A/N: My apologies for the multiple updates on this one. I got a little publish-happy as my everlasting patience started to wane. I've made some clarity edits and will remove all of the non-credit ANs when this fic is complete.
Vine
I suppose it's a good thing I'm not squeamish when it comes to blood and other such things people find unsettling. It would be a useful skill as a doctor, or a murderer if I ever had such inclinations. Hermione is not so lucky. As we pour over the two ancient anatomy books in Mrs Tonks collection, she turns a faint shade of green, squirming and shaking her head in intervals. I hate that she's put herself in such a disagreeable position so soon after what she has endured, but her help is invaluable nonetheless.
There is a myriad of ways to get Draco's leg back together, but none of them is pleasant, quick, or simple. We learn Bellatrix cursed Draco with a bleeding hex. Her last act on this earth was meant to ensure her nephew - or whoever she thought he was - would die with her, rendering the leg he lost of no use for reattachment. That makes this task more difficult, but what is one more impossible thing to bring into reality?
Conjuring a leg from scratch seems out of the question. They are simply too difficult; too many calculations to make about bone density, weight distribution and nerve endings to allow him to walk. If we had more time I would try it, but Ron and Harry - Ron especially - seem anxious to get to Hogwarts to find whatever it is they are looking for. He and Harry have been arguing incessantly about the logistics of it all, and whether to find what they're seeking first or storm the Manor to slaughter the snake Nagini. That seems like a terrible idea, and I told them such. I digress - If I want Hermione's help, we'll have to work fast. Besides, with Narcissa missing, it's only a matter of time before Death Eaters start searching for her, and we'll be in danger all over again. I suppose the danger never really left, it only hid behind the Black wards with us.
I could possibly duplicate his left leg and make the necessary adjustments for the other side, but feet are difficult, and I have no idea how to reverse the positioning. The spell books lack for answers on imposing shapes. I suppose it hasn't been thought an important function until today.
It can't be as difficult as it seems. Muggles do it all the time without even using magic. That brings up a good question. I look up at sickly Hermione.
"How do Muggles do it?"
She is impaled by the question, staring at me as if I'd slapped her in the face.
"Uh… They - we - use synthetic materials, plastic and metal and whatnot."
"But how do you get the shape?"
She thinks for a moment.
"Cast a mould, I believe. Outline the shape then fill it with whatever they use to make it."
A torch lights up in both of our minds. Without saying much, we return to his severed leg, beginning to cast tiny duplication spells on the bones. The nerves probably weren't affected by the bleeding curse, so we copy those too. The blood vessels and muscles I can handle, all the tendons and ligaments and pieces to hold it together. I hollow out the bone marrow and replace that too, trying with all my imagination and every drop of hope I have to get it to function properly. We test it out, Hermione vomits, and as expected, we eventually have something we can use.
Draco for his part closes his eyes in concentration while we reattach his limb. I know it's been difficult for him to rely on others for help, even for only a day. Hopefully, it hasn't been long enough for him to forget how to walk. Hermione and I brace him underneath his arms. He stands uneasily but stands nonetheless. He takes his first step, almost falling, leaning into Hermione and me as we nearly fall with him.
"I promise my sobriety isn't in question," he jokes trying to make light of the situation, giving me a hint of his heart-melting smile. My chest puffs with his pride.
"Keep trying, darling," I encourage, a pain hitting my heart as I imagine Tonks' baby doing this same task in a few months.
Before long, he's walking on his own across the room. He stumbles occasionally, leaning on the wall for support. I offer to make him a cane until he regains his balance, but he refuses my offer with a scowl. His father's image still burns holes in his reasoning, which is quite understandable. He may never completely wash the stain of Lucius out of his own beautiful features.
"Thank you," he tells us "for holding me up."
"It's no problem darling. I'm glad I was here," I return.
Hermione collapses on the bed, breathing hard and covered in sweat.
