The Family Clock

by Jan. McNeville

Ever think of the Weasleys' clock? A wizarding watchmaker makes friends with our favorite twins in an answer to the Great Mary Sue Problem. Rating is upped one, just to be safe.

26. Some Coffee

Chapter Twenty-Six: Some Coffee

For the record, I was not lounging about in a leather brassiere, all surrounded by weapons when Mad-Eye Moody arrived with the order for me to sign, regardless of the stories which have been going around about that period in time. For some perplexing reason, any female politician with any competence whatsoever is presumed to be either a Victorian whose only interest in males extends to her husband and perhaps a dishy member of her Opposition, a nun, or a wanton Amazon who goes through men the way the Redfern girls go through butter-beer. Due to the apparent masculinity of my attire, an unfortunate tendency to leave my collars unbuttoned, and another questionable habit I was to develop just a short while later, history has a tendency to mark me down as the proverbial Amazon. Ian has also expressed his belief that my frequent use of a Beater bat lent credence to such a portrayal, which makes me wonder how Joan of Arc possibly pulled anything off, ever. Perhaps the bluntness of the weapon is to blame, or the fact that I have an unseemly genetic tendency to curse the air blue as I'm using it. I'm pretty certain my language has a little to do with it.

Of course, I'm really not much of an Amazon. Far too sensible, far too distracted and far too short. I also don't own a leather brassiere. The Redferns have offered to find me one for a Halloween costume for several years, but there's either too cold a weather forecast to make it practical or they can't find my size in the catalogue. I do have a rather nice collection of flannel pajamas, though.

Like I said, the reputation's pretty undeserved. Sorry to disappoint anyone.

It was about eleven-forty-five when the doorbell rang. I bolted awake, as I normally do at that sound, only to hear a familiar voice below. Ian, who was far better used to all-nights and early-mornings, had stayed up, whereas I had gone for a bit of a nap –two and three-quarter hours, in fact, with Charlie sleeping peacefully at my side.

Actually, we had spent the nap pleasantly snuggled up together, and there had been some vague discussion of…well, of not going downstairs directly after we did wake up, a prospect to which I was still partly fearing and partly looking forward.

And then that thrice-damned doorbell rang, waking me up and summoning me back to work. I swore creatively and Charlie stirred.

Best not to wake him up, I thought, and I pulled the covers over his bare shoulder after extricating myself –all too unwillingly, and went to get dressed.

I pulled on my trousers, as usual, and in a moment of mental abstraction, no doubt caused by the dilution of brainpower as I continued to curse creatively in my mind at having to get out of a nice warm bed, filled with a nice warm…anyway, I was rather put out at the situation –I assume I simply grabbed Charlie's shirt instead of my own and pulled it on. I raced down the stairs barefoot, and perhaps I was not as diligent in my buttoning as I could have been, though, to be fair, that's a tendency I have largely mitigated with a tendency to sleep in a camisole or at the very least a brassiere.

What? When one lives above a shop and is more or less constantly on call, there are shortcuts. Many of them go a long way toward preventing embarrassment, and some are even quite comfortable. Full-length pajamas, for instance, allow one a great deal of coverage, and in a pinch can be Transfigured into proper garments in two seconds.

Of course, this explained where all mine kept going, and why work-shirts with penguins and kittens on them kept turning up in the wash as the spells wore down.

Ian was already showing the grizzled old Auror in when I hit the bottom landing and skidded to a stop in my socks. Oh, soot. I don't know who I'd been expecting that I appeared in such a state of dishevelment, but Mad-Eye Moody was not a person before whom I would normally look scruffy.

"Madam Tickes."

"Auror Moody." We nodded to each other and shook hands as elected officials and commissioned officers did, though the effect was a little marred by my attire or lack thereof. I was suddenly very conscious of my braces dangling in back where I hadn't pulled them up, and I'm fairly sure nobody in the room save Ian had ever seen my hair in the state it was. "Won't you sit down?"

"That I will," he replied, finally taking his eyes off my –well, Charlie's shirt, and sliding a legal document over for me to look over and sign. "I've got the order for an increase in beat, just what you've asked for. They'll mostly be young cadets and beat-up old fellas, but that's what the Aurory's got to give."

I shudder, of course, to imagine what Mad-Eye Moody considers 'beat-up old fellas,' but I was not about to alienate such a valuable ally.

"Of course. I'm sure any cadet under your training will be more than adequate, and they say an Auror only loses his touch with his life."

"You know who said that?" Mad-Eye grinned.

"I do, indeed." I grinned back, hoping to the deities that I looked like my Great-Granny at that moment. It was probably the only thing that'd impress him enough to offset my appearance.

"Jetty Switch Tickes was an officer and a lady and a damn good fighter. I can remember being a raw recruit, five days 'til seventeen, and seeing her handle a scrap at the Embassy. Irish fella, thought he would plant a bomb for the IRA. She caught it up with her bare hand and clapped it into a post-box, then Transfigured it to boiler iron. Made a hell of a bang, but nobody got hurt. And then she grabbed the fella and gave him what-for. It wasn't until old Blackie came by and pointed out the poor bastard was a Muggle that she turned him loose –but it was alright, she'd not used a wand once on him. Just those hands and the words she knew. I knew merchant marines couldn't best her at cursing…in either sense of the word."

"I can only aspire to be like her."

"Oh, you're well on your way. That bit with the Beater's bat? Classic Jetty. She'd be proud of you, especially the line about learning to fight like a Mudblood. She stuck up for a pal of mine whose wife was Muggleborn. They'd denied him promotion, so she brevetted him on the field and then told the Chief of the Aurory to go bite a budgie's bum." Not much of a swear, I thought. "That was to his face, of course, in front of the Wizengamot."

Well!

"Wouldn't she have been court-martialed?"

"Oh, she was. On the spot. They found her guilty of insulting a superior officer and fined her five Knuts." I got the impression that was a pretty low fine for the offense. "And then they found the Chief guilty of incompetence, cowardice and treason. There were some other things he had bollocksed up, but offending your Great-Grandmother was likely the worst of it."

"Sounds like I have a long way to go," I observed, picking up the coffeepot and three cups. "Coffee?"

"Please!" I poured Moody a cup, then another for Ian and one for myself. Ian took his and went back to the front of the shop. The old Auror took a long sip, despite the heat of it and complete lack of cream or sugar. "Delicious."

"I never would have expected you to accept a cup of anything without testing it first, Professor Moody. What happened to constant vigilance?"

Grinning, Moody finished the coffee and turned the cup on its' side. I saw the same three little stripes at the edge that had always been there.

"These are Potion-Detecting cups. I have a set, myself." He really did look pleased with himself. "Also sent a set to your parents for their wedding. These, I think, though Jetty had them, too. Pity they don't make them in the stoneware anymore…china always feels so flimsy."

"I agree. Always feels like I'll crush it in my hand."

"Oh, avoid that! China shards hurt!" Moody showed me a dramatic scar on his palm. We laughed for a moment, and I realized how very strange it was, to be speaking with someone who had known my mother and Great-Granny, as if I were a grown-up, too. "And you have hands that could do it, dear!"

"A fact of which I am all too well aware," I replied. "May I ask a question, sir?" I signed the last of the papers and Moody gave me a serious, but not unfriendly look.

"Ask away."

"What would you suggest I do, given the mess with the Death Eaters?"

Moody sighed, shook his head and smiled.

