Author note: I laid the framework for this interpretation of Hestia Jones in "Home," chapters 2, 8, 15, and 16. The song that frames this tale is "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" by Pete Seeger (1961).
Long Time Passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
It was 1969 when she got her Hogwarts letter. The wizard who came to see them two weeks before had told them what to expect, but still she was excited. She hadn't quite believed it until the post-owl came. Seizing the parchment, she ran barefoot into the garden, where Judy was pulling weeds with two American draft dodgers. She knew there was no point looking for Mum just now; Mum was bonking the hot Ghanaian Rhodes Scholar. (Hestia's parents had an open marriage.) Still, there was Dad.
Judy's voice carried high across the turnip patch, raised in the lilting song whose pacifist message so appealed to the Americans, but Hestia was too excited to wait. "Where's Dad?" she exclaimed. Dad was the head gardener. "Where's Dad, Judy? Have you seen my dad?"
"I'm right here, poppet," said a voice behind her. "Don't trample the lettuces. Whoa there . . . don't kick the flowers . . ."
"I'm going to Hogwarts!" exclaimed Hestia, thrusting the parchment in his hand. "I'm really and truly going to Hogwarts . . ."
He wrapped his arms around her and said, "Oh, poppet, I'm so happy for you." He said, "That was a very nice wizard who came to talk to us, and people seem so much saner, in the magical world." He said, "If we can afford it, poppet, I'll buy you an owl." This was a major concession, because Dad wasn't much of a believer in private property. Hestia, daughter of the commune, wasn't much of a believer in private property then either, but still her eleven-year-old heart thrilled to the thought of an owl.
Hestia didn't know yet, how lucky she was to come to Hogwarts from a vegan commune, where Dad and Mum and Judy and all her eccentric extended family thought that magic was normal and healthy and good, and not from a glitzy suburb full of Muggles who didn't believe. She didn't yet know how lucky she was, but in that sunlit moment among the lettuces, in the brief moment before Judy's Wiccan friend Chaya Bloodstrong began to plead for how-to books from Diagon Alley, she had a premonition of how much she would miss them all.
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the young girls gone?
Gone for husbands, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Hestia Jones wasn't waiting for a husband. She'd burnt out her first girlish affections on the American draft dodgers and a strolling guitar player who blew through one summer and had a torrid two-week affair with her mum, but Sirius Black was the first man she seduced. She'd come back for sixth year well-armed with Muggle contraceptives—Madam Pomfrey kept a strict watch on the magical kind—and Lily Evans, one year her junior, who was well-informed about such things but too nice to play, started treating her like a tramp. Oh, the prefect meetings they had!
At eleven, Hestia had pleaded with the Sorting Hat not to place her in Ravenclaw, which she naively imagined to be full of tedious goody-goodies, and so she ended up in Gryffindor with the likes of Remus Lupin, who was almost too gentle to be a boy (and what did Sirius see in him?) and Lily Evans, who had a sharp tongue but a suburban frame of mind. Minerva McGonagall would happily have dispensed with Hestia's services altogether, but Albus Dumbledore, in the midst of Voldemort's war, was determined to promote Muggle-born students to positions of authority, and Hestia had the intelligence and the aptitude for magic, the charm and the leadership ability, even if she lacked the straight-laced morals that Professor McGonagall preferred to see in Gryffindor Tower.
But, oh the prefect meetings they had! How Professor McGonagall glowered to see her sixth-year prefect and—she unwillingly admitted—star Transfiguration student in short flirty miniskirts, and how she growled at the laxity of certain aspects of discipline, at the infractions that Dumbledore let slip by. How she grimaced when she found Hestia sitting up late, very late, in the dim Gryffindor common room, pouring over her Potions notes. "Not strolling the castle with Black this evening, Miss Jones?" "No," said Hestia tartly, "now and then I study." Some nights she did. Sirius had a tendency to go missing, not just with her.
Where was he, those nights when he went missing? Well, she knew he went romping with Remus sometimes, late at night, all night. And she wondered . . . of course she had met bisexuals in the commune. Judy was bisexual. She knew there were other girls, from time to time, at Hogwarts, and probably in the vacations as well, and when she saw him slipping off with Remus, well, she wondered . . . but she censored those thoughts. She had been raised to believe that jealousy was selfish. She didn't mean to own him, as those who didn't know better might claim to own a cat or a dog. And she had a few side interests herself. She cultivated a few side interests herself, to keep her vision clear and unclouded by selfish jealousy. She had been raised to believe that love should be given freely, freely shared.
Hell, she would have shagged Remus had he been willing. He looked like he could use a little love. Whatever he was getting from Sirius didn't suffice. He came back from those all-night romps looking drained and weak and haggard. Touchy and tired and raw, and oh, the prefect meetings they had! Oh, how Remus and Lily glowered afterwards, when they saw her slipping off to meet Sirius in the prefects' bathroom. And oh, how Remus glowered when he was the one who got stuck waiting up to let them back in. She supposed that he, unlike Sirius, was monogamous by nature.
