There and Back Again Lane

Ch. 17 – The Erl-King, Part 1: Revelations

Intermission: Intercession

Chasing Down a Chaser

—from The Forgotten Recollections of Bevan Trimble, Daily Prophet Reporter

Muffled grumbles of 'Who the buggering hell could that be?' and the sounds of someone fighting with several locks greeted me as I knocked on the hotel suite of that lovely Chaser, Miss Katie Bell. She opens the door wearing a delightful light silk kimono and a scowl, declaring, 'You're late,' which is a surprise as she had no idea I was coming.

Noting the absence of a trolley of food, she astutely concludes, 'You're not room service,' and slams the door on my foot with a fine selection of oaths that would have made Mundungus Fletcher hold his ears, to which I add a chorus of my own as well as a plea for a short interview regarding a very odd story that's been circulating.

'Which one?' she inquires, stopping as she opened the door just wide enough to close it more forcefully, the scowl deepening on her still beautiful face.

'The one about Ginny finding Harry,' I squeal rapidly, grimacing in preparation for a (more) severely broken foot.

'But, in truth – in character, that is – I'm as ignorant of that as you are,' she swears, widening the opening even more for a greater pranging of my poor paw.

'Just five minutes!' I beg. Quite literally, on my knees with clasped hands shaking beseechingly and everything.

'Very well,' she decides, sauntering to a gorgeous chaise longue. 'What do you want to know?'

The first question stumbles from my mouth. 'How many days have passed?'

Miss Bell looks to the ceiling in utter disgust, 'Within the story? Three days, if one considers their departure to London as the first day.'

'Who's the secret keeper for the Fidelius charm under which Harry finds himself?'

'Even finding oneself under a Fidelius charm would be quite difficult,' she chortles. 'He is, of course. Now, hurry up. He'll be here any second.'

'Harry?'

'What? Certainly not!' she snaps. 'In character, I've no idea that he's alive. My knowledge of his continued existence is simply some daft plot device by a deranged half-wit. I'm waiting for someone else.'

'Who?'

'Next question.'

The stern look she gives me dissuades any further comment or queries. On we go. 'What happened with Mr Lupin and Miss Skeeter?'

'You'll find out in the next chapter.'

'And Mistress Clarke?'

'Same.'

Talkative creature, isn't she? As I've started, I might as well continue. 'Why did Ginny cower when Harry said he reminded her he couldn't remember?'

'Good question. Next.'

'Come off it,' I shout. 'Give me some bloody clue!'

'You are wasting my time,' she sings, annoyed by my impertinence. 'Next question.'

'What does Minister Perkins have against Ginny?'

'It's obvious, isn't it?'

'Well, no.'

'She's a threat to the Minister's career, isn't she?' Miss Bell replies. 'Initially, she was a nuisance. Now, Perkins presumes her to be a threat because Dudson, the berk who controls the rats that had Harry's flat in Edinburgh under surveillance, lost one of them – the rats, that is – to Fred and Angelina's owl. On the advice of her Permanent Secretary, Babbage, Perkins sent four agents from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad's Special Section to investigate the situation at a discreet distance. Not discreet enough, however.

'Ginny – and Harry, to a limited extent – put all four in hospital. The first three were sent to a Muggle hospital until Catesby informed Perkins of their failure, so you can only imagine how furious the junior minister was. Ordered him to kill the man travelling with Ginny on the mere suspicion –suspicion!,' emphatically thrusting an index finger accusingly into the air, '– that it was Harry so that no proof of his continued existence remained.'

Seeing that I am completely lost at this point, Miss Bell rolls her eyes, shakes her head with muttered oaths, and starts talking to me as if I'm three. 'Let me explain with a bit of Muggle philosophy. Admittedly, I probably shouldn't know this, but since this is entirely out of character anyway,' completing the sentence with a gentle shrug. 'OK, this clever chappie named Machiavelli argues in The Prince that in politics it is better to be feared than loved, because the people can be fickle, you see.' She sees my mouth contort in disgust, my eyes wince in pain of the thought of such a belief and smiles sympathetically, nodding in agreement. 'Naturally, that fear can be effectively controlled is utter bollocks as well, as he himself notes, because that fear needs to be constantly reinforced and reimposed, which is impossible. Even if You-Know-Who had killed Harry, eventually some resistance would form, possibly bringing in something even worse than Voldemort,' she sighs as I shudder at the name, 'perhaps not. In any case, resistance would be inevitable.'

The befuddled expression must still be on my face as she rubs her eyes in an effort to gain time to explain herself in such a way that even a simple reporter could understand. 'You see, Perkins hadn't yet understood that by taking a more active course against Ginny and Harry, and Tonks I might add, the good junior minister created an ever worsening situation for herself. Perkins unintentionally promoted an active and strong resistance.' Now the cogs began to mesh within that rusty machinery I call a brain. 'Politicians do have an overwhelming albeit flawed instinct for self-preservation, so the simple act of admitting that Harry had survived and that she had hidden him way back when, even though that mistake likely did save lives, never occurred to Perkins. That confession on her part would have been enough of an apology for many within the wizarding community, especially if tempered with the motions of seeking to find Harry afterward. Remember how many people believed Harry had gone mad when Dumbledore announced Voldemort,' shudder, 'had returned? In any case, if, or more importantly when the realisation that honesty would have been the best policy does occur to Perkins, as it will, it will be much too late for her to do the right thing, leaving her only with expedient and gruesome solutions to her problems.'

