Chapter 22: Midnight Conversations

He knew he was asleep. Somewhere in his consciousness, he was aware of this. But he let the colours swirl around inside his head. He was always curious to see what they would form. Always seemed to be surprised even though, logically, he knew it was his own brain creating these images. Sure enough, no sooner had this thought occurred, than the colours solidified into a girl, standing before him. She was lit from a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. She was familiar, though Gawain was confident he had never seen her before. He stared at her, wondering what had brought her into his dream.

She was a pretty girl. Perhaps young woman was a better word. She was about eighteen, Gawain estimated as he studied her. Young and with an air of innocence as though the cruel world had never touched her. She was slight of build, wearing a simple white linen dress, and with a heart-shaped face and delicate features. Blond hair was plaited back, but the fringe seemed determined to fall in her eyes. No. Gawain was quite sure he had never met this girl before. So why was she here, staring back at him expectantly. And why did she seem so very familiar?

Gawain did not approach her. He just stared, trying to puzzle this out. And she stared back. No emotion on her face but anticipation. Perhaps a touch of impatience.

Just at that moment, he heard a giggle from his right and turned his head (did he have a head to turn?) to see Ella bounding up. He reached out his non-arms to scoop her into a hug, but she ran right past him and straight over to the girl.

"Ella!" he called, surprised. Surely she knew not to run to strangers! But she was laughing, and so was the girl—the young woman. The woman reached down and scooped Ella up, twirling her about, and the air rang with their beautiful laughter in perfect harmony. Gawain did not think he had ever heard a more lovely sound.

As they finished their twirl, the young woman set Ella back on her feet and straightened up. She looked back to Gawain, her arms still around Ella who was hugging her around the waist. Ella was also looking to him expectantly. Even as the laughter died, the smile still hung on the woman's face. Her teeth were white and straight and dimples indented each cheek. He knew that smile. It was Katherine's smile. But this was not Katherine.

Sometimes, he closed his eyes and tried to remember the details of Katherine's face. He grew frustrated realising that he could never get it quite right. But this… no this was not Katherine. He knew that. However much the smile may remind him of her. Her eyes were wrong. These eyes were grey. Not the blue-green colour of the sea he remembered. And the shape was less round, more slanted. But those eyes he recognised too. Those eyes were his eyes.

He blinked as realisation hit him. Somewhere in that blink, Ella was gone. He looked around for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. There seemed to be a CRACK as though of lightning and the room around them (were they in a room?) went dark. All save the young woman. She seemed to glow in a poisonous green aura. As though a green-tinted spotlight shone upon her in a dark void with nothing else to reflect the light. Gawain looked up to see the Dark Mark shining down upon her from above. His head snapped back to the girl.

The smile was gone from her lips. She was looking down at her own body. Her hand came across to gingerly touch a spot on her abdomen, just to the right of her navel. Then she drew her hand away and stared at it for a moment as though confused. Red covered her hand. And as Gawain watched, it blossomed like a horrible flower across the front of her dress, soaking the white linen. Green and red and white, like the tulip fields. Then she looked up at Gawain again. Her hand was still raised as though she were a small child showing him some treasured stone she had plucked up from the riverbed. But she looked at Gawain with confusion. As though she could not imagine what it was. And blood dripped from her hand. Merlin help them, there was so much blood.

"Daddy?" she whispered to him, asking, begging.

And then she was falling.

He ran to catch her, but she was falling further.

Far far out of his reach.

He did not know which way was up or down or if gravity even existed.

But she was falling away from him.

And he could not reach her.

"MARY!"

.

Gawain sat up in bed with a start. He was breathing hard as though he had just been running and he felt a sheen of sweat across his forehead. The room was dark and his breathing echoed loudly in the silence.

He jumped as he felt a hand reach up and stroke his arm. Whipping around, he saw the dim light from under the door reflect from Mary's sleepy eyes to his left. "Gawain? Are you alright?" Her voice was groggy, and he heard rather than saw her yawn.

He took a moment to consider that question as his heartrate returned to normal. "Yeah…" he breathed. "Yeah… I'm fine… Just a nightmare…"

"It's been a while since you've had those. Do you wanna talk about it?" she murmured sleepily. "You shouted my name…"

Gawain chose not to correct her. There was a sigh, and Gawain thought she was already falling back asleep. "No… No, I'm fine. Go back to sleep." And within moments, the sounds of her breathing were deep and slow again.

Gawain, on the other hand, was wide awake. He watched the shadows play on the far wall, his mind still racing from his dream. Mary. He had pictured her in his mind's eye before, of course. But somehow in his imagination, she was never more than a toddler. A beautiful never-aging fae child with her mother's blond hair and radiant smile who would dance quietly in his imagination without ever saying a word. He had never pictured her grown.

But that's what she would be, now. If she'd lived. She would be a young woman now. How old? Eighteen. The same age as Potter, Gawain realised abruptly. How had he never realised that? They would have been in the same year at Hogwarts. Perhaps they would have been friends. Perhaps they would have been lovers! Perhaps she would have stood by his side like so many others of his year at the Battle of Hogwarts. No. He didn't want to entertain that idea. He didn't want to picture her with that haunted look in her eyes that Potter wore when he thought no one was looking.

