There and Back Again Lane
Ch. 14 – Fickle Dame Fortune
It's easy to speak of betrayal. But to betray somebody you need an opportunity, and once you have it you've got to take it. It's like opening a window in jail. Everybody would like to, but you don't often get the chance.
—Céline, Journey to the End of Night, Ralph Manheim (trans.), 297
Glamis and Cawdor Wizarding Assurance, Haseltoun, Edinburgh
---(Ginny's POV)---
When Harry collapses onto the back room floor vomiting the meal Martin's boot failed to dislodge, my mind races in a blind panic. Training takes hold again. Tonks is in shock, likely due to misplaced and, at the moment, entirely inappropriate guilt. She's blubbering an apology that I immediately interrupt, roaring for her to shut the shop. Swiftly moving to Harry's side, I notice he's shaking terribly, trying to shake off whatever's caused this reaction. The time to speculate the exact causes of this seizure can wait. Once the tremors end, I mop his brow with the sleeve of my robes and perform a Scourgify spell. She returns deathly pale, desperately needing something to occupy her mind. I tell her as calmly as I can to brew a pot of tea while I scribble down a list of Harry's symptoms and a brief description of his current condition for Hermione. Tonks nods nervously, padding clumsily from the room still muttering her regrets.
From the sound of things, she's busily reducing the shop's kitchenette to kindling as I carefully levitate Harry into her small room overlooking the tiny back garden. Making him comfortable in her small bed, I perform a cursory examination on him. Fortunately, his pulse and temperature have returned and his eyes respond properly to my lit wand. Seeing him in this wretched condition, I'm sorely tempted to lie beside him, holding him until he wakes. But Tonks is calling me from below, her little tea-brewing adventure obviously a success. I place the little hand mirror on a small nightstand next to head of the bed to watch over Harry as he sleeps while she and I sort out the mess I've conjured.
When I finally return to the back room I don't see Tonks my old friend or the bumbler, but my superior. She scowls disapprovingly at me, her light blue, almost vulpine eyes attempting to pierce mine in their quest for answers, her hair as black as her mood. I'm astonished she's managed to master herself so quickly with all of the surprises I've thrown at her in such a short space of time. Despite the intensity of her gaze, I will myself to return it rather than focusing on the brown glazed earthenware teapot in the centre of the small table. Left with the options of either explaining my actions outright, thereby opening myself to further enquiries I might not be able to answer, or to let her take the initiative, allowing me time to craft an appropriate, face-saving response, I opt for the latter. Smiling to relieve the tension, I sit opposite her, using the teapot as a buffer. She's having none of that nonsense. But first I ask her to place her small mirror on the table so we might watch over Harry.
'Ginny,' she begins, complying with my request but shaking her head in frustration, 'what have you done?' Already a question I can't answer. What can I say? I was thinking with my heart, not my head, to which she would inevitably reply that I'd certainly been thinking with some part of my anatomy, not necessarily the heart. Of course, I could reply that was more a male thing, but that would only make her more suspicious, leading to probing questions which Harry with whom I thought I was sleeping. I'm not ready for that sort of inquisition right now. So, I simply shrug.
'Is he the one you've been seeing?' she continues. I nod. 'You've been with him for two years and you didn't tell me?' she hisses. Her countenance becomes positively feral. Once upon a time, she might have looked on me indulgently, praising my good fortune. That time would have been five or six years ago. Now she seems hard-pressed not to send me before the Wizengamot, if her tongue doesn't flay me dead. My omission of Harry's name in those girlish, occasionally lewd discussions wasn't intentional. After I'd told the troublesome twosome about Harry – just before losing control of my temper – Hermione warned me not to tell anyone else about him. Even in my bitter fury after that discussion I saw she had a valid point, especially after Fred's reaction earlier that night. My silence about Harry saved him from the intolerable burden of fame, and allowed me to keep him to myself. Perhaps I was selfish, but present circumstances indicate otherwise.
The guilt card demands to be played. 'Look at him,' I growl, pointing to the mirror, thankful I set the mirror at his end to only transmit, not receive. He's resting somewhat peacefully now, yet any odd hitch in his breathing sends shivers down my spine. 'Do you really think he'd have been ready to meet everyone again?' Though I'd learned my technique from the best, Tonks isn't dissuaded.
