Chapter One:
A New Life
~When you'd cry I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I've held your hand for all of these years
But you still have all of me~
**My Immortal by Evanescence
Unreal. Everything was just so unreal. Grace never pictured her twenty-four-year-old self as desperately clutching her seven-year-old son in a corner of a Greyhound Station while the boy's father-her cousin's husband-kept her from screaming in terror.
Things had definitely gone downhill. But it could be worse.
"Tom," she breathed when he released her, "For the love of God, don't ever do that again!"
"Sorry," he replied with an apologetic smile. "I guess I'm just on edge, as usual. I didn't expect them to find you so soon here."
"Obviously Indiana isn't safe after all," she sighed. Charlie snorted.
"Well with all due respect Mother, nowhere is safe," he pointed out, as if it should be obvious.
"How right you are," Tom said grimly.
"Isn't Angel at all suspicious? Or Ginny?" Grace asked nervously. "It's the middle of the day in Britain, right?"
"Don't worry about it," Tom said somewhat snappishly.
"It's fine, Mother," Charlie put in reassuringly.
"The next bus is leaving in fifteen minutes, so we'd better get you on it," Tom explained, lifting Grace's suitcase easily. It was too light to hold everything most people owned, but her belongings were always kept to a minimum.
"Where are we going?" she asked calmly, following him.
"Philadelphia," Charlie replied promptly, "He's put a down payment on an apartment a two blocks from a diner. They're hiring."
"It's positively uncanny," Tom said, looking down at his son in surprise. "I'll never get used to it."
"Well Tom, he is the most powerful Divinator in centuries," Grace reminded him, placing a hand on her son's shoulder and smiling proudly. Even with villains right on their tail she could spare one of her rare smiles for Charlie.
"Yes, I know," he replied, ushering them onto the nearly empty bus. He gave the overweight driver the tickets he had already purchased.
"Hey there, mister," the driver snapped, "Don't play the fool with me. There's only two tickets here!"
"I'm just going to get the lady settled," Tom replied smoothly, "And then I'll be leaving."
"I'm watching you," the driver grunted, squinting for effect.
"What name did you give the man for the apartment?" Grace whispered, quickly situating herself, her son, and their luggage.
"Peters," he replied, just as quietly. "Grace Peters,"
"My given name?" she raised an eyebrow.
"Less conspicuous than, say, Guinevere" he shrugged. "You're not the only Grace in the world, you know."
"I rather liked this last identity," Charlie piped up, "Victoria Bliss fits you mother. I've always liked the name Vicky, and I didn't mind being Tony. Better than the that last one, Amelia something."
"Peabody, and everyone called me Lia," Grace rolled her eyes, "Tom, where do you FIND these names?"
"Books," he shrugged, "Books that Angel reads."
"Figures," she muttered darkly. "Where is this apartment? Philadelphia is a bit larger than Granger, you know."
"It's all in here," Tom explained, handing her an envelope. "I don't know about the diner, but I don't see any reason to doubt the lad. He's never been wrong yet."
"Tell me about it," she said with a half smile, "It's difficult to raise the boy who knows everything."
"Hey mister!" the driver snapped from the front. "Are you paying for a ride or what?"
"No, just leaving," Tom said, nodding at Grace and Charlie as he did just that. They watched out the window as the bus began to pull away. One moment he was waving and the next...he was gone.
"I simply cannot wait to Apparate," Charlie declared. "Are you sure its too dangerous to teach me now?"
"Yes," Grace replied wearily.
"But I know I can."
"Charlie,"
"Yes, Mother?"
"Shut up and go to sleep, would you?"
"Yes, Mother."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Charlie couldn't remember when he had first started having visions. They were as much a part of his life as his mother and the moving and the Death Eaters. Suddenly and without warning his vision would cloud completely, and he would see a scene played out before him like clips of a movie. Sometimes he saw the present or the future, but mostly the past.
The visions never took very long, a few moments at most. Sometimes Charlie would live entire lifetimes during five minutes of what he called objective time. And all his memories, including his visions, were stored away in a vault in his mind which he could open and literally relive at any time. In thirty seconds of objective time Charlie could close his eyes and live an entire day of his memory.
For insistence, if someone began speaking to him in Italian Charlie would reach into his memory after every word and look it up in the Italian-English Dictionary he had read when he was five. After a few months the words would come as easily as if they were in his native language and he would be fluent.
By age seven Charlie spoke Italian as well as English, French, Spanish, German, Latin, and Arabic. He had the basics of Chinese and Greek. He had impressed many a stranger in his short life.
Charlie was also a powerful magician although he was rarely allowed to practice the magic he studied so diligently. Grace had scrimped and saved during their first three years in America before finally raising the money to buy Charlie's first wand in Houston, where they had been at the time. The wand was thirteen inches, maple, phoenix tail and the rare Centaur mane. She had also picked up several textbooks on the way. The problem was Charlie digested the knowledge at such an alarming rate that Grace simply could not buy the books fast enough.
At the tender age of seven Charlie was plowing through The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three; Intermediate Transfiguration; Hogwarts: a History; and A Higher Level of Potion Making. He was a master of Occlumency, of course, and had about the same grasp on Legilimency as his mother.
He knew everything about his mother's history. Everything. He kept her updated on the happenings of her family home in Britain, his constant visions and dreams allowing him to check on Ron, Rayven, Angel, James or anyone else she was curious about. He had given her the play-by-play of Angel's two pregnancies, and told many funny stories about young Will and baby Gracie with the detached and somewhat cynical humor of a person four times his age.
In other words, Charlie Weasley was never given a childhood. He carried a grown man's burden, and it was heavier than most "grown men" could imagine.
Grace knew this, and more than anything else it was the reason she cried herself to sleep. It simply wasn't fair that her precious son, the reason she lived and breathed, was not entitled to even a day of the innocence and joy of childhood. Charlie didn't seem to mind, and that somehow made it even worse.
He was right about the diner. He was right about most things. It was infuriating, really, to be constantly corrected on things like grammar by one's seven-year-old child. She'd given up arguing with him long ago, and decided the best reason for any decision was "because I said so!" It was the only way she could get anything done.
She'd also given up on baby-sitters. He infuriated them just as he infuriated her, except they didn't understand him at all. He was even more snobbish to them because he hated the idea of being too young to look after himself. It was true, Charlie was very efficient and able to spend several hours or even days on his own without any supervision.
As of yet, no one had attacked while she was gone. They usually hit in the dead of night, which was convenient really. Charlie always dreamed before they came, giving them enough warning to escape. He had tried to describe the dreams once. They were different, he had said, more like a dramatic novel following the life of a princess named Annabella.
Grace was completely at a loss to why this meant Death Eaters were coming. Tom, however, seemed to understand perfectly. He had confessed that as a child he too had dreamt of Princess Annabella, and explained to Grace that Annabella was the mother to Slytherin's first heir...and theoretical mother to all his heirs following.
Tom. That was yet another mysterious aspect of Grace's life. She had run from Britain with what little money her uncle could spare. She found herself in France for several months. A convent of nuns in a small town in Provence had taken pity on her and kept her safe until Charlie was born.
It was just after Charlie's birth that Tom found her...and kidnapped them both. She had fought as hard as she could, and she hadn't given up her wand yet, but eventually he prevailed. After several hours of conversation she still refused to believe he was not Voldemort, that he had been possessed against his will, and that he only wanted to help take care of Charlie.
It had taken the slaughter of the nuns to convince her of that.
