……………

Part Three

……………

Firenze and I began the next morning with the most necessary of things – my teaching him to walk correctly on two feet instead of four hooves. We stood in the middle of my living room, both of us white-faced and grim,with my hands grasping his forearms lightly and his legs shaking violently.

"All right," I said. "Would you try and take a step without me helping you along?"

"Hold on to my arms," he said shortly.

Even though his voice was sharp and authoritative, I couldn't miss the tremor in it. "I will," I said, and squeezed his arm briefly through the thick fabric of the over-robe.

Tentatively, he took a small step forward, and I took a small one backward, my hands still grazing his arms so he wouldn't tumble down, and we took a few more. I wanted to say a few words of encouragement but my mouth felt all cottony. Another step, and we were backing slowly into the kitchen; another step, and my feet brushed against the ceramic floor.

"Good," I said under my breath.

And then Firenze took one more step, caught his foot round in a twist, and unceremoniously fell down on the floor. I lost my grip on him and had to crouch down beside him. For a moment, he stared away, and then I almost reared back at the cool fury in his eyes when he lifted his head to look at me.

"It's only one accident—" I began.

"This is an indignity," he said freezingly. "I'll not subject myself to idiotic human practices."

"Walking is hardly idiotic," I said, trying my best to remain calm and reassuring. Of course, that's like the sun trying to stay sub-zero. "And it was one mistake. You were doing fine. Come on, we'll try again."

"I don't want to be doing fine!"

"There isn't much of a choice," I countered.

"No. The stars decreed that I would suffer as a human, but not that I should have to learn to live as one. Even that is too much for any centaur to bear. Death is preferable."

"Then what do you want me to do? Abandon you back in Ateratra and let the vultures pick at you while you're unable to run away from them?"

He was silent for a long moment. "No."

"Then death isn't preferable, is it?" I said, getting up and helping him along with me. I settled him on one of the kitchen chairs and sat myself across from him, my hands knotted on the table in front of me, as though we were associates having a meeting. "So it's bollocks to the stars, then." If anyone who knew me heard me saying that, they'd probably have died of laughter right there. "Any other suggestions?"

"I am a coward."

I blinked. "Pardon?"

He sighed. "For not wanting to die. This—" he gestured inarticulately at his human body, "existence, flawed and ridiculous as it is, is still preferable to death, and that is cowardice."

Great – so not only was I stuck with a centaur, I was stuck with a miserable, self-flagellating, guilty centaur. "Firenze – I won't hear any more of that rubbish. Not wanting to die is perfectly normal, for Merlin's sake, so stop talking about death. It's not exactly the most fun topic of conversation. You said yourself that reading fate is difficult – I remember from a long time ago – and the stars aren't exactly blinking Die, Firenze, are they?" I took a deep breath. "And another thing – I've been trying my best not to offend you. The least you could do is stop insulting the entire human race at every possible opportunity."

He looked at me, genuinely startled. "I apologise, Miss Brown. I did not consider your feelings."

"Also, since you're not a professor any longer and since you're living with me – you may as well call me Lavender. And we're going to have to agree to get along. That means you might have to swallow your pride a bit – but I know you're strong enough to do that." I extended my hand, and it hung limply and awkwardly for a moment before he reached out and grasped it. "Friends, of a sort?" I prodded.

"Very well – Lavender," he said, testing it out. "Friends, of a very strange sort. And, to answer your earlier question, I have no suggestions. I was hoping that you might."

How his eyes looked terrible and alone again! "I could Mobilicorpus you."

"Which means?"

"Suspend you in the air a little and magic you around. I don't know if it'd work exactly, with you being conscious—"

"No." It was fast becoming his favourite word.

"Well, then, there are no other options. I can't exactly Spellotape two extra legs to you. We're just going to have to keep trying, and you're going to have to learn how to walk properly."

"And you'll escort me every step until then?" he asked incredulously.

"No – but perhaps—" I suddenly recalled a time several years ago when I had been shopping with Parvati in a bit of Muggle London. There had been a woman there, in one of the shops, with no legs – and instead she'd had this sort of chair with wheels that she'd pushed around. "Genius!" I cried.

"Genius?"

"Hang on, I need to write a letter."

So I went and got a quill and some parchment and worked out a short note at the kitchen table, Firenze watching me from the other side.

Dean!

