The Pinkest Month

Byron was no longer tiny by the second week of February. His puppy growth started in his legs, which were spindly and awkward for only a short time before his body seemed to explode with growth. Dobby, the snappiest dresser of the Hogwarts kitchen, had fashioned him a brightly-colored dog bed that fit perfectly against the side of my bed. By rights, Byron should've taken to it naturally. He didn't. It took a week and a half of persistent shoving to keep him off my bed at night.

Since his transition to what I'd started to call—in my head at least—his "big boy bed," Byron had become a much better guard dog. He'd started to stay at my feet most of the day, even in the infirmary where I made him stay in the office. He'd taken up coming to get me when someone accessed my floo, or when an owl tapped at the window. He'd started standing next to me when I got the door to my chambers. He'd also decided he only approved of certain people—not that he'd growl or bark. He'd just stand next to me, at the ready, the entire time a stranger was near. If one of his favorites came, however, he'd saunter to the cushion near the fire (also from Dobby) and lay his head on his paws, content.

For the life of me I couldn't figure out what qualified a person for approval by Byron. He loved Dobby—almost dangerously so. He'd lick Dobby's face and nearly knock him over. He adored Remus. He practically shook with glee every time he saw Tonks. He liked to sit next to Severus. He loved to put his chin on Hermione's knee. He ran himself ragged with Snuffles. He knocked over furniture wagging his tail when the twins visited. But most of all he loved Harry.

"But doesn't everyone. Eh pup?" I sank to the floor next to Byron's cushion and sank my fingers into his curly mop. He turned his dark eyes at me and cocked an ear. "I know, baby," I mused, "it's the day before Valentine's Day and I'm sitting here on the floor in my bathrobe with my puppy. What kind of life is that, huh?" I ran my hand over the top of his head, and he lifted his nose under my wrist. "I just don't know what else to try, little man. I've gone to parties and tried to be cute. I've wandered around with the twins. Maybe I should check the personal ads?" Byron flipped over on his back and kicked his back leg out. I ran my fingers over his belly. "Yeah, maybe not."

At that Byron gave a sudden twitch and flopped over on his side. He lumbered to his feet and headed purposefully toward the fireplace. At last, I heard it too. "Anna?" I got to my feet and tucked my robe more securely in place before walking into the study.

"Right here, Harry." I walked into his field of view.

"Oh. Er—sorry." He looked sheepish.

"Why's that?" I sat and twisted to face him. I saw his eyes dart to my thigh and back up to my face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my robe had created a slit high up my leg. I rose and wrenched it back into place. "Oh—oops." I said quickly. My stomach squeezed briefly, but I was getting better at not staring at him. At least, I hoped I was. "What's up?"

"Oh, yes. If you're free, would you like to talk about the case?" He rushed through the sentence, and it took me a minute to work it out.

"Yeah—yeah that sounds great." I sputtered. "Where should I meet you?"

"Brilliant. Just floo to the Leaky. I'll take us from there." He paused. "I was thinking we could talk at my house, if that's all right. It's just the security…"

"Sure," I rushed. "That sounds great. Besides," I chuckled, "I'm not exactly dressed for a formal party."

"You're not exactly dressed at all." He noted.

"But I will be." I said, smiling.

"Pity." He teased. I rolled my eyes.

"Oh," I said abruptly, "could I bring Byron? He's been alone all day."

"Of course," Harry said. "No one's licked my nose lately." He gave a half grin. I grimaced.

"Sorry about that."

"It's all right. Really." He said. "See you at the Leaky."

"All right. See you soon." I confirmed. I waited for him to close the connection before flying into my room, throwing a drying spell at my hair on the way. Nothing that'll make me freeze, nothing too young, nothing too ratty, nothing too muggle—well, maybe that last one won't matter—nothing too date-ish…for heaven's sake. At that rate I'd never find something to wear. I grabbed at a recently-bought pair of jeans and a sweater. I peered in the mirror, which came to the same conclusion as I did.

"That sweater's nearly transparent, dearie," my mirror chirped.

"Oh my…" I muttered, tearing it off and putting on a long-sleeved t-shirt. I yanked the sweater back on and turned to find shoes.

"Leave your hair down with that sweater, dear." My mirror weighed in.

"I guess I don't have time to do anything else," I worried.

"Trust me, dear." My mirror assured me. "He won't stand a chance."

"It's not a date," I blurted.

"Of course it isn't." My reflection winked at me. I gulped, and went in search of Byron's leash.

Harry's house appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. Once the portkey dropped us all I could see was thick undergrowth topped with trees of fair age, unevenly spaced by nature, not design. A walkway the width of two people wound through the trunks. Byron, still dazed from the transport, wove off the path into the leaves as we walked toward the door.

"Do you travel from here to London every day?" I pried.

"No." Harry said, fumbling with Byron's leash, which had become tangled around one of his legs. "I've got a flat in London for the week. But I stay here when I can." He led me through the small entryway to a sitting room with an expanse of glass over most of the back wall. Outside the ground cut away and the trees parted slightly, revealing a stretch of sky and clouds. I unconsciously stepped toward it.

"It's beautiful." I sighed. I cleared my throat to knock the girlish breathy tone out of it. "I can see why you'd try to stay here."

"It's a good place to fly." Harry contributed. His voice seemed tight. I turned to him to see Byron stretched to full height, his paws on Harry's shoulders and his tongue reaching for Harry's nose. Don't try to have a moment with a puppy around, I guess.