"Not much else you can do, save to keep on with the good work, never show fear, constant vigilance," he winked, which made his magical eye look twice as huge, "and don't ever think for a moment that you're alone. You're not." That was a scary thought, and I shuddered as I glanced at my own, hopefully-secure four walls. But that wasn't what Moody meant. "Take your brother, for instance. Good, strapping lad, loyal as a Crup, and smarter than most'd give him credit for. And the Weasley twins –not a serious bone 'twixt the two of 'em, but they're good wizards and good young men. The little Weasley girl is rather young, but I've heard good things about her courage, and those Redfern triplets are some of the most competent young people I've seen in a generation. And the second-oldest Weasley boy…" he trailed off for a second, thoughtfully. "I take it there's a bit more than friendship there?"

'How would he know?' I thought, before realizing we had been seen occasionally walking together, that I had kissed him in public twice, and that all of Diagon likely knew.

"I…I have some very strong feelings about him, but there's nothing too serious," I confessed.

"Meaning you're scared witless of a relationship, in no way sure of the future, and essentially, as stubborn and daft as your mother," Moody said evenly, pouring himself a second cup. I gasped, a little offended. "Oh, don't get huffy with me, Jamesina, you should know how your mother tried to hold your father off marrying. Changing the subject, going on missions with mad old Jetty, generally being a daft old bachelor about the whole thing, wouldn't let Jim Tickes get a word in edgewise. He finally had to…well, it took a lot, and even after that, she wouldn't agree to anything more than a trial run. A year and a day, some preposterous Irish notion, and even then, she was on a broomstick and about to leave him at the altar when Jetty and I finally dragged her down. I crippled her broom and Jetty took her aside for a long ladies' talking-to, and when Siobhan came out, she'd had a bit of a cry, but apparently old Jetty wore her down in some way or another. Forbade me to speak of it, but considering how much time has passed and how likely you are to make the same bloody mistake, I figure you should be aware of where that can lead."

I was speechless. Moody poured me some more coffee and I drank it, grateful for a distraction.

"But she did marry him in the end, once the Troubles calmed down?"

"At all but wandpoint! And they were devastatingly happy afterward. There must have been some objection, something Jetty finally had to tell her didn't make a damn bit of difference. I did overhear that much. And then your brother came along, and eventually you."

"So what was the big mistake?"

Moody leveled a very serious gaze at me.

"Do you know what the Cruciatus Curse can do to a woman?"

"No."

"All those missions, all those curses…it's a miracle you and your brother exist at all. Now, you might not have that difficulty –you're not an Auror, though you will be cursed, repeatedly and painfully, before this war is over, and I'll call a spade a spade, Weasleys have more children than Tickeses."

I must have been a particularly fascinating shade of scarlet, because old Moody laughed. "Now I'm not saying elope this very evening, but if you have a chance to be happy, for Merlin's sake, Jamesina, take it. Hold it like a broom in a hurricane, and don't let the damned war or anyone else tell you what to do. You're the Chair of Diagon, and you carry a greater responsibility than the past four of them. You're twenty years old and there are people who literally depend on you to keep their courage up and their shops open. Aside from Potter himself and that pillock Scrimgeour, I can list on one hand the people with a weight on their shoulders like you have." Moody glanced at his finger-short hand and smiled ruefully. "Well, on one of your hands. But that's no excuse to go without joy, or to make up silly excuses like protection. If you care for someone, the other side will know, regardless of what you do. Charles was a target the day he was born. We all are."

Old Moody sighed, and I got the impression he was saying something difficult. "I don't expect to see the end of this war myself. But some of us will, and it is far better to be a war widow with two months of memories than a shabby old bachelor." He drew a chain from around his neck and toyed with the two little gold circles that hung on it. "Take it from me, dearie. Seek your happiness, and if you find that Snitch, never let it go."

He abruptly got up and checked the door, taking the signed paperwork and glancing around my back garden before thumping me soundly on the shoulder. "There. I told Jetty I'd tell you what she told me if she wasn't around today. Constant vigilance, Jamesina!"

The door banged as he left, and Ian appeared from the front of the shop.

"…Did…did that just happen?"

"I think it did," I gasped. "Did you know he was married once?"

"I can scarcely imagine it," Ian ran a hand through his almost-black hair. "but it does make sense. Were those rings he had on the chain?"

"How much could you see in there?"

"I used the reflection on the floor-standing grandfather." As children, Ian and I had often gaily spied around corners by observing reflections in clock crystals. I smiled, glad to know someone else had heard the old Auror's blunt advice. "Maybe he's right?"

"Maybe."

"Does that affect your plans for this evening's rail journey?" Ian asked. I resisted the temptation to threaten him with a leather punch.

"Not really…though it's very strange to be old enough to be given advice like that."

"Grownups always give kids advice."

"Not on this subject!" I cried, even as Ian let out a snort. "At least, I certainly hope not."

"In other news, it's very obvious you're dating him."

"Well, to you!"

"Actually, I'm not surprised Moody knew. Mrs, Weasley monogrammed that shirt on the inside of the collar, and you have it outwards-in." I was beginning to fear the risk of permanent blushing when Ian continued. "I presume your training in the precautionary arts was appropriately employed?"

I set down the coffeepot with such violence that the lid rattled.

"There has, up until this very moment, been no action deemed necessary for the employment of said precautionary arts!"

"There hasn't?" Ian looked puzzled. "But…"

"Some daft pillock let the doorbell ring, perhaps not realizing I would get up to answer it, but nonetheless, doorbell."

"Oh, damn. How do I turn it off?"

"You don't; it's far too much trouble to turn back on."

"Understandable. But that doesn't explain your attire."

"Does the fact that I've had two and three-quarter hours of sleep total explain that some?"

"But you did sleep with him."

"Geographically, yes, there was a 'with' involved. In a local, proximity-related sense."

"Oh." Ian looked a little surprised and I glared a bit over my red cheeks. "I take it there were intentions to engage in more interesting activity?"

"After a nap, yes. But the doorbell rang." Ian sighed.

"…Jess…I'm capable of answering the door, explaining that Madam Tickes is unavailable at the moment, and taking down messages. I came here to work for you, make your life a bit easier!"

"I know. It'll just take me a while to get used to," I conceded. "But do you see Mad-Eye Moody being content with a call-you-back? For all I know, he'd point that eye right up and check on just exactly what you meant by unavailable."

"You have a point. I'm sorry, Sis."

"Well, there's always more time in a clock shop." It's something I say a lot. Ian nodded and topped off his coffee cup.

"You look disappointed."

"Ehh…I kind of am. I mean, when you want to do something, and then you're too tired to do it, and then, just when you might wake up and do it, something else needs done…it's annoying. Especially something you haven't gotten to try before."

Ian looked very startled at that, and took a sip of coffee.

"Meaning what I think you mean?"

"And?" I asked pointedly.

"You're twenty years old. What else has been going on?"

"I tell you what. You agree not to ask that question, and I'll give you the pay rise I can easily afford due to my prosperous past quarters. That's what's been going on."

"But…after all this time."

"I've been seeing him for a couple of months, Ian. And none too frequently. Our longest date so far consisted of my falling asleep against his shoulder on the Tube after a movie. He decided I needed the sleep, pulled his coat over me and stayed on the train. We got home six hours later, having been thrown out by a Muggle policeman who thought we were homeless. Charlie managed to convince him we were lost American college students, which got us directions home and a lecture on the Battle of Britain."

"How fascinating," Ian replied, in a tone that implied just the opposite, though it was not unkind. "I take it that for the past few weeks, the, shall we say, alternative skills found in the clandestine collections of literature were therefore exercised?"

