A/N: Yeah, I know it's been forever since I updated. And yeah, I'm sorry. And no, I'm not abandoning the story. I've just been caught up in a lot of drama at work and in my life, and it's taken my attention away from things. I'm back on track, now, and I'm already working on the next chapter. You can keep up with what's going on if you check my Livejournal (the homepage link on my profile page). I am also doing some other writing, now. I am a book reviewer, which is a lot of fun, for me. If you are interested in the books I'm reading, you can see my reviews and some other fun stuff at my website, which is: farenmaddox (dot) com. You guys should totally get involved! I would love some book recommendations for future reviews!
I would simply like to say "thank you" to everyone who's been reviewing this story. You've given me a lot of helpful comments, and I really hope you're going to like this chapter.
The Vomiting Routine
It is January, and we've already established our routine. We're four months into the quest for a cure for Teddy, which mostly consists of a monthly visit to the hospital. I've just firecalled Andromeda, and when she clears me to Floo into her sitting room, we begin Phase One of our routine. Phase One is the three of us taking the Floo to the Dwynwen and Potion, where we have secured a room for the night. Phase Two is sleeping there. Phase Three will be Apparating into Wrexham tomorrow morning and spending most of the day at the hospital. Phase Four is Apparating back to the pub in Holyhead, collecting our overnight things, and Flooing back to Andromeda and Teddy's house.
(I have my own, private Phase Five, by the way. I Floo back to my house and spend the evening drinking too much. Since Nguyen is so kind as to give me evening duty the day after these little trips, I feel I should take advantage of the opportunity. If you had to spend all day at that hospital, you'd do it, too.)
We arrive in Holyhead and spend the required couple of minutes exchanging jovial pleasantries with Brychan, the landlord of the inn, and trying not to stare at the impossible number of freckles crammed onto his skin. Andromeda and Teddy go into the pub for some dinner, but I take the overnight bag upstairs and begin my personal Phase One Point Five. That is to say, I walk over to the Harpies practice stadium to spend the evening with Ginny.
It's cold and miserable as I walk over. No surprise there, it's January in Wales. Still, even though the weather's awful, I'm just glad Christmas is over. Talk about awkward. There was this ridiculous level of expectation, literally palpable on the air in the Burrow, that I was going to propose to Ginny while she was there. I didn't. Thank Merlin for Ron, though, because he finally popped the question to Hermione and suddenly no one was paying attention to me and Ginny anymore. The wedding is going to be in April, so there's four more months I don't have to worry about it while Molly goes into paroxysms over planning their wedding.
There's a room just off the locker room in the Harpies stadium, built with a fireplace so they could have a Floo connection, and a sort of lounge has grown up around it. There's all sorts of comfy, squashy chairs, the fire is always lit, and they've started filling up a cabinet with drinks and snacks. On torturous days like this, the players tend to get the chill off in the shower, then come in here to sit around the fire and get warm all through.
I'm greeted with quite a few friendly slaps on the back and smiles when I come in. I know all the regular players and reserves on a first-name basis, now. There's always a bloke or two hanging round in here, visiting their girl, and they're getting used to me being one of them.
(You may be condemning me at this point for not staying the evening with Andromeda and Teddy, but I refuse to feel guilt over it. I take Teddy on all my days off work, now, so we spend a lot of time together already.)
Ginny is curled up on the rug in front of the fire, locked in conversation with her housemate, Gertrude Harcourt, who is sitting in a chair above her. Ginny looks amazing, laying on her side, her head propped up on an elbow, with tendrils of her hair—still wet from a shower—going everywhere. I'm coming in from behind Ginny. Gerty sees me, but I put my finger to my lips and creep forward. I'm good at creeping (as well I should be, after three and a half years of Auror work on top of my fairly abnormal school career), so Ginny doesn't know I'm there until I fling myself on top of her, shouting her name.
She answers with a shriek and an elbow in my face.
I really need to think these things through better.
Gerty is such a girl, and gets far too concerned with the blood I'm getting on the carpet, while Ginny is occupied with telling me off for scaring her. It's not until Gwenog walks in from her office to see about all the commotion that someone thinks to fix my broken nose.
"Thanks," I say to her, pinching my newly-healed nose to be sure the blood has stopped.
"Not a problem," she says, waving a hand to dismiss it, then turns to her two players with her right eyebrow raised high. "I'm surprised at you two. I thought you got paid to think on your feet."
"Well, technically, we get paid to think on our broom," Ginny points out with a smirk, which I try to stop by squeezing her arm.
"I've half a mind to send you back out for some more practice," Gwenog counters, that eyebrow going even higher.
Gerty is quick to point out that she got the blood off the carpet before it could stain. Ginny just says that I wouldn't know it was really her if she'd fixed me before she yelled at me.
"Right, babe?" she croons, linking her arm through mine.
