There and Back Again Lane

Ch.15 – Circles and Roundabouts in Crepuscular Towns, Part 1: Of Serpents and Mirrors

Questions are a burden to others, answers a prison for oneself.

—Village saying, The Prisoner

A Brief Discussion on the Nature of Magic

Accidental magic is the product of an unschooled mind or one under great stress. Potential thaumaturges – i.e., untrained witches and wizards – begin manifesting their magical character through acts of accidental or, rarely, intentional wandless magic, often as a reaction to fear. Thaumaturges tend to stop exhibiting such uncontrolled magic for a number of reasons. First and foremost is that their intellect has been conditioned to focus their magical energy through their wands. Wands permit the disciplined mind to execute powerful feats of sorcery over great distance with vastly improved accuracy. Accidental and most wandless magic, however, tends to be short-ranged, unfocused, and, more often than not, problematic if not dangerous as it is often a reaction to extreme stress.

Second, wandless magic is generally difficult to perform in areas of highly concentrated magical energy such as Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. As most wandless magic generally requires the caster's intense concentration, the presence of so much controlled magical energy within such an area renders manifestations of wandless magic extremely problematical even by powerful thaumaturges. The effort of redirecting controlled magical energy is simply too great for the limited results that could be achieved. It is, however, interesting to note that while accidental or wandless magic becomes increasingly difficult in an environment of concentrated thaumaturgic energy, conventional sorcery is noticeably easier to perform and produces more pronounced effects.

It must be noted that accidental and wandless magic are not necessarily interchangeable terms, as accidental magic is one of several types of unconventional or wandless sorcery.

—H. Granger, 'Accidental magic,' in A Student's Glossary of Magic, Egeria Press, 71b Diagon Alley, London

Interlude: Match Report

'Hello and welcome to the middle of the story so far,' announces a cheery voice over the wizarding wireless.

'Lee's on fine form today,' Ron mutters from behind his butterbeer.

'Quiet, I can't hear the bloody match report!' Fred bellows, stilling the dull murmur threatening to erupt.

'We'll hear nowt if you keep yelling, love,' Angelina grumbles.

Hermione wanders into the sitting room with a tall glass of orange trailed by a pair of knitting needles clicking away at a pair of booties. 'So, what's going on so far?'

'We'll never find out if everyone keeps bloody talking,' Fred snarls.

'Here we go…' Ron declares as the adverts finish.

Lee Jordan begins by presenting his co-commentators, Oliver Wood and Alicia Spinnet, with Katie Bell listed as 'indisposed,' followed by some strategic coughing to cover lewd comments by said co-commentators. 'Well, Oliver, what's your impression of the first half?'

'Hmm, it's moving a little too slow for me,' Oliver grunts. 'I mean, look at Ginny. Here she is, perfect bloody opportunity, we can say "bloody" on air, right?'

'For Quidditch matches and the like, yeah,' Lee admits.

'The perfect bloody opportunity to reveal a very alive Harry to the world and dump that, er, Perkins in the midden, but no,' he groans. 'Is this the same lass who stole two snitches from under senior Seekers' noses in her first year on the squad? I think not.'

'You're comparing crups and kneazles again, Oliver,' Alicia retorts. 'It's not some teenage Quidditch player she'd be going against, but a junior minister with no moral compass.'

'But she's got that Hermione Granger on her side,' Oliver replies believing he has the upper hand. Hermione sits up proudly and primly and dusts non-existent motes of dust from her blouse and skirt.

'And what the bloody hell is she going to do, you prat?' Alicia growls. 'Read them to sleep? Berate them into confessing?' Hermione deflates visibly as Fred chuckles, amazed to see his sister-in-law knocked down a couple of pegs. Ron glares at his older brother, tempted to join in the snickering yet knowing the consequences of arousing Hermione's ire. Just able to stifle her own laughter, Angelina glances distractedly at the ceiling.

'Hold on, you two,' Lee says trying to regain some semblance of order. 'Let's get back to the story.' His co-commentators grudgingly consent, yet without capping the vitriol.

Noting the tension, Lee decides to treat the pair as hostile witnesses. 'So, Oliver, what do you think of Ginny's interpretation of how she discovered Harry?'

'I have to agree with Tonks,' he answers. 'It's just too simple an explanation.'

'Alicia?'

'Though I hate to admit it, I agree with Oliver,' she concurs.