"Ian! No!" If blushing could stick, it would have. "And how did you know about those?"

"I was in Ravenclaw too, sister dear. There are dual archives maintained for that purpose. I daresay the collection contributed to and enjoyed by males is far better developed in terms of sheer number and variety of illustrations, whereas the female side is said to be one of the most exhaustive bodies of literature involving pirates, knights, sheiks and, curiously enough, dragon tamers this side of France."

"You are a horrible person."

"Yes. But one with a tremendous body of theoretical knowledge. I recall one book, carelessly left out by a female prefect, which described in exhaustive detail the adventures of what must have been the most singularly incompetent pirate since that Muggle fellow with the crocodile and the pixy infestation. The one in the book still had both hands, and yet he never captured a ship without being busy for the next seven chapters with the plucky female stowaway."

"I myself am constantly puzzled that ships of the line got anything whatsoever done, the vast majority of sailcloth having been appropriated for bosom concealment by the plague of plucky female stowaways. And impressment makes no sense, why not just give the stowaways jobs? From the book, you'd think there were at least six per boat."

"So you have read them?"

"I was fourteen once."

"Did you read the one about the dragon tamer? One of our Beaters found it in his girlfriend's bag once and was almost killed laughing about it during practice."

"No, I thought the pirate ones were so damned silly…"

"The dragon tamer one was supposed to be one of the filthiest. I'm surprised you don't know it." (I did. It was. But I would never admit that, especially not to Ian –though I suppose we are somewhat more open about some things than many other siblings of our ages and genders.) "Don't feel bad, Jess. You'll get there pretty soon…and you haven't been missing too much. You're only three years older than I was, and you're a girl. Serious difference."

"I just worry that the constant distractions…well…I mean…"

"The distractions are the only thing stopping him. Unless he's an idiot." Ian topped off my coffee and plunked in a sugar cube, which made it taste much better. He does know me awfully well. "I even agreed to dispense with the 'hurt-her, die-painfully' brother speech. And I had such a good one, too. It had cheese graters."

"I'm sure an occasion will arise where you can make use of it. Perhaps our little brothers will take up with evil older temptresses and you'll have to teach me the rudiments."

"They're not even talking in sentences yet."

"For now. Didn't I grow up? Family tendency."

"Point," Ian conceded. "By the way, I made sticky buns for breakfast, and I've already eaten the burnt one."

"Only one? You're improving, then!"

"Well, yes. I probably would have starved in my flat had I not learned something about cooking."

"So, what can you make now?" I asked, grinning. Ian smiled back and counted.

"Sticky buns, sticky buns with ice cream, sticky buns with honey, scrambled eggs, and scrambled eggs with sticky buns on the side."

"What about dinner?"

"Oh, girls never come over for dinner."

"They're sure there for breakfast, though?"

"No…it's more a question of after going to a fancy place with more candlelight than food, I'm ravenous the next day. I don't actually have much in the way of guests for an overnight. The ones that want to are usually only interested in me for the jersey I wear, and the ones I want to, I hardly ever have the nerve to ask, for fear they'll assume I'm used to getting whatever I want in that area of human activity –the jersey again, and won't understand that when I say coffee and sticky buns, I mean coffee and sticky buns."

"Maybe if you'd offer them scrambled eggs. 'Sticky buns' could be misinterpreted."

"That's even worse. I came back from the loo and…well, that chandelier will never know innocence again."

I had just finished punching my brother for sending coffee up my nose when Sam Redfern appeared with a basket of ripe peaches.

"Coffee and sticky buns, you said? I brought some peaches to go with. Hey, Jessie!"

"Hi, Sam. I…" I realized Ian had just swallowed a good third of a sticky bun whole. "I'm going to go get changed."

It is distinctly impossible to giggle when you've just had coffee up your nose, a fact that doubtless spared Ian some measure of embarrassment. By the time I was halfway up the stairs, he had pulled out her chair and was going to see if we had orange juice. Poor fellow.

Back in my room, I found Charlie, clothed in all but his shirt and vest, looking for the shirt that was presently outside-in on me.

"Found your shirt," I joked. He turned, looked at me, and smiled broadly.

"It looks good on you."

"Well, I did find a new way of wearing it." I took it off, shook it gently as if to remove wrinkles, and was about to hand it over when Charlie caught me by the wrists and…well, he can be very distracting, I'm sure I've mentioned that.

Also, I find that snogging is nice, with or without shirts on.

After a few very enjoyable moments of questionable behavior, in which my behavior was somewhat less than ladylike –okay, a little part of me was hoping we could catch up to where we'd been just before our nap, Charlie managed to ask what was going on downstairs. I delivered the news, not really caring what it meant. "Sam Redfern's downstairs, eating breakfast my brother somehow cooked. And Mad-Eye Moody stopped by with the requisition paperwork. Gave me some weird advice."

"As he does. Anything I'd find useful?"

"Er…not particularly. In other news, it seems the coffee cups downstairs are potion-detecting."

"Oh, yes. Those were very popular a few years ago. Mum has a few cups like that."

"Also, there's breakfast."

"Yes, you said Ian cooked it."

"I'm not sure you can louse up sticky buns."

"Bill certainly has, in the past." Charlie brought his kiss-punctuated inspection of my neck to a close. "What you're actually saying is that there are people downstairs who will notice if we take longer than average to come down."

"Eh…" I grinned and Charlie stopped his ministrations for a moment. "Didn't say I gave a damn."

"Still, I don't intend to compromise your honor. Sticky buns?"

"It's Sam and Ian. They'll make a few choice cracks, I'll blush furiously, and life will go on."

"Well, yes. But if we do much more, we'll be up here all day…and neither of us has eaten since dinner."

"True," I conceded to his logic. "Pity."

"You don't set out to build a movement in twenty minutes," Charlie explained, perhaps not realizing that I can, actually, assemble a standard-parts one in about that time. "Or to design a clock. There's an expression, 'too nice a job to rush,' and another is 'anything worth doing is worth doing well.'"

"And you intend to…" Again with the blushing. "Oh. Okay. Good." He placed a gentle kiss on my nose.

"You can be very cute when you're being scandalized."

"I'm not scandalized! I mean, I certainly don't think we shouldn't, if that's what you mean, or that there's something wrong with…why am I blushing now?"

"It's adorable, and it doesn't last forever." He gave me an arch smile. "Perhaps just until tonight."

That made my heart race, I can't deny it. A definite schedule. Interesting.

"So the cure is experience?" I managed to ask. For some even more fascinating reason, that made him blush, too. "You're confounding my research now."

"You made mention of sticky buns?"

It must be said that getting dressed is rather easier with two people. Charlie had missed a brace, which I handed him, and I couldn't find one of my shoes, but he passed it to me. I recall thinking how nice it would be to get dressed that way always…though at times I did get very distracted. Stupid shoelaces, did you know you can tie the wrong pair together?

And then another thought, the one that had been edging near my mind since Moody's impromptu lecture, occurred to me. I had never considered it possible that I'd find someone with whom to spend my life. I had intended to live as Jamesina Worthing Tickes, grow my business, do good for my community and die when death came for me, not puling and grieving and living like a ghost, as my father did, not aging slowly until the spring ran down like my Granddad, but on my own two feet. Clap the baby into the fireproof safe and head after them as the building explodes into flame, with an arm on fire. Kill until the words won't come and the wand won't move. Kill until only one was left, and then try to kill again. Maybe fail. Maybe succeed only in hurting the greatest evil to stalk our world. Maybe die like my great-grandmother.

