Chapter Four: Rory
The mood at number twelve Grimmauld Place had hit rock bottom since the death of the last Black, Sirius. The house gave the impression that it knew he had died, seeming to sag heavily into the foundation. Even Mrs. Black's portrait seemed to realize that her son had met his final match. When awakened, she would either jeer about Sirius or scream that the end of the world was near, for the line of Black had ended. The very air felt heavy and depressing. Harry spent most of his first day lying inside the bedroom he had shared with Ron, staring blankly out the window.
It was almost eight o'clock that night when Harry heard a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called absently, sitting up.
He turned as a thin black woman he had never seen before enter, balancing a tray of food in one hand and holding a dish of birdseed in the other. She was dressed in a floor-length Muggle skirt and a button-down shirt, both covered in paint, belted snugly at her waist. A polished wand was stuck into the belt at the small of her back. Her silver hair hung pin-straight around a very young face—she was probably in her mid-twenties. One of her up-tilted eyes was brown, the other was gray.
"So are you wanting any dinner?" she asked quietly, placing the tray down on the nightstand. "Mrs. Weasley said you was not quite up to dinner downstairs, and I can see she was right." She smiled kindly. "You'll be Harry Potter?" Her voice was soft and uncultured; she spoke with broad vowels and nearly skipped H's.
Harry nodded. "Thank you for the food." Part of him wanted to keep talking to her—she was almost restfully ordinary, compared to everyone else—but it was a very small part. He didn't really want to keep talking; he didn't really want to ever talk again.
"You're welcome, little master," she replied. "If you be needing anything, just ask for Rory." Rory turned to leave, her silver hair swirling.
"How long have you been here?" Harry asked. "I've never met you before."
Rory leaned against the fireplace conversationally. "Your godfather, bless the man, hired me just after Christmas to keep up the house. My mother served here, you know. Liadan O'Ciardha. I suspect old Mrs. Black drove her to her death, but then I've always been luckier with employers. Sirius Black was one the best men I've ever known." She crossed herself absently. "And you'll be wanting to be alone for a bit, so if you'll tell me where to put this I'll be going." Rory gestured with the jar of birdseed.
Harry pointed wordlessly at Hedwig's cage on top of the wardrobe. Rory nodded and stood on tiptoe to place the birdseed into the bottom of the cage. She dropped a small curtsey and was gone. Harry picked through the tray, but nothing really appealed to him. He ate a dinner roll and drank a glass of pumpkin juice, but they tasted like glue on his tongue. With a heavy sigh he rolled towards the wall and drifted into restless sleep.
He was awakened by two bony knees pressing into his back, one on either side of his spine. With a groan muffled by his pillow, Harry swatted at whoever was sitting on him, and found his arm seized and pinned behind him. Harry realized with vast irritation that he knew who it was.
"Pallas?"
"For god's sake, are you going to sleep forever?" Pallas demanded. "Get up!"
"That's rather difficult, considering the present situation." She shifted her weight off him and onto the side of the bed. "What time is it?"
"Six o'clock. I've been up for three hours and I can't do anything because they say I might disappear or something." Harry rolled over and saw, to his astonishment, that Pallas was wearing wizard's robes over her holey jeans and the snarls had been combed out of her long hair. "Doesn't anyone get up before six anymore?"
"Not on holiday!" Harry replied. "Why can't you go talk to Rory or Mrs. Weasley or someone other than me?"
Pallas looked politely blank. "I can't tell anyone apart here. You lot all dress the same."
"What about Rory—the housekeeper?"
"Well, except for her. She's nice. Not really much for information, though." Harry pushed himself upright with a groan, scrubbed at his eyes with his fists, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. "One of the redheads gave me these. Do you all wear these things all the time? They're dead clumsy." She lifted her arms so that the black robes swung out like wings. "No wonders all of we Muggles think you lot wear pointy hats and nonsense. It's because you really do."
"Not all the time, no," Harry replied, trying to mask his irritation about the early hour and her endless chatter. "And I don't wear a pointy hat. Has anyone else arrived?"
Pallas shot a moody glance at the door. "I dunno. Somebody locked it."
Harry got up and tested the door. The knob gave easily under his touch, and the door swung open quietly—which was odd, considering that the doors of number twelve usually gave a metallic screech of protest. He raised his eyebrows at Pallas and walked down the hall. It wasn't until he was halfway down the stairs that he realized that Pallas was not following him. Harry looked up and back down the hall and saw that the door to his room had closed again—and Pallas was nowhere in sight.
With a sigh he retraced his steps and opened the door.