She remembered waking up after an uneasy sleep to see Tom walking in the door of the hotel room he was hiding them in, looking at the front page of the paper grimly. He handed it to her, and she stared. She didn't speak more than the most basic French, but the picture on the front page told her what had happened, and a simple Translation Charm confirmed her worst fears. She had wept, knowing she had brought their deaths.
Damian, Tom explained, it was all Damian. Charlie, being Voldemort's heir, could be possessed just as Tom had been. Damian Flint wanted to find Charlie and raise him to be a Dark Lord, then raise Voldemort from the Dagger and place him in Charlie's small frame at around age seven.
It was then that Grace realized the man was trying to help her, not hurt her. Tom Flint was not the creature that had robbed her virginity that cold January night, he was another, more kindly soul, who felt the guilt weighing down and heard the screams in his mind just as she did. He was just getting his memory back, just remembering all the things he had done as Lord Voldemort, and he wanted to try, somehow, to make it all right. He could not raise the dead. But he could look out for his only son.
Grace hated taking charity from him, but she had little choice. He had warned her that her parents were on the verge of finding a spell that could track her wand, and she would have to snap it. He had found them using an ancient and basically forgotten spell which connected the fathers of the old magical families to their sons, allowing them to find any heirs that had left their homeland. Obviously "homeland" was defined as the land of conception, for Charlie had been in the land of his birth when Tom tracked them down.
In the last seven years Grace had run constantly from Damian. Charlie knew it all, of course, from as soon as he was old enough to talk he understood everything about the situation. Visions and glimpses of the past had made a pretty little story for Charles Weasley, and he was now held a vital role in that story. The next generation, he called it.
He was not stupid enough to look at it as an adventure. He had lived enough previous lives and seen enough death to know what being part of Voldemort's story entailed.
It took them a few days to get settled in the apartment Tom had found for them. It was perfect really. Small, of course, they could afford nothing else. There was the master bedroom for Grace and another bedroom, not much larger than a walk-in closet, for Charlie. There was a kitchen, and a bathroom of course. The kitchen was spacious enough for a small table where the two of them could eat. The living room was the largest room in the apartment, about the size of the den back home in the Haven...stop that, Grace berated herself. Stop thinking about your parents' house as your home. Stop thinking about Britain.
Luckily they didn't have to buy any furniture. Tom had devised a system which magically moved all their furniture (it wasn't much, but it was enough) from one temporary home to another. Everything was ready when they arrived.
It was on the third day after their arrival that Grace went job hunting. Charlie gave her very specific directions to the diner he had mentioned. She would have explored other options first, just to spite him, if the diner hadn't been the closest potential place of employment to their apartment.
The diner was called Melinda's. It was small, barely in business, and perfect. It was a hang out for the locals, specializing in coffee, waffles, and the greasiest burgers in town. She had dressed as nicely as possible, which meant a khaki skirt and soft blue blouse. The outfit was out of place in the dingy, homey diner. A trucker and a couple of high school kids were the only customers when she walked in, all wearing denim. She felt at home immediately.
"Hey lady, are you just going to stand there all day or what?" a youth from behind the counter said. He seemed to be around her age, maybe a bit younger. His hair was the same golden brown of pancakes, his face was lightly dusted with freckles, and his eyes were bright blue. He was scowling.
"I'd like to apply for a job," she answered confidently, stepping forward. It was all about confidence, she reminded herself. God knew she had enough experience with waitressing to be confident by now.
"Here?" he echoed, sounding doubtful as he looked her up and down. She raised an eyebrow and he sighed. "Boss!"
"What is it, Nate?" a woman snapped irritably from somewhere in the kitchen behind.
"Some chick wants a job!" he shouted. A stout, middle-aged woman, presumably "boss", emerged through a door to the left wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair had been in a bun earlier, but most if it was now flyaway, curling straight out from her head like antennas. She had an apron tied around her waist and it had been white at some point in the past.
"You want to apply for a job?" the woman asked, her voice nearly suspicious, as if she didn't believe anyone would willingly seek employment there.
"Yes," Grace replied, nodding. "Unless you're not hiring."
"We're always hiring," the woman replied. She held out her hand. "My name's Molly Buchanon."
"Grace Peters," Grace replied, clasping the proffered hand. Molly's handshake was as strong as a man's. The hands were calloused and sure.
"What hours are you looking for?" she asked without further preamble. Grace, who had been expecting an application form, was somewhat taken aback, but answered without hesitation.
"Full time, whenever you need me," she replied. "I'm always available."
"You've done this before?"
"I have been a waitress and hostess in various restaurants throughout the United States for the last several years," she replied.
"Have you graduated high school?" her keen eyes penetrated through Grace's golden ones. The fatal question. The one that lost her more jobs and opportunities here than any other. She could have lied, but she was sick of lying. She lowered her gaze and answered softly.
"No."
"When can you start working?" the woman replied.
"Tomorrow," Grace replied, trying not to get her hopes up. Molly nodded briskly.
"Be here at six thirty for opening. Nate here will show you the ropes."
"Hey now!" Nate argued. "Damn it, Boss, I've only been here a month and a half myself."
"Pat's taking the week off, so it will just be us three, plus old Jim of course," Molly continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. Grace got the feeling that's how she dealt with most obstacles.
"Jim?" she asked Nate quietly.
"The cook," Nate scowled as if she should have known this, "He's a mute and has a temper only slightly better than a crazed chipmunk."
"Oh," Grace replied, unsure of how to react. Molly ignored their exchange.
"I'll see you tomorrow then, Gabbie," she said, turning away to return to the kitchen
"Grace," she corrected, trying not to sound forceful.
"Grace, right. Sorry," Molly called over her shoulder, "Nate shouldn't you be brewing another pot of joe?" Nate gritted his teeth.
"See you tomorrow morning," Grace said gently.
"Whatever," he replied sullenly, storming off to brew the coffee. With a sigh Grace turned and walked the two blocks back to the apartment.
"What did you think of Nathaniel?" Charlie asked the moment she opened the door.
"Nathaniel?" Grace echoed blankly, tossing her purse into the chair then sinking onto the sofa, as was her habit.
"You call him Nate," Charlie rolled his eyes.
"He was very rude," she replied, not pausing to logic how he knew about Nate. He'd probably known of Nate for years. It was one of the perks of being able to read the future.
"For now," Charlie replied cryptically. Grace rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Grace inspected herself in the bathroom mirror the next morning. Her fiery red hair had been pulled back into a tight bun that she hoped would hold better than Molly's had the day before. She had thrown on her most comfortable pair of jeans and a white blouse. She assumed she would be given an apron and nametag upon her arrival.
It wasn't her best look, but it was comfortable and Grace had become a firm believer in comfort. She threw on a light jacket. It was May, and pleasantly warm in the day time, but the sun had barely risen and it wouldn't do well for her to catch a cold in the first week of her stay in Philadelphia. Throwing the mirror one last glance, she turned and made ready for a new day.
"Good luck, Mother," a small voice from the hall made her jump.
"Charlie!" Grace exclaimed, looking down at her son's blank countenance and biting back her annoyance, "What are you doing awake?"
"Just wanted to wish you luck," he replied. Grace bit her lip...Charlie had never felt the need to wish her luck on a new job before.
"Why?" she asked. It was impossible to obtain answers through subtle hints when dealing with Charlie. He shrugged.
"You and Nate are in for it," he replied. Grace raised her eyebrows, trying to pick apart this enigmatic statement and find the meaning beneath it. "You're going to be late, Mother," he reminded her.
"Right," she nodded. "Good bye, Charlie," she said, kissing his forehead. He allowed this indignity (he would consider it nothing less) without comment, his wide, owlish eyes following her until the apartment door closed behind her.