Or maybe it would be quicker than that. Maybe I would stand, and duck to avoid a curse to the midsection, taking it in the head even as I blocked the spell, protecting not only the first girl child, but the second son, second daughter, or whatever my never-born sibling would have been. Maybe, made weak by my affections and attachments, I would die like my mother had.

The question, of course, is which one died happier.

Great-Gran had just seen her protégé, her granddaughter-in-law, her friend, murdered in front of her. There wasn't even time before the second bomb went off to guarantee my safety, she had to just take the best chance and run through the flames herself. This, after losing a husband, a daughter-in-law, her whole family save Great-Uncle Emeric, and how many dozens of friends and colleagues? In almost a hundred years, she got to know death so well, I wouldn't be surprised if she took it out for tea and scones afterward.

My mother, though? She wasn't even quite thirty-five. She had no guarantee, other than Great-Gran, that I would live, that they weren't killing my father and Ian in Hogsmeade at that moment.

But then again, she did have Ian, until he was a bright child able to read and write and speak and say 'Mummy, I love you.' And she had me, for however short a time.

For the first time, I realized that Great-Gran had once been a mother, too. We always spoke of her as an institution, the way some folks speak of Dumbledore or of Merlin, a force of nature more than a fallible human soul. And yet, Granddad was a little child once. He was once a fifteen-year-old boy, dropping out of Hogwarts because his elder brother was killed and his old father too insane to protect the shop…and his mother too bold to stay home at nights.

I thought of Granddad the way Uncle Gard had once described him, younger than I, running the shop essentially alone, waiting for his mother to come home, not from buying groceries (though that was said to be the excuse she always used,) but from hunting and killing the agents of Grindelwald. He would patch her up when she came back, and thank heavens, she always did, and he would give the excuse to customers that she'd been home with the flu all week. And then he would tell his slowly-failing father that his Mum'd been at the Quidditch practice again, all bruised up from three-Bludger Quaffle-tag.

Could I do that to my son? Would I ever have the courage even to have one? That was a loaded question. Could I risk doing to Charlie what had been done to my father?

Or would Charlie bear up more like Uncle Gard, stepping in to help raise a bitty girl and a boy just old enough to know the answer to 'where did my Mummy go?' without asking? Taking care of his mad brother, whose own urges to do himself in were so strong they had to put him under the Body-Bind and worse? Finding a friend to help bring his brother out of it, only to see the idiot marry her and produce twins without ever being the person they used to know again?

And then, as I headed down the stairs, I realized all this supposition was kind of a moot point, and that I wouldn't have to worry for some time.

After all, Charlie hadn't asked me anything even close to the question that would provoke an actual decision. This might just be a mildly serious relationship, in which the couple discusses and eventually engages in some serious intimacy, but one which, after a respectable interval is allowed to fizzle out gracefully. Uncle Gard had those, I strongly suspected, but due to his own lack of nerve about admitting to whom they were with, he kept them secret. Of course, I had grave doubts as to whether any son of Molly Weasley would engage in that sort of thing, but there again, this was a modern age, and I could at least hope for a loosening of moral standards sufficient to give myself wiggle room.

Oh, soot. This was a man who wouldn't engage in prolonged snogging with people who'd notice downstairs, lest my reputation suffer. And we were about to travel to Switzerland by rail that evening, in 'just the one stateroom,' as agreed…

Oh, dear.

By the standard of respectability I had come to expect from Charlie, a…very interesting question seemed just about imminent.

It was at that moment of realization that I tripped and almost fell down the stairs. Charlie caught me, of course, and I blushed severely enough to disguise the fact that my train of thought up until that second had been the express to the village of Blushing, population me.

"Good lord, Jessie. Your gracefulness ends at the elbows sometimes."

"Lovely to see you, too, Sam," I replied, trying to smirk. "I see my brother's cooking has yet to claim another victim?"

"Oi!" Ian cried. "I haven't killed anyone!"

"What about our old governess, Mrs. Teaberry?" I asked mischievously. Ian went theatrically white.

"That wasn't my fault."

"She thought you wanted to play tea party with your little sister, and that you had made biscuits."

"And so I had," Ian replied indignantly, before mumbling, "Not my bloody fault Uncle Gard broke the capsaicin jar and put it in with the cinnamon."

"But, of course," I explained to Sam, "you must understand that Mrs. Teaberry was unbelievably ancient."

"Yes. Older than Merlin's mum," Ian agreed. "And considering the poor old bird's habits, you really couldn't blame us for what happened."

"That's true," I nodded mildly, sitting down and accepting a glass of milk. "After what we caught her doing with your toy broom."

"And the incident with Uncle Gard's undergarment drawer. Wherever did she get all those clams? And in August, yet!"

"I forget, were you around when we caught her with the tinned herring, the Muggle vicar, and the toilet plunger? I thought Granddad was going to keel over."

"Of course I remember that! It was a week after the motorcycle gang from Birmingham, but before the order of Swedish nuns."

Just as Charlie and Samantha began to realize Ian and I were perhaps less than serious, we finally broke into peals of laughter.

I should explain. Ian and I have only ever had two babysitters of any kind, dear Mr. and Mrs. Fortescue, and even they only looked after us when both Granddad and Uncle Gard were literally out of the country. Usually, our guardians just sort of traded off during the heavy travel season, much as we pleaded to go see the Fortescues, and of course, we eventually became old enough to come along on certain business trips.

But, being the sort of mischievous British children whose guardians despair of ever finding appropriate nannies for, however; the year I turned six we made a practice of being very quiet whenever one relative came home and left us with the other. Unusual silence in children is invariably considered to have horrible implications, and after many minutes of prying, one of us would dutifully let slip some tiny detail about the late Mrs. Teaberry, presumably a nanny the other relative had engaged while the first was away on business.

And then, with carefully-practiced straight faces and occasional accusations of the other child having told when they promised not to tell, the most awful, sordid, upsetting tale we could improvise tumbled out.

After we had sentenced the imaginary Mrs. Teaberry to a fearsome and highly moral-laden death involving lepers (which I mispronounced as leopards,) a hot kettle, and a squid, Uncle Gard caught on and insisted on being in on the joke next time. We were exhorted not to kill Mrs. Teaberry, but instead to look very worried as to when Granddad might leave again, lest she be engaged so soon after her discharge from hospital.

It then took our grandfather some three months after his return to figure out that not only A. Uncle Gard did not engage nannies, B., that there was, and would mercifully never be, a Mrs. Teaberry, and C. that we were perhaps the worst children in Blighty and that Father Christmas could be reasonably expected to beat us raw.

Of course, this had the pleasant effect for Uncle Gard that we didn't get into so much as one spot of trouble the whole time Granddad was away. Anything horrible it occurred to the two of us to do, we simply discussed in detail and carefully wrote down, so that it might be a good adventure for Mrs. Teaberry.

Granddad having been gone for some three solid months, we wound up with a surplus of comedic material, which we had been gaily employing on teachers, the milkman and horrified school friends ever since.

To their credit, Charlie and Samantha weren't horrified, though Charlie expressed a sudden understanding of my friendship with his twin brothers, and Sam began describing a miraculous idea she had for the two of us, which involved poker. That old prank does hinge fairly critically on two points, specifically the fact that Ian and I can be perfect tombstones of non-expression when we so choose, and the fact that most brothers and sisters don't get on nearly so well, which prevents people's expecting it.

And thus passed a fine breakfast. One of the sticky buns had a center so underdone it tasted like cold, batter-y chewing gum, but I felt no need to embarrass Ian in front of Sam. Bachelor cooking is universally horrible, so any achievement which didn't send people immediately hurtling headlong toward the worship of porcelain idols is, I think, to be encouraged.

