Where the Heart Is

"Hold still, you crazy animal." I commanded. The mare paced away from me, her eyes wide and her nostrils beginning to flare. I watched her head. "Don't start kicking on me, now…" I cajoled, lowering my volume.

"She understand English yet, Pixie?" Norm's gravelly voice carried over the corral fence. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his gloved hands tossed over the top rail, and the tip of his boot poking through where his foot rested on the bottom rail.

"Naw, Norm." I called, quietly. "But I'm working on her." He gave a low chuckle, staying quiet to avoid spooking the mare. She'd been favoring her foreleg and had to be calmed enough for the vet to have a look at her, preferably outside a squeeze chute. "Come on, little girl. I'll pen you if I have to." I warned, my voice low. I heard Norm shoot a stream of tobacco juice at a fence post behind me.

I'd come home to Idaho, to the old cabin and Norm and the animals, without telling a soul but Abby. I'd come for a weekend—crazy considering how much energy it takes to apperate between continents—but it had already been a relief. I did it telling myself I needed a reminder that I could live like this, but that wasn't truly it. No, if it came down to it I knew why I was here. To be somewhere quiet, somewhere I understood. And to have a couple of days without messy black hair and green eyes to throw me off balance.

"Getting slow at that in your old age, Pixie girl." Norm contributed, shifting his weight slightly against the fence. The pearl snaps on his old wool shirt glinted in the glare from the sun and the snow still in drifts on the ground.

"You ought to talk, old man," I chuckled. And Norm was getting old. He was still the same bear-wrestling, wire-armed cowboy I remembered in most ways—full of colorful ways to cuss a steer and a taciturn wisdom I'd always wished I could emulate. But he was grey and his skin was running to a papery ivory where it had once been brown as his saddle. He rode less and he sat more. For the first time in my life, I wondered if Norm ought to be out here alone.

He'd been shocked to see me, I could tell. He quickly clamped down on the reaction, though, and acted like he'd never thought I'd be gone all that long. The first night we'd sat on the old porch—the wood drier and more deeply grained than I remembered—and drank slowly from Norm's bottle of cheap whiskey. We talked about my father, and his flamboyant desire to keep his family on this land as much as possible. I think my father believed life was more real out here—like the emptiness was a kind of crucible that pressed away all the pretenses and left only character. Character with a capital C.

It didn't. That's just a thing Americans like to think about the west with a capital W. That it'll change who they are or make them better the longer they work. They call it honest work and expect it to make honest men and women. But it's work like any other work. Just dirtier and colder. At least, that's the way Norm and I saw it. Who the hell says we're right?

The vet rolled in an hour later, just in time to pass reasonable judgment on the fate of the cattle I planned to sell off. I'd talked to Norm about the place at length before he'd admitted he thought the cattle were a crazy waste of time too. So here he and I would be by the end of the weekend, with nothing but a reasonably sustainable number of horses and some pasture bound to go back to sage. I sat on the porch again, nursing a glass of water and waiting for Norm to get done talking to the vet. I knew I had no business in that conversation. I had the purse strings, but Norm had the brains for it. No sense fighting the way life was organized, I figured.

"Pixie girl," Norm began, knocking the clots of mud and manure out from between his undercut boot heels and the balls of his feet. "I've got bad news about that mare of yours."

"Tell me." I sat up straight and kicked a chair around for Norm to sit beside me.

"Vet says it looks like grass founder." Norm let out a sigh as he sat. I cursed under my breath. That mare ought to have had at least another decade in her. "He can't say how long she has," Norm pushed his hat back on his head a small amount, putting more light on his face. "But you know that."

"I don't want her suffering, Norm." I said. Norm didn't know I was a witch and he didn't know I was a healer, but he'd known me since I was knee-high. He knew I hated to see an animal hurt.

"I know that." Norm nodded. "I'll put her down when it's time, Pix." I nodded, my brow wrinkled.

"Norm," I began. He looked toward me. "I'm going to have to go back to work after this weekend. I can't stay."

"Like you said." He confirmed.

"But I want to be back here more often, if it won't be trouble for you." I looked at his face for a hint of what he thought of my idea. He nodded, his face immobile as a cliff side.

"Glad to have you when you can, Pix." He turned to me, looking me dead in the eye. "But don't you go missing things just to keep an old man company."

"Norm, you don't need company." I shook my head. "An old cuss like you?" I forced a grin onto my face, and Norm returned it. But I felt we weren't saying something. And damned if I knew what it was. "I need company worse than you do. I'd just be doing myself a favor."

"Well then, I guess I'll save you a chair on the porch." Norm allowed. He shot an arc of tobacco juice over the railing into the still-frozen remains of a drift that had blown up against the house. I watched it sink under the surface, bleeding toward the dirt.

"Where the hell were you?" Tonks' voice cracked across the room like a whip. I stood frozen at the door to my rooms, my traveling bag hanging limp in my hand. I blinked stupidly at her. "Anna." She snapped. "We couldn't find you."

"This weekend?" I wondered aloud, still stymied by Tonks' presence in my study and blurry-minded from apparating.

"Yes this weekend," she snapped. "We filed the charges on Wade and couldn't find you."

"Oh…oh damn." I blinked, stepping fully into my study and letting the door swing shut behind me. I set my bag down. "I was in Idaho. I told Abby. I didn't even think…"

"No, you didn't." Tonks tapped her foot in irritation. "Harry's been beside himself." I winced. "You can't leave England again until this is resolved, Anna. We need to know where you are."

"Okay." I nodded, feeling guilty and foolish.

"I'm going to tell Harry I found you," she declared, her voice still tense with annoyance. "Don't leave Hogwarts." I nodded and watched her floo to the Ministry. When she was gone I put my palm to my head and closed my eyes, feeling stupid. Well, Arthur. Nothing to do about it now. I gritted my teeth and picked up my bag to unpack. Nothing to do now but get organized and pick up Byron from Abby—just like nothing happened.