Did I write she's taciturn? What a fool I am. 'Er, OK, next question: Why hasn't Hermione revealed to the wizarding world that Harry's still alive and what Perkins had done to him?'

'Why don't you pester Oliver and Alicia with these questions, or, better still, Lee?' she chunters. 'He loves to talk, that one, being a Quidditch commentator and all that,' For once, I'm implacable, giving her my best muckraking journalist's glower. Unfortunately, she scoffs at my presumptious behaviour.

She answers the question nonetheless to speed me from the hotel suite. 'Right. First, don't forget Hermione's involvement in this affair. If she goes to the press about Perkins's involvement, her own part would come to light as well. Which leads to another question: How much does Ginny know about Hermione's involvement in Harry's Obliviation? You see how furious she is with Hermione just about not telling her Harry was still alive.' She hesitates momentarily as a pained grimace spurred by unpleasant thoughts forms on her face. My own frown of unease follows suit. 'Doesn't bear thinking about, does it?' A collective shudder occurs. 'Hermione will have to tell Ginny the whole story first, likely resulting in an irreparable rift between the pair. Perhaps Ron will be able to exert some influence on his sister, but likely not.'

'What about Mr Lupin?' I enquire.

'Again, his intercession might bring him more grief than not. It would be best if all four of them could come to an understanding together, but knowing this story, that won't happen,' she sneers. 'Secondly, Hermione wants Harry to be able to remember his past, which might worsen her isolation. Why? So that he might be able to protect himself against Perkins and her minions. Hermione might hope that he would understand why she became embroiled in his concealment. And lastly, Hermione and the rest need the documentation to prove what was done to him so some justice might be done.'

'Ron and Hermione will reappear in this story?'

'Of course they will, you daft sod! Weren't you paying attention to what I just said?'

I think about uttering a rejoinder, but I prefer having a quill in my hand rather than tickling my brain from inside a nostril. 'Fine then, an easier question. What did Malfoy do?'

'Honestly, I don't know what he did, except that it was very, very bad.'

'OK, so who warned Malfoy to leave England?'

'I didn't even know he was still alive until that last chapter.'

'Now a simple question,' at least, I hope it is. 'Does Neville know Harry's alive?'

As I mutter that last question, someone knocks on the door. Miss Bell swiftly strides to the peephole/Foe-Glass to see who it might be before turning back to me, her face beaming with delight. 'Now, I might say, 'You could ask him yourself,' and open the door. Instead, I'll say, 'No,' and tell you to bugger off.'

Facing an eager witch with a drawn wand ready to hex me into eunuchdom, I take the hint and collect my things to Apparate away. But an odd feeling overtakes me as I depart Miss Bell's hotel room. By the time I return to the Daily Prophet's offices, neither can I remember a thing about our conversation nor can I read the notes I'd taken.

I still can't believe she Obliviated me just as I Apparated...

Revelations

Haseltoun-under-Calton-Hill, Edinburgh

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

We are drenched to the bone but laughter warms us, as does Tonks's glowering. The roads begin to fill with all manner of wizarding folk and creatures. As the crowds bustle onto the roads we receive sneers from those who jostle our sodden persons. Resigned to the chastisement of the more fortunate townsfolk, my boss merely shakes her head while Harry and I grumble at their cheek. Honestly, if one doesn't want to risk getting a little moist from people in damp clothes, one should learn to walk with greater care. All very simple.

One set of people has no objection to our soggy apparel. Female selkies, with their deep black within black eyes, gaze longingly at Harry. Jealously, protectively, I wrap my arms around his torso and pull him closer to me, the pair of us still trembling with good humour. At least his legs are working now. With a finger to my chin, he guides me to face him. His gaze is loving, sweet, and a little conceited upon realising the reason for my rib-breaking hold on him, though that last emotion is tempered by a gentle yet chiding grin informing me I needn't worry so. Noting his attention to me and his polite but firm dismissal of their interest in him, the sea-maidens turn their attentions to other, more pliant young men. Unfortunately for the poor lasses, the men of Haseltoun are well-accustomed to selkie ways, as Tonks and I are to the male of the species.

My revenge comes soon enough as the seal-men notice Tonks and I emerging from the throngs, their avid eyes and lecherous leers following us as we wind our way down the road. Harry's arm swiftly snakes around my shoulders, returning my tight, possessive embrace while he glares menacingly as the contenders for my affections. They laugh sardonically, feigning indifference as they melt back into the crowds. It's strangely comforting that I can still make him jealous. Seeking to distract him from the mad notion I'd leave the lad I'd fancied since I was ten – though admittedly he doesn't know that – for a one-off with a selkie, I pinch his bum. He yelps and jumps in surprise before peering at the cause of his distress. Shame at his behaviour and astonishment at mine combine on his face as I affect the model of perfect innocence, all fluttering eyelids and beatific smile. Distracted by the brilliance of my own act, I fail to notice his arm has slid down my back until he grabs my bum for a quick squeeze for the second time in as many days. The dirty old man has the temerity to look bewildered as I gasp and start forward in shock. When I glare at him, however, he can't stifle a guffaw, earning him a glare from Tonks that I return with an out-thrust tongue. So much for keeping a low profile.

