Chapter Two: A Family Affair

The kitchen was a riot of clattering cutlery and clanking pots.

Mr. Parson relaxed in his patched recliner, the morning issue of the Dorset Echo open on his lap. If the clamor bothered him, he didn't show it; in fact, he seemed inwardly amused, with a small smile hovering at his lips as he scanned the morning headlines.

Beth careened into the living room and skidded to a halt in front of him. She had a long streak of something on the side of her face; her hair was frizzing up from the heat of the kitchen. "I can't find any potholders," she said breathlessly. "I laid them right there and then - and the meat is going to burn if I can't - and he'll be here any minute-"

Mr. Parson looked her up and down contemplatively. "Have you looked in the refrigerator?" he said at last.

Beth scowled. "No, I-" Her brow cleared suddenly. "Hang on-"

Her father waited patiently until she reappeared, sliding some well-chilled oven mitts onto her hands. "Now, listen," she said severely, without so much as a thank-you, "I forbid you to ask Richard any embarrassing questions, or tell embarrassing stories, or make bad jokes-"

"Perhaps," said Mr. Parson, "I shouldn't speak at all."

Beth smacked him in the arm with a refrigerated pot holder. "Do not scare him away, Dad. I am serious."

"Come here," said Mr. Parson gently, "you've something on your face."

Beth sighed. Mr. Parson licked his calloused thumb and rubbed it against her cheek until the mark came off. "Now," he said, patting her hand, "let's just settle down, shall we? If Richard is willing to come all this way just for dinner, I'm sure that nothing is going to frighten him away."

"You're right," said Beth, a little wearily. "You're right..."

The doorbell rang.

"Oh bugger," said Beth frantically, and dashed to the door.

She checked the pork roast, tossed down the potholders, patted her hair (ineffectively), stirred the peas, rearranged the silverware, and straightened her clothes in a matter of seconds. She took a deep breath, put on a smile, and opened the door.

Richard Shaw stood there with a broomstick in one hand and a vase of flowers in the other. He looked rather windswept.

"Hi," said Beth. Her heartbeat calmed at the sight of him. It was just Richard, after all. "Come in."

"Hullo," said Richard. He held out the vase of flowers.

Beth took the flowers awkwardly. "Thanks ... I'll stick them on the table."

"Oh, don't," said Richard, frowning, "they'll just try to..."

One of the germaniums lunged out at Beth's hands and snapped at her knuckle. She jumped back a step and very hastily put the vase on the kitchen counter.

"Fanged germaniums," she said, watching the flowers try to bite their way out of the vase.

"They're considered very stylish these days," said Richard. "Or so I'm told..." He looked past Beth's shoulder into the hall, where Mr. Parson was coming slowly into the kitchen. "This must be your father."

"Richard Shaw." Mr. Parson held out his hand, wrinkled face curved in a warm, sweet smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

"The pleasure's mine, sir," said Richard cheerfully. It looked to Beth like he was intentionally reining in the vigor of his handshake. "You have a charming daughter."

"And you," said Mr. Parson, a twinkle in his eye, "have excellent taste."

Richard laughed. Mr. Parson chuckled along with him. Beth, simultaneously rolling her eyes and running a horrible blush, moved past them both and into the kitchen, where she started setting out the food.

"Thank you for having me," said Richard, following Mr. Parson to the kitchen table.

Her father smiled. "Oh, we're delighted," he said, his slow voice welcoming. "It's not often we get visitors, is it, Bethy?"

"No," Beth admitted, blushing a little more. She whisked the saucer full of peas from the stove and set it in the middle of the table. "We're having pork roast," she said to Richard nervously. "Is that all right? I know it's not much, but-"

Richard laid a hand on her arm and looked up at her until she was forced to meet his eyes. "It's fine," he said deliberately.

Beth gave a hesitant smile and blushed even brighter than before. She hurried away to pull the pork roast from the oven.