"Byron! Down!" I commanded. He teetered backward and put all his paws on the floor, then approached me with his head and tail lowered. I unclipped his dragging leash from his collar and wound it into my cloak pocket. I stretched my palm over his broad head and rocked it gently. "Knothead…" I muttered.

"Knothead?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Um…It's what my dad used to call the dumb horses. You know, the ones that'd get caught up on the fences or think they couldn't ford even the shallow streams." I blathered.

"I've never been around horses." Harry noted. He sat, gesturing to an armchair. Byron immediately sprawled at the base of his chair, trapping his feet. He smiled and shook his head once. "Why knothead?" Harry kept eye contact with me, but made an odd gesture with one hand. I heard a pop, and was peripherally aware of a tea tray appearing on the small table between us.

"There's an old wives' tale about horses' heads—they say you can tell the dumb ones by checking their skulls for knots. I don't think it's true though…" I said abstractly, completely distracted by the tray. I turned to it. "How did you do that?"

"Dobby," Harry began. At the word Byron's tail began to thump the floor forcefully. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"They're friends." I clarified. Harry gave a crooked smile, obviously picturing the tiny elf and my huge puppy.

"He prepares trays and somehow I can call them. He never quite explained it." Harry mused.

"Does Hermione know about this?" I teased.

"No." Harry smiled. "And she won't." I lifted my palms to him, shaking my head.

"If she finds out, it's all Byron's fault." Byron lifted his head, then dropped it back to the carpet. I let my attention wander around the room. It had a lot in common with the rooms in the castle: lots of solid, comfortable-looking furniture that appeared worn by use. The walls had much more wood than stone, however, and I had the fleeting feeling the house might have grown out of the forest. I laughed inwardly at my thought. Harry cleared his throat.

"Have you owled PlayWizard?" His voice was gentle. I nodded over the teacup I didn't remember taking from the tray. "Good. Tonks and I have been thinking about the shoot," he continued, "and the best way to keep you under watch." I turned toward him and set my cup back down. "We want to have Tonks there with you."

"How?" I blurted, worried.

"She'll morph." Harry said calmly. I continued to watch his face as he talked. "Tonks has training as a photographer—it's part of surveillance training. She'll replace whatever photographer they assign to you. That way she can use Fred and George's film."

"All right," I nodded.

"She'll be there with you during the shoot, but not for the rest of it." Harry said seriously. "You'll need to wear a recording device. We'll give that to you and teach you how to use it. Tonks will wear it during the shoot, since you won't be…" Harry trailed off, looking uncomfortable. "Since you won't be able to conceal it." He finished. Oh I hadn't thought of that. I swallowed.

"So I just wear the device, do the shoot, and get out of there." I repeated. Harry nodded sharply. "And Tonks wears a device while she shoots the film." He nodded again. "But they said I'd need to come in for an editorial session after the shoot. What about that?"

"Tonks will come with you." Harry said seriously.

"Harry," I paused, looking for the right words. "What am I looking for? What do I want them to say?"

"You can't ask them questions, Anna." Harry's tone was final.

"That's not what I meant."

"Anything could help. We've already got more information that points to Wade." Harry paused and took a long breath. "But we need names. Any names. We need connections that we can prove."

"So if I..." I started

"No." Harry cut in. "You can't do anything out of your ordinary behavior. These people are dangerous." He gave me a stern look I hadn't seen on his face before. The effect made me shift in my chair.

"That's what Severus said." I muttered.

"Snape?" Harry asked.

"I didn't tell you the whole story." I admitted quickly. Harry's eyes narrowed, making the green more pronounced. I took in a quick and shallow breath, turning my attention to the grain of the wooden floor. "Snape grabbed me out of Grimmauld Place one night. He found out I wasn't in Idaho and went looking for me." Harry shot out an annoyed breath forceful enough to disarrange his hair even further. I forced myself to look him in the eye. "He'd found out—I don't know how—that I was considering posing and that I knew about Wade."

"Damn it." Harry said sharply, his wand hand curling into a fist. I held up a hand.

"No, listen." Harry looked back up at me. "He didn't try to talk me out of it. Instead he told me I didn't know how to lie, and that I shouldn't even try it." Harry looked puzzled. I soldiered on. "He told me I had to go in there like a 'scared healer' and not like I belonged there, or they'd know I was acting and start asking questions."

"True," Harry grunted. "But he shouldn't have found out."

"Severus always finds out, Harry." I said, exasperated. I leaned forward and grabbed his wrist. "He'd just asked me to help with Hermione. He probably thought I was going to tell you." I paused as Harry met my eyes. "You know how he is. He thinks the worst of people." Harry stared at me, and I stared back. "He was trying to help me avoid getting caught." Slowly, Harry nodded. Then, to my surprise, he flipped his hand over and gently took my wrist.

"You need to tell me anything related to the case." He said seriously. I nodded. "But Snape is right."

"I know," I said quietly. "I'm not going to take risks." Harry released my wrist; I released his and leaned back in my chair.

"Yes you are." He gave a half-grin. I looked back at the floor. He was right and I had nothing to say. Byron lifted his head and gained his feet, his nails slipping on the slick flooring. He walked over to me and thumped his chin down on my knee. I scratched my nails over his ears.

"Don't look at me like that, boy." I muttered to him. "It's the right thing to do." When I looked up Harry had turned toward the window; the sunset cast the angles of his face in sharp relief. For the moment, at least, he didn't look concerned.