Lily told Sirius to go to hell when he asked her to wait up. Hestia couldn't help respecting her for that.
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
After Hogwarts she went to work as an Experimental Herbologist. Dad was very proud. Her NEWTs were good enough to qualify for Auror training but there was no way she could have explained that to her pacifist parents. She was still a pacifist herself, more or less. Experimental Herbology offered intellectual meat (she still wasn't eating the carnal kind), the froth of excitement, and the occasional spice of danger. It also left her plenty of free time for pursuing other sorts of adventure.
Slender and petite, with her pink-and-white complexion, Hestia looked as demure as a schoolgirl in skirts that grazed her behind, and she traded on it, joyfully. How men relish the fantasy of innocence! They like the appearance better than they like the reality, and Hestia did very well. She did very well indeed. Feminist that she was, she was able to live the way young city blokes do, high-powered career, ambition at work and freedom at home, plenty of sex, no commitment. Affairs rolled off her like water off a duck's back. She soon conquered her incipient jealousy. What she had, she gave freely.
Sirius left school the year after her and joined a secretive fighting squad that Hestia soon came to know well at second-hand. He grew drunk on risk. He flew most of his missions with Remus, and Hestia puzzled over this. She found it hard to picture Remus embracing risk. She kept thinking that Remus ought to be doing the work she was doing, something in an office, something in a lab, something in musty rooms full of heavy mildewed books. Of course he had always been a little sickly, and that would hold him back in most careers. She didn't resent the time he spent with Sirius. She didn't mind the thought of Sirius taking a little common sense with him, on all those risky missions.
Sometimes, though, she found it hard to understand why Sirius was fighting at all. It wasn't his war. Muggles and especially Muggle-born witches and wizards were the ones being persecuted; they were the ones at risk. Hestia had remained close to her parents, Judy, the commune, closer to her Muggle friends than most Muggle-borns managed to be. She had become part of a loose political network of Muggle-born witches and wizards, writing letters to the Daily Prophet, sending owls to Ministry officials, protesting discriminatory policies, and she heard of each fresh attack quickly, often before Sirius did. Each fresh wave of bitter news stabbed her to the heart. Yet Sirius never seemed to notice that it was Muggles and Muggle-borns who were targeted, Muggles and Muggle-borns who were attacked and killed. He expressed no particular indignation when she pointed this out to him. He had a few Muggle-born friends—her, Lily—but he confessed that he did not actually personally know any Muggles.
"Why are you fighting, then?" she probed.
He didn't have a coherent answer to that. He said something profane about his bratty, stupid little brother, and he swore foully about his parents. Then he started in on Aunt Elladora and the house-elves.
She wondered, but she did not ask, why is he shagging me? Does he like me? Is it mere force of habit? Or is it the same sort of reason, the same bland, negative sort of reason, to differentiate himself from his brother, to tick off his parents, to revenge himself on the House of Black?
A more demanding woman would have left him then. A Lily Evans would have left him. But the commune taught tolerance and generosity. The commune had taught Hestia to hold their peace, even in affairs of the heart.
Sirius was a handsome man, clever, amusing, familiar now, and a damn good shag. She took good care not to be too faithful; she wouldn't go falling in love. But Sirius was a handsome man, clever, amusing, and she felt ill inclined to leave. Their affair—it never quite attained the dignity of a relationship—continued sporadically almost to the moment when Sirius Black was arrested by the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, laughing hysterically in an open street in front of twelve dead Muggles.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
It was the summer of '69 when she went to Hogwarts, but it was November of '81 when the war ended, and the world had changed. Her parents didn't leave the commune, but the commune left them. University education seemed more useful now. Money seemed more useful now. Jimmy Carter had declared amnesty, and the Americans all packed up and went home to buy four-door sedans, VCRs, and microwaves.
Hestia labored on at Experimental Herbology. She crossbred daisies with Abyssinian shrivelfigs to facilitate the creation of shrinking powders and she assisted in the development of the Auror Office's Puffapod Tracking Technique. It was she who proposed the addition of a dash of fluxweed to the then-current version of the Draught of Peace. She took time off and traveled a bit, saw the world, dabbled her feet in foreign streams, and ran through foreign wizards like water. When the Second War started, she came home.
It is not the least of life's little ironies that it was Remus Lupin who recruited her for the Order. It is not the least of life's little ironies that it was Remus Lupin who threw Sirius in her way again; it is not the least of life's little ironies that Remus Lupin recruited her to help protect Lily Evans's son. He came to the Herbology center after hours, cornered her in a greenhouse, set an Imperturbable Charm on the walls, and spilled a dragonload of classified information in her lap. It puzzled her sick, it puzzled her silly, and she said at last, irrelevantly, "Remus, you've never liked me." And he said, "Hestia, that's not true." She rolled her eyes, the way that always made Sirius jump her, and Remus blushed and said with far more honesty, "I know your heart's in the right place, Hestia. There aren't so many of us left. There isn't time to not like people now. . . " And she said, "But why ever did you think of me?" And Remus said, "I didn't. Sirius did." And she said, "Sirius?" She hadn't said his name aloud in thirteen years. And Remus said, "Please come, Hestia. Please. Please come . . ."
