I am
Diplomatic visit of the magical community of the United Kingdom extended
Ron Weasley, British Minister of Magic, announced this afternoon an extension of his stay in the United States, which was aimed to solidify the friendship and fellowship between the magical communities of both countries through trade agreements. In the official statement, in which the European politician highlighted the ties that have united us throughout history (see page 5), dignitaries from both continents were also present, including well-known British war heroes Harry Potter and Hermione Granger-Weasley (see biography on page 7), who have taken the opportunity to learn from our aurors' experience. The updated official agenda includes a farewell cocktail to honour said dignitaries. Trade agreements may or may not include permits for the export of mandrakes and the withdrawal of taxes for such necessary products as unicorn horn, until now…
"Headmistress"
McGonagall looks up from the copy of "The New York Ghost" as fast as her tired bones would allow. Eyes as lively as Dumbledore were 30 years earlier rest on the young prefect who has entered her office so unceremoniously. Her eyes interrogate him as her mouth, in a stern line, reprimands him. The boy watches her apprehensively from the doorway, which he still holds with pale-knuckled hands. He immediately begins to babble, but it's not as much because of the teacher as it is because:
"I think it's happening again."
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It's awful, what staying away from home does to you. Harry doesn't consider himself particularly patriotic, but the first notes of "God Save the Queen" move him deeply; he finds himself saluting, his wand upright in front of his face, and his eyes fixated on his flag. His flag. His place. This country seems terribly cold to him, despite being much closer to the tropics than his home. Dementors are not enough to explain it.
It doesn't occur to him that this might have anything to do with being estranged from his partner.
Partner who has raised her wand in perfect sync with him, and once again has dropped the wall between their magic centers, allowing the feeling, identical in both, to echo from one to the other, an echo so in tune that it's akin to silence.
Even as the notes fade and the act progresses, the wizard keeps breathing shallowly, a balloon in his chest much like nostalgia or pride, or both. Ron is still holding the hat in both hands, so tightly his knuckles are white, and he is still staring at the flag. The auror's sight stumbles upon Duham, to his right; the apprentice has her hand against her heart. Harry is surprised to see her cry.
It's then that his gaze finds Malfoy. He has not seen him before; now he's clearly distinguishable because, even with so many Englishmen in attendance, he's the only other person who still has his hand over his heart. The other hand holds a cane on which he leans heavily. Harry thinks he looks a little sick. But what's he doing here?
The auror turns left, his mouth half open, about to ask Hermione, but then he hesitates. She still avoids to look him in the eye. And frankly, these days, he's the one with more reason to keep his distance. He definitely does not want Hermione to know of his dreams. The very idea makes him raise his defences as well.
He turns to Duham instead.
"Auror" she responds, wiping her tears furtively.
He hears the trembling in her voice, and is surprised to find that he wants to hug her. The exact emotion is hard for him to identify. He may feel that towards Hermione less-than-rarely, but a partner is a part of you. Shaking off the confusion, he forces himself back to the essentials, by asking:
"What's Malfoy doing here?"
The girl is already taking her cell phone out of her pocket. Though Harry does own a modern cell phone with all the proper services, he isn't used to the World Wizarding Wide Web, it still seems anachronistic to him in this world of candles and stone walls. Yet, progress prevails.
"He was recently appointed ambassador."
"What was so very wrong with the previous one?"
"A scandal with a banshee, apparently" the girl mentions, her thumb caressing the screen bottom to top, lines moving up quickly and her eyes darting as she reads just the essentials.
"He used state resources for it", Harry guesses as he spies on his old enemy.
"No, it's just that Americans pay a lot of attention to personal life."
He doesn't like seeing the blonde here, not at all. If the country lacked some chill, Malfoy brings it. The auror makes sure his three colleagues are at their posts, protecting the minister, before discreetly moving to the corner, where he disillusions himself before slipping through the crowd towards the aristocrat. Moving to the empty spaces requires too much grace and time and Malfoy already turned around, the movement of the bodyguards indicating that he's leaving early. Harry swears in his mind, there is so many people here that it's impossible not to bump into someone, and hurrying means less care and more bumps, to leave a wake would render the disillusionment spell useless. But he might still reach Malfoy, he sees him now so clearly that for a second he has no doubt he will.