Grace learned two things in her first full day at Melinda's. Firstly, the busiest hours were morning hours. It seemed to be more of a coffee shop or waffle house than a diner. Secondly, Nate considered her a nuisance. This annoyed Grace to no end. What had she done to him, besides take a job at the same diner? And where did he get off treating her as if she were some sixteen-year-old punk who just dropped out of high school?
The job was basic, like the last ten she had had. The hardest part was getting used to the new slang, learning the new menu, and referring to Coca Cola as 'soda' and not 'pop'. By the end of the week she was feeling pretty confident in her ability to keep a secure job at Melinda's until Damian's next attack or the place went out of business.
The job had one definite perk: down time. She spent more time sitting around behind the counter staring out of the window than waiting on anyone. After three days she began bringing her tattered novels, the ones she had read several times but couldn't part with. Nate scowled when she read, as if it shouldn't be allowed. This only encouraged her further.
She really shouldn't have been teasing the pour kid, but it was so easy! Whenever he was embarrassed his whole face would flush an amazing shade of scarlet. She's never known ANYONE who could blush like that, even James, whose cheeks would sometimes turn the color of brick. She shoved James from her mind.
"What trash are you reading now?" Nate snapped, leaning against the wall behind the counter. After a week he had finally accepted her presence and the fact that she didn't intend on leaving any time in the near future. He tried to leer at her, but a face that innocent wasn't meant for leering. The best he could work up was a friendly scowl.
"It's not trash," Grace informed him haughtily. Eight years of practical poverty had done little to conquer her natural pride. "It's The Scarlet Letter."
It was one of her favorites, a book she had never fully appreciated until her move to America. Hermione had tried to make her read it back in fifth year, and Grace had dropped it after two chapters, finding it incredibly dull. But now she followed Hester Prynne's life diligently. There was something about the Puritan outcast who had committed adultery. There was something about the dedicated mother who only went on living for the sake of her little daughter, her little Pearl. The two cases weren't similar, but there was enough that Grace felt a kinship with Hester. Naturally, she didn't express any of this to Nate, who didn't even know she was a mother, let alone the complicated situation behind it.
"The Scarlet Letter?" he repeated as if she were insane, "I remember reading that in freshman lit. One of the most boring books I was ever forced to read, and that includes Walden. Why the hell are you reading that?"
"It is not boring," she defended staunchly. "Just because delinquent kids like yourself don't appreciate the full message-"
"Please," he rolled his eyes. "So the saintly Minister and the lonely almost certainly widowed wife fell in love and had an affair. What's the big deal?"
Somehow, Grace felt as if he were attacking her personally and not her book. 'So the goody-two-shoes spoiled Gryffindor had the Head Boy's baby? What's the big deal?' She refrained from swearing, but the thoughts caused the very beginnings of tears to well in her eyes. She forced them away-what a silly thing to cry over-but there must have been a change in her expression because Nate's face lost all attempts at scowling or leering and changed to shame and concern.
"I...I didn't think you would be offended..."
"I'm not," Grace argued. He looked doubtful. What an expressive face the boy has! She thought. "I'm really not offended...I mean it's just a book..."
"Well, I mean, you looked upset," he explained uncomfortably, "Sometimes things like books really mean something to people."
"Yeah," Grace replied, amazed that he understood her reaction. He hadn't struck her as the sensitive type. He smiled easily at her.
"I guess we got off on the wrong foot," he said. "So, let's try again," he held out his hand, "Hello, my name is Nate McCoy."
"I'm Grace Peters," she replied, grinning as she shook his hand. Americans were very funny sometimes. "So, I take it Nate is short for Nathaniel?"
"Unfortunately," he made a face and she let out a repressed giggle. They were still shaking hands. He looked down, as if to study their clasped hands. When he finally let go and looked back at her, it was with a curious expression.
"That's an interesting tattoo," he commented, gesturing to her left arm.
Grace felt her blood freeze and repressed the intense urge to press her hand over the Mark and make it disappear. She didn't bother trying to hide it in Muggle America. Even in magical America it wasn't really necessary. Most American wizarding folk wouldn't recognize the Dark Mark if they saw it and if they did they assumed she was starting over and avoided her. No one here really knew the seriousness of the crimes the Mark suggested. Some Muggles even liked the Mark, thinking (like Nate) that it was some kind of original tattoo. At least no one had asked her where she'd had it done so they could get one similar
She suddenly had a vision of giving directions to Flint Manor to an eager American teenaged boy with black fingernails, black lipstick, spiked green hair and several body piercings.
Or not.
The thought helped her force a little laugh. "It is, isn't it? My parents flipped..." Well, that was true.
"I bet," he replied, sounding sad. She was curious, but didn't pursue the matter. "So," he said, changing the subject abruptly, "What are you reading?"
"The Scarlet Letter," she replied. Their one customer had been following the exchange with interest. He rolled his eyes and his gaze shifted to the window. Obviously he didn't like reruns.
"I remember reading that freshman year," Nate informed her once again. "Nathaniel Hawthorne, correct?"
"Yes," she replied, somewhat amazed that he knew the author.
"Just another reason to hate the name Nathaniel," he grinned. She grinned back.
That was the day Grace started her first solid friendship since she had deserted James and Angel eight years before.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"How did you wind up working here, anyway?" Nate asked curiously one afternoon. Grace sighed. She was finally feeling more comfortable with Philadelphia in general, feeling safe leaving Charlie at home every day. She's been there for nearly a month now. Nate was a curious yet cautious friend, who seemed nearly as reluctant to trust fellow humans as she was, almost as if he had seen what they were capable of as she had. She shook the thought from her mind. She wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, let alone innocent, unsuspecting, naïve Nate McCoy.
"I just moved into an apartment a few blocks away," she answered easily. There was no point in lying to the Muggle community about her whereabouts. To do otherwise would have been extremely suspicious.
"I know where you mean," he replied.
"Have you lived around here for a while then?" she asked curiously.
"'Bout three months. I was in New York for a year, but even the Big Apple gets boring eventually," he shrugged. "I usually don't stay anywhere long."
"Why?" she asked, curious. She didn't understand why anyone would willingly move constantly. She wanted nothing more than to settle down permanently. People were like that, she mused, always wanting what they can't have.
He shrugged in response, and Grace didn't push him for answers. She knew what it was like to have secrets, and respected the desire to keep things private.
"Well, you should come around to my place and have dinner some time," Grace said casually. She'd had her first couple paychecks and had already paid the rent and bought some groceries. Grace usually spent any spare money on Charlie and his education, and after that she gave to the poor. It was a way of trying to give back to the world, she supposed, some silly urge to repay it for the lives she had taken. She was feeling generous and she had decided she liked Nate. She wondered what Charlie would think of THAT.
"I wouldn't want to intrude," Nate replied, his cheeks reddening.
"You wouldn't be," she assured him, "I wouldn't be making anything fancy, but at least you wouldn't be eating alone."
He was a bachelor. Anyone with rudimentary intelligence would have figured that out by now. Her comment had the desired effect.
"Well...some day," he replied. "When I can do the same."
"What are you talking about?" she asked, frowning. He gave a full blush that time, his entire face becoming that unique shade of vermilion. However, he was saved by the opening of the door and a local couple came wandering in. Grace recognized them immediately, seeing as they ate at Melinda's once a week because the husband loved Jim's onion rings. Grace hurried over to hand them menus and silverware and take drink orders. But her mind was still brooding over Nate.