"Beth's always spoken of you highly," said Richard, while Beth was laying out the food, "but she never really got into details. Do you work?"

"Oh, I've retired," said Mr. Parson warmly. "Have you any plans for the future, now that you've left school?"

To Beth's surprise, Richard actually looked a little put off at the question. "Well, I ... I'll probably join my father's business. Family-owned, you see. It's expected..."

"That can be very important, you know," said Mr. Parson.

"Yes, it can," Richard said, but his agreement was not wholehearted.

Beth served up the meat and sat down; her father said grace and the meal began. The food, to Beth's relief, was met with great acclaim, and the two men seemed to be getting along much better than she had dared to hope. Talk turned to current events for a while. Mr. Parson had renounced almost every aspect of the wizarding world, but he seemed interested in what Richard reported. Beth noticed that he didn't mention anything about the rumors about the Dark Lord, or about Dumbledore's recent fall from favor. It was just as well. Mr. Parson had been hurt enough by the first war that he would be doubly worried at the promise of a second one.

They talked about the Triwizard Tournament (leaving out the awkward bits) and reminisced about the previous year (neglecting to mention the troubles of the Society). Beth had never realized to what extent her life was kept divided between home and school. She had never told her father about the Society - and how long had it been before she told anyone at school about the rest of her family? Until that summer it had never occurred to her that the two might mingle. And yet here they were, her father and Richard, chatting personably, connecting despite their many differences. Perhaps it would all go well after all-

There came a loud thump from the living room. Richard jerked upward, instantly alert, but Mr. Parson just let out a sigh and kept prodding his scalloped potatoes.

A cranky voice filtered in from the living room. "Watch the dismount, Porpentina, it's a rough one!"

There was another thump, and a soft exclamation. "My! That was a bit rough, wasn't it? Looked like soot buildup to me, we'll have to warn Bill, can't have the Floo clogged like that! Remember when ours was all crusted over, must have been sixty years ago, remember that, Newt, and poor Mr. Ogden got caught halfway-"

The voices got progressively closer; soon, an elderly couple emerged into the kitchen, patting soot from their robes. The old woman swooped down on Mr. Parson and gave him a peck on his wrinkled cheek.

"Hullo, Bill..."

"Hello, Porpentina," said Mr. Parson fondly.

"Hi, Mrs. Scamander," said Beth.

Mr. Scamander was looking over the table and rubbing his hands together. "My my, pork roast, eh? Good timing we've got..." He caught sight of Richard and his eyes narrowed, shifting between Richard and Beth suspiciously. "Who's that?"

"This is Richard Shaw," said Beth, and Richard stood up extending his hand. "Rich, this is Mr. and Mrs. Scamander. They live down the road."

"Huh," said Mr. Scamander, shaking Richard's hand dubiously.

"Oh, Newt Scamander?" said Richard pleasantly. "We used your textbook. It helped me through my O.W.L.s."

"Did it now?" Mr. Scamander's handshake took on a distinct vigor. "Glad to hear that, quite glad. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shaw. Did you hear that, Porpentina?" he called across the table to his wife, who had conjured a chair and settled herself beside Mr. Parson. "Boy likes my book!"

"That's lovely, dear," said Mrs. Scamander blandly. "Do take a seat."

Mr. Scamander conjured a chair for himself and sat down across from his wife, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "So," he said to Richard, helping himself to the scalloped potatoes, "that would be the forty-ninth edition you've got, won't it? What did you think of that section on Hairy MacBoons? I took it out for the next edition but wrote it back in again for the fifty-second ... popular demand, you see ... iced tea, please," he said to Beth.

It was unbelievable how quickly the two were able to thoroughly overtake the conversation. In no time at all, Mr. Scamander was describing to Mr. Parson the great hassles of writing his new edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (in between heartily tucking into the meal), and Mrs. Scamander was chattering to Richard about inconveniences around the house.