How are you? I know I haven't written to you in a long time, but of course you're on Seamus' side in what I now refer to as The Incident. Friendship is a mess, isn't it? But never mind that – I've a question for you, since you're the Muggle-born I know best. You know those chairs Muggles use? The ones with wheels, for the people with leg problems? How would I go about getting one?

Yours truly,
Lavender Brown

P.S. Don't ask why.

My owl, Mrs Greenwich, was waiting on her perch. I whistled for her to come down and tied the short note to her leg. "Take it to Dean Thomas," I instructed, and Mrs Greenwich hooted with understanding. She really is a brilliant owl.

Firenze was, of course, still at the kitchen table. "Well," I said, "that might be one problem solved – temporarily." He didn't push any further, probably out of fear that I would try to convince him to attempt some more walking. "I think you ought to take a rest," I said. "I need to go into London, anyway, to see what sort of research I can find about centaurs." I smiled at him; this time it didn't feel pasted-on. "We can't spend all our time on human lessons."

"Mercifully," he said.

I helped him move from the hard wooden kitchen chair to one of the more squashy comfortable chairs in front of my fireplace. Then I went over to my bookshelf and pulled out my very dusty copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One. I figured he may as well start learning our magic. Then, pausing briefly, I also pulled out a Muggle book Seamus had loaned me and forgotten to take back, called Treasure Island. I vaguely recalled Seamus telling me that it was a great book for men, filled with adventures and fights and such. I had never read it – I always like a good Aphrodite Jones novel for myself. They have such lovely heroes. Taming the Rogue Warlock is her best one, in my opinion.

"Here," I said, unloading the books onto Firenze's lap. "I know it'll be boring, just sitting here and reading, but hopefully these'll be interesting enough to keep you entertained."

"Will you be gone long?"

"Hopefully not."

……………

At Flourish and Blotts I bought every book on centaurs I could find, which sounds foolish and excessive, but there were actually only three books on centaurs that weren't long boring histories. I suppose they aren't the most popular creatures to study. The wizard behind the counter gave me a very odd look when I went to buy the books; they had presumably been sitting in the shop for ages, which I figured out from the thick layer of dust on each of them. And they wouldn't even give me a discount for that!

Or the wizard's befuddlement could have been that I was still a revolting mess. In all the stress and excitement, I had forgotten to bathe and had carelessly gone off to Diagon Alley with hardly a thought for my appearance. I was dirty as anything – getting my crazy old lady practice in early, I suppose.

So – because fate hates me – I had a nasty shock when I emerged from the shop. Sitting outside on one of the bright tables in front of Florean Fortescue's were Seamus and Parvati. I felt my stomach lurch and I tried to duck away, but Parvati spotted me a mile away and stood up and gave a long, exaggerated wave. "Lavender!" she cooed falsely. "Over here!"

I loathe you, I loathe you, I loathe you – "Oh, Parvati! I didn't see you there!" Feeling like a doomed Azkaban prisoner on her way to have her soul brutally sucked out by a horrible demon, I shuffled over to their table and pulled up a seat.

"Lavender!" Parvati said. "You look so – weary."

Seamus, to his very small credit, turned a bright red and stared down into his ice-cream sundae. Parvati, oblivious, was beaming widely, quite apparently excited at this opportunity to wave her good fortune and great looks and giant honking diamond ring at me. "I've been working hard," I said lamely.

"Oh, really? What have you been doing?"

For a moment I could sit there and stupidly look at her smile, of all things. It was like the sun – blinding and probably bad for your eyes, but it's hard to resist the urge to look directly at it. Note to self: research teeth-whitening charms; sabotage Parvati somehow. "Er – I'm still working with Fran – stargazing, drafting her research for her—"

"And shopping," Parvati said. She dipped her hand into the Flourish and Blotts bag before I could do a thing. "Centaurs?" she asked, eyebrows raised as she skimmed over the book titles. "Interesting topic – does it have to do with your job?"

"Er – yes. Fran Vega and I are interested in – er – their opinions on astronomy."

"Astronomy?" she scoffed. "I'm interested in the centaurs themselves – do you remember Professor Firenze?"

I was struck by a fit a violent coughing. "Vaguely," I managed weakly, still pounding my throat to get the coughs out. "I mean, it was a long time ago." Before she could say anything else, I choked out a goodbye, grabbed the bag, and fairly ran to the nearest Floo portal, with her cool, imperious eyes boring holes into my back. Seamus looked happy at my departure, for which I wanted to strangle him.