They had been working the afternoon shift. Pat had returned, taking over her usual morning shift. Pat was an interesting character, to say the least. She was short and a little plump with frizzing gray hair. She worried that everyone she met was too thin, especially Grace and Nate, who were both lean due to body type and low income. She had a motherly air that reminded Grace of her grandmother back in the Burrow. She also had a mother's temper, and when things weren't going her way she would explode into fast and garbled Polish. She was well-liked by the customers and by Nate and Grace despite the Polish and was possibly the only person on earth Jim would tolerate for more than a few moments.
Pat was not Grace's problem. Nate was obviously ashamed of something...he wore his heart on his sleeve. Carefully going over their conversation and wishing she had Charlie's ability to relive it completely she came to the conclusion it had something to do with his living arrangements. This stirred her curiosity intensely.
Grace Weasley had developed a nasty suspicious mind. She realized now that Nate's calm demeanor and easy smiles and blushes and mishaps may have put her off her guard. She was about to let him into her house...what if he was going to use that invitation later after he had developed a plan? If he was in contact with Damian...it was crazy, of course, but she knew she wasn't the only witch pretending to be a Muggle. If Nate was really an enemy she had unwittingly given him the opportunity he needed.
She kept from swearing at her own stupidity. People were not to be trusted, and one day she would remember it. There was nothing for it; she would have to find out where he was staying so she could keep an eye on him. If Damian was cooking up a plot she would have to get in touch with Tom and move again, but it would be worth it. Anything to protect Charlie.
Perhaps she should have waited, but Grace had never been patient. The two of them closed the diner by themselves. Jim always left the minute they officially closed, and of course Pat and Molly were already home. They said friendly goodbyes and parted their separate ways: Nate going north and Grace going south. Grace ducked into an alley and watched his retreating form. He turned right at the end of the block.
She followed him. She knew she looked ridiculous, but she didn't much care. She hated to suspect Nate, she really did, but she trusted no one with Charlie's potential safety.
She followed Nate for a good ten-minute stroll before he finally reached a door he pulled open and entered. Grace was about to follow him inside when she stopped and read the sign above the door.
The Center for the Homeless.
She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She just stood there for a moment, staring. That's why he was ashamed, why he said he would wait until he could do the same...as in invite her to his home. But he didn't HAVE a home, which was the whole problem!
She starting to feel ashamed of herself even beginning to associate Nate with Damian... he was the only person she had met in the last eight years who even slightly cared about her. She was just going to turn and begin to walk home when the door opened and Nate stepped out.
She had no idea what had compelled him to come back outside, but his stare was focused on her, his cheeks red with shame and anger, his blue eyes flashing. Grace felt her own cheeks flush, realizing she'd been caught.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly, as if he were fighting to keep himself from yelling.
"I..." Grace tried to come up with a plausible story, stuttering in the process. "I was just...I mean, I wanted to know..."
"Well, you know now, okay?" he snapped, looking more angry than she had ever seen him. "I almost have enough money to get the hell out of here so why don't you just leave me alone about it, okay? I'm working, as you should know, and I'm not buying crack or booze, if that's what you think."
"No!" she cried, "No, that's not what I thought at all!"
"Then why are you here?" he cried.
"I just wanted to know what you meant and why you were so nervous about coming over," she answered miserably. It was the closest thing to the truth she could reveal and the only story she could think up. "Nate, there's no need to be ashamed-"
"Bullshit, Grace!" he yelled. She cringed. He was right.
"Look, I would be in there too if I didn't have a...a relative who helps me along," she tried to explain.
"Well, its good that your parents can help you out," he snarled, "Mine are dead."
The words rang through the empty street. Grace closed her eyes against the pain. So that was why he moved so often. An orphan. So many things suddenly made sense.
"My parents are alive," Grace replied softly, "But they disowned me. The man who helps me is my son's father."
"Your son?" he echoed, sounding as confused as she felt. She sighed.
"I ran away from home," she explained. She felt as if a dam had burst in her mind and she babbled with the relief. "I grew up in England, but I got involved with a gang and got pregnant...my parents didn't want anything to do with me."
Well, that wasn't true. But it was the best Muggle parallel she could come up with on the spot.
"Look Nate," she continued, "My point is you can't do it alone. Get out of poverty, that is. I would still be in the slums of France without...without my son's father's help. I just want to help you."
"How can you help me?" he asked, his eyes blank as if he couldn't believe he was actually having this conversation. Grace sympathized with the feeling.
"I have a couch," she replied. He started to protest, but she cut him off, "No, Nate, really. Just until you get on your feet. You can help me pay for the rent, if it makes you feel better. It will be easier for both of us, if you think about it."
"Grace I...as tempting as that offer is I can't-"
"Please," she begged, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the desire to help him. "Please, Nate. Just for a little while, just try it. Meet Charlie. I'm sure he would love you."
"Charlie?" Nate echoed.
"My son," she replied. "Please, Nate?"
"I...I..."
"Just for a few weeks, at least? Just to see what happens?"
"I...fine. Alright, if you're that stubborn about it. Let me get together what I have."
"Good," she replied, nodding as he went inside. She smiled. It felt good to be able to help people without killing others.
The walk back to the apartment was mostly silent. Grace wasn't sure what to say and Nate seemed to be wondering if he should regret this decision. Grace was familiar with how it felt to take charity from people. He didn't like it any more than she did.
The apartment was on the second floor. She reached into her purse to search for a key when the door opened.
"Good evening, Mother. Good evening, Mr. McCoy," Charlie said, nodding his head to both of them. He didn't seem surprised in the slightest to see Nate. Grace gritted her teeth. Of course he wouldn't be surprised. He must have known this was going to happen.
"Hello," Nate replied, smiling, "You must be Charlie," he continued in the condescending tone most childless adults use to speak to young children. It was the tone Charlie used to address most adults. Grace rolled her eyes and swept inside, letting her purse fall.
"I've taken it upon myself to make dinner," Charlie said once everyone was inside and he had shut and locked the door. Nate looked surprised, but Grace hardly acknowledged this. Charlie was a better cook than she was. He had the advantage of being able to memorize cook books and cooking shows. "It will be done shortly," Charlie continued, before turning and trotting into the kitchen.
"Are you sure that's wise?" Nate asked concernedly, "Letting him cook all alone like that? And where's the baby-sitter?"
"Charlie is a wonderful cook and quite competent in the kitchen," Grace replied, "And I can't afford a baby-sitter. Besides, Charlie hates them."
"Oh," Nate replied. "But doesn't he go to school?"
"He's home-schooled," Grace replied, releasing for the first time how difficult it would be to explain Charlie's spellbooks, cauldron and wand. "He's very intelligent," she continued.
"I'm sure he is," Nate smiled. Grace considered the smile a challenge.
"Charlie!" she called.
"Yes, Mother?" Charlie asked, appearing at the door.
"Recite the quadratic formula, please," she instructed.
"X is negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus four (ac) over two a." Charlie ranted.
"What Shakespeare have you read lately?" she continued sweetly as Nate's eyes widened.
"You know very well I've read everything by Shakespeare," Charlie replied. "I was rereading Hamlet last week, and my opinion hasn't changed. He's a selfish prig. 'I must cruel if only to be kind' indeed!"
"Can you recite to periodic table, please?"
"Mother," Charlie replied, sounding torn between amusement and annoyance, "Are you trying to show me off?"
"Just do it," she snapped. He sighed.
"Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Berylium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Flourine, Neon, Sodium, Magnesium..."
Nate stared. Grace smirked. Charlie rolled his eyes. It made an oddly domestic scene. It was a strange family unit, really. Nate immediately decided both Grace and Charlie were completely insane. He also decided that he wouldn't mind being insane with them.