We don't use pet names. Never have. If she's calling me babe, I assume she's warning me that the correct answer is "yes, my sweet sugar buns" or I'm in the doghouse. I guess Gwenog's serious about sending them back out into the nasty damp weather. She does run a pretty tight ship.
"Yeah, we're special like that," is what I settle for, leaning over to plant a kiss on Ginny's cheek. Gwenog harrumphs and moves on, and Ginny sinks back down to the floor to soak in the fire's warmth, lecturing me about sneak attacks. I catch Gwenog looking over her shoulder as she's moving on, though, and she winks at me. Clever lady.
"You're right," I sigh, stretching myself out beside her. "I should know better, because I know you where you got those reflexes."
She stiffens beside me. Oops. You ever get those moments where you know before you finish your sentence that you shouldn't have started it, but by then it's too late? This would be one of those.
Her sixth year at Hogwarts is a sore point that does not come up between us. Does. Not. And there I go, opening my big fat mouth. (Say what you like, doctor, but I bet there's things you don't talk about with your girlfriend, either.) Because, in retrospect, what I did to her was not the right thing. She didn't want or need me to "protect" her, and she just ended up getting hurt anyway. My feelings for her aside, it should have been a joint decision, and I took it all into my own hands. Knowing better now doesn't really help, which is why we don't talk about it.
I decide to go with the apologize and pretend it didn't happen route. "Sorry," I mutter, then I nuzzle my face against the back of her neck, feeling the cold sensation of her damp hair, and I inhale that wonderful blueberry smell (she knows I like it, so keeps some of her soap at the stadium). "So glad I get to see you. Tomorrow is going to be hell."
She rolls over to face me, and everyone ignores the physical display we're making. This room has become the one place for the Harpies to totally relax, and I've been given the honour of sharing it from time to time. Gerty moves away from us strikes up a conversation with one of the reserve chasers, a girl named Gretchen, who is tangling her fingers in the hand of a quiet guy that seems familiar. I know I've seen him before, and I think he might work with Hermione in the law offices at the DMLE. It's funny, the type of people who end up together.
"So . . . I got a letter from Luna," Ginny says.
So did I. Talk about the type of people who end up together.
"There's not a chance in hell she actually knows how to plan a wedding, is there?" I ask.
Ginny gives me a look that says I shouldn't have even bothered asking the question. "Don't worry, I've already called Hermione and Hannah. Hannah says we invite her out to lunch, and just sort of take over things. I think we'd better listen to Hannah, since she's the only real girl out of all of us."
"I just think it's weird," I sigh.
"What's weird?"
"Her and Scamander. We were there when they met, remember? It wasn't like sparks were flying or something."
"Things can develop naturally, you know," she says with amusement.
"After four months?" I say doubtfully.
"I don't see why not."
Maybe I should have seen this coming. Luna writes pretty often, and I try to see her every few weeks, because I know she doesn't have many friends and she would let The Quibbler completely consume her life if she didn't have a distracting presence. Only, the last four months, her letters and conversations have been full of Rolf Scamander. It's all Rolf says and Rolf thinks, and I always feel a little annoyed by how important his opinion seems to be to her. I was not all that impressed with Mr. Calm Wisdom when I met him.
But, in retrospect, I should have seen it coming. As it was, Luna announcing her impending marriage to Scamander—right on the heels of Ron and Hermione's announcement—was a complete surprise. Everyone is getting married. Neville and Hannah in just a few weeks, Ron and Hermione in the spring, and I don't think Luna mentioned a date for her wedding yet. Everyone except me and Ginny, of course. Fuck.
Ginny obviously is ready to talk about something else.
"Have you spoken to Teddy?" she asks me, and I feel a little clench in my gut. This is not a better topic of conversation. (No, doctor, I only want to avoid confrontation in public, I don't mind confrontation at all!)
"Yeah."
"He still doesn't want me to know?"
She tries not to let it show on her face, but I don't need to see the expression to know how she's feeling, not with as well as I know her. I run my palm along her jaw.
"I'm sorry. It's not that he thinks you'll hurt him, Ginny, I promise it's not that. He just doesn't know you that well. And after what's been happening since people found out he's going to the hospital . . . Just give it time, okay?"
Ginny pulls back from my hand, and says, "Okay," when it's obvious that she means anything but. She's not going to argue, not after I called her up last month to tell her that Teddy and Andromeda got accosted in the street by people who thought he was coming to the hospital for some kind of lycanthropy treatment. They got things thrown at them, and Andromeda ended up having to see a Healer because something knocked her on the head. I wasn't allowed to respond to the call for Aurors, but I wish I had been. Or maybe not, since I'd likely have been fired. The point is, Teddy has been even less happy about people knowing anything about him since that happened. (Not least of all because Andromeda hasn't taken him out of the house much in four weeks—she doesn't even want him at the Burrow unless she's there.)