Gawain had his knees drawn to his chest. He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed it, trying to clear away the image of his bleeding daughter from behind his eyes. After a moment, he sighed and straightened his back. His eyes fell on the dark lump in the bed across the room. He could barely make out Ella's sleeping form, but he could see her shoulders rise and fall gently with each breath. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, watching her breathe. Just reassuring himself that she was there.

After a long while, Gawain accepted that sleep was not returning tonight. He rolled out of bed as quietly as he could, pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt, and stole from the room. Ye need a cuppa, ah think, said a voice in his head that sounded like Gwen. How many ghosts would haunt him tonight?

As he crossed the first floor landing on his way down to the kitchen, Gawain glanced into the drawing room. It was long empty now; the party had gradually petered out as the guests began to realise that both the people they were meant to be celebrating had already left. But in the darkness, the enchanted silvery lights were still flickering feebly as the spells wore off. A smattering of plates and glasses were still left behind; there would be some clean up to do tomorrow. But not tonight. Gawain moved on down the stairs.

He was almost surprised when he found himself coming down the final short flight to the kitchen. His brain was in a fog, and he scarcely remembered the walk down. The house was eerily quiet. Gawain shuffled the last few steps and pushed the door open, rubbing his itching eyes as he stumbled into the dim kitchen.

Suddenly, a clatter sounded to his left, and he saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. An alarm bell sounded in his brain. Drawing his wand in a flash, he turned and found himself looking down the end of a second wand pointed directly at his face. It took a fraction of a second for his sleep-deprived mind to register Potter standing behind it.

They both lowered their wands and Gawain suspected his own face mirrored the sheepish expression on Potter's.

"Sorry. Bit jumpy, apparently," offered Potter with a small smile. "Didn't think anyone else was still up."

"Clearly, you're not alone in that," gasped Gawain, pounding his chest to jump-start his heart again.

"Well, at least Mad-Eye would be proud of us," Potter said with an embarrassed laugh as he sunk back into his seat at the table. "'Constant vigilance,' and all that."

"Not sure that emulating Mad-Eye was exactly on my list of life-goals…" said Gawain wryly. Potter laughed.

Gawain took a moment to take in Potter and the room. He was in his night-clothes, seated at the end of the table nearest the fire which was crackling warmly. It was the only source of light in the room. There was a book on the table, but it was closed and Gawain didn't get the impression that Potter had actually been reading it, as he currently seemed to be using it as a coaster for what appeared to be a pot of tea.

There was a slightly awkward silence in the room as they each took in the other. Potter broke it first. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No, not so much. You?"

Potter gave a small humourless huff of laugher. "No… I don't do that much these days." Gawain wasn't sure what to say to that. He was sure there was a right thing to say to that, but damn, he couldn't think of it. After another second of uncomfortable silence Potter said, "Would… would you like to join me? It's camomile," he added, nodding to the teapot. "Decaf."

Well, that was rather what he had come down here in search of, after all, Gawain thought. He smiled at Potter, still feeling a little awkward. "Sounds lovely. Thanks." He walked over to the cupboard to help himself to one of the old-fashioned teacups before returning to pull out the chair across from Potter's. Potter passed him the pot, then went back to contemplating his own teacup. Gawain poured himself some tea, then went back to contemplating Potter.

Potter was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, fingers wrapped around his cup. He was inhaling the grassy aroma of the tea and staring into the cup as intently as one might do if reading tealeaves. A silly thought, first because this did not appear to be loose-leaf and second because Gawain thought Potter far too practically-minded to bother with tea-reading. The silence settled again.

Gawain just sat, sipping his tea and studying Potter who determinedly avoided his gaze. He considered this boy who did not sleep much. This boy who refused to spend the nights at the Weasleys. This boy who cast protective enchantments around his bedroom each night.

"So… Is it nightmares?" said Gawain, abruptly deciding just to voice what he was thinking.

Potter's head jerked up, and he looked at Gawain. Again he wore that expression of a mooncalf caught in the wandlight, much like he had earlier that evening when Gawain had walked in on him with Ginny Weasley. Gawain wondered if Potter was already regretting his offer to Gawain to join him. But he would not back down, he decided. Not talking about it never did anybody any good, after all. And so he just looked at the boy over the rim of his teacup, silently encouraging Potter to answer.

After a second, Potter sighed and looked back to his teacup and said, "Yeah… yeah, sometimes." He looked embarrassed. As though admitting some great weakness. Gawain nodded. It made sense.

After a moment's pause, without looking at Gawain, Potter said, "Does… Does everybody know?" Gawain was fairly sure 'everybody' really meant 'Kingsley.'

"Not really anyone's business, is it?" replied Gawain. Potter looked at Gawain then. His expression was surprised. And grateful. As though he really couldn't imagine anyone would not talk about his private life behind his back. "I really only made the connection because of that Muffliato Charm. Odd choice of spell. Keeping the rest of us from being able to hear you. Would actually prevent you from calling for help if you needed it… Couldn't see it serving much purpose otherwise. Not in your own house."

Potter let out a small huff of a laugh and leaned back in his chair. "Well… serves me right for inviting Aurors into the house, I suppose…" Gawain felt a wry smile cross his lips at that comment. It was almost like a compliment. Gawain may not be able to figure out any other mystery stuck in this house, but he had figured out this one. Something of a sad consolation prize for his dismal lack of progress on weeding out the spy in their ranks.

