Disclaimer: Not my property, these characters are. No. The property of JK Rowling they are.
Author's note: Updated the Summary. I know that I won't attract a lot of readers with my persistence to stick to the side characters. No one hardly comes looking for a Parvati Patil fan fiction. But I still want to keep the Trio or any major characters out of the story until its completely inevitable. To prove a point?
19. The W
Roger Davies works for Arthur Weasley, the richest Wizard alive. The Patriarch Weasley, though he usually spends his time away from the maddening crowd, sometimes makes appearances at commencements, and ceremonies at the ministry.
The new leader and heir of the Weasley family is the eldest Bill, the COO of Weasley's international, war hero, mild mannered, handsome and brave, he's more renown for his kind heart and extensive charity.
Charlie Weasley, the second son, remains the most eligible bachelor of all the Wizarding world. Considered the bravest and most machismo of the Weasley brothers, Charlie ... what more is there to say? He's an ex Quiddich Captain, he rides dragons, he's insanely rich, drop dead gorgeous with a streak of Bad Boy. He is something of a celebrity in the Wizarding World.
Percy Weasley, the a high official at the department of Magical Transportation within the Wizarding government, despite his potential ties to the family business, remains aloofly distant and solidly against opening communications with the efforts within the government by his sister in law, Hermione Granger.
George and Ron Weasley are the center of the Weasley operation. They are in control of the largest group, the WWW, once known as Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, though few people now associate it with candy bars and trick, and more with the new Trendy "It"-thing in the Wizard culture today.
Ron Weasley, among all the Weasley's, is probably the most influential person in the entire Wizarding world. Having creative input into both the mother company, W, and his own company, WWW, while his wife is the most powerful person in the Wizarding World, and his best friend since childhood is the most important person in modern Wizarding history, the Wizarding World actually seems to revolve around Ron Weasley. His word is worth gold. His ideas bring forth innovation. His turtle neck and sandy red hair, his reserved and whimsical look is the staple of the Wizarding high society, embodying everything Weasley.
In contrast, his best friend and younger sister remain distinctly private. The couple ferociously avoids public attention. Having accomplished what most people could only dream of, Harry Potter remains in his castle on a private island unreachable except by private Port Key, with his beautiful wife and children, guarded by Aurors, a herd of hipogriffs and a clan of giants. He is inapproachable, secluded, retired.
I can't imagine what it would be like to have known them. Which is a pity, since I had practically bunked with Hermione Granger all through our wild puberty. I once dated Harry Potter, and my sister Padma had taken Ron Weasley. Could we have known what would happen to our lives? Would it have mattered?
I for one can't say whether or not I wished to have been close to Harry Potter. Without much memory to rely on, I can't recall whether I had been heartbroken because the Yule ball didn't work out as planned. Judging from the fact that I can recall glimpses of what the Yule ball felt like, in contrast to any definitive memory of Harry Potter, I have to admit that I probably didn't consider him much, either. Old year books in Slughorn's apartment showed a rather shoddily dressed boy, plain and bright, but nothing remarkable. Like many teenagers, I imagine my life was full of other things. Pictures of me always showed me closer to Lavender, while Hermione quickly found companionship with Ginny Weasley, who was a year behind us.
Roger Davies, my brother in law, lives over there, between the two muggle buildings. It is a hidden complex, built jointly by the muggles and wizards to house wizards who frequently associate with the muggle community. Roger, being a Vice President at W, overseeing muggle relations for the big utilities project that is under a veil of silence, uses this flat more often than he goes home.
My previous attempt to infiltrate my own home ended in stillbirth, as Padma hardly ever seemed to leave home. Padma, and my family would see me as a doppelganger first, rather than believe that they had another daughter who looked like Padma. It was a bit too complicated for anything right now. Especially with my lack of memory.
Family and friends were nice, but as Slughorn said, with the Memory Witches hot on our heels, I couldn't spare time to reintegrate ourselves, nor did we want to risk wiping out my whole family into oblivion. If, as I had suggested, the power of the Memory Witches went further than just erasing forgettable girls from existence, then our little adventure to find our way home could end in disastrous brevity.
After eating out of the Chinese restaurant across the street for a week, I spotted Roger continuously go in and out of the empty alley. There was a door that appeared when he entered the empty space between two buildings. While no one else did attempt to enter, a muggle police officer was seen to regularly check the alley.
Slughorn pointed out muggle surveillance cameras that were modified by W wizards and their muggle counterparts. Slughorn had tried to pass the cameras, and informed me it was safe, as the only thing that blocked his entry was a wizard guard beyond the portal who turned him back. He was sure I could pass off as Padma.
A few other people who trafficked the place seemed to be of no significance, nor did they particularly stir my memory. Padma never seemed to frequent the place, either, for some reason, despite the fact that Roger hardly ever seemed to leave.
"And you think I can find some personal items there?" I huff, trying to calm down.
Slughorn offers me a cigarette, lighting it. His thick hands massages my shoulders, like a trainer setting loose his prize fighter.
"Remember plan B," he reminds me.
I nod, indicating that I'm ready. I put on my large sunglasses that cover half my face. I take a deep breath and dig up a gentle incantation to charm my clothes to appear as something more fashionable. It won't last long, but the illusion will at least pass me off against the wizard guard as the wife of someone sufficiently high up in the Weasley company.