Three faces immediately look at Hermione for an answer, but she's fascinated by a bird outside the window and refuses to acknowledge their sudden attention.

'And I disagree,' Lee asserts. As the three turn back to the wireless, a slight smirk emerges on Hermione's face. 'After all, when all other explanations are exhausted, generally the simplest and most easily overlooked answer is the correct one.'

'Should we get you a deer-stalker, Sherlock Jordan?' Alicia sweetly enquires.

'Maybe just a silly pipe for whatever he's been smoking,' offers Oliver. 'It's a Fidelius charm, Lee, performed by one of the pre-eminent witches of our age, and you think it could be obviated by a simple wizard's debt?'

'That's loony even for you, Lee,' Alicia adds.

'We'll see.'

Leave the World Unseen

Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh

---(Catesby's POV)---

Where the buggering hell are they?

I've been in this shit-hole of a town for half a day now, wandering through all of its narrow cobbled streets plagued by surly fairies and locals with incomprehensible accents, nostrils filling with the disgusting stench of selkies or bogmonsters of some ilk. What or who would live in this festering midden anyway? The locals probably keep Red Caps as pets. There's a welter of buildings in every sort of disrepair. Never catch Diagon Alley like this. Can't even enchant the ceiling to make a proper representation of the sky, stupid buggers.

I swear I'll kill that bitch when I find her, ministerial orders be damned. Subdue if necessary, my arse. Don't know how she managed to incapacitate the other three, but I'll not give that cow the time to pull anything on me. My colleagues, the gits, are useless without their sodding wands except for creating diversions, which they can scarcely do in hospital. The sodding slag even bribed that bloody fairy at the Seelie Gate. I'm certain there was a Ministry circular against doing that except in extreme emergency. Just because she's a Weasley she thinks she can pull shite like that. Making me jog in a sodding anorak in midsummer from the arse end of Cockburn Street to Calton Hill to find another open gate. So what if it was in the afternoon? Still bloody hot enough. Even then the bastard ghillie dhu wouldn't let me in for less than a Sickle. Barely made it through the Brae Gate-to-Byre Lane entrance without getting spotted by some greasy git of an Auror hiding among the hawkers and gawpers. I'm definitely going to murder her, slowly.

Who is that daft sod with her? If Ministry regulations didn't specifically forbid it, I'd do him a serious injury just to watch that Weasley cow writhe. The death of a dangerous renegade operative who'd already incapacitated three officers could be dismissed as an unfortunate necessity. Perkins would likely skin me alive should a bystander or captive suffer a grievous injury or death, especially a Muggle. I can at least stun the git, so that's something.

I've circled round the Inner Grove Hill and wound my way outwards, retracing my steps to catch out any sodding Auror who might dare follow me. Still no sign. Even that prat Dudson's rats haven't been able to trace Weasley and her Muggle in here. Probably being feasted upon by the bloody Red Caps. The rats, that is. One can always hope, though.

When I find that woman, I'll make her pay for bringing me here...

Glamis and Cawdor Wizarding Assurance, Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh

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

I'm falling.

Wind whips at me, buffeting my back. My eyes are open but all I see is black, bordered by a sickening green tinge flickering like a gas flame. Instead of roaring upward, the jets are guttering, occasional sparks collapsing, pooling at the bottom. A shrill shriek of laughter echoes in my ears. A trick of the air, or some twisted product of my imagination perhaps. But along with that evil cackling a woman's voice peals pleading for someone's life. I try to call out to her, to locate the voice, but my throat is ruined, made hoarse from my own screams.

The descent doesn't frighten me, though a distant warning – muffled by the howling wind, the screeching, the begging, and my own cries – tells me it should. Instead, I instinctively curl into a foetal position, rotating until the wind strikes me directly in the face. I must be facing the ground. A small round window of green, a far different shade than that vile flame retreating from the periphery of my sight, appears ahead and grows in size. The wind against my face begins to lessen as I try to relax myself for landing.

The ground comes to meet me, though, along with that hideous screeching. My leg is limp, stabbed by daggers. Blood is trickling down my right arm as well. Is this sorcery, dark Satanic rituals in – oh buggering hell, it can't be... – a cemetery? No, Ginny's not like this. First off, she's C of E. I think. Who are these people, then? A flicker of memory tells me these masked creatures are not our sort of wizards and witches. A weedy goat-faced creature stands before the gathered assembly, extolling his crimes and, apparently, their failures. Some wretched simpering mass cools at his heels. When the reedy monstrosity turns to face me again, its visage is obviously more ophidian than caprine with red eyes avidly gleaming with depravity.