Then he stumbles; an empty space that isn't so. Focusing on the immediate threat, the auror points his wand at the approximate place where the other object must be, narrowing his eyes, which of course doesn't reveal its identity. It has moved. His eyes dart from one side to the other, searching, as he raises a shield (he almost forgot. Hermione is the one who usually takes care of protection).
(Don't think about it.)
He casts a wordless Expelliarmus, focused on the threat, and at once he feels the exploring and somewhat irritated presence of Hermione. Out of the corner of his eye he looks at her designated place; she isn't there.
"Hermione?" he whispers.
"Harry" it's her voice.
"What are you doing here? Who's with Ron? I left you at your post."
"You left an illusion at my post. I've been moving through the crowd since you were speaking to Duham."
Hermione sounds cold, controlled, unnatural.
"Hermione," he responds cautiously, "what did we leave on my parents' grave in fifth year?"
"You didn't know where your parents were until seventh year," she hisses. "Just drop the damn wall! I'm supposed to be able to track you across continents and here next to you I know less about your location than I do about anyone else's in this country. And I no longer see my target. We can't work like this!"
Through the seemingly empty space, Harry sees Malfoy disappear through a wall, complete with limo. He clenches his jaw.
"You are the one who has been isolating yourself since the raid" he responds indignantly.
Silence, an irritated sound. Harry sees her in his mind: arms folded, wand in her right hand. But this time, he's the one who's right. In the back of his mind he knows the discussion is over: if they were to debate it, they would have to talk about the events during the raid, and beyond. None of them will take the risk. He feels her return to her post, her magic exposed to him. It feels a bit like fire in winter, but Harry doesn't trust it; she may isolate herself again. It's not a conscious thought, but deep down he knows that if he risks trusting, he'll get hurt.
With a last furious glance at where he stopped seeing Malfoy, he follows her.
"It was Malfoy," he whispers as he reaches her.
Her silence surprises him.
"It always is," she answers at last.
Harry wonders if he should be offended.
"What did you see?"
"I'm not sure," the witch confesses, arriving at her post and merging with the illusion that represented her as if she had never stopped being there.
Harry, on the other hand, must return to the corner to regain his corporality. Duham follows him, wringing her hands.
"Shall we follow him" the trainee asks from the corner of her mouth.
Harry almost smiles. She looks like a little girl playing detective. Perhaps he's getting old.
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The apprentice blinks, shaking off the sweat that threatens to blind her. It never occurred to her that it would be so difficult to just get up from the floor while blocking attacks, but she hasn't been able to in a full five minutes. Though Harry makes no snide comments (like they would have made in preauror), other than a reminder to stop using Expelliarmus (her personal crutch) every five seconds, it only makes it worse. She can't even clench her teeth, furious, because she has to keep invoking one shield after another. Magic vibrates throughout the room. She wonders if he could get away with using some wandless magic without her mentor noticing.
"I'd keep training his way," Sorv says, sitting next to her, legs crossed. "I already train you without a wand."
Duham clenches her fist. An: "it's not you who's fighting from the floor" is what fits, but Potter would notice.
The auror lowers his wand.
"Go on!" the apprentice demands, almost furiously, before fixing it: "Please, sir".
Potter hesitates, his eyes shifting from the minor scratches on her cheeks and arms to her bleeding knees (at some point she fell on the remains of the lamp).
"Hermione..."
"It's not Hermione, it's Duham! Go on, please!"
Indeed, the eyes that shine so resolutely are green. There's a feeling very akin to respect, in his chest. Actually, they should be resting for their next shift, it's she who asked for training. That might save her in battle. He hesitates one more moment.
The wand rises again.
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Malfoy has to be around here somewhere. Scrutinizing the desk full of papers Harry wonders how there can be so much information, how this scrupulously logical layout can be so easily mistaken for an utter mess, and how in such order he can get so lost. Of course, one responds to the other. His right hand lifts a scheme he vaguely recognizes from that patrol. He turns around, his lips parting, but the question stays inside him, and his partner's name vanishes into the huge empty room. Of course it's her shift. They can hardly leave Ron alone with two apprentices. Aside from public activities, he's only seen her at shift changes for days. He drops his shoulders, aware that this is the proper thing to do and hating it nonetheless.
He forces himself to focus on work. Hermione is methodical. The required explanation has to be here, somewhere.
