Chapter Twenty-Five
Enquiring Minds Want to Know
~*~
Authors' Notes: Writing AtE is like jogging, as Zsenya recently discovered. The first quarter-mile was difficult and took a long time. The second quarter-mile was very easy and just flowed effortlessly. The third quarter-mile was not as strenuous as one might think, but the thrill of jogging wore off a bit. Then you stop and walk. That's where we are now. This chapter is a nice, long walk. But then! If you jog a lot (like Arabella does) then that next mile is a breeze….
Thanks to everyone for patience in waiting. Hey, we're all Harry Potter fans – what are we, if not patient?
Additional thanks to Moey, who could be wicked, but won't, and knew just what to do to Petunia.
~*~
"Mum? Mu-um?!"
Molly Weasley stood up quickly at the sound of Bill's voice and banged her head on one of the low rafters in the attic of the Burrow. The ghoul started an old rocking chair in motion, and the photo album that had been on Molly's lap slid to the floor with a thump. She'd been looking at pictures of her children when they'd been young. For over an hour, she'd laughed and waved and blown kisses back at happy faces of people who couldn't really see her. Blinking back tears, she pursed her lips and made her way over to the trap door.
She was about to yell down to the kitchen to tell her oldest son to be quiet so as not to wake his nephew, when she realized that her voice had the potential to do the same thing. With a deep sigh, she pulled a wand out of her apron pocket and Apparated downstairs.
Molly needn't have worried. Leo was already awake. Penelope was stirring the stew that Molly had set cooking in a large cauldron earlier that morning, and Bill had started numerous brightly-colored tea towels dancing in a synchronized pattern above Leo's head.
Molly looked guiltily at Penelope. "I'm sorry dear - I didn't mean for you to do that - you have work to do."
Penelope continued to cheerfully stir the cauldron. Her mood had been much improved in the months following Leo's birth. All of Molly's worries about her daughter-in-law had quickly faded as she'd watched mother and son together. Penelope shooed Molly away with her free hand. "Sit," she said. "Goodness knows you've done enough to look after me lately. Besides," she added, sending an amused look in Bill's direction, "you must have tired yourself out with those gnomes this morning."
Molly felt herself blush - something that she did much less frequently than her children.
"Were you de-gnoming the garden, Mum?" Bill laughed, and Leo laughed with him, although it was most likely because a snowman had just jumped out of the scene on the tea towel and pinched him on the nose. "What did Fred and George do this time?"
"Very funny, Bill," said Molly, crossly, rubbing her upper arms, which were throbbing painfully from her morning exertions. "It needed to be done, and I can't count on you lot to come by and help me anymore, can I?"
"But you do," said Bill. "You asked me to do it last weekend and I did. And I told you I'd do it as long as I was in England. 'I won't have headlines about the Minister of Magic de-gnoming the garden' is what you said…"
At the mention of headlines, Molly narrowed her eyes, and remembered the whole reason that she'd had such a terrible day. She reached for a bowl and began to mix together a cake – she'd forgotten that Bill and Charlie were due for supper this evening. And they were eating early to accommodate Charlie's dragon-riding schedule. She'd hoped to see Arthur before everyone arrived, but Arthur had been in a Diagon Alley Reconstruction meeting since early morning. Rose Brown had assured her from the fireplace that Charmed Life was not on the official Ministry subscription list.
That Rose Brown was a pretty girl. "Bill?" she asked, trying to take her mind off of things. "Wasn't that Rose Brown Head Girl when you were Head Boy? Bill?"
"Huh?" Bill answered. His head was now hidden under a tent of tea towels, and he appeared to be playing "peek-a-boo" with Leo. He came up for air, his long hair falling out of the ponytail and sticking up in odd ways. "Oh, never mind!" said Molly, waving her wand so vigorously that some batter flew out of the bowl and landed in a blob on the table. She wasn't going to attempt to match-make for him if he couldn't even be bothered to cut his hair. Molly couldn't see it, but she had a feeling that the fang earring was still dangling from his ear as well. Maybe she'd have better luck with Charlie. She only hoped that her own boys would be less inclined to gallivant in public with a girlfriend the way that Harry had with Ginny...
Penelope wandered over to the table to sit across from Bill and Leo. She opened up the Daily Prophet with a sigh. After a moment, she said, "I suppose now is the time to buy property in Diagon Alley."
"What?" Molly couldn't imagine this day getting much worse. Was Penelope planning on moving out? "It's too crowded and noisy in Diagon Alley," she said briskly. "Not a good place to raise a child. Arthur and I lived there when we were first married and didn't come here until his mother needed looking after. Bill and Charlie were born there and - "
"And look at us now!" Charlie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. "Not too shabby."
"I beg to differ," Molly answered with a huff, but she smiled when Charlie leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. Despite the fact that it was now November and quite cold outside, Charlie was dressed in a T-shirt and his dragon-riding trousers. She wasn't surprised, but decided to keep the bit about Charlie's frequent toddler striptease routines on their balcony in Diagon Alley to herself. That story was best saved for the day he brought a girlfriend home. It was strange, reflected Molly, how children turned out. Charlie had always been adventurous, and she hadn't been surprised when he'd decided to turn his fascination with dragons into a career. For all their wild ways, Molly had been able to read the twins from the beginning, and although they'd been exhausting to bring up, she'd understood them. Percy had always been responsible and quiet, as had Bill. But Bill had gone off to Egypt and returned with that long hair. Now he was near thirty, and showing no signs of settling down, and Molly knew that he really would rather be back in Egypt, or some place else far away from England. Ron had been nothing but surprises from the beginning. For so long, he'd been the "youngest boy" and now he'd played a major role in destroying Voldemort, had a wonderful girlfriend, a promising job and he'd only been out of school a few months. And Ginny - well, it was obvious now that she'd had other reasons for not wanting to return home to study in September. Molly was going to have a few words with Remus and Sirius when she calmed down just a bit.
"They're selling flats for a Galleon," said Penelope, running her finger along the article, before Molly could begin to fume again. "It's part of this whole reconstruction project. You pay one Galleon for an empty flat, but then you're responsible for all of the repairs and you sign a contract that you must stay there for a minimum of five years."
"That's tiring, fixing up a flat all by yourself," offered Molly, hoping she wasn't being too obvious in trying to discourage Penelope. She loved having Penny and Leo at home to fuss over. Penelope had started her work for the Ministry about a month after Leo's birth – she was able to do most of her work from the Burrow, although recently, she'd left Leo in Molly's care two days a week in order to do research at the Ministry archives. Now that Leo was becoming more mobile, however, it was becoming increasingly difficult for Penelope to concentrate.
"That's really not a bad deal, though," said Bill. "We could all help you – I bet you could find a really nice one on one of the park squares."
"We'll have to ask Arthur about it," said Penelope, folding the newspaper and pushing it towards the center of the table. "What's this?" she asked, pulling at something colorful from underneath the newspaper. "Charmed Life?"
"Yeah, Mum has a subscription," chortled Charlie. "There's all sorts of rubbish in there – stuff you wouldn't believe. You know, 'Love Child! Minister Weasley and Canadian Seeker Maureen Knight Hide Secret from Family!' and the like…"
"Charlie!"
"Well, Mum, you have to admit, that Maureen Knight's quite attractive, and she's doing quite well for the Cannons."
"Wait, wait," said Bill, holding up a hand. "How about this one? 'Minister's Wife Helps Gilderoy Lockhart Escape from St. Mungo's…."
Molly groaned. The Lockhart jokes were growing old.
"Or," Bill continued, "'High Headmaster: Lifetime Supply of Billywig Stings Found in Albus Dumbledore's Secret Vault.'"
"'Simply the Best: Harry Potter Enjoys Life in the Arms of the Minister's Seductive Daughter,'" read Penelope. Molly felt her stomach somersault. It didn't feel any better than it had the first time she'd heard it.
"Good one!" said Charlie, laughing. "'William Weasley Caught in Goblin/Veela Love Triangle…'" but his voice trailed off and his eyes widened when Penelope held up the magazine for him to see. Molly looked away. She didn't need to see it again.
"What the hell?" All amusement was gone from Charlie's voice. "Mum? Have you seen this?"
She nodded.
"What?" asked Bill. "Let's have a look!"
But Charlie cleared his throat and read aloud in a shaky voice:
"'Simply the Best: Harry Potter Enjoys Life in the Arms of the Minister's Seductive Daughter. It seems that the Boy Who Lived is working on improving his life since he saved the world in June, writes N. Flummer, special reporter for Charmed Life. On Halloween, Potter exchanged more than just conversation with Ginny Weasley, the attractive only daughter of the Minister of Magic. The couple grew close while spending the summer together at the home of former Hogwarts professor Remus Lupin.'"
"Well?" asked Bill, looking perplexed. "What's wrong with that? It's sort of sweet, I think." He turned to address Molly. "No need to worry, Mum," he said, sounding authoritative, "it's all very innocent. Harry's a proper gentleman."
Charlie turned the magazine around so that Bill could see the accompanying photograph.