"You know, where I come from doors have manners," Pallas snapped at the door, which made only a few smug squeaking noises as Harry led Pallas out of the room. "And even if I am a Muggle, that door should back off or I'll chop it into toothpicks!" The door slammed shut and there was a haughty click as it locked them out. "Don't think that'll stop me!" she shouted, planting a solid kick in the middle of the door.
"C'mon, you'll wake everyone else up," Harry said, dragging the younger girl down the stairs. "Try not to offend any more doors."
"Oh?" Pallas growled, "Should I worry about upsetting the wallpaper and the dust mites and the portraits as well? How about the rugs? Do they object strenuously to being walked on? Should I just wave my magic wand and float or something so as not to offend them?
"Is anything in this house normal?" she asked with a little quiver in her voice.
"Shut up, please," Harry hissed as they approached the first floor landing. "There's a portrait down a ways who you do not want to wake up." Pallas looked very confused, but nodded. As they tiptoed past the sleeping portraits (Pallas jumping each time one snored) Harry sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening: Please let Mrs. Black not wake up.
Apparently God was on his day off, because Pallas, upon seeing the troll's leg trash can, bent to inspect it and let out the loudest, most powerful sneeze ever heard to mankind. It echoed in the still house, followed by the crash made by Pallas hitting the ground as surprise and snot knocked her backwards. "Sorry!" she called, almost lost in the shouts of "MUDBLOODS! TRAITORS! FILTH!" that resounded from attic to kitchen.
Rory ran up from the kitchen, her silver hair bound in a tight bun, and grasped a curtain in an effort to force Mrs. Black to sleep again. "Help me!" she ordered, and Harry seized the other side and tried to close it. The curtain fought like living things, pushing against Harry with a force that he would have expected to come from Hagrid. Pallas, in an effort to help, seized both curtains and tried to jerk them together. Unfortunately, this put her right in the center of Mrs. Black's gaze.
"YOOOOOOOOUUU!" she howled, stretching out clawed hands to grab at the young girl's face. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! SCUM! DEFILER OF THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS! FILTH! SCUM!"
Pallas flushed red to the roots of her fair hair. "You wicked old bitch!" she shouted back. "SHUT UP!"
Perhaps it was the fact that no one but Sirius had ever yelled back at Mrs. Black, or perhaps it was surprise that momentarily stunned the portrait, but suddenly Harry felt the curtains give and heaved them together as hard as he could. His knuckles banged painfully against Rory's, and there was a ringing silence in the hall.
"I am not filth," Pallas said defiantly. "And she's a fright. Who is she?"
"Previous owner of this house," Rory replied, smoothing her silver hair back into its knot. "Come on, little masters. I've got breakfast started down below." She descended the stairs with a straight-backed stride that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall.
"That explains why I don't like this house," the younger girl grumbled to Harry as they followed the housekeeper.
"It used to be worse. The garbage cans used to belch after you threw away parchment." Pallas's eyes rounded. "That's not the worst of it. When Ron and Hermione get back from St. Mungos we can tell you the horror stories."
To the surprise of both, they were not alone in their early rising hour. Remus Lupin was there, as was a fair-skinned woman with dark red hair that Harry had never met. Rory smiled at both of them, but only the woman smiled back. Lupin was watching the pleasant housekeeper with something bordering on mistrust, but he greeted the two younger adults pleasantly.
"Good morning Harry, Pallas. I don't think you've met a recent friend of ours—this is Eponine Noirclair." He gestured to the pale woman, who smiled at both of them warmly, her eyes brushing over Harry's scar before fixing on Pallas.
"So, you are ze little girl 'oo is founding 'Ogwarts," Eponine said, hazel eyes raking her from head to foot. "You are in Ravenclaw, I presume?"
Pallas gave her a blank look. "I don't go to Hogwarts. That's for wizards."
Eponine laughed like a ripple of harp strings. "Ah, leetle girl, you are a funny one. Of course you are a witch. Are you going to Beauxbatons? Durmstrang?" Pallas smiled politely and said nothing. Which, Harry thought as he sat down and received a plate of toast and eggs from Rory, was distinctly out of character. He could hardly remember a time when Pallas had been polite without making up for it later.
The thought was driven out of his head by the fireplace flaring up to the ceiling and turning bright green. Six people stumbled out of it: six Weasley's and Hermione, who rushed over and hugged Harry as soon as she blinked the soot out of her eyes.
"Harry! It's lovely to see you!" Harry grinned up at her as another head appeared over her shoulder, this one red-haired and very freckly.
"Any chance of breakfast, Rory?" Ron asked, tousling Harry's hair before seizing a plate of eggs from the laughing housekeeper.
