Chapter Two – Refuge

Santa Barbara is beautiful in the summer.

I should have left a long time ago – the uniform of what Draco calls my "secret Muggle identity" lies folded neatly on top of my suitcase in the lodge house. I'm stalling, and I know it, but for the first time in a long while, I don't want to don the black and white uniform that gets me discretely into the country of my birth.

It's strange. Even though I don't officially exist, I know that the faltering, cumbersome buauracracy of the Wizarding Republic is still watching for unauthorized Apparations to England, and covertly watching the British airports for wizards and witches trying to pass for Muggles.

Silly fools. The choked, claustrophobic nature of the airports mean that they can detect magical folk flying – coming in or out of the country – but they don't have the resources to worry about cruise ships. They're so concerned with trying to stop their own people from fleeing the hell that they created.

They should be watching the crew boarding gangways used by cruise ship workers.

No one questions a young waitress who regularly sails back and forth to the States working for the only cruise line still operating across the Atlantic.

I like being a waitress. I like drifting among the tables, catching bits of conversations, and chatting with the many friendly people who I will never see again, but who remind me that there is much good in the world – for my idle conversations reveal a basic truth; most of the people in the world just want to be friendly and live their lives.

On a cruise ship, people always have time to be pleasant to strangers, even people who are being paid to serve them.

The simple truth is that being treated as a person – or a waitress, to objectify it more – allows me to forget what I really am, even if it's for a brief time.

I am a Head of State, albeit unrecognized.

I am a killer.

I am a twenty-four year old woman, who has been hiding in one form or another for fourteen years, and who bears the weight of a nation on her shoulders.

When I was younger, I vowed I would free England, by myself if I had to.

I was a fool. I know now that without Draco to help me, I would have crumbled long ago under the pressure.

Draco couldn't do it by himself either, despite his best efforts. He fought for ten years, underground, but couldn't dislodge the enemy.

Now, together, we are winning. But it is so, so tiring.

I belong in England. But I have to admit, I'm only truly happy when I'm playing the waitress, not thinking about the still unfinished task before me.

That's not quite true, I suppose. I love this old ranch, high in the mountains above Santa Barbara. It's perfect for me, secluded and beautiful, relaxing and quiet. Once upon a time, many years ago, a famous American actress owned it and turned it into a children's camp. I've seen pictures of what it was like then, stored away in a forgotten shed, dozens of happy kids smiling and laughing. The children have been gone for decades, but sometimes I imagine I can still hear them playing and running, like I used to do before my family was taken from me.

I walk further away from the ancient lodge house, down the path to the private lake. I know I should be leaving, but I can't quite bring myself to leave. I know that the final battle is coming, and part of me is scared that something will happen.

Forget what you read in the history books about fearless leaders. Winston Churchill was reputed to have said that "nothing quite invigorates one like being shot at and missed." Well, dear old Winnie may have saved England, but he was a damned bloody fool if he really said that.

I don't know about Winston, but I want to live. Desperately.

Sometimes I think I could stay here – Draco would join me, I think, if I asked. These thoughts, these moments of weakness, always come right before I leave my refuge, here in California.

"You haven't been back for long. You could skip this trip and catch the next one, if you really need to recharge your batteries, so to speak."

I whirl around at the ethereal voice I know so well, not surprised to see the strange but wonderful woman who has been my parent, my sister, my friend.

The years have been kind to Luna Lovegood. Even though we witches age more slowly than Muggles, she is an exceptional case. In her early forties, she looks a couple of years older than me. She often passes as my sister, and I admit sometimes I get a bit irritated when occasionally someone actually thinks I am the older one.

"I can't wait any longer. It's almost over, and I want to see Draco again."

Luna nods. She's quieter than she used to be – we have suffered, she and I, both losing our families and most of the people we once cared for.

"Walk with me, Anna."

I say nothing, and walk with Luna in silence away from the lake, down a different path that leads to an abandoned theatre that the children used to put on shows.

It took a crazy American actress to combine horses, sheep and pigs with the performing arts and build a children's camp around the concept. It took Luna to see the signs of change in England, and to discretely disappear before things got bad.

Once, children came here to play and learn. I came here to survive, the only surviving daughter of Harry Potter.

I knew Luna was my godmother, but I never dreamed of the sophistication of the spells used to protect me. My father – or my mother, or maybe Draco – must have had some idea that things could get bad.

It's a shame they got worse than anyone could dream, more quickly than anyone could have imagined. I miss my sisters.

And my brother. My perfect, helpless, sickly brother. He was only eight, yet he was so mature and kind. Boys of that age can be perfect prats, I've since learned, but he was...he was special.

My reflections on the past, and on the long dead are diverted by curiosity. I haven't been to the old theatre much – it's kind of a wreck – and I wonder why Luna is leading me here. The door frame is twisted, deformed by some person long ago who had used a crowbar to pry a plaque off the wall next to the door.

Luna gives up trying to force the door and uses her wand. We step over piles of insulation that have fallen from holes in the ceiling, and I watch in puzzlement as she starts rifling through cabinets, muttering to herself.

Finally, I hear her exclaim, "Oh!" and hear a metallic scrape as she tugs on something. A moment later she is holding the biggest sword I've ever seen in my life, which looks decidedly out of place in her two dainty hands.

"What the bloody hell is that thing?"

Luna smiles at me, and says, "I'm not quite sure, but I think it's the sword of Godric Griffindor. I thought you might care to take it with you when you go back to England."

I stare at Luna, open mouthed in shock, and I realize that for the thousandth time, Luna has said something totally unbelievable.

Except, this time, I believe she is speaking the gospel truth.