A New Life
~When you'd cry I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I've held your hand for all of these years
But you still have all of me~
**My Immortal by Evanescence
Unreal. Everything was just so unreal. Grace never pictured her twenty-four-year-old self as desperately clutching her seven-year-old son in a corner of a Greyhound Station while the boy's father-her cousin's husband-kept her from screaming in terror.
Things had definitely gone downhill. But it could be worse.
"Tom," she breathed when he released her, "For the love of God, don't ever do that again!"
"Sorry," he replied with an apologetic smile. "I guess I'm just on edge, as usual. I didn't expect them to find you so soon here."
"Obviously Indiana isn't safe after all," she sighed. Charlie snorted.
"Well with all due respect Mother, nowhere is safe," he pointed out, as if it should be obvious.
"How right you are," Tom said grimly.
"Isn't Angel at all suspicious? Or Ginny?" Grace asked nervously. "It's the middle of the day in Britain, right?"
"Don't worry about it," Tom said somewhat snappishly.
"It's fine, Mother," Charlie put in reassuringly.
"The next bus is leaving in fifteen minutes, so we'd better get you on it," Tom explained, lifting Grace's suitcase easily. It was too light to hold everything most people owned, but her belongings were always kept to a minimum.
"Where are we going?" she asked calmly, following him.
"Philadelphia," Charlie replied promptly, "He's put a down payment on an apartment a two blocks from a diner. They're hiring."
"It's positively uncanny," Tom said, looking down at his son in surprise. "I'll never get used to it."
"Well Tom, he is the most powerful Divinator in centuries," Grace reminded him, placing a hand on her son's shoulder and smiling proudly. Even with villains right on their tail she could spare one of her rare smiles for Charlie.
"Yes, I know," he replied, ushering them onto the nearly empty bus. He gave the overweight driver the tickets he had already purchased.
"Hey there, mister," the driver snapped, "Don't play the fool with me. There's only two tickets here!"
"I'm just going to get the lady settled," Tom replied smoothly, "And then I'll be leaving."
"I'm watching you," the driver grunted, squinting for effect.
"What name did you give the man for the apartment?" Grace whispered, quickly situating herself, her son, and their luggage.
"Peters," he replied, just as quietly. "Grace Peters,"
"My given name?" she raised an eyebrow.
"Less conspicuous than, say, Guinevere" he shrugged. "You're not the only Grace in the world, you know."
"I rather liked this last identity," Charlie piped up, "Victoria Bliss fits you mother. I've always liked the name Vicky, and I didn't mind being Tony. Better than the that last one, Amelia something."
"Peabody, and everyone called me Lia," Grace rolled her eyes, "Tom, where do you FIND these names?"
"Books," he shrugged, "Books that Angel reads."
"Figures," she muttered darkly. "Where is this apartment? Philadelphia is a bit larger than Granger, you know."
"It's all in here," Tom explained, handing her an envelope. "I don't know about the diner, but I don't see any reason to doubt the lad. He's never been wrong yet."
"Tell me about it," she said with a half smile, "It's difficult to raise the boy who knows everything."
"Hey mister!" the driver snapped from the front. "Are you paying for a ride or what?"
"No, just leaving," Tom said, nodding at Grace and Charlie as he did just that. They watched out the window as the bus began to pull away. One moment he was waving and the next...he was gone.
"I simply cannot wait to Apparate," Charlie declared. "Are you sure its too dangerous to teach me now?"
"Yes," Grace replied wearily.
"But I know I can."
"Charlie,"
"Yes, Mother?"
"Shut up and go to sleep, would you?"
"Yes, Mother."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Charlie couldn't remember when he had first started having visions. They were as much a part of his life as his mother and the moving and the Death Eaters. Suddenly and without warning his vision would cloud completely, and he would see a scene played out before him like clips of a movie. Sometimes he saw the present or the future, but mostly the past.
The visions never took very long, a few moments at most. Sometimes Charlie would live entire lifetimes during five minutes of what he called objective time. And all his memories, including his visions, were stored away in a vault in his mind which he could open and literally relive at any time. In thirty seconds of objective time Charlie could close his eyes and live an entire day of his memory.
For insistence, if someone began speaking to him in Italian Charlie would reach into his memory after every word and look it up in the Italian-English Dictionary he had read when he was five. After a few months the words would come as easily as if they were in his native language and he would be fluent.
By age seven Charlie spoke Italian as well as English, French, Spanish, German, Latin, and Arabic. He had the basics of Chinese and Greek. He had impressed many a stranger in his short life.
Charlie was also a powerful magician although he was rarely allowed to practice the magic he studied so diligently. Grace had scrimped and saved during their first three years in America before finally raising the money to buy Charlie's first wand in Houston, where they had been at the time. The wand was thirteen inches, maple, phoenix tail and the rare Centaur mane. She had also picked up several textbooks on the way. The problem was Charlie digested the knowledge at such an alarming rate that Grace simply could not buy the books fast enough.
At the tender age of seven Charlie was plowing through The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three; Intermediate Transfiguration; Hogwarts: a History; and A Higher Level of Potion Making. He was a master of Occlumency, of course, and had about the same grasp on Legilimency as his mother.
He knew everything about his mother's history. Everything. He kept her updated on the happenings of her family home in Britain, his constant visions and dreams allowing him to check on Ron, Rayven, Angel, James or anyone else she was curious about. He had given her the play-by-play of Angel's two pregnancies, and told many funny stories about young Will and baby Gracie with the detached and somewhat cynical humor of a person four times his age.
In other words, Charlie Weasley was never given a childhood. He carried a grown man's burden, and it was heavier than most "grown men" could imagine.
Grace knew this, and more than anything else it was the reason she cried herself to sleep. It simply wasn't fair that her precious son, the reason she lived and breathed, was not entitled to even a day of the innocence and joy of childhood. Charlie didn't seem to mind, and that somehow made it even worse.
He was right about the diner. He was right about most things. It was infuriating, really, to be constantly corrected on things like grammar by one's seven-year-old child. She'd given up arguing with him long ago, and decided the best reason for any decision was "because I said so!" It was the only way she could get anything done.
She'd also given up on baby-sitters. He infuriated them just as he infuriated her, except they didn't understand him at all. He was even more snobbish to them because he hated the idea of being too young to look after himself. It was true, Charlie was very efficient and able to spend several hours or even days on his own without any supervision.
As of yet, no one had attacked while she was gone. They usually hit in the dead of night, which was convenient really. Charlie always dreamed before they came, giving them enough warning to escape. He had tried to describe the dreams once. They were different, he had said, more like a dramatic novel following the life of a princess named Annabella.
Grace was completely at a loss to why this meant Death Eaters were coming. Tom, however, seemed to understand perfectly. He had confessed that as a child he too had dreamt of Princess Annabella, and explained to Grace that Annabella was the mother to Slytherin's first heir...and theoretical mother to all his heirs following.
Tom. That was yet another mysterious aspect of Grace's life. She had run from Britain with what little money her uncle could spare. She found herself in France for several months. A convent of nuns in a small town in Provence had taken pity on her and kept her safe until Charlie was born.
It was just after Charlie's birth that Tom found her...and kidnapped them both. She had fought as hard as she could, and she hadn't given up her wand yet, but eventually he prevailed. After several hours of conversation she still refused to believe he was not Voldemort, that he had been possessed against his will, and that he only wanted to help take care of Charlie.
It had taken the slaughter of the nuns to convince her of that.