"I always know to make extras when the Weaselys are in London," she joked as she handed plates out to Bill, Fred, Ginny, and George, who were all very sooty and grinning like maniacs. The twins sat on across from Harry and Luna, brushing dust from their dragon-hide jackets.
"Rory makes the best breakfasts," Fred informed them, digging a fork into his eggs.
"Apart from mum, of course, but it's the competition that makes for better and better food around this place," George added, shooting a look towards the other end of the table, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were holding a quiet conversation with Rory and Lupin. All four adults looked very grave.
"What's up with them? Is it Percy?" Harry asked, glancing across at Hermione and them at Ron, who had sat on Harry's other side.
Ginny shrugged mulishly. "Percy's been a bit—odd."
"He hasn't spoken at all yet," Hermione elaborated. "He just sits in bed and shakes." She took a bite of toast, her forehead wrinkled in thought. "I'm not sure he knows who we are."
"Speaking of which, who are you?" Fred asked with his mouth full, pointing his fork at Pallas.
She started, and then went back to shuffling her eggs around. "Pallas Leander," she muttered to her plate.
"So you're the girl Fudge's—ouch!" Ron grunted at Harry elbowed him in the side. Pallas didn't bother to hide her grin.
Hermione cast an appraising look at the younger girl. Knowing Hermione, she probably knew all about the Rowena business and was computing some way to overlap time so that she could travel back to pre-Hogwarts time and compare it with Hogwarts, a History and then write a seventeen-roll essay comparing and contrasting the two views. Harry suppressed a grin. Yes, that was a very Hermione-ish thing to do.
Pallas let her hair fall over her face and began forking up eggs. "Who's Fudge?" she asked Harry out of the corner of her mouth once Fred and George had begun a new conversation with Ron and Ginny, and Hermione had vanished behind that morning's Daily Prophet. A large article with the heading FUDGE RUNS FOR RE-ELECTION, OPPOSED BY EDWARD FOLDHAVERS covered her face entirely.
"Minister of Magic. He's a real idiot." Harry pointed to the picture of Fudge on the cover of the Prophet. He was wearing his bowler hat, which, though the picture didn't show it, was lime green.
A piece of egg fell off her fork and landed on the plate. "I know him!" she exclaimed excitedly. "He's the one who showed up at my door a few days past!"
Hermione put down her paper. "Fudge went looking for you?" she asked.
"All this time I thought he was looking for Harry and now it turns out he's looking for me!" Pallas said with disgust. "Bloody hell, if he's running your government then you are all doomed."
"Why didn't he take you in then?" Harry asked curiously.
"Because he had a nice talk with my mother," Pallas said with a grin. "I think she scared him." She slurped up a whole egg then caught sight of the mystified expressions all around her. "She lives in this recliner chair and wears giant yellow and pink striped pajamas at all times. The only times she gets up are to slap somebody around or to bellow at door-to-door salespeople." George and Fred laughed. Pallas smiled back at them and continued: "She's got a mean right hook—it's thanks to her that I duck as fast as I do."
"Not that that's done you much good," Harry retorted. She made a face.
"Yea, how'd you get all beat up?" Ron asked with his mouth full.
"His bloody cousin," Pallas said with heavy overtones of disgust. "Dudley Dursley."
The mention of Dudley sent Fred and George into fits of laughter. With only a little encouragement from Harry and Ron they told the whole story of the Ton-Tongue Toffee to Pallas, who was a very good audience and laughed hard at the idea of Dudley with a four-foot tongue. Even Hermione—who had only seen Dudley at a distance when the Dursleys picked up Harry at the end of term—nearly upset a pitcher of orange juice on herself when Fred began doing an impression of Dudley choking on his own tongue.
"Dudley, dear!" George wailed in a high-pitched imitation of Aunt Petunia. He tackled Fred. "Let's get that thing out of your mouth!" With much squealing and rather questionable gestures, George attempted to pull Dudley's (that is, Fred's) tongue out. By this time everyone was watching: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley with mild disgust masking their smiles, Lupin laughing with Bill, and Eponine observing the twins with her elegant eyebrows arched.
"Boys," Mr. Weasley said in an effort to get his sons under control. "You know how I feel about Muggle-baiting."
"Sir?" asked Pallas. Eponine's gray eyes snapped to the younger girl. "What exactly is Muggle-baiting?"
Mr. Weasley frowned a little, but he answered cheerfully. "Oh, you know, biting doorknobs, shrinking house keys, regurgitating toilets, the like. Just particularly immature wizards having a spot of fun with Muggles."
"Oh," said Pallas, and she went back to her breakfast without another word. Harry glanced at her a few moments later and saw that her face was flushed tomato red all the way to her hairline. He caught Ron and Hermione's eyes and gestured that they should meet him upstairs. There was no way Harry was going to witness another Pallas explosion this early in the morning.