To the side, a few notes on the Knights of Walpurgis, and below it, a description of said organization. It seems to remind him of something; a geographical place or something. He leans over, reads the founding date, and shudders, overtaken by the terrible cold of Scottish nights when there was only one tent above his head. For some reason, it also seems to remind him of a tiger mask. Teenagers, it reads, more or less influenced by the ideas of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, too young for Azkaban, fell through the cracks in the post-war chaos.
His sight slides to the scheme. There's a post-it on the dragon. Something about a protective spirit. At some point Hermione commented on ancient people believing themselves to be literally the navel of the universe. Elders were deeply nationalistic.
Hermione. Brush of fingers between his.
Don't go there.
He covers his face with both hands, wanting to scream in frustration. So much useless data. Malfoy has to be around here somewhere.
Or not.
What does he have, in fact? His gut. A sight of his school enemy, and a deep-seated hatred. He wonders if he'd hate the blonde this much if it wasn't for the nightmares Hermione still has about his Manor. He wonders if there's something in here about the ferret, or if he's still chasing a ghost.
A flash of blue puts him on his guard for just a moment: it's Duham, racing across the room. Harry shrugs and goes back to work, but he has barely looked at the table again when the screams reach him. They are of the least worrisome type: joy, enthusiasm. He knows enough about fear and pain to distinguish them easily. The word "Quidditch" and the name of some American team end up making him leave the scheme where it was.
"A match?"
"It's on TV!" Duham shrieks the way Hermione would reserve for the latest edition of 'Hogwarts, a story'.; "The International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy keeps forbidding broadcasts, but the US has relied on technicalities and sophisms, and while the theorists dispute, it's broadcasting anyway."
In practice, combining Quidditch and television has an interesting effect on wizards. Lots of money at stake.
Harry looks at the bureau, resentful. He's been at this longer than the game is likely to last. From the same place he can see over Duham's shoulder the maneuver on the screen; he's familiar with that one but it looks more impressive through the glass.
"Those Wendigos are good."
"I calculated the statistical-mathematical, arithmantic and runic probability that they win."
The knowing tone makes him jump slightly, he's not sure he's ever heard a Quidditch fan express herself like that.
"Isn't that a bit like divination?"
The look the girl gives him makes him take a step back, but screams fill the room again, and suddenly Duham is on her feet and screaming like a true Wendigo fan. Harry sighs, relieved. He drops on the sofa in time with the apprentice, next to her, and only notices it when the girl passes him the popcorn.
Like everyone else, he falls under the spell without real resistance.
"In talent they don't differ too much from the Chupacabras" he comments.
"No, and besides those work better as a team," Duham confirms, handing him a butterbeer.
She was sipping from the same place, but Harry doesn't think much about it before putting his own lips to it. It's perfectly cold. The girl has started playing with her hair, biting it or running it across her lips; an unusual nervous gesture. Harry notes that her pullover is a curious mix of Beatles images and Japanese anime.
"Still," the apprentice adds, the lock of hair in her hand, "I have read that the Wendigo seeker holds the record on this continent."
Just then, the player takes a nosedive, and the fervent phrases of the commentator mix with excited cries from the crowd. Seekers on either side of the screen stare at the golden ball in professional silence. Duham and Harry unconsciously bow as if they were the ones on a broom, while the on-screen player who's expected to perform them looks simply puzzled.
"But is he blind?!" Duham claims, "It's in the first terrace!"
Harry wonders if it's a fixed game. The Snitch's location is so very obvious to him. He lets Duham rip the bottle out of his hands and empty it, while he himself gazes at the bureau guiltily.
"You can't spend your life working," Duham advises, not looking at him.
The auror sits back, frustrated, and summons two more bottles.
"Do you know what I'd like?" Duham says, grabbing one. "To watch our team from here."
Harry looks at her questioningly. The apprentice stares back, smiling. It reminds him of her tears when in the presence of the flag. He's curious, but doesn't know how to bring it up. Deep down, he has no excuse for it.
The Wendigos score again, and the other seeker turns his head in front of the camera, visibly searching for the snitch.
"That one's an Englishman," Duham says.
"How do you…?"
She picks up the cell phone from the coffee table. That's all the explanation needed.
The Chupacabras manage to score.
"I miss England." The words tear themselves from Harry's chest, he's almost as surprised by the confidence as the girl next to him.
Uncomfortable glances are exchanged, until she clinks her beer against his. That's an opening for the old alcohol excuse.
"I miss the perennial rain," the girl adds with a nostalgic half-smile, taking advantage of the pretext she just created.
"And the snow…" he adds, playing along.