Harry gawks with wonder at the multitudes that have joined us on the pavement. Desperately, he tries not to be so obvious but curiosity and awe have taken hold of his senses. As we career down Gramash Road, even I'm astonished by the variety of people on the roads. Young runners prang into us as they skitter along running errands for merchants and artisans, sporadically jabbing us with their elbows and parcels, sometimes with an apology but more often not. A glower here and there leads the pickpockets to avoid us and seek easier marks. Mums hold onto their young children and the shopping while dads scamper after the more mischievous sprogs. The eminent couples in brocaded robes trail well-groomed crups on dragonhide leads that nip at the runners and the occasional beggars as they scurry into the few available nooks and crannies provided by shops abandoned since the War. For their inconvenience, the indigents might receive a few knuts, though generally admonishments are more forthcoming.

There is, of course, a lighter albeit more debauched side to life in Haseltoun. Labourers, artisans, and apprentices of both sexes cheerfully and colourfully abuse passers-by with inventive insults and lewd invitations. Young women shopping with their parents behave modestly, blushing as if scandalised, although a few look back should the caller prove handsome. When accompanied by their friends and co-conspirators, they might embark on casual flirtation while casting a wary eye for parents or like-minded elders. For their part, young men dispense with the charade of manners and either sneer or leer in accordance with their desires, only to receive a slap from mum or a cuff from dad. Within packs of their mates, they might reply with their own sly suggestions. Or they might simply be prodded forward with a well-timed shove. Rarely did anything result from these forays, but the threat something would is enough to keep the local plod busy.

A gently squeezed hand provides a comforting break from the routine of gauging the threat posed the denizens as we pass through them. Harry has opened his mouth to speak, but the words refuse to issue forth. His brow creases with frustration as I note the black shape of the Millies' tower emerging over the buildings opposite site. When he turns to ask his question, he notes the determined look on my face and joins me in observing the centre of our potential opposition. Peering up the road, I see Tonks signalling me to follow her into a shop. Wondering what my boss is planning, I tug Harry along. Buggering hell, I can't afford this!

'Lakshmi Prem, Clothier and Laundress,' the sign declares above the shop windows. The toast of local society, especially after the War, with her ability to resurrect the most tattered rags and restore damaged robes to pristine condition. Her own selection of robes, dresses and other garments would make Madam Malkin reconsider her career as a clothier. A Scottish wizarding institution since 1953, the Prem family secured a place of honour in the hearts of those with the galleons to afford their services, which leaves me definitively off her list of customers. Harry acknowledges my slumped shoulders by pulling me closer to question me. When I don't answer, he sighs in frustration realising from my expression that this is one of those times pressing me for a reply will only turn my anger in his direction. Yet when we enter the shop, I'm gobsmacked.

Tonks is arguing with one of Madam Prem's daughters, or grand-daughters, about food.

'You said you'd bring back four pounds of Brie when you returned from France,' Miss Prem bellows in a heavy Glaswegian accent. 'But you bring us only two…'

'You know how the Department for International Magical Co-operation is about cheese,' Tonks interrupts in a pleading tone.

'And no bloody baguettes!' Miss Prem continues. 'You knew we couldn't make those sandwiches without the right bread and cheese. We were the laughing stock of Haseltoun for a good week after that party!'

'I told you that prat…'

'I don't want to hear any more bloody excuses! It's bad enough you make us look like fools in public, but you still can't even brew a proper pot of tea even after I've spent three bleeding months trying to teach you to cook!' Miss Prem has graduated to screaming now. 'How will you ever get a decent man if you can't cook!'

'Er, I did.' With that interruption their eyes swiftly shift to me. A modest lie. Tonks's posture exudes utter and undying gratitude for the brief respite from the castigator's tongue while Miss Prem casts me a scathing look of sheer disgust. But only for a moment.

'Ginny Weasley?' Oh bugger. 'My word it's pleasure to see you in our shop!' she declares, bouncing over gleefully. 'And who's this charming man?' Double bugger, we forgot to name him. At least Tonks is panicking with me…

'David Southam,' Harry swiftly replies holding out his hand. How did he come up with that name so quickly? Gingerly, she accepts the proffered hand, which the cad next to me summarily kisses. I cast a sidelong glower that seems to have no effect, until he wraps an arm tightly round my waist. 'And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' If I didn't know his intonations better, I'd say he was flirting with her. My scowl deepens, but she's taken in completely. No sex for a week, I swear by all that's holy, even if I have to drown myself in cold showers to ensure it…

'Sunita Prem.' Her smile is perfect. She's beautiful, rich, and probably fairly pleasant if you're on her good side. Bugger abstinence, I'll kill him just for enjoying this so much. Tonks, witnessing my temper mount and Harry's apparent obliviousness to his impending distress, politely coughs to regain Sunita's attention, though it takes a while for Miss Prem to detach herself from his smile.

Once she turns to face my boss and I ready myself to quietly berate the cretin next to me, the little bugger tickles me. My shriek unpleasantly brings me back to the two women's attention. He's pure evil...

'Do you have mice?' Harry asks innocently, seeking the immaculate, well-polished pine floor for possible rodents. The comment catches me in mid-snarl. When I look up, Tonks mirrors my gape-mouthed perplexity.

'Never!' Sunita avers. 'Miss Bennett there,' pointing proudly to a slightly obese grey kneazle raising her head to acknowledge her name with the look of permanent hunger and boredom engrained on her face, 'ensures that.'

Harry humbly apologises for his mistake, rakishly running a hand through his cutely ruffled hair, though not without making the glaring error of saying Ms rather than Miss Prem.

'A Muggle, Miss Weasley, here in Haseltoun?' Sunita is terrified, her doe eyes expanding with worry, fearing the immediate appearance of Ministry ordinances for breaking the Statute of Secrecy punishable by the possible requisition of the shop. But none come.