She remembered waking up after an uneasy sleep to see Tom walking in the door of the hotel room he was hiding them in, looking at the front page of the paper grimly. He handed it to her, and she stared. She didn't speak more than the most basic French, but the picture on the front page told her what had happened, and a simple Translation Charm confirmed her worst fears. She had wept, knowing she had brought their deaths.
Damian, Tom explained, it was all Damian. Charlie, being Voldemort's heir, could be possessed just as Tom had been. Damian Flint wanted to find Charlie and raise him to be a Dark Lord, then raise Voldemort from the Dagger and place him in Charlie's small frame at around age seven.
It was then that Grace realized the man was trying to help her, not hurt her. Tom Flint was not the creature that had robbed her virginity that cold January night, he was another, more kindly soul, who felt the guilt weighing down and heard the screams in his mind just as she did. He was just getting his memory back, just remembering all the things he had done as Lord Voldemort, and he wanted to try, somehow, to make it all right. He could not raise the dead. But he could look out for his only son.
Grace hated taking charity from him, but she had little choice. He had warned her that her parents were on the verge of finding a spell that could track her wand, and she would have to snap it. He had found them using an ancient and basically forgotten spell which connected the fathers of the old magical families to their sons, allowing them to find any heirs that had left their homeland. Obviously "homeland" was defined as the land of conception, for Charlie had been in the land of his birth when Tom tracked them down.
In the last seven years Grace had run constantly from Damian. Charlie knew it all, of course, from as soon as he was old enough to talk he understood everything about the situation. Visions and glimpses of the past had made a pretty little story for Charles Weasley, and he was now held a vital role in that story. The next generation, he called it.
He was not stupid enough to look at it as an adventure. He had lived enough previous lives and seen enough death to know what being part of Voldemort's story entailed.
It took them a few days to get settled in the apartment Tom had found for them. It was perfect really. Small, of course, they could afford nothing else. There was the master bedroom for Grace and another bedroom, not much larger than a walk-in closet, for Charlie. There was a kitchen, and a bathroom of course. The kitchen was spacious enough for a small table where the two of them could eat. The living room was the largest room in the apartment, about the size of the den back home in the Haven...stop that, Grace berated herself. Stop thinking about your parents' house as your home. Stop thinking about Britain.
Luckily they didn't have to buy any furniture. Tom had devised a system which magically moved all their furniture (it wasn't much, but it was enough) from one temporary home to another. Everything was ready when they arrived.
It was on the third day after their arrival that Grace went job hunting. Charlie gave her very specific directions to the diner he had mentioned. She would have explored other options first, just to spite him, if the diner hadn't been the closest potential place of employment to their apartment.
The diner was called Melinda's. It was small, barely in business, and perfect. It was a hang out for the locals, specializing in coffee, waffles, and the greasiest burgers in town. She had dressed as nicely as possible, which meant a khaki skirt and soft blue blouse. The outfit was out of place in the dingy, homey diner. A trucker and a couple of high school kids were the only customers when she walked in, all wearing denim. She felt at home immediately.
"Hey lady, are you just going to stand there all day or what?" a youth from behind the counter said. He seemed to be around her age, maybe a bit younger. His hair was the same golden brown of pancakes, his face was lightly dusted with freckles, and his eyes were bright blue. He was scowling.
"I'd like to apply for a job," she answered confidently, stepping forward. It was all about confidence, she reminded herself. God knew she had enough experience with waitressing to be confident by now.
"Here?" he echoed, sounding doubtful as he looked her up and down. She raised an eyebrow and he sighed. "Boss!"
"What is it, Nate?" a woman snapped irritably from somewhere in the kitchen behind.
"Some chick wants a job!" he shouted. A stout, middle-aged woman, presumably "boss", emerged through a door to the left wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair had been in a bun earlier, but most if it was now flyaway, curling straight out from her head like antennas. She had an apron tied around her waist and it had been white at some point in the past.
"You want to apply for a job?" the woman asked, her voice nearly suspicious, as if she didn't believe anyone would willingly seek employment there.
"Yes," Grace replied, nodding. "Unless you're not hiring."
"We're always hiring," the woman replied. She held out her hand. "My name's Molly Buchanon."
"Grace Peters," Grace replied, clasping the proffered hand. Molly's handshake was as strong as a man's. The hands were calloused and sure.
"What hours are you looking for?" she asked without further preamble. Grace, who had been expecting an application form, was somewhat taken aback, but answered without hesitation.
"Full time, whenever you need me," she replied. "I'm always available."
"You've done this before?"
"I have been a waitress and hostess in various restaurants throughout the United States for the last several years," she replied.
"Have you graduated high school?" her keen eyes penetrated through Grace's golden ones. The fatal question. The one that lost her more jobs and opportunities here than any other. She could have lied, but she was sick of lying. She lowered her gaze and answered softly.
"No."
"When can you start working?" the woman replied.
"Tomorrow," Grace replied, trying not to get her hopes up. Molly nodded briskly.
"Be here at six thirty for opening. Nate here will show you the ropes."
"Hey now!" Nate argued. "Damn it, Boss, I've only been here a month and a half myself."
"Pat's taking the week off, so it will just be us three, plus old Jim of course," Molly continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. Grace got the feeling that's how she dealt with most obstacles.
"Jim?" she asked Nate quietly.
"The cook," Nate scowled as if she should have known this, "He's a mute and has a temper only slightly better than a crazed chipmunk."
"Oh," Grace replied, unsure of how to react. Molly ignored their exchange.
"I'll see you tomorrow then, Gabbie," she said, turning away to return to the kitchen
"Grace," she corrected, trying not to sound forceful.
"Grace, right. Sorry," Molly called over her shoulder, "Nate shouldn't you be brewing another pot of joe?" Nate gritted his teeth.
"See you tomorrow morning," Grace said gently.
"Whatever," he replied sullenly, storming off to brew the coffee. With a sigh Grace turned and walked the two blocks back to the apartment.
"What did you think of Nathaniel?" Charlie asked the moment she opened the door.
"Nathaniel?" Grace echoed blankly, tossing her purse into the chair then sinking onto the sofa, as was her habit.
"You call him Nate," Charlie rolled his eyes.
"He was very rude," she replied, not pausing to logic how he knew about Nate. He'd probably known of Nate for years. It was one of the perks of being able to read the future.
"For now," Charlie replied cryptically. Grace rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Grace inspected herself in the bathroom mirror the next morning. Her fiery red hair had been pulled back into a tight bun that she hoped would hold better than Molly's had the day before. She had thrown on her most comfortable pair of jeans and a white blouse. She assumed she would be given an apron and nametag upon her arrival.
It wasn't her best look, but it was comfortable and Grace had become a firm believer in comfort. She threw on a light jacket. It was May, and pleasantly warm in the day time, but the sun had barely risen and it wouldn't do well for her to catch a cold in the first week of her stay in Philadelphia. Throwing the mirror one last glance, she turned and made ready for a new day.
"Good luck, Mother," a small voice from the hall made her jump.
"Charlie!" Grace exclaimed, looking down at her son's blank countenance and biting back her annoyance, "What are you doing awake?"
"Just wanted to wish you luck," he replied. Grace bit her lip...Charlie had never felt the need to wish her luck on a new job before.
"Why?" she asked. It was impossible to obtain answers through subtle hints when dealing with Charlie. He shrugged.
"You and Nate are in for it," he replied. Grace raised her eyebrows, trying to pick apart this enigmatic statement and find the meaning beneath it. "You're going to be late, Mother," he reminded her.
"Right," she nodded. "Good bye, Charlie," she said, kissing his forehead. He allowed this indignity (he would consider it nothing less) without comment, his wide, owlish eyes following her until the apartment door closed behind her.