"I imagine that's why you've been so adamant about spending the nights here rather than at the Weasleys' as everyone would clearly prefer you do," Gawain observed. "The nightmares, I mean." It wasn't really a question.

Potter shifted awkwardly. "Doesn't really make sense to keep waking them up all the time. Everyone's in such close quarters at the Burrow. No one here to disturb. Well, at least there wasn't before…" He trailed off. For the first time, Gawain fully appreciated what this intensely private person had been sacrificing when he had invited so many strangers into his home.

He decided not to acknowledge this aloud for the moment. He wasn't quite ready to let the current discussion drop. Instead, Gawain just nodded, blowing on his tea to cool it. "Nightmares are rough. I should know."

Potter looked up at him, surprised. "You get nightmares?" he asked. He was suddenly looking at Gawain as a drowning man might look at a lifeboat.

"Sometimes," Gawain said, trying hard to exude an air of casualness. As though this was no big thing, nothing shameful to admit. For all that it was something he did not generally discuss with anyone any more than Potter did. "I used to have them all the time. Every night." The recurrent image of the Dark Mark floating over his moonlit Yorkshire home floated to the forefront of his mind, and he shuddered internally, pushing it away. And now this new image. Of Mary… his baby girl… bleeding… "But they're better now."

Potter was looking at him intently. "What… what did you do? To make them better?" There was an edge of desperation to his voice Potter seemed to be struggling to hide.

Gawain looked at him sympathetically. He knew the answer was not one the lad wanted to here. "Time," he said with a shrug. "Lots of time." Sure enough, Potter sighed and looked dejectedly into his teacup again.

"They used to be worse, I suppose," said Potter, tracing a pattern on the table top with his finger, not looking at Gawain. "I mean, I used to find my mind melding with Voldemort's in my sleep. I would be out murdering and torturing people in my head, and then I would wake up with my scar on fire and screaming awake half of Gryffindor Tower. Now they're just the regular kind of nightmare instead of the prophetic doom kind. So… you know… progress," Potter said the last word with an ironic laugh. He took a sip of his tea in a failed attempt to cover a frustrated look.

Gawain faltered. He stared at the boy for a moment, then realised his mouth was hanging open. After a long moment, he gave an embarrassed laugh and admitted, "I think you may have wondered into a realm I cannot relate to." What kind of fool had he been to think he could help this boy in any way? That he would know anything like what Potter had been through or was dealing with?

Potter laughed softly. "Funny enough, there aren't a lot of people who can relate to that one…" He set down his tea and was studying his fingernails, but he did give Gawain the briefest of glances from the corner of his eye and smirked. "But thanks for trying." He looked back to his fingernails. "It's good to know there's hope. That maybe it won't be forever. Sometimes it seems like I just barely get over one trauma before there's another piling on top of the last."

They were silent for a moment, both sipping their tea. Again. Gawain wished he was better at this. Better and conversation. Better at offering comfort. Better at being able to say the right thing at the right time. Potter needed someone to be here for him who was… just… better… And yet, Gawain was who he had in that moment. And so he had to at least try.

"I know it's not the answer you want," said Gawain after a bit of thought. "But you know… I really think having people around actually helped. My nightmares got a lot better after I met Mary, and I wasn't living on my own anymore. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have your friends close by."

Potter sighed as though he had heard this a million times already. He raised his tea to his lips rather than answer, just as Gawain finished his thought. "Or a fiery little redheaded lass, maybe?" Potter choked on his tea at that. Gawain smirked into his teacup in triumph.

Potter's cheeks were flushed as he cleared his throat. "I can't imagine who you mean," he choked out.

"Oh!" Gawain feigned an impressed look. "Got multiple fiery redheads rushing over in a panic when you're hurt, do you? Good on you."

Potter was spluttering in embarrassment, but he seemed to be on the verge of a laugh, so Gawain decided to see how far he could push him. He found himself quite curious to know how far he could go. "She's very pretty," he observed, still smirking.

Finally, Potter stopped spluttering, let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, ran his fingers through his hair, and said, "Yeah. Yeah, she is." He was shaking his head and smiling as though in disbelief that he was even entertaining this conversation topic. Gawain laughed softly.

"Kingsley asked her if you two were going to get back together. She said that was on you, as you were the one to break it off." Potter shifted uncomfortably at that. But Gawain's curiosity prodded him forward. "So what happened?"

"I… Nothing happened. I went away. I was on the run," Potter replied lamely, shaking his head, the embarrassed smile had melted from his face. Now he just looked… sad.

"And now you're back," Gawain observed, repeating the argument he had overheard from Ginny just a few hours ago.

Potter didn't respond to this, merely worried his lower lip with his teeth. Seeing the humour had fled, Gawain decided to take pity on him and offer him an out. "Well, it's none of my business. If you don't want to be with her, you shouldn't be with her. And no young person wants to sit around talking girls with an old man like me." He reached for the teapot to freshen up his cup, and when he looked back, he saw that Potter was looking at him, a frown marring his brow. It was as though he was suddenly seeing something in Gawain he had not noticed before. Gawain raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Not wanting to be with her is not the problem, believe me," said Potter slowly, as though the words were painful. He had looked away awkwardly, but then turned back again to frown up at Gawain as though thinking very hard. "And maybe you actually are the perfect person to talk to about it…"

It was Gawain's turn to frown as he tried to make sense of this. He looked at Potter waiting for him to continue. Potter turned back to his tea, however, seeming lost in thought for a moment. Just as Gawain thought he was going to have to think of something to say to make Potter explain himself, the boy went on.