Yet now we are somewhere else, the grotesque man-thing and I, its sibilant voice biting my ears but failing to find purchase on my mind. An overwhelming sense of loss and regret fills me, dulling the force of his gaze. Crows – or are they men? – swarm towards me but I waft them away indifferently like wisps of smoke. I'm dead to the world now. My soul is buried in lime to prevent the plague I bear from leeching into the soil. So many dead, some at my hands. Having lost all that I've loved, I'm more dangerous than ever. Death would be a welcome release. Mr Snake-faced git seems to realise this. If I didn't know better, I'd say Tom was shivering. Tom. What a simple name for such a creature. Somewhere near I hear a woman sobbing. The weeping is painfully familiar, of someone distant but dear to me. I dearly wish to stop and accompany her in grief, yet onward I press. Honestly, I wish there could be another way. Cries of pain and dismay erupt around me. I continue forward.

Tom swings his arm in a great arc and shouts something that seems terribly funny to me now, until I see that sickening green light. The part of me that laughed a second ago presently quails. My past self, however, merely swerves away from the attack and flings back something of my own. Tom easily deflects my rejoinder, sending a minion flailing. We continue trading spells, hitting one another on occasion, never directly enough to seriously disable the other, although he strikes more frequently than me. He is slowing down, though. Eventually, we strike at the same moment forming an ever thickening silver thread of light between us. I remember this happening before... Somehow he manages the unexpected, however, and tosses down his wand in favour of another. A look of cruel triumph is etched across his face. But I'm quicker.

I wonder what he was thinking when the gold bolt struck him. What he thought afterward was well known to me. Wave after wave of anguish would have beaten him down only to be followed by shame and an overpowering sense of loss. He would suffer through every man, woman, and child murdered, tortured, and shattered by this conflict. The pain of death would be visited upon him time and again.

'Come, Tom, it can't hurt that much this time round,' I reproach while walking towards him with a renewed sense of purpose. A great many have died for this to happen; I mustn't let them down. Something heavy and firm is held in my left hand while my right points a wand at the snake-man Tom. His features are contorting into a demonic parody of grief. Perhaps I'm underestimating my skill, though. He's shaking, trying to ward off the spell I had cast upon him. 'All those people, murdered for your tawdry little schemes, all for nothing but a brief passage in some history book,' I press on sending another large bead along the strong, taut golden thread that links us. Battles are raging on all sides but apart the moan of the occasional wounded minion, Tom and I are alone. It is the cruellest fate that there are no others with whom I might share this moment. 'They will live on, Tom, through their loved ones.'

A horrible hollow laugh rings out. It takes a long time for me to realise it's coming from me, so mirthless, so full of sadness. 'Didn't Mummy love her Tommy?' More than life itself, I know. He didn't know that, until now. The grimace on his face is almost human, nearly tearful. It makes this horrible necessity ever more unpleasant.

He tries to break the bond between us. I'm too close now, only four feet and approaching quickly. 'What's it like to have a soul again, Tom?' I ask placing the sword-point directly under where his sternum would be, its point angled upward. Tom ceases his flailing to look down upon me with saddened little snake eyes. 'Yes, Tom, I'll help you along.' My cheeks are in immense pain from all of the laughter and the mocking smiles. There's no cheer in my heart, though. It's drowning in ice. 'We'll go together.'

The sword sinks into his chest with difficulty but true. I feel it entering my chest, too, yet with much greater ease. A stream of flame runs down the blade as it pricks the bottom of our hearts. My left arm is ablaze and my right is catching alight. The pain is unbearable but I'm unable to let go of either the sword or the wand. 'Memento mori, Tom,' I remind him, forcing the blade deeper with all of my might, putting my body behind it. And in a blinding white flash it's all gone, but for the excruciating pain.

I'm in a pub full of teenagers with familiar faces...

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

'Can you think of a better explanation why I might be able to counter a Fidelius charm, Tonks?' I retort, groaning with exasperation. 'If so, I'd love to hear it.'

'It's too bloody simple,' she declares, and I have to admit my reasoning does seem somewhat facile. But my hypothesis seems correct nonetheless.

