Chapter Three: Grimmauld Place once more
It took three days for Lupin to reply to Harry's letter, during which the boy saw Pallas once. The circumstances of their third meeting were much worse than the previous two.
Pallas's father, a tall, thin, mostly bald man with a very large nose and watery gray eyes, had appeared on Number Four's doorstep with Dudley's shirt collar in one hand and his daughter's reluctant arm in the other. Dudley's nose was crooked and bleeding massively down his shirtfront, and Pallas was holding her other arm crooked awkwardly at her side like a chicken's wing, her gray blazer torn and dirty. A thin line of blood was trickling down her face from the place Dudley had grabbed on to her hair, and a fresh bruise was rising around her eye. Without bothering to knock, Mr. Leander threw Dudley through the screen door and onto the coatroom floor.
Aunt Petunia screamed from the kitchen and rushed into the front of the house, her pale eyes wide as she took in the damage to her front door as well as the damage done to Dudley's face. "Diddy!" she screamed.
Uncle Vernon nearly upset his chair getting up from watching the news, his mustache bristling walrus-like at this most unwelcome intruder. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded, stepping over his wife and son to confront Mr. Leander through the smashed screen door.
"I'll tell you what the meaning is!" Mr. Leander growled back. "Your great ape of a son and his friends just beat the holy hell out of my daughter, that's what." He gave Pallas a little shake. She gasped and went white, clutching her arm more tightly to her chest. "What kind of people are you? Raisin' a criminal in your house!"
Uncle Vernon glanced back at Harry, obviously very confused. He took in Dudley's broken nose with his piggy little eyes, and then looked back at Pallas. She gave him the Look with her good eye. Uncle Vernon looked away, his face twisted in rage and irritation that he didn't understand what was going on. "Well look what she did to my son! Broke his nose if I'm not right!"
"Damn right I did," Pallas snapped. "Right after he broke my bloody arm!"
Mr. Leander's watery eyes gave Pallas a warning glare only slightly less potent than her own. "Hush, child. If I'm not mistaken, this isn't the first time your son and my daughter have been in a fight."
Uncle Vernon looked sharply at Dudley, whose fading black eye was still very visible in his fat face. "Ah," he said, but this time his tone promised trouble for Dudley as well as for Mr. Leander. "Well I'm sure this can all be worked out, if you'll just come inside Mr...?"
"Leander," the balding man replied, releasing his hold on Pallas's arm and stepping through the hole in the screen door. His small eyes, set wide in his bony face, flashed to Harry standing half-hidden on the stairs. "And this would be the infamous Harry Potter."
The hair on Harry's arms stood straight up. Did this man—a Muggle—know who he was? Was Mr. Leander even a Muggle? What had Pallas told her family? The thought of trying to explain what he had told this Muggle girl to the Wizengamot made Harry's blood run cold. He considered streaking upstairs to post another letter to Lupin, but then he said—
"I suppose having him home for the summer puts a strain on your family," Mr. Leander continued to Uncle Vernon, stepping around Aunt Petunia so that he and Harry's uncle could continue their arrangement in the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was shooting filthy looks at Pallas, who had followed her father inside and now stood looking around like she'd never seen the house before. She was also shedding drops of blood onto the flawless ecru carpeting.
Harry cleared his throat and jerked his head up the stairs, but Pallas only looked at him vaguely, watching him as if he were a piece of interestingly mussed carpeting. Once Aunt Petunia had ushered Dudley off to the bathroom (with another dirty look at the girl soiling her rug), Pallas gave Harry another Look. While with both eyes this look made Harry want to pull a blanket over his soul, with one eye it only made him more irritated at her.
"What're you always fighting with Dudley for, anyhow?" he asked.
"He started it. And if you haven't noticed, I'm definitely worse off in this one," she said scaldingly. "Not that Father's noticed at all." Delicately, she stepped around Dudley's small lake of blood on the linoleum and sat down in one of the decidedly uncomfortable armchairs. "So. Had any more letters?"
"Not one," Harry replied. "Though the man I wrote to might not be in the country right now."
Pallas nodded sagely, wiping the trickle of blood off her face. "Remus Lupin? Does he work for your government?"
"Er—not exactly," Harry said, taken aback by Pallas remembering who he had written to. He wasn't sure that he'd told her. "He works for a man who's a sort of...rival to the government—wait, that's not the right word—he's above the government. The head of the movement against..." Harry trailed off as he realized that not only was Pallas not supposed to know anything about Voldemort, Mr. Leander was in the next room.
