Chapter Thirteen
Harry Is Diagnosed with a Case Of Witches In His Head
Harry walked through the door and stumbled out of a floo into the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, as if he were arriving for work on the most normal of days. He remembered Kingsley's advice about giving himself a minute or two before proceeding. He checked his watch. It was still not quite ten p.m. He looked around the atrium, and didn't see anything out of place, no new items, nothing that had been there that wasn't there now.
Harry considered going to his office to look at the paper Blaise wanted signed, but decided it wouldn't go anywhere over the weekend, so it could wait until Monday. Harry visualized his apartment and stepped back into the floo. Moments later he stumbled into his living room.
Brushing a little soot and ash from his uniform tunic, he walked around the corner to his bedroom, catching sight of himself in his brigadier's uniform in the mirror at the end of the short hall. It occurred to him that Kingsley could have cleaned him up, made him presentable, conjured a shoe, and sent him back, without need of a uniform, with correct rank insignia, no less.
Harry thought, "I'm going back to France, aren't I? Why else would they have given me my own uniform?"
Harry got out of his uniform and laid it carefully on a chair in his bedroom. He didn't have a house elf at his apartment most of the time, but Winky came by once a week, and generally had very little to do. Harry thought it would thrill Winky to have something good and dirty to clean.
Harry showered and brushed his teeth. He kept running the day through his mind. Up with the chickens, breakfast with Neville, lunch at Greengrass Manor, followed by craziness. No, not craziness. It was Chaos.
Somehow or other, Chaos was back. Harry thought through the implications of that. So far, only tendrils had emerged in this time stream. What would happen if those grew more robust? Chance was always present, would Chaos be any worse?
Harry thought he knew who could help him sort things out, but wondered if he could talk to Ron and Hermione without breaching security. He decided he needed to know more about how the issues were being handled at the highest level, or he wouldn't be able to see any acceptable way forward. Something he had learned a few hours before occurred to him. What could he tell Daphne? If this were a Harry AND Daphne issue, Harry needed to be able to give her at least some information. What were the boundaries? Harry strongly suspected the Ministry for Magic was scrambling to answer some of those questions just as they were occurring to him.
Between his conscious mind trying to wake him up, to ponder time paradoxes, and his subconscious, trying to dream about a stag and a lynx every time he drifted off to sleep, Harry did not awaken Sunday morning with a vast abundance of excess energy.
In fact, the first words to occur to him Sunday morning were, "Oh, crap!" Everything from Saturday came flooding back, recollections of events vying for his attention. Dominating everything, though, was one phenomenon: Time. What was going on? What did it mean, someone was experimenting with time?
Harry knew he would be spending the bulk of Sunday at his desk in the Ministry. Whatever happened, the aurors would be in the middle of the action. What would the Minister of Magic be expecting of the aurors? What would he be expecting from Harry?
Minimizing his get-to-work routine, Harry took the floo network to the Ministry. Not encountering anyone but the guards and duty aurors, Harry arrived at his office not knowing what to expect. As Blaise had said, there was a document awaiting his signature in the middle of his desk blotter. It wasn't a document, though, it was a blank sheet of paper, with a signature block at the bottom that said, "Harry Potter—Head Auror" then "date" followed by a line, presumably where Harry was supposed to sign. Well, Blaise had said the contents were classified, hadn't he?
Figuring a blank sheet of paper could be signed on Monday, if need be, just as well as on Sunday, Harry put the paper to the side, and took all the accumulated paper from the in-box and placed it in the middle of the desk. During the week, his assistant did some organizing before the paper hit his desk. Documents needing only signature would be together, memoranda he needed to read would be together, and paper requiring some other action would be in a third group.
On the weekend, however, the assistant was not in the office. Aurors brought routine reports, action memos, case files, and anything more they wanted to get off their desks, all weekend long. Normally, Harry liked the weekend fruit salad of incoming paper, because it gave him a snapshot of everything going on in his organization. This Sunday, he found it tedious. He couldn't focus on the time problem for the pile of routine paper he needed to read, annotate, sign, or pass to a colleague or subordinate for action. When he was trying to focus on the pile, the time problem intruded.