I returned to find Firenze deeply immersed in Treasure Island. I plunked down the Flourish and Blotts bag. "Is it a good book?"

He folded down a corner of the page and looked at me squarely, then held up the book. "Do all humans make journeys such as these?"

"What? Oh – oh, no. It's not real, Firenze."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The story. It's not real. It's fiction. The person who wrote it made it all up."

"I see," he said slowly, obviously disappointed. He glanced down at the closed book, and then back up at me. "Why would a human bother to write down a tale such as this if it is not true?"

"To entertain people, I suppose. Do you like it?"

"I was enjoying it mildly until now." He was scowling at the book; I almost felt sorry for the poor inanimate thing. "However, I am still compelled to find out how it concludes, even if it is not a history."

"Good," I said, "because I really have to clean myself off. I went off to London today without even realising that I'm still horrid-looking from the – well, from – you know, the trip to the forest."

He nodded curtly and picked up the book, opening it to where he had been, reading placidly as though I had never interrupted him. I watched him for a few seconds, fascinated by how restful he looked; it was the quietest and calmest I had ever seen him.

A question suddenly occurred to me. "How did you learn to read?"

"Centaurs are not without language."

"Yes, but – you don't really have libraries or anything, do you?"

"You forget, Lavender, that I have been exiled to the human world before. Although never in such a spectacular manner."

He was right; that little fact did have a habit of slipping my mind. "So – it's not all bad, is it? The human world? I mean, there aren't any good books in the middle of the forest."

The look on his face was priceless and disbelieving. I figured it was my cue to exit.

In the bath I allowed myself to relax and close my eyes. It was difficult to erase the image of Parvati and Seamus at Fortescue's from my memory, before she had spotted me; both of them had looked so nauseatingly happy, just sitting and having ice-cream, like a couple in one of those cheesy owl-post order Gladrags catalogues.

And they would so be Gladrags, too. Cheap, posh-imitation, and mass-marketed. Gloriously ordinary. I decided that I myself would be Sorciere de Mode, which is this terrific French robe-maker that you have to be supremely rich and famous to afford. Great, Lavender. Likening yourself and Seamus and Parvati to shops as though shops have personalities. One more sign of impending madness.

It wasn't the most soothing wash, but at least I was finally clean.

I stepped out of the tub and cleared it ("Evanesco!"), then wrapped myself in my favourite robe, which is very lurid and very purple. Then, realising that Firenze was also dirty as a garden gnome, I filled the water up again and went out to get him.

It was, predictably, another embarrassing affair. I showed him what to do with soap, how to work shampoo into hair. "Do you think you can – er – manage to get in and out on your own?" I asked. "All you really have to do is – er – pull the robe over your head and then scramble into the tub."

"I can try," he said. He was observing the bath with an unreadable expression on his face. "It is no lake in the middle of the forest. And it is odd – how you humans wash alone."

Tomatoes would have been envious of the colour of my face. "Er – right – the group bathing isn't really in right now – I'll just leave you to it, then."

The stars must have been feeling more magnanimous that day – or else they'd already had their fun with me at Fortescue's – because he managed to pull it off and didn't call me back in to help him until he had hoisted himself out of the tub, clinging to the towel rack, and dressed. I made us something to eat and the rest of the night passed in silence.

……………

Dean's response came late that evening, after Firenze had gone to sleep in my bed – one more unnerving arrangement in a long string of them. I had been placing blankets on my couch so that it would be comfortable for my own sleep when Mrs Greenwich came fluttering back in through the window.

Dear Lavender,

I have to wonder if you haven't gone a bit mad – asking for a wheelchair! (That's what they're called, by the way). Since I can't ask what you're wanting it for, I'll just say that you must be leading a very bizarre life at present. You're not injured, are you? And wanting it for yourself?

Anyway, you are in luck. My gran had to use one in her later years, before she died six years ago. She lived with my mum, and I'll wager that wheelchair is still stuck in all the stuff in our garden shed. If you like, you can Apparate here tomorrow and we'll go and dig it out together.

Sincerely,
Dean

P.S. You shouldn't feel as though you can't be friends with me as long as I'm friends with Seamus. Sure, I'm still friends with him, but I do think he did treat you rather shabbily and I've told him so. We don't have to tell him anything.

……………

In the morning, I dressed to go to Dean's and was about to guide Firenze to his chair when he made a different request. "Could I go into your back garden?" He rubbed at his eyes; I noticed that he was looking pale and peaked. "I can hardly stand all of this indoor air."