'Merlin, Ginny,' she huffs. 'I'm your friend and your bloody superior. You should have told me.' She's good. 'You know Headquarters has to vet prospective spouses and long-term relationships, especially after the war.' She pauses for an instant, for effect. I stare her down letting her understand she's not convincing me. Noting my response, she sighs heavily and with great sadness. 'He might not be a security risk, but he should at least know the risks to himself.'
Wanting to show my willingness to make a clean breast of things, particularly since nothing could be gained from my continued reluctance, I decide to reply directly to her concerns. 'I was worried about moles within the Department.' Her eyes widen as she flushes with rage. 'I know you're sound, but you'd be obligated to tell other people, and who knows how many would find out about Harry after that.' She purses her lips but bites back a retort. I've only modestly mollified her irritation, but I desperately want her fully on my side without implicating too many people. 'For instance, Perkins.' She grimaces at the mention of the junior minister, our head of department.
'I wouldn't have told anyone else,' Tonks avers. 'You could have even magically compelled me to keep mum.' Her eyes reveal the absolute truthfulness of those statements.
Playing the chastened child, I gaze solemnly at my lap. 'I see that now,' I swear, 'and I'm truly sorry for keeping it from you.' And I am. Other than Hermione, Tonks is one of the few good friends I have left after my disastrous seventh year, three years of Auror training, and two years as an Auror and pseudo-Muggle. To lose her trust when I, and Harry, need it most is unthinkable. 'I know you would have defended Harry's secret with your life,' I plead, 'yet I felt' –we believed – 'the fewer people who knew he was still alive, the more likely he would recover.' Wait for the penny to drop...
'Recover from what?' she demands incredulously. 'Why couldn't I recognise him, or he, me? What exactly is going on?' Her furrowed brow and slightly open mouth reveal the depth of her disbelief. She would have asked those questions anyway, but a little prompting never hurts and saves me from revealing who knows what.
'Harry's been living as a Muggle ever since the last battle,' I reply. 'Well, ever since he left St Mungo's, in any case.' I elaborate on what little Hermione told me of his 'treatment', his experiences with accidental magic, our life together, and his few memories of his past as a wizard. 'Most of what he remembers seems to involve either physical or emotional pain for some reason.' Though Tonks is interested in what I've said, an odd twitch of her mouth announces my explanation isn't entirely satisfactory.
'Now, don't take this the wrong way, Ginny,' – the precise phrase that immediately raises my hackles – 'but Harry's a human being, not an exhibit or an experiment.'
Hammering the table with my fists, I send the teapot and mirror dancing. I wince from the sting of the barb as I feel the blood rushing to my face, my heart beating at a furious pace. 'I'm well aware of that,' I growl through gnashing teeth.
'I'm not so sure you do,' Tonks calmly states. 'You're observing him, yes, and you may feel the resurgence of some teenage crush, but I fear you may be doing him more harm than good.' To press her point home, she holds the mirror in front of me. The image of the man I love fighting off some hideous nightmare vindicates her position and sends me deeper into the throes of guilt and worry, driving me mad. With a forceful swipe I try to bat the mirror from her hand. Failing that, I lunge at her across the table.
She rises with alarming speed, brandishing her wand in a defensive pose while grabbing a fistful of my hair. 'Don't make me hurt you, Ginny.' I see a note of fear in her eyes, but it's well hidden behind a steely resolve and a wealth of experience. Her professionalism more than anything makes me see my actions for what they are. Overcome with shame, I collapse onto the table, narrowly avoiding the upset teapot.
I feel her hand soothingly stroking my back. Still, she can't help digging that dagger of guilt deeper. 'I've no idea how you ever passed Auror training with a temper like that.'
'This from the former queen of clumsy,' I mumble to the table.
'OK, so we've established that we're both near failures,' she remarks while I groan, 'and that you truly love Harry.' To that last comment I mutter muffled thanks. 'So,' she continues, 'who else is aware of this fiasco?'
Damn and buggery. Slowly my dishevelled self slumps back into the chair. She takes pity on me and asks rather than forcing me to answer.
'Does Kingsley know?' Kingsley Shacklebolt, head of the Auror Division, member of the Order. Outside of his family, Tonks is the only person with the temerity to call him Kingsley. He indulges me to call him 'governor,' mostly because he finds it terribly amusing with my West Country accent. Does he know Harry is alive? I believe so and say as much. 'Does he know that you've been living with Harry, that you're going to marry him?'
Er, no? I muster enough courage and strength to shake my head. For some reason, I'm fighting to stay awake as a feeling of tremendous fatigue overwhelms me. She must have put something in the tea. I'd only had a couple of sips, but that must have been enough. As the substance takes hold and my arms drop to my sides, a part of me is impressed by the ingenuity of my opponents. Never would I have suspected Tonks to betray me...