"Your wife…" Potter trailed off uncertainly as he eyed Gawain's reaction. What could this have to do with Mary, Gawain thought, confused. But then Potter clarified, "Your first wife. What was her name?"

There was a ringing in Gawain's ears. He sat there, staring at Potter in stunned silence. He couldn't breathe. He could not for the life of him understand why on earth Potter should be asking him about her. Her, who he never spoke of to anyone. And so Gawain just stared at him, dumbfounded.

After a moment of ringing silence, Potter shifted uncomfortably. Looking up into Gawain's face, Potter saw something that clearly made him decide he had asked something inappropriate. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't have—" he started, but Gawain cut him off.

"Katherine," he said. The name stuck in his throat. "Her name… was Katherine." He thought he could count on one hand the number of times he had said her name aloud in the past eighteen years. The name felt foreign on his tongue.

Potter was silent for a moment, considering him. Gawain looked back, his face blank. He watched as Potter seemed to struggle to find the right words.

Potter made a few false starts, opening his mouth to speak, only to close it again. "People around me tend to die," he said finally, looking down into his teacup again. Whatever was at the bottom of that teacup must be fascinating. "Sometimes because they were protecting me. Sometimes because they were targeted to get to me. Sometimes just because they were in the way. The point is… they die." Gawain was silent, a sorrow in his heart so deep he couldn't tell where his sorrow ended and where Potter's began. He sat quietly, waiting for Potter to continue. It was a while before he did.

"When Ron and Hermione came with me last year… I knew I was putting them at risk. That they could die too. That I was going to have to find a way to live with that if they did. But Ginny…" Finally he looked back up to Gawain and met his eye, and Gawain saw a deep unhappiness in his gaze. It was an unhappiness that had always been there but which Potter had always struggled to hide. But now it was there, bared and raw. "I don't think I could live with it. Not Ginny. I don't think I'd survive it."

Gawain nodded soberly, beginning to comprehend where he was going with this. "And so you broke up with her," he said, understanding.

Potter nodded. He looked around the room, eyes focused on nothing that Gawain could see. "She's angry with me. Ginny is. I think she thought when the War was all over, we would just go back to how we were. But it's not over, is it?" He looked back at Gawain as though really wanting an answer to this question. "Not really. Dunno that it ever will be." He sighed again, mussing his hair. "She says I'm being a noble idiot. For protecting her. But honestly, it's selfish. I'm protecting myself as much as anything."

Gawain's heart was pounding. He wasn't at all sure he was ready for the question he suspected Potter wanted to ask him. But ready or not, it came.

"It's been eighteen years since you lost Katherine, you said. Since the Death Eaters…" Potter broke off, looking up at Gawain nervously to gauge his response. Gawain kept his face blank, his eyes fixed on the table top straight ahead of him. "And I can see that it still hurts," Potter continued. There was an edge of pity in his voice that Gawain did not want to face. "If you had it all to do over… Would you do it again? Knowing what you know now? Knowing that you were going to lose her? Would you still let yourself love her?"

There was silence for a good long while. Gawain's breath was short and shallow in his chest. His mind was racing, unable to settle on anything. He had asked himself this sort of question many a time, of course. But it did not make him any more prepared to be asked it by someone else.

The silence stretched. And stretched. Still Gawain stared at the table top, face blank. His heart still pounding in his chest.

After a long moment, Potter cleared his throat. "I'm being intrusive. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." He got up, reaching for the teapot and his cup and moving to clear them to the sink for washing.

"I wouldn't trade a single second of the time I had with her." The words came abruptly to Gawain's lips, surprising even himself with their conviction. Potter froze, looking at him. Then he sunk back into his chair, waiting for him to go on, his hand still gripping the teapot handle, quite forgotten.

"If I could go back…" Gawain spoke slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. The voice coming from his mouth was cold and emotionless; he barely recognised it. And still he did not look at Potter. "There is so much I would have done differently. I was young. And arrogant. And I thought that no one would dare to target an Auror's family. But she was a Muggle. And she was alone. Completely defenceless when… when they came," his voice broke when he said this. "I should have protected her." He forced his eyes up to look into Potter's at last. They were wide as they stared back at him and the green shade caught the firelight like jewels. "I have a great many regrets regarding Katherine. But loving her was never one of them. It was worth every ounce of pain."

The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment. And as Gawain looked into Potter's eyes, he saw a single tear escape and roll down the boy's cheek. Suddenly, the clock chimed two o'clock. They both jumped. And the spell was broken. Gawain blinked and looked away.

"It's getting late," he sighed once the clock and finished its chime. "Think I'll head back up to bed. Thanks for the tea." He rose and moved to the door. Potter remained seated at the table, staring at the hand still griping the teapot as though he didn't recognise it.