"Of course – why didn't you say anything?"

He was solemn. "I thought perhaps you didn't want your loud neighbour to see me – but this building has become nearly intolerable."

"Geez, and I thought it was cosy," I said good-naturedly, and guided him instead through the rear door. The back garden in my cottage is quite nice; there are high plants and flowers and Sara couldn't see into it unless she jumped up and tried to look straight over the fence.

Which I actually wouldn't put past her.

Firenze found himself a decent spot in the shade and I brought him Treasure Island and a cup of tea, the latter of which he didn't particularly like but was growing accustomed to (and I won't get into our brief but strange conversation on the relative merits of tea-leaves as predictors of the future). He was mild and gentle in such an unfathomable way. Of course, he was proud and grieving, but he took most things in quiet stride, simply meditating and thinking. I wondered if all centaurs were that way when they weren't trying to kill people.

Dean was looking well when I Apparated to his front door. He's the kind of wizard who likes to dress as a Muggle most of the time, and he was wearing a silly-looking football sweater and blue jeans. He was working as a curse-breaker and had the definite luxury of having plenty of time off work. Makes me think I ought to have concentrated more in school. "Well," he said, "I'm glad to see the wheelchair isn't for yourself, after all."

"Er – no, it's not."

He was smiling. "You're not going to tell me why you need it, are you? I suppose I'll just have to wheedle it out of you."

"Oh, let's just go get the ruddy thing!"

We Apparated to his mother's house. She was there, so we couldn't exactly go digging through the shed straight away. She was a nice woman, big and squarish and all smiles, and she tried to feed us approximately all of the food in her kitchen. She poked Dean in the stomach. "You're too skinny, my boy; you're not taking care of yourself," she said, and loaded him down with parcels of hilariously large care-packages. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

To me, she said, "Are you Dean's new girlfriend, then?"

"No, I'm—"

"She's Lavender Brown, Mum. Remember – Seamus' old girlfriend?"

"Oh, right. Seamus never introduced us." Dean's mum grinned at me. "Well, you have to be better than that wretched new wife of his – Seamus brought her around for tea once and she just turned up her nose at everything and made some silly comments about how strange our house was, being non-magic and all. She seemed a little daft, too."

I have to say that I instantly adored Dean's mum.

The shed was a horrible mishmash of old broken Muggle things, just like Dean had promised. We talked as we went through it. "Do you know," I said, trying to sound offhanded, "I saw Seamus and Parvati in Diagon Alley yesterday."

"Oh, no," Dean said sympathetically. "How did they look?"

"Revoltingly happy."

He laughed. "Disgusting, isn't it?"

"Retch-worthy."

It took us some time to find the wheelchair, and, by the time we had it dusted off and placed neatly on the grass, it was nearly noon. It was an old-looking thing, rusted over in places, but it seemed to move okay. I gave it a few test pushes round Dean's garden and gave a joyous laugh. "It's perfect!"

Dean was watching me carefully. "Now are you going to tell me what's happening? I'm starting to think you've gone Arthur Weasley on me."

"Dean, really, it's complicated."

"Complicated things have a way of working out better when there's a friend around to share in them," he said reasonably.

I realised that he had a decent argument, and I did trust Dean not to go running off gossiping. He was always a good sort – a quiet, thoughtful, salt-of-the-earth type. And he did take the time to help me with the chair, even not knowing why I wanted it. "Do you promise not to tell a soul?" I asked fiercely.

"Yes – Lavender, what is it?"

"Well, take hold of the chair," I said. "You'll see when we get to my house." Each of us took hold of one side of the wheelchair, careful not to drop it, and Apparated back to Godric's Hollow, my heart beating all the while. I suppose I shouldn't be telling this story if I'm not going to be completely honest, and, to be completely honest, I was dead scared that Dean or anyone else I told would think I was a complete horrible idiot for getting myself and Firenze into such a muddle.

"Leave the chair here," I told Dean in the living room, and then he followed me into the back garden, where Firenze was still plodding slowly through the book.

Dean froze and stared. I bet he never forgot how embarrassed he'd been, the first day when Firenze had been our professor, and he'd quite idiotically insulted the herd – I mean, everyone knows how prideful centaurs are about themselves. "Lavender, is this—are you—"

"Dean, Firenze. Firenze, Dean," I said wearily.