~
"Here you are, young lady. Just sign here."
Elizabeth smiled charmingly up at the Ministry official and signed, hardly glancing at the paper. She knew perfectly well what it said, and she wasn't going to read it again. Instead she concentrated on disconcerting the man who had come to her doorway, which was a lot easier than she let on. Elizabeth was a pretty and curvy girl, with well-cut blonde curls and wide blue eyes. She was also a witch, and the reason she was signing the paper in the first place was because her great-grandmother was named Pallas Warren.
With another little tilt of her head she retreated inside and shut the door. Elizabeth let out a sigh of happiness. She'd always know that she was better than some miner's daughter. It was as though her wildest dreams had been fulfilled, even if an overweight man in ill-fitting trousers had fulfilled them. She was Rowena Ravenclaw, the most important witch in over a thousand years.
"Lizzie, darling, who was at the door?" a quivery old voice called from the living room.
"No one special, grandmamma," Elizabeth replied innocently. "He was only selling something." Stupid old bat, she thought to herself. Doesn't realize that she's borne a great witch—a demi-goddess, almost! With a wide grin she twirled in the hallway.
Elizabeth Warren, known to all as Lisa, frowned at her granddaughter. She knew the little minx all too well, and Lisa had pretended to be half- crippled for years. Lisa knew that many things were said more loudly when the person who was not supposed to hear them was supposedly stone-deaf.
"Lizzie!" she persisted. "Have you heard from Geraldine at all?"
"Grandmamma, Auntie Geraldine's been dead for years," Elizabeth said loudly, walking into the room with her angel's face on. Lisa did have to admit, she was a beauty. Of course, Elizabeth knew that. "Her husband hasn't written in months."
"Codswallop," Lisa said with conviction. Though she was quite certain that her son-in-law was mad, she had high hopes for his only child, whom she had never met. "And what of Teresa? She is still alive, or last I heard." She made herself wheeze with laughter at the bad joke. "What of Teresa, my pet?"
"Teresa has not written, grandmamma," Elizabeth said, her voice dripping patience. "Why don't you settle down and take a nice long nap until Mother comes home."
"Alice isn't here?" said Lisa with real surprise. "Ah. I don't suppose Jim is here either."
"No, he's at the mines."
"Dear, dear," Lisa murmured as she settled down and let her eyes drift closed.
Elizabeth ran into the kitchen and did a mad little dance of glee. It's only me and that other girl now. Teresa's a squib—her daughter's probably got about as much magical talent as a troll. Now the other girl, Geraldine's daughter...she's my age—or at least I think she is. Well, I'm obviously the more skilled witch. Anyone at Beauxbatons would vouch for me.
"What on earth are you doing, Elizabeth?" asked a dry voice from the doorway that led to the bedrooms. "Is it my imagination or has your ambition driven you mad at last?" Athena, Elizabeth's older sister, came into the kitchen with her eyebrows hiked up. She was tall and athletic, with a classical face that would have driven any Greek sculptor into ecstasy. Unlike her younger sister, Athena wore her brown hair pulled up and had more of an interest in Quidditch than in snaring every man alive.
"Shut up, you hag," Elizabeth said, flushing with embarrassment. "It's none of your business, anyhow."
"Am I too old to be Rowena Ravenclaw, then?" asked Athena calmly. "I didn't think seventeen was that ancient until today."
Elizabeth's jaw dropped, her carefully arranged features sliding unattractively out of line. "How—how—were you listening to me?"
"It's a rather commonplace habit in this household."
"But how?"
"It's an old house. We haven't got much insulation, and there was a rather large heating duct right above your head when you were flirting with that Ministry official." Athena studied her nails and grinned slyly. "Nice of you to keep him there so long. I got a good look at that paper he was having you sign."
The prickling red heat crept up Elizabeth's face until she could feel it tickling her hairline. "You utter bitch!" she shrieked in rage. "I hate you! I wish it had been you that died in the fire instead of Jamie!"
Athena glanced up at her younger sister, her gray eyes very cold. "Do you?" she asked calmly. "Because Jamie would be your rival for this Rowena Ravenclaw business. She would be thirteen in a few weeks." When Elizabeth began to shake her head, she snapped, "Don't try to deny it, Elizabeth, I've read it in your face. Ambitious little hag." She turned slowly and walked back into her bedroom, as impassive as a statute.
With a growl, Elizabeth planted a hefty kick on the stove, her pretty face twisted in anger. You've never been able to hide anything from Athena, a little voice in her head pointed out, adding a second later, nosey little Viking.
But a little ray of light brought a smile to her face, and that was this: in three days she would be boarding a train to London.