Just as Gawain had reached the door, Potter seemed to suddenly come to himself, and he called Gawain back. "Mr. Robards. Thank you for… That is… I'm sorry. Obviously, I'm a little lacking in people to talk to about this stuff. I mean… even my best friend is her brother, so that's out. But I shouldn't have put you in that position. I shouldn't have pried…"

Gawain stood by the door and regarded him. This boy who was so frequently surrounded by people and yet was so very alone. Who had never had a father to ask about girls. Who always seemed so mature and yet was so very young.

And then Gawain saw himself through Potter's eyes. A man who might be able to understand loss in a way that no one else seemed to. And the boy had taken a leap, asking about something no one dared ask about, only to be met with a wall. The invisible wall that Gawain had long since put up to protect himself from feeling anything. And he saw how that must have looked to Potter. How cold and uncaring he must seem.

Gawain closed tired eyes and sighed. "We are getting to know each other quite well, are we not, Potter?" he asked.

"I…yeah… Yeah, I guess so." Potter frowned as though expecting this question to be a trick.

"Then maybe we can dispense with the formalities. My friends call me 'Gawain.'"

Potter looked a little confused. But the tiredness was settling into Gawain's bones. And so, without waiting for a response, he said simply, "Goodnight, Harry. See you in the morning."

Just as the door was swinging shut, he heard the soft words from behind him. "Goodnight… Gawain."

Gawain wondered if the next morning would be awkward. But it wasn't particularly. When Harry came down, he did seem ever so slightly more shy as he bid Gawain good morning. But otherwise, it felt like any other day. Harry had sorted through his post with Kreacher and ripped off the front page of the newspaper as normal—a wise decision as it contained a particularly nasty article by Graham Haversham about Kingsley's incompetence as Interim Minister. After breakfast, Harry had barricaded himself in his make-shift potions lab and did not emerge for several hours. And the Gang had, as usual, spread the table with piles of casefiles.

As lunchtime approached, a fair number of people were milling about in the kitchen. Gawain had noticed more and more that those who were not working, would often wander down earlier than initially they had. He supposed they must all be getting quite bored.

Nayana was rummaging in the pantry pulling out various vegetables. Gawain rather thought she saw cooking as a form of entertainment by this point. Mary and Ella wandered in around midday. They seated themselves at the table across from Gawain, Ella at work in her sketchpad with her tongue between her teeth. Brannagh went to sit next to Mary and the two began chatting light-heartedly. The pair seemed to have hit it off since the night before. Gawain was pleased for both of them; he rarely saw Mary filling the Lily-Potter-sized hole in her heart with new friends, and Merlin knows Brannagh could use some companionship.

Harry ambled in a little while later, yawning and stretching. Gawain wondered if he'd slept last night at all.

"How's the studying coming along?" Kingsley asked Harry, glancing up from the parchment on which he had been scribbling out a letter to Marianne Macmillan.

"Ugh," said Harry by way of reply. "Going cross-eyed staring at all those potions ingredients. I need a break."

Kingsley smiled at him sympathetically. "You've been working hard," he observed.

"Exams are just a week away," Harry shrugged.

"Still. Good to take breaks. Clear your head."

"Hmm. You're one to talk," Harry muttered, eyeing the stack of paperwork in front of Kingsley. Kingsley glanced his way with a small permissive smile, but his attention was already back on the letter.

Harry helped himself to a handful of grapes from a bowl on the table, then wandered up to Nayana watching her expertly peel cloves of garlic for moment. He popped the grapes in his mouth one-by-one as he watched her technique. "Can I help?" he asked after a bit.

Nayana beamed at him. "I would love some help. Hmm…" She cast about, looking for a good task to give him. "Why don't you dice the onions. Tip number one in Indian cooking. You can't go wrong as long as you start with onion, garlic, and ginger."

Harry helped himself to a large chopping knife and a cutting board, but Nayana had moved on to slicing chilies with just her hands and a small paring knife. Harry watched her quietly as he peeled the skin off an onion. "Where did you learn to cook?" he asked her conversationally.

Nayana smiled. "My mother had me helping her in the kitchen as far back as I can remember. We still cook together whenever I go back to India to visit her."

"And she's a Muggle?"

Nayana blinked at him in surprise. "Now how would you know a thing like that?"

Harry glanced up from his chopping. "You cook like a Muggle," he observed with a shrug. "I never see you use your wand." Then he returned to the onion.

Nayana contemplated Harry for a moment with a smile curving her lips. Then she returned to her work. "Well, aren't you observant…" Harry cast her a small grin. "She is a Muggle. Paapa a wizard. Something of a scandal in India at the time, I believe."

"Seems to be a bit of a scandal wherever you go," replied Harry. But he rolled his eyes to show his opinion on that.

"I've tried cooking with magic," Nayana continued. "But somehow it never seems to come out as good. Sometimes, I think we're too quick to whip our wands out for every little thing. Some things are meant to have you take your time."

Harry considered her for a moment again. Then, after a bit, he said, "I like that. It's not unreasonable to think that Muggles do some things better than wizards." Nayana smiled at him fondly, but Harry didn't notice as his eyes were on the cutting board again.