"Let's go back to your place," I say, more to change the subject than from any real desire to leave. She and Gertrude are renting a small place together that's just down the road, a ten-minute walk from here. I find that amazingly convenient.
She sighs, and rolls over onto her back. "But it's so warm here."
"I'll cook dinner."
She grins, and bursts up from the ground to put her arms around my neck—but she's not the only one who gets startled by sudden moves like that. I jerk backward and end up hitting my head on a chair. Unlike the incident with my nose a few minutes ago, Ginny is very apologetic. She kisses the little bump with great ceremony, and drags me upright so we can walk to her house.
I catch her roommate's eye as we're walking out, and she nods. Gerty is a smart girl, she knows to stay out for a bit. There's a few other girls who live in town, and she can go hang out with one of them tonight. Normally, I'd feel bad about kicking a girl out of her own house for my sake, but I've been so busy that these trips for Teddy are the only time I get to spend in Holyhead. Ginny comes to London a few times a month, but we really don't see each other that often.
I should put in a transfer request, I suppose. But I'd go loony, being an Auror in such a small community, not to mention how far I'd be from Bug. London is better for me, and eventually Ginny will get onto the national team, and then she'll be able to live in the city with me. Maybe then, she and Teddy will be able to get closer to each other, although I sincerely hope he'll allow me to tell her the details of his illness before she gets drafted for England. That could be another year, yet.
Ginny and I go back to her house and do things that are better left out of any conversation that involves my five-year-old godson. Suffice it to say that I didn't want to think about anything for a while, and Ginny is good at distracting me. We're both tired, so I only get a few (slightly slurred) sentences into a tale from work before we both drift off to sleep, well before Gerty got brave enough to return.
I can't bring myself to like Doctor David Griffith. It might be because I had to drag myself out of my girlfriend's warm bed way too early in the morning just to be confronted with the dour expression on his pointy, be-spectacled face. It might be because I hate the way he slicks back his lifeless brown hair, and the way he peers at me through those thick glasses like he's expecting me, at any moment, to start screaming at him. But mostly, I think it's just the way he talks to Teddy, or rather, doesn't talk.
I can handle him ignoring me and addressing everything to Andromeda, because she's his grandmother and guardian. But I can't get over the way he doesn't take the time to tell Teddy what it is that he wants to do to the kid's body. He probably wonders why I spend so much time glaring at him without speaking to him, because he's just the kind of pompous twat who isn't able to figure it out—even when I redirect the conversation to the Bug while staring at the doctor.
It's not like Dr. Griffith is a bad guy, I reason with myself. He's just very focused on being a doctor, to the exclusion of all else. Like manners, and a personality. (I'm reasoning with myself because I'm trying not to punch him in his condescending mouth.)
You may have noticed that Phrase Three is my least favourite phase.
"Mr. Potter?" Griffith says suddenly, breaking off the explanation he was giving Andromeda of how today will proceed.
"Yes, doctor?"
"Just wondering if you're with us," he says, and I fight an even stronger urge to hit him.
"Yes," I grind out, and I feel Teddy squeezing my hand. I look down to see that he's giving me a worried look, and I force myself to smile at Dr. Griffith. Really, the kid is getting to know me way too well. He's started reading my moods, and right now I think he's worried I'm going to snap or something. I would like to, but I can't. This is Teddy's doctor, and the Bug's health is more important than anything else, to me.
"Okay," he smiles. "First things first, then. I want to get a blood sample before we have Teddy take anything, since we need the cleanest sample possible."
Teddy lets go of my hand, but only so he could wedge himself against my side and press his face against me. I put my arm around him, feeling helpless. Teddy hates needles. He hates them with a passion. But no one can argue that the hospital doesn't need the blood samples, so we all have to live with it. And the poor kid never even argues. He just turns into a silent wreck until it's over, which is infinitely worse. I could handle a temper tantrum. I can't handle having to just sit there. (No, doctor, I do not get my feelings of self-worth from taking action.)
Half an hour of paperwork and bureaucracy later (Andromeda handles that stuff, I just don't have the patience), Bug is sitting there with his arm out and his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for a nurse to shove a needle in his arm. Andromeda tells him to be brave, but he doesn't even open his eyes to acknowledge her. I want to be able to do something. The only thing I can think of to do is to step behind the stool he's perched on, and put my hands on his shoulders.
He suddenly leans back against me, and I feel him relax a little. I put my arms all the way around him, letting his head rest on my chest, but he still makes a horrible little whimper when the needle breaks his skin. The nurse gives him a very sympathetic smile, but that's when Dr. Griffith walks in and says heartily,
"He'll get used to it."
Merlin, I hate him.
I keep my arms around Bug while the nurse is bandaging his arm. Insurance, you understand.
