There and Back Again Lane

Ch. 13 – Beaters and Hounds, Part 3: Stay As You Are

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Hamlet, Act I, scene v.

Interlude: A Letter to the Academy

On the Malfunctioning of Muggle Technology in Areas of Concentrated Thaumaturgic Energy, by N. Longbottom, OM1, BMA (Hogwarts, 1998), LAM (Corvobianco, 2001), MMA (Dun-na-nSídh, 2003), Fellow of the RSAS and the RSMH

Presented to the 21st Annual Conference of British and Irish Professors of Muggle Studies, A.P.B.W. Dumbledore Memorial Theatre and Ballroom, Hogsmeade (2003)

Long have wizards and witches with a keen interest in Muggle science been frustrated by the seeming failure of modern Muggle technology to operate within areas of concentrated of thaumaturgic or magical energy such as Hogsmeade. The simplest explanation, albeit a blessedly inaccurate one, is that magic and technology cannot co-exist or, more correctly, co-operate. Such is certainly not the case; if it was, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office would not exist! The truth is that while Muggle scientists have engaged in exhaustive studies of their environment and perhaps have a greater theoretical understanding of it, their ability to control their world depends on mechanisms that are regrettably imprecise. This imprecision, combined with the use of highly reactive compounds or fragile or easily disrupted components has meant that witches and wizards who have ventured to use Muggle technology have encountered disaster more often than not. With proper reinforcement charms, however, volatile substances can maintain their basic stability, or at least be no more problematic than they would in the Muggle world...

Call for an Escape Route

Edinburgh

---(Ginny's POV)---

We left the tenement through the front entrance with a seven-minute interval between us, planning to meet again at the southern end of the Middle Meadow Walk. I told Harry to be discreet and to act as if he didn't know me, if he even recognised me at all after the transformation despite his insistence he would. I went first, heading south to circle the block while Harry travelled the more direct route northward. Checking the mirror I'd palmed in my right hand several times to ensure Catesby wasn't trailing me, I marched as fast as I could towards the Walk. Ten minutes I've been waiting and still no sign of Harry. Where the buggering hell is he?

OK, so it was only five minutes and he brought coffee from our favourite stall. Glowering at me with a feigned 'kids-today' eye-roll, head shake and scowl before blithely looking away, he crosses the road carefully avoiding traffic and spilling our drinks. When a practised frowning glare and a winking eye from me tell him we're not being watched, he hands me mine. 'I'd have preferred tea,' I teasingly protest, only to receive his beaker instead.

'I thought you'd be difficult,' he mutters in mock annoyance, the faintest trace of a grin flickering on his face.

Milky tea, just as I like it. 'Trying to seduce me, you dirty old man?' I inquire affecting naïveté and a worried look.

He grimaces as if the thought would never cross his mind while his hand cups one of my buttocks for a light squeeze. Though startled, I spill not a drop. He simply wanders up the path at a slow pace, turning around to shrug innocently. 'Must be ghosts about.' Cheeky monkey.

It should be heartening that he's accepting this new situation so well. But this is Harry. He's obviously worried. The forced attempts at humour, the nervous scanning of his environment, a cautious but unsteady pace, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and even the simple act of buying us drinks are all these signs of how truly anxious he is. Casually, I catch up with him and quietly tell him to relax a little, that the situation is well under control. He's not entirely convinced. 'And,' he notes, 'neither are you.'

He remarks quietly that I walk like a soldier, marching in step as we walk side-by-side. Old habits. It's odd, though often comforting, how Auror training automatically takes hold whenever I start to worry. Now, however, is the time for another portion of that education to assert itself, that of assuming the entirety of one's disguise. I break step and loosen up, adopting a youthful, slightly ghoulish gait. After all, Snape was a good teacher in his roundabout way.

I wonder, however, if Harry's put out by my assumption of his black hair and green eyes. The temptation to tease him a little, to bring some levity into our predicament, was simply too strong to resist. A part of me is worried a part of him finds this situation strangely attractive.

Harry and I separate again as planned with him ambling safely anonymous in the lead. I secrete a small hand mirror into my left hand to keep a wary eye behind us. Yet our tour through the Meadows along the Middle and North walks is uneventful, and I begin worrying that his sense of caution might lapse, that he'd become too casual in our jaunt across town.