Where am I?
I bolt upright, my fists clenched as I try to interpret my surroundings. With great consternation, I realise I'm clothed only in a linen nightshirt and my knickers. I sincerely doubt whomever put me in this nightshirt was so kind as to leave my wand in close proximity. But at least they don't seem to mean me any harm.
To my complete astonishment, I'm in a cot next to Harry's bed. A brief chortle catches my attention. Tonks is smirking from the doorway, probably due to my pugilistic waking pose. 'Maybe I was wrong about Auror training and your temper,' she notes with a chuckle. 'You failed the 'constant vigilance' portion of the test, though.' Thanks for the reminder, Tonks. A glance to my left informs me Harry's still asleep despite the noise I hear from downstairs.
'Who else is here?' I inquire, not wholly trusting my old friend.
'One who apparently already knows,' she answers with a raised eyebrow. I'm so bloody tired of these idiot games.
'Buggering hell,' I hiss, 'who is it?'
Tonks rolls her eyes and sighs, mildly annoyed that I'm unwilling to play today. 'Ron, with a little help from our lord and master.'
Double bugger.
'He's not too angry,' she asserts, 'he' meaning Shacklebolt. 'Maybe a pound-and-a-half of flesh would suffice.'
'I'll see where I can oblige,' I reply. Deep down, submerged by the draught she'd administered to me, I feel the rage burbling. 'You should have let me tell him.'
'Ron beat us both to it,' she informs me. That gangly, dimwitted busybody. 'I wasn't in favour.' Noticing my expression of disgust, she adds, 'Hermione must have put him up to it.' And that just makes everything better. My head falls into my hands. It feels like I've woken after drinking too much but not enough to have a hang-over: queasy stomach, muddled thinking, and cotton-mouthed. I wish I could fall asleep again. Tonks must have enraged me to make the potion work quicker. Seeing I'm leery of waking, she grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.
'Get washed and dressed, dearie,' she prompts as she steers me towards the bathroom. 'He only has an hour until practice starts,' she declares whilst unceremoniously thrusting me inside, shutting the door behind me. With alacrity I wrench it back open.
'What did Shacklebolt say?' I ask her retreating back.
Tonks turns and waves an admonishing finger at me. 'Tut, tut, that's Mr Shacklebolt to you,' she answers. 'And you get nothing until you make yourself presentable,' she says, wrinkling her nose at my purportedly offensive odour.
Having treated myself to a brief lukewarm bath and dressing in the clothes she's provided – a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and clean underclothes from my bag – I wander downstairs expecting the worst.
At the bottom of the stairs I'm greeted by an awkward bear hug delivered by my dear brother. He relates how worried he and Hermione were when they heard I'd left London. I pat his back somewhat hard half to thank them for their concern and half to stop him suffocating me. He finally realises my plight when I start spluttering a gasping reply. Yet he continues to hold my upper arms firmly and asks how I'm doing.
'As well as can be expected,' I grumble, his worried expression thwarting most of my desire to castigate him for ratting me out to Shacklebolt. A certain harshness must have crept into my voice as he releases me and steps back several paces.
'He had to be told, you know that,' he pleads.
'By me, Ron,' I growl, 'not my brother.'
Tonks coughs to end the argument before it escalates and motions for the three of us to sit at the table. Neither Ron nor I budge, however. He stands there, arms akimbo, leaning to look me straight in the eye. He must have learned that technique from Mum. Or Hermione. Either way, he's standing just out of slapping distance. 'When would you have told him,' he prods, 'after he sees the engagement ring or during your first trimester?'
'As soon as Harry and I returned to London,' I retort, leaning forward menacingly, tilting my head slightly to the right to throw off the daggers flung from his eyes. 'Until yesterday, my back-story was intact, and if your bloody wife hadn't been so soddingly insistent on me telling Harry, it still would be.' With that last outburst, I move a pace forward.
'Don't you dare blame Hermione for your indiscretions,' he barks. 'Neither of us wants to piece you back together after another disaster because you can't let the past be.' He advances a step as well.
'Let me remind you who was the bloody architect of the original disaster in this affair, Ron,' I snarl. 'About five-eight, bushy brown hair...'
Ron rises to his full height, his face red with a mixture of fury and shame. A cold rage is coursing through me as I endeavour to keep Tonks's drug at bay for a little longer. I wonder which of us will crack first.