The mood at number twelve Grimmauld Place had hit rock bottom since the death of the last Black, Sirius. The house gave the impression that it knew he had died, seeming to sag heavily into the foundation. Even Mrs. Black's portrait seemed to realize that her son had met his final match. When awakened, she would either jeer about Sirius or scream that the end of the world was near, for the line of Black had ended. The very air felt heavy and depressing. Harry spent most of his first day lying inside the bedroom he had shared with Ron, staring blankly out the window.
It was almost eight o'clock that night when Harry heard a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called absently, sitting up.
He turned as a thin black woman he had never seen before enter, balancing a tray of food in one hand and holding a dish of birdseed in the other. She was dressed in a floor-length Muggle skirt and a button-down shirt, both covered in paint, belted snugly at her waist. A polished wand was stuck into the belt at the small of her back. Her silver hair hung pin-straight around a very young face—she was probably in her mid-twenties. One of her up-tilted eyes was brown, the other was gray.
"So are you wanting any dinner?" she asked quietly, placing the tray down on the nightstand. "Mrs. Weasley said you was not quite up to dinner downstairs, and I can see she was right." She smiled kindly. "You'll be Harry Potter?" Her voice was soft and uncultured; she spoke with broad vowels and nearly skipped H's.
Harry nodded. "Thank you for the food." Part of him wanted to keep talking to her—she was almost restfully ordinary, compared to everyone else—but it was a very small part. He didn't really want to keep talking; he didn't really want to ever talk again.
"You're welcome, little master," she replied. "If you be needing anything, just ask for Rory." Rory turned to leave, her silver hair swirling.
"How long have you been here?" Harry asked. "I've never met you before."
Rory leaned against the fireplace conversationally. "Your godfather, bless the man, hired me just after Christmas to keep up the house. My mother served here, you know. Liadan O'Ciardha. I suspect old Mrs. Black drove her to her death, but then I've always been luckier with employers. Sirius Black was one the best men I've ever known." She crossed herself absently. "And you'll be wanting to be alone for a bit, so if you'll tell me where to put this I'll be going." Rory gestured with the jar of birdseed.
Harry pointed wordlessly at Hedwig's cage on top of the wardrobe. Rory nodded and stood on tiptoe to place the birdseed into the bottom of the cage. She dropped a small curtsey and was gone. Harry picked through the tray, but nothing really appealed to him. He ate a dinner roll and drank a glass of pumpkin juice, but they tasted like glue on his tongue. With a heavy sigh he rolled towards the wall and drifted into restless sleep.
He was awakened by two bony knees pressing into his back, one on either side of his spine. With a groan muffled by his pillow, Harry swatted at whoever was sitting on him, and found his arm seized and pinned behind him. Harry realized with vast irritation that he knew who it was.
"Pallas?"
"For god's sake, are you going to sleep forever?" Pallas demanded. "Get up!"
"That's rather difficult, considering the present situation." She shifted her weight off him and onto the side of the bed. "What time is it?"
"Six o'clock. I've been up for three hours and I can't do anything because they say I might disappear or something." Harry rolled over and saw, to his astonishment, that Pallas was wearing wizard's robes over her holey jeans and the snarls had been combed out of her long hair. "Doesn't anyone get up before six anymore?"
"Not on holiday!" Harry replied. "Why can't you go talk to Rory or Mrs. Weasley or someone other than me?"
Pallas looked politely blank. "I can't tell anyone apart here. You lot all dress the same."
"What about Rory—the housekeeper?"
"Well, except for her. She's nice. Not really much for information, though." Harry pushed himself upright with a groan, scrubbed at his eyes with his fists, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. "One of the redheads gave me these. Do you all wear these things all the time? They're dead clumsy." She lifted her arms so that the black robes swung out like wings. "No wonders all of we Muggles think you lot wear pointy hats and nonsense. It's because you really do."
"Not all the time, no," Harry replied, trying to mask his irritation about the early hour and her endless chatter. "And I don't wear a pointy hat. Has anyone else arrived?"
Pallas shot a moody glance at the door. "I dunno. Somebody locked it."
Harry got up and tested the door. The knob gave easily under his touch, and the door swung open quietly—which was odd, considering that the doors of number twelve usually gave a metallic screech of protest. He raised his eyebrows at Pallas and walked down the hall. It wasn't until he was halfway down the stairs that he realized that Pallas was not following him. Harry looked up and back down the hall and saw that the door to his room had closed again—and Pallas was nowhere in sight.
With a sigh he retraced his steps and opened the door.