He turned pale, and yanked it from his brother's grasp. After a brief inspection, he threw it on the table in disgust.
"I mean, can they publish that?" Charlie's hands were now balled up into fists.
"It's not real," Penelope said calmly. "I mean, they were probably, er, kissing or something, but you know, there're special potions to make the people in the photographs react certain ways. It's even possible to place a sort of love charm on a photograph."
"I know that," said Charlie. "But, I mean, she's attacking him. And he's got his hand … I think I'm going to be sick."
"At least they've still got their clothes on," joked Penelope. Three pairs of angry Weasley eyes turned to her. She shrugged and picked up the magazine again.
Just then, the clock on the wall made the grinding noise that it was wont to do whenever any of the hands moved. A moment later, Arthur and Sirius were standing in the kitchen.
"'Lo, dear," said Arthur, giving Molly a kiss and then rubbing his hands together. "Dinner ready?"
"It will be soon," she said, and then, because she couldn't hold it in any longer, marched past them both and grabbed her copy of Charmed Life from the table. She thrust it at Sirius, who looked confused, and took the magazine out of her hand. Sirius unfolded it and after looking at the front page, raised his eyebrows and laughed.
"You think this is funny!" Molly cried, exasperated. "Well, I can see he's got a lovely role model, then."
Sirius shrugged. "I've already seen it. Ron showed it to me this morning."
"Ron did?" She hoped Ron hadn't gone off and done anything too rash. The usual twinge of anxiety that she felt whenever she knew Harry to be in any sort of danger surfaced, but she pushed it out of her mind.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, hesitantly. "Do I want to know?"
"Maybe you should sit down," said Molly, throwing what she hoped was a vicious look in Sirius's direction.
"It's not a big deal," said Sirius, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "Ron seemed quite pleased. Said they'd had some sort of row but that he helped patch it up. I'm just glad to see them both enjoying themselves."
Molly's mouth fell open, although she pursed her lips again when she heard a snort from behind her. "Arthur Weasley, don't you dare laugh. This is very, very serious!"
But the Minister of Magic's lips were curved into a smile. Bill laughed, although Charlie still looked rather pale. "Molly," said Arthur, soothingly, reaching out to grab hold of her skirt and pulling her onto the bench next to him. "I'm not going to hang the photograph in the hall next to the picture of Uncle Bilius, but Sirius is right – at least they both seem happy. And anyway," he continued, putting an arm around her, "that article was written by Flummery; she's been fired by the Prophet."
"Well, then, I'm not surprised," said Bill, sounding a bit relieved. "Can't trust a word she writes. Who took that picture, Dad?"
"Photograph by Crispin R. Peltier," read Arthur, his eyes scanning the name below the picture - and Molly was pleased to note that, for all his seeming permissiveness, her husband winced when he glanced up at the photograph itself. "Never heard of him. Sounds French or something."
"Maybe you can ask your girlfriend," said Charlie to Bill. Molly turned in surprise.
"Girlfriend?"
"I haven't got a girlfriend, Mum," said Bill, looking very cross and punching Charlie on the arm. Molly winced for him when she saw him pull his hand back and rub it – Charlie's arms were quite muscular from all of the dragon training.
"Well, if that's the case, I think one of you should ask that Rose Brown to go out some time. She's lovely, and she dropped off some papers for Arthur last week and was positively wonderful with Leo, wasn't she, Penny?" Penelope nodded, and scooped Leo up in her arms to keep him from rolling off of the table.
"Blondes aren't my type," muttered Bill.
"Well, what about you, Charlie?" she looked hopefully at her younger son. He made a face.
"Blondes aren't his type either," Bill said with more confidence. "He likes girls who have short hair and besides, 'Rose' doesn't go as well with the name 'Charlie' as –" He was cut off by Charlie grabbing onto his ponytail and pulling his head back. "Ow! Oy! Mum! Tell him to quit it!"
Well, thought Molly, looking around the room, it was loud, and busy, but she preferred the kitchen like this, with her boys fighting, Leo cooing, and Penelope humming. It had used to be like this all the time. She missed it. She watched Bill and Charlie for another moment and then turned to her husband.
"I suppose you're right," she said, feeling suddenly quite tired. "But honestly, can't you do anything? Poor Ginny's reputation – I mean, I'll have a word with her and make sure she understands about… things."
Arthur squeezed her shoulder and Molly looked sideways at him, shocked to notice just how little hair was left on his head. What was there was a muted rust color – a far cry from the brilliant red that had caused her to thrill when she caught a glimpse of it coming through the portrait hole at Hogwarts. That all seemed so very long ago. Most of the time, when she looked at her husband, she saw him as he had been – a tall, lanky boy in faded robes, with a laugh that she could pick out from the opposite end of the Great Hall. They were so very fortunate, she thought – they hadn't had to worry about photographers and magazines, and terrible, special potions as they'd made use of dark corridors and abandoned classrooms. Her heart suddenly ached for her daughter. She sighed and put her head on Arthur's shoulder.
"Sirius will have a talk with Harry, I'm sure," he said. When Sirius didn't respond, Arthur craned his neck, and Molly shifted in her seat to see Sirius rocking Leo in his arms. Penelope was drawing a crude diagram of Culparrat on a piece of parchment and mumbling as she pointed out various key boundaries.
"… so, you really think it's possible for anything to get through that level of protection?"
"It was possible for a dog to slip away from Azkaban when the Dementors were in place," Penelope reminded him. "Putting up layers and layers of common charms and enchantments won't stop anyone. We need to create something entirely new…"
"And the Thinker didn't come up with anything? No ideas?"
"No, she couldn't conceive of a spell. She agreed to look over our research, but even so, she said she couldn't promise anything. It's not easy." Penelope shook her head. "That's what I'm helping with now. Percy and I had started to do research out of desperation. I know the history – what's been done, but I haven't the foggiest idea what to do. All I'm doing right now is compiling a list of all of the past attempts at Imprisonment Charms and making sure that they really won't work at Culparrat. And so far, I've been right. They all won't work. But maybe someone will be able to make sense of all of these notes, once they're compiled."
"Hmph," was all Sirius said.
Arthur cleared his throat. "Sirius," he said again, a bit more loudly, "have a word with Harry, will you?"
"A word?" asked Sirius, looking confused. "About what?"
"About the, er, photo," said Arthur. He sounded very ministerial. "He should understand that he needs to be more, er, discreet."
"Discreet?" said Charlie. "He needs to keep his hands off of her, is what he needs to do!"
"Come on, Charlie," said Bill, trying to soothe his brother's growing agitation. "You heard Penny – you know it's all rubbish."
"I'll talk to him," Sirius said, shrugging. "Although I'm not sure what good it will do. They're young. They'll carry on no matter what I say."
"I'll tell you what we can do," said Charlie, whose face was now becoming quite red. "We can make the little runt's life a bloody living hell is what we can do. There're things you can put in a dragon's food to make them more excitable…"
"More excitable than usual?" asked Bill. He was smiling, and Molly shot him a warning look. It wasn't good to tease Charlie too much about the dragons.
"Really?" Sirius seemed much more interested in the dragons than he had in the magazine. "Why didn't O'Malley tell me that last week? Do you think someone could have slipped Norbert something to make him act like that?"
Charlie shook his head. "No, Norbert was lethargic and his eyes were unresponsive to stimuli - he was just feeling weak. Sign of viral infection. But if you put an entire Flutterby Bush in with their food, the dragons start to bounce a little bit."
"Charlie!" Now that she'd calmed down, Molly was feeling fully protective of Harry once again.
"What?" he answered, somewhat defensively. "It won't hurt him – permanently. We use those bushes all the time when training keepers. It helps them expect the worst. And really…" he gave an angelic smile, "all the new riders should be put through the test. We didn't do it before because we were on such a strict deadline."
Sirius turned to Arthur. "Can't you forbid that somehow?"
Arthur held up his hands and removed his Ministry badge. "Sorry, mate," he answered, clapping Sirius on the back. "I only have so much power."
"It won't hurt him much," Charlie said, Summoning a spoon and dipping in to taste the stew in the cauldron. "His bum might be sore for a few days. And – he might be dizzy. Nothing he can't handle."
Molly decided that now was the time to change the conversation. "Charlie Weasley – you will do no such thing!" She turned to Sirius. "Now, Sirius, dear, are you staying for tea?"
"No, thank you," said Sirius, casting Charlie a dark look. "I should go home and talk to Harry," he said. He handed Leo back to Penelope and reached across the table for the magazine. "But I'll take this along to show to Ginny, shall I? Hear her side of the story?"
Before Molly could stop him, he was gone. She made a mental note to destroy the Howler that was written up and sitting in her bedside table. She'd just invite Ginny over to have a chat tomorrow after her lessons. With a small smile, she began to clear the papers off the table, bending down to kiss Leo on the head as she did so. Her children were grown, but at least all but one had survived the war. She thought about the Diggorys and their son. They had never even had the blessing to see him grown, and married. She barely heard the noise as Bill and Charlie continued to mock-wrestle by the fireplace, with her husband encouraging them and acting as a referee. At least they were there, and Molly suddenly felt that she was very fortunate indeed.