"And the accent."
"I don't even understand them," the auror hisses.
"It's good to be able to talk to you."
She's said it in a barely audible sigh, and Harry's heart is beating very fast. It seems to him that in that sigh there's something of a wounded wolf. Beyond nostalgia for the country and its people.
"I don't even know where I came from," she adds, and this time, he can hear her clearly. Her tone tries to not give too much importance to her words. "I have no idea of who my parents are."
"I didn't grow up with my parents either," he confesses, after a moment's hesitaton, not enough time to realize that this information is of public domain.
"Your parents loved you," she replies.
It sounds as if that made all the difference in the world.
"I'm sure yours loved you, too."
"But we'll never know," she says with a sad smile, and sighs. "Meanwhile, one has to belong somewhere. England, in my case.
It occurs to Harry that the girl was probably born in Australia. The irony. He refrains from commenting, but it makes him aware of how little this girl has, in terms of identity.
"You are you, Duham," he says, looking into her eyes, wanting to convey that certainty. "You are many things: witch, daughter to the Grangers (adoptive, but daughter nonetheless), a sister to my partner, and my apprentice. Of whom I'm proud, by the way." She smiles brightly at that less-than-professional admission. "You clench your hands when you're nervous…"
"How do you know?"
"How long have I known you?" He replies, laughing.
Something in her seems to go off. No, he hasn't known her that long. He has known Hermione for much longer, and that's her gesture. He notices it a second too late.
"Okay, not for so long, but I know you do that. You also play with your hair when you're distracted, you like to learn, and you love challenges, the way you love Quidditch and arithmancy –actually, you do combine the best of the trio–, you rely on technology much more than we do, you change from tute to respect quicker than I can follow…"
"Hey! That's not fair. It's hard when your teacher is your sister's best friend."
"… and you love England probably more than half of its people do."
"I would do anything for it," the girl confirms.
"You see? And where did you get those clothes from?"
"I designed them myself," she says excitedly, jumping off the couch and spreading her arms to show him; he doesn't quite know how to describe this long, colourful blouse, the way it's cut, the way images that should clash sharply actually merge in it, but he likes it. "I love anime. The dress I used at the dance was also mine."
"And you design clothes," he completes. "Besides all this, who gave birth to you is that important?"
The girl stares at him for so long that the screams startle them. Duham understands before he does, Harry sees it in her parted mouth and animated eyes, in the way the girl stands up: the seeker reaches out to the snitch. Almost… almost… he got it! The screams coming from the TV mix with their own as they jump like children, the two of them, until Duham hugs him.
Well, it turns out not to be remotely as uncomfortable as feared. They fit perfectly. When the girl pulls away, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, slightly embarrassed, Harry wants to hug her again. Perhaps, on some level, and despite all his talk about identity, it's Hermione's easy hug, so warm, her mouth to his neck, what he's looking for in this girl, but that doesn't occur to him at the time.
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"It is that important to me" she whispers, eyeing her celebratory piece of pizza thoughtfully.
Cheese still dripping into his mouth, Harry opens his eyes –his former expression of absolute bliss still apparent- inquisitively. A drop falls on his sleeve, and he hisses –it's hot- as he rushes to vanish it.
They're still watching the aftermath of the game they just shared, the TV still on, though mostly ignored. The coffee table has been, per specific request to the elves, filled with pizzas and butterbeers. 'When in Rome…'
"You are totally right –I'm not my blood- but still… you must have felt it as well: the pull to know more of your origins…"
Harry nods once understandingly. Even since entering Hogwarts he was told how much like his dad he was, how he had his mom's eyes, his talent in Quidditch, her kindness… and he used to glow in pride (until that little accident with Snape's memories in fifth year). Part of the charm both Lupin and Sirius used to have for him came from the ability to draw a picture of his living parents.
Not to even know your parents' names…
He does get it.
"Have you asked your parents?" he asks. "The Grangers, I mean."
"They know nothing" the girl snorts. "Mia was the link, but the information has been sealed or somewhat removed from her mind, so even for dire reasons such a health she couldn't access it. Even the most innocent shred of info, like meeting a pregnant witch, is gone. She did try. I'm surprised she didn't tell you."
Harry shakes his head.
"She was very firm in keeping you away from wizarding society…"
"Even you?"
Especially me he thinks before filtering it.