"We're all wizards here, right?" I say in my most chipper voice. "Isn't there some kind of magical means for getting blood, one that doesn't hurt? I mean, what the hell is magic for if we can't do something useful with it, right?"
"Oh, there's work being done in that area," Griffith replies, just as cheerfully. "But the solution is a ways off, yet, and the staff at Wrexham is committed to using the most reliable and safest method, in everything we do."
I want to fucking kill him. So much.
Andromeda speaks up. "You will, of course, inform us as soon as an alternative method is proven to be safe?" Her eyes are glittering in that way that reminds me so much of her sister.
Even Griffith listens to Andromeda. "Of course," he agrees, slightly more subdued. Then he pulls a little bottle from his pocket, and brightens up again. "What do you suppose I have here?"
Merlin's beard. He won't talk to children, but he'll talk to us like we're children?
"A potion?" I drawl, rolling my eyes at Teddy to try to get him to smile again.
"This is a possible treatment for Teddy," he says, obviously relishing the way all three of us spring to attention. "There is still some refinement that I would like to work on, which is why I wanted to get a new blood sample today. But this may be the solution we've been looking for."
"What is it?" Andromeda asks doubtfully. I'm still inclined to be hopeful, but this reminds me that she's been quietly dealing with "possible treatments" since Teddy was two.
"It uses Wolfsbane at its base," Griffith answers, beaming at his own cleverness. "I won't go into the details of all the ingredients and how it's made" —since I don't have a fucking clue, I let my staff do all the work, I mentally add— "but there was a lot of hard work to make sure it could be ingested by someone who does not actually become a werewolf."
"Why is this only a possibility, and not a sure thing?" Andromeda asks warily.
"Because we need to have Teddy take it, and observe him for side effects. There are any number of things that our experiments may have missed, or failed to take into account. There's also the possibility that he possesses something in his constitution that will necessitate adding to or subtracting from the amount of Wolfsbane used. What we'd like to do, today, is simply have him take a very small dose, and observe him for a few hours to see how he reacts to it."
"Wouldn't it be better if he took it on the actual full moon?" I chip in.
"Yes, we are certainly moving in that direction, but we need to be sure it is safe for him before we make this a regular treatment." Griffith is giving me a look that clearly communicates his sympathy for my unfortunate state of stupidity. But this time, I'm too distracted by hoping that this treatment will work to notice his condescension.
So Teddy takes his Very Small Dose of The Possible Treatment, which I believe Dr. Griffith is equating with the Holy Grail, and we spend the rest of the afternoon in the hospital's playroom for their (nonexistent) child patients. I'm pretty sure Teddy is the only one who's used the playroom in years, and there's not a lot in there that's actually interesting to him. Luckily, I brought a book. It was a present for Teddy from Hermione, and it is the coolest thing she's ever done—well, apart from all that help she gave me finding the Horcruxes, and that bag she made when we went into hiding, and . . . You know what? Hermione's just really cool. Anyway, she found an original, runic version of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, and she translated it into kid-friendly language. Just for Teddy. (I may have mentioned in the past that Teddy is really, really cute and gets people to fall in love with him easily.)
Teddy complains of nausea about half an hour after he takes the potion, and he picks at the lunch the hospital provides without eating much of it. Dr. Griffith is walking around scribbling down notes and asking all sorts of questions. I know this is his job, and he wouldn't do it if he wasn't good at it and didn't like it, but it seems too much like he's enjoying Teddy's discomfort to me. (For that last time, doctor, I am not equating Teddy's problems with a person so I can have someone to blame!)
Feeling sick makes Bug quiet, so he winds up sitting in my lap, nearly asleep, while Andromeda reads to him. Mid-afternoon, he starts to feel better again, which makes Griffith ask some more questions and take some more notes. Teddy is starting to look overwhelmed and tired, and I'm tempted to snatch him out of the hospital and take him home, but I muster up some patience and wait it out. This is important. This is so Griffith can heal him.
Finally, Griffith is ready to let us go.
"We'll work this week on strengthening the amount of Wolfsbane, since I didn't notice a single change to Teddy's pupil dilation, and we should have a full dose ready for you to pick up Monday morning, Mrs. Tonks. The full moon is Tuesday, and since we have observed that his symptoms begin during the day, I would like him to take half the dose on Monday night, and the other half on Tuesday afternoon. We would like to see you here again on Wednesday to make a few observations. How does that sound to you?"
Andromeda agrees to the whole thing. I wish I could volunteer to come back on Monday morning to pick the medication up, but I'll be at work. I'll be going in on Wednesday afternoon, as well, so I won't even get to accompany them on Wednesday. At least I'll be there on Tuesday night. I'm always there on that night.