"...and Milly's got chizpurfles - our Kneazle," she explained to Richard, who nodded. "Nasty things, the poor dear's been itching up a storm, she's nearly scratched the furniture to bits, hasn't she, Newt?"

Mr. Scamander grumbled through a mouthful of pork roast; it might have been an affirmation, but then, one never knew.

"We've three of them," Mrs. Scamander prattled on, "Kneazles I mean. And there's the hippogriff in the backyard, and the porlock - although really he's not ours, he just lives in the barn and looks after the horses - Newt's been trying to capture an Ashwinder for over a year now. Nearly burnt down the living room ... do you keep animals, dear?"

She changed course so abruptly that Richard hesitated before answering. "Oh - just my owl. Nero."

"Good name," Mr. Scamander declared. "Stout. We had a chicken once named Nero, didn't we, Porpentina?"

"Oh yes," Mrs. Scamander chuckled. "Old Nero. Gimpy," she said, and mimed a flapping wing with one arm.

"Old Nero," Mr. Scamander sighed nostalgically. "He made a bloody fine soup."

"No, I believe we fried him, dear."

"Was that him? I thought it was Brutus."

"Oh yes, well we fried him too. You know, if I recall rightly the both of them were actually hens."

"You're right. Old Nero. She was really something."

Beth laid her head on the table and covered it with both hands.

-'-'-

Two hours later, after a dessert of peach pie and a lifetime's worth of stories from Mr. Scamander, Richard announced regretfully that he was expected home soon. Beth followed him out to the front porch. She handed him his broomstick but he set it aside and, instead, took both her hands in his.

"Thanks for having me," he said, lacing his fingers among hers. "It was ... quite interesting."

She looked him up and down. "I think you survived."

"Next week's your turn," Richard murmured.

"Have you got mad old writers living next door?" Beth murmured back.

"I wish I did." He sounded like he meant it. "There aren't any neighbors, not for miles. And the house is enchanted so even if there were, they wouldn't know it was there." For a moment he looked wistful. Then he smiled. "You'll see for yourself."

"You're making me nervous," said Beth, with a little laugh. She felt the tips of her ears grow hot as she became suddenly, keenly aware of how close he was standing.

Richard broke into a grin. "Am I?" he said innocently, leaning closer yet. "Maybe I should put you at ease..."

-'-'-

Beth slipped back inside a few minutes later, her cheeks glowing.

Her father greeted her with a knowing smile. "I didn't say anything embarrassing, did I?"

"No, you didn't," Beth said wryly. Somehow, she just couldn't keep herself from grinning. "In fact, I think it went pretty well."

"I say, Bethy," came a cranky voice, as Mr. Scamander shuffled up to them, "have you any more of that pie?"

-'-'-

The Shaws, according to Richard, lived quite far North, nearly to Scotland. Beth took the Floo network to a wizards' pub in the area, then caught the bus to the local public garden where they had agreed to meet.

It was a hot and humid Saturday; apart from a few florid businessmen and a handful of veiled women giggling by the lake, Beth was the only one she could see in long sleeves. As she sat on a park bench waiting for Richard to turn up, she pulled back her sleeve to hazard a glance at her left inner arm. The skin where she had been burnt the previous January had healed into new skin, mottled white and pink. It wasn't pretty up close, but it wouldn't cause anyone to look twice. What she had spent the summer covering up - and now, in the August sun, was suffering for - shone bold against the pale skin: the red skull of the Dark Lord.

Gravel crunched as someone approached, and Beth hastily yanked her sleeve back down. Wizard or muggle, the tattoo of a skull is nothing to just flash around.

"Waiting long?"

Richard stood there beaming, hands clasped behind his back. Beth stood up grinning.

"Not long."

Richard indicated an asphalt path leading from the bench through the green and into an empty, wooded part of the park. "It's this way. My parents are expecting us soon."