Despite the struggle, Harry was surprised when he looked up and noticed it was nearly noon. Harry had skipped breakfast, subsisting on coffee and some crackers he found in his desk drawer. The ministry snack bar would not be open on Sunday. He could just go home and eat there, but he didn't feel like going home, where the walls would close in, and unwelcome thoughts intrude. In the midst of considering his options, Harry heard a noise in the bullpen. Getting up from his desk, Harry left his office to see what was going on. A voice was coming from the fireplace.
"Harry! Harry! Are you in your office? Are you there?"
"Ron?" asked Harry.
"Yep! What are you doing for lunch?"
"I was just thinking about that. What are you doing?"
"Hermione is at her parents' so I'm free. How about I meet you in the atrium and we go to the Leaky Cauldron?"
"Give me five minutes to clean up and I'll be there," said Harry.
Five and one-half minutes later, Harry met Ron in the atrium.
"Floo?" asked Ron.
"Why don't we walk?" asked Harry. "I need to think."
"Fine with me," said Ron. "I'll try not to intrude."
Harry laughed. "Intrude all you want. Your ramblings might trigger some new, improved thinking."
Britannia Romanus was a newer restaurant on the edge of Diagon Alley. It had become very popular among the younger wizarding set, who liked to eat and drink in the outdoor section. The restaurant had both a fine, unobstructed view of Diagon Alley from some outdoor tables, and more private places tucked behind the classical columns that enhanced the Roman Britain theme.
Harry and Ron had walked from the Ministry, talking about quidditch, Hermione's parents, and the rare opportunity the Cannons had to finish one place above bottom of the league. Harry had been keeping part of his mind on the conversation, and a small part of it wandering about the periphery of their course, using a downsized version of legilimens to give him an early warning if mayhem loomed, when, approaching Britannia Romanus, that small piece of consciousness said to the rest of his brain, "Pay attention now, this is interesting!"
Harry picked up two females in conversation. One said, "You're sure?"
The other said, "Oh, yes!"
"And he…?"
"Well, I'm over it, I can't speak…"
The next thing Harry knew was his head was ringing, from the inside out, from two shouts of "GET OUT!"
Harry stumbled, nearly falling, and Ron caught him under the arm. They continued more slowly and turned left around a column, where a table stood, with a pot of tea, two cups, and a plate of assorted fruit and cheese, between Daphne Greengrass and Ginny Weasley.
"Fancy meeting…" Ron began, but thought better.
Harry was holding his head, trying to let the ringing to die down. "Ladies…" he gasped.
"Harry Potter, how dare you intrude on a private conversation?" demanded Daphne. "What are you doing here? Am I under surveillance? Are you now monitoring my most personal thoughts?"
"No," Harry protested, "not at all, I swear, I was just walking along with Ron, it was just a security precaution."
"Fine. If you say so. But listen up, Mr. Potter, and listen well. Poking about me is one thing, but if I EVER catch you inside Ginevra Weasley's head again, without my EXPLICIT permission, YOU will be making the generous gift of a TESTICLE to the Hogwarts Potion Master's supply cabinet. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Potter?"
Ron didn't like the way Daphne's wand was jabbing about for emphasis. He looked from Daphne to Ginny, who winked, smiled, and shrugged. "Oh, well, he's made his bed…" she seemed to be saying. Ron decided the best he could do was extract his friend from the situation, fast. He tugged on Harry's arm.
"You've still got one left?" he asked, some disbelief in his voice, glancing back at Daphne and Ginny. "How many did you have to start out with?"
The witches let Ron put a decent distance between them and Harry before Ron heard the waves of laughter, which followed them down the Alley for a bit. In a couple of minutes, Ron and Harry stood before the Leaky Cauldron.
"C'mon, Harry, you've got witches in your head. You need a hearty lunch, and some butterbeer. Maybe a firewhisky."