"Yeah," she pants "Happy to help."
I don't think "happy" is what she meant exactly, but who am I to say what she's feeling? I bring her a cup of water and a tray of chocolate biscuits. She hides in the lavatory for some time afterwards to gather herself.
xoXOXox
The Weasel stands in front of me, walking backwards down the stairs as I stumble forward. I can't remember ever stumbling before, not in this sense. It's unpalatably humbling at minimum, but not nearly as humiliating as laying in bed unable to assist my wife and family.
"Oi, ferret, you'll be back on a broom in no time at this rate," he says with a genuine smile, holding his arms out as he expects me to come colliding into him.
I don't, as I focus on taking my time to studiously place one foot in front of the other. As soon as we're off the stairs, a familiar wave of accomplishment hits me. I've caught the snitch in my mind as I enter the sitting room to raucous applause from the Weasel and my Luna. She throws her arms around me, nearly knocking me off balance as the Weasel hastily tosses a hand across my shoulder to steady me.
"Merlin, Luna! Control yourself, witch! He is a fragile, delicate water lily right now. He can't handle a love so fierce!" he mocks.
I must say I disagree entirely. Without her overt affection, I would have perished long before now - at my own hand no less.
"So, Hogwarts?" I ask.
"No, no, absolutely not! We don't start these talks on an empty stomach!" the Weasel admonishes, slapping his abdomen heartily as he saunters into the kitchen to find the feast the elves have prepared for us.
It suddenly, painfully occurs to me that for the majority of my life, I have treated these two who have had access to my sustenance with utter disdain. The wave of shame is strong, but not nearly as potent as the worry for what they'll feed me now they're free to do as they wish. As such, I cast a myriad of detection charms over the meat and bread, hoping silently there is no elvin magic to mask poisons. It would truly be a shame to survive all I have only to die over lunch.
The room has been expanded to accommodate everyone present for this meal. Around the table in order we have two wanted, one hiding, two dead, one missing, two outcasts, and one yet to be born. In this mashup of fugitives, criminals, and victims of circumstance, I've never felt more at home.
"Thank you," I tell both elves as I situate myself into the chair beside Luna.
"Oh, no, this is not for Mr Draco," Dobby interjects, snatching the plate away from me. It's a bit jarring to have a house-elf behave in such an uncouth manner. I abide it - because again, my sustenance depends on my self-control. Dobby turns to Mimsy, who looks at him aghast with confusion. "Mr Draco is a ferret. Ferrets don't eat human food! Ferrets eat cats!" he squeals, and the entire table erupts in laughter. Even my mother breaks her stoicism to snicker under her hand as my plate is returned to me.
The Weasel reaches out to bump knuckles with the elf who strolls haughtily away and begins cleaning the dishes.
So many unanswered questions linger in the air between us, but I can't be bothered to answer them now. Instead, we make small talk about gardenias and marigolds, wedding dress preservation and how long until the baby comes. It could have been what it's like to have a typical family gathering, for a typical family. I treasure it, savouring every morsel of my mother's symbolism about flowers and Luna's explanations of perfume bases. I even listen attentively as Dory asks questions about what Luna did with her hair for the wedding, and as Hermione dissects the components and shortcomings of Sleek Eazy. I never knew being beautiful could be such a chore. We go on like this for some time, comments about Quidditch interlaced with the devouring of fruit and tea. For a brief moment, I forget our lives hang in the balance.
After Andi and Mother have profusely complimented the food - nevermind that neither of them has taken more than a few bites - the air once again grows heavy with uncertainty.
"So, Hogwarts," I begin once more, reluctantly taking up the mantle of the person to shatter our contented revelry.
"Yeah," Potter says "About that… Hermione is a bit under the weather. I think whatever they did to heal you has her out of sorts after what happened yesterday."
"I'll be fine!" Hermione insists, the biting retort lacking in her usual concentrated fervour.