'Muggle-born, Miss Prem,' I assure her, smiling as I punch Harry hard on the arm. Tonks is barely able to contain a bout of laughter as her hair turns a violent shade of crimson while he rubs the sore spot. 'Some habits are harder to break than others.' It's sheer pleasure to see Harry scowl back at me.

'Men will always be boys,' Sunita sneers profoundly before rounding on Tonks once more.

Harry, recognising it's three against one, quickly finds a chair and stays quiet, albeit not without glaring at me in mock supercilious disgust. Realising I've been dismissed as well, I drift toward him. His regard is inquisitive but puzzled. I decide to pre-empt his questions with a simple one of my own. 'Whence did you get that name?'

'Bloke I knew at University. Bit of a prat, really.' He smirks then fixes me with an anxious stare, patting the space beside him for me to sit. 'Ginny,' he begins, taking my hand in his as he admires the floor, 'why were those four men after us?'

Why ask a simple question, Mr Potter? 'I don't know.' I look directly into his eyes to prove my honesty. 'I think they were just sent to observe m–, er, us.' Shit.

'Why you, not us?'

Time again for the Muggle plaster solution. 'You remember that Tonks didn't recognise you until you announced yourself?'

'Is it part of the reason I can't remember my past?' Why couldn't he be thick like Ron? Then again, there were a number of times I suspected my brother's dimness was merely a ruse...

'The effects are connected.'

'Bloody hell,' he huffs. 'Could this get more confusing?'

'Unfortunately, yes.' I hug him tightly, thinking mistakenly that's his last question. Instead, he uses my proximity against me.

'Were the same people responsible?'

'No.' Please don't ask, please don't ask... He must have sensed me tensing as he takes another route, asking about the spell itself. Since it's a technical question and one on which I'm not altogether clear, my reluctance vanishes. I explain in general terms what's involved in memory modification. As expected, his face darkens as I describe the effects of Memory Charms.

'It's like sodding 1984,' he growls. 'Doubleplusgood memories brought to you by the Thought Police.' My face furrows in bafflement as I try to understand what he's going on about. His muscles tense as he struggles with the temptation to pace about. Eventually, he settles for pulling away from me. He frowns in suspicion, leading me to wonder how much he truly trusts me. 'What was I, some dissident or something?'

Shit shit shit. I so want to tell him, but like as not the truth would make him doubt me more. 'Not at all...'

'If this Ministry is sending people after you because somebody deduces I'm with you, that someone must have been involved in erasing my past.' He's still on safe territory; a healthy distrust of the Ministry's motives is warranted and advisable. 'That someone tried to have you killed.' At least that gives me one reason why he still believes me. 'And it's altogether possible he or she might want me dead...' His voice falters as he blanches realising the precariousness of his position. 'Why was it so important that people couldn't recognise me?'

Well, Harry, you were the saviour of the wizarding world, a veritable St George slaying the dragon to secure the safety of Great Britain and Ireland, if not the world, an English St Patrick sending some scrawny, weedy snake-man off this mortal coil. Would he believe me? I wouldn't in his place. You were a celebrity in our world, girls and young women fell at your feet as you stammered through blushing introductions, ducked demands for interviews as they rained down in torrents, your every deed became the subject of gossip. Even better, dearie… If you thought people were trying to kill you now, well, five years ago… If I dig myself a hole deep enough I'll be cavorting with wallabies. Observing that my lip's about to gush blood, Harry changes tack.

His face scrunches painfully as he considers the next question. 'But how did they know you're living with me?' I'd pondered that myself and admit as much. 'You didn't tell anybody, did you?'

'Only Hermione.' Oh bugger. She wouldn't have knowingly told anyone, but Perkins might have had someone keep her under close observation to make sure no one else ever learned of Harry's survival and Obliviation.

'But she wouldn't...'

'Never,' I state unequivocally. 'At least not intentionally.' OK, not so unequivocally…

'Nineteen-bloody-eighty-four,' he grunts.

'What's the fascination about that year?'

'It's a book by George Orwell about totalitarian government, specifically Stalinist Russia,' he mutters. That explains ever so much. He sees my quizzical gaze. 'Stalin was a nasty brute of a man who ordered the deaths of millions, sometimes on the merest suspicion of dissent, occasionally for no reason at all.' He embraces me as the horror of his words overwhelms me. 'Sort of like your Tom.'

In shock, I pull away violently and fall with a loud thump onto the floor. Tonks and Sunita stare in our direction in mid-haggle. Noting my situation and assuming the worst, they move towards me but I wave them off. Except for a slightly raised eyebrow, Harry's face is entirely blank, which only terrifies me more.

'Who is he exactly?' He cautiously moves to sit next to me on the floor, yet fixes me with an inquisitorial stare.

I can't answer that. It's probably the weakest point in his treatment, the one most likely to cause a relapse if not discussed in a careful manner or without sufficient preparation. But I can't just leave him begging for an answer either. Time for the Janet and John bit. 'He's like that Stalin you mentioned,' I babble, 'seriously evil.'

'I'm aware of that, but who is, was, he?' So he knows Tom's dead. 'Why did I kill him?' he hisses, gazing towards the other two to see whether they were eavesdropping.

'I want to tell you,' I plead, 'really I do, but I can't.'

His face becomes blank again as he shakes his head. 'Why?'

A direct answer playing on his desire to avoid unnecessary pain comes to mind. 'Do you want another migraine?'

