Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this has got no name. JK has the rest.
Lucky.
He was tired, so tired that his thoughts kept fading into a sort of dizzying blackness somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. He refused to let himself sleep, though. After all, if he did, then he would lose his chance.
The boy did not know his own name, and it suited him just fine to be nameless. He made up names, mostly using those of characters from old Muggle fiction. He did not have to keep one, for there was no one who would have called him by it. As of late, he had taken to calling himself Edmond Dantés, after the protagonist of Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo. Every time he thought of it, he was reaffirming his vow for revenge.
The boy, Edmond for the sake of having something to call him, was a prisoner. He could not remember a time where he had not been. So by the time Voldemort returned, and he was given to the Dark Lord as part of one of the Death-Eater's atonement, he was used to it. He had expected to die, but he had not. Voldemort had seemed sickeningly happy to see Edmond. Why? It was a question that burned in Edmond's head every waking moment. Who was he that the Dark Lord let live, even locked up like this? What could he do? For that was the only reason that made any sense at all. Edmond had some ability, some power that was needed. Unfortunately for Voldemort, constant abuse and neglect as a child had forged an intense hate for anyone associated with the Dark Mark and Edmond was no more likely to comply with their wishes than Dumbledore was, as had been proven.
But even the strongest will fall eventually. Edmond knew he was running out of time; it was harder and harder to bear the torture, especially when he did not know the extent of his power. Then, he got the first hint of what he might do when he overheard one of the Death-Eaters repeat, word for word, one of Edmond's own thought processes. The man had called it a dream, and, when it happened twice more to different men, Edmond decided he wasn't insane. His thoughts were somehow being funneled to someone else. What if he could control it? So, he practiced, and eventually the thoughts were going to the right people, instead of random ones. But having a Death-Eater know what he thought about in the deep recesses of the night would not help him in the least. He had to get the message to someone outside his ring of acquaintances. He spent weeks on it, and finally, completely coincidentally, he caught a hold of someone else's thread of conscious, one he did not recognize. After careful probing, undetectable snooping, he found the identity of the thread's owner. He was not surprised; it seemed fitting that the first outside mind he should stumble across would belong to Harry Potter.
The easy part was over. Now he had to make Harry believe that those dreams he was having were the feeble attempts of another fifteen-year-old boy begging for help half a country away. He began again at the painfully exhausting thought waves. He did not know what to think that would convince this boy he had never met. He only knew that if he did not, then before the month was out He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would have almost certainly won the battle against He-Without-A-Name.
* * * *
It did not take that many nights for Harry Potter to realize that this extraordinarily odd, doggedly repeating dream was in some way significant. After all, he had experience with dreams before. But this one was different. He awoke with no burning scar on his forehead, nothing that would make him sure that the dream meant something except for the very fact that he was sure. He couldn't even put the dream into words to tell somebody about it. All he could count on remembering when he awoke was a boy, about his age, whispering urgently, and yet with unnerving calm, "Please help me." That, and the memory of being terrified. It wasn't Voldemort, definitely not. This was not one of those thought exchanges so frequent the year before. No, those had stopped. This was from the boy. He was asking for help, begging for it.
It was getting to the point where he was dreading sleep. Something had to be done, but he didn't even know how he knew THAT. His first instinct was to talk to Hermione, Dumbledore, or Mr. Weasley, someone who might know what was going on. Even Ron might be of help there. He didn't, though. He was still far too haunted with the memory of what had happened the last time he had bothered to listen to a dream. So, he put it off and put it off, until the boy seemed to be so desperate that Harry awoke with tears on his cheeks. Only then did he tell it to his friends.
"Every night for at least two weeks," Hermione thought aloud after he finished the account. "I don't know anything about dreams. Personally, I think that the Muggle interpretation of random firings of neurons makes the most since. But then again, for you.you are sure it's not one of those dreams from Voldemort?"
Ron and Hermione argued for a while about whether there was a meaning to dreams. When they started repeating themselves, Harry broke in. "All right, it doesn't matter if dreams have a meaning or not. All I know is that the boy in my dream is alive, and no matter how many.what did you say, Hermione.neurons are firing, he still needs our help. He's in trouble."
"Well, he's been in trouble for two weeks now. Don't you think that it's a little late?" Hermione asked.
"No, he would have stopped asking if it was," Harry replied, and knew it was true even as he said it.