"We need you at your best, Hermione." Potter implores, a touch of softness I hadn't seen from him until now showing up in his voice.
"Potter's right," I say, gagging a bit at how easily the words flow from my mouth. "Why don't you stay here until you feel up to a proper hex?"
"She's always up to hexing." the Weasel grumbles under his breath.
The argument Hermione has poised never comes as she puts her hand to her mouth to dash out of the kitchen. Potter follows her with his eyes but doesn't make a move to chase her.
"It's fine, mate." the Weasel tells him "I'll go ahead of you. Bring her when you can."
"We don't have time," Potter hisses. Imbecile.
"The proper response is "Thank you," Potter," I instruct. "Don't you think I would love to be in your position? To protect my wife, mother, aunt, and cousins somewhere away from that madhouse? Keep her safe."
"So you're coming with me, mate?" the Weasel asks needlessly.
"Of course I'm coming, idiot," I reply.
"I'm coming too." Luna interjects "Gingers have to stick together, and my middle name is Ginger, after all."
I hate that I'd never thought to ask before. Hermione returns, her face paled from the undoubted bout of sickness.
"Excuse me," she says "but don't you think you ought to make sure you're completely adjusted to your new leg before plunging yourself into the middle of a hoard of people who would just as soon kill you as look at you, Draco?"
She has a point. I should at minimum ensure I can run and jump, maybe even do a few practise rounds on a broom before departing.
"I will," I reply, turning to make my way to the back garden to explore my impeded equilibrium.
Mother stands, halting me in my tracks as she glares with the ice of a year-long frost.
"Well, Draco Lucius Granger and Luna Ginger Granger, I find it reprehensible that you think me so fickle as to let my son and daughter-in-law risk their lives while I abide here worrying myself thin."
"We have to go, Mother,"
"I know this, Draco, and I will be accompanying you,"
"No!" I shout, pounding my fists into the table "I'm not going to lose you again!"
"Draco," she says, her voice transitioning into the softest velvet, "You will never lose me, my love."
I hear exactly what she doesn't say: the words she would use to console me as a boy -
'We'll never be apart, Draco, for when we look up, we'll see each other in the stars.'
"Please, Mother…" I beg, knowing it is of no use. "Once Potter returns, the Dark Lord will surely follow. What if you come across Father?" the word coats my tongue in bitterness.
"I doubt your father is in any shape to fight, Draco. If he is, and if he crosses me, he's made his choice."
Aunt Andi visibly lightens at my mother's words, shedding a bit of her solemn mask to emanate pure joy for a breath. I'd like to feel pain at Mother's implications that my father has probably been tortured into unfitness after Potter's escape and Bellatrix's demise. I wish to feel sorry for him, but I don't; I can't. As Mother stated, he has made his choices. Over and over, day by day, he chose to dig the grave he will lie in.
"Lady Malfoy," Potter intones "If you are going with us we'll need a vow of loyalty. If you see your husband and run to him it could cost us all our lives, including Luna and Draco. I'm sure you understand."
"I understand perfectly," Mother defiantly states. She holds out her hand to Potter who clasps it with enough force to send my blood boiling in my veins. "On my magic."
xoXOXox
"Luna," Harry says, once again the general of our hodgepodge resistance, "Will you follow me, please?"
I kiss Draco's hand, letting it go as he and Ron make their way to the back garden and I walk away with Harry. We arrive in the far bedroom he's been sharing with Hermione, where he pulls out the pouch Dobby had yesterday.
"That uh, that cloak I told you about…"
"Yes?"
"Dobby brought it along," he says, digging into his mokeskin pouch to pull out a shimmering fabric. "Here,"
The cloak flows as smooth as water through my hands. It's like nothing I've ever seen. It leaves the scenery completely undisturbed as my hand disappears beneath it.
"Take this, and let me know where you all cross into Hogwarts so I don't muck it up when I arrive."
"Thank you, Harry. You must have quite a bit of confidence that we won't die out there, giving me this."