She gave him a mildly disgusted version of the Look and shook her head. "Sometimes I half hope that I really am Rowena Ravenclaw, just so that you can finish your sentences around me." With a sigh she leaned back into the chair, keeping her right arm clenched tightly to her skinny torso. Harry watched her for a moment, wondering what if—just what if, a simple thought that had no purpose in his mind—this coltish girl-child could be one of the four Founders of Hogwarts. With a pained sigh Pallas closed her eyes, her forehead wrinkled in what looked like irritation. Impatiently she swiped a handful of blonde waves behind her ear and looked across at Harry. "Were you telling the truth, that day we met, when you said you were famous?"
Harry was once again blindsided by the girl. "Did I? How odd." He tried to keep an innocent expression, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew that it was no use. With a remorseful sigh he dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "In the wizarding world I am, but here I'm less than no one."
"Don't be so humble, it's sickening." When he opened his mouth to protest, Pallas waved her unhurt arm at him with disdain. "If this is another one of those things that you can't tell me, I understand." Even so, she looked rather disgruntled as she resettled her arm on her chest with a wince. "Anyway, am I right to assume that you are, in fact, a wizard, and this Lupin fellow you've written to is a wizard as well?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. He's actually quite brilliant—taught at my school once."
This statement brought their conversation to a grinding halt. Their rules stipulated that Pallas could not ask about Hogwarts, and Harry couldn't tell. There was a heavy silence, in which Pallas twirled her hair around her fingers while examining the portraits of beach-ball-baby Dudley with a small sneer on her bruised face. Harry peered across into the dining room, where tall, thin Mr. Leander made anger and threat gestures at Uncle Vernon, who in turn blurted "What about Dudley, eh? That nose isn't going to be cheap to fix!"
Aunt Petunia sniffled loudly from the top of the stairs. "Imagine," she said indignantly. Without turning around, Harry knew that her bony hands were on her hips, and that her thin lips were pursed over her long teeth. In all likelihood, she would have Dudley in the upstairs bathroom with a dark-colored towel held under his nose to stop the bleeding. She was probably coming downstairs to get some ice.
"Get out of my way, boy," she commanded tersely, and went into the kitchen. There was a pause in the arguing as Aunt Petunia opened the icebox and placed a good pound of ice into a plastic bag.
Harry grinned. Living with predictable people had its upsides, one being entertainment.
"What?" Pallas growled from the chair. Her face, beneath the fresh black eye and various green and yellow old bruises, was steadily draining of blood.
"I wasn't laughing at you," Harry said defensively. "Are you--?"
"I'm fine," she said tersely. There was another lengthy silence, in which Pallas examined Harry with her good eye. He pretended not to notice, instead examining the hair-fine white scars on the back of his right hand. I MUST NOT TELL LIES. The words that had been forced into him by Dolores Umbridge bothered him now more than ever now that he was lying to Pallas on a daily basis.
He wasn't sure if not saying anything counted as lying—but it felt like it, sitting silently here while Pallas stared questions at his head. A quick stab of memory caught him unawares: the bewildered feelings of an eleven year old boy, trying to understand this new world of broomsticks and hippogriffs with only a few friends to guide him. Harry barely felt connected to that very young, very innocent boy. He understood his new world all too well, and was that much farther from what Pallas was feeling now. She was only twelve, after all.
I MUST NOT TELL LIES.
"What's that on your hand?" Pallas asked, her hair veiling her face. "That scar."
"It's nothing..." Harry began, and then trailed off. I MUST NOT TELL LIES. "Well, it's from when I had to do lines last year." He moved closer so that she could examine it with her good hand. Pallas's long fingers gently traced the five scripted words, obviously very puzzled by them. "I had this utter monster of a teacher, and she had this special quill that makes you write lines in your own blood." Her eyes widened, visible even through her hair.
"What a bitch!" Pallas exclaimed. "That can't be legal, even in a witch's world."
"What's that, Pallas?"
They sprang apart guiltily, Harry sliding his hand out of slight and Pallas gasping in pain from her broken arm. Her face was the color of raw celery. "Daddy," she said plaintively, "I think my arm's broken." With a sniffle and a rather false jerking sob, her eyes began to fill. "It really hurts!"
Mr. Leander's small eyes narrowed until they resembled pockmarks on either side of his nose. "Dursley..." he growled.
"I'm keeping my end of the bargain," Uncle Vernon snapped back. "Boy! Get upstairs."
Harry thought for a moment about defying his uncle's order, but a boar-like snort from Uncle Vernon and a particularly ferocious Look from Pallas squashed the idea. He retreated to the top of the stairs, just far enough so that he was out of sight but could still hear what was happening below.
"All right—Leander, you and your daughter, get in the car so I can drive you to the hospital." Uncle Vernon left loudly, his mustache bristling with each exhale.
There was a faint glint of blonde hair from the living room and Mr. Leander's cold voice: "He's not the one sending you funny mail, is he?"