"You know, where I come from doors have manners," Pallas snapped at the door, which made only a few smug squeaking noises as Harry led Pallas out of the room. "And even if I am a Muggle, that door should back off or I'll chop it into toothpicks!" The door slammed shut and there was a haughty click as it locked them out. "Don't think that'll stop me!" she shouted, planting a solid kick in the middle of the door.
"C'mon, you'll wake everyone else up," Harry said, dragging the younger girl down the stairs. "Try not to offend any more doors."
"Oh?" Pallas growled, "Should I worry about upsetting the wallpaper and the dust mites and the portraits as well? How about the rugs? Do they object strenuously to being walked on? Should I just wave my magic wand and float or something so as not to offend them?
"Is anything in this house normal?" she asked with a little quiver in her voice.
"Shut up, please," Harry hissed as they approached the first floor landing. "There's a portrait down a ways who you do not want to wake up." Pallas looked very confused, but nodded. As they tiptoed past the sleeping portraits (Pallas jumping each time one snored) Harry sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening: Please let Mrs. Black not wake up.
Apparently God was on his day off, because Pallas, upon seeing the troll's leg trash can, bent to inspect it and let out the loudest, most powerful sneeze ever heard to mankind. It echoed in the still house, followed by the crash made by Pallas hitting the ground as surprise and snot knocked her backwards. "Sorry!" she called, almost lost in the shouts of "MUDBLOODS! TRAITORS! FILTH!" that resounded from attic to kitchen.
Rory ran up from the kitchen, her silver hair bound in a tight bun, and grasped a curtain in an effort to force Mrs. Black to sleep again. "Help me!" she ordered, and Harry seized the other side and tried to close it. The curtain fought like living things, pushing against Harry with a force that he would have expected to come from Hagrid. Pallas, in an effort to help, seized both curtains and tried to jerk them together. Unfortunately, this put her right in the center of Mrs. Black's gaze.
"YOOOOOOOOUUU!" she howled, stretching out clawed hands to grab at the young girl's face. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! SCUM! DEFILER OF THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS! FILTH! SCUM!"
Pallas flushed red to the roots of her fair hair. "You wicked old bitch!" she shouted back. "SHUT UP!"
Perhaps it was the fact that no one but Sirius had ever yelled back at Mrs. Black, or perhaps it was surprise that momentarily stunned the portrait, but suddenly Harry felt the curtains give and heaved them together as hard as he could. His knuckles banged painfully against Rory's, and there was a ringing silence in the hall.
"I am not filth," Pallas said defiantly. "And she's a fright. Who is she?"
"Previous owner of this house," Rory replied, smoothing her silver hair back into its knot. "Come on, little masters. I've got breakfast started down below." She descended the stairs with a straight-backed stride that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall.
"That explains why I don't like this house," the younger girl grumbled to Harry as they followed the housekeeper.
"It used to be worse. The garbage cans used to belch after you threw away parchment." Pallas's eyes rounded. "That's not the worst of it. When Ron and Hermione get back from St. Mungos we can tell you the horror stories."
To the surprise of both, they were not alone in their early rising hour. Remus Lupin was there, as was a fair-skinned woman with dark red hair that Harry had never met. Rory smiled at both of them, but only the woman smiled back. Lupin was watching the pleasant housekeeper with something bordering on mistrust, but he greeted the two younger adults pleasantly.
"Good morning Harry, Pallas. I don't think you've met a recent friend of ours—this is Eponine Noirclair." He gestured to the pale woman, who smiled at both of them warmly, her eyes brushing over Harry's scar before fixing on Pallas.
"So, you are ze little girl 'oo is founding 'Ogwarts," Eponine said, hazel eyes raking her from head to foot. "You are in Ravenclaw, I presume?"
Pallas gave her a blank look. "I don't go to Hogwarts. That's for wizards."
Eponine laughed like a ripple of harp strings. "Ah, leetle girl, you are a funny one. Of course you are a witch. Are you going to Beauxbatons? Durmstrang?" Pallas smiled politely and said nothing. Which, Harry thought as he sat down and received a plate of toast and eggs from Rory, was distinctly out of character. He could hardly remember a time when Pallas had been polite without making up for it later.
The thought was driven out of his head by the fireplace flaring up to the ceiling and turning bright green. Six people stumbled out of it: six Weasley's and Hermione, who rushed over and hugged Harry as soon as she blinked the soot out of her eyes.
"Harry! It's lovely to see you!" Harry grinned up at her as another head appeared over her shoulder, this one red-haired and very freckly.
"Any chance of breakfast, Rory?" Ron asked, tousling Harry's hair before seizing a plate of eggs from the laughing housekeeper.
"I always know to make extras when the Weaselys are in London," she joked as she handed plates out to Bill, Fred, Ginny, and George, who were all very sooty and grinning like maniacs. The twins sat on across from Harry and Luna, brushing dust from their dragon-hide jackets.