But that concern is misplaced. As we cross Buccleuch Street zigzagging our way northward, I note the odd bloke in a navy raincoat skulking behind us in the small mirror cupped in my left hand. Harry's playing his part a little too well, not saying a word to me and taking the occasional gawping detour to storefronts. I somehow resist the maternal urge to grab him by the elbow and pull him along. Then I notice him furtively glancing behind us, waiting, before he grazes near me, surreptitiously squeezing my hand as we wait at the corner of Gifford Park and Clerk Street. 'We're being followed,' he mumbles. A swift sly smile crosses my lips, to which he replies with his own.

After crossing, we head north along the road towards the Old Town. In the middle of our progress down Clerk Street, Harry breaks off and continues down a side road. What's he doing? Our pursuer passes the road without a glance in Harry's direction until a pair of strong hands grip the man's raincoat and thrust his back against a wall. Bloody cowboy...

---(Harry's POV)---

Waiting for our pursuer to pass the corner, I try to control my breathing and hope that he's close to the shop. The roads and pavement are strangely deserted except for those scurrying home with their evening shopping. The expectation is driving me mad. This was nothing like all those false childhood memories or even the rare after-pub brawls. I don't know what the buggering hell I think I'm attempting. But here he comes, bold as brass, shuffling forward with a surreptitious but steady eye on Ginny. I reach around to clutch both of his lapels and spin him against the shop's outside wall. Surprise must have been in my favour because he's a hard bastard.

'Who are you!' I demand shoving him once more with all my might against the bricks. But he's fierce and stronger than me. He snarls, his face positively, rabidly canine reminding me of that Rottweiler I'd had the misfortune to annoy one summer.

He tries to break my grip by forcing my arms apart while aiming a knee at my bollocks. I shift to avoid the latter allowing him to break free as I crumple from the hard blow to my thigh. I am a dead man. He follows the knee with a nose-breaking punch that drops me flat on my arse. I feel the blood as it dribbles past my lips and angrily try to blink away the mist veiling my eyes. My glasses, if not broken, are at the very least digging deeply into my face. Still, I aim a solid heel at his knee as he lunges forward sending him back to the wall causing him to drop something from his right hand. Somehow I manage to snatch it before it hits the ground.

What the...?

Just as I witness one of the strangest things in my remembered life, the sodding bastard boots me in my parts most private. Fortune favours me somewhat as the kick to his knee made him unsteady and weakened the blow as the adrenaline coursing through me shrouds the pain momentarily. Enough for me clutch onto his leg with my right arm and stab the bugger in the abdomen with my left with his whatever-it-is. He stumbles backwards again as I release his calf and trip him so he falls hard against the wall. About this time, I realise I'm silently begging all that's holy for the woolly suits to come and take us both away, certain that I've at least given Ginny time to scarper. But I've still some fight left in me, and Mad Dog is more than willing to demonstrate his fighting prowess.

For the second time in as many minutes, however, I'm graced with another odd sight as Eric Cantona – or is it Trinity from the bloody Matrix, it's hard to tell in my present state – sails through the air and knocks that buggering hooligan back into touch. Back of the net...

Ah, Alan… But I feel like Lynn, roundly abused. I watch far too much telly.

Time begins to catch up with me again, as does the agony from my booted bollocks and broken nose. As I gradually roll off my back and onto my knees, I dry heave a couple of times. Ginny rifles through the man's clothing, removing odds and ends such as his pocketbook and the wand from my hand. 'If you try anything like that again,' she growls, her face inches from mine, 'I will do that,' – pointing with the wand to the sorry sod now resting in the recovery position – 'to you.'

I manage to bite off the sarcastic reply before it reaches my tongue. She's but seconds away from proving her point to reinforce the lesson.

'Are you OK?' The air of menace has left her voice but threatens to return.

'Fine,' I squeak. 'I think my breeder's card's been revoked, but otherwise...' My glasses, like my nose, are well and truly broken.

'Don't say that.' The tone is back though tinged with anxiety. What's with her? Is it Hermione's pregnancy? Another question that can wait until later, when she's calmer and I'm better able to move.

'Sorry if I'm out of sorts, love,' failing to contain the sarcasm despite myself, 'but I'm a wee bit tender now.'