In the end, we both do. Likely, the draught is affecting me while Ron doesn't want to cause another longstanding rupture between us. We hug again, mutually now. I pretend to fall asleep in his arms even as the potion makes its resurgence.
'Did you have to give her so much?' he enquires.
'If I hadn't I doubt either of us would still be in one piece, Ron,' Tonks counters.
'You two make me sound like some wicked goddess of vengeance or something,' I utter in my half-feigned half-awake state, stumbling towards a chair. Theatrically I wave my arms about, almost falling to the floor. 'I have become death, the destroyer of worlds,' I pronounce in an ominous voice.
Ron looks unnerved while Tonks is peeved. 'That was a god who reputedly said that, Ginny, not a goddess,' she scolds.
'Seven out of ten, then?' I'm enjoying this now.
'Put her right,' Ron demands quietly.
'But...'
'Sort her out right now!' he interrupts as he saves my head from striking the table. That was much too close…
'Hie me to a nunnery, knave,' I mutter between giggles. Simulation and truth are collapsing into one as Tonks's potion clouds my mind. My brother props me upright in the chair.
'A simple antidote should cure her.' Of what? I haven't a care in the world now. Except for Harry. Dear God, where is he? My fading eyes search the room but all I see is a blurry brother and Tonks.
Ron restrains me from falling again as I seek to leave the chair before gingerly allowing me to rest my head on the table. Faintly I hear him say with exasperation that he's almost late for practice. He must have come by portkey as I see his hazy form vanish with no corresponding crack from Apparating. Probably can't Apparate in or out of Haseltoun. Vaguely, I remember that the ceiling and the gates prevent that mode of travel.
'Ophelia, I presume?'
'If you let me drown any further, I'll have to hurt you.' I seem to be doing an awful lot of mumbling to this table lately. As long as it doesn't answer back, you're still sane, I tell myself.
She places a small mug in front of me. 'Can you drink it, or shall I play the doting mother?'
I try to raise either arm but can't. 'Mum, please.'
'You must be allergic to that particular draught,' she grumbles. Tonks sits me upright in the chair and uses a gentle hand on my forehead to raise my head to the ceiling, opening my mouth. I can just discern the crossbeams from the upstairs floorboards. An odd burning sensation travels down my throat almost causing me to cough. 'Good girl.'
'I haven't been that for a few years now.' The potion is making its way through my bloodstream, returning some vigour to my limbs.
'Oh, I know,' she playfully admonishes. 'Living in sin with two, or was it three men?' I don't bother to answer but try for an innocent face, but I probably look drunk.
'Yes, you didn't live with Dean, did you,' she finishes. I'd completely forgotten I'd told Tonks about Dean. Maybe Fred or Angelina talked, though. 'Or that man from Auror training.' If they knew about him, how did Shacklebolt not know about Harry before? 'A regular scarlet woman, you are.'
'How did you know about Simmonds?' I finally manage. 'It was only the once.'
'He wasn't nearly so discreet, or so honest,' she replies, the stress on the past tense obvious even in my slowly recovering state. 'Until I had a word with him.' An evil smirk crosses her face.
'Hmm, I always wondered why he left Auror training quickly thereafter.' I'm tempted to go into her relationship with Charlie – I'm not the only sinful woman here – but I've hurt Tonks enough already and I've no desire to receive another dose of that draught. Or of her rage. Besides, I'm quite pleased she defended my honour back then.
She presents another pot of tea before me, forcing a groan from my lips. It's a different pot, but that means nothing. 'It's only tea this time,' she vows. I refuse the offer of a mug nonetheless. She nods her head approvingly with a grin for my renewed vigilance a while pouring herself a cup. Making sure I witnessed that she was indeed drinking the tea, I pour myself a cup. 'I'm surprised that you didn't notice I'd spiked the tea before,' she mentions after my first sip.
'That's because you can't brew a proper pot,' I remark, feigning a grimace at the taste of the over-strong cuppa. 'And you're supposed to add the milk or cream first, not after.'
She acts offended but knows it's the truth. 'I've never been one for the domestic arts,' she confesses, making a face as she drinks. A relaxed silence falls between us as we drink the bitter brew. She waits until I have a good mouthful before she asks her first question.
'So,' a smirk growing on her lips, 'how's necrophilia been treating you?'