"Of course not, Daddy. We've not spoken before." Pallas's voice radiated an innocence that Harry was sure was overdone. "He goes to St. Brutus's, doesn't he?"
"He does," Mr. Leander agreed briefly. "Hardened criminal, or so the neighbors say."
A hand descended on Harry's shoulder. He twisted to look and gasped aloud.
Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall were standing in the upstairs hallway, their faces very grim. Lupin looked as well as Harry had ever seen him, his robes obviously new over his battered sweater and jeans. Tonks was fiddling with one of her long, sapphire-blue curls, her black eyes bright and creased at the corners, and Professor McGonagall looked a bit like a stern magistrate in a high- collared black shirt and black robes. Kingsley was holding his wand like a sword, his wide mouth thin and white.
"Potter! Is Rowena here?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Seeing Harry's momentarily confused look, she rolled her eyes. "Er...Pallas, is that what they're calling her?"
"Yes, but—"
"We've got to move fast," Tonks interrupted him. "If she's been raised by Muggles it may be difficult to bring her with us."
"Look, I've got to tell—"
"But we can't be too frightening," Kingsley reminded them. "She's only a child."
"She's not—"
Professor McGonagall turned and gave Harry a severe look, which before now would have made him shut up immediately. Perhaps Pallas's hippogriff eyes had numbed him a bit, because instead he blurted, "She's not a witch."
There was a blank silence. "What on earth is that supposed to mean, Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked, her beady eyes calculating. "How can she not be a witch?"
"She's not. I met her less than a week ago and I've done a bit of poking around and she's never made anything happen, she didn't receive a letter from Hogwarts—"
"Of course she wouldn't have, not if she Founded Hogwarts!" Tonks exclaimed a little too loudly. There was a pause in the conversation downstairs.
"—don't worry, Mr. Leander, Dudley must have left his television on." Though this line had helped Uncle Vernon out of a similar situation, the mention of Dudley brought fresh ice to their already chilly conversation.
"Please shut up," Lupin said politely to the younger woman. "Harry, I'm not trying to question your judgment—but the man who found Rowena—that is, Pallas—is one of the best scryers known to wizard kind. He's never been wrong."'
"He's not right this time," Harry said stubbornly. "Plus, she's got a mum and a dad, and if you lot just kidnap her"—Professor McGonagall and Lupin exchanged looks—"there's going to be questioning and things." Tonks looked as if she were thinking of contradicting him, but thought better. "And don't try to tell me you aren't kidnapping her, because you are."
"Harry, ordinarily you'd be right, but this is different," Kingsley said slowly. "If we don't take this girl back to where she belongs, then our whole world could unravel."
"I always said we shouldn't mess with time," Lupin said, the lines around his mouth deepening.
Harry was sorely tempted to point out that a Time-Turner had saved Sirius's life almost three years before, but realized that not only would it be rude, it would also mean that Hermione and Harry would be dragged in front of the Wizengamot for illegal use of a Time-Turner. With a growing sense of total helplessness, Harry slouched lower on the stair. "She won't be happy about this."
"Just don't interfere with it, Harry. It's something that has to be done."
~
Pallas did not speak to him at all on the Knight Bus. She sat on the floor out of sliding-furniture range, her right arm still clenched across her chest though Lupin had splinted it for her. Her eyes were fixed down at a letter Professor McGonagall had handed her before she, Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley and Harry had left Number Four with Pallas in tow. Harry had half- expected her to cry—but her face was very blank.
Though, considering the scene that had just passed, she really had every right to be mad at him.
Lupin and Kingsley had Stunned Mr. Leander and Uncle Vernon, modified their memories, and grabbed Pallas before she could scream. When McGonagall accidentally seized her broken right arm, Pallas had yelled loud enough to bring Aunt Petunia and Dudley out of the upstairs bathroom. McGonagall Stunned Aunt Petunia, but was spared the necessity of Stunning Dudley when the portly boy screamed and crawled back into the bathroom with one hand over his massive denim-clad behind. Harry hid a chuckle behind his hand as McGonagall's stern mouth worked to hide a grin.
Pallas twisted in Kingsley's grip. "Harry?" she asked in her most strangely calm voice. "What's going on?"
Harry shrugged, still with a rather gleeful grin on his lips at Dudley's retreat, and then realized that Pallas must think that he was grinning at the situation she was in and straightened his features to solemnity.
"You knew about this," Pallas whispered.
Harry shook his head. "I swear I didn't, honest to God..."
"You knew!" she cried accusingly.
Lupin pointed his wand at Pallas's broken arm and a splint wound itself up her arm. She jumped and looked up at him with her eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare erase my memory," she growled.