~*~
Two nights after Halloween, the sky was cool and purple. Harry and Ron had left a window partway open in the front room of the Notch, where they were relaxing together after work by playing a game of chess. Wind flicked at the fire, making light dance across their abandoned mess of dinner plates and the expressions of their chessmen.
"You sure that's the move you want?" The tip of Ron's index finger rested on the parapet of a white castle and he raised one eyebrow at Harry. "Don't lower your wand unless you're really sure..."
But Harry had been playing chess with Ron for many years, and this particular tactic was older than dirt. His day at Azkaban had been horrible in every way, but he couldn't help feeling a familiar sense of comfort as they played. It almost seemed that one of them might pull out a stack of Divination homework, or start to complain about an incomplete star chart. The memory cheered Harry, a little. "You're transparent," he said, and rested his wand hand on the table, signaling that his move was complete.
Ron's eyebrows shot up in dismay. "Oh no," he lamented, looking dismally at the board. "That one's really going to hurt." He seemed crushed for a minute, then cocked his head and raised his wand. "But maybe if I just move this bishop a bit..." he said slowly, and gestured with his wand. A white bishop slid within striking distance of Harry's king, mercilessly stabbing a knight on its way, and an arrogant smile crept across Ron's face. "Check," he said distinctly, and let out a satisfied sigh. "Brilliant bluffer," he added, tapping his head with his wand.
Harry blinked at the chessboard, certain that he could not be losing. He had been very clearly in the lead. "But - that move wasn't there a second ago."
"Sure it was." Ron grinned. "Don't beat yourself up, Harry - it's just that I'm a genius."
"Or an idiot savant," Harry muttered, studying the pieces and trying to work out an escape.
Ron snorted. "Smart enough to keep my love life out of the papers, anyway," he said, but his grin faded when Harry looked up. "Joking," Ron said quickly, putting up his hands in apology. "Joking."
Harry nodded curt forgiveness and looked at the board again. He had no desire to talk about the tabloid that Ron had brought home and reluctantly showed him - Charmed Life, it had read across the cover. Bringing you the intimate lives, loves, and leisures of the rich and famous since 1893. Ron kept trying to make light of it, but Harry couldn't laugh. It wasn't funny. Every time his brain so much as touched on the subject, he cringed. He and Ginny - making no secret of themselves. The wizarding photograph moved far too realistically; Harry had gasped at the sight of it and had Banished it out of Ron's hand and into to his own room, feeling himself plunged back in time. Whoever had taken that picture could have been Rita Skeeter's partner, although what Flummery had written for Charmed Life was worse than those old Witch Weekly articles about Hermione - far worse. Those had been lies. They had been embarrassing, of course, but Harry had known all along that there was no substance to any of the accusations, and that fact had made them bearable.
But Ginny was real. Real things didn't deserve to get splayed across tabloids. Harry couldn't believe that the wizarding world demanded access to his private life simply because he was famous - he couldn't believe they even wanted his intimate information. He had never quite grown into the idea of being a celebrity, and it still shocked him that anyone cared what he did all day long. But they did - they cared about all of it; that article had detailed what he had eaten, what he had been wearing, and obviously whom he had been kissing, as if he weren't a person at all, but some sort of entertaining push-button display. His only consolation was that he hadn't been touching Ginny anywhere indecent; his photo-image hands had stayed firmly planted on her waist - or at least, he thought they had. But even that didn't give him much comfort - every time Harry imagined Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looking at that picture, he felt a little bit sicker.
Worst of all, he couldn't even go and talk to Ginny about it. He had tried to go to Lupin Lodge, but Remus had caught him at the door and turned him kindly - but firmly - away, with the promise of news later on in the evening. Harry didn't want to wait - he wanted to see Ginny's face and hear her voice and know what she thought of everything. He knew that he could stick his head in the fire, but he didn't want to do it with Ron watching. It was the first time in his life he'd wished for five minutes at the Dursleys' house, with access to the telephone.
Avoiding his thoughts as best as he could, Harry pointed his wand at his king and concentrated.
"Hullo - we've got an owl." Ron sprang to his feet and went to the window; Pig tumbled through it like a tiny, feathered cannonball and Ron caught him in both hands. "Stupid git," he said. "Haven't worked out how to fly properly after all this time? It's for you, Harry."
Harry looked up from the chessboard to see Ron untying a pretty-looking, white bit of parchment from Pig's leg. "Me?" he said stupidly.
"Yeah - no return address... but it's Ginny's handwriting." Ron looked at him. "Writing letters now, are you?"
Reddening, Harry held his hand out. "Here."
But Ron didn't seem inclined to give it over; he turned the letter over in his hands a few times, smirking just a little bit. "It's not very long..." he mused. "That could be either very bad or very good -"
"Hand it over."
"Why? Going to run to your room and read it?" Ron asked, and Harry shifted uncomfortably. He had never been teased about anything like this before, and he wasn't quite sure how to deflect Ron's remarks.
"No," he said, flustered.
"Here you are, then." As formally as if he were a butler, Ron handed the letter to Harry, and took his seat once more. He hunched over the chessboard with his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling forward, making the space between them very small.
Harry bowed his head in order to let Ron see as little of his face as possible. His glasses slipped down his nose but he pushed them up as well as he could and slid his finger under the envelope's closure, snapping the wax seal. He wasn't sure if he imagined it, but he thought he caught a whiff of the sweet, pine sort of scent that Ginny always seemed to have around her. Was she putting perfume on her stuff? Did everything she had just smell like that?
"Interesting envelope?" Ron asked innocently.
"Go and make tea, would you?" Harry snapped. "Be useful or something."
"In a minute." But Ron obviously had no intention of going anywhere.
Ignoring him, Harry pulled the white paper, folded in quarters, out of the envelope, and unfolded it in his fingers, not sure what to expect. He didn't have any letters from Ginny. They had never written to each other. He noticed right away that her handwriting was just like her - pretty and simple, and just a bit rumpled. A smile tugged at half his mouth and, forgetting that Ron watched him, Harry focused on Ginny's words.
Dear Harry,
After you left the Halloween party, I had a thought (Remus would be so proud). Tell me what you think of this - if my abilities really are a sort of obstacle to us being in the same room together, why not send letters instead, until I can learn how to control myself a bit better?
Right. I'm sorry to tell you that you missed an excellent Quidditch match. First, Ron released the Snitch (also known as a letter from Hermione, which had fallen from his pocket), and I caught it. Then George, displaying excellent Beating skills, kept Ron away while I read the letter in a very loud voice. I won't frighten you with the details, because Hermione is your good friend. At any rate, I promise that I will never start a letter with "I get into bed at night…"
We gave the letter back, but it serves Ron right for being such a prat. I put up with him because he's my brother - I'm not sure why you do. I reckon he's annoying you even now, and if he is, then you have my permission as his relative to smack him around a bit.
I am doing homework as usual, and I have to go. I don't want to turn it in late; I'm in enough trouble with Professor Lupin, as it is. But I'd like to hear more about your day with the dragons, if you feel like sending Hedwig my way this evening. Was Norbert all right? Are you?
If you send a note tonight, I will read it "when I get into bed". (I never said I wouldn't end a letter that way).
Love,
Ginny
p.s. About that article. I never wanted to be in the news, but now that I am, you'll have to teach me how to sign autographs properly. Just teasing. I hope you aren't being bothered about it, over there. No one here has dared to bother me. Goodnight.
Harry got to the end of the page and started the letter over again at once, his heart beating fast. He couldn't believe how nice it was to have a note like this in his hands. It was the perfect solution for now - nowhere near as good as touching her, but there was something permanent about the letter that Harry liked. He could keep this. He could take it with him to Azkaban, and read it until he knew it.
He finished reading it again and started over for the third time.
"Good letter?" Ron asked pointedly.
Harry jumped, hastily folded the paper, and blushed. "No. That is - yes. It's nothing."
"I'll just bet it's nothing." Ron got up, not meeting Harry's eyes. He looked as if he wasn't quite comfortable with any further teasing. "I'll fix that tea now," he said, and left the room
Harry slumped in relief, and opened the letter again the second Ron was safely in the kitchen. Ginny's writing, Ginny's paper - the most he was going to have of Ginny for awhile. He suddenly felt terrible for Ron and Hermione, and wondered why he'd never thought, before, about how hard it must have been for them since September, just writing letters back and forth. Ginny was just up the road and that was bad enough; he wasn't sure he could handle her being halfway around the world, even if they might as well have been that far apart.
He read the letter again, and found himself composing an answer in his head as he went along, though he wasn't sure he'd ever get himself to write it down on paper. He wondered if he ought to answer - would she expect him to? Would she even want him to? Harry wondered if what he wanted to say would come across, in a letter, and he realized that he had no idea what he should really say. He thought, for a moment, of asking Ron for help, but knowing he'd be met by a wide, freckled smirk stopped him from proceeding towards the kitchen.