"All the confidence I have. Please prove me right," he replies squeamishly.
"I will," I say, returning to him every bit of assuredness he's given me.
As Harry pulls me into his arms I can practically hear his thoughts. He thinks so loudly at times.
"I love you," say the arms tightening around my shoulders, "...and thank you, and please don't die."
"I love you too, and we'll all try our best, okay? Our very best." I say out loud.
We part ways as he goes to check in with Hermione and I return to Draco and Ron with the cloak.
"Do you know how to use this?" I ask Ron, who stares flabbergasted against the wall across from Draco.
"Used it a million times. Never without Harry, though," he replies, uncertainly.
"Do you know how it works?" I ask, reassuring myself that Ron has survived every adventure had under this bewildering piece of magic so far.
"Of course I don't know how it works!" he replies with a nervous laugh. "It was supposedly made by Death herself! Do I look like I take tea with the reaper?" Draco eyes him curiously at the comment. "Never mind, don't answer that," he adds.
I don't take time to correct him about Death and reapers being different folklore. I understood the premise of his statement, so it doesn't make much difference in this instance.
"How did you do, kitten? Any falls or broken bones?" I ask Draco. Ron snorts.
"I performed proficiently, as expected," Draco replies, shooting Ron an irritated glare.
"Yeah, if you call running headlong into a fence proficient!" Ron replies, laughing at Draco's expense.
"Shove off, Weasel. You were shooting sleeping hexes at me! I had to look while running!"
"Next time you know to look where you're running to!"
Narcissa walks in, carrying her head high, holding a slightly less invisible invisibility cloak borrowed from her niece. She casts it over her head, slipping her tiny hand into mine.
"Alright, then." I say, intertwining my right hand with Draco's "Let's go."
Hermione wobbles into the room, still sluggish and a bit green, but rather a glowing sort of green, like a particularly vibrant turtle.
"See you on the other side," she says; then, turning to Ron - "I love you."
"I love you too, 'Mione," comes rushing out of Ron as he takes two large steps to reach for her. She nods as he whispers something in her ear before returning to throw the cloak over the three of us.
"What, no blowing kisses to us, Granger?" Draco asks Hermione, sarcastically hurt.
"Sod off, Granger," Hermione replies through a weak smile. I'll assume she was talking to him and not me.
"Whoo! Right then, let's do this!" Ron shouts, gripping Draco's wrist to plunge us into darkness.
xoXOXox
We apparate into the Hogsmeade village shortly before nightfall. This cloak is disconcerting. Unlike a disillusionment, there isn't so much as a vibration across my skin to communicate that I am still physical. We're completely transparent, more so than even a ghost. It feels almost as if we don't exist at all. Mother is disturbingly more noticeable as she stands under Dory's Auror-assigned invisibility cloak alongside Luna.
"Point me to Hogwarts," Luna whispers so softly only her wand and I can hear. As the wand rotates and she takes the first step into the bare street, a piercing scream shatters the dusk. The sound goes mute to be replaced by a roguish timbre from across the street.
"Blasted fuckers breaking curfew."
I know that voice. A door is slammed and boots pound on the wet cement. Another, less recognizable degenerate speaks.
"Oi, don't get your knickers in a twist McNair. Send the dementors to chase the idiots. Greyback'll clean up what's left of 'em in the morning."
"Yeah, but what if it's Potter? Then there won't be anything left to clean up of us!" comes the rough voice of Walden McNair
"If it's bleedin' Potter he'll be under his wrapper. Accio cloak!" the other degenerate incants.
Our cloak holds fast, but the one covering my mother flies into his hand even as she tries to clinch it.
"Narcissa?" McNair asks, confused.
Fuck.
"Walden!" she shrieks in a flawless imitation of being overjoyed to see the brute. "My apologies," she says in a perfectly flustered voice, smoothing her robes of imperceptible wrinkles as she makes haste to approach him. The Weasel's nails bite so hard into my wrist I'm certain my skin will break. She doesn't grant McNair a breath to speak as she continues.