Hermione looked disgusted. Harry suspected this was just a little too close to Divination for her. "Look," Ron said, "just tell Dumbledore. I mean, if your dream is true, and there is a boy being held prisoner by You-Know-Who. That's pretty much the most you can do. It's not like you're going to be able to execute some sort of rescue mission on your own. I say tell Dumbledore and let it go."
Ron went a bit red in the face, and Harry realized that he had, maybe accidentally, maybe not, made an unspoken reference to the attempt to "rescue" Sirius. Harry was not about to make the implication any clearer, and instead asked Hermione's opinion.
Grudgingly, she agreed that Ron had named the only thing Harry could hope to do. So, after breakfast, he made the trek to Dumbledore's office, and recounted the dream for a second time. Its effect was much more profound on the headmaster. He grilled Harry for every little detail in the dream. He said very little on what it meant, except that he was as certain as Harry on the matter that it was from a source other than Voldemort.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Dumbledore stared out his window and murmured, "If what you say is true, if that boy is alive, then I made an unforgivable mistake many years ago, Harry. But I swear that I will try to help him, with everything that is in my power to do."
And he would say no more.
Harry left more confused than he thought it was possible to be. What had Dumbledore done that was so awful? Try as he might, he could come up with no satisfactory answer.
* * * *
He had tired of the name Edmond, for he did not feel that his years as an innocent prisoner would ever pass. But, since there weren't a lot of books to read during his imprisonment, he kept the name much longer than he liked it. He was tired all the time now, and not just from his late night messages. Voldemort had gotten nearly as sick of hitting Edmond with the Cruciatus curse as Edmond himself. So, after a few months of watching it have little or no effect barring a lot of screaming and swearing, the Dark Lord had dropped the matter completely and had resorted to more physical blows, whacking Edmond with whatever sturdy object happened to be in the vicinity. This was an improvement, according to Edmond. Unfortunately, it had to be coupled with a steep decline in food. He was hungry all the time, after a while, he realized he was slowly, slowly starving to death. He lay on his bed nearly all the time, straying in and out of sleep. He sent his messages earlier and earlier, not even caring if they were received. Finally, he stopped all together. It had been three weeks since the first time. If Harry hadn't pieced it together now, he never would.
Edmond fell asleep again, oblivious to the rest of the world in his body's desperate struggle to preserve energy. If he felt himself be lifted out of his bed and out of his cell, he did not react.
Edmond never could say whether it was the bright light, the smell, or the noise that woke him up. He certainly jolted awake too fast for it to have been natural. His surroundings were not only completely unfamiliar, he had never even imagined that such a place existed. It was warm and happy. Not that he was very well acquainted with happiness, but he always imagined it might feel like this.room. And it smelt wonderful. He saw a plate of food next to him; it was still hot. There were birds chirping outside, and a friendly-sounding ruckus coming from below.
"My God," he whispered, "I've died and gone to Heaven."
It made sense.
"Nothing so drastic," a voice said from the other side of the room. He turned around quickly, panting with the effort it took.
"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously; false bravado coming as easily to his lips as it always had.
"I'm George Weasley and it's about bloody time you woke up; we've been waiting for three days now."
George meant nothing to Edmond, but Weasley did. He eyed the boy carefully. He certainly looked like the descriptions of his family, but Edmond was prone to not believing, and he wasn't about to change because he was in a room with food. (By this point, he had forgotten about the happiness, or unconsciously dismissed it as his own reaction to the smell of the breakfast.) George, if it was he, sensed Edmond's doubt and said, "I'll get Mum; she's been worried sick over you. She's been making a new dish of food for you every time the last one got cold."
Right, thought Edmond, just like that. Someone I've never met worries about me and actually takes time to see that I am comfortable. He laughed silently at the idea. George looked at him expectantly, but the time for whatever reply/reaction he had been waiting for passed, and he left the room. Edmond listened to George walk downstairs and turned to the food. He never suspected poison, since the one thing Voldemort had never tried to do to him was kill him. He ate the bread, a banana, and half the glass of milk before he heard footsteps on the stairs again. Out of sheer habit, he closed his eyes and slowed his breath.
Molly Weasley was not at all fooled. After all, it had been only three or four minutes since the boy had awoken; he could not possibly have consumed that much food and gone back to sleep. However, she was also aware of the discretion needed in this situation. She started to speak, "You have a hearty appetite, but it's hardly surprising considering you're as tall as my eldest son and as wide as my sister's toddler. If you don't want to talk to me, I understand. Lord knows I wouldn't be talking if I were in your place."