'Then let that be a lesson to you.' The words are hard but are spoken with forbearance rather than exasperation. She helps me clamber back onto my feet, casting a quick but cautious eye about to ensure the police I'd prayed for earlier weren't coming. Guiding me firmly down the empty road she mumbles oaths with every breath, her face red from aggravation and exertion. Finally, she tosses me into a doorway.

'I really should leave you like this,' she scolds while repairing my glasses and nose with a couple of quick flicks of her wand, swatting my head for good measure, continuing to glance around that no one's watching. 'All those times you admonished me about risking my life like a bloody fool,' she continues, glaring at me with green eyes narrowing to pinpricks, her wand pressing against my sternum, 'while you're lucky to still have balls after that little misadventure.'

'You going to use that or are you going to browbeat me to death?' I eventually manage with a nod to the wand.

To my surprise, she lowers her arms to give me a quick kiss. 'God knows why I love you, you daft scapegrace,' she swears before swatting my arse and prodding me towards St. Leonard's Street and Arthur's Seat. 'I sometimes don't,' adding an evil little grin.

It's weird enough to kiss someone you love but barely recognise. Even stranger when she appropriates some of your features – the green eyes, the black hair, though extended to Robert Smith proportions – for her own. I am ever so grateful she at least kept the shape of her face somewhat similar to her own. Still, her appearance makes me wonder what I look like now. Bugger, she's changed me into a trainspotter now...

---(Ginny's POV)---

I recognised our pursuer despite the disguise. David Martin, another one from the Millies' Special Section, his mannerisms a dead give-away. Given Martin's brutal reputation, I'm surprised Harry was able to hold him off that long. Indeed, if Harry hadn't been distracted by the sparking wand, Martin might have been the one with the peculiar walk – once he woke up, of course – instead of Harry.

If we haven't been rumbled by now, that little bit of magic – and Harry's – certainly revealed our position. Doubtless the next two operatives will be headed in our general direction soon enough. Though it's highly unlikely I'll be able to prevent it, we should avoid getting bumped again if possible. I use the small hand mirror to warn our contact we're running behind and might bring some trouble with us.

Harry's rather disgusted by his anorak, but it should keep him out of trouble. Serves the bleeder right. I insist that he remains at the front as if he was just another innocent passer-by, to not look back so much, and to scarper should we get bumped. We continue down St Leonard's until we pass the police station where Harry, as always, chuckles. We then wander casually up to Nicolson Street on our way directly into the Old Town.

But 'Gaffer' John Richardson awaits us, smoking a fag beside the Tron Kirk, which means that Herodotus Fletcher was posted on the western route. Mirroring each other in mutual recognition, the Gaffer and I shake our heads. Though we're supposed to be secret operatives, we see through one another's disguises. I haven't bothered to change mine, seeking instead to pull them out of their holes before tossing them back bruised and better aware of what separates Aurors from the rest of the wizarding world. Admittedly, it's against the rules to show off, but I doubt Mr Richardson or his three colleagues will bother to report me, professional courtesy and all that rubbish.

Harry and I are just crossing the South Bridge when I see the Gaffer heading towards us. His cover blown, Richardson has little choice but to meet me directly. For Harry and me, the only options are over the side, chance our way through traffic, or marching steady onward. Harry's too far in front of me to safely catch his attention without attracting the Gaffer's interest and crowds of tourists and locals travelling southwards make it difficult to prepare an appropriate response. A break between the packs of passers-by causes my heart to lodge itself once more in my throat.

Harry's only about a yard from the Gaffer when the older man flicks the fag end over the bridge onto the road below, exhaling a shroud of smoke through his nostrils. It must have been one hell of a surprise for dear Mr Richardson to see my dimwitted lover's left fist through the haze just before it struck. I don't know whether to be surprised that Harry knew the Gaffer was a threat, shocked that Harry of all people would commit such a, well, Slytherin act, astonished that the gamble actually paid off, or furious that my thick boyfriend didn't take what I had told him after the Martin incident seriously. Harry doesn't even bother to look behind as the Gaffer slowly sinks to his knees, finally slumping against the bridge's low stone wall. Instead, the daft prat merely shakes his probably broken left hand in an effort to numb the pain.