"Anna." The voice came with a very surprising poke in the forehead. I shook my head, and immediately regretted it. A blinding pain had taken residence behind my left eye overnight. "Anna." The voice insisted again. Another tap on the forehead.

"Go away," I whined.

"Not likely." Another voice, close to the first, joined in from my other side. I squeezed my eyes firmly shut and rolled my head forward. Why did my neck hurt? Why was I curled in a ball? I turned my head to my right and conked my forehead against an upholstered surface. The side of my chair. Why was I in a chair? I pried my eyes open, annoyed.

"Good morning." The first voice said, amused. I actually was in my chair. I'd slept all night in my study with my legs beneath me. I slammed my eyelids closed against the light and clutched at my head, whimpering.

"Anna?" The second voice sounded a little concerned.

"Who are you?" I slurred, keeping my eyes closed.

"It's Fred and George." The first voice supplied, now sounding very concerned.

"Time izzit?" I muttered.

"What happened to your head, Anna?" The first voice said, slowly and clearly.

"Headache. S'okay. Happens sometimes." I slurred. I felt a cool palm on my head. "Too bright." I declared, my voice barely audible. I felt the lights go out and forced myself to open my eyes. There were Fred and George, peering nervously at me. "M'sorry." I groaned. The longer my eyes were open the more of my vision disappeared into flashes of color. "Potion." I muttered. I knew they had to be utterly confused, but couldn't care. I teetered to my feet, dragging the throw blanket still hanging from my shoulder. I walked blindly, with my hands out, to my bathroom cabinet. I felt for the correct bottle and opened my eyes briefly to peer at the label. A hand closed around mine and plucked the bottle from my hand.

"It says it's for migraine. Is that right?" A very quiet voice beside me waited for my answer. I nodded my head, my eyes closed firmly and my hand clutching the bathroom counter. I heard the stopper being removed from the bottle, then felt the other person press the potion container into my hand. I swallowed it, wincing at the pain the movement shot through my head. I felt an arm go quickly around my back. "Come on, then." The voice urged, as the arm pulled me from the counter and toward my bed.

I slumped onto the mattress, not caring that I'd put my head at the foot of the bed and left my feet on the floor. I panted lightly, wishing the nausea would stop. Within a few minutes the potion had calmed my stomach and slowed the pulsing in my head to a manageable pounding. I opened my eyes tentatively, sucking in a breath as they adjusted to the light. I lay there, breathing carefully and listening for the twins. I couldn't hear them. At length the lights in my vision cleared away. I sat up and peered around the room.

The twins had gone after I took the potion—I couldn't tell when. They'd left a note on the chair where I'd slept. I skimmed it, in a hurry to dress and get to the infirmary. The migraine and potion had kept me from breakfast, like they did at least once a month. Oh the joys of being a woman.

They'd come to make sure I knew that the muggleborn issue was going to be owled to subscribers that morning, and to accompany me to the kitchens for breakfast if I wanted to avoid the great hall. They'd also seen the issue, and knew that the film had worked. So I had nothing to worry about. They hoped I felt better soon, and that I enjoyed the candy they'd left for me. Like I was stupid enough to eat a Weasley twins candy when I had a migraine. Those boys.

I spent the morning fighting nervousness about the muggleborn issue. Every possible way the twins could be wrong or the film could've malfunctioned shot through my head. I fretted, I paced, and I could've killed for an issue of the Daily Prophet. Surely they'd have reported the indictment and the photography hoax? I headed to the great hall for lunch hardly watching where I was going. I'd nearly made the main hallway when I ran into Severus. Almost literally.

"Miss Arthur." He nodded.

"Severus." I acknowledged him, still a little startled from our near-crash.

"It appears you have been successful." He raised an eyebrow and handed me a copy of the Prophet. I flipped it over to see the headlines. Sure enough, there was a picture of Wade snarling beneath a story announcing his indictment. "You may find the entertainment section interesting," Severus smirked, turning toward the great hall. I followed him, my attention focused on the paper.

There it was. In a side column on the front page of the entertainment section, there was a short announcement of a successful hoax on PlayWizard. Two thirds of the issue had photographs that blacked out moments after being revealed. It had been labeled the "nox" issue, just in time for April Fools' Day. I didn't even try to keep from snickering aloud. I changed course, and set off to owl my thanks to the twins.

"Byron, Byron." I muttered, running my hands over his ears. We sat together on the rug in front of the hearth, curled against the chilly spring night. We'd spent an hour outside that evening—I was trying to make up for leaving him with Abby for the weekend. I was pretty sure Byron thought she couldn't play fetch properly. Byron pushed his nose into the rug, looking up at me. I continued to run my hands over his floppy ears.

"I don't think I'll see him again, now." I mused. "There's no reason I would." Bryon heaved a deep sigh and flopped onto his side. I ran my palm over his ribs, feeling the remains of the injury that brought him to me.

"He's got what he needs for the case. That's the only reason I ever saw him." Byron wiggled, sinking deeper into the pile of the rug. "It's true," I mused, "it's not like we're even friends." Byron sighed again.

"I know what you mean." I told him. I had to be realistic, here. I'd had my little adventure—probably my last one as a witch. I had no more prospects for marriage than when I'd started. And the idiotic, girlish crush was still there in Harry's absence, which was likely to be permanent. Byron lifted his head and looked at me balefully.

"Okay, okay." I allowed. "I'm meeting him tomorrow. So what? Remember last time?" Byron huffed. "It's about the case again. It is." Byron dropped his head to the rug, giving up on me. I continued to run my fingers through his fur, staring into the fire.