Ron pulled Harry through the door. They looked around for a table and spotted one near the alley entrance. Ron got Harry seated and looked around to see who was working. Hannah Abbott was behind the bar. Ron waved, and Hannah gave a nod. Ron sat down and looked at Harry.
"How're you doing?" he asked.
"Better, now that we're away from them, and you found me a chair. I thought my head would explode. I thought my brains were being forced out my eardrums. I thought…"
"Mate, ease up," said Ron. "No graphic metaphors. I'm going to be trying to eat something in a few minutes. Besides, I know what you're talking about. It's not like I haven't been through it myself, lots of times."
"What are YOU talking about?" Harry asked. "I was just walking along, talking to you, just being alert like you do on the street. I wasn't even aware I was inside their thoughts, it was just, I don't know, letting the antennae do their thing, then they were inside ME, shouting at me. I didn't do anything wrong. Did I?"
Ron laughed.
"You're talking about witches, Harry. You don't haveto do anything wrong. They just put you on notice from time to time. It's something they feel a need to do. I've lived with it my whole life. Mum, ugh, you've seen her in action. She'll hex you within an inch of your life in order to keep you from doing something stupid that would end it right there, for your own good. Merlin! Ginny, need I say more? The look on your face says I don't.
"Fleur, oh, Fleur. All she had to do was walk in the Great Hall, and I still would have been hers, forever, but from a distance, though, like her in France, me in Ottery St. Catchpole, but then she meets Bill, they fall in love, and now I see her every holiday. She doesn't have to talk to me, it's not required, but she does anyway, 'Oh, Ronald, do take some more of these lovely pomme de terres, Victoire and I dug them ourselves from Molly's beautiful garden…' and I just take some more potatoes, to be polite, and then I have to face Hermione when we get home.
'You and Fleur seemed quite involvedwith her pommes de terres, Ronald, so tell me, what is it about Fleur's pommes de terresthat makes them superior to my pommes de terres?' Is there something I can do to improve my pommes de terres, so they will please my husband, as much as Fleur's…SO…OB-vi-ous-ly DO?'
"All the time, she's waving the wand, opening drawers, slamming them closed, flicking imaginary dust off the lamp, sparks shooting off the end. Oh, I know all about witches Harry. To minimize damage, try to do what they say, and if that's impossible, always be thinking about how to confess you didn't, but in reality, you did. On a higher level."
"Pommes de terresseems to have assumed a symbolic meaning beyond mere potatoes," Harry said. "You and Hermione could explore that further, as a couple. Look at it as a personal growth opportunity."
Neville Longbottom arrived at their table. "Before you ask, yes, I'm on duty, no time to chat. Maybe after the lunch crowd clears out. Right now, though, we have the house salad, large or small, fresh-baked Mad Monk bread, mixed fruit plate, a stew with meat, a vegetable soup, half a grilled chicken with choice of potato, and flan for dessert."
"Two butterbeers and two orders of the stew with meat. Does it come with the bread? If not, add a loaf of bread," said Ron.
"Sounds hearty enough," said Neville. "Harry looks a little peaked. Change in the weather?"
"Nah, Harry's got witches in his head," Ron answered.
"Gak!" Neville choked. "Sympathies, Harry, sincerest. Merlin have mercy. Should I add a couple of firewhiskies?"
"I think for after," said Ron. "We have to see how it goes."
Neville left for the kitchen, and Ron leaned over toward Harry.
"So, what were they talking about? Did you get anything good?"
Harry had just about recovered. He knew this because he thought Ron asking him to relate what he had picked up during his recent near-death experience was funny.
"Necessary background:" Harry said. "Ginny advised we were done, for good, months ago. I had to agree with her. She always was the more intuitive one. Out of the blue, last week, I learned Fabio and Kendra Greengrass were friends with my mom and dad, and the four of them entered into an agreement that sort of pre-engaged Daphne, and me, before we were born. Daphne knew, I didn't, and the goblins have been sitting on it. I went over to Greengrass Manor for lunch, yesterday, and ended up with a date for St. Mungo's Ball this Saturday. Are you and Hermione going, by the way? I have extra tickets."