Before answering her, I consider all of the available information. First, there's the question of how I recognised Harry after I'd collided with him in front of the Leaky Cauldron two years back. The thing is, I didn't initially identify him as Harry. The voice was familiar and his face resembled that of someone I had known well but couldn't quite place, like that of an old acquaintance whose name one can't recall. My mind raced through all of the boys I'd met through school and training and could not place this person at all. Yet from deep within another voice shouted indistinctly but persistently something that could not have been true, something shocking enough to knock me on my arse even before he said his name and removed all doubt.

I remember Harry, our Harry, telling me of his life with the Dursleys before Hogwarts, of how he would occasionally encounter odd-looking people on the street who would shake his hand or wave in greeting before vanishing without a trace. Was he the same to most of us now, an easily ignored figment of a delusional imagination or fairy tale? That everyone assumed he was dead certainly reinforced the charm, even for me initially. But once the dawning realisation broke through all those years of gloom and regret, once my misconceptions shrank and shrivelled under the purifying light of day (such as it was that day), I never wanted to return to the world I'd known. I was home.

I could have mauled him right then and there, but as he scarcely had any idea who I might have been I'm glad I waited until we were both properly pished. Before we left each other, tempted to become that scarlet woman Mum had warned my brothers about and threatened me never to be, I asked him whether he minded if I told a few people from our past that I'd met him. Though understandably reticent to meet my family immediately – possibly fearing that within the week I'd thrust him into the local registry office for a civil ceremony – he agreed to let me inform my brothers and their wives he was in London for the week. Yet even though I'd broken the enchantment at its weakest point, the fissure was incredibly small, admitting only me.

For instance, even though I'd wanted to tell Tonks that the reason I'd moved to Edinburgh was to be with Harry, Hermione's warning about telling others about him – probably prompted and reinforced by the Fidelius charm – overwhelmed any such desire. Instead, Harry became 'a man' and eventually 'my fiancé.' Tonks thought I was nervous about what Headquarters would think about an unmarried Auror living with a Muggle in his flat. Prior to Shacklebolt's promotion to head of division, a 'maiden' Auror living with a man, wizard or otherwise, was enough to bring one before a disciplinary hearing. The war had scuppered that particular double standard for one against cohabitation with Muggles.

As a member of the Order, Kingsley is certainly no pureblood fanatic. He merely wants to protect innocent and defenceless Muggles from attacks on their Auror friends or lovers by the remaining Death Eaters and Muggle-baiters. After all, if Neville's parents had succumbed to such an assault, what would prevent our foes from doing the same to those without any magical ability? That and one must recall the importance of maintaining the secrecy of the wizarding community as well as the Aurors specifically. Load of bollocks. Yet there have been attacks...

And what about Harry? As Tonks reminded me, he is a special case. Is he at greater risk with me – former member of the storied DA, one of the few remaining Weasleys, and an Auror – or will I be able to protect him? Perhaps it would have been better for him if I'd been content with a drunken snogging session and the knowledge he was still among the living... Without a time-turner and divine intervention, that's not an option now. Even then, who knows what fresh disaster I would create? Besides, our Special Section fanclub reveals that Perkins suspects Harry's with me and the extent to which she will go to keep him hidden while providing another reason why Shacklebolt's against my engagement. Into what sort of insane intrigue have I propelled us? It was all so much simpler when I was just a schoolgirl... My head falls into my hands and I dearly wish to hide away, for the first time unsure of what I'm doing.

'Well,' Tonks demands, 'explain yourself.'

I try to convince the pair of us with the reasoning behind my argument, and when that fails, with passion. Yet her face retains its bemused expression. There's some mercy left in her, though. 'Maybe Hermione could enlighten the three of us,' she concludes. I must have managed a smile through my shock as she grins back at me. 'Considering the mess you two've left behind,' Tonks continues, nodding towards the wall safe where the three wands requisitioned from the Special Section squad rest, 'and your reaction to the soporific,' now studiously examining her tea to avoid my gaze, 'we should leave soon.'

I glance at the clock on the back wall next to the stairway to her tiny bedchamber. On the dial, the sun rides high over Calton Hill and Arthur's Seat with a small tuft of smoke wafting from the grove on the former protrusion while in the foreground merchants hold court at their stalls to hawk their wares along the Royal Mile. It's mid-morning, over twelve hours since we left our flat and two days since we went to London to visit the family. It feels like an eternity.

'Though perhaps you could use another few hours of sleep,' she adds giving me a mirror image of my face. She must be emphasising the bloodshot eyes. Else, I look bloody dreadful.