It is Wednesday, and I walk into work at noon to begin my shift. I'm going to be on plainclothes Diagon Alley patrol until seven o'clock tonight, which in my case necessitates drinking Polyjuice Potion because everyone knows what I look like. This is already a bad day, for me. It's made worse by the fact that Andromeda and Teddy are currently in Wrexham talking to Dr. Griffith, and I wish I was there with them to give the man my two Knuts about his "treatment." Or maybe I'd be giving him a couple of Galleons' worth.
Ron comes over to my desk, ready to greet me all cheerfully, but the look I give him makes him close his mouth and just stare at me.
"It was bad?" he asks after a minute.
Gee, what was his first clue?
"It was bad," I confirm. "You know how it made him a little nauseated last week? Turns out he's affected by the key ingredient, which they increased the strength of. He was puking until three o'clock in the morning. Not to mention crying. Nobody got to sleep until about five a.m. And since Andromeda and Teddy started out for the hospital at nine . . ."
Ron winces, and quickly retreats. The handy thing about having such old friends is that I can do this and we'll still be friends later. I put my head down on my desk and wait. Nguyen is sending somebody with whatever Polyjuice Potion I'm taking today, then I'll head out. And I'll probably just glare at people all day. Possibly chase a shoplifter, and possible be facing a charge of brutality afterward. (Is it sad that I was surprised you could charge Aurors with brutality? I didn't think the Ministry was quite that forward-thinking about its police force.)
No, nobody really likes patrol duty. Which is why everyone shares the weight of it, including boy heroes who usually get kowtowed to. After nearly four years working with these guys, they don't really give me anything special anymore. I'm usually really grateful for that. Today, I kind of want to pull in favours. Not that the Trout would give me any on his own, but I've been known to do lunch with the Minister.
Not. Thinking. Like. That.
A rookie, still wearing a scared expression from having to speak directly to the Trout, drops a bottle of sludge off at my desk. He stares at me, itching to open his mouth and gush about the fact that I'm Harry Potter. Something about my intense frown and the big circles under my eyes makes him go away, instead. I stare at the mud in the bottle, entertain one more thought about trying to get out of it, then grab the potion. If a five-year-old can drink gross stuff he doesn't want to drink, then so can I.
"Bottoms up," I sigh. I pocket the day's worth of Polyjuice and walk over to Lucas' desk, then we head out for duty.
Lucas and I each break up a duel in Knockturn Alley, Lucas handles a shoplifter at Madam Malkin's while I'm taking a quick meal break, and I do a lot of watching people go about their business. Since I look like no one they know, nobody stares at me or wants to talk to me (although I do get a few suspicious looks because I'm hanging out on the street looking shiftless), and I like this. I'm starting to think that I should take Polyjuice every time I leave the house. Until it's time for my next hourly dose, anyway, at which point I'm fighting my gag reflex and remembering why I don't.
I actually spend most of the day wondering if Dr. Griffith is now terrified of Andromeda Tonks, and if he's adjusted the potion. Because Bug could pretty much do target practice with that kind of projectile vomit. I refuse to spend the night next month watching my godson cry his way through dry heaves until dawn, or watching his grandmother exhaust herself taking care of him, for that matter.
"Hey, Harry," I hear Lucas saying sharply. The tone of his voice and the expression on his face are telling me that this is not the first time he's said my name. He's been trying to catch my attention.
"Yeah, sorry," I say, swiping a hand over my eyes. Man, I'm tired.
Lucas is frowning at me, which I don't really let get to me anymore. Lucas' normal facial expression is a frown, which I chalk up to the fact that he finished his Auror training around the time Sirius escaped from prison and his first years on the job were not exactly fun. They call an Auror's first real fight with a criminal his "blooding" and Lucas got his blooding from a Death Eater during the World Cup when I was fourteen. His dislike for Fudge and subsequent approval for Kingsley (and a lot of the reason I like Lucas) stems from his disgust that no one on his team was assigned to watch me during that fiasco. It was common sense, in his mind, which meant Fudge had none. (An opinion I happen to share, obviously.)
"Harry, you've been distracted all day."
I get the feeling I am being reprimanded, and I bite my tongue.
"Aurors don't have the luxury of being distracted while they're on duty," he says sharply.
True.
"This is not just disrespectful to me, it's dangerous to both of us."
Shit.
"I don't know what had your wand in a twist all day, but you'd better sort it out before you report in tomorrow night. I'm not going to be there, so your partner isn't going to cut you any slack like I did today."
I didn't even realize I was hanging my head in shame, but I snap it up and look around when his words sink in. It's twilight, and the shops are closing up. My patrol is over.
"I'm sorry, Lucas," I say softly, not meeting his eyes. I am such a jerk.
"Harry," he says in a less stern voice. "Everyone has a bad day once in a while. Even the Saviour." He smirks at that, because he doesn't think any more highly of my popularity than I do. "But you've chosen a job with a lot of responsibility. Any other job, you're allowed to have your bad day, and nothing will happen. But Aurors can get hurt that way. I'm not condemning you for it. I'm just letting you know what you've gotten yourself into."