"Already down, I'm afraid," said Ron.
"Okay, anyway, a bunch of other stuff happened, too much detail for one lunch, but the short version is Daphne and I…the thing is, I think we've ended up an item. At least, this morning I was hoping we're an item. I wasn't sure what Daphne thought about that until just a few minutes ago. Inside my head, it certainly felt like she considered us an item."
"Which explains her sudden territoriality. Sounds rational enough," said Ron.
"That was the gist of the conversation, the little fragment I actually got. Daphne was trying to gauge if Ginny has any lingering feelings. She doesn't, of course. One thing about Ginny, she's decisive."
Ron sipped some butterbeer. "The words you just spoke, translated, say 'In less than one week, Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass were introduced, had one date, of sorts, under her parents' roof, and are all but engaged to be wed.' Did I leave anything out?"
"Like I said, I wasn't sure how Daphne felt about that last part, until our little encounter just now, but, yes, that is the essence," Harry replied.
Ron stared at Harry. "Did your mom, by chance, have any input into that agreement?" he asked.
"Funny you should ask that," Harry said. "Fabio Greengrass said Kendra and my mom put it together, before we were born. I got the impression Kendra had dragged Fabio into it, initially, but he said nice things about my parents, and missing them ever since they were killed. He even said he's okay with Daphne and me."
Neville showed up with two bowls of stew, and a loaf of bread on a board. "The portions are generous, but you're entitled to another ladleful each if you want some more," Neville said.
"Is that an actual rule?" Ron asked.
"Could be," Neville answered. "It just occurred to me. Have to wait and see. Could be a real traffic builder. Don't cut your thumb slicing the bread."
Neville headed back to the kitchen and Ron started slicing bread. "So you're going to the Ball on Saturday? Did you start becoming interested in the society circuit when you were exposed to the Greengrass lifestyle, or has this been a secret passion all along?"
Harry nearly choked at "…exposed to the Greengrass lifestyle…" but managed to maintain some dignity. "It was Daphne. She had a problem with an unsold table, and it seemed the right thing to do to help out." Harry left out his suspicion that the table was a confection Daphne had improvised on the spot, to give Harry an opening to escort her to a high visibility event. Even if he knew for a fact she had done, constructing a coherent explanation would have been beyond him.
Stew cool, bread cut, Ron and Harry dropped the conversation and went to work on lunch. Comments were few and related to food.
"Salt and pepper?"
"Um. Big difference."
"I'd put some shredded cheese on top."
"Um-hum. Romano."
"Cheddar."
"Who bakes their bread?"
"Don't know. Always thought there was an elf baker in the back. No idea why."
"Did you ever see who does it?"
"Nope."
"We should send our compliments to the baker."
"Suit yourself."
"Getting your extra ladle?"
"Considering it. But what about the flan?"
In the midst of the conversation, just as the hearty stew was curing Harry of his headful of witches, a light appeared in the center of the table, between him and Ron. It expanded until it formed into a miniature lynx, no more than three or four inches tall at the shoulder. The lynx sat on its haunches, looking at Harry. Daphne's voice emanated from somewhere in the vicinity of the patronus.
"Hullo, Ron. Hullo, Harry. Take your time, but when you're finished, Harry, could you come by Flourish and Blotts and collect me? I'll be in that big green leather chair in the corner by the window. Best to Hermione, Ron."
The patronus stood and turned, looked back at Harry, twitched its tail once, and winked out with a little "Pop."
Ron looked at Harry. Harry looked back.
"Is that…a…witch…I see just there?" Ron asked, gesturing with his spoon, somewhere in the air, a few inches above Harry's head.
"Depends. Is she really beautiful?" Harry asked.
"She looks smart," said Ron. "Like she'd be capable of thinking circles around a Senior Ministry Official."
"Dangerous combination," said Harry. "Could be a cure for my dull and boring lifestyle."