"Thank Circe you're here!" she sighs in a facsimile of relief. "They disguised as my Draco and stole me from my home!"
"Who is they, Narcissa?" he growls without a touch of sympathy.
"I… don't know exactly. Some rogue Aurors, I suspect. They had me blindfolded the entire time. I only managed to escape because one put his wand in my face, so I snatched it and stunned him!"
I take the cue from my mother as more robed figures start flooding out of the building.
"Stupefy!" I shout and McNair goes pummeling to the ground.
Luna and the Weasel follow my lead and start knocking back Death Eaters as I break my disguise to run towards my mother. They keep pace brilliantly, grabbing onto me as I pull her forward and attempt to disapparate us. The air turns to a solid wall against the anti-apparition charms. Fuck. It's such a basic trap to be this effective. Make a cage your prey can get into but can't escape from.
"Run!" I yell as Luna summons my cousin's cloak, throwing it over my mother with a sticking charm as we head for the high ground.
"Protego Maxima!" Shouts the Weasel, jogging backwards beneath the cloak as dark spells fly from behind us.
We make it to a small alley outside an establishment frequented by my father's sycophants. We pause here for a breath as the deplorables seem to have lost us in the confusion.
"That was a good run, Lady Malfoy," the Weasel pants out to my mother.
"Well, Mr Weasely," Mother says, swallowing her saliva in an attempt to catch her breath. "I have not made it to my age by neglecting my physical fitness."
A visceral, permeating cold seeps deep in my bones as she speaks. All of my hope for survival vanishes in an instant as thoughts of Pansy being devoured and Theo running away in cowardice assault my better judgement. I hear Luna's voice ring "I may die tomorrow" in my mind as all-encompassing darkness falls around me. The dementors have found us.
xoXOXox
Boots pound relentlessly on the wet pavement much too close to us for comfort.
"Oi, you fucking lost 'em, Rosier, you bloody cuntsack!"
"I lost 'em? You let them take Lucius's gods-damned wife, again! Do you know what we could have done with the galleons from that reward?"
"Fuck that reward. I never liked the bitch. Thinks her pussy's coated in gold."
"Probably is, knowing Lucius."
The exchange makes my stomach churn, talking about Narcissa like that; like she's nothing but another artefact in Lucius's vault; like she's disposable because of the choices she makes for herself. If they had been paying attention, they would know how brave she is, how loyal, how ridiculously intelligent. Oh well, loss for them; she's my mother in law now, and I've noticed.
The temperature drops violently as tangible hopelessness surrounds us. It's deeper than the chill of the melted snow, more sinister than the wet, frigid air.
"Dementors," Ron whispers as the clouds go dark.
Casting patronuses will surely give away our position. We'll have to wait for the Death Eaters to move farther away. I clench Draco's hand as I think of his face when biting into a green apple and the joyful tears he shed with Hermione.
The sloshing of boots and ill-timed curses start fading in the opposite direction. A few more minutes and we will be able to chase the dementors away. I can hear their rattling wheeze now and see the pitch-blackness that swallows every beam of light as they turn the corner down the alley to glide towards us.
Draco's soft lips the first time we kissed start to fade from my mind to be replaced by my mother falling lifelessly to the ground beneath her own spell.
'That happened a long time ago. It's gone now.' I force myself to think, even as the endless despair hits me like it was today.
"Expecto patronum!" I hear Ron incant, a feisty little dog running into the oncoming void. The dementors don't seem to be phased as they keep gliding towards us. There are many of them, but there are plenty of us.
'There are plenty of us here and there will surely be more waiting at Hogwarts. We may be outnumbered, but we are far from alone.' I use this thought as the catalyst to drive me forward.
"Expecto patronum!" I say, my hare bounding forth into the blackness.