"I can't wait for what the Trout will say about it," I mutter.
"I'm not reporting anything to Nguyen."
I finally do look at him, surprised.
"Not this time, anyway," he adds, and an actual smile appears for a moment on his stern face. "Listen, Harry, this is why Aurors work as partners. Today, I looked out for you. But I know you're not the kind of guy who wants that. You're the kind of guy who wants to be doing the looking out for. I just needed to know that you understand everything this entails."
I nod at him, and we head back to the office. We'll never need to have this conversation again, and Lucas knows it as well as I do. Say one thing for me: say I learn my lessons. I've got enough scars.
Speaking of scars, I sit down at my desk to watch my hand. I always wait until I can see that one before I'm sure that the Polyjuice has completely worn off. I make a few notes about the fight I broke up today. When I can just barely read "I will not tell lies" on the back of my hand, I can go home.
"Harry, you've got mail," Lucas says as he walks past my desk on his way out of the office. I hadn't noticed, but there it is on my desk. I pick up the two envelopes. One is from Andromeda, and I tear that one open. She promises that she was very stern with Dr. Griffith, and that he's promised to work on the potion before next month. She did tell him that the potion, ostensibly, works. Teddy did not itch, and he was able to keep the Metamorphmagy under control. If he can take it without the side effects, we may have ourselves a solution for Teddy's illness. It's good news, overall. I really do need to admit that. I'm just cranky over the reasons I didn't get much sleep.
The other is a note from Neville, inviting me out for a drink after work. I'm tired, but I'm pleased by that. I think I'm the only old classmate of his that he really talks to, apart from his fiancee. Kind of flattering that he stays in touch with me when he tends to hang out more with his coworkers at the nursery. And by Merlin, but I could use a drink or six. So I scribble off that I'll meet him in Hogsmeade (Leaky is closer, but who wants to have guy time in front of their fiancee?) at eight-thirty, and I go home to change clothes. I hate spending all day in robes, and I'll be buggered if I'll spend my evening in them.
Neville is already seated at the bar when I enter the Three Broomsticks, but I can't help the way I can scan the room before I join him. Constant Vigilance, after all. Which is why I notice something that Neville didn't, and I join him at the bar very quietly so I don't draw a certain person's attention to us.
"Did you know she was here?" I ask him, jerking my head toward her.
Neville spins around with a comical expression of surprise. "No."
"Think we should join her?"
Neville takes in the way she's frowning over the papers she's got spread over a table, a quill in her hand and her wand tucked behind her ear. "Yeah, she looks like she could use a break."
Thus decided, there's not point being quiet anymore. We get up from the bar and move to her table with a nice, loud greeting.
"Luna! What a coincidence!"
Our favourite blond looks up with a slightly confused expression. "Oh, hello, Harry. Hello, Neville. How nice to see you."
"What are you doing here, Luna?" Neville asks, while I'm craning my head to try to read all the notes spread out around her.
"Working," she says.
"This is for The Quibbler?" I ask, slightly awestruck at the sheer volume of stuff she's got in front of her.
"Yes. I've been interviewing some of the local businesspeople for an article I'm doing about how the Hogwarts students are thought of in the town."
Neville and I look at each other with slight shock.
"That's an awfully serious article," I blurt out.
"I suppose it is," she says in a dreamy voice. "If it's well received, I might do a second round of interviews so that I can write something about how the viewpoint changed because of the war."
This time, I'm too busy picking up my jaw to exchange looks with Neville. Granted, I don't really read The Quibbler, but that's because the last time I checked it was full of articles about Wrackspurts and goblin conspiracies.
"That sounds . . . Really interesting," Neville ventures.
"Yeah. What made you want to write it?" I ask, unable to help but wonder.
"Oh . . ." Her expression becomes lost, for a moment. I suppress the urge to give her a big hug and tell her things are going to be okay, despite how vulnerable she looks. Then she shrugs. "I'm really in charge of things, now, so I'm taking over the financial aspects of the magazine. Sales have been slow, and I took a look into our old sales records. They were highest when we were doing those articles about you, Harry, during the war. I know people still get upset about how political the Daily Prophet is, so I thought maybe we could start taking the magazine back towards how it was then. You know, a good news source that disagreed with the established media."
I'm trying not to have a heart attack.
"I am Ravenclaw," she says, sounding cross with us. Which is shocking, because I've never known Luna to be cross. "I'm perfectly intelligent enough to do it."
"We know that," Neville says, sounding scandalized.
"Yeah, who said you aren't?" I add.
I'm unprepared for her brief thunderous expression before she smoothes out her features into a smile. "No one. But I really do hope that this article does well. I know it would please Daddy."
The way she's talking about taking charge of the magazine makes me wonder if her father is getting too old to manage it.