And Charlie almost killed us all with laughter, recounting a particularly weird tale involving Romanian peasant children, a ready-to-hatch dragon's egg and a Muggle sport called football. It was one of those stories that would be horrible if you were actually there, and I did feel a little bit bad for the poor, memory-charmed children, especially the one whose foot got blistered, but I had to concede that the reaction of their parents was something in the line of hilarious. And if the little gits had just listened to the researchers, it wouldn't have happened.

Sam also told a story about some of the Muggle girls who had picked on her and her sisters when they were younger over their summer hols in America. Being Metamorphmagi, however, by the next summer the triplets had a secret weapon at their disposal. They promptly altered their appearances and blended into the evil clique of girls who had bothered them, destabilized the leader, and then, one by one, reappeared as they had looked before. When the evil leader tried to pick on one in their normal appearance, that one would respond with a burst of confidence and a retort so witty, the other two, still embedded, would crack up laughing.

I had suffered a little from teasing as a kid, but clearly nothing close to what the trips did, and even having heard the story before, I couldn't help howling with laughter. Ian, who had taken a long time to grow into his looks before demonstrating his Quidditch talent, was looking at Sam like she was some kind of muddle-accented Bodhisattva, and Charlie was as cracked up as I was.

"And, in the end," Sam reminisced coolly, "the evil girl's power was broken, her clique controlled by the three of us, and after a week of living the way she had treated us, she got her father's rifle and killed herself."

Nobody reacted for a second, apart from some jaw-drops of such suddenness as could pop your ears. Sam took a sip of coffee and another bite of her sticky bun. Ian finally closed his mouth and gulped.

"Really?"

"No. Could've done, but no." Ian and Charlie breathed again. This was, of course, the way Sam had ended the story when she told the Gryffindor prefect to stop letting Mel be bullied, but she'd also told me the real version. "Mum gathered us around, explained that while revenge was all well and good, rehabilitation would be better for the ten-year-old girl community. Then, when I objected to letting up, Mum pointed out that all things considered, we hadn't nearly been as bad off the previous summer as this girl was now. We had always and would always have each other –this girl was an only child. Our parents loved us and were always to be found –this girl's parents were in film work, I think as a makeup artist and a cameraman. For all the airs she gave about her Hollywood parents, she hardly ever saw either of them and had, in fact, largely been brought up by a housekeeper."

"Didn't she know who your mother was?" I asked. I knew, but felt the story needed it.

"Oh, no. We kept it a secret to Muggle kids, and only told wizarding kids we liked. Professor McGonagall was surprised to find out when we went in for post-O.W.L. counseling."

"…Why?" Ian asked. Charlie looked just as puzzled, but I gave him a significant glance. Sam is perhaps the cagiest Redfern sister, and sooner or later, the incidentally strange facts about her family have a tendency to lead to nasty breakups. Clearly, she was attempting to be a bit more front-loaded with the information –good news for Ian, but only if he took it well. I knew he would, but she didn't.

"Well, you go in with it being common knowledge who your mother is, people never look at you for you –or at least, when they do, it's a mess harder for them to consider you as anything but your mum's daughter."

"…Everyone knows who Jess and I am," Ian replied. "What's so strange about-"

"Their mum is a movie star," I explained, even as Sam objected with "Actress!" the way she always has. Ian, to his credit, did not spit coffee, perhaps because I had, y'know, told him some time ago and warned him that Sam was kind of guarded about such things. In a moment of understanding, Charlie suddenly found something engrossing to do in the kitchen, and I joined him a moment later with some stray cups. Why everyone always forgets that the kitchen is only separated from the table by half a wall, thus allowing perfect view and hearing, I'll never know.

"Huh. Cool. Makes sense, really."

"Explain," Sam looked at him very suspiciously.

"Well, you're Metamorphmagi, right? They say the power runs in families, and in a Muggle, the ability to act well would probably imply a bit of talent in that area. And considering your mother's American, only an actress with significant success on the boards would be doing well enough to finance dual residences and keep up the secret of her wizard husband and witch daughters. That implies either Broadway or film, and film, I'm told, pays better. So talented, successful film actress…that just about spells out 'movie star,' now, doesn't it?"

"How'd you know my mother's American?" Sam asked, in a more perfect London accent than I'd heard her do in years.

"Jessie mentioned once that three of her friends were half-American, and considering she's only friends with the one set of triplets and that Americans are somewhat rare here, this being Great Britain…that, and you have an adorably mixed accent." Sam was about to grumble something especially unladylike under her breath, but Ian continued "'Specially when you curse."

"So what if I do? And what if she is?"

"Why would it be a bad thing? I think your accent's cute, and having a film star for a mother is no stranger than a clockmaker, an Auror or, you know, no mother at all." Sam went a little red, realizing what Ian meant.

"I suppose I don't know how well I have it, then," she replied softly, looking a bit embarrassed.

"Eh, you can probably guess at it. Why anyone would ever be ashamed of their parents for having a strange job, I'll never know. Though I expect it'd be rough, having a mum you're very proud of and no way to say so without people thinking it was a nasty brag." Ian patted her hand gently and Sam smiled –not her usual snarky smirk, either, but a genuine smile.

"Or having them think you were still sad over something happened years ago, mother or not, instead of just plain proud-of-your-mum."

"Yeah."

"And don't get me wrong, we are proud of her," Sam remarked, sighing a little. "She just finished a truly awful-sounding independent movie, but I can tell she made it to amuse Kendra and Melanie."

Charlie and I came back to the table, him with some more coffee and me with some vanilla ice cream from Fortescue's.

"I know it's breakfast, but sticky buns do go well with this," I explained, offering the cold substance around with a scoop.

"Ice cream is a breakfast food," Sam agreed. "It comes from milk, and therefore is dairy, and dairy is a health food, so ice cream is healthy and up to a whole scoop can be eaten for breakfast. Dad's rules of nutrition." To Ian's quizzical look, she explained "He runs the bookstore in Hogsmeade."

"So, what did happen with the evil cliquey-girl?" Charlie asked.

"We found her, looking like ourselves, and asked her what the hell had been wrong with her, and was she enjoying it, being treated as badly as she'd treated us. She had a bit of a tantrum and told us to die in a number of exciting ways, and when we began to critique her swearing, she finally realized we were triplets."

"…It wasn't obvious?"

"No, not especially. When we were little, we had different haircuts, different clothes and altogether different hair-colors. Unless you saw us all together, it wasn't by any means obvious. Mum more than saw to that."

"Why?"

"I d'know. Possibly to make sure we all grew up as individuals and to have our own personalities, possibly for our mother to win a bet with her makeup artist. Hard to say. We used to charm our hair back to normal for Hogwarts, though, since Mum wasn't there to help. Maintenance on Muggle hair-dye's dreadful. Your roots grow in and don't match." Sam's hair was, at that moment, a rich dark brown, different than Mel's almost-auburn and Kendra's nearly-blonde. "Of course, it eventually changed on its' own. Happens with Metas, I'm told. The color that suits you tends to be what grows out." She sighed and shrugged before continuing the story. "The mean girl was rather startled, of course, and immediately realized that we'd conspired to make her look bad –well, inasmuch as we'd all given smart-aleck retorts when she picked on us. She tried to hit Kendra."

"Really?"

