"Abigail Mae Potter, you come down from there this instant!" November called wearily, resting her hands on her hips as she peered up into the tall oak tree. The sun played against the leaves at such an angle that she had to squint to see her bright-eyed, five-year-old daughter sitting high on a tree branch with her legs dangling over it. As a mother she feared the worst. The image of her lively child tumbling down from the tree caused her heart to leap into her throat, and she continued to yell up at her and demand she climb back down.
"Em? What's going on?" her husband questioned, walking up to the scene that had captivated the attention of his family. November sighed deeply, a tone of giving up in her voice. He folded his strong, war-weary arms around her and she leaned her head back against his shoulder, finding the deepest sense of comfort in finally being back in his arms. Every year since his difficult but successful graduation from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry some 11 or 12 years ago, Harry had gone off to join the fight against Lord Voldemort. For years upon years the entire wizarding world had hesitated at saying the name, its owner too cruel and heartless to think about without shivering. For years he had remained powerless, from the time Harry was just under a year old until he was about 14. Voldemort regained his power slowly that year, and in November and Harry's final year at Hogwarts his power began to take its toll on the Ministry of Magic itself. It was then when Albus Dumbledore, easily the strongest and most powerful Phoenix ("Order of the Phoenix" was the name the wizards against Voldemort had given themselves) in England (if not the world), opened the struggle to wizards everywhere and invited them all to join the fight. Harry felt he owed it to his parents, who had been killed by Voldemort himself, to take a major role in the fight so that their deaths, which had been caused while they were trying to protect him, would not have been in vain. November could understand how he felt, having lost her own Muggle parents in a car accident just before her third birthday. Nonetheless, she hated it when he was away fighting and relished in every moment they spent together.
"It's Abby," she told him, still staring up at the towering oak. "She's gotten herself stuck up a tree." He chuckled softly, his chest rising and falling gently beneath her hand, which rested on his heart. She couldn't possibly understand what was so amusing about their five-year-old daughter sitting precariously 20 feet in the air. Then again, Harry always did tend to make the best of a bad situation.
'Well, at least she's finally starting to show signs of magic," he said, pressing the inner edge of his hand against his forehead and glancing up into the tree. "I have to admit, I was starting to wonder." But she's five years old! November thought in protest. She didn't think Abby would show any signs of magic until she was eight or nine years old. Lord only knew she had been all-Muggle until her 10th birthday, and she had been raised by wizards. Then again, Abby's father had proved his magical background from the time he was born, and he had been in the opposite situation as November's: born of wizards and raised by Muggles. Of course, Abby's father was no ordinary wizard.
"Oh Harry," she said with another deep-rooted sigh, "I suppose she is her father's daughter, after all." The two shared a private laugh. It was clear Abby was following in her father's footsteps the moment she had learned to speak. Her very first word had been "Voldemort". Wizards weren't nearly as apprehensive to say the name as they had been many years before, but November and Harry still felt obliged to lie about their daughter's first word. Harry hugged her close, sensing her fear of the situation.
"If that's so, then I suggest we get up there with her," he said, his voice still laced with humor. "It's the only way she'll come back down." November knew he was right, of course. He had to be. Standing at the base of the tree shouting at her had gotten her nowhere. She had a terrible fear of heights, but knowing what was best for her daughter she drew herself away from Harry and reached inside her pocket for her wand.
Harry placed his hand on hers to stop her, shaking his head. She looked up, questioning his reasoning. His electric green eyes twinkled mischievously. It was the same look he used to get when they were kids and he and Ron used to plot to sneak out of school to see Hagrid, or gain revenge from their childhood enemy Draco Malfoy. It was the look she and Hermione used to dread because it meant they would be sneaking out of or around the castle, breaking a hundred school rules in the process.
"If she's her father's daughter, we'd better climb up there ourselves," he said, motioning for her to put away her wand. "Without magic." She couldn't believe what she was hearing, but left her wand in her pocket nonetheless. She tended to trust her husband's judgment to be better than her own, but she couldn't help wondering why he didn't want to use magic. After all, they weren't underage wizards anymore. It was perfectly legal, and in this part of London it was perfectly normal.
"Harry, I…oh, it's been so long since I climbed a tree! I know my parents were Muggles, but I've been around wizards my whole life. Climbing trees…god, I haven't done that since I was Abby's age. I don't even know if I remember how," she protested. But it was too late; he was already at the trunk, sizing up the tall oak. He turned around and flashed her a warm smile.