"We're not going to erase your memory, girl," Professor McGonagall snapped.
"Then what are you doing?" she asked, shooting her hippogriff look at Harry. He felt quite guilty, though none of the events were his fault. "Why are you here?"
"This isn't the time or the place for such explanations," the elderly professor said, lifting Pallas to her feet with difficulty. "Come with me, Rowena—Pallas."
Kingsley helped Professor McGonagall drag the resisting girl out to the Knight Bus and had to stop just short of throwing her inside—she was resisting admirably and planted an excellent uppercut on the big black man, making Stan Shunpike gape at her with nearly the same awe he used when Harry was on the bus.
"C'mon, Harry," said Tonks as she boarded. "We're off to Grimmauld Place. I've left a letter for your aunt and uncle. So. Coming?" When Harry hesitated, she sighed and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I got your stuff ready when you were downstairs." Harry willingly boarded the bus, but felt like jumping right off when he saw Pallas, alone and pale at the rear of the bus.
It had been at least twenty minutes, and Pallas was still staring at the letter.
McGonagall was watching her like a hawk, beady eyes almost unblinking as she studied the girl that had helped found her beloved Hogwarts. Harry wondered what the stern Transfiguration teacher was thinking about, and realized that he was starting to think of Pallas as Rowena Ravenclaw.
That can't be right. She's just a kid. If she's Rowena Ravenclaw, then Hogwarts is utterly doomed.
"Are you a witch, child?" McGonagall asked Pallas. The girl gave the professor her most potent Look Harry had yet seen, and for a few seconds they locked eyes before Pallas looked down and away, her hair falling over her face.
There was a long and rather uncomfortable silence that lasted until the Knight Bus stopped outside the entrance to Grimmauld Place. "C'mon," Tonks said, lifting Pallas to her feet with ease. Kingsley got off the bus before he could be asked to help with the twelve-year old—his jaw was a little swollen and he had watched Pallas warily for most of the trip.
Harry nearly jumped off the bus, eager to see Ron and Hermione again. He was pretty sure that they would be there: the Weasley's had made Grimmauld Place their second home since the previous summer. Now that Percy was in the hospital, it stood to reason that they would be living for the time being. The though of Percy brought a sick sort of irritation that ran deep. Not only had the third-eldest Weasley sold out on his family, he had also written a letter to Ron advising him to get as far away from Harry as possible. In fact, Harry didn't feel the least bit sorry for Percy, but was very curious as to who or what had injured his least favorite Weasley.
As he stared at the space between Number 11 and Number 13, waiting for Number 12 to push its way into existence, he heard the distinct noises of Pallas refusing to do something, the sharp sounds of McGonagall insisting, closely followed by one of the scuffles Harry had begun to associate with his temperamental acquaintance. He tried hard not to sigh with relief when Sirius's old home came into view and he could go inside. Talking to Ron and Hermione would be a welcome exercise after the past few hours.
Unfortunately, Ron and Hermione were at St. Mungos at the moment. In fact, they were exactly one floor below and two rooms over from one Waldo Tribune, who was trying desperately to find something he had misplaced, aided and hampered by the contradicting advice he was getting from himself.
"Over there! It's over there, you fool!"
"No, underneath the lamp!"
"Not the lamp, look at those National Geographic's!"
"I could have sworn that if I turned to the right a little more then I could see it."
"What exactly is it I'm looking for?"
"The—buggered if I know."
"What precisely does the word buggered mean, any how?"
After half an hour of this utter nonsense, the Healer on duty took it upon herself to Stun Waldo before he realized that he'd been looking for his left hand. This peculiar and little-seen object had been tied to Waldo's bedrail for the past month, but since the mad old man had decided that, while on holiday in New York, a rhinoceros had gouged out his left eye, so he obviously could not see it. The Healer didn't have the heart to tell Waldo that his left eye was fine and he'd never been to New York in his life, so she let him rant and occasionally shut him up when he became too annoying.
Meanwhile, Troy was wading through a series of notes made by Waldo, trying to find the defining attributes of Rowena Ravenclaw. It was horribly frustrating because the notes usually made very little sense, with an occasional breach to useful information. The reason Troy had been plunged back into the documented wasteland that was Waldo was because a very irritating and inconvenient thing had happened.
Pallas Warren had had more than one great-granddaughter. In fact, she'd had six.
There was only one Rowena Ravenclaw, however, so Troy was left with the undesirable task of finding physical and mental attributes among Waldo's notes to narrow the six down. One was too old and another was a Squib, and one had been killed in a house fire four years before. That left three who lived in England and had blonde hair and magical talent. Three who were under sixteen. Three who could possibly be Rowena.
With a sigh Troy rested his forehead on the desk, his babyish features desperate. This was getting out of hand.