"Yep. Ken handled it pretty well, all things considered. Mean girl looked pretty silly with her hands in a cuff hold behind her, still screaming and starting to cry like a shrew in a mousetrap." Sam inspected her nails in the deliberately nonchalant way that frequently implies high drama will ensue next. "And then she found out our secret."

"That you're Metamorphmagi?" Ian asked.

"That you're witches?" Charlie asked.

I already knew the story well, of course, and grinned.

"No. Our Mum showed up and asked what the devil was going on. We explained that this was the girl who teased us all last summer, and that she'd tried to hit Ken. Mum looked at the other girl, who recognized her perfectly, everyone does, and shrugged. 'Oh,' she said, 'well, when you're quite finished, I want to go pick out some new clothes for your father, and if you'd like to come along, you can bring little what's-her-name if you want. Maybe we can try that new fro-yo place.' Cool as you please, just like anyone else's Mum, except she's her."

"What's fro-yo?"

"Frozen yogurt." The boys still looked blank. "It's a thing. Like diet ice cream. So Mum turns around, presumably to leave us to our little fight, and the other girl's stopped squirming, so Ken lets her go, and we head off to follow our Mum. Mean girl asks us if that's who she thinks it is, we say 'yeah, that's our Mum.' She shits kittens. Omigod and holy crap and she can't believe she was mean to us and she's so sorry and why didn't we say something? The whole dumbass waltz. So I tell her, it's because Mum doesn't want backstabbing little come-buckets trying to be our friends just because of her. And then Ken gives me what-for for saying come-buckets (because, you know, we were ten and so not allowed to say things like that,) and forgives the little bitch, even though Ken's the one she tried to hit, and Mel kind of shrugs and says 'why don't we take her with, it'll be fun.' And so we did."

"Did she stop being such a…well?" Charlie asked. I've noticed he very rarely swears.

"Oh, yes. Mum took her aside while we were selecting a tie for Dad and informed her in no uncertain terms of what happened to two-faced, conniving little sneaks and their rotten little cliques."

"Your Mum threatened a little kid?"

"No, she told her what happens. That the cliques get broken up the moment the girls leave high school, that the ones who've never learned to make real friends either drunk-n'flunk out of college or latch on to some boy and knock-up-and-out, before spending menial, pointless lives wasting hours upon hours in the PTA, being nasty and back-stabby to other mothers and trying to build a new little klatsch of friends, all of whom immediately drop them like hot coals the moment real life is more interesting than girl drama –meaning they're alone with their regrets about ninety percent of the time. They wind up looking forty in their thirties, being horrible stage mothers and soccer moms, embarrassing their children and generally being a waste of God's generous oxygen."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah. Mum doesn't play nice. The little bint apologized constantly, succeeded in making a real friend or two, and has apparently had a decent life ever since. She sometimes writes us letters asking how the UK is and when we'll be in town, and a while ago she invited us to her graduation party. We made a brief appearance and took over a nice present, because Mum doesn't believe in holding a grudge." Sam does, incidentally. "She's at some Muggle college or another now, majoring in something to do with kids. Still corresponds with Ken."

"So everyone lived happily ever after!" Charlie looked pleased. "That's a great story."

"Ehh, sometimes I feel like a bad person for still not forgiving her. I don't give a damn anymore, but I'm not like my sisters. I can't smile and make nice and act like nothing bad ever happened, not without lots of help or a damn good reason. I'm weird that way."

"That strikes me as a uniquely Ravenclaw sentiment, actually," Ian remarked. "Hufflepuffs forgive and forgive and keep working hard to make people better. Gryffindors approach the situation in such a way that the person is usually pretty darn scared of being bad again, and if not, a Gryff can usually handle it if they don't reform straight away. Ravenclaws simply mark that person on the not-to-be-trusted list and there it ends."

"That, or they do something moderately harmless, like stopping their watch," I grinned.

"I'm not so sure the way you do that really is harmless, Jims," Ian replied, using my oldest nickname. "I read a bit of biology and there's really a great potential for harm implied."

"Good thing I only do it to real prats like Fudge and Umbridge, then."

"By the way, Jess, when is your shop open normally?" It was a sensible question. As a pawnbroker and novelty shop owner, Sam kept very strange hours.

"Officially, ten to seven, but in practice, people primarily come in the afternoons. Possibly because a broken or missing watch causes some element of lateness –that, or they're waiting until they have someone to go with because of the heightened security. And I'll often let folks in between eight and ten if I'm up, or if they've made an early appointment then. But seven is the absolute latest I'll stay open anymore –have to, with Chamber meetings."

"Oh, good. I was wondering whether those'd interfere much with our shop's business."

"Nope. Should tuck right into your schedule."

"Good. Now that Knockturn's part of the Chamber, I felt I'd join it and such."

"Sensible thing to do. Want to be Chairperson?"

"Why? Are you bored of it?"

"Tremendously."

"Nice try, Jess." Sam grinned. "I'd rather head the Seasonal Advertising Committee, my humble self. It'd be a treat to pick out the wreaths and design the banners and such. Ken wants onto the Committee for Charity, and Mel wants you to form an Inter-Alley Cooperation Committee and put Apollo Nooke in charge, with her as secretary."

"Okay." Sam stared at me for a few minutes.

"…That's just wrong, you know."

"What is?"

"You're not supposed to come up, ask a politician to do something, and then have them say 'okay' and mean it like that."

"Okay, er…well, if nobody else wants the spots, and if nobody can back up an objection to you and yours getting them, then it shall be as you say."

"That's even worse!"

"What? I thought you'd be used to responsive government."

"There's responsive and then there's just ridiculous."

"Why? I mean it, and I'll do it, and it seems unlikely I won't succeed." I shrugged and Sam sighed at me.

"You could at least have the decency to argue a little bit."

"Oh. Bugger. I knew I'd forgot something." Sam finally joined the boys in laughing. "What? After all, I'm allowed to be new at this for at least another ten hours. Elected journeymen are never taken entirely seriously."

A few moments later, some actual customers arrived. Ian helped a couple of them pick out watches and sold an alarm clock, which was nice of him. The others seemed to have come for news from me, so I did a bit of shrugging it off before introducing them to Sam. Maggie Malkin knew her already, as did dear old Florean Fortescue but she had never met Gordon Eelop or the little boy in dark glasses clinging gently to Florean's hand.

"And this is my nephew," the dear old ice-cream man explained. I knew he was actually more like a great-nephew, but the Fortescues tend to gloss over genealogical specifics. "Named for me, but he goes by Loren, just in case the resemblance proves too overwhelming. This is Madam Tickes, Loren, the lady who made your watch."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am." The little boy reached out a hand in almost the right direction and I shook it. "It's a very good watch. I can tell time myself."

"Really? Want to show me?" I crouched down to his level and watched as he opened the crystal on the Braille watch, carefully feeling the hands with his small fingers. "That's very good! What time is it now?"

"Twelve-thirty-seven. I like the little fast hand best."

"Know what it's called?"

"The second hand, because it counts seconds."

"Good fellow!" An idea suddenly occurred to me. "Loren, how would you like to make a clock?" He grinned really, really big and I invited him just past the half-wall into the main workroom. "We'll be just a little while," I told the grownups, but they were too busy chatting it up with Sam. I knew her reputation was pretty impressive, and they probably wanted to see for themselves. Ian was also handling any business that might crop up capably.