Grace learned two things in her first full day at Melinda's. Firstly, the busiest hours were morning hours. It seemed to be more of a coffee shop or waffle house than a diner. Secondly, Nate considered her a nuisance. This annoyed Grace to no end. What had she done to him, besides take a job at the same diner? And where did he get off treating her as if she were some sixteen-year-old punk who just dropped out of high school?
The job was basic, like the last ten she had had. The hardest part was getting used to the new slang, learning the new menu, and referring to Coca Cola as 'soda' and not 'pop'. By the end of the week she was feeling pretty confident in her ability to keep a secure job at Melinda's until Damian's next attack or the place went out of business.
The job had one definite perk: down time. She spent more time sitting around behind the counter staring out of the window than waiting on anyone. After three days she began bringing her tattered novels, the ones she had read several times but couldn't part with. Nate scowled when she read, as if it shouldn't be allowed. This only encouraged her further.
She really shouldn't have been teasing the pour kid, but it was so easy! Whenever he was embarrassed his whole face would flush an amazing shade of scarlet. She's never known ANYONE who could blush like that, even James, whose cheeks would sometimes turn the color of brick. She shoved James from her mind.
"What trash are you reading now?" Nate snapped, leaning against the wall behind the counter. After a week he had finally accepted her presence and the fact that she didn't intend on leaving any time in the near future. He tried to leer at her, but a face that innocent wasn't meant for leering. The best he could work up was a friendly scowl.
"It's not trash," Grace informed him haughtily. Eight years of practical poverty had done little to conquer her natural pride. "It's The Scarlet Letter."
It was one of her favorites, a book she had never fully appreciated until her move to America. Hermione had tried to make her read it back in fifth year, and Grace had dropped it after two chapters, finding it incredibly dull. But now she followed Hester Prynne's life diligently. There was something about the Puritan outcast who had committed adultery. There was something about the dedicated mother who only went on living for the sake of her little daughter, her little Pearl. The two cases weren't similar, but there was enough that Grace felt a kinship with Hester. Naturally, she didn't express any of this to Nate, who didn't even know she was a mother, let alone the complicated situation behind it.
"The Scarlet Letter?" he repeated as if she were insane, "I remember reading that in freshman lit. One of the most boring books I was ever forced to read, and that includes Walden. Why the hell are you reading that?"
"It is not boring," she defended staunchly. "Just because delinquent kids like yourself don't appreciate the full message-"
"Please," he rolled his eyes. "So the saintly Minister and the lonely almost certainly widowed wife fell in love and had an affair. What's the big deal?"
Somehow, Grace felt as if he were attacking her personally and not her book. 'So the goody-two-shoes spoiled Gryffindor had the Head Boy's baby? What's the big deal?' She refrained from swearing, but the thoughts caused the very beginnings of tears to well in her eyes. She forced them away-what a silly thing to cry over-but there must have been a change in her expression because Nate's face lost all attempts at scowling or leering and changed to shame and concern.
"I...I didn't think you would be offended..."
"I'm not," Grace argued. He looked doubtful. What an expressive face the boy has! She thought. "I'm really not offended...I mean it's just a book..."
"Well, I mean, you looked upset," he explained uncomfortably, "Sometimes things like books really mean something to people."
"Yeah," Grace replied, amazed that he understood her reaction. He hadn't struck her as the sensitive type. He smiled easily at her.
"I guess we got off on the wrong foot," he said. "So, let's try again," he held out his hand, "Hello, my name is Nate McCoy."
"I'm Grace Peters," she replied, grinning as she shook his hand. Americans were very funny sometimes. "So, I take it Nate is short for Nathaniel?"
"Unfortunately," he made a face and she let out a repressed giggle. They were still shaking hands. He looked down, as if to study their clasped hands. When he finally let go and looked back at her, it was with a curious expression.
"That's an interesting tattoo," he commented, gesturing to her left arm.
Grace felt her blood freeze and repressed the intense urge to press her hand over the Mark and make it disappear. She didn't bother trying to hide it in Muggle America. Even in magical America it wasn't really necessary. Most American wizarding folk wouldn't recognize the Dark Mark if they saw it and if they did they assumed she was starting over and avoided her. No one here really knew the seriousness of the crimes the Mark suggested. Some Muggles even liked the Mark, thinking (like Nate) that it was some kind of original tattoo. At least no one had asked her where she'd had it done so they could get one similar
She suddenly had a vision of giving directions to Flint Manor to an eager American teenaged boy with black fingernails, black lipstick, spiked green hair and several body piercings.
Or not.
The thought helped her force a little laugh. "It is, isn't it? My parents flipped..." Well, that was true.
"I bet," he replied, sounding sad. She was curious, but didn't pursue the matter. "So," he said, changing the subject abruptly, "What are you reading?"
"The Scarlet Letter," she replied. Their one customer had been following the exchange with interest. He rolled his eyes and his gaze shifted to the window. Obviously he didn't like reruns.
"I remember reading that freshman year," Nate informed her once again. "Nathaniel Hawthorne, correct?"
"Yes," she replied, somewhat amazed that he knew the author.
"Just another reason to hate the name Nathaniel," he grinned. She grinned back.
That was the day Grace started her first solid friendship since she had deserted James and Angel eight years before.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"How did you wind up working here, anyway?" Nate asked curiously one afternoon. Grace sighed. She was finally feeling more comfortable with Philadelphia in general, feeling safe leaving Charlie at home every day. She's been there for nearly a month now. Nate was a curious yet cautious friend, who seemed nearly as reluctant to trust fellow humans as she was, almost as if he had seen what they were capable of as she had. She shook the thought from her mind. She wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, let alone innocent, unsuspecting, naïve Nate McCoy.
"I just moved into an apartment a few blocks away," she answered easily. There was no point in lying to the Muggle community about her whereabouts. To do otherwise would have been extremely suspicious.
"I know where you mean," he replied.
"Have you lived around here for a while then?" she asked curiously.
"'Bout three months. I was in New York for a year, but even the Big Apple gets boring eventually," he shrugged. "I usually don't stay anywhere long."
"Why?" she asked, curious. She didn't understand why anyone would willingly move constantly. She wanted nothing more than to settle down permanently. People were like that, she mused, always wanting what they can't have.
He shrugged in response, and Grace didn't push him for answers. She knew what it was like to have secrets, and respected the desire to keep things private.
"Well, you should come around to my place and have dinner some time," Grace said casually. She'd had her first couple paychecks and had already paid the rent and bought some groceries. Grace usually spent any spare money on Charlie and his education, and after that she gave to the poor. It was a way of trying to give back to the world, she supposed, some silly urge to repay it for the lives she had taken. She was feeling generous and she had decided she liked Nate. She wondered what Charlie would think of THAT.
"I wouldn't want to intrude," Nate replied, his cheeks reddening.
"You wouldn't be," she assured him, "I wouldn't be making anything fancy, but at least you wouldn't be eating alone."
He was a bachelor. Anyone with rudimentary intelligence would have figured that out by now. Her comment had the desired effect.
"Well...some day," he replied. "When I can do the same."
"What are you talking about?" she asked, frowning. He gave a full blush that time, his entire face becoming that unique shade of vermilion. However, he was saved by the opening of the door and a local couple came wandering in. Grace recognized them immediately, seeing as they ate at Melinda's once a week because the husband loved Jim's onion rings. Grace hurried over to hand them menus and silverware and take drink orders. But her mind was still brooding over Nate.