There was one person he could ask for advice - Harry found himself getting up and heading quickly to his room; he shut himself in, lit the room, and went to his desk, where he removed a quill and parchment and sat down - then leapt up again with a muffled yell. The copy of Charmed Life, which he had Banished earlier, now stared up at him from his desk.
He and Ginny were kissing. It was only a photograph, but as he stared down at it, Harry felt terrific pressure in his blood. He watched, against his will, as his mouth touched Ginny's again and again, and he found that he could not look away. He hadn't given himself a chance to really study the picture, before. It was… strange and fascinating, to watch himself kissing. Being kissed. Not entirely unpleasant.
He might have settled in his chair to study it for awhile longer, but, to his horror, his photo hand began to grope: up Ginny's waist, along the side of her torso, and around to the front of her dress robes. Harry blanched - he knew he had done no such thing - and in a sickening flash, he remembered that half the wizarding world had the same picture on their dinner tables. The Weasleys would have seen this. With an unnecessarily violent flick of his wand, Harry sent the whole tabloid into the waste bin, where it landed with a metallic thud. He picked up his quill, shaking with anger.
"Dear Hermione," he scrawled roughly. "How are you? Things here are fine." He stopped, remembering what Ginny had said about his feeling "fine." It was true that he wasn't fine at all, at the moment, but then, he wasn't about to tell Hermione that he felt like tracking down the editors of Charmed Life and feeding them to the Acromantula. He could practically see her getting alarmed, and decided not to elaborate. "Halloween was good, at Hogwarts," he wrote. "Wish you could have been there, Nearly Headless Nick was there and Dobby asked all about you."
Harry stopped, gathered his nerve, and kept writing.
"Ginny wrote me a letter. Perhaps you could tell me what to say back to her.
Hope things are good with the Thinker.
Write back,
-Harry"
He rolled up the parchment, tied it tightly shut, and stood up to give it to Hedwig, who seemed to sense her necessity. She gave her feathers an important ruffle and stared unblinkingly at Harry.
Halfway across the room, however, Harry had a panic attack. The letter was ridiculous. He wasn't going to ask Hermione anything. He pivoted, tossed the parchment in the bin, and pointed his wand at it. "Obliterate," he said, for good measure, and the contents of the bin went up in a flash of fire, making Hedwig hoot indignantly. He didn't need Hermione's help, or Ron's permission. If the whole world could watch him kiss Ginny in the papers, then he could damn well write her a tiny little note.
The only question was what to say... Harry returned to his desk, thumped into his seat, and sat hunched over a new piece of parchment with his fingers in his hair, scratching his head and making his hair stick up even more than usual.
"Dear Ginny," he finally wrote, when he had pulled himself together enough to pick up his quill, "Thanks for the letter. I'm sorry about the picture. I came over earlier to see you, but Remus stopped me from coming up."
He read over that bit several times and was finally satisfied with it, though he was baffled about what to write next. Everything he wanted to say sounded so stupid in his head that he knew he'd never get it right on paper. Frustrated, he pulled Ginny's letter open again and smoothed it out on the desk beside his nearly empty page. Perhaps he could take his cues from her.
"I'm glad we talked the other night," he wrote slowly. "I miss you." Harry clenched his fingers a little. He couldn't leave that. That sentence had to go. He put down the quill and fumbled for his wand to do an Erasing Charm, but before he got his hand to it there was a rap at the door.
"I'll have tea in a minute," he called hastily, not wanting to explain to Ron that he was writing back to Ginny. "Just putting something away."
"There's no rush," someone called back - but it wasn't Ron.
Harry looked over his shoulder and stared at his bedroom door. That had been Sirius's voice. Sirius was out there, in the hallway. Harry couldn't remember if Sirius had ever been over to the Notch before, and though part of him was immediately irritated that Sirius had taken his time about it, another part of him was instantly glad to hear his godfather's voice. He wasn't sure which side of himself to agree with.
"I'll just bother Ron till you have a minute," Sirius said, "all right?"
Harry sat still, wishing he didn't have to say anything back - but now that he had already answered he couldn't pretend to be asleep. Unable to
think of another good excuse not to come out, he was finally forced to reply. "Fine," he said shortly.
He waited until he heard Sirius step away from the door and walk back out to the front of the house, then turned determinedly back to his letter. He had to reply to Ginny before doing anything else.
"You must be all right, if you ended up playing Seeker - too bad you couldn't keep what you caught," he wrote, right beside "I miss you." He supposed that part could stay. It wasn't so bad. It was true, anyway. He tapped the quill on his desk and wracked his brain for something else. Again, he scanned Ginny's letter for help. "As for dragons, Norbert did all right when I was out at Azkaban," he put, after a minute. "He was sick the other day, but he's been fine since then. It was probably just the rain.
Sirius just dropped by, so I need to go. But I'm glad you wrote. Write back soon.
Love,
Harry."
He stared at his signature for a long time, not certain if he ought to be so obvious. Ginny had written "Love" before her name, but then, some people always did, and perhaps she was one of them. Hermione had signed her letters "Love from" for seven years, and Harry had never thought twice about that. Now, however, the word glared up at him in his own handwriting, and he felt quite naked. He wondered if Ginny would know what he meant. He wondered if he'd written too much.
A burst of raucous laughter from the kitchen interrupted Harry's train of thought; he tried to concentrate further but couldn't. He folded his letter and tightly sealed it, and before he could second-guess himself, Hedwig stood on the edge of his desk, holding out her foot and looking as though she wouldn't take to it very well if he cheated her out of another opportunity. Harry attached the letter to her leg and fondly stroked her wing, then watched her fly off through the darkness towards Lupin Lodge. When she had disappeared from view, he got up from his desk and went towards the kitchen.
Ron and Sirius were in the middle of a whispered conversation now, and Harry strained to hear what he could.
"…no idea?" Ron asked.
"Mick O'Malley seems to think that the rain was responsible - that Norbert was sick and his energy was low."
"And that's why the Dementors got so close?"
"In theory."
Ron gave a low, angry laugh. "I don't believe it."
"Why not?" Sirius sounded intrigued. Harry was, too; he stopped outside the door of the kitchen and listened.
"It was Malfoy," Ron said quietly. "I know it."
"But it wasn't," Sirius said. "I told you what I saw. Malfoy brought his dragon in to drive the Dementors back. It surprised the hell out of me, but it's the truth."
"It was him," Ron insisted. "He's up there working, isn't he? And why? Everyone knows he doesn't have to - my dad told me the Malfoy fortune was heavily fined over the summer, but it's still a fortune - and Malfoy's never done a lick of work in his life before this. He could've been playing Quidditch -"
"So could Harry," Sirius pointed out.
"But Malfoy's not up there riding dragons for the same reasons Harry is. Harry took the job because he feels responsible. Malfoy's just up there to cause problems, the way he's been causing problems ever since we've known him. Don't you wonder why he dropped the charges against me? I do - I wonder if he's concentrating his efforts on Harry, trying to do as much damage as he can. Best he'd've got out of a trial is a couple of months in jail for me, or maybe a fine. But up there at Azkaban, he could - he could push Harry off or - I don't know - I don't know what he's up to, I just know he's up to it. " Ron stopped his rant, breathing heavily.
"It's… not that I haven't suspected him," Sirius said, after a pause. "Everyone's got an eye on him, your brother included. But Ron, he hasn't done anything except… help."
"It's true," Harry said suddenly, stepping into the doorway. The kitchen of the Notch was functional but quite tiny; Ron and Sirius filled it to capacity and Harry was forced to stand just outside the door.
Ron leaned against the stove and looked warily at him. "How long were you listening?"
Harry shrugged and looked at Sirius, who stood against the wall between the waste bin and the counter, the top of his head touching the bottom of the clock.
"Harry." Sirius grinned. "Done writing?"
Harry nodded, but offered no further information, and after awhile, Sirius's grin looked rather awkward, stretching hopefully in the silence.
"Did you need something?" Harry finally asked. He knew it was abrupt - even rude - but he stood with his arms folded and waited for Sirius to answer.
Sirius did answer, eventually, stepping away from the wall and gesturing to the door. "No, not really. Just stopped by. Thought we might have a walk - it's a nice night, if you're not too busy."
Now it was Harry who felt awkward. He could feel Ron's eyes on him. He thought about saying no to Sirius - he could say that he was tired, or not feeling up to it - he could say that he and Ron hadn't finished their chess match. Those things were all true. But for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to say them. "Okay," he agreed, and backed out of the doorway. Ignoring the look of happy surprise on Sirius's face, he went to the hook by the door and grabbed his cloak. "Mind if we go now? It's late."
"That's fine." Sirius followed him out into the road and shut the door. The sudden quiet was overwhelming and Harry didn't know what to say; he walked along, slightly faster than usual, and waited for Sirius to start.
It had grown quite dark. Owls hooted from several of the small cottages that lined the street, and Harry could see candlelight in many of the windows. On the roof of one house, a woman in a fuchsia cloak sat with one leg hooked around the chimney, peering through a handheld telescope. She waved down at them, and Harry and Sirius waved back.