I keep a few partially-assembled movements and standard parts available for just such an occasion. One of the Ian Tickes Grand Alarms ought to do, I thought, and it only took me a few moments to locate a nearly-complete movement, a ready case, a blank face and the other odds and ends that go into a custom-body with standard movement. It also didn't take long to explain the basics of how clocks are made. Loren was a fast learner, and I sat him at my own workbench, telling him where each tool could be found using clock-face directions. "The inkbottle is to your eleven-thirty, here, and there's a pen in the groove here. Want to use a stencil for the numerals? I've got a whole bunch of 'em, or you could do them freehand."

"I like stencils."

"Okay. What kind of font do you think?"

"…Fancy!"

"Here's an Edwardian one…and here's a serif Roman set."

"What's serif?" I pointed to the letter's tail, and when Loren squinted and leaned closer, I guided his finger over the grooves of the stencil instead. He nodded understandingly.

"These little decoration lines, when a font has them, it's serif. If it doesn't, it's sans serif. Sans means 'without.' Do you think Roman numbers or Arabic?"

"Roman ones are the exey kind?"

"Yeah."

"Just regular is good."

"Okay."

The kid picked out a nice, serif-y set of cursive numerals and set to work inking the face for embossing while I set up the last five gears, the three hands and the case for him to put together himself. Charlie came in from the kitchen and gave me a strange look.

"Who's this?"

"Oh! Loren, this is Charlie Weasley. Charlie, this is Loren Fortescue. He's making a clock today."

"Nice ta' meet you," Loren shook hands like a little grownup and then returned to his inking.

"What kind of clock is it?" Charlie asked.

"An Ian Tickes Grand Alarm," Loren announced proudly.

"Tickes clocks have the name of their original line designer, and Grand denotes the size. This is a larger-than-average alarm clock," I explained.

"With seriffy numberals," Loren added, neatly finishing the '3.'

"Yes. Right now Loren is inking them, and in a few moments we'll add the powder to emboss them. That's how the numerals come out raised."

"I see!" Charlie grinned, covertly passing me the pad of paper from the desk on which he'd written 'Blind?' "The powder sticks to the ink, right?"

"And then we make it hot," Loren explained. "It melts and turns into clock letters that stick up."

"Exactly," I grinned, writing 'visually impaired after a fire,' on the pad and slipping it back to Charlie. "And while it's baking, Loren can put together these gears here and set the movement into its' case."

"I'm not making the whole clock," the little boy sighed, "I'm just putting together most of it."

"But if you want to learn how to make the rest, you certainly can," I patted him on the shoulder. "I was about your age when I started learning. Maybe a bit younger, but not by much."

"You could see, though," Loren pointed out, looking at us sadly over his dark glasses. "I can only sorta see."

"It's the touch that's the important thing, actually. A steady hand's far more important than good eyesight, especially when you're working out something like a spring tension ratio. You see something, that's all well and good, but what if your eyes are wrong? Fingers almost never are." I gave the movement a quick wind with screw pliers (as the key wasn't on it yet,) and put it in Loren's hand, folding his little fingers around the ticking mechanism. "Feel that?"

"Yeah."

"Where do the hands go?"

"Here," he touched the pin, which was rotating at measured intervals.

"Where does the key go?"

"Key?"

"The winding thing."

"Here!" He got that right, too.

"See? Hands are just as good as eyes. Better, even." Oh, that little boy had a precious smile! "Keep on with the inking; I'll go get you the other parts."

"Okay, Madam Tickes."

"Call me Jessie. Just about everyone does." I headed downstairs to the other workroom and Charlie followed. "You were going to say something?"

"I didn't know you let people make their own clocks."

"I don't, ordinarily, but I thought he'd enjoy it. And it's not hard."

"Er…yes, actually, it kind of is. I couldn't make a clock."

"With a pre-assembled movement, I think you could."

"I'm not so sure. What if he wants to learn to make movements next?"

"Then I'll teach him to make movements. Why?" I shrugged and Charlie smiled gently.

"I just think it's sweet of you to take an interest in little kids."

"Little kids are awesome! Candy-eating, fairy-tale-believing...better class of people, really."

"Would you ever be interested in having some of your own?" he asked. I went a bit red and started gathering up parts for Loren's clock.

"I suppose, maybe."

"I didn't know if it was something your family expected or optional."

"Oh, it's generally expected that someone will produce some kind of heir. I always kind of figured I'd be handing the shop down to a nephew or niece." Charlie smirked wryly.

"Perhaps a Metamorphmagic one?"

"You noticed them, too? Idn't it cute?"

"Adorable. Kind of off-putting, but they do seem to have an interest in each other."

"They have a date this evening, probably right after they set us on the train."

"Is she always that defensive?"

"Yes." I picked up a shop basket and put the parts I'd collected into it. "She's had bad luck before, that, and she's used to being the protective one in her family. I suspect she's the oldest triplet, but, of course, even they don't know."

"Oldest pairs best with oldest, you think?"

"Second and second are working out well so far," I replied mischievously. There was an all-too-brief little kiss after that, and I seem to remember making some rapid calculations of how long it takes people to become suspicious of a known couple going downstairs to get parts together, and wondering if I could somehow fudge their math.

But I didn't. We returned upstairs with the parts and I helped Loren finish his clock while Charlie went back to the twins' to pack. Loren then proudly presented the clock to his very proud granduncle, and I attended to business for just enough time to catch up on the latest news, do an on-the-fly repair and sell five different timepieces. Then Ian sent me upstairs to pack the magnificent traveling case he had ordered for a sitting-the-masterpiece present. It had dozens of tool compartments, as well as space for a few days' clothes, and even an interior garment bag with an Ironing Charm, for dress robes.

Traditionally, there is a Ball at each of the two times a year the Guild tries masters, and I remembered this fact just after an owl arrived from my stepmother wishing the best of luck and asking what color dress robes I had for it. Panicking, I sent Min to warn Charlie (she clucked at me disapprovingly for a moment, as if disappointed I'd forgotten,) and then I went upstairs to check my wardrobe for something appropriate.

Disaster. Would you believe my dress robes from fifth through seventh year didn't fit? I thought of asking Mel Redfern for help, but then I remembered her mother was in town and that meant it would take forever and a weekend and I'd wind up with new everything. And Ginny was either back at the Weasley's or, I realized, already busy picking out Charlie's clothes. (I did turn out to be right on that score.) So I did the next best thing and Flooed to the Hogsmeade shop to visit my stepmother.

"Jamesina!" My stepmother, whose name is Sarah, by the way, set down the pen with which she'd been inking a face and rushed over to the fireplace to hug me. I'd stopped minding a few months back, and this time I returned her hug. "What are you doing here? You should be getting ready to go sit your masterpiece!"

"I'm all packed and I leave on the evening train."

"Train!" Sarah grinned. "That's a good idea. Takes longer, but gives you time to think and to get a good night's sleep. That, and you always look so peaky after Apparating."

"It still makes me kind of sick," I confessed. "Erm…I have a slight problem."

"What's wrong?"

"Well…I still have the dress robes you picked out for me, but…"

"You're six inches taller, they wouldn't fit," Sarah announced bluntly.

"As I discovered just a moment or two ago," I smiled sheepishly. "Nothing to wear for the Ball."

"Oh, Jessie!" She shook her head and grinned. "You're hopeless in a cute way. Didn't you notice your inseams were longer?" She put away the part she was working on.

"They measure me and send over stuff in the right colors. I just wear what comes."

"That's likely the problem with business attire. You get used to competent tailoring and then when you have to buy off-the-rack, you're helpless. I have the same trouble myself, but picking things for the twins keeps my hand in." I followed her upstairs.

"Where are they, by the way?"

"Napping on their grandfather, whom I suspect is also napping behind that Manual of Unusual Gear Design. Oh! And I heard about your little incident in the Alley last night."