Having snatched Richardson's wand and other indicators of wizarding status while assuming the role of concerned bystander, I can at least be certain neither Catesby nor Fletcher will learn of their leader's humbling sidelining. Catesby will take too long to reach us but Fletcher is likely too close. I should, however, have enough time to impress upon Harry the importance of paying attention to what his far more knowledgeable almost-wife tells him.

He waits for me at the corner of Hunter Square seemingly fascinated by his injured hand. Even metamorphosed his downcast eyes reveal how annoyed he is, but that look becomes instantly sheepish when he sees how irritated I am. He interrupts me just as I open my mouth. 'He was looking directly at someone, something people in cities tend not to do,' he answers the unasked question. 'He had a predatory eye and with those boots,' he continues, pointing to my transfigured boots, 'I could tell he wasn't police, least not an ordinary one.' I'm still tempted to enlighten him about his incredible stupidity, but I wait a few seconds for him to finish his explanation. Lucky for him, he apologises. 'I know I shouldn't've hit that bloke. I should've left him to you, but I didn't want to run the risk of him hurting you. I was a daft git.' He doesn't break eye contact though sorely tempted to do so.

My aggrieved and aggravated expression doesn't change. 'This once,' I snarl, 'and never, ever again, you hear?' He nods, nervously certain I would carry through with my threat. I decide to take point now, letting him trail at a discreet distance. We circle round the Kirk before making our way down Fleshmarket Close onto Cockburn Street. Unfortunately, Fletcher arrives on the High Street just as I reach Cockburn.

Harry was unaware anything was amiss until he saw me spin about. As he turned, he caught the red jet of magical energy straight in the face sending to the pavement in a sickening heap. Fletcher's more sadist than sage and only now does the thought that he has provided me with a clear shot penetrate his thick skull. I duly oblige with a disarming spell followed immediately by a powerful stunner that throw him back a good five feet. So much for the representatives from the Special Section.

I rush to Harry's side fearing the worst. The obvious one: his head may have struck the pavement. On cursory examination, I can see no blood and his breathing is regular. His eyes are unfocused, but that might be due to the spell. That's what concerns me the most. Even if the fall caused no permanent damage, Fletcher's stunner might have scrambled his mind further. I'm tempted to simply load Harry onto my back to await a proper assessment of his condition, switching the small kit bag to my front, but I doubt that would pass by without comment even on Cockburn Street. Nevermind that I'm not altogether certain I'd be able to reach the Seelie Gate in that manner without incident. Besides, the desperate desire to assure myself he's all right is overpowering.

Swiftly ennervated, he slowly rises, looking round. I clutch his chin in a vice-like grip and peer into his eyes praying for some sort of recognition therein. 'Ginny,' he asks, 'what was that?'

'No time.' He's OK. Stowing Fletcher's wand in a pocket with Martin and Richardson's, I pull him to his feet and drag him by the hand down the south end of the Close and across Cockburn to the north end. He's not altogether coordinated at the moment but is able to maintain a steady pace nonetheless.

'Can you tell me now?'

'In a bit.'

We venture midway down Fleshmarket Close and with an abrupt left stand before Seelie Gate, the entrance to Haseltoun, Edinburgh's wizarding community. An ancient, abraded etching in the stone of a winking fairy, in a somewhat lascivious pose if truth be told, announces the border between the Muggle and magical worlds. I mouth the key while touch the carving's lips: 'I dree our kin's weird.' The wall before us dissolves revealing a solid goblin-crafted iron door. With a single tap of my wand, and a Galleon bribe to the fairy to keep the gate closed for an hour, the portal opens on to Haseltoun's high street, Conynger Close.