"Anyway… she's the least probable source of info now. But maybe…"
The apprentice eyes him speculatively. She has been planning to ask, and this is a superb occasion, but it has taken her by surprise, the bonding, it has come too soon, she thought that with him being her mentor she would have to work harder for it. Eventually, the beer decides.
"You entered the Wizarding World at the same time, fought the war together, have been together ever since. You even have the same wizarding friends and contacts…"
"You want to know if I know something."
She swallows hard. He's leaving the piece of pizza on the table thoughtfully.
"I'm not sure, Duham" he answers honestly. "There must have been a reason for this to be kept from you…"
"Yet it belongs to me" she answers passionately, eyes shining. "It's part of my identity."
She's right. I'd have to ask Hermione he thinks, before remembering how things are between them. He closes his eyes painfully. And what if his partner wonders why he wants to ask, if she gets to those dreams? Not that they are in any way the reason why he wants to help Duham, but they're there nonetheless. He eyes his apprentice speculatively. She's so young, so hopeful… and so right. This is part of her identity. She must be allowed that information at least. He's actually surprised Hermione even agreed to keep it from her, and at such a high cost.
And it's not as if he knew much anyway.
"All right" he says, brushing one palm against another so as to vanish crumbs from his hands. "It's not as if I knew much anyway."
Her expression is most Hermion-ish, and so hopeful… then he tries to remember what he actually knows, and deflates. Does he really have to break it to the girl? He eyes her hands. His are sweating as they never are under life threat. She will need some comfort. It's highly irregular, yet… hasn't all of this afternoon been so? Eventually he reaches for her, holding each one of her hands in one of his –they're so big for hers-, and looks into her eyes.
"What do you know?"
"That bad, ah?" the girl laughs nervously.
Her mentor grimaces.
"Hermione is the one in charge of these things."
Duham nods, guardedly yet encouragingly, out of need.
"At one point I did ask if your parents had been lost to the war…"
"She said yes" the girl completed hollowly.
"She said 'sort of', which I took for a 'yes', but they could just as well be permanently incapacitated…"
"Like the Longbottoms." He nods, surprised she even knows.
Frankly, this isn't anyone's favourite possibility. Well, she thinks, disheartened, that does support my mother's fears of a mental illness.
"This is a loss of time" Sorv says from the corner.
Having her mentor's undivided attention at the moment, she avoids fulminating the other boy with her gaze. Sorv knows who her parents are –were-, not that he came forward and told her that he knew, but she knows him, his knowing looks, his smirk. He wouldn't tell her anyway, not when she went through her identity crisis, not when they dated at school. She couldn't pester him without dire consequences. She couldn't pester anyone in fact.
"She also said most of your grand-grandparents were muggle, I'm guessing none of your parents was pureblood."
Well, that is something she can rub on Sorv's face. Duham smirks, knowing Sorv's eyes are darting at her. Harry responds with a weak smile; this is the first time not having a pureblood relative is taken as an actual compliment, he doesn't really know what to think of it.
The girl looks at his mentor's hands. They are rough, calloused. Yet warm. From her vantage point she sees the scars. She definitely likes those hands.
"Something else?"
"She seemed to think you could be recognized… whatever that means… she has certainly made sure you're as far from public scrutiny as possible… but you were very little at the moment, maybe that has changed or you turned out different…"
Duham nods, not looking at him.
"Thank you."
So she's as orphaned now as she ever was. Parents dead or incapacitated. Maybe Hermione wasn't that wrong when she thought she'd be better off without knowing and accepted the seal or whatever.
He's helpless before this expression of Hermione's, even when she's not the one sporting it, apparently.
"We could still check Hogwarts records when we get back" he offers; "we probably won't have time to ask for permission when we go back to give our report, tomorrow, but there'll be time later…"
"We're going back tomorrow? But then… Mia's birthday…"
"She'll spend part of it safely at home." He answers. "As good a gift as any."
Duham nods dubiously. If Harry doesn't want to acknowledge how much Hermione will miss him, she won't be the one to point it out.
Putting the chat back on track, Harry adds:
"You know, all wizards are somewhat related, it's a close community. Maybe I'm some kind of cousin thrice removed or something…"
Her smile is pale, but there.
"You're the best mentor ever" she concludes vehemently.
He has a beautiful laugh, grave as a man's, yet boyishly careless. And this time he has thrown his head back and everything. She surprises herself smiling absently.
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So... alarmed yet?
What's Malfoy up to?
Do review.