It stalls the dementors in their place, but they don't retreat. We can't turn around and risk running back into the Death Eaters. They'll be prepared for us this time. Narcissa is struggling beside me to create a patronus with her niece's wand. She casts and casts again, but all that comes of it is a small violet mist. Even her happy memories are clouded by anguish, it seems.
"Cast it, kitten," I say in Draco's ear.
"I… I can't…" he replies, trembling.
"Do you want to lose your soul?" I ask, pulling him in to kiss me like tomorrow will never come.
After a moment, he breaks from me, raising his wand. He closes his eyes in the utmost concentration. All at once, I have no doubt he'll be able to do it.
"Expecto patronum," he incants calmly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
A brilliant dragon roars from the end of his wand, shooting a stream of white flames so bright they devour all of the darkness in one breath.
"Oi, did you hear that?" comes the gruff voice of one of the Death Eaters from down the street, even as Draco's dragon chases the dementors around the corner and out of sight.
"Bloody hell, a fucking dragon!" the other one shouts.
The Death Eaters are running towards us now, the splashing of their boots growing closer by the second as locks clink and unhitch in the door across from us. This may be where we end, together.
"Get inside you blithering idiots! I'll hold them off." Comes the voice of Headmaster Dumbledore if the headmaster had taken up smoking pipe tobacco from a young age.
I pull Draco hard from the right and grab Narcissa from my left to drag them across to the doorway as fast as my feet will carry me. Ron jerks Draco from the other side, still holding fast to his wrist. The man standing before us looks like he could be a relative of the late headmaster, albeit one who has given up bathing and proper nutrition.
"Up the stairs with you! And hide like your life depends on it!" Smokey Dumbledore instructs us as we cross the threshold.
I cast a silencing spell on our feet as we run quickly up the rickety wooden staircase. The four of us shove ourselves into the cramped wardrobe of a dirty hotel room as Narcissa begins casting a plethora of warding charms. I force my breath to remain quiet as I strain to listen to the argument downstairs.
"...it was a bloody dragon Aberforth! I know you heard it!" begins one of the Death Eaters.
"A dragon? My patronus is a goat, you idiot. It wasn't me,"
"Don't play coy with us! It was Narcissa Malfoy! You've kidnapped her! Or you know who has!"
"Bloody hell, you are a sight stupider than you look, Rosier, and that's quite an accomplishment. Don't you think if I'd try to snatch Malfoy with a wand on her I'd be dead by now?"
"You'll be dead by morning if you don't start talking!"
"Kill me then, you incompetent bastard! Then you won't have any place to run your little side-money away from your boss. Let him pimp every galleon from you like he does with Lord Peacock."
"Malfoy's galleons are going to pay for his wife's return at the moment, which I'm sure you know."
"I don't know and don't care what your barmy lot get up to. Isn't that why you come here? My endless discretion?"
"If you're as discreet as you play at I'm sure you won't mind us taking a look around?"
"Look all you want, you won't find anything. I dare say your worthless time would be better spent finding Potter before you get Crucio'd into eternity."
"It's a good thing you don't get a say in where my time would be rather spent."
Heavy boots land on the creaking staircase. They plod down the hall as the argument continues.
"I don't need you following me like an insipid dog, Aberforth!"
"Like hell you don't! You slimy bastards aren't going to steal from me on my watch!"
The door to the adjacent room opens. I can hear Rosier tossing about furniture as he searches all around it. We all hold our breath while the wardrobe attached to the back of this one is opened and prodded through. I'm not sure if it's my heart or Draco's beating so loudly as the handle to our room is turned. The door flies open with a slam against the wall.
"Watch the interior, arsehole." says the grizzly voice of Aberforth.
The most disturbing sizzle reaches my ears to crawl across my skin as the wards are breached. Every hair on my arms stand up as a scream of agony and the smell of searing flesh fills the air.