Keeping his eyes closed, Edmond said softly, "I don't know where I am. I don't know if I should believe you. I don't know anything. Unfortunately, that seems to be a moot point in most aspects of my life."
"You are in safe hands. You must trust us."
"Trust," the boy spat, sitting up, "I'll never trust anyone as long as I live. Even the people I should have been able to trust betrayed me. If you listened, you'll notice I never asked if I could trust you; I asked if I could believe you. And you still haven't answered that question." He lay back down, exhausted by the outburst, and added, his voice completely devoid of the fury it had held. "Thank you for the food. It was wonderful."
Mrs. Weasley had no idea how to reply to that, so she sat down and stroked the long, dirty, black hair of Edmond. He pulled away as if he had been burned. "Don't touch me," he said, again unemotional.
His head still tingled from Mrs. Weasley's hand. All of his life, Edmond had associated touch with pain. For once, none of it came, and a flood of fear and confusion washed over him because of it. "Who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?"
He did not expect the questions to be answered. He did expect someone to tell him what the ulterior motives for feeding him were. No one did.
Instead Mrs. Weasley launched into a long description in answer to all of his earlier queries. She offered no proof but her word and seemed completely unaware that anything else might be needed. Edmond was, in a word, baffled by this woman who seemed to be no threat, and, dare he even think it, seemed to have Edmond's best interests at heart.
"Who are you, dear?" she asked kindly.
"If I knew, I would tell you, but I do not. I was hoping that you might know. Or you might know who I could be? Or something?" Edmond replied.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"It's quite simple; no one ever told me my name or my background. For all I know my mother was the earth and my father the sky and I sprung out of the water in a burst of flame. I have no name but what I invent for myself. Lately, I call myself Edmond," he said, but the back of his mind cried out Lie! Lie! Why are you lying? She's here to help. He did not try to correct himself, although he knew his surname better than he would have liked.
"How long, then, must you have been a prisoner?"
"All my life, that I can remember at any rate. And I can remember when I was three. I was treated as a servant, though, until Voldemort came back. That's when they locked me up."
Mrs. Weasley shuddered at the mention of the forbidden name, but Edmond had always used it. He was very adamant that no one would know that he was afraid of Voldemort in the deep recesses of his heart. It seemed, though, that his fear or lack thereof was not the topic of conversation, rather, Mrs. Weasley seemed shocked at the indifference with which Edmond related his life tale, or the lie he had nearly convinced himself was true.
"You have suffered far more than your share," she whispered, "never again will that be your fate."
Edmond laughed harshly, a discordant, jarring sound. "Never say never, Mrs. Weasley, especially with things that will be affected by outside sources. I will suffer, and probably sooner than any of us would like."
"Why do you say that?" she asked, taken aback.
"Because it is true. If Voldemort would waste the time to keep me alive, then he will not let me go so easily as you seem to think. Just because I am out of his keep does not mean I am out of his thoughts. I don't know the reason for which he let or forced me to live, but it must be something. He is not known for letting his victims survive. He must have had a reason. I was hoping that my rescuer might know it. Speaking of rescue, it was Harry Potter's dream that tipped you off, right?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Of course I sent it. Did you really think it was coincidence? At any rate, I must speak with him. Of all people, I understand his motives. Of all people, I can be reasonably sure he speaks the truth of his identity."
Edmond could see he was confusing his hostess as much as he was confused. He supposed it was because he did not speak with the cares of a child, and yet his demeanor was so obviously young. He had been forced to act wisely in a world of adults, and he could not slip back into his Peter- Pan persona. He had not used that name in a great many years.
"You will talk to Harry soon enough. It is Christmas Holidays at Hogwarts right now. Either you can go there, or he can come here. I think, though, that Dumbledore will want a look at you himself."
Edmond nodded, changing location did not bother him. He had spent most of his childhood being shoved around from Death-Eater to Death-Eater to keep his existence a secret. Now, he was fifteen and he was finally going to Hogwarts. Granted, he was going as a curiosity for the Headmaster to look at, without wand or student status, but he was still going. He marveled at his own attitude as his mouth formed the words, before his mind could catch up and think better of it, "Can I have some more food?"
Mrs. Weasley laughed and nodded. Here was an emotion she was familiar with.
