It was only the second day in September, but it felt like an eternity. November had put some soft, calming music on the living room stereo, some old Spanish music with soothing rhythms and no lyrics, and for the second night in a row settled herself in for an evening alone – without her husband, without her daughter. She brought an old quilt her grandmother had hand-knitted for her to the living room couch, along with a book she'd been trying to read and a steaming hot cup of tea. *ah, my favorite thing in the world to do* It was a beautifully romantic atmosphere, but it felt so empty without Harry by her side. Sighing deeply, she curled up under her quilt and opened the book.
Her eyes had barely touched the page she was on when she heard the front door being unlocked. She could feel her entire body tighten at the sound of it. The ordeal of the note, the one signed by "The Friend of the Foe" (the coward, she thought to herself), still greatly upset her. She replaced her bookmark and set the book down on the coffee table, praying it was Harry and not some uninvited guest. Her eyes looked toward the door warily. It slid open easily, revealing...the dark night sky outside and nothing else. It was as though the door had simply opened of its own accord, and closed in the same manner. November's heart continued to beat feverishly against her ribcage. She drew in a sharp breath.
The sound of footsteps followed, and a broomstick seemed to appear out of thin air. November breathed a rather loud sigh of relief. The broom was Harry's brand-new Windcatcher. It was clear to her now he had simply forgotten to remove his Invisibility cloak. The closet door was swung open by invisible hands, and the broom was placed inside. Then Harry's figure came back to view as he slid the cloak from his shoulders and into the closet. He closed the door again and walked, sure-footed but tired, toward the couch in the room adjoining the foyer he'd stepped into.
" 'Evening, love," he greeted November, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes and delighted in his light touch. Harry was strong and fierce, but he was also warmhearted and loving. "Mí león gentíl", she often called him. "My gentle lion". Before she had the chance to so much as smile at him, he had moved from behind the couch to right in front of it. Now he sat himself beside her. She lifted the quilt for him, then draped it over his lap so they were both snuggled warmly beneath it. He sat with the attitude of an old man whose muscles had grown weary over the years. It was as though the couch was made of hot coals on which he had to sit very gingerly, or else be burned.
" 'Evening," she replied. She noticed something on his cheek, a sharp, jagged line she was certain hadn't been there when he'd left. She traced it with the very edge of her fingertip, but still he winced. "Sweetheart, what's this?" she asked curiously. It burned against her finger in a way, like a scar. A real scar, not the kind of pencil mark both her husband and daughter shared. It was the sort of scar she was sure had been bleeding at one point.
Harry pulled her fingers away from the sensitive piece of skin she'd just touched. "Oh...that...yeah, well, Sarah and I were working on a few spells to fight the Cruciatus curse. We've been working on it for a while, but no luck yet. While we were working on it, though, Sarah accidentally send a vase flying toward the wall, and I was working there so...oh hon, I know I went to tell them about that note, but Mr. Fudge sucked me in and I had to stay overnight. I'm really, really sorry. Honest, I am." November could see the pleading desperation in his eyes. She knew him better than anyone else did, and she could read in those two crystal sapphires *dies J* that he was genuinely sorry. She smiled to tell him she accepted his apology, but was quiet, urging him to continue. Now it was her turn to communicate with her eyes. She knew he had discussed the note with the Ministry. Now she begged him to tell her the outcome – all without a word. He willingly continued.
"I gave the note to the Ministry," he told her. "Left it with Mr. Weasley. It's not technically his department, but he's one of the few I trust. Fudge says they're going to try a few countercurses, see if they can't trace it to whoever sends it. Then they'll question their suspect, and if they did in fact do it he'll be facing a few years in Azkaban for threatening murder. Fudge wants us to write if there are any more threats, so he'll know how severe to make the sentence."
Suddenly Harry grew very quiet. He had reached a sensitive subject, that much was clear; November waited patiently for him to go on. He broke his gaze on her to stare down blankly at his hands. "I asked about getting a Secret-Keeper," he said softly, as though his voice was walking on eggshells. "Fudge said it was all right. He volunteered to do the spell himself, in face. The whole Ministry seemed all-for the idea. Everyone was volunteering to be our Keeper, even Mr. Weasley. A lot of people suggested Dumbledore, too…" He trailed off purposely. There was much more he wanted to say, but he wasn't terribly sure how to say it. He decided to wait for her reaction before he said any more.