I have to change the subject. 'Any word on Catesby?' Might as well make the wands a complete set.

'He came through Brae Gate,' Tonks answers. 'My man says he was right peeved that you closed Seelie Gate.' I fail to stifle a snicker. The boss glares me back into silence. 'If you weren't a Weasley, you'd be so deep in it you'd need a snorkel or a bubblehead charm to breathe.'

It's not the first time my family's fame has been flung in my face, though Tonks's reminder hurts me far more than all the others. Our portrait, most of which was posthumously done and the rest painted from photos, hangs in the Minister's office next to several of her family. (I'm told Susan and I give each other sympathetic looks from time to time.) We're covered extensively in all current books on modern magic, our names inextricably linked with Harry's. It doesn't hurt that one brother runs an internationally successful shop (Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, London, Hogsmeade, Cork, Paris, etc.) while the other's a star Quidditch player, even if he plays for the Cannons. Reason enough for Simmonds to have made sport of me... Still, her assessment seems harsh as I feel my ears burning in indignation.

'The fairy decides whether or not to accept the bribe, Tonks,' I mutter staring straight back at her. 'And your reputation has saved you from a number of scrapes with the plod, if I remember correctly.' Unfortunately, she's shameless and simply smirks at the memories. 'With such a stunning role model, it's no bloody surprise I'm constantly being reprimanded.'

'Not my fault you don't take after Fred more,' she replies, raising an eyebrow. 'He was always able to avoid the law if not a teacher's reprimand.'

'Must be all those bad habits I learnt from you,' I retort, raising her an eyebrow and a smirk.

Outmatched, she waves me off to bed with a smile and a promise to wake me in a couple of hours or should Catesby approach. I trust Tonks with the preparations for our departure, but I suspect Perkins, or more likely her permanent secretary, is plotting something devious. Finding my kit, I remove my wand from its pocket and slip it under the pillow on the bed. Even as I slip off my jeans and slide next to Harry in the small bed, I'm certain no sleep awaits me. He's sleeping peacefully now, his breathing completely regular. The temptation to kiss him into wakefulness is strong, but he needs his rest if he's ever to recover, and stale vomit was never my favourite mouthwash. I settle for nuzzling next to him...

---(Tonks's POV)---

It's surprising how Ginny and her contemporaries adapted to their fame.

The Gryffindors, for the most part, ignored it insofar as they could. Harry's year in particular has avoided the limelight, despite having escaped with so few casualties. Seamus retreated with his injuries back to Ireland accompanied, to his mother's immense displeasure, by his English girlfriend (now wife), Lavender. They're authors, he in the purely literary vein while she scribbles for the society pages in between novels reminiscent of Jane Austen. He publishes under a pseudonym while she scrupulously avoids name-dropping, angering her editors no end. While Seamus arguably might have chosen a more physically active profession had he been able, the two are happy enough in Ireland. Certainly happier than they would have been in Britain with the likes of Rita Skeeter constantly hounding them.

Dean made out the worst of that year, though not due to his own failings. He did, however, choose an 'irresponsible profession' and 'furthered the impression among right-thinking witches and wizards to avoid all things Muggle,' according to The Daily Prophet. The curse of being an artist, I expect. The Prophet embarked on a campaign that hounded Dean out of England, or at least the wizarding side. His friends, of course, stood by him. Lavender quit that rag to write for the Quibbler, re-established by Neville and Seamus. Seamus posted epistles that put Zola's J'accuse to shame. Fred sent some complimentary products to the Prophet's editorial staff. Lee threw in the occasional jab during his Quidditch commentary, and Ron and Hermione threatened litigation. With goblin solicitors. Ginny, of course, went into the fray with subtlety. She convinced Minister Bones to purchase one of Dean's works – a feat in itself at the time – and had her invite the Prophet over for the unveiling. Faced with the Minister extolling the virtues of her new protégé, the editors collapsed and retracted their earlier comments.

The Patils kept their heads down and hard at work. In much of the current 'histories' of the period, they've been unjustly relegated to the footnotes. They wouldn't have it any other way. Padma vanished to India for three years to further her studies in Arithmancy. Her sister delved into her Healer training and a very private but longstanding affair with Dean until the strain became too much for both of them. It always amazes me how the two of them kept her name out of the press. Parvati's beauty is obviously matched by her cleverness.