The close is aptly named, delved into Calton Hill like a claustrophobic rabbit-warren replete with stores and public buildings like toilets and an unused bathhouse, splitting off into wynds and other closes. Befouled but welcoming, a place of fear yet of security as well, of confinement and freedom both. Along with the Old Town itself, it bespeaks the eldest memories of Auld Reekie's past and all of its forgotten stench. Harry, however, is paying no attention to the road and has completely forgotten his questions. The hill's amber ceiling has enchanted him. Not that I blame him, really. Its idealised depiction of the weather – presently a sun-streaked evening – is remarkably beautiful, especially with the added details of the planets, constellations, and other important astronomical bodies annotated in silver medieval script, faint though it is against the golden brilliance emitted by the stylised sun. I squeeze his hand firmly, finally bringing his eyes to mine. They're full of childlike astonishment as well as a little adult fear of the unknown and incomprehensible. I kiss him in such a way both of us forget what we look like at present, letting us pretend that we're still in our flat, mere moments from our bedroom, from happiness. And for a brief while, the tension lifts and we're able to wander hand in hand down the gentle slope towards the centre of town.

We attract a great deal of attention from the locals in our Muggle garb. A swift detour down Gowk Wynd with its host of murky windowed pubs and museums of the absurd – the former only beginning to bustle while the latter have closed – allows me to transform us again into a plain, older wizarding couple. Harry has become so used to these changes he now merely shakes his head at them. Deep down he knows why, and I likewise feel his annoyance at having to hide. Better to be hidden than apart, we tell each other with a shared look and smile.

The buildings' stones, protected from the weather outside by the Hill, bear the marks of history nonetheless. Hogsmeade may have figured more prominently in the goblin rebellions – or mutinies, as some of our kind would call them – but some edifices in Haseltoun are still irreversibly blackened by the fires that spread outward into the Muggle Old Town. For instance, the Millies' barracks on the corner of Conynger and Sheogue Lane is an ominously ebony structure glowering over the environs. The Gringotts branch in spotless alabaster marble at the foot of Brae Wynd glares right back, however. Other structures sport more recent injuries. The gutted apothecary's on Boobrie Close and the pockmarked storefront of Moubray and Foulis, the Scottish stationers to Her Majesty's Sorceress, the Minister for Magic, on Birse Wynd are wounds from the last war. Like us – even though Harry doesn't know it – Haseltoun wears its scars with pride.

As we circle around Inner Grove Hill with its copse of hazel trees still prospering on the summit, I chance another glance at Harry. He's overwhelmed. Panic sets in as the fears that this much exposure to the wizarding world will cause him to relapse no longer simply seep into my mind but flood. Another squeeze of his hand breaks the town's hypnotic spell and reveals he's still out of danger. It takes him less time to recognise me in disguise, but that's likely because we're holding hands.

We reach our destination at last: Glamis and Cawdor, Wizarding Assurance. An old man in threadbare robes is waiting for us just outside. One eye protudes ominously. Like a jeweller's loupe, it appraises us in minute detail, polishing off the disguises that the other eye, squinting through a slit as thin as a razor, has bruted away.

'Alice, I presume,' the codger enquires in a rasping grumble.

'Mad Hatter,' I respond with a curt nod, hand on my wand just in case.

A corpse-pale hand emerges from the greying frayed robes to wave us brusquely inside while his tongue works its way round active yet toothless gums. Harry's eyes flit between the pair of us, old duffer and his lover, before rolling once more towards the amber ceiling as he shakes his head with a sigh of feigned exasperation. Another swat on the arse sends him in the right direction, though.

Once inside the empty store, I remove the glamour from myself. Harry looks positively relieved, though a little surprised I hadn't done the same for him. 'Thought it was you,' the ancient fellow declares in the midst of a hacking cough. 'Wha' you doin', eh? Bringin' a Muggle down 'ere, 'n' all,' the old codger mithers, pointing a withered finger at Harry. 'Wha's 'is name?'

'Colin Firth,' Harry answers immediately. He did not just say that. Harry gives me this look of pure innocence and I feel the blood rushing to my head, sweat beginning to form, and tears threatening to become a torrent down my cheeks. You git! I look at my shoes daring myself to withstand the pressure on my jaw. 'Are you all right, dear?' he continues. 'You seem a little peaky.' My God, I'm in agony here. I punch his arm, hard. He winces a wee bit and looks more concerned. I try coughing to conceal the laughter when the strain gets too much.

'You should look intae tha' cough, dearie,' the old man offers. 'Sounds summat nasty.' He advances on Harry, giving my daft prat of a lover a very stern expression and a sharp poke to the chest. 'An' you best think of a better name, ye glaikit wee prick.' The wizened creature swings about, heading towards the back room. I swear he's muttering 'Colin bloody Firth' under his breath with a chuckle. Harry probably thinks this is just some grand adventure.