He was tired, so tired that his thoughts kept fading into a sort of dizzying blackness somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. He refused to let himself sleep, though. After all, if he did, then he would lose his chance.
The boy did not know his own name, and it suited him just fine to be nameless. He made up names, mostly using those of characters from old Muggle fiction. He did not have to keep one, for there was no one who would have called him by it. As of late, he had taken to calling himself Edmond Dantés, after the protagonist of Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo. Every time he thought of it, he was reaffirming his vow for revenge.
The boy, Edmond for the sake of having something to call him, was a prisoner. He could not remember a time where he had not been. So by the time Voldemort returned, and he was given to the Dark Lord as part of one of the Death-Eater's atonement, he was used to it. He had expected to die, but he had not. Voldemort had seemed sickeningly happy to see Edmond. Why? It was a question that burned in Edmond's head every waking moment. Who was he that the Dark Lord let live, even locked up like this? What could he do? For that was the only reason that made any sense at all. Edmond had some ability, some power that was needed. Unfortunately for Voldemort, constant abuse and neglect as a child had forged an intense hate for anyone associated with the Dark Mark and Edmond was no more likely to comply with their wishes than Dumbledore was, as had been proven.
But even the strongest will fall eventually. Edmond knew he was running out of time; it was harder and harder to bear the torture, especially when he did not know the extent of his power. Then, he got the first hint of what he might do when he overheard one of the Death-Eaters repeat, word for word, one of Edmond's own thought processes. The man had called it a dream, and, when it happened twice more to different men, Edmond decided he wasn't insane. His thoughts were somehow being funneled to someone else. What if he could control it? So, he practiced, and eventually the thoughts were going to the right people, instead of random ones. But having a Death-Eater know what he thought about in the deep recesses of the night would not help him in the least. He had to get the message to someone outside his ring of acquaintances. He spent weeks on it, and finally, completely coincidentally, he caught a hold of someone else's thread of conscious, one he did not recognize. After careful probing, undetectable snooping, he found the identity of the thread's owner. He was not surprised; it seemed fitting that the first outside mind he should stumble across would belong to Harry Potter.
The easy part was over. Now he had to make Harry believe that those dreams he was having were the feeble attempts of another fifteen-year-old boy begging for help half a country away. He began again at the painfully exhausting thought waves. He did not know what to think that would convince this boy he had never met. He only knew that if he did not, then before the month was out He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would have almost certainly won the battle against He-Without-A-Name.
* * * *
It did not take that many nights for Harry Potter to realize that this extraordinarily odd, doggedly repeating dream was in some way significant. After all, he had experience with dreams before. But this one was different. He awoke with no burning scar on his forehead, nothing that would make him sure that the dream meant something except for the very fact that he was sure. He couldn't even put the dream into words to tell somebody about it. All he could count on remembering when he awoke was a boy, about his age, whispering urgently, and yet with unnerving calm, "Please help me." That, and the memory of being terrified. It wasn't Voldemort, definitely not. This was not one of those thought exchanges so frequent the year before. No, those had stopped. This was from the boy. He was asking for help, begging for it.
It was getting to the point where he was dreading sleep. Something had to be done, but he didn't even know how he knew THAT. His first instinct was to talk to Hermione, Dumbledore, or Mr. Weasley, someone who might know what was going on. Even Ron might be of help there. He didn't, though. He was still far too haunted with the memory of what had happened the last time he had bothered to listen to a dream. So, he put it off and put it off, until the boy seemed to be so desperate that Harry awoke with tears on his cheeks. Only then did he tell it to his friends.
"Every night for at least two weeks," Hermione thought aloud after he finished the account. "I don't know anything about dreams. Personally, I think that the Muggle interpretation of random firings of neurons makes the most since. But then again, for you.you are sure it's not one of those dreams from Voldemort?"
Ron and Hermione argued for a while about whether there was a meaning to dreams. When they started repeating themselves, Harry broke in. "All right, it doesn't matter if dreams have a meaning or not. All I know is that the boy in my dream is alive, and no matter how many.what did you say, Hermione.neurons are firing, he still needs our help. He's in trouble."
"Well, he's been in trouble for two weeks now. Don't you think that it's a little late?" Hermione asked.
"No, he would have stopped asking if it was," Harry replied, and knew it was true even as he said it.