My eyes widen but I manage to keep all of the tea in my mouth until I swallow. There are so many reasons, beyond the obvious tactlessness of the question, why I wouldn't want to answer. Perhaps she's vicariously trying to relive the happy times she had with Charlie, or maybe she truly believes I can't distinguish between the two Harries. Yet my Harry never knew the cold grip of the contemporary era's most evil wizard and consequently is more relaxed and though studious (albeit not nearly as much as Hermione), a little less single-minded, and better able to express himself. He's what Harry could have been given the opportunity. OK, so the differences between the two aren't as great as I pretend. If they were, he wouldn't be Harry, right? Why am I trying to convince myself?
'Fine,' I eventually splutter. Tonks looks at me quizzically.
'He's not dead,' I add, 'just different.' The words sound hollow even to my ears.
'Only a question of degrees,' she asserts.
The rejoinder falters long before it reaches my lips whilst I nod sheepishly, my acting skills evading me yet again.
'I would say it's that wizard debt rubbish that made you behave so rashly as to even consider seeing him, never mind become engaged to him,' she elaborates, though waving a pacifying hand to assuage my temper. 'But from what you've said over the past two years, and noticing how happy he's made you, perhaps you simply love him for who he is, regardless of debt or girlish crush.'
I don't know whether to believe her or not, and my face must show it.
'Honestly, Ginny, I mean it.' That's three of six then, unless Fred and Angelina are simply playing along.
'What did our lord and master say?' I enquire.
'From what Ron said, Kingsley's against the engagement.' My fists begin clenching on the table. Tonks admonishes me with a glare before starting again. 'Both for your sake and Harry's. As one of the few who knew Harry's still alive,' she pauses briefly to restrain her own irritation at having been kept in the dark, 'and as an old member of the Order, he swore to protect both Harry's memory in our world and his life among the Muggles, should that ever be necessary.' She begins to chuckle a little, leading my eyes away from my empty cup. 'Not knowing exactly where Harry was certainly made the latter rather difficult, though.' I can't help but laugh as well.
'You know that Aurors' spouses tend to be at greater risk than those of most other Ministry officials.' I nod briskly. 'We must maintain the complete secrecy of our operations as well.' She pauses once more. 'That's why the Ministry generally opposes marriages between Aurors and Muggles.' I remember all of this rubbish from training. 'Harry's the worst case scenario. He's unable to defend himself and, should someone discover who he is, he'll act as a beacon to the press, remaining Death Eaters, or who-knows-what-else.' Pouring herself another cuppa, Tonks appears to be considering her next words carefully. I'm not sure whether it's an act or not. Then she asks the question I've been pondering for over two years.
'If there was that Fidelius charm on Harry as you said, how were you able to recognise him?' His voice. A little deeper, but even after an embarrassing collision with what he thought was a perfect stranger, more self-assured. Am I his secret keeper? No, otherwise Tonks would've recognised him when I mentioned his name. What if... Hermione's certainly clever enough to do such a thing, and probably suspicious enough given the circumstances.
'I think I'm Hermione's out.'
'What do you mean?' Tonks is completely puzzled now.
'Hermione was the one who performed the charm,' I inform her. She's aghast.
'Why would she want him Obliviated and untraceable?' she demands. 'She was one of his best friends!'
In spite of all their meddling, I'm starting to feel sympathy for Ron and Hermione, especially Hermione. What I've heard of those confused months immediately after Voldemort's defeat – little better than a collection of jumbled anecdotes, really – places her radical decision within its proper context. Regrettably, only now do I see just how difficult it would be to make such a choice would be when pressed by those who think they know better. But the tables are reversed here, and I'm the one who has to decide about Harry. If Ron and Hermione had trusted me enough back then, if only they had waited a little longer, things could have been so very different. Still, I wonder if she even had nearly as much of an opportunity as I do to find alternatives, or as many allies. 'She did what she thought was best,' I reply, 'and as I found him, he wasn't exactly untraceable, was he?'
'How did she do it then?'
'I don't think it was a conscious decision,' I deduce. 'Only the Muggle government knew where Harry went after his stay at St Mungo's, and I doubt she planned for me to meet Harry outside of the Leaky Cauldron that afternoon.' Tonks is frowning in her effort to stay with my flimsy explanation. 'I believe it was that "wizard debt rubbish" you mentioned earlier,' I say with a laugh. 'As he hadn't died, the link between Harry and me was never severed. I was still beholden to him, and he recognised me, sort of, for that same reason.' Triumphing in my perspicacity, I am almost deaf to Tonks's one word assessment of my hypothesis.
'Bollocks.'