Neville rarely stayed in the same place long enough for the gutter press to find any dirt on him even if they ever could. If he wasn't studying at some foreign university he was on an expedition or raising funds for Hogwarts or charity. He of all the Gryffindors adapted the best to his newfound fame, using it when he needed, avoiding it when it became too much to bear. His itinerant life and high visibility, however, made Ginny uncomfortable, and along with their other problems it was for the best that they eventually separated.

The Weasleys had their own problems. Fred had it worst. He found it difficult to reconcile Harry's memory with the losses of his mother and George. Harry, the saviour of our world, the twins' first investor, their friend and Quidditch team-mate as well as the cause of Molly's death. Luckily, Remus and Angelina filled the absence of George's moderating influence. Remus didn't bother lecturing Fred about how badly Harry must have felt about Molly's death or about how George would have wanted him to succeed, he merely reminded the young man about his responsibilities as a businessman and supported him throughout the rough patches. Angelina kept the press away from him, and Ginny, taking the brunt of their intrusions with remarkable character. Like a Quidditch manager, really. A bit of bullying here, some sweet words there, all spoken with a sparkling wit. When Fred finally felt comfortable enough to engage the public, he assumed his old carefree façade but avoided the centre stage where possible.

Hermione was another who was thrust into the spotlight. She and Ron, like Dean, were able to opt out of the wizarding world when it became too much. She still had enough on Rita Skeeter to secure some favourable press for herself and her friends. Her ties with the Minister similarly had some success in quashing hostile stories from those implying a biblical conspiracy between Ron and her to rid themselves of Harry to those suggesting she received preferential treatment in her coursework and practical training. Though she had experience with negative press, some days Ron and Ginny's support was all that kept her sane.

And what of Ron, Angelina, and Lee? They had Quidditch. It seems simplistic, but for Ron and Ange the support of their teams and for Lee of the WWN as well as of their fans enabled them to overcome most of the bad press that arose. That wealth of goodwill allowed them to bolster and protect their loved ones. Even Ron and Hermione's brief separation was overlooked by the gossip pages, mostly thanks to Lavender and a few well placed threats from a certain novelties manufacturer.

Then there's Ginny. I've no idea what to make of that girl. Her last year at Hogwarts nearly did her in until Fred and Angelina got her sorted. Ron and Hermione kept the press at bay with threats of solicitors as well as securing the occasional private word from Minister Bones herself. She escaped most of the press once she left school, though. Even as the most marriageable witch of her generation, with an ancient name yet one with equally politically sound credentials in our new 'enlightened' era, she kept herself well hidden from intrigues of the likes of Skeeter. Only that bloody beetle had a chance of ruining Ginny's quiet life, but Rita was wise enough to know the consequences of crossing the young woman. The youngest Weasley concentrated on her career and let much of the rest of her life fall away to nothingness, until Dean. He was the ideal first lover, desirous of privacy himself and being a friend of old in any case. He at least made her feel happy again. Neville was perfect for her, insofar as I and the rest of us knew. But it wasn't to be. I'll let Simmonds pass as a case of diminished responsibility brought on by drink, or something. And then, it seems, there was Harry.

From soap opera to happy families in one mad step. Ginny was happy with Dean and Neville, but she was unsufferable with her new lover. Honestly, I couldn't understand because he didn't sound too much different than the other two, maybe a little more attentive as neither Harry nor Ginny were being hounded by the press, but as a Muggle he was not nearly as interesting. Then, I grew up half-and-half, whereas Arthur Weasley had inculcated her with a fascination of all things Muggle. And as it was Harry as well, well... How I envy her, but with her life she bloody deserves some good fortune.

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

I hear them come into the room before I see them. Someone, I suspect Hermione, has thoughtfully replaced the rough linen hospital gown with my cotton nightdress from home, although the sheets are still unpleasantly rough. As much as my friend wants me to rest, St Mungo's wants to free a bed for someone with either more serious injuries or money. It's hard to tell the difference in these straitened times.

It takes all my strength to rise onto my elbows from the hospital bed, but I wave off all assistance. Ron and Hermione, hand in hand, are in the lead with Fred and Angelina following closely behind. My younger brother appears completely disorientated and needs Hermione to guide him to a bedside chair. Her eyes are raw and, despite the brave front she's almost able to portray, her nerves are absolutely shattered. My other presumptive sister-in-law makes a show of holding up Fred, but the reverse is true. Angelina has the look of one who senses impending disaster. Fred seems to have walked into a lecture by Professor Binns.