It took three days for Lupin to reply to Harry's letter, during which the boy saw Pallas once. The circumstances of their third meeting were much worse than the previous two.
Pallas's father, a tall, thin, mostly bald man with a very large nose and watery gray eyes, had appeared on Number Four's doorstep with Dudley's shirt collar in one hand and his daughter's reluctant arm in the other. Dudley's nose was crooked and bleeding massively down his shirtfront, and Pallas was holding her other arm crooked awkwardly at her side like a chicken's wing, her gray blazer torn and dirty. A thin line of blood was trickling down her face from the place Dudley had grabbed on to her hair, and a fresh bruise was rising around her eye. Without bothering to knock, Mr. Leander threw Dudley through the screen door and onto the coatroom floor.
Aunt Petunia screamed from the kitchen and rushed into the front of the house, her pale eyes wide as she took in the damage to her front door as well as the damage done to Dudley's face. "Diddy!" she screamed.
Uncle Vernon nearly upset his chair getting up from watching the news, his mustache bristling walrus-like at this most unwelcome intruder. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded, stepping over his wife and son to confront Mr. Leander through the smashed screen door.
"I'll tell you what the meaning is!" Mr. Leander growled back. "Your great ape of a son and his friends just beat the holy hell out of my daughter, that's what." He gave Pallas a little shake. She gasped and went white, clutching her arm more tightly to her chest. "What kind of people are you? Raisin' a criminal in your house!"
Uncle Vernon glanced back at Harry, obviously very confused. He took in Dudley's broken nose with his piggy little eyes, and then looked back at Pallas. She gave him the Look with her good eye. Uncle Vernon looked away, his face twisted in rage and irritation that he didn't understand what was going on. "Well look what she did to my son! Broke his nose if I'm not right!"
"Damn right I did," Pallas snapped. "Right after he broke my bloody arm!"
Mr. Leander's watery eyes gave Pallas a warning glare only slightly less potent than her own. "Hush, child. If I'm not mistaken, this isn't the first time your son and my daughter have been in a fight."
Uncle Vernon looked sharply at Dudley, whose fading black eye was still very visible in his fat face. "Ah," he said, but this time his tone promised trouble for Dudley as well as for Mr. Leander. "Well I'm sure this can all be worked out, if you'll just come inside Mr...?"
"Leander," the balding man replied, releasing his hold on Pallas's arm and stepping through the hole in the screen door. His small eyes, set wide in his bony face, flashed to Harry standing half-hidden on the stairs. "And this would be the infamous Harry Potter."
The hair on Harry's arms stood straight up. Did this man—a Muggle—know who he was? Was Mr. Leander even a Muggle? What had Pallas told her family? The thought of trying to explain what he had told this Muggle girl to the Wizengamot made Harry's blood run cold. He considered streaking upstairs to post another letter to Lupin, but then he said—
"I suppose having him home for the summer puts a strain on your family," Mr. Leander continued to Uncle Vernon, stepping around Aunt Petunia so that he and Harry's uncle could continue their arrangement in the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was shooting filthy looks at Pallas, who had followed her father inside and now stood looking around like she'd never seen the house before. She was also shedding drops of blood onto the flawless ecru carpeting.
Harry cleared his throat and jerked his head up the stairs, but Pallas only looked at him vaguely, watching him as if he were a piece of interestingly mussed carpeting. Once Aunt Petunia had ushered Dudley off to the bathroom (with another dirty look at the girl soiling her rug), Pallas gave Harry another Look. While with both eyes this look made Harry want to pull a blanket over his soul, with one eye it only made him more irritated at her.
"What're you always fighting with Dudley for, anyhow?" he asked.
"He started it. And if you haven't noticed, I'm definitely worse off in this one," she said scaldingly. "Not that Father's noticed at all." Delicately, she stepped around Dudley's small lake of blood on the linoleum and sat down in one of the decidedly uncomfortable armchairs. "So. Had any more letters?"
"Not one," Harry replied. "Though the man I wrote to might not be in the country right now."
Pallas nodded sagely, wiping the trickle of blood off her face. "Remus Lupin? Does he work for your government?"
"Er—not exactly," Harry said, taken aback by Pallas remembering who he had written to. He wasn't sure that he'd told her. "He works for a man who's a sort of...rival to the government—wait, that's not the right word—he's above the government. The head of the movement against..." Harry trailed off as he realized that not only was Pallas not supposed to know anything about Voldemort, Mr. Leander was in the next room.