They started down the path. The sun was finally beginning to sink in the sky; a pleasant breeze sprung up from somewhere and sent dry grass skating around their feet. Beth, enjoying herself, was all in favor of continuing to walk in silence, but Richard soon spoke up.

"I suppose I ought to have warned you," he said, and Beth detected that he was intentionally making his voice casual. "My parents are ... fairly well off. Now, I don't want you to be intimidated or anything, they're both fine people, quite ordinary, but, er, the house can be a bit ... overwhelming"

"I've stayed at Melissa's house," Beth said, wondering what he meant by "overwhelming."

Richard looked relieved. "Then you'll be right at home."

"You know," said Beth, as something occurred to her, "you never mentioned what they do for a living."

"Hadn't I?" Richard looked surprised. "They're jewelers. Well - in the jewel trade, anyway. Our people liaise with the dwarves and the goblins for gems. Father spends a lot of time at Gringotts. Then there are the magical ones, for amulets and so forth. Those are internationally acquired and distributed." Richard broke off suddenly, with a bashful grin. "But you don't want to hear about all that."

"I don't mind," said Beth truthfully. "I've got to decide on a career this year, you know, and really I don't even know what wizards do after leaving school."

"I'm not sure hearing about the business is going to help," said Richard, with a half-shrug. Beth noticed how the phrase "the business" just slipped off his tongue. "Not much work for potions brewers. Maybe a polishing or grinding solution."

"Alchemists," Beth corrected. "It sounds more impressive."

"Here we are," said Richard.

They had reached a far corner of the park. Before them stretched a heavily wooded hill, ringed with a crumbling waist-high stone wall. Richard glanced about to be sure no one was near; then he took out his wand and tapped a quadrant of broken bricks, each in turn.

The bricks shimmered and fell still again. Nothing had changed. Beth cocked an eyebrow at Richard, who (unsurprisingly) was grinning. "You first," he said, gesturing to the area he had tapped. "I'll follow. Just between those two, that's it."

Hesitantly, her hands held out at the ready in front of her, Beth started towards the wall. Her hands slid through it. It was as if the bricks had vanished, leaving their image imprinted on the air. She took a few steps forward and found her lower half enveloped in imaginary brick. We could have just climbed over this, Beth found herself thinking. We're just going into the forest...

Beth stepped free of the wall and let out a gasp.

The wooded hill had vanished. In its place, a vast, lush garden spread across the terrain, filled with fountains, topiary and long reflecting pools. The grass was blindingly green. At the center of it all loomed a white marble building, with columns and balconies, bas-reliefs and gilded accents. Beth felt as if she had accidentally stepped into the royal gardens, and was expecting to be accosted by Beefeaters any minute.

There was a faint sound of chimes behind her and Richard stepped up behind her. "Like it?" said Richard. He sounded rather shy.

"It's-" Beth couldn't quite find the words. "Enormous," she finished at last.

"Not so much," said Richard awkwardly. "I did warn you."

"Overwhelming doesn't cover it!" In truth, the sight of the house - and the sudden new impression of the parents who lived in it - became to Beth extremely, unexpectedly frightening.

Richard put a hand on her shoulder. "You'll be fine," he said, as if he suspected what she was thinking.

"Rich, my dad's a retired farmer with an RAF pension! I don't know how to deal with-" She gestured towards the house. "-that."

"Just be natural," said Richard, as if it was going to be easy.

Little chance of that, Beth thought. Still, she took a deep breath. "Natural. Right." She forced herself to relax; her shoulders had somehow tightened. "Let's go."

Richard beamed and took her arm.

The walkway to the mansion was cobbled, with elaborate designs that somehow fitted together perfectly. Beth steeled her resolve as they passed between statues, flowering trees and enchanted fountains that jetted overhead like soldiers presenting arms. Dad would do the same thing with his garden, if he had the time, she thought, and that calmed her down.