"There are Muggles around here," Harry said, very quietly. "I wonder what they think of her."
"I'm sure they find her very eccentric," Sirius replied. "That's what we're generally called, when we act like that in public. Eccentric."
They walked along in silence for awhile, and Harry listened to his shoes crunch against the tiny rocks that fell across the cobblestones. It was a very clear night, and Harry had studied the stars for so long that he found himself doing it as they walked, naming the constellations in his head and smiling a little when he remembered how Professor Trelawney had turned nearly every one of them into a death omen.
"You seem to be all right about the tabloids," Sirius said suddenly. His voice was loud and unexpected in the silence, and Harry jumped.
"Tab -? Oh. Right." He kept his eyes on the stars. "Well, it's nothing new."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
Sirius nodded. "Ginny's handling it well, too."
That got Harry's attention; he looked sideways at Sirius before returning his eyes to the sky. "What'd she say?" he asked casually.
Sirius laughed. "Well, she didn't say anything when I first handed it to her. I thought she might burst into tears. Then she burnt the whole paper to a crisp and announced that if anyone had anything to say about it, she'd do the same to them."
Harry grinned and forgot himself, picturing it in his head. "She's great," he sighed.
"Yes, she is."
Harry flushed, realizing that he had spoken aloud. He cleared his throat. "So, er - you and Ron were talking about Norbert," he said quickly. "He was fine today, in case you were wondering. He was just sick from the rain, before."
"Good." Sirius pointed down a small path that led away from the main road and toward the woods, and he and Harry ventured down it. "Of course, Ron seems convinced that Draco Malfoy had something to do with it -"
"Ron's always blamed Malfoy for everything," Harry interrupted. "Not that he doesn't have reasons, but - you know."
"I know." Sirius snickered. "I was like that about Snape. Right after we got out of school, when the Dark army was first rising - everything that happened, no matter how cataclysmic, I was convinced it could be traced back to Snape. Your dad used to humor me, though Remus never did."
Harry kicked a stone out of the way as they approached the forested area and came to the path that wound along the outside of the woods, behind all of their houses. They hadn't walked far; from here, Harry could see the jack-o-lanterns that he and Ron had scattered around the back yard of the Notch, glowing like tiny pinpricks in the darkness. He hoped that Sirius would keep talking about his father. Harry felt strangely as if all the tension between himself and his godfather had disappeared into the darkness, leaving them room to talk.
"Speaking of Remus…" Sirius looked both ways along the path. "Which way?" he asked.
"Home," said Harry. "Have to get up early."
Sirius nodded, and they began to walk up the gently sloping path along the woods, towards the jack-o-lantern lights.
"What about Remus?" Harry asked, after a moment.
"Oh." Sirius smiled, but Harry got the feeling he was nervous. "Well, he suggested… Look, Harry, don't feel you have to say yes, but I thought he had a point, and it might be… interesting. I wouldn't mind giving it a try. Though it has been awhile, and I'm sure I'm a bit rusty."
Harry glanced at him. "What?"
Sirius took a deep breath. "After we left Hogwarts," he said, "your mum and dad spent a lot of time together, being in love and all that. And the five of us - that's including Peter - spent a lot of time together, either working on the war effort, or trying to forget about it. But there wasn't much time for Black and Potter, if you know what I mean."
Harry did. He had lately felt the same way about his friendship with Ron, for even though they lived in the same house, they spent little time together. "And?" he said.
"Well… every few weekends, or so, James and I would simply… disappear." Sirius smiled again, and this time, the effect was dazzling. He looked younger, and desperately mischievous, as if he had already put some terrible plan into action.
"Where would you go?" Harry asked. He slowed his footsteps, wanting to hear the whole story before they made it home.
Sirius shook his head. "That was always a secret from everyone - even Remus and your mother. We'd get back and pretend we had never been gone. If anyone interrogated us, we'd simply say that something had come up."
"Is it still a secret?" Harry asked, hoping that it wasn't.
Sirius looked at him. "Well, from Remus it is. And it would have to be a secret from Ron and Hermione - Ginny, too."
Harry considered these conditions, then nodded. "Fine."
"Where to begin?" Sirius rubbed his hands together. "First of all, we never went to the same place twice. There was the time we entered Padfoot in a dog show -"
"A Muggle dog show?" Harry interrupted, shocked.
"Right." Sirius cackled. "We won, too. You should've seen the looks on the judges' faces when I did an Irish jig and knew advanced mathematics."
"But that's illegal -" Harry began.
Sirius ignored him. "Another time, we went to one of those enormous old country houses - the kind they claim are haunted, then charge a fortune to tour. We took the invisibility cloak, and haunted it properly for the first time in its existence. The people on the tour got their money's worth, I'll tell you that."
"Hermione'd turn you in," Harry muttered, but he was smiling.
"We didn't always wreak havoc, though," Sirius continued, looking as though he'd been sent back in time. Harry watched his face as they kept walking, and his eyes seemed to see something in front of him that wasn't there. "We were out to have a good time together, just the two of us. We knew how to have fun better than anyone on the planet, I'm telling you. Have you ever heard of Disney World?"
"Sure," said Harry. "The one in America?"
"That's the one. Great place. So's the Bermuda Triangle. Same thing for Mount Everest - I should tell you how we got a whole hiking party to think they'd found a Yeti. We - but no - the best was running from the bulls -"
Harry stopped walking. "You and my dad did all that," he said flatly.
"Sure." Sirius stopped, too. "We had money, and magic, and things weren't too bad in the world yet." He sighed. "When we joined the Order of the Phoenix, and began to fight against the Death Eaters in earnest, our lives were no longer our own. You know what that's like."
Harry gave a half-shrug, and nodded.
"We knew it was coming. Everyone did - it was the same for us as it was for you. James and I wanted to do everything we could possibly do together before we lost all our time. Black and Potter." Sirius ran a hand through his hair and gave Harry an apologetic look. "You might not want to hear about him - I don't know how you feel about it."
"It's all right," Harry said slowly. "I want to hear. But why did you say that Remus had suggested something? I thought he didn't know."
"Oh, he doesn't." Sirius snorted. "Remus would hand-deliver me to the Ministry of Magic if he knew about half of what I'd done. He just remembers that your dad and I used to go off on our own every so often, and he thought that perhaps…"
Sirius went quiet, and Harry felt a little thrill. "Perhaps what?" he demanded.
"Well…" Sirius shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes and started walking again, so quickly that Harry had to hurry to catch up to him. "Well, you'll think it's daft, but I thought perhaps you and I could sort of - pick up where James and I left off. That way it could still be Black and Potter," Sirius added in a mutter, sounding almost embarrassed.
Harry didn't answer. His mind raced along with his feet as he and Sirius approached the back garden of the Notch. His father and Sirius had used to go adventuring, and now it was his turn… if he wanted it. "Where did you leave off, exactly?" he asked.
Sirius glanced at him. "It was James's turn," he said. "We took turns planning where to go next, and what to do. Running from the bulls - that was my idea. But that's the last thing we did before - and we'd always planned to start it up again after - but there was never a chance." He looked away. "Don't feel you have to, Harry," he said. "It was just an idea -"
"Then it's my turn," Harry cut in. "Is that it? I'd have to - come up with something?"
Sirius slowed his pace. "Yes," he said faintly. "If you wanted to."
"What sort of thing? Does it have to be illegal?"
Sirius choked out a laugh. "Not technically," he managed. "Although it helps. It can be anything you think we'd enjoy. Anything at all. We've got - well, we've got money, and magic, and… time. We've got all the time in the world."
"Not with the dragon schedules," Harry muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that they were passing the Notch, but he kept walking. He wanted to think of something that he and Sirius could do together, and he was drawing a complete blank.
Sirius made a noise of disgust. "What we ought to do is go up there and obliterate a couple of Dementors. I know I'd enjoy that."
"Me too," Harry said quietly, and Sirius looked narrowly at him. "Look," Harry said, before Sirius could start lecturing him to quit his job and leave it to somebody else, "I want to do this. How soon do I have to think of something?"
Sirius's face cleared as if a storm had passed safely over it; his eyes lit up and he grinned. "As soon as you want," he answered. "Take your time - though perhaps a hint from your dad would help."
Harry's heart clapped against his ribs. "From - my dad?" he repeated.
Sirius nodded and the moon glinted off his dark hair. "Whenever we were stuck for ideas, we'd do what he called Retaliation Operations - James would hate me for telling you this, by the way." Sirius smirked, and looked not at all sorry. "When you were a baby, I used to warn him that one day, after you'd grown up thinking him perfect - because he always did a remarkable job of appearing to be perfect - I'd expose all his dirty secrets and tell you what he was really like."
"What was he really like?" Harry asked at once, nearly tripping over a fallen branch in his eagerness. This was the information he'd wanted from Sirius, ever since they'd met.