Hermione looked disgusted. Harry suspected this was just a little too close to Divination for her. "Look," Ron said, "just tell Dumbledore. I mean, if your dream is true, and there is a boy being held prisoner by You-Know-Who. That's pretty much the most you can do. It's not like you're going to be able to execute some sort of rescue mission on your own. I say tell Dumbledore and let it go."
Ron went a bit red in the face, and Harry realized that he had, maybe accidentally, maybe not, made an unspoken reference to the attempt to "rescue" Sirius. Harry was not about to make the implication any clearer, and instead asked Hermione's opinion.
Grudgingly, she agreed that Ron had named the only thing Harry could hope to do. So, after breakfast, he made the trek to Dumbledore's office, and recounted the dream for a second time. Its effect was much more profound on the headmaster. He grilled Harry for every little detail in the dream. He said very little on what it meant, except that he was as certain as Harry on the matter that it was from a source other than Voldemort.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Dumbledore stared out his window and murmured, "If what you say is true, if that boy is alive, then I made an unforgivable mistake many years ago, Harry. But I swear that I will try to help him, with everything that is in my power to do."
And he would say no more.
Harry left more confused than he thought it was possible to be. What had Dumbledore done that was so awful? Try as he might, he could come up with no satisfactory answer.
* * * *
He had tired of the name Edmond, for he did not feel that his years as an innocent prisoner would ever pass. But, since there weren't a lot of books to read during his imprisonment, he kept the name much longer than he liked it. He was tired all the time now, and not just from his late night messages. Voldemort had gotten nearly as sick of hitting Edmond with the Cruciatus curse as Edmond himself. So, after a few months of watching it have little or no effect barring a lot of screaming and swearing, the Dark Lord had dropped the matter completely and had resorted to more physical blows, whacking Edmond with whatever sturdy object happened to be in the vicinity. This was an improvement, according to Edmond. Unfortunately, it had to be coupled with a steep decline in food. He was hungry all the time, after a while, he realized he was slowly, slowly starving to death. He lay on his bed nearly all the time, straying in and out of sleep. He sent his messages earlier and earlier, not even caring if they were received. Finally, he stopped all together. It had been three weeks since the first time. If Harry hadn't pieced it together now, he never would.
Edmond fell asleep again, oblivious to the rest of the world in his body's desperate struggle to preserve energy. If he felt himself be lifted out of his bed and out of his cell, he did not react.
Edmond never could say whether it was the bright light, the smell, or the noise that woke him up. He certainly jolted awake too fast for it to have been natural. His surroundings were not only completely unfamiliar, he had never even imagined that such a place existed. It was warm and happy. Not that he was very well acquainted with happiness, but he always imagined it might feel like this.room. And it smelt wonderful. He saw a plate of food next to him; it was still hot. There were birds chirping outside, and a friendly-sounding ruckus coming from below.
"My God," he whispered, "I've died and gone to Heaven."
It made sense.
"Nothing so drastic," a voice said from the other side of the room. He turned around quickly, panting with the effort it took.
"Who are you?" he asked suspiciously; false bravado coming as easily to his lips as it always had.
"I'm George Weasley and it's about bloody time you woke up; we've been waiting for three days now."
George meant nothing to Edmond, but Weasley did. He eyed the boy carefully. He certainly looked like the descriptions of his family, but Edmond was prone to not believing, and he wasn't about to change because he was in a room with food. (By this point, he had forgotten about the happiness, or unconsciously dismissed it as his own reaction to the smell of the breakfast.) George, if it was he, sensed Edmond's doubt and said, "I'll get Mum; she's been worried sick over you. She's been making a new dish of food for you every time the last one got cold."
Right, thought Edmond, just like that. Someone I've never met worries about me and actually takes time to see that I am comfortable. He laughed silently at the idea. George looked at him expectantly, but the time for whatever reply/reaction he had been waiting for passed, and he left the room. Edmond listened to George walk downstairs and turned to the food. He never suspected poison, since the one thing Voldemort had never tried to do to him was kill him. He ate the bread, a banana, and half the glass of milk before he heard footsteps on the stairs again. Out of sheer habit, he closed his eyes and slowed his breath.
Molly Weasley was not at all fooled. After all, it had been only three or four minutes since the boy had awoken; he could not possibly have consumed that much food and gone back to sleep. However, she was also aware of the discretion needed in this situation. She started to speak, "You have a hearty appetite, but it's hardly surprising considering you're as tall as my eldest son and as wide as my sister's toddler. If you don't want to talk to me, I understand. Lord knows I wouldn't be talking if I were in your place."