Instead, when I finally look up, Harry appears genuinely worried. 'I thought you, I mean, us lot didn't know much about, er, Muggles,' he mutters. This is only the second time I've ever seen him so vulnerable. The first was with the smoking toaster.

'But some of us, like me, do,' I reply with a small grin. 'So schtum on the pop culture references.'

He hugs me closely to him more for privacy than intimacy. 'Then tell me why I can't tell anyone my name,' he whispers. I fall into the embrace to quietly dissuade him, swearing to tell him later but he's not convinced.

We follow the old man to the back of the store and are confronted by a woman in her twenties with a heart-shaped face, green hair and brown eyes dressed in frayed hand-me-down robes. 'Old' Tonks is smirking at me appraisingly, eyes glancing at the bloke beside me. After a quick sweep of the tiny storeroom with his eyes that reveals neither the old man nor an alternative way out, Harry returns her gaze.

'So,' she says with a tone of feigned displeasure, 'who's he really?'

Harry starts walking around the storeroom, examining the products on the shelves. 'Don't mind me.'

'Obnoxious ickle git, isn't he?' she notes nodding in his direction. Harry turns and smiles, but at least he stops toying with things on the shelves.

'He has his moments,' I reply with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes. He slaps a hand over his heart and appears stricken. 'This might help.' I remove the metamorphosis charm from him as well.

Tonks gazes over my lover with an appraising, almost wistful eye. 'Looks more like Hugh Grant than Colin Firth now,' Tonks declares with a mildly lewd smirk.

'This is Tonks,' I announce, indicating her with a sweep of the arm. 'Tell her who you are, Harry.' Tonks's brows knit at the mention of his name and she looks at him trying to find a familiar face. In turn, his playful expression wanes and becomes guarded, stern.

She looks at me with either disgust or dismay and scoffs, 'Another one?'

'Are you sure?' he asks but his eyes don't leave Tonks and his body tenses.

I merely nod. 'Full name, Harry,' I request. When he says his name, her eyes grow to the size of Galleons and she stumbles into his arms for a hug. I don't know what amuses me more, the stunned look on his face or Tonks's reversion to her old bumbling self. Although she's holding him a little too long and too tightly. He'd better not be thinking what I think he's thinking...

Well, this is amusing. The green hair's eerily fetching, and she's rather comely, but she makes a disconcertingly convincing old man. Besides, she isn't Ginny who, come to think of it, looks fit to murder me... 'Er, Miss...?'

'Ahem.'

Instead of ending the embrace, she pulls me off my feet and into it as she cries with a mad laugh. Finally, she releases us both with a kiss. Only then do I realise I'm crying as well. Harry simply looks dumbfounded. 'She's one of us, Harry.'

'Oh, that explains everything.' He's become much more sarcastic ever since Martin booted him in the goolies.

'Merlin, I thought you were...' Tonks stops as she notes me glowering at her, fit to hex.

'I was what?' Harry growls with a steely gaze.

Bloody hell.

She stutters and blusters for a time waiting for me to intervene. Truthfully, I'm torn between letting her tell him and ensuring he doesn't suffer a relapse. Finally I proclaim, 'She can't tell you, Harry.' He rolls his eyes and raises his hands to the heavens in supplication uttering a few select oaths. Tonks blushes while I sigh in exasperation.

'Sorry,' he mutters before sitting on a nearby stool clutching his head in his hands. Apparently, he's decided to keep quiet to learn more.

'Harry, I have to talk with Tonks in private for a while.' He merely nods, head still in his hands. 'Will you be OK here?' Even before I utter the last word I know he isn't. By the time we reach him, I'm not certain he'll ever be.

Q & A:

To selenis, thank you for your kind comments, and I like your ideas regarding Ginny's possible outs regarding her status as an Auror. Certainly some more tempting alternatives to my poor solutions! :) I wish I hadn't felt it necessary to kill off so many as I did, especially the Weasleys and Luna (and particularly after I'd written that all the male Gryffindors in Harry's year had survived--not very clever on my part, that).

To any questions I haven't yet answered, I apologise. The process of reformatting is discombobulating me a bit at present. Bear with me. :)