She saw Sirius that night, for the first time in thirteen years, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. She wouldn't have known him. A mangy, ragged man, jailed with his memories, he looked worse than any strung-out drifter who had ever passed through her parents' commune.
She saw him again and again, week after week, all that summer, hanging around the kitchen of Grimmauld Place (shades of Gryffindor common room), but she couldn't get used to the vacant look, the anger in his eyes.
She stumbled into his bedroom one evening, half by accident, half through sheer curiosity. He leered at her and said, "Still single, Hestia?" And she said, "I'm not complaining." And she said, "Still single, Sirius?" And he said, "That's moderately obvious, Hestia." And she said, "It's off with Remus, then?" And he said, with faint puzzlement, "Remus? You thought I was shagging Remus?" And she said, "Oh, never mind." And Sirius said, "Remus? Why the hell . . ." And she said, "You used to disappear together, all the time. You used to stay out all night." And you didn't tell me why . . .
Sirius guffawed. "Remus is a werewolf." She misunderstood. She thought, "Sirius, God help you, you're plenty crazy enough to get off with a werewolf, don't think I don't know . . ." And he said, "We were just having fun . . . full moons . . . you know." "With a full-grown werewolf?" asked Hestia tartly. "Without the Wolfsbane Potion?" "I'm an Animagus," said Sirius briefly. "Look, I'll show you . . ." And he transformed.
Even as a dog, he looked mangy. Even as a dog, he looked ragged and spoilt for this world. But what hurt her most was the jealous, selfish feeling that rose in her breast at the sight of him. She thought, why did he never show me this before? How did he keep this secret? Wasn't he tempted to show me this before? They'd been lovers on and off for nigh on seven years. And even when they got drunk together, even when they smoked joints together, even when he told her scrappy violent tales of his exploits, tales she didn't want to hear, even when he stayed the night and she woke beside him in the cold light of dawn, he never troubled himself to say, "Oh, by the way, Hestia, I'm straight. I'm an unregistered Animagus. I'm breaking several laws. And all appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, I'm not the Secret Keeper for James and Lily."
It might have saved his life, had he told someone that. No, she wasn't in the Order then, but neither was she one of the Muggle girls he used and forgot. He told her plenty else, and discretion can be carried too far.
In the dark and dismal bedroom, Sirius transformed himself back into a man, a mangy, ragged man in a tired, ragged room, and he said suggestively, "So, Hestia . . ."
"Meeting's now," she said briskly, and her high heels clicked across the floorboards. It was too late. Too complicated. She didn't mean to go falling in love with a man who didn't love her, and Sirius didn't know how to love. Not that way; not that kind of love. It was just too damn complicated, so she settled for a discreet dalliance with Kingsley, who was mature enough to keep it quiet, and sophisticated enough to let go when the time came to let go.
He is gone now. Sirius is gone, dead as any strung-out drifter who impaled himself on his past.
Would she could let go.
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Gone to flowers, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
She is thirty-eight now. She has put on weight. She will never be a large woman, but her hips are heavy. There's a permanent tiny bloodspot on her breast. She's always mixing moisturizer in the potions lab at work.
Fighting has hardened her, or so she thinks. So she fears, but others don't see it. She has sick headaches now, temperamental outbursts, crying jags she never had before. Fighting does not agree with her. She was a pacifist once, and she will be again, when Voldemort's gone. She was a pacifist once, and she can't quite overcome her Quaker guilt at killing. You can take the girl out of the commune, but can you take the commune out of the girl? For now she has the Order, which is really just another sort of commune, beautifully imagined and fleeting.
Her parents don't know she is fighting. Fourteen months into the war, she still hasn't told her parents. On weekend visits, they remark she seems tense. They push cushions behind her back. They prescribe marijuana and catnip tea. She smokes a few joints to make them happy. She jollies them along. Lovingly, deceptively. She can hardly tell them she is fighting to protect their Muggle innocence. They wouldn't begin to understand.
They still haven't left the commune, though the commune has long left them. They live in an echoing empty house, not unlike Grimmauld Place, fallen into a similar state of disrepair. They live with Judy, now crippled by arthritis, and a homeless bloke or two, and her father tends the garden, which is reverting at the edges to wild land. Her mother potters around the house, painting—she took up watercolors when she gave up guitar players—and Judy talks to the homeless men, hour after languorous hour. Ironically, the homeless blokes are the only ones who ever seem to have any money. But Mum and Dad and Judy don't need much. They wear old clothes and eat sparingly from the garden.
She can't be sorry he's dead. Man or dog, he was mangy, ragged, broken. Jailed with his memories. No longer capable of being the man she wanted him to be, if indeed he ever were. No longer capable of being the man that Remus wanted, either. Not quite human anymore, after too many years as a dog. Not quite fully alive.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Young girls have picked them, every one.
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Oh, when will they ever learn?
Still, were there a grave to plant flowers on, she'd plant flowers.