November listened quietly to this explanation, slipping her hands discreetly into his, struggling to read the emotions in his heart through his eyes. They would tell her little, only that he was very, very afraid. She gently massaged his hands with her thumbs. *my b/f does that…it gets me every time!* "Well, if we get a Keeper, it would have to be someone we genuinely trust. We always say, 'Sure, I trust so-and-so, I would trust them with my life.' But this can't be off-handed like that; it has to be someone we really do trust with our lives. I know Dumbledore would take our secret to the grave, but…well, he's not exactly getting any younger, Harry. And he's always at Hogwarts. We need someone closer to our age who will be around us often enough to care for us. Someone like Hermione. Or Ron. Well, or maybe not. I know I can trust them, but I've never known either of them to be particularly brave. We need someone with a lot of courage…one of the Weasley twins, maybe…"
Anger flashed suddenly in Harry's eyes. "You say this like we've already made the decision to get a Secret-Keeper," he said quietly, his voice low enough to indicate he was thoroughly angry. She was so preoccupied with her own thoughts of choosing a Keeper that his words seemed to pass right over her. November, who had become very skilled at picking up the slightest details of emotions in her husband, noticed the change in his tone.
"Oh. Well, you said Fudge was all right with it, and if the Ministry of Magic says it's all right…" Harry wasted no time in cutting her off this time.
"November Liliana Morales Potter, I do not want a Secret-Keeper," he said through gritted teeth, narrowing his eyes to make his point. *Oh crap, is she ever in trouble* "I don't want to be cut off from the rest of the world. Do you realize if we choose to tell one person and one person alone of our whereabouts, no one else will be able to find us – at all? If we make Dumbledore our Keeper, we won't be able to talk with Ron, or Hermione, or anybody else. We have to rely on our Keeper to keep contact with the outside world for us. November, my friends mean everything to me. I can't live without them. Or at least, I don't want to. Plus, a Secret-Keeper betrayed my parents. I won't ever be able to know my mum and dad. My parents are dead because they trusted a Keeper. I just don't think I can put that much faith into one person.
"Please, Em," he begged now, "it was only one letter. Just a little piece of paper with a few words on it. We don't even know it was Voldemort who sent it! It could have just been a kid who did it, little Huey for example. This seems the sort of thing he would do. Please, let's not jump to conclusions just yet. When we know it was the Dark Lord who sent it, when we know for certain our lives are in danger, then let's talk about getting a Secret-Keeper. I know you're afraid, and I know a Keeper is the only way you'll feel safe. But is there anything else I can do for you to make you feel safe?"
*this is my favorite part of my story, LOL* November studied the way his eyes pleaded with hers, felt the way he grasped to her hands as though terrified she was slipping away. She gave his hands an extra squeeze before pulling out of the hold he had on her. For a moment she continued to study his face. His was one that showed his age to be much greater than his years, a characteristic he'd had since he was a boy of 11. The glow of the fire illuminated half his face, giving him a mysterious look. Nonetheless, he looked very weary. His cheeks were a bit sunken, void of the cheery, youthful glow he usually managed to forge. His face was rugged, war-torn, and his hair stuck up in odd places to give him a frazzled appearance.
And his eyes…she reached up and lifted his round, wire-rimmed glasses from his nose and ears. His eyes were a brilliant shade of green, revealing a flame of conviction he simply would not give up on. Beneath those two, glittering emeralds that had made her fall in love with him all those years ago were lines, dark, heavy ones that seemed to have been drawn on with black Magic Marker. She set his glasses down on the coffee table.
"Mi amor," she said, again faintly touching the sharp scar on his cheek. This time he didn't flinch. She began to trace her fingertip along the lines beneath his eyes that gave evidence of a sickening lack of sleep. Of course he wouldn't trust a Secret-Keeper. One had basically killed his parents. That was like asking Voldemort to join the Order of the Phoenix, or asking Harry to become a Death-Eater. How could she have been so foolish, so selfish?
"Mi amor, you're tired. I can see that. There are plenty of things that would make me feel safe other than a Secret-Keeper. But for right now, let's just get ourselves to bed. We can talk more on this in the morning." She leaned in and gently kissed the scar on his cheek. He closed his eyes at the tickling, soothing touch of her lips on his skin. She gave a soft kiss to his full, pink lips, then nestled herself comfortably against him. It was obvious she didn't have the energy or the will to climb up the stairs to bed. He didn't argue. After putting in hour after hour at the Ministry, he didn't necessarily feel like moving too much, either. Besides, he was in no mood to argue over such a silly thing as a Secret-Keeper any longer.
Harry slipped the blanket over November's shoulders for warmth, and leaned his head back comfortably against the arm of the couch. With the warm, comforting body of his wife in his arms, he felt himself drift away into sleep.
* ~paces the room, repeating to herself feverishly~ He's 12, I'm 17…he's 12, I'm 17…*