The marble stairs at the front of the house apparently didn't lead to the front door; Richard bypassed them and led Beth around the side of the house. He went to a niche in the wall that held a white statue of Pallas. Gesturing for her to come in close, he put one arm around her shoulders and lifted the statue with the other. The half-circle pattern of bricks beneath them shifted; then, with a sudden and exhilarating smoothness, the wall swung out and they were carried inside.

The inside of the mansion was as bright as the August daylight, but pleasantly cool. Richard put down the statue and led Beth off of the half-circle platform, which rotated again to resume its place outside.

Beth took a good look around. They had been deposited at the end of a very wide hallway. The walls gleamed; vases of exotic flowers and bright, cheerful tapestries lined the walls, while an ivy-green carpet trolled down the middle of the floor. It was impossible to tell where the light came from, but the hall was sunny and well-lit.

"They'll be in the left-hand sitting room," said Richard. Beth thought he sounded a little nervous despite his assurances. He took a deep breath. "Well. Let's not keep them waiting."

He led her to an arched doorway and entered.

It was like a scene taken from a Victorian-era painting: a slight, middle-aged woman sat in a high-backed chair, head bent gracefully over a book, while her husband stood behind her, surveying the mantelpiece. They both looked up at Richard's greeting. The woman smiled; the man raised his chin, almost in invitation.

Richard approached with Beth close behind. "Mother. Father." He made a short bow to each; an odd motion, Beth thought, but it looked perfectly natural. "This is Elizabeth Parson. Beth, my parents."

The man was square-jawed and regal, with streaks of gray in his dark brown hair. A hawkish intensity lit his eyes, similar to Richard's but somehow more dangerous. Beth knew perfectly well that she was being scrutinized. It made her feel defiant.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said firmly, matching his grip as they shook hands.

"The pleasure is all ours, of course," said Mr. Shaw. "Genevieve and I have been hoping to meet you for some time now."

Richard's mother spoke up for the first time. "We've heard a great deal about you in the past few years," she said warmly. Surrounded by the vast winged armchair, her small figure was nearly overwhelmed. "Richard tells us you're quite the potions expert."

"Oh-" Beth glanced at Richard and flushed brightly. "I like the class. But there's so much more to learn..."

"There always is," said Mr. Shaw heartily, "for some more than others. Isn't that right, Richard?"

Richard's smile became somewhat fixed. "You're right, of course," he said politely. "Shall I show her around before dinner?"

"Certainly, certainly," Mr. Shaw boomed. "We'll send the house elf along when it's ready." He fixed Richard with a meaningful look. "Mind that you remember your upbringing."

"I've never forgotten it," said Richard, now with a distinct hint of coolness. He took Beth's arm firmly and steered her out into the lush, carpeted hallway.

"What was that about?" said Beth, when she felt they were a safe distance away.

Richard let out some air between his teeth. "My N.E.W.T.s weren't what my father thought they ought to be," he admitted, "and you know, my O.W.L.s were, well, disappointing ... it's all I've been hearing since leaving Hogwarts."

"You had bigger things to worry about," Beth reminded him. "The Chamber of Secrets ... and then Cedric Diggory."

Richard gritted his teeth and Beth immediately regretted her words. They had spent the majority of the previous year trying to keep Cedric Diggory from suffering payment for the Transcongus Brew, and they had failed anyway.

"Tell me about your castle," she said quickly. Richard glanced over at her, and she corrected herself awkwardly. "I - I mean your house."

Richard took a deep breath. "Well, there are five stories, usually; it shifts a bit with the weather. We're on the first. There are two levels of cellar, one for food and the other for prisoners - we haven't used it in centuries," he added hastily, at Beth's alarmed look, "as far as I know anyway. I live upstairs on the third floor. Let's take the stairs; it's more scenic."

The hallway burst with portraits, busts and paintings, most of them with moving subjects. Beth recognized Richard's straight nose and intense eyes in more than one of them. Near the end of the hall, Richard paused before a vast oil painting, easily as large as a bedsheet. "This one's interesting."