'Good point,' he says smirking, helping me back onto the chair. But he hasn't finished with his questions. 'So, why did you back away from me on the bed this morning?'

'Same reason,' I grin.

'Not entirely.' Is he a Legilimens?

Should I risk a relapse or wait until Hermione discovers a way to restore his memory so he can dispel her sodding Fidelius charm? Who knows; being the clever bugger she believes herself to be, perhaps she engineered the means of removing the charm without requiring the secret-keeper's involvement. Sod it. 'For a second, Harry,' I whisper, 'you reminded me of him, as well.'

'How?'

It's amazing that a simple one-word question can require volumes to explain. I can see Tom emerging from that diary, his eyes burning with undisguised malevolence, a ravisher's glare, dissecting me to glean what would give me the greatest pain and him the most pleasure, his black hair similarly unruly and jaw tensing with rage. Harry's rants in my fourth year were no less explosive, and were only less cruel because of his inexperience. Yet I had coped with outbursts from Lord High-Bastard himself; Harry's tantrums were comparatively easy to control. I go for a quelling look, but it's half-hearted. He won't be dissuaded.

'What did he do to you?' He places my hands in his as he searches for my eyes.

But I can't bear to tell him. Not yet. So I make my own inquiry. 'What do you have against Tonks?'

He becomes fascinated with a mirror angled to offer a view of passers-by. I nudge his leg with a knee seeking some sort of response but he's as stubborn as me. 'It's difficult getting used to someone who can change their appearance as easily as that,' he finally mutters. Now who's speaking in half-truths.

'I trust her, Harry.'

'I know you do, Ginny,' he replies, 'but you've known her longer.' I can't hide my disappointment with that comment, discerning there's something else.

'You're suspicious of our robes, aren't you?' He nods. 'What did you see in your dream?'

A chill runs through me as he relates his duel with Tom the night of the third Triwizard task. Harry had told me the story before, but the unreality of the situation to him now makes its retelling much more terrifying. The images hordes of men in black robes roaming cemeteries in the wee hours, led by that gangly serpent-faced git with delusions of godhood, are so clear in my mind now I'm back at the last battle, the sights, smells, and sounds threatening to crush me. Yet he's there as well. I hear of his last few conscious moments as a citizen of our world, of the final battle with Voldemort.

'An Empathy Charm?' I murmur. They never expected him to survive. The bastards led him forward, the proverbial lamb to the slaughter, to fight and lose to Tom so Voldemort would be human enough for them to finally kill. Who in the Order knew about this? Did Hermione and Ron know? Harry certainly did. 'You bastard…' I mumble as the grief I'd suffered all those years ago resurfaces, transfiguring swiftly to fury. 'You fucking bastard!'

Harry's horrified as I shove him brutally from the chair. At the back of my mind, I know my Harry is ignorant of that suicide plot, but that voice is drowned out by the blood pumping through my ears. Distantly, Tonks and Sunita are coming to investigate the cause of this latest explosion, Miss Prem reproving me for swearing in her shop. Faintly, I feel my face burning, evaporating the tears slowly streaming down my cheeks. Advancing towards him, I cock my fist threateningly. He scrambles to his feet to gain some space to appease my rage. 'You told me none of this! You knew you were going to die!' Buggering shit!

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

That explains a few things, but leaves me with a host of new questions.

Her hand latches to her mouth, her legs mechanically but inefficiently treading backward, missing a step causing her to stumble. I'm caught between guilt-laden uncertainty and the desperate need to learn more. Noting Tonks and Ms Prem advance in our direction with a sidelong glance, I ready myself for the inevitable accusations unwilling for them to stop me from making my own.

Ms, Miss Prem, gawps open-mouthed between Ginny and me. Sunita's glances in my direction seem to foretell me rampaging through her lovely boutique feasting on, or at least biting everyone in sight. Towards Ginny, one witnesses the threat of scandal in her furrowed brow, the hatred brought by righteous indignation against the immoral and unclean finds evidence in the burning glare, while her otherwise gentle jaw looks fit to tear my beloved to pieces.

Tonks, on the other hand, is ashamed and appears apologetic. She tries to restrain Sunita with little success. Mind, I doubt it would be very on to cause physical harm to someone from whom we were seeking assistance. Growling and scowling, I set myself in front of Ginny, who's uncharacteristically wimpering against the wall. I take my best hard man pose – legs apart, head cocked nonchalantly to one side, arms at the ready – and stare Miss Prem down. 'Leave her be,' I grunt.

'Leave my shop,' she retorts with equal menace, pulling out her wand.

I bluff. 'Don't you remember who you have in this boutique? Toss her out,' motioning towards Ginny with a nod, 'and see how society reacts.' Miss Prem stands firm. Her eyes squint as she considers my threat.

'Think of what you'll have to gain by helping her,' speculating wildly to improve our bargaining position. Tonks seems even more nervous.

'Such as?'

A name overheard from Tonks and Ginny's conversations comes to mind. 'Perkins.' Tonks slumps in what I hope is relief, an assumption I'm glad to find is correct.

'How?'

'Plans within plans,' I intone. 'The less you know, Miss Prem, the better. You know how Perkins is.' Is Perkins a man or a woman? Let's hope she doesn't ask, eh?

Sunita grimaces in recognition, before ordering me from the store. Tonks assures me she will look after Ginny while I'm gone. I peer at my fiancée but she's determinedly looking outside through the shop window from her seat against the wall. Her eyes are red from crying and a quivering hand is still clamped over her mouth. It takes all my willpower, and a guiding arm from Tonks, not to comfort her and leave the clothier's quietly. With the familiar tap on the head to alter my appearance once more and an admonishment not to stray too far, I depart only to turn immediately towards the window to catch Ginny's attention. But Tonks is kneeling in front of her, distracting her. Meddlesome...

