His eyes were green.
It was that fact and that fact alone that made her release the breath she'd held, letting out in a relieved rush so fierce it made her light-headed. For a moment it had been like seeing a ghost, and she knew how it must have been for everyone to see her alive. But it wasn't a ghost, merely Harry Potter—the one whose name had reached her even overseas, underground.
The one who was James's and Lily's last mark upon the world.
"My apologies," she said quietly, meaning not only for the misunderstanding, but also for the loss.
Harry seemed to intuit her meaning, a small, prematurely understanding smile flitting across his features. "Thanks," he said, his eyes traveling over her robes, his curiosity barely concealed. "You must be Dea," he said matter-of-factly.
"On most days," she said agreeably, a smile lifting one side of her lips. Children, she thought, the children of her peers. If things had been different she could have had children that age—shoving the thought away with a visible shake of her head, she smiled politely as the curly-haired brunette looked up at her, who in turn elbowed the redhead to make him stop talking.
"I'm Harry," James's son said unnecessarily. "This is Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley."
"Fred! If I find another Dungbomb in my trunk, I'm going to skin you! You've seen how Mum peels potatoes with her wand? That's you!" The voice, pretty but strident, came bouncing from the kitchen insistently.
"My sis, Ginny," Ron said, sounding apologetic. "She's a bit like Mum, you know."
Six children? Dea thought dazedly; she belatedly remembered that Arthur had mentioned something about a son who worked at the ministry, however. Seven kids, good heavens! It seemed the Weasleys had more than made up for their childless comrades.
"Mr. Weasley said you lived with Muggles," Hermione said forthrightly. "I can't tell you what a relief that is."
"A relief?" Dea tilted her head curiously, looking at the unflinching girl.
"Well, yes. It's a little tiring to refer to things that no one else has any knowledge of. Just yesterday I told Ron he was getting tall enough to play basketball and he looked at me as though I'd gone mad."
"You have gone mad," Ron muttered, but Dea caught the admiring look he sent Hermione out of the corner of his eye.
Just then, a willow-slim redhead, undoubtedly Ginny, dashed out of the kitchen and past Dea, nearly knocking her over. "Sorry 'bout that," she said, skidding to a halt and dropping a quick curtsy. "Be back in a moment."
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that." The deep voice came just as the front door was flung open, disapproving and stern. Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped in, trying very hard to ignore the person behind him.
"Oh, come on. Have a laugh, King." It was Tonks's voice, but it was coming from what seemed to be a small, female version of the tall, black Auror. She looked exactly like him, except without the sheer size and rough-hewn features. Even as she stuck her tongue out at the original Kingsley, Tonks morphed back into her usual face, pale and heart-shaped, her hair settling into a sleek Marilyn Monroe-like do.
The commotion that was beginning to rise in the house was double-edged for Dea. It was relieving in that the sheer intensity of it would relieve her boredom and take her mind off of things best left alone. But it also made her nervous, because when the Order gathered, it also seemed to mean confrontation with her past.
"Were you really Professor Snape's girlfriend? I sort of heard you were." Hermione, whom Dea had decided was only a hair too old to be called precocious, asked shamelessly, blinking up at Dea with guileless brown eyes.
"Oh, gag me with a pestle!" Ron said loudly, rolling his eyes back in his head.
"Do grow up, Ron," Hermione retorted coldly, not even bothering to look back at where he was gasping and throwing himself to the floor. At her words, he instantly sobered and looked more sheepish than he would have if his own mother had harangued him.
What a question, Dea judged, rubbing her eyes and thinking of everything that had transpired. What a silly word, girlfriend, silly and antiquated and juvenile.
What a silly word that she hadn't been able to experience.
"Not really, Hermione." Unable to keep the sadness from her voice, she shrugged. "We were only friends, once upon a time."
"The only friends that cranky git has are his potions and his Slytherin-green mortar and pestle." Ron looked thoughtful at this and narrowed his eyes. "Saaaay… you think they have those in red?"
But Dea was no longer listening, remembering a Christmas present to a presentless boy, a little love shown to one unloved, a little reminder apparently kept over two decades. How could something remain the same when everything else had moved on?
"No," she said absently, glancing down at Ron. "They didn't have them in red. Or at least they didn't have them when I bought it." She shook her head. "I… I left something upstairs." And with that, she fled from the melee.
"Oh, grand," Harry said, jostling Ron. "At least I'm not the only one who can make a girl cry."
"I don't think 'twas Ron, for once," Hermione said wonderingly, staring fixedly up the stairs. "I don't think that at all."
~~~
She had calmed down by the time the present members of the Order met to discuss things, to gather ideas and sketchy plans of the things to come. She wasn't about to look Severus in the eye across the big room, but she was calm.
For now.
As she heard ideas bandied about the room and scoffs bandied just as readily, it seemed to Dea that the ideas she was hearing were not new, and that they'd been launched and shot down many times. The children had been sent upstairs quite some time ago, but Dea couldn't get her mind off of Harry, Harry with James's face and Lily's eyes.
What was bothering her so?
"What does he… you-know-who… hate more than anything?" she heard herself asking as she pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to capture the thoughts lurking behind them, to pin down the source of her unease.
Unfortunately, one of her sources of unease was the only person who could answer her question with any authority. "A hasty—or ignorant—foe would say the Dark Lord hated Potter above all other things." Severus's voice, though holding its ever-present tone of condescension, was starting to sound weary. "But it is what Potter means. Failure."
Hearing exactly what she'd expected, Dea nodded. James's face and Lily's eyes. "What made him fail?"
"It wasn't Potter at all, contrary to what his numerous acolytes say," Severus observed.
"Is it possible to be any more of a rampantly biased prig?" Charlie asked loudly, cleaning his nails with a dagger that looked to be made of a dragon's talon.
"I suppose it is, Weasley, but then I'd have to be addressing one of your ilk," Severus retorted.
"Stop," Professor McGonagall spoke sharply from one corner of the room. "We can not beat the evil that looms before us if we are constantly tearing ourselves apart from the interior." She turned to Dea and addressed her curtly, wanting to answer the question and move on. "It was the protection and love of Ms. Evans, as you knew her, that made the attempt a failure."
Dea stored the information away in her memory and plowed on. "Has he failed any other time?"
"Yes." Severus spoke again. "He has failed with me, for he thinks he has a loyal Death Eater."
"He's not the only one," Bill observed in a facetiously mild tone.
Ignoring him, Severus clenched his fists inside the voluminous sleeves of his robe and plowed on. "His first failure, however, was you." He studied Dea's face carefully and watched as her sharp mind settled easily around the idea. "He thought you were dead, and it is clear you are not."
Seems we still have something in common, after all, she thought, but the fleeting idea was filled with a sarcasm unlike her. The walls were already starting to build up against the one man who had once been able to see right through them. "Then I think we have a start."