"That's all right. I used to do this all the time. It was the only way I could escape from my cousin Dudley, since he was far too pudgy to climb up after me. Come on, I'll show you." He extended a rough, callused hand in her direction. He wiggled his fingers in eager anticipation. She hesitated. Was it safe to climb up such a tall tree without the use of magic? Then she realized: he needed this. He needed to absorb himself in the childhood innocence he had never really had the chance to have, especially lately. Since he was 11 years old he'd been expected to act much older than he really was. He had to deal with the sorts of things 11-year-old wizards just didn't deal with. He had very few opportunities to delve into his youth. She had to put his interests before her own. Swallowing hard, she stepped towards him and placed her hands in his.
Before she knew what was happening, Harry had swept himself up onto the lowest tree branch and was beckoning for her to follow. He offered both hands out to her, his eyes shining more than ever. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and grasped an unbearably tight hold of his hands. He didn't complain; he simply gave a sharp tug and helped her onto the branch on which he was now perched. She scratched her feet a bit at the tree and struggled to find her footing, but soon enough she was crouching tip-toe on the same branch as Harry. She paused to catch her breath.
"That wasn't so bad," she told him, pushing her own midnight-black, tight curly hair from her chocolate brown eyes. "Quite invigorating, actually. Come on, let's keep going." Harry laughed softly at this wife's newfound sense of enthusiasm. Tree climbing had always been something he did when he wanted to be alone. It had never crossed his mind that anybody might have never done it before. Shaking his head in amusement, he followed close behind.
Slowly but surely the young couple ascended, climbing dizzyingly higher as they approached the young Abby. During the course of their climb Harry had managed to pass November by a couple of branches, and it became a sort of sport to see who would reach Abby first. Finally, breathless and beet red, November pulled herself up to a tree branch some 30 feet off the ground.
"Mommy!" a small voice exclaimed. Suddenly the height was the last thing on her mind. She wrapped her legs around the thick, heavy tree limb and scooted herself toward its middle. There sat her daughter, looking quite pleased with herself for getting up so dangerously high. Her stick straight, jet black hair floated in the warm summer breeze, and the bright green eyes she had inherited from her father watched the scene unfold before in playful curiosity. November couldn't imagine how anyone would actually be pleased to be up so high, least of all a five-year-old girl. She really is just like her father, she thought, inching closer. Forcing her gaze away from the ground that felt miles away, she sat herself comfortably beside Abby and gave her a fierce hug.
"Abby Mae, don't you ever scare me like that again," she said, too relieved to see her child safe and sound to even think about delivering punishment. On her other side, her left side farthest from the base of the tree, Harry was just swinging up onto the branch. Where it had taken her a few minutes to pull herself up, Harry was climbing with ease. He grabbed hold of the branch above him, pulled his entire upper body up, hooked one leg over the side and then the other, and gave a small grunt as he steadied himself next to Abby. November couldn't tear her eyes away from him. She had known him for years, and he still never ceased to amaze her.
"Oh Mom, relax," Harry said, giving her a quick wink. "I'm sure she didn't mean to, did you, sweetheart?" He ruffled her hair endearingly and she giggled. Angry as she was, November couldn't resist smiling at this. Abby truly was growing up to be just like him. She had already inherited his untidy black hair, brilliant green eyes, and deep-rooted hunger for adventure. It caused a very strong bond between her and her father that was impossible to break. Granted, she did obtain a few things from her mother, such as her overall shy manner and soft Spanish accent (along with quite a few Spanish words), but for the most part she was a young, feminine version of Harry. The special bond between daughter and father was one November enjoyed watching and refused to break.
Abby shook her head. "Unh-uh, Daddy. I was just playin' outside 'n Hugh walked by 'n he started making fun 'a me. He was bein' really mean so I came out here…all of a sudden I was up here." Harry turned and lifted an eyebrow at November, who nodded knowingly. Young witches and wizards who hadn't learned to properly channel their abilities were known to do strange things they couldn't explain when they were angry or upset. It was obvious Abby had been upset. Hugh Turner was the son of Michael Turner, a man a little older than Harry who had been imprisoned by the Ministry of Magic for being a spy for Voldemort's Death Eaters. The Turner family was also right next door to the Potters. It seemed Hugh was becoming for Abby what Draco Malfoy had been for Harry back in Hogwarts. November shivered at the thought. Draco was a dark wizard now, fighting side by side with his father, a Death Eater. During his journey deep into the Dark Arts he had made Harry's life miserable, and forced him to face things more experienced wizards than he had never dreamed of facing. November prayed Hugh would do nothing of the sort for her Abby.