"Well, I hope Ravenclaws know how to let loose and have a little fun," I say, and I slide out one of the vacant chairs at her table. Neville follows my lead, sinking down on her other side.
"Why?" she asks, sounding suspicious.
"Harry and I just came to have a drink or two" —or six, I add to myself— "and catch up on life. We were hoping you'd join us."
She perks up. "Really?"
"Of course. Very fortuitous, your being here," I say with an exaggerated amount of gravity. "So, what'll it be? First round's on me."
Luna tries to protest against the whole thing, but I bluster her into it. She admits that she doesn't know what she likes, so Neville orders some outrageously girly concoction that includes butterbeer and chocolate liqueur for her. She takes one sip of it, makes a face, and declares it to be horrible.
"Too sweet?" Neville asks.
She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose at it. "Too . . . Ugh. I don't like chocolate."
"Mead," I tell the confused bartender. "Get her a mead."
I, personally, am having a dark ale. She tasted that one and wrinkled up her nose at it just as much as at Neville's weird creation. I'm thinking she'll like the light taste of this one.
She does, and I give Neville a smug smile when she smacks her lips and says it's good. She gives me an almost stunning smile, and thanks me quite effusively for finding something she likes. Honestly, I didn't know it wasn't such a big deal, but I stammer out that it's not a problem.
"Almost thanks enough to see how much you like it," I grin when she takes a long, slow sip of her mead and then licks her lips.
"So, Harry," Neville speaks up after a minute. "Ron told me you needed this pretty bad. He wanted to come, but he's got to help Hermione with . . . something. Something weird and related to house elf ownership law. Anyway, what's up with you?"
To my surprise, I find myself spilling out the whole thing. All of it. Every detail of how insanely stressful the last four months of my life have been. How much I hate seeing the Bug in pain, how desperately I'm trying to insinuate myself into his life and be supportive, and even how grateful I am that Remus isn't here to know about this because the guilt of it would drive him straight over the edge. (And don't think I'm not experiencing my own guilt for being grateful for something like that.)
I know I'm talking too much, but I can't stop. It's not even the ale. It's just that I'm close to snapping, and I feel safe being here with two of my dearest friends in the world. I haven't told this stuff to Ron and Hermione, mostly because they already know and I don't need to. But something about spilling it all out like this is helpful. It's actually making me feel better just to say it all out loud. (Doctor, what do you mean you're here for a reason?)
Neville suddenly brings up the subject that's been taboo between us the last few months. Ginny. I don't think I even knew my reasons for what I'm doing, until Neville asks me to explain myself.
"I can't ask her when things are like this with Teddy. I can't ask her to be part of all this stress. This is what my life is right now, and asking somebody to share my life should be a happy thing, not a painful thing, you know?"
"I . . . I guess."
"And Teddy doesn't really know her, because she hasn't been around much since he was a toddler. And I would feel weird about proposing to her when she doesn't even know about what's going on with Teddy's health. I shouldn't have told the two of you. I'm going to have to go to him on my knees to ask him to forgive me for talking to you about this. But if this potion works out, maybe he won't mind anymore . . ."
Then they make me tell them about the persecution Teddy has been facing. I am on my third drink at this point, not to mention exhausted, and I find myself with my face in my hands trying not to scream or cry. Luna is patting my shoulder and Neville is making rumbling noises of comfort. This is pathetic. It really is. I don't know what's gotten into me. All I know is that it feels really good to just let it out. And even better to realize that these two are sitting here with me instead of trying to escape. Times like this really do make you remember who your friends are.
After a while, I get control over myself. A quick look around confirms that we are the only ones here, and that the bartender is ignoring the hell out of us.
"Thank you, guys," I say, and feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. Yeah, I'm the Boy Wonder, all right. Publicly embarrassing oneself is just what famous people do, right? "Thanks so much for listening to all that crap."
"We're here for you, Harry. You and Teddy. You can ask us for help anytime," Neville says seriously. "Right Luna?"
"Right," she agrees, then she giggles, which seems odd. Neville and I look at her. Her eyes are not entirely focused, and the hair pinned by her wand is really the only part of her hair still pulled back into the bun it started out in. She keeps running her hands through it, for some reason. I finally notice that it's a lot shorter than it used to be.
"You cut your hair," I say dumbly. It seems like a better thing to say than "Luna, are you drunk?"
"Yup," she confirms, smiling beatifically. "Rolf likes it." Then her face suddenly crumples, and she covers it with her hands.
"Luna, are you all right?"
"Yes," she mutters from behind her hands. "I just feel weird."
Neville and I share a look of deep concern. Neither of us really know what to do about this.
"Luna?" Neville finally asks. "How much mead did you have?"
"Waaaaay too much," she giggles, confirming what we already knew. "It was so good."
"You can look at us, you know."