"He was -" Sirius cleared his throat and looked around, almost as if Harry's dad were about to appear from the bushes "- a miscreant, Harry. Worse than I was, by far. Oh, he was brave, of course, and clever - and fairly conscientious about the important things, like remembering your mum's birthday and fighting Voldemort -"
It was Harry's turn to snort. "Like those two things are on the same level."
"Oh they are, Harry. They are. Remind me to tell you how scary your mother could be, if one of us crossed her." Sirius gave a shudder, which was obviously false; but it made Harry laugh anyway.
"Okay - then what were the, er - Retaliation Operations?"
"Exactly what they sound like," Sirius answered, and stopped walking.
They had reached the bit of forest that lay just beyond the back garden of Lupin Lodge, and they both lingered at the edge of the property. Sirius made no move to go in. Harry was also unwilling to leave, no matter what time he had to get up and go to Azkaban. "Did you go after Snape, or what?" he asked, wondering if Snape had plagued his dad, after Hogwarts, in the way that Draco Malfoy was plaguing him.
"Never Snape." Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Wanted to. Couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Too dangerous, by that time. Snape was very deeply one of them, and the world had become… well. I hardly have to describe it to you."
Harry laughed softly, through his nose. "No, you don't."
"So we just went after the pettier criminals," Sirius said, looking misty again, as if he were seeing things that had happened long ago. A slow smile crept across his face, and for a second he looked entirely satisfied. "We exacted smaller justices."
"Like?"
"Like…" Sirius put his hand on the back gate, and leaned. "You know your Aunt Petunia, obviously."
Harry felt a thrill of wicked joy. "What'd you do to her?" he demanded.
Sirius gave a happy sigh. "Ah, Harry. What didn't we do to her? James had wanted to string her up in a dungeon for years, but Lily'd never let him do it. Protective of her sister, you see."
"And what did her sister ever do for her?" Harry asked darkly. He still couldn't quite think of his mother and his aunt as sisters. Even though he had only had the privilege of his mother's company for one, horrible instant, he knew in his bones that she had been good, and honest, and beautiful in the important ways. Not at all like Aunt Petunia. "My mum was too nice."
"Precisely what your father and I thought." Sirius nodded his approval. "But there was no budging your mum. 'James, don't you dare! She hates me enough already!'" Sirius said in a high voice. "And your dad listened to her. Until one day… It was just after your mum and dad's wedding. Lily had invited Petunia to the ceremony, of course, and Petunia had declined - harshly. She had written a letter to your mother, which detailed, in no uncertain terms, her reasons for not attending." Sirius made a noise of contempt. "She said some of the most cruel - I won't repeat them."
"Believe me," said Harry, with a tiny sigh, "I've heard them."
Sirius looked piercingly at Harry, and seemed to be arrested by what he saw. "It really is intense, you know," he murmured after awhile. "The way your eyes match hers. And it's not just the color, either - it's a look you both get."
He continued to stare, and Harry stood unblinking, not sure why his chest was so tight and his eyes stung so badly. "What happened after the letter?" he asked, carefully controlling his voice.
Sirius jumped. "Right. Sorry. After Lily got the letter, she cried like a baby. It was two days before the wedding, and we all heard her sobbing. She locked her door and told us she'd get over it, and she probably did. But James didn't. And about two weeks after they got back from their honeymoon, your dad came to me and said he'd decided to go against your mum's wishes and pay a little visit to Petunia."
"Good," said Harry, feeling for the thousandth time that he would have liked his father very much. "What happened?"
"Well, what happened is something you'll probably never forgive me for, come to think of it," Sirius said, and scratched his head. "We slipped a bit of something into that lovely woman's milk bottles, one fine morning. Something for her and that overgrown arse she had called a - what was it? A proper, normal, hardworking husband with a real job and a personality that wouldn't embarrass the family in public? Does that sound like your uncle?"
Harry laughed out loud. "No, but it sounds like my aunt. Why wouldn't I forgive you for that?"
"Wait." Sirius waggled his eyebrows, and continued. "That night, your aunt and uncle were anything but normal, proper, hardworking, and publicly acceptable. We know, because we followed them. They'd planned a night out at the opera - Die Fledermause, I think, or something else that sounded pretentious enough to make them happy, but which I'm sure they didn't understand."
Harry laughed again, and leaned against the gate beside Sirius. "Right."
"I don't remember, because I wasn't watching the opera. The real performance was in the second balcony, center." Sirius snickered. "The potion worked right on schedule. Your proper aunt and uncle leaped from their seats in the middle of the performance and started shouting about pink elephants - which they were seeing all around them, of course. Perfectly natural thing to see."
"Perfectly," Harry agreed, wishing he'd done something like that, rather than just blowing up his Aunt Marge and getting himself into trouble. "Did they stop the performance?"
"They did - and better yet, they were carted off by a couple of Bobbies -"
"They weren't arrested -" Harry began, but Sirius's grin was enough to convince him, and he began to laugh so hard that he nearly choked. "I never knew that!" he finally gasped. "I wish I could've seen that."
"In a way, you have," Sirius said, and apologetically quirked one side of his mouth. "You see, we have every reason to believe that your charming cousin Dudley was conceived that evening. In any case, nine months later, he was in the world, and I do apologize for that, Harry. I do."
Harry stopped laughing. "That evening?" he asked slowly. "Do you mean… in jail?"
"Well, either there or in the police car - we were never really sure. We left just after the arrest - I wanted to stay, at the time, but later I was dead glad I'd gone with James. That's a sight I might never have recovered from."
Harry winced, and put the image as far out of his mind as it would go. "Thanks for bringing it up," he muttered.
"What? You're not glad to know the dirty truth?" Sirius lightly punched Harry's arm. "Admit you knew it, somewhere deep. Dudley's a prison baby."
Harry couldn't help it; he sniggered. "It does make sense," he conceded. "Okay - Retaliation Operation. I'll think about it." He paused, and the answer came to him. "There's always Malfoy."
But to Harry's surprise, Sirius shook his head. "Don't. Not just now. Not while you have to work with him."
His first instinct was to retort that he could handle anything Malfoy threw at him, but Harry realized very quickly that he agreed with Sirius. He didn't want to make life
worse for himself, on purpose. He nodded. "All right. I'll think of someone else."
Sirius seemed surprised that Harry had agreed so easily, but he said nothing. The two of them stood there in the quiet darkness, strangely comfortable with each other now that the ice had been broken - or at least, Harry thought it had. Something had changed, somehow.
"You probably need to be in bed," Sirius said eventually. "Sorry to keep you out so late -"
"No, it's okay." Harry turned to the gate and peered across the garden at Lupin Lodge, trying to see the side of the house. If Ginny's light was on, he told himself, then he would go up to the house and see if he could get her attention. He just wanted to look at her for a minute. Maybe talk a bit. He suddenly felt like talking all night - something he hadn't felt like doing in... Harry frowned. Had he ever felt like this?
To his disappointment, her light was off. But he couldn't leave. He had spent several minutes, silently deciding how to proceed, when Sirius's voice jerked him out of his hesitation.
"Higher up," Sirius said quietly, and pointed to the roof. "Goodnight, Harry." He smiled slightly, and looked as though he wanted to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. Harry blinked and his godfather was gone; seconds later, an enormous black dog had bounded across the garden and up the steps, and then Sirius was there again, letting himself in the back door as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
When Sirius was gone, Harry followed his directions and looked up at the housetop. His gaze touched the roof's apex, and his brain froze. His heart got trapped in his throat. And though he had just felt like talking forever, now he couldn't open his mouth.
Ginny sat against the chimney, facing the back of the house, one long leg dangling down either side of the peaked roof. With her left hand, she kept a sheet of parchment pressed to her thigh so that it couldn't blow away. In her right hand, she had a little telescope. But she wasn't looking at the stars.
"Hi, Harry," she said, and her voice floated gently down and across the garden to him. "Did you have a nice walk?"
Harry still couldn't speak. She looked so pretty and relaxed - and comfortable. He wanted to climb the side of the house and lay his head down where the parchment was, and feel her fingers in his hair. It would have been so natural - not at all "eccentric". Harry thought of what Sirius had said, about what Muggles thought of people on rooftops. For a bizarre moment, he wondered what Dudley Dursley would think of a girl like Ginny Weasley, perched on top of a house. For another, even more bizarre second, Harry pitied his cousin. Dudley would never know anyone like Ginny. He wondered what sort of girlfriend Dudley did have. Certainly not one with red hair and white hands and eyes that seemed to know what he was going to say before he said it. Certainly not one who'd saved his life.
"Harry?" Ginny sounded concerned. "What is it?"
Harry realized that he was just staring at her, and tried to snap himself to attention. "I wrote back," he said, but his voice was nothing but a rasp. "I wrote back," he tried again, and this time it was loud enough. He walked closer to the side of the house, so that he wouldn't have to yell.
Ginny smiled down at him. "I know," she said, and drummed her fingers against the parchment on her thigh. "I came out to study for Astronomy, since it's so clear, and Hedwig found me."