"You did?" My face fell.

"Yes, and while I'm decidedly proud of you, I can't say I approve of such risks. That Lestrange woman is seven flavors of mad and while you handled it well this time, I'd rather not get an owl asking me to come identify remains. Think you could perhaps avoid that in the future?"

"I'll try."

"Good! I'll see if I can't find a few of your mother's things from storage to send over. I seem to recall her owning some sort of bat, not for Bludgers, but another kind. Might actually be intended for Death Eaters." She opened the door to the attic and we climbed up. "And I'm pretty sure her old dress robes will fit you now. You're about her height, finally, and they've come back into fashion just in time."

Sometimes I really do like my stepmother.

It didn't take her long to pick out a set of dress robes for me. They were simply incomparable, and for some reason she developed a slight sniffle when I tried them on. I was pleased to hear I look like my mother, but it was rather hard to watch Sarah noticing. They were friends, and at times I think the fact that she'd have been my Auntie if nothing had happened to Mum was what kept me civil to her.

I began to feel a little bit worse about that. Wasn't her fault my father's a prat, and I'd probably been rather unfair to be so distant and casual with her for so long. It had taken me quite some time to be cordial, and I realized it probably shouldn't have. I'd probably been rather a prat, myself.

"Will you be coming to the Guild Ball this year?" I asked, ducking behind a screen to change back to my normal clothes.

"I was thinking about it," Sarah smiled. "Especially since you'll be pronounced a Master then."

"If I do well, I will."

"I don't think it's statistically likely you won't. You do an inordinate amount of work, and given that practice makes perfect, signs seem to indicate a high probability of passing with flying colors." I leaned my head past the edge of the screen and grinned.

"Do I detect bias?"

"Maybe a little," she smiled back. "But I really do believe you'll do well."

"That really does help," I admitted. Her grin brightened and I felt like a total heel for not involving her more in my life. I made a decision then. "Oh, there's another question I have for you."

"Another of dress?"

"Well, sort of." I started buttoning up my cuffs. "I actually invited Charlie Weasley to join me on the train to Switzerland."

"To be your escort at the ball? Good idea!"

"Huh?"

"He's the second brother, right?" I nodded. "He's just the right height for dancing and the Weasley boys all know how. He'll look wonderful in white tie."

"True. He looks good in most things." A mischievous voice in my head made a very arch comment about 'lack thereof' and I shook my head to get the notion out. "I'm also…you know…seeing him."

Sarah looked very surprised at that.

"Really?"

"Yep. For a couple of months now."

"I knew your grandfather and uncle spoke with him after the shop was attacked."

"That…would be the day after our first date."

"Really!" She brightened considerably. "That's splendid! What's he like?"

"Adorable," I admitted, feeling a bit silly about how gushy the conversation was about to get. "He's a writer and zoological researcher, and sometimes he does a bit of work at his brothers' shop. He looks after everyone and doesn't mind my working late, and he's hilariously funny to talk to. And you don't have to worry that he's planning a prank on you –he's got this honest face that just tells you everything…but he's still silly sometimes. Sensible, though, about most things, and he's great at patching up burns."

"Working with the dragons, I'd hope so!"

"Oh, he's so good with animals!" Yep, this was gushy alright. "My owl, Min, had a vitamin deficiency out of the shop, which led to her getting a weird sort of rash where the talons connect to her feet. Charlie got the right medicine for her and was so careful putting it on, she even nuzzled his head with her beak while he was doing it. And then he went over to Eeylops and very politely let them know that their owls weren't getting enough whatever-it-was, and when Becky Feathersham copped an attitude, he just left a note for the manager. I went over and gave them holy hell and got Becky put on notice. But Charlie's so much nicer."

"So I take it things are medium to serious?"

"Not very serious. We see as much of each other as we can, which isn't hard, given that he and his brothers tend to eat over a lot, and he's taught me a little more in the way of defensive spells. We sometimes go to the Muggle movies or out for food."

"You'll need something exciting to wear on the train, I think," Sarah grinned. I looked rather scandalized. "Dressing for dinner, Jess. What were you thinking?" I went pretty darned scarlet. "Oh. I take it you…erm?"

"Actually, no. Might at some point, but no."

This was, incidentally, more information about my personal life than I'd ever, ever let her know about.

"Well, you're a grown woman, acquainted with the precautionary arts and sensible enough not to make silly mistakes. Why not pounce him?" I choked a bit on that phrase. "You're entitled to some fun now and then, and even if it's not seriously serious, it's rather enjoyable."

"…That's the rumor, yes."

"I remember my first pounce. It wasn't entirely fun, but the second time was delightful. It helps to try one of each gender, if you're inclined that way, and if you do eventually settle down, you'll have more interesting skills to bring to the table."

It was during this conversation that I came closer to strangling on my own tonsils than I likely ever will again. You'll know when.

"You…but…"

"Oh, Jessie, you can't think grownups are as serious as they let on. Your father is passably decent at pouncing, but even better at being pounced. I do hope that's not genetic. Your mother, on the other hand-" I almost died of a coughing fit and poor Sarah thumped me on the back.

"You and Mum?" I managed to gasp, scandalized.

"Oh, no, not in that way, dear. We were just good friends who occasionally compared notes. Not that I didn't consider it, she was quite the dish, but her being older and eventually married, there wasn't much chance of it. That, and she was preposterously monogamous. I don't think she pounced anyone but your dad."

"Oh." I really didn't know what to make of that. "Good."

"Not that she didn't do so with respectable frequency for several years before they were married. Good heavens, you look shocked."

"I…er…didn't really need to know most of this…"

"It's important to be aware of the real standards. Those old fogies in Diagon likely sound forth about morals and such, but the fact is, Jamesina, there's very few people in the world who live up to the letter of the rule. They're really more like guidelines, anyway."

"I suppose so."

"Good! Now let's go find you a spectacular dinner ensemble and some exciting undergarments."

"Some what?"

"You don't play Quidditch without a broom and you don't pounce without exciting undergarments if it can possibly be avoided. That, and you need something strapless for the dress robes and your mother's won't work at all."

"They won't?"

"You're the same size in the shoulders and height, but Siobhan was just a hair on the side of barrel-chested. That, and you seem to have something more along the lines of a Switch figure." I was wondering what on earth that meant when Sarah elaborated. "Your bosom's larger and your ribs aren't. The dress fits, but some undergarments will be necessary to produce the ideal effect. Oh, stop looking so strangled. There's nothing wrong with bending nature to our nylon and spandex will."

"I…am suddenly rather sorry I didn't bring up these topics in school."

"Me, too, dear, you might have learned something useful. Not that school's the best place to experiment in anything but Potions. No space at all in those Ravenclaw four-posters."

"…I thought you were a Hufflepuff."

"Yes. The most hard-working house."

To my surprise, I managed not to die of embarrassed shock during the rest of the visit. We spent an inordinate amount of time and money at a few of the Hogsmeade shops, and I seem to recall a complete overhaul of my interior wardrobe layers. (I'd been buying the wrong bra size, which explained a lot.) I also began to realize what it might have been like to have a mother. There were so many girly things that I didn't know –and Sarah seemed a little less than surprised at my ignorance.

And then, of course, it must be said that she is one of the bluntest, most earthy creatures ever to walk the earth. Fine taste in clothing, though.

I returned home with my packages and had just finished packing when Charlie arrived with his traveling case. Ian and Sam took us to the station, and, well, off we went.

It was to be a very exciting trip.