They continued chopping vegetables in companionable silence. Nayana was peeling ginger. The smell wafted down the table toward Gawain. It reminded him instantly of Katherine. A sad and happy smell that had him setting aside his quill reverently. Most the rest of the Gang was still working, but Gawain felt he was due for a break too, and he settled himself to listen to Harry and Nayana conversing together.

"Must have been nice in a way," Harry was saying to Nayana. "Being back in India this past year? Being near your family. Even if it wasn't for particularly happy reasons." Gawain thought Harry was remembering precisely why they had been back in India and the part he, Harry, had unknowingly played in that.

"It was rather," replied Nayana. But then she shrugged. "Well, for a time anyway. I will say Sandeep and I were quite happy to come home to England at the end of it. There is such a thing as too much family time," she added conspiratorially. "But then of course, barely had we come home when we ended up here! Funny old life, isn't it?"

"You're taking this all quite in stride," Harry observed, smiling at her sympathetically. "I can't imagine how frustrating it all must be for you all. Being trapped here. Especially being trapped here with the likes of me," he added with a grin.

Nayana just laughed. "You know, I don't mind it so very much, really. I'm something of a home-body at the best of times. I like the quiet life. Lots of time for cooking and such…" She shrugged. "It's harder for Sandeep, I think." Gawain noticed her gaze travel down the table to where Sandeep was sitting frowning at a case file on the far end of the room. "He doesn't like to be cooped up. Not that he'd say anything, of course. And he can find a way to keep smiling even through the biggest of tragedies," she was gazing lovingly at her husband. "But I know it's hard on him."

She turned her smile to Harry. "Last year in India, he was so restless. He doesn't like feeling like he can't be out there, doing something, helping people. And perhaps all that time with my mother was a bit much," she added with another laugh. "He was constantly on the move. He'd go to Vadodara to visit his brother's family and his parents. Then off to visit friends from school. Then to check in on old neighbours. Always coming and going. Sandeep does not like staying in one place long."

Harry's knife had paused as he took this in. Then he turned a soft frown in Sandeep's direction. But Sandeep was deeply occupied in scribbling some notes in the casefile and had not noticed that he was the topic of conversation. After a quick moment of contemplation, Harry shot a quick smile back to Nayana, then turned his attention back to the knife. But his expression was still thoughtful, even as he accepted the garlic cloves to mince from Nayana next.

Ella, apparently bored with whatever Mary and Brannagh were busy talking about, had wandered around the table and up to Harry at this point. Gawain, seeing no reason to hide that he was listening, rested his chin on his hand as he leaned an elbow on the table. He was well settled to quietly watch his daughter's interaction with Harry. They were generally quite entertaining, after all.

Ella picked up other half of the pealed red onion Harry had set aside as she watched him mincing garlic. "I like this colour," Ella informed Harry. "Purple is my favourite colour." Harry hid a small smile as he nodded at her soberly clearly seeing from Ella's demeanour that this was a very serious conversation. "What's your favourite colour," she asked.

"Er…" Harry seemed to think about this for a moment. "I quite like green," he said, looking as though he weren't quite sure if this were the correct answer.

"Green's good," said Ella, nodding in approval. Nayana was grinning silently between the two of them. Like Gawain she seemed to be settling in for this new source of entertainment.

"Oh good. I was worried you wouldn't think I was cool if I chose the wrong colour," Harry confided, hiding a smile. Garlic minced, he ruffled his hair as he looked around for the next place he could help Nayana.

"Does it hurt," Ella asked abruptly, staring up into his face.

Harry blinked at her, clearly confused by the whiplash that Gawain was quite used to feeling with Ella's changes in conversation topics. "Sorry. What?"

"Your scar. Does it hurt?"

"Oh…" Harry reflexively flattened his fringe over his forehead. He looked abruptly uncomfortable. "Er… Not anymore." But he managed a smile to Ella that didn't quite meet his eyes.

"So it used to?" Ella asked.

Harry licked his lips. He really didn't love talking about himself, poor lad, especially in a room full of people. And the conversation had attracted the attention of several others by now. "Yeah. Yeah, it used to." His voice was soft and he didn't quite meet her gaze.

Ella nodded sagely as she studied Harry. Then, after a moment, she proclaimed, "I have a scar."

Harry grinned at her. "Yeah?"

Ella pulled up the sleeve of her right arm to show Harry the mark from her flying accident. Gawain could scarcely believe that was just over two weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Hey, I have one there too," said Harry. He pulled up the sleeve of his right arm too and held it out so Ella could see a near matching jagged scar in the crook of his elbow. "We match."

Ella's eyes widened. She looked around at Gawain in excitement. "Da', look! Harry and I match!" Gawain smiled gratefully. Harry had just quite tactfully ensured that Ella would never be self-conscious about that scar.

Harry just laughed at her good-naturedly. "How did you get yours?"

"I fell off my broom and broke my arm," Ella informed him. She looked rather proud of this. "Da' healed me. He says if Mam had been there, I wouldn't have a scar at all."

"Ouch. That must have hurt."

"Yeah, it did. But right before I fell, it was really cool. I was trying to do a Wronski Feint."

"A Wronski Feint! That's one of the most difficult manoeuvers in all of Quidditch! No wonder you fell."

"That's why I have to practice it! I wanna fly just like Viktor Krum. Nan says he's the best Seeker in the whole world."