Harry felt suddenly very flustered. She had read what he had written. It was open on her leg. "I'm not -" he began, and stopped. "I never got high marks on my writing," he finished rapidly, not sure why he felt compelled to tell her. "So if - that is, I hope it isn't -"
"No, it's really nice," Ginny cut in softly, and Harry fell silent. She watched him for awhile, still smiling, then stuffed her things into the pockets of her robe and reached for her broomstick.
"Sirius told me what you said about Charmed Life," Harry called up, thinking he might as well get it out in the open between them. "He said you threatened them with fire."
Ginny laid the broomstick across her lap, and laughed. "Well, it's bad enough without getting teased, isn't it?" she said, and rolled her eyes. "What a picture they managed to get. Horrid. Oh - not that it was horrid, but - you know."
"I know," Harry assured her.
"My mum's going to have kittens." Ginny rubbed her head. "Can't wait for that owl. Bet it's a Howler – I'm surprised it hasn't come already."
Harry winced. "I'm so sorry."
"Why?" Ginny laughed again. "You didn't do it."
"Reporters… they… follow me around," Harry explained feebly. "I should've been watching. I mean, I knew they were there, and I'm sorry you have to -"
"Oh, stop." Ginny cocked her head to the side. "Harry, if people want to be stupid, let them. It doesn't matter to me," she said, and the moonlight touched her face, making her look almost ghostly. It made a strange contrast with the warmth of her voice. Using the chimney for support, she got to her feet on the spine of the roof, holding the broom in one hand.
"Careful," Harry said, putting his hands out as if to break her fall, but she was on the broom before he had any cause for alarm. She flew to the side of the house and hovered by her window, watching him. Harry walked around and stood below her.
"I wish I could come down there…" she began wistfully, looking as if she might ignore her better judgment and do it.
"Don't," Harry said firmly. He didn't think he could stand to see her face get ashen again, or to feel her go limp in his arms, even if it meant that he would get to kiss her. "Go and - and write another letter." His face got hot, and he cleared his throat. "If you want to," he added faintly.
Ginny didn't seem to notice his discomfort. She flew to her window and climbed in, then leaned out and looked down at him for a long, quiet moment. Harry kept his face turned up to hers, feeling quite transfixed. There was no point in talking after all, he thought - not when a person's face said everything.
"Goodnight," she whispered, and quickly blew him a kiss. Harry shut his eyes and tried to feel it. And then her window was closed, and her blinds were shut, and she was out of view.
~*~
6 November
Dear Hermione,
COME HOME. I've got season tickets - season TICKETS, you understand - to the Chudley Cannons, and I know I've told you that before, but that IDIOT best mate of ours won't go with me to see the matches. It's driving me mad. So it's up to you to come back and make the most of a beautiful thing. I went with Bill to this last one - it was Monday night at seven, and Hermione, I know you don't know a Snitch from a Bludger, but even you would have loved this game, and I'll tell you why. It was an historical event. That's right, memorize it. First off, it was against Puddlemere, which means that, in terms of team histories alone, the Cannons should have been smashed flat. SHOULD have been.
I always knew this would happen, didn't I. Didn't I say it? Haven't I said it for years? First they beat the Bats, and now Puddlemere - and it took them three bloody wonderful days to do it. THREE DAYS. My voice is completely gone and Sirius does nothing but mock me, but oh, wasn't it worth every screaming second. I bought this stationery from a witch at the fan stand - isn't it fantastic? Stands out a mile. You're shaking your head, but secretly you love it and you want some, don't you? Too bad, because I didn't get you any. I got you a giant orange sparkler instead, and you WILL wave it about at the matches when you come back. I had to learn ruddy History of Magic whether I liked it or not, and you're going to learn to love my team. How can you not love it when it's Oliver Wood, anyway? You know him. You should've seen him at the end of this last match - I think he's got it bad for his Seeker, Maureen Knight. She's nearly as good as Harry - and you know I wouldn't say that lightly. Every time she catches the Snitch, Oliver flings himself at her right on the field, like he's trying to snog her or something. I wouldn't be surprised. He's insane about Quidditch, as all decent people are.
Sirius is doing loads better. I don't know if it's having my help that's doing it, or if it's the fact that he and Harry are acting friendly. Harry's not well, in my opinion, but he and Ginny are speaking again and that's something. Remus is fine. He looks a lot healthier than he used to. I guess it's the lack of war, and the Wolfsbane Potion, and having Sirius around again. Sometimes, when Sirius and I work late, he gets these black circles under his eyes and he looks a bit like he did that night in the Shrieking Shack. You remember. And I find myself wondering what it was like for him, all those years. I suppose we can't know, and I'm thankful for that.
Mum wants you at our house for Christmas, and of course you're coming, but this is your official invitation. Hermione Granger, please come to the Burrow for Christmas and get your socks bored off (along with a few other things, but not by anyone but me.)
On that note, I'll stop. Sorry. I don't have time to write a really good letter at the moment, because Sirius needs me to go up to Diagon Alley with him and research Hanks Hodges, who, as you are well aware, is in for Muggle torture. I promise you that he and all the rest like him will be punished, if I have anything to say about it.
I visited your parents for you. Hope you don't mind. They look good, actually. They're being really well taken care of. They miss you.
I miss you. No words big enough. But let me put it to you this way - if I had to trade in my season tickets to have you home tomorrow, I'd actually consider making the trade.
Ha.
Love,
Ron
*
8 November
Dear Ron,
I shall answer your letter point by point.
1. A Snitch is a small, golden ball with silver wings, which flies out randomly during Quidditch games. The Seeker who catches the Snitch earns his or her team one hundred fifty points, and ends the game. A Bludger, on the other hand, is a larger, heavier, black ball, which flies about in an attempt to distract (and possibly injure) players during Quidditch games. Bludgers are generally controlled by Beaters (usually people of questionable sanity) who bat them about in a strategic (or so I am told) manner. So you see, I do know the difference between them. Let me know if you need further clarification.
2. I will enthusiastically attend Cannons matches and wave an orange sparkler about when you admit, in writing, that you secretly liked Hogwarts, a History.
3. I'm sure that Sirius is better because of all the things you mentioned: you, and Harry, and Remus, and just having a normal life again. I know I'm better for it. Not that this is really normal, but it's far better than being in hiding and having horrible nightmares every time someone disappears for an hour. I'm sure that Harry will get better too, in time. I'm glad that he and Ginny are talking. Is it strange to see them together? I've wondered for years if it would happen, but I never really knew. Harry's so hard to read, that way. I imagine it's rather funny to see him actually with a girl, even if it is Ginny. Don't tell him I said that.
I don't feel like numbering anything else. I'm so proud of you for what you're doing. I'm so happy that you feel passionate about it. I know that, with you there, no one who deserves to be in prison will go anywhere else, ever again, and that gives me a very grim sense of satisfaction. I don't necessarily like myself for feeling so satisfied, but what with my parents in St. Mungo's, I don't know how else to feel. Thank you for visiting them, Ron. You're everything to me, you know.
Of course I'll come to the Burrow for Christmas. Ask your mother if she wants help.
And yes, that means I'll be home by Christmas - but not because I'm completing my apprenticeship early. I'll never complete this. I'm not a Thinker at all. I haven't told Delia, but I'm still terribly frustrated here. Most of the time, I just want to leave. But I told myself that I'd try it until Christmas, and I will. After that, I don't know what I'll do, or who I'll be. I suppose I'll just come home and be nothing for awhile. Perhaps I'll take a job at the Ministry after all. Or perhaps they need teachers at Hogwarts. I don't know what I am. I don't know how I'll help my parents. It's all so -"
"Hermione?" Delia's deep, cool voice floated into Hermione's thoughts, and made her pause. "Breakfast hour is nearly over… You must come out now, and eat, before we begin."
Hermione turned over her letter, set her quill on top of it, and tried to quell a surge of deep frustration. She had risen at five, and meditated for an hour. It was now nearly seven, and though the best part of the day - advanced Arithmantic problem-solving, followed by the History of Magical Theory - was just ahead of her, she knew that at eleven o'clock there would be another hour of meditation before lunch, and she already dreaded it. After lunch, they would spend the afternoon in Abstract Thinking, which Hermione thought she hated more than meditation; and that would only be punctuated by light tea. An hour of meditation would come before dinner, and, after dinner, any simple spell that Hermione had managed to create during Abstract Thinking would be tested for its effectiveness.
Her simple spells very rarely made it into her letters home, however, as they were very rarely effective. Building them was simple - all theory and Arithmancy. But all the theory and calculation in the world could not make up for a faulty idea. When her concepts were unsound, her spells fell through - as eighty percent of them had done. She had never felt such a profound sense of failure.
"Hermione? Are you in there?"
It isn't Delia's fault, Hermione reminded herself, checking her tone before she answered. She didn't ask you to come here. "I'll eat," she called. "I'm coming now."
Breakfast was far too short and meditation, though it had become a much simpler routine, felt painfully long. Hermione's performance during Arithmancy was perfect, but listless, and though her knowledge of Magical Theory was by now quite vast, this morning she found little pleasure in discussing her reading with Delia. Delia's large, patient eyes lingered questioningly on her several times, inviting Hermione to share what bothered her, but Hermione did not take up the invitation.