I know I shouldn't be so harsh to Tonks. She's only trying to help and none of this is really her fault. Unfortunately, she has as much success in pacifying Ginny as I did. Through clenched teeth, Ginny appears to tell her boss off, springing away. Tonks looks shattered and appalled, frowning as she sees me through the window. Somehow, I manage a sympathetic smile that she thankfully returns. This brief moment of reconciliation ends abruptly as Ginny herself barrels through the door, charging up to me, her face contorting under the influence of a welter of emotions.

'Don't say anything,' she utters still not daring to look at me, 'not here.' Her hand grabs my cloak as she leads me like a recalcitrant primary school student through the shop into the back room, ignoring Tonks's half-hearted pleas and Sunita's shouted warnings. A few muttered words unlock the store-room door then lock it behind us, upon which Ginny finally releases me.

'I'm so sorry, Harry,' she tells the polished pine once the banging on the other side of the door ceases. Her back is to me so all I see is scraggly brown hair and hunched shoulders. Surprisingly, that's what annoying me most at the moment.

'Can we get rid of these bloody disguises for a second?'

When she faces me, I can't tell whether she's relieved or disappointed by my request. She complies none the less. Back to red hair, brown eyes, and re-emerging freckles, a face I know better than my own. 'Right,' which seems like the right thing to say, 'right. So, I died.'

'R-right,' she mutters. 'At least, I thought you did.' I'm tempted to tell her to look at me instead of her hands and the shelves, but this situation is tenuous enough as it is.

'So, my time in hospital was when...' I trail off prompting her to continue the story.

'...Your memory was modified,' she eventually replies.

'So.' I note the monotone creeping into my voice to cover my exasperation. 'Will you look at me, please?'

She's gnawing on her lip for sustenance, her eyes are drowning in unshed tears. I take her in a squelching embrace before she loses that lovely lower lip. She sobs briefly as she firmly clutches the front of my robes, wringing the rain from them. I hold her closer to me. 'Some bloody Auror I am,' I hear her mumble into my shoulder.

'Well, you took care of those other three well enough,' I answer supportively.

'I did, didn't I,' she admits with a chuckle.

'Three-nil's a decent result,' I add. 'A hat-trick, even.'

She becomes sombre again. What have I done wrong now? 'You won't interfere next time, will you,' she asks. Remembering the lectures she gave me on Clerk Street and at the Tron Kirk, I nod and swear I won't.

'You said I knew I was going to die.'

'Er, yeah.' I feel her tensing for impact.

'Why?'

'I recognised the spell you used against him,' she says, spitting the last word. 'It's not a combat spell, but a very old one, almost forgotten. Long ago, it was cast by couples about to be married to ensure they were compatible.' She relaxes a little, her arms falling to circle my waist.

'Doesn't sound that dangerous at all.'

'It was if you found out your intended was marrying you for ulterior motives,' she scoffs. 'The charm's use was outlawed in 1851 after a spectacularly brutal engagement party that left six dead, eight gravely injured, and a further five permanent residents at St Mungo's.' Seeing my confusion, she continues. 'It's our largest hospital. Any road, supposedly the bride was plotting to poison the 'groom to elope with his best friend.'

'Plus ça change...'

'Quite.'

'Why was I using that spell against that Tom thing?'

'I don't know.' She's lying. Having come this far, well, it's a start.

'Considering your reaction earlier, we must have been seeing one another by that point.'

'Yes,' she squeaks.

'I am still alive, you know.'

She pinches my arse, with both hands, causing me to scoot closer to her. 'Just making sure,' she assures me.

'There are easier ways,' I chide in mock disgust.

'I don't think we have time for that, though,' she states. 'And you're too noisy.'

'Me?' I gasp with incredulity.

'Mm-hmm,' she affirms, pulling away slightly, her lips pulled tightly to contain her amusement, her eyes moist from the effort.

Giving her my best scowl, I distract her long enough to give her a proper tickle. The banging on the door recommences as the store-room erupts with Ginny's throaty laugh.

She opens the door to Tonks's bemused expression. 'Seeing that you're still fully clothed and not breathless, you must have resolved some issues,' Ginny's boss chunters. 'I've resolved our clothing problem while you two have been fannying about. Hopefully, not literally.'

Tonks informs us she and Sunita had been schoolmates. There's a hint of something more. Either Tonks feels it's too complicated for me to understand or that it will make me more suspicious of her. Her avoidance of the subject deepens the doubts I have. Whispering my concerns to Ginny, I learn that the two must have been members of an organisation that fought Tom. The Order of the Phoenix. The name sends shivers down my spine despite what Ginny says. Yet a vague feeling of familiarity follows, a confused play of irritation and belonging, almost like one would have to a mildly dysfunctional family.

Ginny's treating me as if I'm fragile again. She's constantly giving me worried sidelong glances. It's dead annoying. She must be concerned that I'll have another episode. Since that dream in which I witnessed my own death, or dying, or whatever the bugger it was, my illness has gradually ebbed away. As long as someone doesn't blurt out another major revelation, I'll not have any more migraines. Until it's time, that is. I tell Ginny my hypothesis about the correlation between learning about my past and the headaches, but she isn't quite convinced. I thought she would've believed me, at least. We are a pair of worriers.

