Brainy Janey Granger" and muttering things about her behind their hands. Fred and George had been good to her, befriended her, shown her what it was like to really bond with someone and have a place to belong.
And she had been her usual busybody self, unable to respect their privacy.
"I was…rather inconsiderate to them," she said in a meek voice.
"That is true," Professor Weasley said, and Hermione flinched; he hadn't even softened the blow. "Well, you were. But here's the thing you'll learn about friends. If they want to stay friends, it's shockingly easy to move past little bumps like this. No…friendship is perfect, no relationship is perfect. Someone, at some point, is going to say something or do something that the other party disagrees with. It's the nature of humans, you know? We're all just a little bit different from each other. What matters is how you handle the aftermath. Do you stew and sulk and wish you'd done something different? Or do you swallow your pride, gather your nerviest nerve and march back to apologize?"
Hermione mulled over the Weasley patriarch's words. Certainly, the father to six boys (and one girl) would be the one to go to for advice. Goodness knew he had plenty of experience in dispensing it. Was it really as simple as apologizing? Fred had seemed rather cross with her. Just remembering it sent a spike of anxiety into Hermione's chest. The prospect of not having friends had been daunting enough; actually having obtained one and then losing them was…something she did not want to go through.
"Just…go to him and tell him I'm sorry?" Hermione asked.
"Sometimes, it's that simple," Professor Weasley pointed out. "And, trust me, Fred couldn't possibly stay mad at you. I happen to know he – "
"Dad," Fred's voice cut through his father's statement, and Hermione looked to see Fred standing in the office doorway. "I would really appreciate if you don't finish that sentence."
"Well, if it isn't my wayward boys themselves," Arthur said with a smile. "You turned up at just the right moment, it seems."
"They always seem to know right where to find me," Hermione said with a small smile. She met Fred's eyes for a split-second but found herself unable to keep his gaze, ducking her head and toying with her hair like a bashful little girl.
"Won't you sit?" Arthur asked. "Have some tea. Amelia's just had to run off, poor Susan managed to set her hair on fire practicing a spell."
"It's such a shame," Hermione said. "Her hair is a lovely color."
"Tragic," George said, shoving Fred into the room as they took the remaining two seats around Arthur's table. Silence reigned as Arthur cheerfully poured them some tea, seeming oblivious to—or simply unwilling to acknowledge—the awkwardness between his sons and his new tea-drinking friend.
"Um," Hermione finally ventured, gathering every bit of courage she had. "I'm sorry. I was rude and pushy and – "
"Alright, stow it with that," Fred said, holding a hand up. "You were rude and pushy… But I shouldn't have jumped down your throat like that. So if you're sorry…well, so am I."
Hermione felt tears threatening again, wishing she could just be done crying as she sipped at her tea rather than try to speak and sound all squeaky and sobby again. To be a preteen girl was far too emotional at times, especially for a girl that prided herself on practicality in all things.
Oh, if Daphne could see her for the tearful mess that she was now…
"Look at this," Arthur said with a bright smile. "Everything's wrapped up all nice and neat, hasn't it? And I daresay we've all come from this having learned a valuable lesson, wouldn't you say?"
"I'm just glad everything resolved itself so quickly," George muttered into his teacup. "I dunno if I could've stomached a weeks-long fight between these two."
"If you ever want to talk about…well, anything," Hermione said, ignoring the other Weasleys while peering up at Fred, "I'd be happy to listen. But-but if you don't, then I'll just be happy to keep being your friend, okay?"
"I'll be sure to let you know when I'm ready to talk," Fred said while studiously avoiding eye contact. "Just…give me time, yeah?"
"Of course," Hermione said, embarrassed at the softness of her voice and desperately trying to ignore Professor Weasley and George as they remained equally focused on a tray of biscuits nearby. "I just don't want to lose you."
"…Bloody hell, how can you stay mad at her when she says things like that and looks so…earnest?" Fred grumbled.
"When you meet the right girl, Frederick, you just can't," Arthur said with a wistful smile.
…
At 6:02 PM on 31 October, 1991, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, Vernon Dursley was navigating across the Walton Bridge on his way to nab up the deal of a lifetime. The letter had promised him an excellent trade-in offer for his car if he upgraded to the new model, and he was not about to let such a bargain slip through his fingers, not when he could be the envy of all his neighbors.
He had no idea that the address he had been given directed him to an empty shopping center, or that twenty meters in the air, he was being stalked by a boy that had every intention of killing him and his wife.
Tom was having the time of his life. The evening air was chilly, but he'd cast a warming charm on his clothes, and the invisibility cloak was surprisingly well-insulated and seemed to be clinging to him against the icy gale outside. As he brought his Nimbus 2000 down alongside Vernon and Petunia Dursley in their car, he looked like nothing more than a flutter of wind. Clutching his wand, he stuck it toward the car and took careful aim, an unseen rictus grin splitting his face.
"Stupefy."
As Petunia Dursley checked the map spread open across her lap, the car suddenly pitched to the left, and she felt her husband lean heavily into her. His jaw slack and his eyes shut. Immediately, terror welled up, and she frantically attempted to shake her husband awake while the barricade drew closer to her window. A scream died in her throat as seconds later, she was also rendered unconscious by magical means.
It was a cruel mercy that they would at least not be cognizant for their final moments, though Tom didn't want to risk either of them worming free of the wreckage and finding their way back to the surface.