"Can't," she corrects me seriously, but does not elaborate. "I hate my hair." To punctuate this, she runs her hands through it again, and flings it out away from her head. Some of it stays like that, and I quickly reach over to smooth it back down.
"Then why did you cut it?" Neville asks cautiously.
"Rolf wanted me to. I'm going to marry Rolf, you know."
"Yeah, you told us," I remind her.
"Harry," Neville hisses at me. "We can't let her go home like this. The shock would just about kill her dad."
I consider for a moment. "I'm not calling her fiancee, either."
Neville shakes his head. "No, she'd be so embarrassed."
"I'll take her home with me," I decide.
"You will?"
"I've got a couple of extra rooms. I'll let her sleep at my place and get cleaned up before she goes home."
Neville nods. "Okay. You, erm, you want help?"
He looks very alarmed by the prospect. I'm pretty alarmed by this whole thing, myself, but Luna's not exactly a giantess. I think I can handle her.
"I'm good." I stand up, and I place my hand on her shoulder. "Hey, Luna. Come on. It's time to go."
"No," she says. "I can't. I can't leave until I'm not stupid anymore."
"I'm going to take you to my house, okay?" I say, holding on to her. "You'll be okay at my house."
I look around at our table, and quickly use my wand to gather all of Luna's papers up. She must have put some kind of charm on them when we all sat down, because they're still very tidy despite the number of glasses dotted among them. Smart girl. Right, Ravenclaw, goes without saying. Then I decide that since the night's disaster is pretty much my fault, I'll just take care of the tab, so I use my wand to send some money over to the bartender, who is still ignoring the hell out of us and almost gets smacked in the head by the money.
"Thanks," I call out to him, then I hoist Luna to her feet and escort her outside. She leans very heavily on me, and I've got my arm around her so she can't fall. She is definitely not capable of staying upright on her own. Neville follows us outside, and tells me to leave before he leaves. "Goodnight," I say to him. "And thanks," I add, before I start my Disapparition turn (which very nearly makes Luna fall) and go home.
As I escort Luna into the house and up the stairs to the bedrooms, I'm cringing. I'm hoping the bartender is a nice guy. Because if he's not, tomorrow's newspaper is going to suck for all three of us. And Andromeda and Hermione will both be really angry with me. Not to mention the call I'm likely to get from Rolf Scamander about what I'm getting his fiancee into. And how mad Bug will be that I spilled all his secrets.
Luna moans miserably, and I tell my worries to bugger off. She's more important at the moment.
"Luna, I thought you were too smart to accidentally drink too much," I tease her.
"It wasn't an accident."
"What?"
Her face is focused on something that is not me, even when I try to turn her head my direction.
"It made me stop thinking, and that feels so nice."
"What were you thinking about?" I ask, feeling this is something that ought to concern me. Why would Luna want to get drunk?
"I can't bother you with that," she protests. I'm actually sort of impressed that she still has enough presence of mind to do so.
"Luna," I say, as seriously as I know how. Because I'm starting to realize that Luna never talks about anything unpleasant. She's never told me about a problem of hers, unless she insisted it wasn't a problem. I seem to recall her telling me, when we were in school, that the other students stole her stuff and then telling me not to worry about it. "Luna, I'm your friend. You've just as much right to tell me about your life as I have to tell you about mine. Because I feel the same way you do. If there's something that's hurting you, I would want to help, if I could. And if I couldn't, I'd still want you to tell me."
"But nobody likes me that much," she says in surprise.
A wave of sheer anger crashes over me. All right, when I was fifteen, I was very concerned about image at my school, and I didn't actually try to make Luna my best friend. But the idea that my distant friendship was the best she got is just pathetic. Now that we're older and I stopped giving a shit, we've become really good friends, or so I thought. She's one of the best people I know, and realizing that she doesn't know I think of her that highly . . .
"I do," I tell her roughly, pulling her into a hug. "You're a very good friend of mine, Luna. You need to tell me if you ever have a problem, okay?"
"I really can?" she asks dreamily, clinging to me because she is absolutely incapable of keeping her balance.
"Yes."
"I think Daddy is dying," she says, her head resting on my shoulder. "And I don't want to marry Rolf, but I have to marry him anyway. Both things are very upsetting. But I liked that mead a lot, because I kept drinking it and it all started to go away . . ."
While I am busy trying to process what she's telling me, she's beginning to breathe very heavily. This should worry me, but I'm too busy trying to wrap my mind around the fact that she wasn't going to tell anyone that her father is dying. Suddenly she groans, and slips out of my arms to sink down to her hands and knees.
"Why did you spell your house to spin like this?" she whimpers. Then she vomits on my shoes.
I still want to talk to her, but it's going to have to wait. I haul her upright to drag her into the bathroom, and steel myself for Night of Watching A Loved One Puke #2.