To escape her pitying gaze for a moment, I survey the shop. Even knowing little of fashion, and less of wizarding styles, I see why Ginny was so reluctant to enter the shop. Just one of the dresses would require all my wages and most of my weekly stipend. I doubt Miss Prem is so nostalgic of her old school days, or Tonks after that argument, to lend us even a piece of these clothes. Tonks reveals to us I'm half-right.

Wisely, Ginny's boss convinced Sunita to offer us more commonplace garments. So drab we wouldn't have looked out of place during the Commonwealth. In other words, ideal. I give Tonks a genuine smile. She looks positively shocked, but returns it none the less. A relieved sigh from beside me and a glance at Ginny shows she's utterly relieved. Squeezing her hand, I smile at her as well. Happily, she responds in kind.

Tonks insists we all dress separately. Too clever by half, sending me off first to the store-room so she can confer privately with Ginny. I can only imagine the substance of their discussion. As I guiltily drop my wet clothes onto the elegant floors, raised but unintelligible voices pierce the door. Whatever the subject of the latest argument might have been, Ginny's face bears the signs of defeat as she passes me. She merely shakes her head when I try to stop her. I shoot a menacing glare in Tonks's direction, but Ginny's boss is unimpressed. When I make to interrogate her, she interrupts with the declaration Ginny will lead us the rest of the way. My love's behaviour throughout our walking tour of this town has been decidedly unprofessional. Tonks doesn't bother to conceal my complete responsibility for her charge's failure. A pat on the arm tells me it's a sympathetic accusation, though. Meagre consolation.

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

She's right, of course. Doesn't make me any happier about it. Sod it all.

Changing quickly, I dry our clothes. Even with my wand's signature on file they won't take a second glance at a simple drying charm performed here. Pity it doesn't work very well on dragonhide. I never managed to get my head round the theory for that spell, despite Charlie and Hermione's explanations. Charlie. If we were transporting him instead of Harry I don't doubt she would be the one being dressed down. Truthfully, Sunita would be reprimanding the both of us; Tonks and Charlie would be mauling each other endlessly while I'd be berating him. Indeed, only Harry's present misgivings of my dear boss are preventing a similar, albeit reversed, situation here. Let us be thankful for small mercies.

Departing the store-room with our dry clothes on my shoulders and my still sodden dragonhide gear in my hands, I run into Sunita. She immediately chides me for doing her part in this job and scoffs at my inability to dry the rest, snatching my boots, vest, and gloves from me and storming off in a feigned huff into the store-room and the laundry room behind. As I stand in the middle of the aisle nonplussed and gape-mouthed, Tonks passes shaking her head and snickering. Oh, thank you so very bloody much, Nymphadora.

Harry's staring sullenly at Tonks's back before a wave attracts his attention. A fleeting smile comes to his face on taut lips, demonstrating he's irritated about something. I hope he's pissed off at the same thing I am.

'Well, Miss Moses, I hear you're going to lead us to the promised land.' I frown at the reference but I'm pleased to find I was correct. He asks whether my row with Tonks was as nasty as it sounded in the store-room. Shame keeps my mouth shut save for a terse, 'Yes.' He comforts me with a hug and the lie it will be over soon enough. Then again, I think he just means our current jaunt.

Tonks returns after a short discussion with Sunita with our gear in non-descript shopping bags. Harry takes charge of my kit bag while Tonks and I play sisters. About time he did some work on this trip, I muse with a smirk. A raised eyebrow indicates he caught the unspoken jibe yet deigned to respond somewhat maturely. Sunita performs the Metamorphosis Charms this time, with great success. We look as dull and uninteresting as our borrowed clothes. After familiarising ourselves with our new appearances, we depart, but not before our host extracts from Tonks a promise to continue with her culinary studies and from me to return, without my boorish boyfriend. I succeed in concealing my annoyance at the suggestion of Harry's bad behaviour while he shrugs off the comment without the slightest care. Except a slight grin. If only they both knew who he was… I'll wait until then before returning.

The route to Bogle Wynd is much more pleasant now that we aren't squishing our way through heavy crowds. People are still engaged in afternoon shopping, but from the throngs of a little while ago they've dwindled down to a few ragged packs. Without Harry next to me, I am much more cautious and conscious of our surroundings. I glance back at Tonks and him occasionally with the hand mirror but restrain from making it an habitual occurrence. Which is fortunate as we are nearly bumped by four patrols from the local plod. Fortunately, they don't seem to be on the look-out for anyone specific, nor are they travelling in groups larger than three. Still, it's worrisome that their numbers have increased so near Gringotts. If Miss Prem wasn't a member of the Order, I'd suspect she had denounced us.

Reaching the corner of Gramash Road and Bogle Wynd, I glance down at the hand mirror to see where the other two are. Suddenly, a figure collides into me. For a second, I'm unsure how I should act. Should I treat it as an accident and hope that I'm not recognised, or should I behave in accordance with my training and incapacitate the individual? I opt for a poor compromise between both and stagger with the impact. I clamp my fingers around the mirror before it falls from my grasp and thrust it inside one of the robes pockets as I stumble. My other hand finds my wand. My hat, however, tumbles off my head to roll down the road before being trampled by a small child.