They had been working the afternoon shift. Pat had returned, taking over her usual morning shift. Pat was an interesting character, to say the least. She was short and a little plump with frizzing gray hair. She worried that everyone she met was too thin, especially Grace and Nate, who were both lean due to body type and low income. She had a motherly air that reminded Grace of her grandmother back in the Burrow. She also had a mother's temper, and when things weren't going her way she would explode into fast and garbled Polish. She was well-liked by the customers and by Nate and Grace despite the Polish and was possibly the only person on earth Jim would tolerate for more than a few moments.
Pat was not Grace's problem. Nate was obviously ashamed of something...he wore his heart on his sleeve. Carefully going over their conversation and wishing she had Charlie's ability to relive it completely she came to the conclusion it had something to do with his living arrangements. This stirred her curiosity intensely.
Grace Weasley had developed a nasty suspicious mind. She realized now that Nate's calm demeanor and easy smiles and blushes and mishaps may have put her off her guard. She was about to let him into her house...what if he was going to use that invitation later after he had developed a plan? If he was in contact with Damian...it was crazy, of course, but she knew she wasn't the only witch pretending to be a Muggle. If Nate was really an enemy she had unwittingly given him the opportunity he needed.
She kept from swearing at her own stupidity. People were not to be trusted, and one day she would remember it. There was nothing for it; she would have to find out where he was staying so she could keep an eye on him. If Damian was cooking up a plot she would have to get in touch with Tom and move again, but it would be worth it. Anything to protect Charlie.
Perhaps she should have waited, but Grace had never been patient. The two of them closed the diner by themselves. Jim always left the minute they officially closed, and of course Pat and Molly were already home. They said friendly goodbyes and parted their separate ways: Nate going north and Grace going south. Grace ducked into an alley and watched his retreating form. He turned right at the end of the block.
She followed him. She knew she looked ridiculous, but she didn't much care. She hated to suspect Nate, she really did, but she trusted no one with Charlie's potential safety.
She followed Nate for a good ten-minute stroll before he finally reached a door he pulled open and entered. Grace was about to follow him inside when she stopped and read the sign above the door.
The Center for the Homeless.
She felt as if she'd been punched in the stomach. She just stood there for a moment, staring. That's why he was ashamed, why he said he would wait until he could do the same...as in invite her to his home. But he didn't HAVE a home, which was the whole problem!
She starting to feel ashamed of herself even beginning to associate Nate with Damian... he was the only person she had met in the last eight years who even slightly cared about her. She was just going to turn and begin to walk home when the door opened and Nate stepped out.
She had no idea what had compelled him to come back outside, but his stare was focused on her, his cheeks red with shame and anger, his blue eyes flashing. Grace felt her own cheeks flush, realizing she'd been caught.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly, as if he were fighting to keep himself from yelling.
"I..." Grace tried to come up with a plausible story, stuttering in the process. "I was just...I mean, I wanted to know..."
"Well, you know now, okay?" he snapped, looking more angry than she had ever seen him. "I almost have enough money to get the hell out of here so why don't you just leave me alone about it, okay? I'm working, as you should know, and I'm not buying crack or booze, if that's what you think."
"No!" she cried, "No, that's not what I thought at all!"
"Then why are you here?" he cried.
"I just wanted to know what you meant and why you were so nervous about coming over," she answered miserably. It was the closest thing to the truth she could reveal and the only story she could think up. "Nate, there's no need to be ashamed-"
"Bullshit, Grace!" he yelled. She cringed. He was right.
"Look, I would be in there too if I didn't have a...a relative who helps me along," she tried to explain.
"Well, its good that your parents can help you out," he snarled, "Mine are dead."
The words rang through the empty street. Grace closed her eyes against the pain. So that was why he moved so often. An orphan. So many things suddenly made sense.
"My parents are alive," Grace replied softly, "But they disowned me. The man who helps me is my son's father."
"Your son?" he echoed, sounding as confused as she felt. She sighed.
"I ran away from home," she explained. She felt as if a dam had burst in her mind and she babbled with the relief. "I grew up in England, but I got involved with a gang and got pregnant...my parents didn't want anything to do with me."
Well, that wasn't true. But it was the best Muggle parallel she could come up with on the spot.
"Look Nate," she continued, "My point is you can't do it alone. Get out of poverty, that is. I would still be in the slums of France without...without my son's father's help. I just want to help you."
"How can you help me?" he asked, his eyes blank as if he couldn't believe he was actually having this conversation. Grace sympathized with the feeling.
"I have a couch," she replied. He started to protest, but she cut him off, "No, Nate, really. Just until you get on your feet. You can help me pay for the rent, if it makes you feel better. It will be easier for both of us, if you think about it."
"Grace I...as tempting as that offer is I can't-"
"Please," she begged, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the desire to help him. "Please, Nate. Just for a little while, just try it. Meet Charlie. I'm sure he would love you."
"Charlie?" Nate echoed.
"My son," she replied. "Please, Nate?"
"I...I..."
"Just for a few weeks, at least? Just to see what happens?"
"I...fine. Alright, if you're that stubborn about it. Let me get together what I have."
"Good," she replied, nodding as he went inside. She smiled. It felt good to be able to help people without killing others.
The walk back to the apartment was mostly silent. Grace wasn't sure what to say and Nate seemed to be wondering if he should regret this decision. Grace was familiar with how it felt to take charity from people. He didn't like it any more than she did.
The apartment was on the second floor. She reached into her purse to search for a key when the door opened.
"Good evening, Mother. Good evening, Mr. McCoy," Charlie said, nodding his head to both of them. He didn't seem surprised in the slightest to see Nate. Grace gritted her teeth. Of course he wouldn't be surprised. He must have known this was going to happen.
"Hello," Nate replied, smiling, "You must be Charlie," he continued in the condescending tone most childless adults use to speak to young children. It was the tone Charlie used to address most adults. Grace rolled her eyes and swept inside, letting her purse fall.
"I've taken it upon myself to make dinner," Charlie said once everyone was inside and he had shut and locked the door. Nate looked surprised, but Grace hardly acknowledged this. Charlie was a better cook than she was. He had the advantage of being able to memorize cook books and cooking shows. "It will be done shortly," Charlie continued, before turning and trotting into the kitchen.
"Are you sure that's wise?" Nate asked concernedly, "Letting him cook all alone like that? And where's the baby-sitter?"
"Charlie is a wonderful cook and quite competent in the kitchen," Grace replied, "And I can't afford a baby-sitter. Besides, Charlie hates them."
"Oh," Nate replied. "But doesn't he go to school?"
"He's home-schooled," Grace replied, releasing for the first time how difficult it would be to explain Charlie's spellbooks, cauldron and wand. "He's very intelligent," she continued.
"I'm sure he is," Nate smiled. Grace considered the smile a challenge.
"Charlie!" she called.
"Yes, Mother?" Charlie asked, appearing at the door.
"Recite the quadratic formula, please," she instructed.
"X is negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus four (ac) over two a." Charlie ranted.
"What Shakespeare have you read lately?" she continued sweetly as Nate's eyes widened.
"You know very well I've read everything by Shakespeare," Charlie replied. "I was rereading Hamlet last week, and my opinion hasn't changed. He's a selfish prig. 'I must cruel if only to be kind' indeed!"
"Can you recite to periodic table, please?"
"Mother," Charlie replied, sounding torn between amusement and annoyance, "Are you trying to show me off?"
"Just do it," she snapped. He sighed.
"Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Berylium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Flourine, Neon, Sodium, Magnesium..."
Nate stared. Grace smirked. Charlie rolled his eyes. It made an oddly domestic scene. It was a strange family unit, really. Nate immediately decided both Grace and Charlie were completely insane. He also decided that he wouldn't mind being insane with them.