She gave him a mildly disgusted version of the Look and shook her head. "Sometimes I half hope that I really am Rowena Ravenclaw, just so that you can finish your sentences around me." With a sigh she leaned back into the chair, keeping her right arm clenched tightly to her skinny torso. Harry watched her for a moment, wondering what if—just what if, a simple thought that had no purpose in his mind—this coltish girl-child could be one of the four Founders of Hogwarts. With a pained sigh Pallas closed her eyes, her forehead wrinkled in what looked like irritation. Impatiently she swiped a handful of blonde waves behind her ear and looked across at Harry. "Were you telling the truth, that day we met, when you said you were famous?"
Harry was once again blindsided by the girl. "Did I? How odd." He tried to keep an innocent expression, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew that it was no use. With a remorseful sigh he dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "In the wizarding world I am, but here I'm less than no one."
"Don't be so humble, it's sickening." When he opened his mouth to protest, Pallas waved her unhurt arm at him with disdain. "If this is another one of those things that you can't tell me, I understand." Even so, she looked rather disgruntled as she resettled her arm on her chest with a wince. "Anyway, am I right to assume that you are, in fact, a wizard, and this Lupin fellow you've written to is a wizard as well?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. He's actually quite brilliant—taught at my school once."
This statement brought their conversation to a grinding halt. Their rules stipulated that Pallas could not ask about Hogwarts, and Harry couldn't tell. There was a heavy silence, in which Pallas twirled her hair around her fingers while examining the portraits of beach-ball-baby Dudley with a small sneer on her bruised face. Harry peered across into the dining room, where tall, thin Mr. Leander made anger and threat gestures at Uncle Vernon, who in turn blurted "What about Dudley, eh? That nose isn't going to be cheap to fix!"
Aunt Petunia sniffled loudly from the top of the stairs. "Imagine," she said indignantly. Without turning around, Harry knew that her bony hands were on her hips, and that her thin lips were pursed over her long teeth. In all likelihood, she would have Dudley in the upstairs bathroom with a dark-colored towel held under his nose to stop the bleeding. She was probably coming downstairs to get some ice.
"Get out of my way, boy," she commanded tersely, and went into the kitchen. There was a pause in the arguing as Aunt Petunia opened the icebox and placed a good pound of ice into a plastic bag.
Harry grinned. Living with predictable people had its upsides, one being entertainment.
"What?" Pallas growled from the chair. Her face, beneath the fresh black eye and various green and yellow old bruises, was steadily draining of blood.
"I wasn't laughing at you," Harry said defensively. "Are you--?"
"I'm fine," she said tersely. There was another lengthy silence, in which Pallas examined Harry with her good eye. He pretended not to notice, instead examining the hair-fine white scars on the back of his right hand. I MUST NOT TELL LIES. The words that had been forced into him by Dolores Umbridge bothered him now more than ever now that he was lying to Pallas on a daily basis.
He wasn't sure if not saying anything counted as lying—but it felt like it, sitting silently here while Pallas stared questions at his head. A quick stab of memory caught him unawares: the bewildered feelings of an eleven year old boy, trying to understand this new world of broomsticks and hippogriffs with only a few friends to guide him. Harry barely felt connected to that very young, very innocent boy. He understood his new world all too well, and was that much farther from what Pallas was feeling now. She was only twelve, after all.
I MUST NOT TELL LIES.
"What's that on your hand?" Pallas asked, her hair veiling her face. "That scar."
"It's nothing..." Harry began, and then trailed off. I MUST NOT TELL LIES. "Well, it's from when I had to do lines last year." He moved closer so that she could examine it with her good hand. Pallas's long fingers gently traced the five scripted words, obviously very puzzled by them. "I had this utter monster of a teacher, and she had this special quill that makes you write lines in your own blood." Her eyes widened, visible even through her hair.
"What a bitch!" Pallas exclaimed. "That can't be legal, even in a witch's world."
"What's that, Pallas?"
They sprang apart guiltily, Harry sliding his hand out of slight and Pallas gasping in pain from her broken arm. Her face was the color of raw celery. "Daddy," she said plaintively, "I think my arm's broken." With a sniffle and a rather false jerking sob, her eyes began to fill. "It really hurts!"
Mr. Leander's small eyes narrowed until they resembled pockmarks on either side of his nose. "Dursley..." he growled.
"I'm keeping my end of the bargain," Uncle Vernon snapped back. "Boy! Get upstairs."
Harry thought for a moment about defying his uncle's order, but a boar-like snort from Uncle Vernon and a particularly ferocious Look from Pallas squashed the idea. He retreated to the top of the stairs, just far enough so that he was out of sight but could still hear what was happening below.
"All right—Leander, you and your daughter, get in the car so I can drive you to the hospital." Uncle Vernon left loudly, his mustache bristling with each exhale.
There was a faint glint of blonde hair from the living room and Mr. Leander's cold voice: "He's not the one sending you funny mail, is he?"