Then I see the black armbands, visible on their black robes only by their interlaced red and gold piping. There's no need to ask for whom those are. Harry's dead.

'Who were his bearers?' I demand, already aware what I feared was correct.

Ron's courage finally fails him as he sits on the edge of the bed staring fixedly at his hands. Fred looks pointedly bored, making no effort to evade my gaze. Angelina, however, is distinctly uncomfortable, peering nervously between us four others. Eventually Hermione acknowledges her glowering at the two brothers failed and answers.

'Well, Ron and Neville, of course,' she says, 'as well as Kingsley and Ernie.' My jaw sets as I glare at Fred, but Hermione continues nonetheless. 'Seamus went back to Ireland with Dean and Lavender.'

My elder brother doesn't avoid my piercing stare. 'What about the twins?' I demand.

'There's only one of us now, love,' Fred states flatly. I can't believe I'd forgotten. The twins were inseparable, immortal. How many times had they nearly killed themselves with their experiments? I couldn't imagine a world without the both of them, never would want to think on such a world. My guides, my twisted tormentor-protectors. Now there is only one to keep me on course, alive, too much work for one man half-dead himself. My mouth quavers but I try to retain my composure. I finally manage a strained, squeaking, 'Well?'

'I buried our brothers, our parents,' he bluntly replies. 'I've done more than my bit, thanks.' There's no effort to hide any of the bitterness in his voice. The savagery of the tone is not directed at me, but at the recently entombed.

Both Angelina and Hermione scowl at him, Ange going so far as to give Fred a shove. Yet he's resolute.

Though Ron still can't look me in the eye, he tries to play the conciliator and grasps my hand on the sheets. 'Ginny, give him time.' Whatever my younger brother intended, Fred is fit to burst with rage. The remaining twin's jaw tenses, his eyes twitching furiously. Brusquely, he storms from the room ignoring Ange's efforts to calm him, yet saving us from hearing his true feelings.

Vying for a return to normalcy, Hermione pretends nothing has happened and continues her report. As she blethers on about Remus still being bedridden, I try to follow Fred out of the room...

I am thrust out of bed, not by my dream but my resurrected lover. Fighting his way awake, Harry flings the sheets away as he bolts upright, unintentionally rolling me onto the cot beside the bed, my back cracking on one of the supports. Tousle-haired Lazarus himself succeeds in striking his head against one of the crossbeams above the tiny sleeping alcove.

'Ow!' we protest in unison. As I rub my sore lower back, he slumps back onto the bed clutching his forehead. His eyes are unfocused when he turns to look at me, only now noting someone else is sharing the room. He appears shaken, if not broken.

'Where am I?' He asks in a panicked voice as if he doesn't know me, or at least isn't certain who I am. Dear God, he's regressing...

I move carefully towards him so as to not frighten him, still clasping my back in pain. 'We're in Haseltoun, Harry, in Edinburgh.' A hand cautiously emerges from the bed, cupping my cheek.

'Ginny.' He speaks my name to prove that I exist, that I'm here. And as the certainty gains hold a wan smile emerges. 'What are you doing down there?'

'You tossed me out of bed.' Although speaking playfully, I am suitably offended and dismayed.

His smile deepens as he peers into my eyes. 'Why would I do a foolish thing like that?' He's hiding something...

'I don't know,' I reply, 'but it better not happen again.'

'Only if the bed's on fire, love,' he answers. The smile that follows is positively enchanting, the cheeky bugger.

Before I have the chance to ask him about his dreams, Tonks barrels into the room, wand at the ready, prepared for the worst. She sees our domestic scene, me in my t-shirt and knickers, one hand on my back, Harry reclining, his hand on my cheek. He looks scared, but tenses for action.

'Hi, Tonks,' I mutter without turning, 'so glad you could join us.' My other hand, however, had slipped under the pillow on the bed for my wand just in case I was wrong.

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

Tonks, now with brown hair but the same heart-shaped face, exhales noisily with relief and annoyance. Ginny's hand slips from under the pillow back into her lap with her wand. 'The pair of you will send me to an early grave,' our intruder chunters as she leaves the room.

Ginny's still rubbing her lower back. My head hurts a little, but I seem to have halted my forward progress before giving myself a concussion. Or another one. 'So what are you still doing down there?' I ask as sweetly as possible.

Her brow furrows and her nose wrinkles. 'Your breath could murder a troll, Harry,' she avers. There is a distinctly repulsive taste in my mouth and my throat feels raw.