The scene was totally motionless. Near the right edge of the frame stood a wild-faced woman with bloodstained robes, holding the severed head of a blonde youth victoriously by the hair. The corpse lay at her feet.

Beth recoiled. "That's interesting?"

"It changes daily," said Richard, looking imperturbably at the murderess's crazed features. "Just a tiny bit. Six hundred years ago she came in from that side-" He pointed to the left edge of the canvas. "-and started sneaking up on him. The murder took a hundred years from the day her knife touched his throat to the moment his body began to fall away. She's been lifting his head since I was born. It used to be down here." He touched a spot about an inch below the end of the dripping neck.

Richard was calm - suspiciously detached, almost - but Beth felt cold. "What happens next?" she said, crossing her arms tightly.

"We don't know," said Richard lightly. "I doubt I'll live to see it." He glanced over at her and tugged on her elbow. "Come on, the staircase is over here."

Beth looked back over her shoulder at the painting as they left. The grisly scene did not change.

A curving staircase had been built into the end of the hall; Richard got on the first step and it began to wind upward, carrying him along like an escalator. Beth followed, gazing around at the walls. These were lined with more personal art: photographs of the Shaws, always in formal wear, usually with someone who looked very impressive or vaguely familiar, sometimes both. Beth caught a glimpse of Cornelius Fudge in one of them. Another, near the top of the stairs, was extremely familiar.

"Isn't that you and Gypsy at the Yule Ball?" she said, peering closely as the staircase carried them past.

Richard glanced back at it. "Yes, we had an underclassman take it. Mother was really keen to see how we looked. Watch your step," he said, as the staircase ground to a halt. He helped her up the last few stairs. "This is the third floor."

This level of the Shaw mansion looked like an extremely expensive hotel. Closed doors lined the hallway on both sides, broken up by an occasional watercolor still life. "We're in the East Wing," Richard told her, indicating the doors. "Guest rooms. I'm down this way..."

He led her through the hallway until they reached the very end, where a carved wooden door stood firmly closed. Richard tapped the doorknob with his wand and pulled it open.

"These are my quarters."

Beth's jaw dropped. The room was vast, with towering gilded ceilings and long windows hung in thick magenta curtains. A set of elegant low-backed chairs surrounded a gleaming cherry coffee table; another group of large winged armchairs clustered near an elaborate fireplace, crackling with heat. Crystal chandeliers tinkled above them.

"This is the sitting room," Richard was saying, gesturing toward the fireplace. He tugged her into an adjoined room. "The drawing room-" This one was outfitted with a sloped writing desk and a well-cushioned window seat. "The bath's over there, you don't want to see that-" Through the cracked door Beth caught a glimpse of gleaming golden faucets. "Bedroom and changing area, back here."

Beth found her voice. "This is amazing."

"Yeah, well, it's home," said Richard. He strode across the bedroom and threw himself onto a massive four-poster with gold and magenta curtains.

Almost afraid to touch anything, Beth sat down slowly beside him. He had lived with this kind of opulence his whole life, she realized. If even all this splendor couldn't impress him... She suddenly felt extremely shabby. "I wish I hadn't invited you to my house," she said, making it a joke but meaning it.

Richard propped himself up on one elbow. "Don't be silly, I loved your house. It looks used. I mean, look at this place-" He gestured around at the hardwood and trappings. "I didn't even have a say in what color they used. And it's so ... clean..." He made a face. "Mother's been up here probably twice; Father, only when I'm in trouble. That leaves me and Wobbly."

At first Beth wasn't sure she'd heard him properly. "Wobbly?"

An eager scrabbling noise came from the sitting room and pattered up to the bedroom. A young-looking house elf dressed neatly in a pillowcase came skittering into the bedroom, smacked his head on the doorframe, and sat back hard on the floor, blinking in a bewildered manner. Beth clapped a hand to her mouth, but Richard threw back his head and laughed.