It wasn't until Abstract Thinking that she finally snapped.
"But you must allow yourself to think less strictly," Delia was telling her for what felt like the millionth time. "Your meditation has trained your mind - do not roll your eyes. It will help neither of us. The meditation has trained your mind, though you will not trust it. You must trust it. Open your mind right now, just as you do in meditation. Allow that space. Close your eyes - there. Yes. And now, allow the space to tell you what to think, rather than the other way around. The answers will come, but not in the way that you have come to recognize answers. They may be colors. Snatches of conversation. Music. A strong urge. Listen inwardly."
They were working on the development of a human homing device. It had been requested of Delia by the M.L.E.S., who had written a report of several missing children. The children, Hermione and Delia were to understand, were the wards of the Ministry who had lost their parents in the war. St. Mungo's Children's Home had been unable to keep them from running away repeatedly, and the M.L.E.S. wanted a magical device with which to track them. Delia had read the letter, smiled, and said that it would make an excellent project for the two of them. Hermione, however, had rarely smiled since the letter had come. She felt perfectly useless as a helper, and to make matters worse, she had a feeling that Delia had solved the problem instantly, and was only waiting for Hermione to come to the conclusion on her own.
"How do we normally track people?" Delia prompted.
Hermione kept her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. "It's very simple," she managed tightly. "Magic is very well regulated, and adults' wands are registered. Spells are entirely individually traceable -"
"But children? Children who don't know magic."
"You said normally," Hermione answered, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I gave the normal answer."
"All right. How do we normally track things, then?"
Hermione took several deep breaths. Clear your mind. Focus. "Erm… there are small devices… there are - well, they're not magic, though. Muggles have mechanical devices… there's Accio…but that's a Summoning Charm…"
"What was it that you said earlier, about adults' wands?"
It was obvious that Delia already had the answer, and was only leading her towards it. Hermione knew that her teacher meant to be helpful, but she was already so aggravated that Delia's tone of voice seemed overly patient. Condescending. It was as if she were speaking to a very small child.
"Look," Hermione said, and opened her eyes. She glared at Delia. "You already know how to do this. Don't make the Ministry wait for me to figure it out, because I never will. You know I'm not a Thinker." She tossed her head.
"Hermione -"
"No. Admit it. You know I'm not the right sort for this."
Delia folded her hands in her lap. They were sitting in the usual place: the great, wide, tiled patio, all ringed with columns. The ocean beyond them had whipped itself into frenzy; its waves were choppy and white-capped, and they smacked against the shore in a bizarre rhythm. Hermione agreed with them.
"Perhaps it would help you to know," said Delia, after a long time, "that there are certain realms of magic in which I have always been blocked."
Hermione shrugged her indifference. "The Ministry writes you with every problem they have," she retorted. "So does Hogwarts. And you've Thought of a spell for everything."
"Not quite everything." Delia's smile thinned, a little. "You arranged the Containment Charm, around the pomegranate, without my help."
"But you could've done it," Hermione pointed out. "It's not as if that was very helpful of me - it was only practice."
"No." Delia gazed at her. "I seem to be incapable of spells that relate to either captivity or death. I was perfectly useless, when it came to Voldemort. Imagine how that must have felt."
Fully surprised, Hermione stared at her teacher. "Incapable?"
"Either that, or blocked. The result is the same." Delia sighed. "A very frustrating business," she mused, and her eyes focused past Hermione, towards the sea.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said quietly. She didn't know what else to say. "That must've been awful."
"Yes." Delia was quiet for a long time, and then she spoke again. "You are highly intelligent," she said evenly. "Even wise, for your age, which is unsurprising, considering what you have been through. And you have conceived a spell - albeit simple - that was beyond my power. If you are asking me to tell you that you are incapable of this magic, then you are asking me to tell a lie."
Hermione clenched her teeth in frustration. One spell didn't make her a Thinker. Perhaps Delia was blocked - but it wasn't the same. "But I can't do it," she protested. "You've seen me -"
"You can," Delia interrupted. "But you take no pleasure in it. It is not natural to your mind, and your mind therefore rejects it."
"Then you admit I'm not right for it," Hermione said, unfolding her legs and standing up. She paced to the edge of the patio and leaned against one of the columns, facing the sea. The column was cold and smooth against her arm, and she leaned her temple against it, too, trying to cool her head. "Why did you let me stay here when you knew it wasn't going to work?" she demanded. She heard the sound of Delia breathing deeply, behind her. "Why didn't you send me back and wait for someone else?"
"You've asked me this before. Your real question lies deeper."
Hermione snorted. "Not really."
"No?" Delia's voice was very quiet. "Don't you want to ask me what you are supposed to be, if you are not this? Don't you wish to know what your purpose is, in life?"
Hermione had a childish urge to hit something, or sob. The sun had just slipped past the horizon, and the clouds were performing a symphony of color above the sea - purple and gold and red - as beautiful as the ceiling at Hogwarts. "I don't think I have one anymore," she finally answered, barely eking out the words without crying.
"Then you had one, once?" Delia asked softly.
"Yes. Harry and Ron and I - we - had one. We always had one."
"And did you fulfill it?"
"Yes." It was a whisper. Hermione slipped her arm around the marble column and wished that it were Ron.
"Fortunate girl." Delia sighed. "To have achieved so much, so young."
"Yes, but what now?" Hermione wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, and then under her nose. "I can't just get a job at a shop and pretend I'm satisfied, not after Voldemort."
"What about your friends? How are they coping?"
Hermione shrugged. "Well they're fine, aren't they? Ron's found his job, and Harry…" She trailed off. Harry hadn't found his niche at all. Harry must feel what she felt, multiplied a thousand times. "That's why he's riding the dragons…" she mumbled to herself, surprised that she hadn't thought about it that way before.
"And your friend Ginny?"
"I don't know. She always seems so… I don't know how to put it. It's like she could be happy anywhere."
"But you can't."
"No." Hermione turned around and opened her hands uselessly, as if something might fall into them. "I can't. I want to - to think, and learn, and do something - enormous. Something enormous. And don't say that I've already done something enormous, because that wasn't only mine." Hermione nearly put her hand to her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that. She hadn't even realized that she felt that.
Delia nodded. "So you came to be a Thinker. That would be yours."
"But it isn't." Hermione dropped her hands and her guard. Delia's face was so sympathetic. "This morning, I was writing to my - my boyfriend." The word felt funny and inadequate in her mouth. "I was writing to Ron, anyway. And the truth is, I want to go home. I know this isn't what I want to do with my life, and I miss him."
Delia smiled. "Is he what you want to do with your life?"
Hermione jumped in surprise. "He - well - partly, yes." Her cheeks grew warm. She had never admitted as much to anyone before, not even Ron.
"Then go home. I will be neither disappointed, nor offended."
"But I would." Hermione paced over to where Delia sat in her serene position, and dropped down to sit in front of her. "I promised myself I'd stay until Christmas, and I - well, I've only quit one other thing in my life, and it was partly because I detested the teacher. I can't quit this."
"Then stay until Christmas."
Hermione crossed her legs anxiously, and adjusted her robes over her knees. "But you know I don't care for it," she said. "You know I'd rather quit. Doesn't that - bother you? Wouldn't you rather I left, if I'm never going to use what you're teaching me?"
Delia laughed beautifully, and then she did something that surprised Hermione very much: she reached out one cool hand, and cupped Hermione's face. "Child, what I want makes very little difference, I have found, in what actually happens." She held Hermione's gaze. "The journey through life is hard enough to make without carrying the burden of so many expectations, and the ones we place upon ourselves are heaviest of all. This is one small part of your journey. Accept it as such - no more, no less. And perhaps you will use it one day, after all." She left her hand on Hermione's cheek for a moment, then withdrew it and silently stood up. "Take the rest of the afternoon to decide whether or not you would like to stay. Let me know at dinner." Delia walked into the house, and disappeared.
Hermione rocked back and forth on the tiles, her cheek tingling where Delia had touched it. Her mother had used to touch her face like that.
After a time, she quietly shut her eyes and, before she had decided to do it, her hands were open on her knees and she was meditating freely.
"We register wands…" she mumbled aloud, after several minutes had passed. "Which can be tracked because, obviously, they're enchanted…" A lovely breeze moved her hair and stirred her robes. "If the children were enchanted… but it's illegal to enchant the body of a minor… If something that they… their clothing…but they could change their clothing…"
Hermione's eyes snapped open.
"Their hair?" she whispered, to no one. "It's dead, it's not the living body. But they can't change it. If the M.L.E.S. could mark their hair…" She shook her head. "Is it that simple? It can't be that simple. Nothing important is. Is it?"
"Yeah, that's it, we'll just love him to death, that'll work," Ron's voice said suddenly in the back of her mind.
Hermione had to laugh. "Or perhaps it is," she murmured. Feeling calm and strong, she stood up to go and find Delia.
~*~