"Rory makes the best breakfasts," Fred informed them, digging a fork into his eggs.
"Apart from mum, of course, but it's the competition that makes for better and better food around this place," George added, shooting a look towards the other end of the table, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were holding a quiet conversation with Rory and Lupin. All four adults looked very grave.
"What's up with them? Is it Percy?" Harry asked, glancing across at Hermione and them at Ron, who had sat on Harry's other side.
Ginny shrugged mulishly. "Percy's been a bit—odd."
"He hasn't spoken at all yet," Hermione elaborated. "He just sits in bed and shakes." She took a bite of toast, her forehead wrinkled in thought. "I'm not sure he knows who we are."
"Speaking of which, who are you?" Fred asked with his mouth full, pointing his fork at Pallas.
She started, and then went back to shuffling her eggs around. "Pallas Leander," she muttered to her plate.
"So you're the girl Fudge's—ouch!" Ron grunted at Harry elbowed him in the side. Pallas didn't bother to hide her grin.
Hermione cast an appraising look at the younger girl. Knowing Hermione, she probably knew all about the Rowena business and was computing some way to overlap time so that she could travel back to pre-Hogwarts time and compare it with Hogwarts, a History and then write a seventeen-roll essay comparing and contrasting the two views. Harry suppressed a grin. Yes, that was a very Hermione-ish thing to do.
Pallas let her hair fall over her face and began forking up eggs. "Who's Fudge?" she asked Harry out of the corner of her mouth once Fred and George had begun a new conversation with Ron and Ginny, and Hermione had vanished behind that morning's Daily Prophet. A large article with the heading FUDGE RUNS FOR RE-ELECTION, OPPOSED BY EDWARD FOLDHAVERS covered her face entirely.
"Minister of Magic. He's a real idiot." Harry pointed to the picture of Fudge on the cover of the Prophet. He was wearing his bowler hat, which, though the picture didn't show it, was lime green.
A piece of egg fell off her fork and landed on the plate. "I know him!" she exclaimed excitedly. "He's the one who showed up at my door a few days past!"
Hermione put down her paper. "Fudge went looking for you?" she asked.
"All this time I thought he was looking for Harry and now it turns out he's looking for me!" Pallas said with disgust. "Bloody hell, if he's running your government then you are all doomed."
"Why didn't he take you in then?" Harry asked curiously.
"Because he had a nice talk with my mother," Pallas said with a grin. "I think she scared him." She slurped up a whole egg then caught sight of the mystified expressions all around her. "She lives in this recliner chair and wears giant yellow and pink striped pajamas at all times. The only times she gets up are to slap somebody around or to bellow at door-to-door salespeople." George and Fred laughed. Pallas smiled back at them and continued: "She's got a mean right hook—it's thanks to her that I duck as fast as I do."
"Not that that's done you much good," Harry retorted. She made a face.
"Yea, how'd you get all beat up?" Ron asked with his mouth full.
"His bloody cousin," Pallas said with heavy overtones of disgust. "Dudley Dursley."
The mention of Dudley sent Fred and George into fits of laughter. With only a little encouragement from Harry and Ron they told the whole story of the Ton-Tongue Toffee to Pallas, who was a very good audience and laughed hard at the idea of Dudley with a four-foot tongue. Even Hermione—who had only seen Dudley at a distance when the Dursleys picked up Harry at the end of term—nearly upset a pitcher of orange juice on herself when Fred began doing an impression of Dudley choking on his own tongue.
"Dudley, dear!" George wailed in a high-pitched imitation of Aunt Petunia. He tackled Fred. "Let's get that thing out of your mouth!" With much squealing and rather questionable gestures, George attempted to pull Dudley's (that is, Fred's) tongue out. By this time everyone was watching: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley with mild disgust masking their smiles, Lupin laughing with Bill, and Eponine observing the twins with her elegant eyebrows arched.
"Boys," Mr. Weasley said in an effort to get his sons under control. "You know how I feel about Muggle-baiting."
"Sir?" asked Pallas. Eponine's gray eyes snapped to the younger girl. "What exactly is Muggle-baiting?"
Mr. Weasley frowned a little, but he answered cheerfully. "Oh, you know, biting doorknobs, shrinking house keys, regurgitating toilets, the like. Just particularly immature wizards having a spot of fun with Muggles."
"Oh," said Pallas, and she went back to her breakfast without another word. Harry glanced at her a few moments later and saw that her face was flushed tomato red all the way to her hairline. He caught Ron and Hermione's eyes and gestured that they should meet him upstairs. There was no way Harry was going to witness another Pallas explosion this early in the morning.