Keeping his eyes closed, Edmond said softly, "I don't know where I am. I don't know if I should believe you. I don't know anything. Unfortunately, that seems to be a moot point in most aspects of my life."
"You are in safe hands. You must trust us."
"Trust," the boy spat, sitting up, "I'll never trust anyone as long as I live. Even the people I should have been able to trust betrayed me. If you listened, you'll notice I never asked if I could trust you; I asked if I could believe you. And you still haven't answered that question." He lay back down, exhausted by the outburst, and added, his voice completely devoid of the fury it had held. "Thank you for the food. It was wonderful."
Mrs. Weasley had no idea how to reply to that, so she sat down and stroked the long, dirty, black hair of Edmond. He pulled away as if he had been burned. "Don't touch me," he said, again unemotional.
His head still tingled from Mrs. Weasley's hand. All of his life, Edmond had associated touch with pain. For once, none of it came, and a flood of fear and confusion washed over him because of it. "Who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?"
He did not expect the questions to be answered. He did expect someone to tell him what the ulterior motives for feeding him were. No one did.
Instead Mrs. Weasley launched into a long description in answer to all of his earlier queries. She offered no proof but her word and seemed completely unaware that anything else might be needed. Edmond was, in a word, baffled by this woman who seemed to be no threat, and, dare he even think it, seemed to have Edmond's best interests at heart.
"Who are you, dear?" she asked kindly.
"If I knew, I would tell you, but I do not. I was hoping that you might know. Or you might know who I could be? Or something?" Edmond replied.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"It's quite simple; no one ever told me my name or my background. For all I know my mother was the earth and my father the sky and I sprung out of the water in a burst of flame. I have no name but what I invent for myself. Lately, I call myself Edmond," he said, but the back of his mind cried out Lie! Lie! Why are you lying? She's here to help. He did not try to correct himself, although he knew his surname better than he would have liked.
"How long, then, must you have been a prisoner?"
"All my life, that I can remember at any rate. And I can remember when I was three. I was treated as a servant, though, until Voldemort came back. That's when they locked me up."
Mrs. Weasley shuddered at the mention of the forbidden name, but Edmond had always used it. He was very adamant that no one would know that he was afraid of Voldemort in the deep recesses of his heart. It seemed, though, that his fear or lack thereof was not the topic of conversation, rather, Mrs. Weasley seemed shocked at the indifference with which Edmond related his life tale, or the lie he had nearly convinced himself was true.
"You have suffered far more than your share," she whispered, "never again will that be your fate."
Edmond laughed harshly, a discordant, jarring sound. "Never say never, Mrs. Weasley, especially with things that will be affected by outside sources. I will suffer, and probably sooner than any of us would like."
"Why do you say that?" she asked, taken aback.
"Because it is true. If Voldemort would waste the time to keep me alive, then he will not let me go so easily as you seem to think. Just because I am out of his keep does not mean I am out of his thoughts. I don't know the reason for which he let or forced me to live, but it must be something. He is not known for letting his victims survive. He must have had a reason. I was hoping that my rescuer might know it. Speaking of rescue, it was Harry Potter's dream that tipped you off, right?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"Of course I sent it. Did you really think it was coincidence? At any rate, I must speak with him. Of all people, I understand his motives. Of all people, I can be reasonably sure he speaks the truth of his identity."
Edmond could see he was confusing his hostess as much as he was confused. He supposed it was because he did not speak with the cares of a child, and yet his demeanor was so obviously young. He had been forced to act wisely in a world of adults, and he could not slip back into his Peter- Pan persona. He had not used that name in a great many years.
"You will talk to Harry soon enough. It is Christmas Holidays at Hogwarts right now. Either you can go there, or he can come here. I think, though, that Dumbledore will want a look at you himself."
Edmond nodded, changing location did not bother him. He had spent most of his childhood being shoved around from Death-Eater to Death-Eater to keep his existence a secret. Now, he was fifteen and he was finally going to Hogwarts. Granted, he was going as a curiosity for the Headmaster to look at, without wand or student status, but he was still going. He marveled at his own attitude as his mouth formed the words, before his mind could catch up and think better of it, "Can I have some more food?"
Mrs. Weasley laughed and nodded. Here was an emotion she was familiar with.