"Yeah. He's good. But maybe let's start smaller with the moves you practice." A smile was pulling up one side of Harry's lips.

"Yeah. That's what Nan says. I mean, said…" Ella corrected herself, looking suddenly sad.

Harry eyed her, chewing on his lip quietly. "Did you get to see him at the World Cup?" he asked, clearly by means of distraction.

And it worked. "Yeah! Nan took me. Da' was there too, but he had to work. You were there?"

"Some game, huh?"

"Yeah. Viktor Krum is awesome," she said reverently. "I want to fly for England someday. And I want to be just as good as him." After a moment, lost in happy daydreams, Ella seemed to remember how they had come to this topic of conversation. "So did you fall off your broom too?"

"What?" asked Harry, confused again by the change in conversation.

"Your scar. Did you get it falling off your broom?"

Harry's face abruptly fell. "Oh… er… no… That was a… knife…" He suddenly seemed incapable of meeting Ella's eye. And with a stiff movement, he reached up and pulled the sleeve of his shirt back down over the scar.

Ella was looking up at him with eyes as big as saucers. "Someone stabbed you?"

Harry was looking more uncomfortable by the second. "Er… Sort of. But I'm suddenly realising that's not a very happy story to tell a seven-year-old. Or anyone for that matter," he muttered as an afterthought. There was a complete shift in his body language; Harry was suddenly looking very closed off. But Ella, still staring at him with an expression of horrified fascination, was quite oblivious to this.

"Did You-Know-Who do that to you?" she breathed. By now, most all the eyes in the room had turned their way and everybody seemed to be listening intently.

Harry looked like he would like nothing better than to flee the room. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to think how to respond to that. But then, instead, he said to Nayana, with an air of forced casualness, "What else needs chopping?"

Nayana, who had been staring at Harry with an expression of grief and pity jumped and looked around dazedly before passing him a tomato. Harry took up his knife to chop this too, but almost immediately set it down again upon realising his hand was shaking too much to safely wield it. He squeezed his eyes shut, and ran a trembling hand over his face, taking in a deep calming breath. But then his hand dropped away from his face and his eyes widened in surprise. Because Ella had suddenly launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his middle.

"Er… What's this for?" he asked, awkwardly wrapping one arm around her shoulders in return.

"It's like you said before. Hugs can help people not feel so sad," Ella explained, her voice a little muffled as it was currently pressed against Harry's chest.

A small rueful smile crossed Harry's lips, and the tension visibly left his shoulders. And he hugged her back, mumbling, "Thanks, Ella."

Ella broke away a moment later, looking very matter-of-fact as though this were all perfectly normal. Harry picked up the knife again and Gawain noted his hand was no longer shaking as he began to slice the tomato.

"Is that brown-haired girl who always comes over your girlfriend?" Ella asked abruptly into the silence.

Harry blinked and his knife slipped and skidded off the surface of the tomato. "Hermione? Er… no. No she's just a friend."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Ella asked bluntly.

Harry took a moment to set down his knife, before he turned to look at her, a sardonic smile on his lips. "Alright. Out with it. What publication do you write for?"

"What?"

"You think I buy these are all just innocent questions? You've got to be an undercover reporter. So let's hear it. What paper? The Daily Prophet? Witch Weekly? Spellbound? Who do you work for?"

Ella just looked at him, completely nonplussed. "I'm seven," she informed him, as though questioning his sanity.

"Yeah. That's what they all say," replied Harry, smiling as he again returned to the tomato. There were several huffs of laughter around the room, all hastily stifled as though no one quite wanted to admit that they'd been listening in.

Ella opened her mouth to speak again, still looking completely confused, when Mary came up behind her. "I think, darling, Harry is telling you you're being impertinent," she laughed, kissing Ella on the cheek and shooing her back toward the other side of the table. Ella was grumbling to her mother that she'd only wanted to know if he had a girlfriend and what was so wrong with that? Harry just smiled at Mary good-naturedly and moved to help Nayana at the stove.

Mary smiled back, but as the afternoon wore on, Gawain noticed her watching Harry from across the room for quite some time with a sad worried expression on her face.

The inhabitants of Grimmauld Place were just finishing lunch when Ron Weasley flooed in a little while later.

"Hey. We still on to practice Transfiguaration?" he said to Harry, nodding in greeting to the room at large.

"Yeah, sure," replied Harry around a mouthful of food. "Just finishing up lunch. There's still some food if you want some."

Weasley eyed the spicy vegetables on the table, his nostrils widening as he took a suspicious whiff. He seemed to decide it was too adventurous for him because he said, "Nah. I ate back home." He plopped down in the chair next to Harry to wait for him to finish eating.

"How are things at the shop, Ron?" asked Kingsley, conversationally.

"Oh, fine. Almost ready for the grand re-opening. Should be just in time to catch the Hogwarts students as they're in Diagon Alley buying their school things for next term. That is if the damn contractor gets off his arse and finishes the shelving he's supposed to be doing."

"You're still having trouble with him?" Harry asked, clearly acquainted with the issue.

"Bloody useless bloke. George reckons he's regretting the deal he gave us, now that he's realising you're not at the shop as regularly as he thought."

Harry snorted in response, but Kingsley frowned in confusion. "That Harry's not at the shop?" Kingsley asked. "Why would he expect Harry?"