"Of course not, Daddy. We've not spoken before." Pallas's voice radiated an innocence that Harry was sure was overdone. "He goes to St. Brutus's, doesn't he?"
"He does," Mr. Leander agreed briefly. "Hardened criminal, or so the neighbors say."
A hand descended on Harry's shoulder. He twisted to look and gasped aloud.
Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall were standing in the upstairs hallway, their faces very grim. Lupin looked as well as Harry had ever seen him, his robes obviously new over his battered sweater and jeans. Tonks was fiddling with one of her long, sapphire-blue curls, her black eyes bright and creased at the corners, and Professor McGonagall looked a bit like a stern magistrate in a high- collared black shirt and black robes. Kingsley was holding his wand like a sword, his wide mouth thin and white.
"Potter! Is Rowena here?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Seeing Harry's momentarily confused look, she rolled her eyes. "Er...Pallas, is that what they're calling her?"
"Yes, but—"
"We've got to move fast," Tonks interrupted him. "If she's been raised by Muggles it may be difficult to bring her with us."
"Look, I've got to tell—"
"But we can't be too frightening," Kingsley reminded them. "She's only a child."
"She's not—"
Professor McGonagall turned and gave Harry a severe look, which before now would have made him shut up immediately. Perhaps Pallas's hippogriff eyes had numbed him a bit, because instead he blurted, "She's not a witch."
There was a blank silence. "What on earth is that supposed to mean, Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked, her beady eyes calculating. "How can she not be a witch?"
"She's not. I met her less than a week ago and I've done a bit of poking around and she's never made anything happen, she didn't receive a letter from Hogwarts—"
"Of course she wouldn't have, not if she Founded Hogwarts!" Tonks exclaimed a little too loudly. There was a pause in the conversation downstairs.
"—don't worry, Mr. Leander, Dudley must have left his television on." Though this line had helped Uncle Vernon out of a similar situation, the mention of Dudley brought fresh ice to their already chilly conversation.
"Please shut up," Lupin said politely to the younger woman. "Harry, I'm not trying to question your judgment—but the man who found Rowena—that is, Pallas—is one of the best scryers known to wizard kind. He's never been wrong."'
"He's not right this time," Harry said stubbornly. "Plus, she's got a mum and a dad, and if you lot just kidnap her"—Professor McGonagall and Lupin exchanged looks—"there's going to be questioning and things." Tonks looked as if she were thinking of contradicting him, but thought better. "And don't try to tell me you aren't kidnapping her, because you are."
"Harry, ordinarily you'd be right, but this is different," Kingsley said slowly. "If we don't take this girl back to where she belongs, then our whole world could unravel."
"I always said we shouldn't mess with time," Lupin said, the lines around his mouth deepening.
Harry was sorely tempted to point out that a Time-Turner had saved Sirius's life almost three years before, but realized that not only would it be rude, it would also mean that Hermione and Harry would be dragged in front of the Wizengamot for illegal use of a Time-Turner. With a growing sense of total helplessness, Harry slouched lower on the stair. "She won't be happy about this."
"Just don't interfere with it, Harry. It's something that has to be done."
~
Pallas did not speak to him at all on the Knight Bus. She sat on the floor out of sliding-furniture range, her right arm still clenched across her chest though Lupin had splinted it for her. Her eyes were fixed down at a letter Professor McGonagall had handed her before she, Lupin, Tonks, Kingsley and Harry had left Number Four with Pallas in tow. Harry had half- expected her to cry—but her face was very blank.
Though, considering the scene that had just passed, she really had every right to be mad at him.
Lupin and Kingsley had Stunned Mr. Leander and Uncle Vernon, modified their memories, and grabbed Pallas before she could scream. When McGonagall accidentally seized her broken right arm, Pallas had yelled loud enough to bring Aunt Petunia and Dudley out of the upstairs bathroom. McGonagall Stunned Aunt Petunia, but was spared the necessity of Stunning Dudley when the portly boy screamed and crawled back into the bathroom with one hand over his massive denim-clad behind. Harry hid a chuckle behind his hand as McGonagall's stern mouth worked to hide a grin.
Pallas twisted in Kingsley's grip. "Harry?" she asked in her most strangely calm voice. "What's going on?"
Harry shrugged, still with a rather gleeful grin on his lips at Dudley's retreat, and then realized that Pallas must think that he was grinning at the situation she was in and straightened his features to solemnity.
"You knew about this," Pallas whispered.
Harry shook his head. "I swear I didn't, honest to God..."
"You knew!" she cried accusingly.
Lupin pointed his wand at Pallas's broken arm and a splint wound itself up her arm. She jumped and looked up at him with her eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare erase my memory," she growled.
"We're not going to erase your memory, girl," Professor McGonagall snapped.