'What happened to me?' I wonder aloud.

'We don't know,' she replies. 'You were holding you head as if you were suffering a migraine then started vomiting.' She clinically examines my eyes, I assume to assess my condition. When I ask whether it's a concussion, she answers with a grimace of uncertainty.

'I thought you were supposed to be a Healer,' I grumble with mock annoyance.

'Oh, I know a few things that would put you right,' she answers. She points her wand at my mouth muttering bucca mentha and that wretched taste in my mouth vanishes. The wand slides back under the pillow as she squirms into bed beside me, a sly grin emerging.

But a voice calls from below. 'Oi! Get dressed, you two,' Tonks shouts. 'No time for mucking about.'

'That bloody mirror,' Ginny mutters, hiding her head in the pillow.

On a small table next to the bed, I see a small hand mirror. The chillingly familiar feeling of being watched creeps over me, followed by a terrifyingly haunting regret. I stare at the silvered glass hoping it will shatter or at least disappear, but it stubbornly stays in one piece. Ginny sees the look on my face and immediately apologises for the mirror, explaining she simply wanted to monitor my condition. She knows there's something else behind my eisoptrophobia, but I'm happy enough to leave such revelations for another time, kissing her for forgiveness. With a fresh yelled reprimand, Tonks ensures we go no further.

With a groan, Ginny rises to get dressed. I attempt to follow her example and am immediately struck by a wave of nausea and a pair of uncooperative legs, sending me to the floor. She rushes over pulling me close to her while I fight the overwhelming urge to boak. When I think on it, I was much happier being ignorant.

Intermission: The Winter of our Discontent (Dean's POV)

Staring out the pub's windows fogged by warm bodies within and wintry weather outwith, my eyes peered through the makeshift scrying glass. I saw not the future but the past, its images refined by the work of a myriad of artisans, each with their own interpretations and idiosyncratic habits. Characters hewn not in stone nor cast in bronze or some other base metal like gold, but something infinitely more tangible albeit ephemeral: by aspirations, ambitions, and animosities.

It was almost Christmas. Neville was meeting me with some grand news before I headed back to Paris. I assumed he and Ginny were getting engaged. Though I was happy with Sandrine, I couldn't help but be envious of him, and of Parvati and her Garry. Mostly of Neville. I couldn't imagine why Harry never noticed her even with the lame excuse she was Ron's sister. His loss, the poor bastard.

Neville arrived five minutes late bearing a strained 'It's for the best!' smile in a vain effort to hide the wailing lamentation burgeoning within. 'I'm so sorry, Neville,' I told him sincerely, guiding him to a table before grabbing him a pint. I'd been there two times too many myself. He assured me it was a mutual decision, but knowing that doesn't dull the pain much. Commiseration and a few pints, however...

He was oddly philosophical about it all, at least until I realise why. Ginny and he had been alike in one too many ways, and neither had truly forgotten the losses that thrust the two together. Unfortunately, they differed on how they dealt with their grief. He had sought out the liberty and opportunities that hard won fame brought him, using it to aid orphans and survivors of the war, to promote the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and to further the wizarding community's understanding of Muggles. She desired order and seclusion, which she found as an Auror and separated her from us, the enfant terrible of the wizarding art world and the daring young adventurer-herbologist.

By the time we left the pub, we'd managed to forget our own names and the date. We were far too gone even to consider apparating home never mind attempting it in the heart of Muggle London. But we remembered all too well what brought us together on this cold, wet night.

'Do you believe it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?' I slurred, stumbling before righting myself against a wall.

Neville's so quiet, resting against a car, entirely inured to its shrieking alarm, I thought he was about to be sick. Instead, he looked at me, strangely sober for a second, and said, 'Ask me in three months.' Only then did his stomach rebel into the gutter...

We parted company on a promise to meet again in March, but in a café next time.

On that very day, Ginny met someone important enough to forego the annual Gryffindor New Year's piss-up, much to Hermione's delight (and Ron's dismay). In February, on Valentine's Day, generally the bane of singletons everywhere, Katie seduced Neville. Or was it the other way round? A week later, I ran into Susan at a gallery opening in Florence.

I swear he must have been channelling Trelawney, fraud though she generally was, from beyond the veil. I still don't think he answered my question, though...

Ophidian: of or pertaining to snakes.

Caprine: of or pertaining to goats.

Eisoptrophobia: a fear of mirrors.