I went to help Firenze up. "Mr Thomas," he said calmly. "I remember you."

"But – but you're human!" Dean blurted out. I glared at him meaningfully. Apparently ten years hadn't been much a help in How to Speak to Centaurs Tactfully.

"It's a long story, Dean," I said, giving him what I hoped was a passable keep-quiet-for-now look. "Firenze, Dean's brought something to help with your moving about."

The three of us went back inside, Firenze and I clinging together and Dean looking altogether bewildered behind us. With my free hand I indicated the wheelchair. "Ta-da!"

Firenze was baffled. "What is it?"

"You're meant to sit in it," Dean supplied, "and then use your arms to propel yourself around. It's for Muggles – er, that is, non-magic people – who can't walk, as a sort of replacement for their legs."

"I see." Firenze turned his head to look at me expectantly.

I settled him into the chair; he lifted his arms so that they rested above the wheels. "Go on, then," I said. "Give it a try."

He wheeled himself around a little, pushing on the tops of the wheels while his legs rested uselessly. I watched with grudging admiration – the things Muggles can come up with! Which was, of course, a very Arthur Weasley thought. Perhaps Dean was a little right.

Firenze came round to where Dean and I were standing and gave a nearly imperceptible nod, but I could tell he was happier just from the slight changes on his face – fewer pinched stress-lines. "It is acceptable."

"This doesn't mean there'll be no more walking lessons," I cautioned.

The happy changes vanished. I had to stifle a laugh.

Dean was still looking very thunderstruck. "Do you mind, Firenze," he said slowly, as though he were trying to wrap his head round everything, "if I borrow Lavender for a chat out in the garden? You could practise your wheeling a bit more."

Firenze didn't mind. He was actually quite enthralled with the new contraption, running his long fingers over the rusty spokes of the wheels. I suppose it was a bit more like having a horse-body than just having two legs.

As soon as the door closed behind us, Dean spun round and spoke as loudly as he dared, which was really just a loud whisper. "For the love of all that's good and holy, Lavender Brown, you've gotten yourself into a mess. Do you mind telling me exactly how you managed, at this moment, to have an old centaur professor of ours wheeling his human body round the chairs by your fireplace?"

Well, it certainly sounded worse when he put it like that.

I told him the whole story, beginning with Fran's batty research and ending with me bringing an injured Firenze back to my house. My voice only shook when I recounted my conversation with Padear and my almost-death. His mouth dropped further and further; by the end I almost feared he would tip over from the dragging weight of his chin.

"Unbelievable," Dean said.

"You're as great at understatement as I am," I said.

"I've some old clothes he can have," Dean said, of all things. All the incredulement had not yet gone out of his eyes. "And – er – Lavender – perhaps I should help you a little with him."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, look at him! He's dressed in nothing but an over-robe and you have him pretty much housebound!"

"What else was I supposed to do? He's not really that keen on parading in town, in case you couldn't guess! He likes moping! And do you honestly think I want this out? I can see The Quibbler headline now: Centaur-turned-human living in Godric's Hollow, found with crazy witch destined to become mad old cat lady."

Dean's mouth worked a little, but he didn't laugh out loud. "You have a point, but you could still use my help. Don't you have to be at work this evening?"

"Oh – bloody hell!"

"See? And you can't just leave him here bored all the time."

"He seems to like reading," I said defensively. "I can't take him anywhere, really, Dean. If Dumbledore were alive, I could take him to Hogwarts, but I doubt the new people'll have such an open mind about these things."

"Yes, I know," Dean said heavily. "Most wizards aren't too happy about centaurs – ever since what happened in the war. And vice versa. You really are lucky Firenze was there, or else you'd be dead by now."

"I know," I said emphatically. "A million times, I know. But – but people won't understand that it's Firenze, you know. They'll just hear the story and think, oh, another brutal centaur, come to arrow us to death."

"But that doesn't mean I can't give you a hand, Lavender. This seems a terrible thing to have to do alone, and I know it's Firenze and he's not likely to arrow me to death. Besides – you're a girl."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you probably don't want to explain to Firenze the finer details of being a human man." He smiled. "Nor do I think you'll want to show him how to dress properly."

Oh, geez. He was completely and utterly right. I wanted to launch myself at him and give him a great big hug for being so incredibly nice and smart and terrific. "Do you know what, Dean?"

"What?"

"You are the loveliest friend in the whole world."