To my surprise, my assailant is a member of the Millies, Owen Lloyd, recognisable without looking by his cursing in a blurred and burring Welsh accent. We worked together a fair bit after I moved north. A good man, though a bit too focused at times. Like the present. When I peer surreptitiously at his face, brown eyes puffy from lack of sleep, thick black eyebrows and bushy black hair, sturdy jaw, I suspect he can't identify me. The suspicion becomes a certainty when he flirts with me after apologising. It takes all my self-control not to give him the same scowl that stopped him the first time round. This time I thump his shin with my shopping bag, giving him such a talking to he likely hasn't received since he was in short pants. Owen excuses himself with proper professional courtesy, though I catch a few select muttered insults as he collects my ruined hat. That's two apologies I'll have to make…

Tonks and Harry arrive soon after Owen leaves with a final apology and tug of his hat-brim, red-faced from withholding their laughter at my improvisation. 'You're evil, you know that,' she finally splutters as Harry contorts his face to avoid causing a worse scene. I roll my eyes at the pair of them. Above us, the sun disk traversing the dome is shifting slowly from gold to bronze.

A – hopefully imperceptible – shudder of panic passes through me. There are still several hours of daylight remaining, but we should have been moving quicker. Perkins must have learned about the failure of the Special Section team by now, and I can't be certain that whoever's controlling the rats doesn't have a few of them following us. Without a word, I advance down the road doing my best to appear absolutely casual. Glimpsing at the mirror, the other two seem to be following me well enough. They've even begun to space themselves out, with Harry taking the centre. He looks bored, but a few things are simply too fascinating for him to avoid gawking at them. Tonks has taken to being disgusted, rolling her eyes while huffing at her heavy load. She's a far better actress than I'd previously thought.

We pass another set of Millies without bothering to conceal ourselves, or they to recognise us. They haven't even set up checkpoints or barricades, either. I motion for Tonks to enter a small café a short distance away from Gringotts as I wait for Harry outside a shop selling Quidditch jerseys and gear. Despite the burning desire to window shop, I peer out forlornly at the road as if I'm waiting for my fool boyfriend or son to leave the shop. He's puzzled when she passes by him muttering oaths about the young men of today, approaching me with a bemused look as I gesture for him to continue past me, whispering that he should stay in the shop until one of us comes for him. Other than sighing and grumbling about 'this cloak and dagger shite,' he does as he's told. I must remind myself to give him a biscuit and a scratch behind the ears once this is all over. Silly git.

The café would be an ideal place to while away a day, reading the Daily Prophet, drinking tea, and gaining about twenty pounds on pasties and sweets. The place modestly combines the old stone architecture with Muggle furnishings from the 1950s. Harry would love this place. The pair at the coffee bar engages in light conversation with the regulars. The man shares Quidditch results and predictions while the woman offers style advice to some of the female customers until one prediction catches her ear. 'Puddlemere? Are you daft? They've some decent players but the Harpies will win the League this year.' The debate continues long after I find Tonks.

'I didn't know you knew about the Silver Knut,' she whispers as I sit next to her at the bar. She laughs when I admit my earlier ignorance. 'Well, now you know.'

She loses her good humour when I inform her of my concerns. As expected, she's similarly anxious. In the window display full of sandwiches, the reflection of a rat peers in, wiggles its whiskers, and wanders off. I'm about to warn my boss when the front window implodes as a squad of Millies bursts in. Bloody hell.

Tonks and I roll off our seats and scramble for cover. To our surprise, the staff and customers have joined us in the hunt for hiding spots. Well, the war wasn't that long ago… I perform an Impediment jinx on one of the squad's ankles, sending him crashing to the floor before hurling myself across the floor flinging a string of jinxes and curses at the four that have been so kind as to silhouette themselves in front of the gaping window frame. Happily, I recognise none of them. Tonks stuns another, rolling just before receiving the same herself while my flailing takes down another one. The other three Millies plough through tables and chairs to find us, only to receive a blasting curse from Tonks, throwing him back out the way whence he came.

Strangely, the last two seem to have taken heart with the loss of their four colleagues. A Reductor Curse demolishes the table behind which I'd been hiding, flinging me against the side wall despite the shield charm I'd cast. Tonks launches an Immobulus jinx at my attacker who deflects it with a Refraction Charm towards me. Unfortunately for him, I'd seen this trick before and use a Reflection Charm with a Blasting Curse of my own knocking him stiffly into one of the few tables still standing. The last squaddie wisely decides to retreat and wait for reinforcements. Thoughtfully, my boss catches him with a stunning spell just as he was leaving.

We don't hesitate to scarper either. Tonks guards my back from just outside of the shop while I race to get Harry. The roads have emptied again and shutters have been drawn to protect the inhabitants against flying debris from another battle. My daft prat of a boyfriend, however, is heading in our direction. He might as well just shout out. 'I'm an outsider!' but it does simplify the task of finding him. Grabbing his arm we begin running, chasing Tonks to Gringotts, all pretence of a clandestine approach gone. Black shapes emerge from the Millies' barracks in tune with the wailing klaxon. Buggering hell!

Stunners and Impediment jinxes blast the cobblestones as we scramble towards Gringotts's white marble steps. When we finally begin climbing towards the entrance, the Millies alight from their brooms halfway up the steps, wands drawn, ready for the worst. And it is. Tonks and I recognise all four of them. None of us is eager to curse or jinx their presumed opponents. Only the arrival of a contingent from the bank's security guards – including a number of snarling, biting Red Caps – led by the resident managing director saves both sides from an unfortunate tragedy.

'Those three,' declared Managing Director Dergspruan, pointing at us with a very sharp nail, 'are under the protection of the Goblin Minister and His Majesty, Filius. Should any harm come to them, you know very well what will happen!'