"Are you all right?" Beth gasped, shooting a very dirty look at Richard.

The house-elf got unsteadily to his feet and gave her a wide smile. "Oh yes, miss. Mother always said, very hard head, Wobbly has." He knocked the side of his skull a few times to prove it. "Wobbly is always falling over things and running into things and falling off of things..."

Richard sniggered out of his hysterics and gestured to Wobbly, who tottered forward. "Come on, let me have a look at you..." He checked the house-elf's forehead carefully. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Oh yes, young master, Wobbly hardly feels it."

"Well." Richard let lose a few more short laughs. "Good thing, then, seeing it happens so often."

The house-elf bowed. "Young master called for his Wobbly, sir?"

"No, we were just talking about you," said Richard. "Wobbly is fantastic," he said affectionately, to Beth. "So loyal." He reached out scrubbed his knuckles against the bare skin between his big ears.

Beth raised an eyebrow. "You named your house-elf 'Wobbly'?"

Just then the elf teetered to one side and collapsed.

"I was a little kid," said Richard, helping the elf back to his feet. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

The house-elf beamed up at them both. "Wobbly will serve young Master as long as he lives, sir," he avowed eagerly. "And longer, sir."

"And we'll put your name on the Elves of Honor shield, underneath your father, your mother and your great-grandmum," Richard replied cheerfully. Beth could tell that the two had gone through the exchange innumerable times. "What time's dinner?"

"Mally and Norry are telling Wobbly it will be at seven o'clock, sir."

Richard glanced at the intricate grandfather clock in one corner. "Good, then we've got ten minutes alone." He cast a meaningful glance at the house elf. Wobbly gave a start, then began nodding furiously.

"Young master will call if he needs his Wobbly, sir," he said hopefully.

"Absolutely," said Richard fondly. "Now get gone and help the kitchen elves."

Wobbly bowed low to the ground. "Of course, sir." He skittered away. Beth heard him patter into the hallway; there was a loud thump, then the sound of the sitting room door closing.

Things were very quiet for a few moments. Then Richard turned to face her, his mouth cocked in a grin. "Well. This is nice."

Beth ran a pink flush. "Oh really?"

"Yes, really," said Richard, a devilish smile growing on his face. "Here I am with a gorgeous blonde American in my bedroom. Some men have to fantasize about that sort of thing."

Without warning he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her forward until their noses were nearly touching. Beth wanted to laugh at the sparkle in Richard's eyes. A thrill ran down her spine. "Aren't you supposed to remember your upbringing?" she teased.

"I can do that later," said Richard, with a wolf's grin. He cupped a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her soundly on the lips.

They broke off softly. Richard drew her tight to his chest. Beth closed her eyes and took in the warmth of his neck on her forehead, the feel of his pulse, the strange familiar scent of his hair. They sat there for many minutes. Finally, Richard spoke.

"I ... I've heard from Nott again."

Beth's face fell. She pulled away and took both of his hands. "What did he say?"

"Just that I've only got two more weeks to get the Ledger to the Dark Lord." Richard frowned, looked away. "As if I needed reminding."

Beth stared down at their joined hands. "I hate that you have it," she said quietly. "It's so dangerous."

"Don't worry," said Richard, mustering his confidence for her sake. He leaned over and pecked her cheek. "We'll think of something."

"I'll do whatever you need me to do," Beth said. "But, Rich, if it comes down to it..."

Richard interrupted her firmly. "He's not getting the Ledger."

"That's not what I was going to say," said Beth sadly.

Wobbly the house-elf burst into the bedroom. "Sir! Miss! Dinner is serving in the second dining room!"

"Come on," said Richard, helping her to her feet with a grin. "Dinner is serving - we don't want to miss that! And don't worry," he murmured again on the way out the door. "Everything is going to be fine."