As the car collided with the barrier, he stretched out his other hand, tapping into the bottomless pit of rage stewing in his core. The fury filled him up, extending forth out of his hand and pressing out toward the Dursleys' vehicle. To anyone watching, it would look like the barrier had simply crumpled under the weight of the vehicle, which was punched through with a push from Tom's rather unique powers. The car spun through the air, and only seconds after Vernon Dursley had lost consciousness, his no-longer-soon-to-be-replaced vehicle plunged into the Thames.
Passerby screeched to a halt, stopping traffic as they rushed to look down into the murky depths of the icy flow below. Emergency services were contacted, but they would arrive much too late, as Vernon and Petunia Dursley succumbed to a combination of lack of oxygen and hypothermia.
Dredged from the river hours later, the car would bear them still fastened into their seatbelts.
On that fateful evening, however, one airborne observer watched the proceedings with a cackle and a grin.
"Happy Halloween, you fat piece of shit," he spat at the frothing bubbles left in the wake of the vehicle.
With that parting remark, he sped off into the night, and half an hour later, his watch chimed and announced his departure from a quiet alleyway behind a laundromat. Seconds later, he reappeared in the Chamber of Slytherin, emerging once more into the second-floor girls' lavatory and making his way down to the Great Hall.
And Harry Potter sat for the Halloween Feast.
…
"You mean to tell me there's been adolescent drama brewing right within my own friend group and I wasn't told?" Daphne huffed as she pointed a forkful of grilled veggies accusingly at Hermione. The Halloween Feast was in full swing, and in the background, the school choir serenaded the assembled students while they ate. Throughout the hall, children were dashing from table to table, trading candy and chocolate frog cards, setting off confetti cannons, and otherwise enjoying the festivities. "Why didn't you say anything to me?"
"Daphne, I was rather distraught over the whole thing," Hermione insisted. "I didn't really care to talk about it, and when I found my way back to the castle I just went straight for Professor Weasley's office."
"Smart thing to do when you have boy troubles," Bella chimed in. "Talk to the dad. They'll usually get them to see sense when it's a girl."
"I'm not denying she did the right thing," Daphne huffed. "I'm just a bit upset that you continue to keep your emotional upheavals a big fat secret from me."
"I'm really not doing it on purpose," Hermione said with a small frown. "Daphne, when I'm fretting over how to…to do my hair or gussy up before my first big date, you'll be the first and only stop, okay? I promise."
"Well…alright, fair enough," Daphne said, looking at least mollified before she stuck out her pinky finger. "Do you pinky-promise?"
"Of course I do," Hermione giggled. Reaching out, she curled her own pinky finger into Daphne's. Daphne fought back a smile before rolling her eyes and finally taking her bite of food.
"Do you even realize how lucky you are to have a friend that cares about you so very much?" she asked.
"I'm sure I'll never really fully grasp it," Hermione said, and Daphne stuck her tongue out.
"You two are alright, though?" she asked, glancing down the table to where Fred and George were discussing their latest quidditch practice with Oliver Wood. "Those two still seem a bit…off, you know?"
"That's why I was being such a bother to them in the first place," Hermione sighed. "There's some great big secret they're not talking about. But I guess it's their business and none of ours."
"Well, they're only lucky you patched things up before I found out about it," Daphne said in lofty tones. "I might've had to play the part of vengeful best girl friend."
"I daresay you'll have plenty of opportunities to do so in the next seven years," Hermione said. "I'm uncommonly talented at upsetting people."
"Like any true Slytherin," Bella pointed out.
"You're certainly in the right house," Daphne agreed. She scooted closer to Hermione and dropped her head onto the girl's shoulder, peering up at her with a pout. "Even if they never wanted to be friends with you again, you know you'd still have me, right? And Bella, too?"
"I know, Daphne," Hermione said with a smile, leaning in to settle her head against her friend's. "You're really great, you know that?"
"Oh, naturally," Daphne said with a small pleased wiggle in her seat. "It's always nice to hear other people point it out, though."
…
The next morning, a stack of letters awaited Albus at his desk as he sleepily emerged from his bedchambers. The sun was only just peeking over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, and he'd already received a veritable pile of correspondence.
That didn't bode well.
The first letter was from Arabella Doreen Figg, who had seen fit to include a copy of her local newspaper. Below the fold, she had circled an article in yellow marker.
Local Couple Involved in Fatal Car Accident
Vernon and Petunia were pictured, and Albus hurriedly opened Arabella's letter.
Albus,
I have no idea how it could have happened. They left yesterday around half past five, and that's the last I saw them. The news reported a car going over the Walton Bridge, but I never imagined it could have been them.
What on Earth do we do now?
Arabella Doreen Figg
Setting the letter aside, Albus saw that the next one was from Cornelius, likely asking him the same question. In a rare turn of events, he was well and truly flummoxed. In all of Albus's plans, all of his speculations, the Dursleys were always there. Surly, resentful, and often downright monstrous in their treatment of Harry, but always there to house him when he wasn't under Albus's care in Hogwarts.
He simply couldn't comprehend that they were dead. That was the end of Lily's protective spell, the downfall of Albus's last and greatest ward over Harry. Without his mother's blood magic in place, Harry would be more vulnerable to harm than he'd ever been before.
And all because of a simple car accident?
"Hecking," Albus called out, and with a crack, one of Hogwarts's many house elves appeared before him, bowing deeply.
"How can Hecking help Master Professor Dumbledore, sir?" he asked in a croak of a voice.
"If you'd please, fetch breakfast for me?" Albus asked. "I'll take my usual. And coffee, if you would."
"Right away, Mister Sir," Hecking said, disappearing with yet another crack. Heaving a sigh, Albus made his way back to his ensuite lavatory. He would need to make quick work of his morning ablutions.
There was much to do.