"Because he's a star-struck idiot like the rest of them," Weasley shrugged. "He only gave us a deal because of Harry." When Kingsley continued to look confused, Weasley explained. "So we have him over to the shop to look at the job that needs doing. And the tosser is trying to tell George and me that it's going to cost us four hundred galleons just to redo the banister on the upper level and put in some new shelves to make room for our new line of Skiving Snackboxes. And then Harry happens to walk in and just Harry-Potters him—"

"I'm sorry. 'Harry-Potters' him'? This is a verb? To Harry-Potter someone?" Kingsley asked, his mouth twitching in a grin.

"Yeah. You know that annoying thing that Harry does, where he walks into a room and suddenly people just start giving him stuff for free?"

A scoff was heard from the direction of Edward Bones, but everyone ignored him. Instead, the eyes of the room looked around at Harry as though asking for confirmation that this did indeed happen regularly.

Harry looked awkward and a blush touched his cheeks. He said quietly, "For the record, it's very annoying, and I hate it. I actually had to sneak gold into Madam Malkin's till when she wasn't looking when I was at her shop to get new robes a little while back."

"Yeah yeah. Poor you. Must be so hard," cut in Weasley with an eye roll, returning to what he'd been saying. "Anyway. So Harry Harry-Potters him, and suddenly the bloke agrees to do the whole thing for half the cost."

"Well, you're welcome, I guess. I suppose there have to be some perks to being my friend. You know. To make up for all the times I nearly got you killed…"

"Yeah, well. That and you're going to help me refresh on Conjuring Spells this afternoon…"

At breakfast the following morning, Harry sorted through his post as usual. He retrieved only one envelope—a large blood red packet— from the stack, passing the rest back to Kreacher to burn. He was smiling as he slid a thumb under the flap of the envelope and retrieved what appeared to be a neatly folded letter along with a second smaller envelope.

"I think this one is for you, Ella," Harry commented, matter-of-factly, passing the envelope across the table to Ella whose eyes were wide in surprise. Gawain blinked, but sure enough, he saw his daughter's name written across the envelope in a harsh spiky script.

"I have a letter?" Ella squeaked in excitement. But Harry's attention was already on the parchment in his other hand, reading a short note with a smile on his lips.

Gawain watched as Ella tore open the envelope with gusto. And then Ella suddenly froze, staring at the piece of paper clutched in both hands with her jaw dropped open.

"What is it, love?" Mary asked curiously, looking over Ella's shoulder.

Ella turned her slack-jawed stare up to her mother then back to the paper. "It's a signed photo from Viktor Krum," she said breathlessly. "It's addressed to me and everything!" Then she abruptly let out a squeal. "Look! Mam! He's doing the Wronski Feint!"

And Ella was pouring over the photograph, watching as the image of Viktor Krum zoomed down toward the bottom edge of the photo, his robes billowing out behind him with the force of his speed.

But Mary was not looking at the photo. She was looking across the table at Harry with a teary smile. But if Harry noticed her gaze, he chose to ignore it, instead keeping his eyes on the letter in his hand.

"How the hell did you manage that?" Gawain muttered to him.

Harry turned a small smirk to Gawain and shrugged. "I Harry-Pottered him." And his grin widened as Gawain began to laugh.

Gawain lay in bed, his legs outstretched as he leaned against the headboard late that night. He was thinking. Ella and Mary were fast asleep. But Gawain merely lay there in indecision.

When he finally moved, it was with a conviction that he wasn't entirely conscious of having formed. He swung his legs out of bed, and quietly stole from the room, careful not to wake his family who were still lost in the enviable oblivion of sleep.

He was not entirely sure of the welcome that would greet him. Nonetheless, he pushed the kitchen door open with a confidence that belied his uncertainty.

And there was Harry. He was standing frozen, staring at Gawain. He had the kettle in his hand as he had clearly been in the process of filling the teapot when he'd heard Gawain coming down the stairs. Gawain stood in the doorway, and they merely looked at each other. No words were spoken.

Then Harry smiled. It was the kind of smile that one might have in response to a private joke. And without a word, he put down the kettle, turned to the cupboard, and retrieved a second teacup.

And, accepting this as an invitation, Gawain resumed his previous seat at the table.

A/N (07.02.2022): This chapter was… frustrating. I'm still not satisfied with it, but there's a point where you just can't keep staring at it and gotta suck it up and hit post. It's a bit of a hodgepodge compilation of a bunch of scenes that had been long planned but which I didn't really have a "place" for. But each has a bit of information that's going to be coming back around, so I couldn't quite cut them. Maybe it's just some anticlimactic anticipation because the first midnight conversation between Harry and Gawain has literally been written for yearsss. Writing scenes out of order generally works out fine for me, but sometimes it comes backs to bite me when they don't fit where I expect them to.

Anyway. Thanks for your patience as I sit and grumble at my computer for a month hoping it will suddenly work out. The pace will be picking up a bit quite soon, I think. And I'm hoping to get the next chapter out a bit quicker. I have the coming weekend off (a rarity) and my husband is out of town. Solitude generally translates to prime writing time!

In other news, this story is officially live on AO3 for any who prefer to read there. It took me a while to get it all caught up, but from here on out, I will be cross-posting on both sites simultaneously.