The robes are lovely. A soft pink robe with intricate calligraphy patterns adorning the hems in gold silk. Momma is pleased!
"How do I look?" I flash a charming smile. I haven't felt so good about my self, since ever!
Slughorn looks me up and down, shrugs. "I think a bit too fashionable to be the burdened housewife that is your sister."
He raises his wand... menacingly.
"Don't you dare!" I snarl, clutching my illusory high fashion robes. I turn heel and speed off with a frightening purpose, more to spare my robes from being tampered with by Slughorn than any encouragement could muster.
Like Slughorn said, the muggle policeman only gives me a cursory glance and within moments I'm at the portal that shimmered into existence. A hesitant breath or half escapes my lips, and for a brief moment I am tempted to look back to Slughorn. Balling my fists, I step forward again into the Wizarding world.
A man stands guard immediately at the entrance, and I am surprised as he leers over the counter. I had imagined it would be more menacing. Perhaps a long dark corridor lit with torches? Perhaps a crystalline mystical hall with ivory pillars reflecting the true nature of the person passing? Perhaps giant sphinxes with razor sharp teeth?
No.
"I'm Stan Shunpike," the guard, a forty something willowy, his dull eyes roving over a large beak like nose to read off a card he was holding in his hands. "Welcome to the Weasley Towers, what may I do you for?"
The corridor was quiet and empty, modern trimmed with muggle tastes of an office deco, that would have seemed a bit tawdry for muggle standards, but rather refreshing and "New" for the Wizards.
"Padma Davies, for Roger Davies," I reply simply, my outfit bolstering my confidence.
Stan hobbles over to his desk, and for a moment I'm wondering if he's cross referencing his database to make sure that I, or 'Padma', was on the list of visitors allowed. Perhaps Padma never came here for security reasons. After quite a long time, Stan hobbles back, hunched shoulders.
"Mister Davies isn't in," he informs me.
"I know," I snap, inwardly sighing in relief. "I'm his wife."
It takes another trip to the desk, and when he returned he hands me a card, much like a muggle key card, but... empty. Immediately I notice he's holding a small snappy looking camera, which I would have mistaken for a muggle device, had I not been able to sense its magical aura.
"Smile," he flashes the camera, the glare which catches me momentarily blinded. But when my sight returns, I look down at the key card to see that my stupid looking 'surprised face' blinking animatedly had appeared on the surface... well, magically. I'd better get used to this magic.
It's odd how magic, charms and complicated spells immediately spring to mind when I concentrate enough, yet my personal memories seems so locked up within.
"End of the corridor," he points out for me. Blinking back my vision I steadily walk up to the end where elevator doors await.
The Elevator takes a lot of wonky turns, and I'm finally deposited into Roger's private flat. I suspect it was geared by living machinery, a complex lock like mechanism that turns a physical combination of interlocking port keys to teleport me to a specific coordination within the vicinity.
Roger's flat is clean without a speck of dust, like the rest of the building I have seen. Grey walls, grey carpets, and a corridor of frames with abstract images. They're all the rage, these abstract paintings. Wizard artists now seldom paint portraits and real life like object that spring to life, plagiarizing the muggle art movement from over a century ago.
I leisurely inspect his apartment.
After some snooping about, I can hardly believe it's Roger's place. There isn't a single picture of Padma or my nephews. No doubt, it isn't entirely without sentimentality. Roger has adorned the place much to a narcissistic bachelor's flat like a muggle yuppie. Wide flat screen televisions, a minibar, a large deco art bed with silk sheets, gold tipped faucets and enough male cosmetics to paint a horse.
The closet is more promising, however, as I find a large cardboard trunk plastered shut. I pray briefly that something of mine is in there. The box is coated with a thin sheet of dust, marked "P. Patil". But opening the box, I am crestfallen.
Pictures.
Here Roger kept the family pictures, Padma, my nephews, a picture of a family trip, an embroidered sash with words from the Rigveda, a picture drawn by one of my nephews... they are all in the closet collecting dust.
The memories trickle forth, and at least I have achieved something of what I have come for. I can now place names on my nephews, remember playing with them, hugging them, smelling them. I can recall fights I had with Padma, I can remember my family, nana, mom and dad. And despite finding nothing of my own in the heap of discarded memories, I am still content that I have recovered some memories of my previous life.
But I am no dummy. It is painfully obvious why Roger kept these things, obviously intended to decorate his flat, in the closet as he surrounded himself with a lifestyle of a bachelor.
Poor Padma. My heart is sinking at the thought of my sister left home, wishing only the best for her handsome husband. Even memories of a parting at King's crossing comes to mind, where Padma viciously defended Roger from my snide remarks. Bastard.
Quietly I close the cardboard box.
"Reparo," I fix the broken seals. I need a wand, I grumble, as I look over the poorly resealed box, shoving it under Roger's clothes. I proceed to pick up fallen strands of Roger's hair and dandruff, collecting them into a little vial into my pocket.
Vials picked off the closet are usually troublesome, and while I don't have high hopes, I wander into the bedroom to look for other strands of hair. There are a couple under the bed which I carefully place into a separate vile, making sure that it's no form of animal hair.
Content, I quietly walk out.
What...
Did you expect I'd bump into Roger? Make a row? Demand that he fess up why he shoved the cardboard box under his closet?
There's enough drama in my world.