"Then what are you doing?" she asked, shooting her hippogriff look at Harry. He felt quite guilty, though none of the events were his fault. "Why are you here?"
"This isn't the time or the place for such explanations," the elderly professor said, lifting Pallas to her feet with difficulty. "Come with me, Rowena—Pallas."
Kingsley helped Professor McGonagall drag the resisting girl out to the Knight Bus and had to stop just short of throwing her inside—she was resisting admirably and planted an excellent uppercut on the big black man, making Stan Shunpike gape at her with nearly the same awe he used when Harry was on the bus.
"C'mon, Harry," said Tonks as she boarded. "We're off to Grimmauld Place. I've left a letter for your aunt and uncle. So. Coming?" When Harry hesitated, she sighed and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I got your stuff ready when you were downstairs." Harry willingly boarded the bus, but felt like jumping right off when he saw Pallas, alone and pale at the rear of the bus.
It had been at least twenty minutes, and Pallas was still staring at the letter.
McGonagall was watching her like a hawk, beady eyes almost unblinking as she studied the girl that had helped found her beloved Hogwarts. Harry wondered what the stern Transfiguration teacher was thinking about, and realized that he was starting to think of Pallas as Rowena Ravenclaw.
That can't be right. She's just a kid. If she's Rowena Ravenclaw, then Hogwarts is utterly doomed.
"Are you a witch, child?" McGonagall asked Pallas. The girl gave the professor her most potent Look Harry had yet seen, and for a few seconds they locked eyes before Pallas looked down and away, her hair falling over her face.
There was a long and rather uncomfortable silence that lasted until the Knight Bus stopped outside the entrance to Grimmauld Place. "C'mon," Tonks said, lifting Pallas to her feet with ease. Kingsley got off the bus before he could be asked to help with the twelve-year old—his jaw was a little swollen and he had watched Pallas warily for most of the trip.
Harry nearly jumped off the bus, eager to see Ron and Hermione again. He was pretty sure that they would be there: the Weasley's had made Grimmauld Place their second home since the previous summer. Now that Percy was in the hospital, it stood to reason that they would be living for the time being. The though of Percy brought a sick sort of irritation that ran deep. Not only had the third-eldest Weasley sold out on his family, he had also written a letter to Ron advising him to get as far away from Harry as possible. In fact, Harry didn't feel the least bit sorry for Percy, but was very curious as to who or what had injured his least favorite Weasley.
As he stared at the space between Number 11 and Number 13, waiting for Number 12 to push its way into existence, he heard the distinct noises of Pallas refusing to do something, the sharp sounds of McGonagall insisting, closely followed by one of the scuffles Harry had begun to associate with his temperamental acquaintance. He tried hard not to sigh with relief when Sirius's old home came into view and he could go inside. Talking to Ron and Hermione would be a welcome exercise after the past few hours.
Unfortunately, Ron and Hermione were at St. Mungos at the moment. In fact, they were exactly one floor below and two rooms over from one Waldo Tribune, who was trying desperately to find something he had misplaced, aided and hampered by the contradicting advice he was getting from himself.
"Over there! It's over there, you fool!"
"No, underneath the lamp!"
"Not the lamp, look at those National Geographic's!"
"I could have sworn that if I turned to the right a little more then I could see it."
"What exactly is it I'm looking for?"
"The—buggered if I know."
"What precisely does the word buggered mean, any how?"
After half an hour of this utter nonsense, the Healer on duty took it upon herself to Stun Waldo before he realized that he'd been looking for his left hand. This peculiar and little-seen object had been tied to Waldo's bedrail for the past month, but since the mad old man had decided that, while on holiday in New York, a rhinoceros had gouged out his left eye, so he obviously could not see it. The Healer didn't have the heart to tell Waldo that his left eye was fine and he'd never been to New York in his life, so she let him rant and occasionally shut him up when he became too annoying.
Meanwhile, Troy was wading through a series of notes made by Waldo, trying to find the defining attributes of Rowena Ravenclaw. It was horribly frustrating because the notes usually made very little sense, with an occasional breach to useful information. The reason Troy had been plunged back into the documented wasteland that was Waldo was because a very irritating and inconvenient thing had happened.
Pallas Warren had had more than one great-granddaughter. In fact, she'd had six.
There was only one Rowena Ravenclaw, however, so Troy was left with the undesirable task of finding physical and mental attributes among Waldo's notes to narrow the six down. One was too old and another was a Squib, and one had been killed in a house fire four years before. That left three who lived in England and had blonde hair and magical talent. Three who were under sixteen. Three who could possibly be Rowena.
With a sigh Troy rested his forehead on the desk, his babyish features desperate. This was getting out of hand.