"The hell's going on up there?" resounds from downstairs, then more heavy footsteps.
The door squeaks closed, flying open seconds later. A grunt is let out as McNair is pushed into the wards, burning to death with his companion. A noxious smoke leaks into the cracks of the wardrobe. I attempt to vanish it, but it continues to seep in.
"Clear," Aberforth says with finality.
Draco places a trembling hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly with his wand outstretched.
xoXOXox
I peek into the smoke-filled room underneath the invisibility cloak. My hands shake violently from the shock of being nearly apprehended; from the danger of the chase. I endeavour not to look at the charred bodies of Rosier and McNair, instead staring headlong at our saviour. It takes all of my fading will not to get sick as the irrepressibly twinkling eyes of the headmaster stare back at me.
"Who are you?" I ask with much more assuredness than I'm currently feeling.
"I think I should be the one asking that question given you're the one hidden, my boy."
Mother places her hand on my shoulder, imploring me to step aside. I do as I'm bid, and watch as she appears from under the cloak.
"It's me, Abe. My son, his wife, and the youngest Weasley son are with me. Whatever my husband is offering for my return, I'll ensure you receive double for not turning me over to those vile creatures."
"This is an interesting turn of events," the barkeep grumbles. "Bloody good charm you've got there, Cissa. Saved me a couple hexes on those spineless bastards."
"Thank you, Abe. I'll do my best to repay you. I owe you all of our lives."
"You lot have to get out of here. Once old Mouldy Shorts gets wind that these two don't come when summoned he'll set the world on fire. He's been especially unhinged since your sister died. My condolences, by the way. Not that I'll miss the bitch."
"No condolences needed. Your feelings are mutual."
The barkeep nods solemnly.
"Throw that cloak back on and come downstairs Cissa. We need to find you somewhere safe; far, far away from that disgusting peacock of yours. I'm glad you've finally managed to escape him."
Mother's face falls for the barest moment before she locks her occluding shields in place.
"It's appreciated, Abe. You have no idea how difficult it was." The words twist a knife in my heart as she means them from the depths of her aching soul.
Aberforth disillusions the bodies and levitates them out the window and down the street. Greyback and his crew will find them eventually. I hold fast to Luna and the Weasel as we walk downstairs. It wouldn't do to break my face accidentally after having survived this unfortunate circumstance unscathed.
Once we reach the grimey bar, Aberforth gestures to a row of foggy beer steins hanging from hooks against the wall.
"You don't want a Malfoy property, do you Cissa? Maybe the old Black cottage? Or I can get you in with Mistress Zabini. Old whore charges ridiculous fees but I'm sure she'll do a favour for your boy."
I take the steins to be illegal portkeys by the dubious quality of his expression.
"Actually, Abe, I need a different favour entirely." Mother says softly.
Aberforth leans against the bar, staring in our direction with eyes I'd hoped to never see again.
"Speak up, Cissa. I can't hear over the clang of your insanity," he states without inflexion.
Mother laughs a delicate laugh at this, one reserved for old friends and people who understand unspoken words.
"I need you to get us into Hogwarts."
The abrasiveness the barkeep displays vanishes in an instant at my mother's sombre request. He seems to age ten years as he wipes his leathered hand down his already time-worn face to stroke his grey beard.
"You always were the wild one, Cissa. Should have been a Gryffindor, I tell you," he says with a tone of unmitigated defeat.
He looks up to a portrait of a starry-eyed blonde girl hanging above the bar.
"You know what to do," he tells her.
"I'll never be able to repay you, Abe." Mother chokes with tears in her eyes.
"Come back to me when this madness is over, and we'll discuss repayment then," he says, grasping my mother's hand to place a kiss to the back of her knuckles like the finest pureblood gentleman. "Perhaps we'll be friends again once that poof you call a husband is rotting in Azkaban."
Mother returns the sentiment with a kiss on the cheek as we step through the portrait into the unknown.