~
"Here you are, young lady. Just sign here."
Elizabeth smiled charmingly up at the Ministry official and signed, hardly glancing at the paper. She knew perfectly well what it said, and she wasn't going to read it again. Instead she concentrated on disconcerting the man who had come to her doorway, which was a lot easier than she let on. Elizabeth was a pretty and curvy girl, with well-cut blonde curls and wide blue eyes. She was also a witch, and the reason she was signing the paper in the first place was because her great-grandmother was named Pallas Warren.
With another little tilt of her head she retreated inside and shut the door. Elizabeth let out a sigh of happiness. She'd always know that she was better than some miner's daughter. It was as though her wildest dreams had been fulfilled, even if an overweight man in ill-fitting trousers had fulfilled them. She was Rowena Ravenclaw, the most important witch in over a thousand years.
"Lizzie, darling, who was at the door?" a quivery old voice called from the living room.
"No one special, grandmamma," Elizabeth replied innocently. "He was only selling something." Stupid old bat, she thought to herself. Doesn't realize that she's borne a great witch—a demi-goddess, almost! With a wide grin she twirled in the hallway.
Elizabeth Warren, known to all as Lisa, frowned at her granddaughter. She knew the little minx all too well, and Lisa had pretended to be half- crippled for years. Lisa knew that many things were said more loudly when the person who was not supposed to hear them was supposedly stone-deaf.
"Lizzie!" she persisted. "Have you heard from Geraldine at all?"
"Grandmamma, Auntie Geraldine's been dead for years," Elizabeth said loudly, walking into the room with her angel's face on. Lisa did have to admit, she was a beauty. Of course, Elizabeth knew that. "Her husband hasn't written in months."
"Codswallop," Lisa said with conviction. Though she was quite certain that her son-in-law was mad, she had high hopes for his only child, whom she had never met. "And what of Teresa? She is still alive, or last I heard." She made herself wheeze with laughter at the bad joke. "What of Teresa, my pet?"
"Teresa has not written, grandmamma," Elizabeth said, her voice dripping patience. "Why don't you settle down and take a nice long nap until Mother comes home."
"Alice isn't here?" said Lisa with real surprise. "Ah. I don't suppose Jim is here either."
"No, he's at the mines."
"Dear, dear," Lisa murmured as she settled down and let her eyes drift closed.
Elizabeth ran into the kitchen and did a mad little dance of glee. It's only me and that other girl now. Teresa's a squib—her daughter's probably got about as much magical talent as a troll. Now the other girl, Geraldine's daughter...she's my age—or at least I think she is. Well, I'm obviously the more skilled witch. Anyone at Beauxbatons would vouch for me.
"What on earth are you doing, Elizabeth?" asked a dry voice from the doorway that led to the bedrooms. "Is it my imagination or has your ambition driven you mad at last?" Athena, Elizabeth's older sister, came into the kitchen with her eyebrows hiked up. She was tall and athletic, with a classical face that would have driven any Greek sculptor into ecstasy. Unlike her younger sister, Athena wore her brown hair pulled up and had more of an interest in Quidditch than in snaring every man alive.
"Shut up, you hag," Elizabeth said, flushing with embarrassment. "It's none of your business, anyhow."
"Am I too old to be Rowena Ravenclaw, then?" asked Athena calmly. "I didn't think seventeen was that ancient until today."
Elizabeth's jaw dropped, her carefully arranged features sliding unattractively out of line. "How—how—were you listening to me?"
"It's a rather commonplace habit in this household."
"But how?"
"It's an old house. We haven't got much insulation, and there was a rather large heating duct right above your head when you were flirting with that Ministry official." Athena studied her nails and grinned slyly. "Nice of you to keep him there so long. I got a good look at that paper he was having you sign."
The prickling red heat crept up Elizabeth's face until she could feel it tickling her hairline. "You utter bitch!" she shrieked in rage. "I hate you! I wish it had been you that died in the fire instead of Jamie!"
Athena glanced up at her younger sister, her gray eyes very cold. "Do you?" she asked calmly. "Because Jamie would be your rival for this Rowena Ravenclaw business. She would be thirteen in a few weeks." When Elizabeth began to shake her head, she snapped, "Don't try to deny it, Elizabeth, I've read it in your face. Ambitious little hag." She turned slowly and walked back into her bedroom, as impassive as a statute.
With a growl, Elizabeth planted a hefty kick on the stove, her pretty face twisted in anger. You've never been able to hide anything from Athena, a little voice in her head pointed out, adding a second later, nosey little Viking.
But a little ray of light brought a smile to her face, and that was this: in three days she would be boarding a train to London.